The Prisoner in His Palace

by Will Bardenwerper

  Almacy then said that the president had received his daily intelligence briefing and “planned to spend the rest of the day cutting cedar on his ranch, taking a bike ride, spending time with First Lady Laura Bush, and pondering his next steps in Iraq.”

  The soldiers who’d successfully carried out the president’s wishes wouldn’t be spending time with their families anytime soon. They were still in a war zone, where they’d remain for months, working seven days a week in dangerous conditions, some unable to shake the memory of that cold December morning. Though they never doubted the justice of Saddam’s sentence, many were disgusted by the ugliness of the old man’s death.

  “It didn’t really hit us until we had time to distance ourselves,” Specialist Adam Rogerson said later. “But once the dust settles and you’re lying in your bed at night, your mind wanders, and you think, Did I really just do that? We’d gotten so close to him . . .” At that point, his voice trailed off, and he said, barely audibly, “I feel like I let him down.”

  The execution would be the first time that young Tucker Dawson would confront death up close. He had a hard time coping with the fact that this man—whom he’d grown to know—had recently walked into the building under his own power only to come out in a body bag. “It was the first time I’d ever seen death,” Dawson later recalled. At the time, one of the more seasoned NCOs tried to put his troubled mind at ease by saying, “It’s part of life. Look at what that man did. That’s his punishment. He dealt with it. It’s over. It was a mission.”

  Still, Dawson couldn’t shake the memories of those afternoons he spent outside with Saddam as he relaxed in the outdoor rec area. Images would come to him of the old man calling him over to ask him about his girlfriend back home.

  Months later, the interpreter, Joseph, would say simply, “Will I miss Saddam the brutal dictator? Of course not. But will I miss sitting in the evening with him as a human being? Yes, I will.”

  When he was deployed to Iraq in 2006 Steve Hutchinson might have seemed an unlikely candidate to be the member of the Super Twelve most troubled by the way in which the execution unfolded. But he may have been. In the months afterward, he thought about being in front of the “Big Man upstairs” on Judgment Day, and he worried about explaining why he didn’t try to restore order that morning. He said that watching the Iraqis spit on Saddam was akin to their “spitting on my Army service.” When he went home on leave a few days after the execution, he was still so disgusted and shamed by the episode that he felt cleansed only by taking his uniform off.

  Hutch later reflected: “I feel like I have to explain why it bothered me so much; for an American to be upset. But for us to stand by and let them treat another human being that way—I thought that’s what we were over here to stop, the treatment like that. I truly felt that I was just as guilty as anybody else. I’ve never really had a conscience about anything I’ve ever done over here. As far as humanity goes, I’ve seen some pretty bad things, but it’s what I had to do, it’s what was required of me, it was my job. But my job had never before said that I had to stand there and watch people spit on and kick a person’s body. And you know what, I’m glad I feel that way, I really am. Because if I didn’t feel that way, I would think something was wrong with me.”

  After enlisting immediately after 9/11, and serving honorably for six years and four deployments, on the day Saddam was executed Hutch resolved to get out of the Army.

  CONCLUSION

  I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,

  And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,

  I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,

  But I saw they were not as was thought,

  They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not,

  The living remain’d and suffer’d.

  —Walt Whitman, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”

  CHAPTER 37

  The soldiers’ transition from being the Super Twelve, bound together by the “mission of a lifetime,” to the “Regular Twelve,” as Specialist Rogerson would observe with a tinge of bittersweet nostalgia, had begun. As time went by, though, some would discover that transitioning to “regular” life was harder than expected. Just as Saddam Hussein affected the lives of everyday Iraqis in ways that are indelible—ways that, for those who survived his reign, no amount of time can erase—he also affected the lives of a small group of Americans in ways that will last for a lifetime.

  CHRIS TASKER

  It was a chilly St. Patrick’s Day, gray and cold, when, two months after Saddam’s death, Chris Tasker’s girlfriend, Amanda, picked Chris up at Cleveland’s Hopkins International Airport. It was the conclusion of a long trip home from Baghdad for two weeks’ leave. The hours had passed quickly, though, filled as they were with images of all the firsts Chris would experience when he got home—his first drink, hopefully a Jack and Coke, his first kiss with Amanda, and his first visits to Hot Dog Heaven and the West Side Market, where he’d order a brat sandwich. (Maybe he’d even hit both places on the same day.)

  Earlier in the day, Amanda had sent a text to Tasker’s parents saying she was going to drop by and say hello, executing the first part of Chris’s plan, which was to get her there before he arrived without triggering any warning bells. He always liked to surprise his parents with goofy stunts, and was hoping that appearing on their doorstep unannounced—when they thought he was thousands of miles away in Baghdad—would be his best yet. Nice idea, but Amanda’s text had only served to plant a seed in the mind of Chris’s dad, Steve. A team leader at General Motors who’d spent much of Chris’s childhood working long overtime hours to make ends meet, Steve found himself nurturing the hope that just maybe his son would surprise them. Otherwise, why would Amanda be coming over? He knew she hated the corned beef he always prepared for St. Patrick’s Day. Quietly, Steve went ahead and made extra just in case Chris did show up.

  Shortly afterward, Chris had Amanda drop him off at the end of his street so that he could walk the final block toward his house. He sent her ahead alone.

  Arriving first, Amanda offered a cheery hello to Chris’s father and brother, but then the family dog, Pepper, a German shepherd mix, began barking furiously. The Tasker men rushed to the window to figure out what was causing the racket, and spotted a tall figure in a uniform approaching. It was Chris. As soon as Chris set foot in the front hall, he caught sight of his mom coming down the stairs.

  She froze, and began to cry.

  As everyone assembled in the dining room and prepared to dig into Steve Tasker’s special St. Patrick’s Day corned beef, they showed eager curiosity about Chris’s experiences in Iraq. What are you up to over there? Steve asked.

  Though clearly happy to see everyone, Chris was reluctant to talk about his deployment. Eventually, though, after parrying more questions, he volunteered: So, remember I was telling you I was just doing guard duty? Sounded kind of boring, right?

  They nodded, still partly in shock that here he was, sitting right in front of them.

  Well, I was actually guarding Saddam Hussein.

  Silence.

  You mean, like, Saddam Saddam, the leader of Iraq? his mom asked.

  Yeah, Saddam, the big dude, Tasker replied.

  No way!

  Chris could see that everyone at the table was having trouble absorbing what he was saying. He immediately interjected: I’m not supposed to talk about it, and I don’t even like to, but I thought you should know.

  What was Saddam like?

  Well, he really wasn’t a bad guy—to us, at least, Chris responded. I mean, he’d play chess with us, sometimes he’d invite us to have a cigar with him. He was even kind of funny, always joking that he was going to get “strong like gazelle” on his exercise bike so he could escape.

  No shit, they said.

  Chris offered a few more audience-friendly anecdotes, but even as he did he recognized that they didn’t quite capture the surreal existence from which he�
�d emerged.

  It felt good to break the silence his mission had enforced on him, but at the same time there was something about the difficulty he had articulating the nature of his relationship with Saddam—and something about his family’s responses—that led him to conclude that no one would ever really understand what it had been like.

  Chris would go on to complete the rest of his deployment with the Super Twelve and get out of the Army in 2008, when his contract was up. Unsure of what to do next, he went home to Amherst.

  His parents were relieved to have him home and out of harm’s way. But at the same time they began to detect that in some ways their son had changed. They weren’t sure when the change had occurred or what had caused it; they even had a hard time putting their finger on exactly how he was different. Chris used to be such a sweet child, his mom observed wistfully, but now there are times when he isn’t so sweet. Other family members noticed that he was drinking more heavily, and there were whispers of other troubling behaviors. His parents’ fears that they’d receive a devastating knock on the door from Army casualty notification officers had been replaced by fears that they might receive a call from local first responders.

  These days, Chris says he has enjoyed being home and returning to small-town Ohio life with his old buddies. He likes being able to keep up more closely with the Browns and the Cavaliers. He has even obtained a pilot’s license, of which he and his family are quite proud. But, years later, he still hasn’t found regular work. His father can’t figure out why, observing that Chris was always a smart kid, capable of achieving anything he set his mind to.

  Though Chris still rarely speaks to his dad about Iraq, Steve recalls one thing he said that stood out. Chris told him that Saddam, as his execution approached, had said, I forgive you, you’re just doing your job.

  For Chris, it almost would have been easier if Saddam had acted more like the murderous tyrant they’d expected to find.

  PAUL SPHAR

  A few years after Saddam’s execution, Paul Sphar was no longer a guard. Now he was an inmate, his new home the Hays County Jail in central Texas. No longer was he responsible for the world’s most famous detainee in a converted palace-turned-prison. Now it was he who was the prisoner, and, like Saddam, he was forced to adapt to a new routine over which he had little control.

  While in the Army he’d struggled with his weight and the regimented military life, but still, he’d taken pride in his service. Upon returning home, that pride dissipated as he descended into a numbing routine of drug and alcohol use. He was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and had developed an addiction to painkillers that he’d initially been prescribed for chronic pain from leg and ankle injuries. About that period, Sphar says he “dropped off the face of the earth for a while,” admitting he was “pretty far gone” before eventually landing in the Hays County Jail for writing bad checks to support his drug habit.

  Now, mornings were spent in the prison’s common area, usually watching the television show Supernatural, followed by a workout, a game of cards, a nap, and then more TV with the other inmates—maybe CSI or Hawaii Five-0. There was a predictable rhythm to his days, just as there had been in Baghdad.

  Sphar first knew something was wrong when he experienced a crushing panic attack behind the wheel of an F-250 in Texas while at work for the state highway department replacing signs. He didn’t know exactly what triggered the attack, but suspected that what he’d done in Iraq to help “lead an old man to his death” may have contributed to it.

  Not only did he take no pride in the execution of an older man whose company he’d grown to enjoy, but when he did finally open up and try to explain to people what had occurred, he found that few believed him at first. Even Sphar’s mother seemed skeptical. And if some did believe him, not many were inclined to feel sympathy for a guy who questioned his role in ending the life of one of the twentieth century’s most notorious dictators.

  The tattooed gamer from California was at rock bottom when he found inspiration from a most unlikely place. As he marked the hours in his central Texas prison cell, Sphar found that, at a visceral level, he had a new appreciation for what the former Iraqi president had gone through. Sphar, who has since completed his prison sentence, says, “You can be on top of the mountain one minute and tomorrow you can be, like, the worst person on the planet. I saw Saddam like this: an unstoppable force reduced to having a nineteen-year-old bossing him around all day. I experienced this a little, too. One day I was a soldier on this high-profile mission and the next I’m fighting some teenager in prison who thinks I’ve stolen his Ramen noodle soup.”

  As he sat in his prison’s rec area, mindlessly staring at the CW network, Sphar found himself reflecting on Saddam’s ability not only to survive his fall from power, but to even find pleasure in his reduced circumstances. Rather than succumb to depression, Sphar worked to summon a resolve similar to Saddam’s to get through the nine months he’d spend in jail.

  • • •

  Sphar eventually made it through his jail time and was released. One day, he emerged from the prison into the harsh Texas sunlight and was back to feeling adrift. He had no support network to help him overcome the challenges of his PTSD and addiction. Soon, he found himself homeless and living under bridges around Austin, Texas.

  Life was very difficult for a while, but he finally found help from a therapist with the Veterans Administration and today he has discovered a degree of stability working as a waiter at Logan’s Roadhouse just off I-35 in Texas. He’s come a long way from the Austin highway overpasses that he once lived under. He has the upper hand over his drug and alcohol challenges. Sometimes, though, his mind still wanders back to how, not too long ago, he was guarding Saddam Hussein. He’s no longer waking up each day to work in a Baghdad palace. Instead, his job features a view of a Long John Silver’s, an IHOP, a Motel 6, and an office park. The office park lies half empty but houses an Armed Forces Recruiting Center, where the next generation of Paul Sphars will step through a portal to another world.

  ROBERT “DOC” ELLIS

  Though not part of the Super Twelve, Robert “Doc” Ellis was one of the Americans closest to Saddam during his incarceration. When he returned to the modest home he shared with his wife, Rita, in St. Louis following his deployment, he realized that the two of them were overdue for a vacation. He decided to use some of his “deployment money” to take her on a cruise in the Caribbean. They would island hop through the western Caribbean, with stops in the Caymans, Jamaica, and Cozumel.

  Despite the idyllic ocean setting, on the ship part of Ellis’s mind was still held hostage by Iraq. In the evening especially, pleasant memories of sharing cigars with Saddam kept returning. He kind of missed the man.

  He was alone with these conflicted emotions, though. They certainly weren’t something he expected his fellow Hawaiian-shirt-clad cruise patrons from middle America to understand. To cheer up, he assigned himself a new mission as the ship stopped for a brief port call in the Cayman Islands. He needed a good cigar and sought out the island’s version of the hajji mart. Eventually, he found the item he was looking for, and sometime later, ensconced once again on the ship’s deck, he took out a Cohiba, puffed contentedly on it, exhaled, and squinted into the sunset as he sorted through his memories.

  Unfortunately, the pleasant daily rhythms of his cruise foretold nothing of the life Ellis would soon be living. Stricken with aggressive cancer a short time later, he was suddenly thrust into a war as grim as the one he’d left behind. His chemotherapy regimen left him bald, gaunt, and fatigued, and adding to his gloominess, he felt himself increasingly bothered by his memories of his military service. His innately sunny disposition was clouded by a sense that his mission in Iraq—and indeed the entire American enterprise there—was a “gigantic waste of time, money, energy, and lives.”

  “I did my job,” he said, “but it was bullshit. It’s heartbreaking to see what’s happening there now—it would have never
happened under Saddam.”

  Retired in the modest suburban home he shared with his wife, Ellis was worlds away from the projects where he grew up, as well as the Baghdad prison cell where he’d spent so many hours with Saddam. But life hadn’t gotten any easier. He was initially confused by why he felt “so cold and distant,” resentful of his wife’s affection. He chalked it up to just needing some time “to get his groove back.”

  But it wasn’t happening. He found himself buffeted by compounding regrets: regret at not having been home for the final days of his mother’s and brother’s lives, as well as a sense of complicity in the death of a man whose company he’d grown to enjoy.

  “I know I should hate Saddam, but it’s not easy,” he said.

  Ellis felt more distant from his wife, Rita, than he did when they were thousands of miles apart, exchanging old-fashioned letters of affection. He began having “suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts, and sleep problems.”

  Ellis was proud and strong, though, and unwilling to surrender to despair. As he fought to reclaim a measure of happiness, he found himself marveling again at how Saddam seemed to effortlessly transition from “silk sheets to an Army cot,” how he could seemingly find satisfaction in a prison cell merely by mixing old Folgers coffee packets into water with his finger. Encouraged by those memories, Ellis still snuck puffs from a Cohiba cigar from time to time, trying to make the most of life’s simple pleasures.