Hunting Down Saddam (33 page)

The docs continued to work them over. As they did another doc entered the aid station. He was a Special Forces medic from the guys on our compound. He said nothing. He simply walked in, snapped on some gloves, and quietly began to work. I don't think that any of us even knew his name but he was one of us—a soldier.

The first sergeant brought his commander out with the others and they placed them on the ambulance. I ordered Brad to put his head down because he kept trying to raise it and the tight fit and his head didn't go well together as they slid him into the slots on the ambulance. The vehicle sped away to the hospital. Media were nearby the whole time. They were not the enemy. They had been on patrols with us and knew the men on the stretchers. But they did the only thing they knew to do. They began to record it. They did it in a dignified way so as not to show the faces of the men on the stretchers. We did not really notice them at the time.

I called the first sergeant and told him to assemble the soldiers from the convoy. I explained to them to channel their emotion. I cautioned them to use it to take it to the enemy, but not to see all people as the enemy. We still had a lot of work to do and these men would return. I did not want to lose more. The men seemed fine. They had already accounted for their equipment and readied for the rest of the day. It was not even noon. I readied my command group as well. I had planned to see the governor. We were going to get at the educators behind the senseless demonstrations. As we readied, a report of a gathering demonstration in downtown crackled over the net. We sped to the location.

As we arrived, we noticed that two of “Cobras'” Bradleys had just pulled up in a herringbone on the northbound lanes in town. The men started spilling out the back and several sergeants began to point to a side street east. Suddenly, a rifle cracked off just as I got out of my vehicle. Then another. On its heels was a good burst from an M240B machine gun. I ran up to the squad and asked what they were shooting at. They said someone in the crowd threw what appeared to be a pipe-like object. Believing it to be a bomb, they fired a burst above the crowd. I told SSG John Minzer to take control of his men. The crowd had already scattered in all directions. Joe Filmore, our translator from San Diego, questioned several of the students nearby. We told them to scatter immediately or be arrested. They wasted no time getting out of there.

We remounted and headed toward the government building. As we passed the shops on the streets, the looks were like daggers. Men spat and narrowed their eyes in sideward glances. Uppity. They were getting Uppity. Fine. I would solve this right now! I already had three casualties this day. I did not want any more.

I put out a net call on the battalion for the commanders to assemble at the “Birthday Palace.” I told them to bring everything that could roll and all the Infantry they could spare. Then I called Reg Allen over at 1-10 Cavalry and asked for some attack aviation support for 1400 hours. I told him I was going to do a heavy-handed patrol of the city and clear the streets. I had known Reg since he was a first lieutenant. We had gone to the Armored Officers Advanced Course together. He said I could have anything I needed. He is a good man.

We assembled at the “Birthday Palace” with a large force. I opened an imagery map on the hood of the humvee, and pulled the lead tanks and plastic soldiers from my butt pack on my gear. We talked through a quick concept and then executed it about twenty minutes later. CPT Jon Cecalupo brought the “Cougars'” tanks down the main street. The “Cobras” followed behind and did a herringbone with about eight Bradleys downtown. The ramps fell and our Infantry ran at the sidewalks, immediately clearing the crowds. Reg's aviators swooped overhead at intimidating heights. CPT Mark Stouffer followed with A Company's “Gator” Infantry and Bradleys as well and then CPT Darryl Carter brought up the Iraqi Civil Defense troops. The town immediately became calm. We patrolled in this way for the next several hours, looking for trouble. But no one would give it.

As the soldiers swarmed the city, I called for the PSYOPS truck. We went to the governor and he drafted a tough message to tell his own people. Then he asked if he could go with us to play it around town. I thought it a great idea so he hopped in my humvee and off we went. He sat behind me with a loaded pistol (my kind of governor!) while we drove at idle speed around the city. His bodyguard flanked him and our soldiers watched the shock on the faces as their own governor was telling them to knock it off or his forces would use lethal force and demonstrators would be imprisoned. The wind was out of the sails. We've not had a demonstration attempt in the last week and a half.

That evening I went to the field hospital to see the guys. Brad's gunner was already released back to his unit. He would need some time to recover but could do it from his unit. C Company's doc was moved to Baghdad. He needed some additional care.

I found Brad lying on a hospital bed in the inflated tent hospital. He looked pretty good and seemed to be in good spirits. I told him that I was sending CPT Mitch Carlisle to fill in for him until he could be healed. He told me he did not want to be evacuated further. I told him I would do what I could. While we were talking, a chaplain came in and asked in a low tone if I was the commander of 1-22 Infantry. I told him yes. He said we had another casualty.

The patrol from elements of our B Company cross-attached to the armor battalion in Bayji moved along a route looking for roadside bombs. The lead vehicle faced its turret forward and the trail vehicle faced the turret to the rear. An RPG swooshed on an arc that connected to the turret of the platoon leader's vehicle. The gunner had been leaning up and was looking for bombs when it hit. The rocket hit near the TOW launcher and then the gunner took nearly all of the blast. Only God and his body armor saved him. The platoon leader was also wounded but not critically.

When they brought him into the hospital, all I could do was pray. I begged God to spare his life. The chaplain and I prayed over him. I knew he would have a very long haul. I stayed with him until they took him into surgery. Mike Rauhut and I stood there and reflected on a very tough day. We traveled back to the command post and I knew the day was not over yet. I had to make the phone calls. When I arrived, CSM Martinez had the phone ready … but was I[?] I called the wives of our wounded and answered their questions as best I could.

I felt it would be best to tell them everything about their loved one's condition. While tough for them to hear, I knew they wanted to know. I knew my wife would. So I tried to be honest with them. I would rather have attacked into the Feda-yeen than have had to make those calls. At least, this time, I was not calling to explain how their loved one died. You never really know what to say.

I slept soundly that night. By dawn, we patrolled a mostly passive city. The people smiled and some even waved. It was just as if nothing happened. A sense of disgust returned. That day I went to Auja and met with Sheik Mahmood.

We had a good discussion about Auja, the future of the Tikriti people, and the larger issue of how the Sunnis would fit into a new Iraq. After this visit we continued our patrols and then went back to the palace. I gave CPT Chris Morris, our scout platoon leader, a concept for getting the bomber on the “chevron.” I told him I wanted him to plan an operation that would set a trap with observation posts and snipers to last about four days.

The night of the 17th only had one roadside bomb—another cinder block bomb. Hand-drawn on the cement caps was the phrase “Allah Akhbar” (“Allah is powerful,” or “God is great”). Anyone wondering about whether or not they hate us should come and fight these thugs. There is no doubt in my mind that they would kill us in our own cities. Instead, we will kill them here.

The next day was calm. The town was actually civil. Chris Morris inserted his scouts for the ambush along the “chevron.” The rain fell. The temperature dropped. The enemy stayed inside. I guess the man dresses get a little drafty this time of year. We patrolled our area and checked on the guys out in the rain. Their morale remained good. The week before, I had talked to several of the units. I got all the enlisted together by company and then the sergeants. It was good to hear what was on their minds. We looked forward to Christmas, and I urged the soldiers to stay focused on the mission. Home would be when we set foot there. Not before.

The “Cougars” patrolled on the 19th in Cadaseeah. They saw a Saddam poster on a shop. The men dismounted their tanks and checked it out. A cursory search of the vegetable shop revealed grenades and plastic explosives mixed with the cucumbers and tomatoes. They might as well have hung a sign that said “Idiot Lives Here.”

The men searched all the shops in the complex and found another with a garden variety of explosives. As it developed, we sent some Infantry support to them from 1LT Mike Isbell's platoon of “Cobras” and then we ended up arresting two men. We left an observation post on the houses of the shop owners and pulled in two more men over the next two nights. One turned out to be one of the guys who bombed Brad's convoy.

Tidings in Tikrit

A chill is in the air now—mixed with the pall of wood smoke hanging over the city. We were once bathed from head to toe with sweat, but now cover ourselves with items to keep warm and dry. The temperatures here have cooled, but the situation seems to change as often as the weather. The environment in Tikrit at this writing is simmering—not a boil, but simmering.

The last few days have been fairly calm. The roadside bombs have ceased for several days now, since the arrest of the individual in Cadaseeah. We've had sporadic events but nothing out of hand.

The morning of December 23rd, the Fourth Infantry Division had a prayer breakfast. MG Ray Odierno reminded us all that we should be thankful to celebrate it and to remember those who will not be with us this year. Last night we had a wonderful candlelight service at the battalion. LTC (CH) Gil Richardson, the division chaplain, gave the message to our soldiers and we sang Christmas carols.

Today we spent Christmas in Iraq. While away from family we have their love and prayers. While away from our nation we have their gratitude. While away from home we have the bonds of friendship with fellow soldiers. I am thankful to be an American fighting man.

THE ACE IN THE HOLE

Homeward Bound: An Author's Note

Russell Cummings and I didn't have any arranged transport to the airport on the day we left Iraq in mid-November. In the early hours of the morning, we took a cab from the hotel with a driver well versed in negotiating an “ambush alley.” He was quite good and got us all there in one piece and ready for the next step: a charter flight from Baghdad to Amman, Jordan.

The Air Service Charter was late. It was mid-afternoon when we finally took off from Baghdad in the eighteen-seat Beech Twin. We went up the same way we had come down, in dizzying circles. We followed a “spiral staircase” that rose up from where we lifted off the airfield, and tried to crunch down in our seats as we ascended rapidly from the runway aiming for twenty thousand feet. I did not see any reason why we had to “wind our way up the cone” in this manner, as no shooting was actually going on. Nor had I personally seen any such shooting while in Iraq, although I had witnessed mortar attacks by pro-Saddam insurgents on FOB Ironhorse in Tikrit, and in other locales.

I approached the copilot with the idea of going straight out over the desert. He just laughed. “We wouldn't get a hundred yards out without picking up a couple of these things,” he said as he showed me a couple of little brass fragments that I knew to be pieces of flak.

“Where did they come from?” I asked.

The copilot laughed. “The front of the airplane last week,” he replied. “We were lucky it didn't cause any serious damage.”

So I sweated out the fifteen thousand feet—
only another five thousand feet to go,
I thought.

The air was so thin it almost made me believe there was none there at all. I breathed deeply, but took very little nourishment into my lungs. The combination of thin air and the difficulty I had absorbing enough oxygen made me feel as though I myself were flying without a seatbelt within the interior of the plane. My seventy-eight-year-old parkinsonian body rebelled at the weakness in my legs and arms as we straightened out and headed toward Amman. I wished I were wearing an oxygen mask.

A soldier walking down the aisle pointed directly ahead as the plane changed course heading out over the desert. You could see nothing on the ground—just sand and rock. We knew there were terrorists down there ready to shoot at us, and I rather expected to see flak bursts appearing outside the windows. It reminded me of a similar time, fifty-eight years ago, when I peered down from the front seat in the nose cone of a B-17 bomber, with two .50 caliber machine guns below my feet and nothing to aim at as we evaded the flak from the German gunners below.

As we flew I tried to study the desert below, all the time wondering if terrorists were trying to shoot at us. Our plane was full of civilian Americans, Germans, and Brits who had been in Baghdad for a month helping the Iraqis with their many problems. I daresay we all wondered the same thing as we looked at the landscape below.

I breathed a sigh as we straightened out and gradually descended toward Amman. An air of relief permeated the cabin. The other passengers were now laughing and reaching for their cakes from the food cartons given to us when we boarded the plane.

Russell and I parted company early the following morning—he went on to the United States and I to England for a short break before heading back to the States. I returned home to Concord, Massachusetts, a few weeks later, and started work on the next portion of this book.

At that time, I was fairly convinced that Saddam had been killed in that first raid on Baghdad. “Smokin' Joe” Anderson back in Mosul had a completely different view—his unit, after all, had killed the two sons, Uday and Qusay, and he firmly believed their father was still alive. Anderson certainly wasn't alone in this belief. Many soldiers and intelligence officers were operating on the same premise. This was also the opinion of LTC Steve Russell of Task Force 1-22 INF in Tikrit. They all were working ever harder to close the net. So, of course, I also considered the possibility that Saddam was still alive, and that led to the question:
would Saddam be found before or after my book was complete?