Chasing catastrophe, p.8
Chasing Catastrophe, page 8
We also spent time prepping our gear, testing the satellite dish and sat phones, buying supplies, and getting in shape. One day when we had some free time, a bunch of us went to a go-cart place and went a bit wild, smashing into each other and tearing up the track. The guys who worked there kept yelling at us to stop hitting each other. I don’t think we got kicked out, but we didn’t stay long.
Some days we’d take trips to the temporary base camps the military had built in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert, miles from civilization. The camps provided food, shelter, sanitation, and other support services for tens of thousands of soldiers, sailors, and Marines.
We visited Camp Commando, home to Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF) headquarters, and Camp Matilda, headquarters for the 1st Marine Division, hosting final combat staging and rehearsal operations for more than twenty thousand Marines and sailors.
We shot interviews with arriving troops and commanding officers about what they expected, how they were feeling, how prepared they were, and what they hoped to achieve. We also frequently asked how the Marines felt about the antiwar protests back home, and they must have gotten media training before they arrived because every single one of them told us they didn’t mind it, that they were fighting for Americans’ rights to free speech and free expression, and that the demonstrations wouldn’t deter them from their mission.
At Matilda, we got critically important briefings from a variety of military officers on a variety of topics, which I took copious notes on in a skinny spiral reporter’s notebook with a camouflage cover the Marines gave us as a welcome gift. Reading through it brought back a flood of memories.
“GAS GAS GAS” were the first words I wrote atop the first page. It was the warning that the Marines yelled in the event of a suspected chemical or biological weapons attack. We would hear the warning one day when we reached Camp Ripper, the base where we linked up and lived with the 1st LAR for the last week before the launch of the war. We all frantically strapped our masks on as a Marine ran by yelling, “THIS IS NOT A DRILL!” scaring the crap out of us. And yes, in fact, it was a drill, but the point was made. We needed to be on guard at all times.
They’d issued us all camouflage chemical suits with charcoal lining, NBC (for nuclear, biological, chemical) suits also known as MOPP suits (for Mission Oriented Protective Posture) consisting of long pants, a jacket with hood, rubber boots, rubber gloves, and a belted pouch designed to carry our gas masks, extra filters, and atropine kits. We were told the filter would last twenty-four hours in a contaminated environment, and that symptoms of exposure could include runny nose, drooling, headache, trouble with vision, tight chest, or difficulty breathing.
The suits were good for thirty to forty-five days, and we’d need to wear them at all times, even when sleeping, to protect ourselves from nerve gas or biological or chemical weapons. We wore shorts and T-shirts underneath and were told to shave daily so the masks would have a clean fit and seal on our face.
They showed us the Atropine pens we’d carry in kits strapped to our legs, with a long needle you’d jab into your thigh and hold for ten seconds before pulling it out.
“If you come up on someone in need, in trouble,” my notes said, “administer all three sets, one after another. If the person is convulsing, give the final shot.”
Saddam Hussein was known to have deployed nerve and blister agents in the past, including VX and Sarin, Anthrax, and other toxins, and we were warned to assume that any incoming artillery is a chemical attack, and we were assured that should we be injured, we’d be medivacked with the same priority as Marines.
We also learned about the different levels of suit protocol: MOPP LEVEL 1 meant in the suit, but no boots required. MOPP LEVEL 2 meant suit and boots. MOPP LEVEL 3 was suit, boots, and mask. MOPP LEVEL 4 was suit, boots, mask, and gloves for total encapsulation. Scared yet? I was. The gloves came with inserts you put on first, then the rubber, which you’d cuff at the end.
Should we get “chemmed,” we were to be moved to a containment site for decontamination procedures—though, fortunately, this never happened.
“SNOWSTORM” meant any indirect fire, such as mortars or artillery. “LIGHTNING” was a scud missile alert.
They issued us Cipro pills in addition to the Doxy pens and told us to take both if exposed. They spent lots of time on medical guidance, CPR, first aid, and hygiene, including gems like “Do what the Marines do, except when they’re playing with dangerous animals!” And “Drink what they drink, eat what they eat, and wash your hands…it’s very important to maintain personal hygiene!” which was laughable, since once we got to the desert, we didn’t shower for more than a month, and when we bothered trying to clean up, we’d be dirty from the dusty desert in a matter of seconds.
The Marines talked confidently about dominating the battlefield, “preparing for the worst, hoping for the best,” insisting that if Saddam attacked, the Marines’ response would be “extremely violent” to the point that “he would never do it again.”
“Marines will fight dirty if necessary,” but they also joke that they “fight dirty all the time, because they don’t want a fair fight, they want to win.”
This kind of confidence was reassuring. If they were trying to make me feel more comfortable with this incredibly ridiculous situation I was putting myself in, it was working.
In another briefing, we learned that Marines operated on Zulu time, which is Greenwich Mean Time, and can be very confusing. It was three hours behind local time and also different from Eastern, Pacific, or any other time zone. So, for example, if someone said, “our next briefing will be at 1400 Zulu,” we’d look at each other and say, “OK, that’s 1700 [5 p.m.] local, so minus eight, it’s 9 a.m. ET, or noon PT…” and we’d often get it wrong.
The most anticipated briefing (for me at least) was from Major General James Mattis; Mattis was commander of the 1st Marine Division and would lead the invasion of Iraq and the war itself and would later spend two years as Secretary of Defense under President Trump.
I really liked and respected General Mattis. He was at Camp Ripper in Afghanistan when I was embedded there in late 2001, and I always looked forward to his daily afternoon visits to our media housing, when he’d go on the record, give us stuff on background, and then go off the record.
The off-the-record stuff was always the best, of course, and we’d always try to talk him into letting us use some of it. He was a hard-core dude, blunt and salty and no-nonsense, usually chomping on a cigar and saying some variation of “fuck” almost every sentence. He was a Marine’s Marine, not afraid to spend a night in a fighting hole with the grunts.
At Camp Matilda, General Mattis told the large group of assembled journalists: “You’re welcome here.”
“There never would’ve been an Iwo Jima statue of the flag raising if there hadn’t been pictures of it,” he pointed out, and then told us he was hoping we’d spend most of our time with the youngest Marines, who deserved the attention for their bravery.
“Conditions will go downhill from here,” he warned. “Your comfort level will be on par with a lance corporal infantryman.”
“We’re out to do a noble deed here,” he said. “The ground you sit on is free because of these types of guys [pointing at the Marines in the room].” Mattis told us he led the invasion into Kuwait, his ninth deployment to the region. “The last time, easy rules of engagement. See a guy with a gun, you shot him. This time, lots of innocent people,” so the Marines would need to be more careful.
“We’re expecting much of Saddam’s regular army to surrender,” he said, and would “funnel them to the rear, get them out of the danger area. We need to keep them safe, get them food, water. Follow-on units will address those issues.”
As for timing of the invasion, he told us: “Once the political decision is made, we can move very, very quickly. Our vehicles are in formation for a reason. We have an execution matrix…can’t go into detail, but we’re thirty to forty miles from the border and these boys are from Southern California and they’re fast on a freeway.”
He threw some more one liners at us, including how the Marines were looking for “brilliance in the basics.”
“We never stop the planning.”
“Iraqis are moving all the time, and we watch ’em.”
“These are the best ambassadors from America,” he told us about his troops. “We have no problem with Muslims, we have no problem with the Iraqi people. What we have are a lot of people who’ve been victimized. We want to show them when this army comes to town, it’s a whole new ball game. Marines will use their brains before they use their weapons.”
“Marines have been training for urban combat for years, preparing for a fight, focused on tactics.” As for their relationship with the Army, “we’re in this together. The 3rd ID [Infantry Division] is a great outfit, and we’re happy to be fighting alongside them.”
He warned us that sandstorms are a big problem and that they’d use ground medivac if necessary. “Highly qualified surgeons will be an hour away, but we can’t fly through most of this.”
He also warned about friendly fire, “a constant danger on the battlefield since General Stonewall Jackson was fired on by his own troops. The number one way to overcome it is through training and situational awareness, engage the brain before the weapon.”
He said the Marines were warning Iraqi civilians to stay away from Iraqi military gear. Saddam was parking his tanks, rocket launchers, and other equipment next to hospitals, schools, and mosques to make it more difficult for coalition forces to target them. Mattis said the Marines were also telling Iraqis to get off the roads.
We’d rather go around a city than through it, and if fired on we will try to fire back without hitting innocents. Bad things happen in war. We’ll try to avoid it.
If we’re hit by chemicals and we’re on the move, we’ll probably pull off straight away, self decon, and wait for a down unit to get there. But if we’re locked in the middle of a firefight, we’ll continue to fight dirty until we can break contact and the unit can be replaced. Then we’ll get cleaned up and get back into the fight. They’ve been training for this, wearing suits in California for days at a time, gotten shots, etc. His troops are in more danger than ours.
We’re all a product of our experiences. It’s mostly a battle of willpower. We need to maintain our spirits and discipline at the highest level. We’ve fought some of them before…and we know they don’t want a rematch.
We’re not the least bit worried about Iraqi forces. We’ll take out any that remain loyal to Saddam. Our primary goal is to get everyone back safely, in one piece. We don’t want to lose any of them.
He also proudly said of the Marines: “They’re looking forward to the brawl! This is an infantry division with young soldiers, very determined. Experience is valuable, but training is more valuable.”
He finished by bragging about the Marines’ superior air power.
“Aviation has become so much more capable. It used to be we asked, ‘How many airplanes will it take to take out a target?’ And now we ask, ‘How many targets can our aircraft take out?’ Total reversal in thinking.”
Someone asked if he was worried about the harsh weather ahead. “We’re an all-weather force,” he replied proudly. “We can fight any old time.”
Finally, he was asked: “What about Saddam? What will you do if you find him?”
His reply was classic Mattis: “He probably won’t enjoy the encounter.”
LAR BATTALIONS
When the embed assignments were first issued, I was told I’d be reporting to an Army unit the Pentagon was planning to stage in Turkey and then move into Iraq from the north. I spoke to some buddies in Public Affairs who highly encouraged me to request a shift to the Marines and not an infantry unit. “L-A-R” (for Light Armored Reconnaissance) was the way to go, they assured me.
For one thing, riding in the back of a troop transport was incredibly uncomfortable, hot, and crowded. For another, Marines were cooler than soldiers, they assured me, and I’d definitely see action and have a better overall experience.
LAR Marines called themselves “the tip of the spear” because they’d be out in front, alone and unafraid, probing the enemy for weaknesses, determining his posture and capabilities. Their primary mission was recon and security with limited offensive and defensive missions in support of the division commander.
They’d “go out and find stuff” from their mobile platform. The battalion drove light armored vehicles (LAVs) that looked like small tanks, except they had eight tires instead of tracks like tanks or infantry personnel carriers, which made them far more comfortable to ride in by comparison.
Covering the war with these guys was definitely the best fit for me, I assured my boss, reminding him I’d spent quality time with Marines on previous assignments in Albania and Macedonia during the Kosovo war and again in Afghanistan in 2001. I had contacts and connections there, and it helped that the LAR Marines really wanted me to join them for the march up.
I was actually surprised that my boss agreed and put in for me to switch to a Marine Corps embed and move another correspondent, Greg Kelly, to the Army’s 3rd ID. Greg was a former Marine captain and pilot (who once crashed a jet off a carrier), and he was not happy about being reassigned to the Army, but I had seniority and my boss appreciated my reporting skills and apparently wanted to keep me happy.
The Pentagon made the switch, and I think in the end, Greg and I both had meaningful and highly successful experiences. He made it to Baghdad first and got lots of attention for a wound he suffered on his nose during a firefight when he got cut by a piece of shrapnel, and I had the most amazing journey of my life and career.
The LAV-25, an eight-wheeled LAR vehicle in which we’d spend the next few weeks, was made by General Motors of Canada (now renamed General Dynamics Land Systems Canada) in London, Ontario, in the 1980s. The “25” variant was named for its motor-driven twenty-five-millimeter chain gun, protruding from what looked like a tank turret, albeit a bit smaller. It fired high explosive armor-piercing rounds that resembled hand grenades, considered “very effective” by our USMC hosts. There was also a .762 caliber machine gun mounted on top, which I test-fired one day. When I released the trigger too soon, the gunnery sergeant taught me to hold it for as long as it took me to say “die motherfucker die.” Seriously.
It was called a light armored vehicle for a reason: The armor was actually lighter than that of other fighting vehicles, which put less load on the tires and made it faster and more maneuverable. It weighed fourteen tons, which sounds like a lot but not when compared to an M1 tank, which weighs seventy tons. The LAV armor could shield vehicle occupants from small arms fire, but not from tank fire. It could operate on two-, four-, or eight-wheel drive and get 250 miles per tank of fuel.
The LAV-25 had a number of portals for Marines to stick their heads out of while on the move. There was one for the driver up front, another for the captain in the center, and another for the guy firing the machine gun. The gunnery sergeant had a chair he sat in as part of the base for the chain gun.
The gunnery sergeant constantly spun from side to side, scanning the horizon for threats by looking through a scope. The noise of the motor as he spun around drove us crazy. (They found a way to make it quieter in newer models.)
There were more portals in the back for the infantrymen that the journalists shared with them. There were two bench seats back-to-back in the rear of the vehicle, just long enough to lie down on if you bent your knees, with very thin pads on top for a minor improvement in comfort.
I’d sleep back there when I could, and one of the Marines would sometimes sleep on the floor next to me. My cameraman Christian Galdabini had played college football as a lineman. He was huge, about 6’5” and 250 pounds, and he had a much tougher time getting rest, scrunched up on the other side.
When we were driving, we’d always try to pop our heads out of the holes since it was so hot inside and the breeze felt good, even though we’d also be sucking in desert dust. We’d wear cloth masks around our faces, twenty years before we’d all be told to do it because of COVID-19.
Each company also had anti-tank-variant LAV-ATs, equipped with a tube-launched, optically tracked, wire-guided (TOW) ballistic missile system. We watched the Marines fire one during weapons training in the desert one day. It was wicked, like you’d imagine a missile firing would be. Really loud, and superfast, and it did significant damage to its target.
There were logistical-variant LAV-Ls, carrying water, food, and extra gear for the Marines, as well as a recovery variant LAV-R, a maintenance vehicle equipped with a crane and welding kit. This was the Marines’ tow truck of sorts, and we’d watch them at work in the Iraqi desert, freeing another LAV stuck in the mud after a horrific sandstorm.
There were LAV-Ms, the mortar variant with eighty-one-millimeter mortars hidden by doors that opened on the roof, and a LAV-C2, for command and control, a truck equipped with radios and antennas that handled communications with higher command.
WAR PARTY
Between day trips and live shots, I spent a lot of time in the hotel gym, bulking up. I gained a bunch of weight while prepping for the war, tipping the scale at 205 or 206 the day before we left, which was the heaviest I’d been in my life, but I didn’t keep it on for long. I dropped eighteen of those pounds over the next few weeks, thanks to a shortage of MREs (meals ready to eat), and lots of calories burned thanks to the extremely long hours and extremely tough conditions, sweating in the sun and working through the nights.
