by Byron Pitts
To escape the threat, they traveled with our team for part of the trip south, but eventually the journey became too hectic and too dangerous for a family to keep up the pace. They stayed behind in a village where they would be safe. The Nazirs were always resourceful; they assured us they would be fine. When it reached the time to say good-bye, I thought that’s what it meant. On this trip, like so many others, we had met people, depended on one another, lived together, and enjoyed an intense but brief relationship. Especially with the local population, good-bye usually meant forever.
Yet despite our twenty-hour days and our own adventures on the road, Larry stayed in touch with the Nazir family, as did another one of my colleagues, correspondent Elizabeth Palmer. Elizabeth did several tours in Afghanistan and worked with the Nazir family. When she returned home to London, she stayed in contact. It was a relationship Larry and Elizabeth nurtured long distance by phone, fax machines, handwritten notes delivered by strangers from one village to the next, messages passed along by word of mouth, and by what remains the most reliable source of communication around the world—cash put in the right hands. More than a relationship, the family’s security had become a cause for Larry and Elizabeth. For more than a year they kept track of this one family with one goal in mind: to help them make a better life for their children.
In time, Larry and Elizabeth, with help from a network of friends and contacts around the world, managed to get Nazir and his wife and children out of Afghanistan. Today, they live in Canada. Their son is in medical school. Their daughter, as Elizabeth describes her, is a typical Canadian teenager. It says a great deal about Larry and Elizabeth. They helped a family they might have left behind. I asked them both why, and both agreed that it was because it needed to be done. They helped someone simply because it needed to be done.
Elizabeth added, “I liked them. I thought they were extraordinarily brave and honest. I think when such opportunities present themselves, it’s important to grab them.”
Few people inside CBS News ever knew what Larry and Elizabeth were up to. They spent their own time and their own money and sought nothing in return. It was not about winning an award, receiving special recognition, or even getting a story on the CBS Evening News. For them, it was more than that, it was about making a difference. They used their own gifts and gave them away. Who knows what a Canadian doctor born in Afghanistan will do someday? Look out, world, when Vida pursues her dreams.
Here’s a footnote to the story. It almost never happened. When Larry first approached Fahranaz about her son working as an interpreter for CBS, she said no. She was afraid it was a trick to get her son to fight for the Taliban. That kind of watchful paranoia keeps people safe in wartime. Larry and Elizabeth were able to do their good work because they refused to take no for an answer.
THE FALL OF BAGHDAD
Just days after the U.S. military invaded Iraq in 2003, the nation was given a sense of hope that the war would be brief. Most Americans woke on April 9 to images of Iraqis celebrating in the streets of Baghdad, as many of their countrymen pulled down and kicked a statue of Saddam Hussein in the middle of the city. That impression did not last long. I was a few blocks away from the celebration, along with Mark Laganga. We were embedded with the U.S. Marine Corps Lima Company out of Twentynine Palms, California. The embed program was put in place by the Pentagon after lengthy discussion about the best way to give major news organizations (and their audiences) the fullest and most unfiltered access to the war. The program would be widely criticized later on. But in the early days and weeks of the war, it gave America a front-row seat to war.
On this particular morning, CBS News gave viewers a split screen of the war. On one side, there were the hopeful images from downtown Baghdad of the capital city of Iraq apparently under the control of U.S. forces. On the other side of the screen and a few blocks away, U.S. Marines were engaged in an all-out firefight.
Earlier in the day, the Marines of Lima Company were assigned to clear the Iraqi Ministry of Oil building. They were cautioned to be on the lookout for snipers. Mark and I tagged along, actually hoping to see what was commonly referred to as “bang bang,” American troops engaging the enemy. The early minutes of the mission were tense but uneventful. The Marines methodically went floor by floor looking for snipers or Iraqi fighters. Mark and I followed. We had been together for nearly six months by this time. We started our duty in Kuwait, where the buildup to the war began. By now Mark and I knew almost instinctively the other’s movements and thought process. We could communicate without ever exchanging a word. So we split up that morning in order to cover more ground. Mark with his large network camera and me with a small digital video variety, the kind you would take to Disney World. It was one of the few days of my life I hated being over six feet tall. Besides being the oldest person with the group of Marines, I was just about the tallest. My fear was that I was an easy target, and at age forty-two I had the disadvantage of being a bit slow, alongside the twenty-something Marines. But it appeared that all of my anxiety was for naught. The building was safe.
An hour or so after storming the Oil Ministry, the Marines gathered on the front steps to catch their breath. Some rested. A few pulled out cigars. The day was almost over, and no one had fired a weapon. Our reverie ended with the crackle of gunfire and falling debris. In a war zone, the sound of gunfire begins to blend in with the background. We realized there was a problem only when plaster from the building overhead was starting to falling on our heads. “Holy shit,” a Marine yelled. Someone was shooting at us. Everyone scrambled for cover. For weeks leading up to this moment, Mark and I had trained and studied with the Marines on how to respond to a chemical weapons attack, an air raid, trench warfare, and first aid. I do not recall a lesson on what to do in a firefight on the concrete in downtown Baghdad, so I got as low to the ground as I could and tried to keep up with the Marines in front of me.
While Mark videotaped the action, I placed a call to the New York office on our satellite phone to offer a live report. The first time I dialed in, a young person answered the phone. Sounded like one of the recent grads assigned to work the early shift back in New York. The person yelled into the phone, “I can’t hear you; there’s too much noise in the background.” And they hung up. I looked at the satellite phone in disbelief. I wanted to curse, but there was no time. The Marines were about to change position. It was time to run. I was teamed up with a corporal and one of the company’s staff sergeants. The corporal was young, thin, and athletic. The sergeant was just a bit younger than I, barrel-chested, with the classic Marine Corps tough-guy demeanor. I felt safe in his presence. The goal was to cross the outdoor mall beside the Ministry of Oil and make it to the wall surrounding the building. Run, stay low, then run again was the basic strategy. If cover was a necessity, there were cement tables scattered about. I imagined that workers in more peaceful times at the ministry might have sat outside at one of the tables enjoying their lunch. At the moment we would use the tables as temporary shelters. Somehow, the three of us—the corporal, the sergeant, and I—eyed the same cement table. The corporal got there first and the sergeant was a close second. I had the least amount of gear (flak jacket, helmet, small camera, satellite phone, and a notebook) but moved the slowest. With no place safe to land, I dove on the sergeant’s back—not intentionally—but I wasn’t planning on moving right away either.
With gunfire above our heads, I buried my face in the back of the sergeant’s neck, like a schoolgirl at her first horror movie. I wasn’t particularly scared, mind you, but the sergeant was my security blanket and I was determined to stay wrapped up as long as I could. It was only a few seconds I’m certain, but it felt like much longer. As the gunfire temporarily subsided, the sergeant twisted his neck toward me. If not for our helmets, we would have been cheek to cheek.
In a calm voice inconsistent with the panic I was feeling, he asked me, “Are you okay? Are you bleeding? Any wet spots?”
I quickly did a hand c
heck and fired back, “No, sir, sergeant! I’m fine.”
In that same calm voice, he answered, “Are you sure?”
I answered, “Yes, sir, I’m fine.”
Then, after a brief pause, perhaps for effect, the sergeant cleared his throat and in a very matter-of-fact tone said, “Okay, then fuck me or get off of me. But you can’t just lay there.”
If I had been eating, I would have spit out my food. He had detected tension in my voice and wanted to both reassure me and ease the mood. It worked. I sheepishly apologized, rolled to the side, and the three of us got up and ran to safety behind a wall. By now I had reconnected with the CBS office and was filing minute-by-minute reports to the control room for broadcast in New York. We did not have live pictures, only the sound of my voice describing the action, punctuated by bursts of gunfire and the shouting voices of the Marines around me. The gunfire aimed in our direction had not abated. The enemy was still an invisible target. In the midst of all the chaos came a moment I will remember the rest of my life. It was minor in the scheme of things, but it spoke volumes to me about the character of most of the men and women the American government sent into harm’s way.
Lima Company was led by Captain George Schreffler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He had the temperament of Tom Hanks in the movie Saving Private Ryan. His demeanor was often more professorial than warrior. Captain Schreffler was as calm as the quarterback in a church league flag football game, coolly calling out plays. Surrounded by a few of his Marines, including his radioman, he directed the movement of his unit and coordinated the call for support. A Marine corporal rushed over to tell the captain that his men had located the source of the gunfire. The corporal answered that he was certain of the location but could not confirm the identity of those firing. I for one was relieved by the news, but Captain Schreffler did not seem impressed. He instructed the Marine that no one was allowed to fire at the position in question until the threat was properly identified. I felt deflated by his strict instructions. We were getting pounded by gunfire, and I did not understand why he was reluctant to take out the target. But we soon realized that Captain Schreffler had made the correct call. He had been patient and protective of both his men and the potential enemy. It turned out that objects moving in the distance, once identified earlier as the source of the incoming fire, were actually members of an Iraqi family caught in the crossfire. If Captain Schreffler had given permission to shoot, that family would almost certainly have been killed.
Here’s how I described those hours that night.
The CBS Evening News, April 9, 2003
This morning the U.S. Marines rolled into downtown Baghdad . . . locked and loaded for a fight . . . when a party broke out.
Iraqi citizens chanting and screaming as they tore down this life-size statue of Saddam Hussein . . . on the steps of the Iraqi Oil Ministry . . . as the Marines were clearing this thirteen-story building. It was one of the last remaining symbols of Saddam’s regime.
Iraqi citizen: “We hate Saddam! Thank you USA!”
Staff Sergeant, USMC: “I wish it was him they were tearing down, but the statue is nice.”
Lieutenant, USMC: “You know we’ve been fighting for days and to see this let’s us know the Iraqi people are glad we’re here, and maybe we’re going home.”
But suddenly the celebration stopped with the crackle of gunfire. The party ended when these Marines were ambushed from three sides.
This wasn’t warfare. This was a street fight. U.S. Marines . . . average age nineteen to twenty-two . . . each with an M-16 . . . versus Saddam’s Fedayen paramilitary . . . also young men . . . with AK 47s.
Nearly two hours of small-arms fire . . . and rocket-propelled grenade launches. These Marines from Lima Company . . . based in Twentynine Palms, California, are flanked on three sides by sniper fire . . . when a corporal spots three heads bobbing behind a wall. He pleads with Lima Company’s commanding officer to take the shot. But Captain George Schreffler from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, orders his man to stand down. Wait until he can see a weapon. The captain made the right call. Those three heads were an Iraqi family—a husband, his wife, and daughter.
In the end, there were two Iraqi snipers dead . . . a third escaped. No American casualties. And a platoon of young Marines learned a valuable lesson: America is winning this war, but she cannot end it, at least not yet. Byron Pitts, CBS News, Baghdad.
It was the most “bang, bang” I would see for quite a while. That night I unwound for a few hours with Mark and the captain. He walked us through the day’s events. I was both curious and amazed by his calmness and clarity earlier in the day when so much was going on. “It’s what I was trained to do,” he said, without even a hint of arrogance or bravado. “I’m here to do a job. I’m not here to kill anyone I don’t have to kill,” he added.
Before we said our good nights, Captain Schreffler added, “I love my family, the Marine Corps, and my country. I would never do anything to dishonor them.”
There were plenty of well-publicized low moments during the war in Iraq, moments that deserved the attention they received. I only wish moments like the one I witnessed the day Baghdad fell would have gotten more attention.
Acts of courage, decency, and humility often go unnoticed, and not just on the battlefield.
HURRICANE MITCH
On October 29, 1998, category five Hurricane Mitch with 180-mile-an-hour winds hit the Central American countries of Honduras and Nicaragua. Over the next six days, the hurricane dumped a record seventy-five inches of rain, causing catastrophic flooding, killing nearly 11,000 people; another 11,000 were missing, and 2.7 million were left homeless. The damage was estimated at $5 billion. It was the second deadliest Atlantic hurricane in history. Those statistics provide the wide shot. For the closeup CBS News dispatched nearly the entire Miami bureau. That meant producer Larry Doyle, cameraman Manny Alvarez, soundman Craig Anderson, and me. We were a small office staff with eighty-two years of network experience combined. I provided the last two years. Manny is a Cuban-American who has the best sense of humor of anyone I have ever worked with. He can mix humor and sarcasm better than Larry can mix a drink. Larry had his rules for the road, and so did Manny. Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lie down, and never just lie down when you can sleep. And a favorite of many a profession: eat when you can, as often as you can, because you never know when you will get your next meal. And then there is Craig Anderson. Built like a tank with the patience of Job, he has one of the best B.S. meters in television. Nothing got by Craig, and no one got one over on him.
Like many of these assignments, there was no road map. The assignment was to get on the ground as soon as we could and start sending in reports. We filed our first report along the Choluteca River in the city of Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras. The grim statistics that sent us to Honduras in the first place were mere echoes to the horror stories we heard on the ground. Survivors had poured into Tegucigalpa from villages miles away, with just the clothes on their backs. Many told of losing their entire families. Some set up makeshift tent cities along the river. Children were swimming and women washing clothes along one stretch of the river, while men, women, and children were relieving themselves along another portion. The place was rife with disease.
A few days into our trip, we traveled by small propeller plane and then by boat to remote parts of northern Honduras. We almost became part of the story. Never a big fan of flying, I was particularly uncomfortable in small planes. In a developing country after a major natural disaster, cash can get you only so much, so Larry rented the only plane available. It was a small twin-engine plane that could hold six people, including pilot and co-pilot. Larry, Manny, Craig, and I made four. After exaggerating about the weight of our gear and two additional Benjamin Franklins, the crew agreed to take us to a remote part of Honduras. We all assumed our usual positions: Manny in his own world, fussing over his gear; Craig and I talking about anything other than work; and Larry asleep i
n the back of the plane. As Manny was videotaping out the window of the plane and Craig and I were enjoying the view, we heard a loud noise. It sounded like flesh smashing together. We looked forward to see the co-pilot slapping the pilot for the second time. Neither Manny, Craig, or I had ever flown a plane, but we knew enough to figure out something was wrong. The pilot and co-pilot were screaming at each other in Spanish. Manny quickly filled in the gaps. The pilot was watching Manny videotaping, instead of watching his instruments. We were heading directly into the side of a mountain. The co-pilot slapped the pilot to gain his attention. The pilot pulled hard on the control, and the nose of the plane pointed skyward. Now we were all screaming, except for Larry who was still sound asleep. We barely cleared the mountain. When we landed, Manny, Craig, and I were still shaking and were soaked in sweat. Larry asked what was wrong. When we explained, he smiled and said, “Glad you didn’t wake me.”
There was plenty of death to be seen in the days that followed. Whole towns had vanished beneath the mud. We saw survivors living in trees and on slivers of land barely above water. In one place called Waller, we met Vicenta Lopez and her four children. She was twenty-eight but looked nearly fifty. Her oldest child was twelve, and the baby was barely old enough to walk. The family was practically homeless, except for a thin tin roof leaning against a stack of fallen trees, beneath which they slept and ate. She and her children were poor before the storm, but Hurricane Mitch had taken what little they had. Inside their makeshift home were three small stools, which the children used as chairs, a small table not much larger than a manhole cover, a few plastic bowls, cups, spoons, and one wooden spoon. A few days earlier an international charity working in the area provided Miss Lopez with rice and a large container of fresh water. She had a small fire burning just outside. Dinner that night for her and her children would consist of plain white rice.