Mr. Speaker, I submit the attached report of Time Magazine correspondent Jim Lacey for the Congressional Record. Time Magazine Reporter Jim Lacey Embedded With 101st Airborne Since returning from Iraq a short time ago I have been answering…
Mr. Speaker, I submit the attached report of Time Magazine correspondent Jim Lacey for the Congressional Record.
Time Magazine Reporter Jim Lacey Embedded With 101st Airborne
Since returning from Iraq a short time ago I have been
answering a lot of questions about the war from friends,
family, and strangers. When they ask me how it was over there
I find myself glossing over the fighting, the heat, the
sandstorms, and the flies (these last could have taught the
Iraqi army a thing or two about staying power). Instead, I
talk about the soldiers I met, and how they reflected the
best of America. A lot of people are going to tell the story
of how this war was fought; I would rather say something
about the men who won the war.
War came early for the 1st Brigade of the 101st Airborne
when an otherwise quiet night in the Kuwaiti desert was
shattered by thunderous close-quarters grenade blasts. Sgt.
Hasan Akbar, a U.S. soldier, had thrown grenades into an
officers' tent, killing two and wounding a dozen others.
Adding to the immediate confusion was the piercing scream of
SCUD alarms, which kicked in the second Akbar's grenade
exploded. For a moment, it was a scene of near panic and
total chaos.
Just minutes after the explosions, a perimeter was
established around the area of the attack, medics were
treating the wounded, and calls for evacuation vehicles and
helicopters were already being sent out. Remarkably, the very
people who should have been organizing all of this were the
ones lying on the stretchers, seriously wounded. It fell to
junior officers and untested sergeants to take charge and
lead. Without hesitation everyone stepped up and
unfalteringly did just that. I stood in amazement as two
captains (Townlee Hendrick and Tony Jones) directed the
evacuation of the wounded, established a hasty defense, and
helped to organize a search for the culprit. They did all
this despite bleeding heavily from their wounds. For over six
hours, these two men ran things while refusing to be
evacuated until they were sure all of the men in their
command were safe.
Two days later Capt. Jones left the hospital and hitchhiked
back to the unit: He had heard a rumor that it was about to
move into Iraq and he wanted to be there. As Jones--dressed
only in boots, a hospital gown, and a flak vest--limped
toward headquarters, Col. Hodges, the 1st Brigade's
commander, announced, ``I see that Captain Jones has returned
to us in full martial splendor.'' The colonel later said that
he was tempted to send Jones to the unit surgeon for further
evaluation, but that he didn't feel he had the right to tell
another man not to fight: Hodges himself had elected to leave
two grenade fragments in his arm so that he could return to
his command as quickly as possible.
The war had not even begun and already I was aware that I
had fallen in with a special breed of men. Over the next four
weeks, nothing I saw would alter this impression. A military
historian once told me that soldiers could forgive their
officers any fault save cowardice. After the grenade attack I
knew these men were not cowards, but I had yet to learn that
the brigade's leaders had made a cult of bravery. A few
examples will suffice.
While out on what he called ``battlefield circulation,''
Col. Hodges was surveying suspected enemy positions with one
of his battalion commanders (Lt. Col. Chris Hughes) when a
soldier yelled ``Incoming'' to alert everyone that mortar
shells were headed our way. A few soldiers moved closer to a
wall, but Hodges and Hughes never budged and only briefly
glanced up when the rounds hit a few hundred yards away. As
Hodges completed his review and prepared to leave, another
young soldier asked him when they would get to kill whoever
was firing the mortar. Hodges smiled and said, ``Don't be in
a hurry to kill him. They might replace that guy with someone
who can shoot.''
The next day, a convoy Col. Hodges was traveling in was
ambushed by several Iraqi
paramilitary soldiers. A ferocious firelight ensued, but
Hodges never left the side of his vehicle. Puffing on a cigar
as he directed the action, Hodges remained constantly exposed
to fire. When two Kiowa helicopters swooped in to pulverize
the enemy strongpoint with rocket fire, he turned to some
journalists watching the action and quipped, ``That's your
tax dollars at work.''
Bravery inspires men, but brains and quick thinking win
wars. In one particularly tense moment a company of U.S.
soldiers was preparing to guard the Mosque of Ali--one of the
most sacred Muslim sites--when agitators in what had been a
friendly crowd started shouting that they were going to storm
the mosque. In an instant, the Iraqis began to chant and a
riot seemed imminent. A couple of nervous soldiers slid their
weapons into fire mode, and I thought we were only moments
away from a slaughter. These soldiers had just fought an all-
night battle. They were exhausted, tense, and prepared to
crush any riot with violence of their own. But they were also
professionals, and so, when their battalion commander, Chris
Hughes, ordered them to take a knee, point their weapons to
the ground, and start smiling, that is exactly what they did.
Calm returned. By placing his men in the most non-threatening
posture possible, Hughes had sapped the crowd of its
aggression. Quick thinking and iron discipline had reversed
an ugly situation and averted disaster.
Since then, I have often wondered how we created an army of
men who could fight with ruthless savagery all night and then
respond so easily to an order to ``smile'' while under
impending threat. Historian Stephen Ambrose said of the
American soldier: ``When soldiers from any other army, even
our allies, entered a town, the people hid in the cellars.
When Americans came in, even into German towns, it meant
smiles, chocolate bars and C-rations.'' Ours has always been
an army like no other, because our soldiers reflect a society
unlike any other. They are pitiless when confronted by armed
enemy fighters and yet full of compassion for civilians and
even defeated enemies.
American soldiers immediately began saving Iraqi lives at
the conclusion of any fight. Medics later said that the Iraqi
wounded they treated were astounded by our compassion. They
expected they would be left to suffer or die. I witnessed
Iraqi paramilitary troops using women and children as human
shields, turning grade schools into fortresses, and defiling
their own holy sites. Time and again, I saw Americans taking
unnecessary risks to clear buildings without firing or using
grenades, because it might injure civilians. I stood in awe
as 19-year-olds refused to return enemy fire because it was
coming from a mosque.
It was American soldiers who handed over food to hungry
Iraqis, who gave their own medical supplies to Iraqi doctors,
and who brought water to the thirsty. It was American
soldiers who went door-to-door in a slum because a girl was
rumored to have been injured in the fighting; when they found
her, they called in a helicopter to take her to an Army
hospital. It was American soldiers who wept when a three-
year-old was carried out of the rubble where she had been
killed by Iraqi mortar fire. It was American soldiers who
cleaned up houses they had been fighting over and later
occupied--they wanted the places to look at least somewhat
tidy when the residents returned.
It was these same soldiers who stormed to Baghdad in only a
couple of weeks, accepted the surrender of three Iraqi Army
divisions, massacred any Republican Guard unit that stood and
fought, and disposed of a dictator and a regime with ruthless
efficiency. There is no other army--and there are no other
soldiers--in the world capable of such merciless fighting and
possessed of such compassion for their fellow man. No society
except America could have produced them.
Before I end this I want to point out one other quality of
the American soldier: His sense of justice. After a grueling
fight, a company of infantrymen was resting and opening their
first mail delivery of the war. One of the young soldiers had
received a care package and was sharing the home-baked
cookies with his friends. A photographer with a heavy French
accent asked if he could have one. The soldier looked him
over and said there would be no cookies for Frenchmen. The
photographer then protested that he was half Italian. Without
missing a beat, the soldier broke a cookie in half and gave
it to him. It was a perfect moment and a perfect reflection
of the American soldier.