Fortunately, nothing came of the conversation. We were far enough to the rear of the column that no command elements could see me. The far ther back, the better. The unidentified Saudi took off his glasses. He and the MP studied them. Apparently, they were talking about glasses. Great. Now one was laughing and the other wasn’t. More paranoia began to build.
1214 HOURS
Every time a vehicle goes by, I lower my head. Every time the Saudi MP starts up our jeep, I wonder where we’re going and who might see me. Getting closer to the command element, I’m hoping no one feels it their duty to let the generals know I’m around. Next thing I know, I’ve been dumped out of the jeep. The Saudi MP says he’ll be back for me in about an hour. I hide behind a Nissan patrol vehicle. If he doesn’t come back, I’ll have some real fancy humping to do. At least I have a compass. The question now is do I attempt to get another ride, or sit here hoping he returns?
And then who magically appears? Mubarek, who says I’m a very impa tient person. He adds I must not be able to fish, as I move around all the time. In any case, he says he has permission for me to go in any of the ve hicles, as long as there is room, but he doesn’t designate any specific vehicle.
The last few days have been some of the most unusual days I’ve had in a long time. My interest increases proportionally to my proximity to the front—my interest was way up when I was thinking of hiking the damned road through this miserable desert.
Three choppers just landed. Looks like American advisers on board.
1500 HOURS
I just finished chatting with an American major from one of the choppers. He’s flying as an adviser to the Saudi scouts. They’re screening the right flank. His associate told me they took fire from a couple of bunkers. They took them out, and the Iraqis who were left all surrendered—not in ones or twos, but 30 and 40 at a time. Then the major came back and said we would be moving out of here in about an hour.
I just met a Saudi prince. The major’s associate said I ought to get him to see if he could get me a ride, but the conversation never quite developed that way. Maybe if I lay an SOF patch on him he might assist me. If he comes back, I’ll make the request.
Finally, I’m in a vehicle. Out of nowhere, an American contractor I know shows up. He gets me a seat in a 4x4. The “contractor” was long time acquaintance Don North, a TV producer who had a contract with the Saudi Defense Ministry to produce a documentary on the war. North was traveling with a Saudi Prince, name unknown, who he convinced to give me a ride to Kuwait City.
26 FEBRUARY, 0615 HOURS
Last night was tolerable. We borrowed a poncho, three stakes and some parachute cord from an American liaison, then rigged a lean-to on the side of our vehicle. I quickly found that sleeping with one’s head under the frame of a vehicle doesn’t work very well. Looks like we’ll be deploying shortly.
0758 HOURS
We started moving at 0750. Heading north is a convoy of school buses, which I assume are going to pick up the many thousands of EPWs (enemy prisoners of war). As of this morning word is that there are 20,000 in hand, and there’s trouble in moving them. We move on, hopefully farther than we went in the last displacement.
0809 HOURS
We’ve now caught up with the main body. Temporary hold here. The other column to our right is continuing to move forward. I’ve never seen so many military vehicles in my entire life. You get a good feel for the scope of this operation, because the land is flat and there’s no undergrowth or any other type of vegetation.
0829 HOURS
North, who got me a ride, remarked, “I identify with your situation, so much because I’ve been a hitchhiker to wars so often . . . and damn it, any body who wants to work as bad as you shouldn’t have to cover the war with briefings in Riyadh.” Amen. I will always owe this dude. I invited him to the SOF Convention in September. He accepted. Anyhow, we are finally inside Kuwait.
HOURS
We are in the third defensive belt of the Iraqi position. We just finished looting some bunkers.
1015 HOURS
Approaching another Iraqi bunker. My goodness, what do we have here? A Russian radio would be a superb item to auction off for Refugee Relief at the SOF convention, but it’s too heavy.
Iraqi defensive positions are not impressive. I wonder if they are representative of the vaunted Republican Guard fortifications. The bunker I’m looking at here has a light framework over it, maybe 6 or 8 inches of dirt or sand; another one with some logs across it, maybe three 8-inch logs, some galvanized iron and another 8 inches of sand on it.
Last night a source explained to me how Forrest Sawyer and ABC got permission to circumvent the press pool regulations and broadcast with the vanguard of the Saudi division. Sawyer sent personal letters to Lieu tenant General Kalid bin Sultan, the Saudi commander-in-chief, and sub sequently got an interview with him. Kalid was favorably disposed toward ABC and Sawyer because Kalid was on Nightline and apparently Sawyer does Nightline a fair number of times. Sawyer told me he couldn’t tell me how he got the deal.
1115 HOURS
The battalion is moving out. We are following the command track. This is a most impressive sight. Being up on top of the vehicle gives you a far greater impression of the scope and magnitude of this whole operation. It is easy to envision oneself being with Rommel or Montgomery rumbling back and forth across the Libyan desert in ‘41 and ‘42. It is a truly awesome sight. The weather is cool, the sky overcast, a great day for a desert offen sive. It’s stopped raining, too. This is like going to a massive, motorized picnic. No enemy contact yet.
1142 HOURS
It is starting to drizzle as we continue to advance. My adrenaline pump roars right along with the growl of the scores of tanks and APCs barreling across the billiard table-like desert. Lawrence of Arabia, Attila the Hun, “Jeb” Stuart and George Patton must be smiling. I am.
1151 HOURS
We are again approaching the lead element of the vanguard of this column. Apparently, there is some action going on. We don’t know what. Some of the people dismounted but there’s no incoming.
We are going through another defensive position, we see occasional craters from CBUs (cluster bomb units). We are now in the Iraqi artillery positions. Some Saudi vehicles stop and look quickly through the artillery bunkers for loot. Looks like we are all racing along to hit the Iraqi com mand post about 500 meters up ahead. There seems to be neither rhyme nor reason as to why the Saudis are moving, but the tracks are moving fast.
1207 HOURS
We are now about 75 meters behind the lead tank and we want to get up about 50 feet behind it. We are approaching the lead tank from the left rear and the lead tank has stopped. The lead tank has just traversed his gun; maybe we will get some boom-booms. To the left of the lead tank, probably at 2,000 meters, it looks like there are some antennae, probably some kind of Iraqi commo position and/or headquarters.
This is not as gratifying as being a member of the U.S. armed forces, but on the other hand I have a greater opportunity to be at the sharp end of the sword. Splitting with ABC has been to my advantage, as had I stayed with them I would have had to stay with their support satellite unit.
We are now following about 18 Kuwaiti tanks that are on line. On the left is a column running for tens of klicks—supply vehicles and more ar mored vehicles and more supply vehicles. We are moving with the tanks. It is difficult to make an estimate of the situation; the fog of battle has en veloped us. Sawyer deserves a punch in the mouth for dumping me in the desert.
1231 HOURS
There’s nobody between the bad guys and us, except for one tank. We are headed almost due north toward our ultimate objective, Kuwait City!
Alright!
1254 HOURS
We stop. We’re turning around? Going back? For prayers? These Muslims pray five times a day, and with a three-hour lunch they truly test one’s patience.
1317 HOURS
Have turned around, again facing the front.
1450 HOURS
We are now linked up with a column of APCs, the same battalion we were with before. On our left we see a column of Kuwaiti APCs buzzing along, about 200 meters away. the compass shows we are going east.
1520 HOURS
We are now pulling onto an asphalt road, a high-speed route of approach. Now we are hearing the rattle of small arms; no one seems concerned be cause the troops are all giving us the victory sign as we go by the Kuwaiti units. Saudis and Kuwaitis are shooting their FNs and machine guns in the air. Everybody is a happy camper. Every time we drive by the Kuwaitis with a Tv camera they think that it is fitting to sound off with their FALs on full auto. my God, there is a driver shooting without his hands on the wheel! twenty-four hours ago this time, I was looking at playing Bedouin-in-the-desert by my lonesome.
1547 HOURS
We continue to explode through the desert. the question is how soon we will be in Kuwait City. of course, I have no way of knowing what the in telligence picture is. We have heard no news since early this morning. No briefings for the troops, much less for an SOF journalist. the Iraqis are out there about 3,000 meters; they could pop one in our vehicle just as well as they could into one of these lead tanks. Another tank destroyed off to the left. We are making about 60 klicks an hour. Not too shabby. Once again the weather is overcast this morning. It’s cool, a little bit of wind, a light smattering of rain. On the right we are passing a column of Kuwaiti Humvees, quarter-tons and deuce-and-a-halfs. We come to a road sign: Kuwait City, 49 kilometers. All right!
1616 HOURS
the route is like a thousand-lane highway with vehicles weaving in and out with no apparent order of march. these guys have been in too many camel charges. Most vehicles stay 200—300 meters behind the lead tank, but not us. No sir, we are right up there about 100 meters behind the lead echelon, which, of course, is gratifying. Isn’t this fun! It’s a very strange day and visibility is limited to 1,000 meters at best. No sun; it looks like we are going into very low cloud cover. Maybe the plan is to allow the Kuwaitis to enter the city first because, after all, it is their homeland.
At this point, I finally believe that I am going to get to Kuwait City. Maybe not the first journalist but certainly sure as hell not the last, and I’m one of the few journalists with one of the attacking columns. I think that the observation Joe Galloway, senior editor from U.S. News, made is correct, that once the ground offensive began, control of the press would break down. This is certainly true of the Saudis.
27 FEBRUARY, 0710 HOURS
We are now starting to pass destroyed enemy vehicles: two or three tanks out there, a large transport truck, a tracked missile launcher.
0757 HOURS
Just talked to a trooper from the 2nd Armored Division, and when I was done, a Colonel Sylvester informed me that I just walked through a mine field. Subsequently, a sergeant told me that it was primarily anti-tank and not many anti-personnel mines. Little comfort. I had failed to follow the old dictum of walking where vehicles had tread. The sergeant major said the Abrams (tank) has proved its worth and had been taking out Iraqi tanks far beyond published maximum ranges. The 2nd Armored has not lost a tank yet.
0839 HOURS
We’re getting ready to move out again: “Gentleman, start your engines.”
1003 HOURS
We are on the move into the outskirts of Kuwait City again. Ernie Cox, photographer for the Chicago Tribune, told me that the plan was to let the American forces punch a hole through the Iraqis and then let Kuwaiti and Saudi forces make the triumphal entry into Kuwait City. 2nd Armored units are positioned on our left flank and Marines on the right flank as we move forward. This is a thoroughly amazing experience: honking horns, stopping, jumping out, taking pictures; everybody giving the “V for victory” sign, cel ebration time; and along the road a variety of burned out, shot up, bombed-out Iraqi vehicles. It’s a good place to be, and the right time to be there.
1102 HOURS
I am sure that this is the first time in history that journalists in 4x4 com mercial vehicles have accompanied an armored thrust into enemy territory. Our new driver, whom I have unfondly named “Cowboy,” likes to race with the tanks. It is a challenging sport, one that I would just as soon take a pass on.
What we have now is a parade, with jubilant Kuwaiti citizens tagging onto the tail of the military column as we try to work our way again up to the front of the column. Crowds are lining the street, shooting their guns, embracing each other and us journalists; cheering, flag waving, clasping hands; Arab women chanting “alalalala.” I have arrived. I have beaten the system. What a buzz! It’s not Baghdad, but it’ll do.
30
ON THE SHARP EDGE
WITH BOSNIA’S COUNTER-SNIPERS
WHERE HAVE ALL THE FIXERS GONE?
The 22-stories-high former Bosnia-Herzegovina parliament build ing in Sarajevo was almost gutted, riddled with gaping holes from high-explosive tank and artillery rounds. At one time it served as a seat of government; now it was being used as a key observation post and counter-sniping position by the besieged Bosnians as they defended their capital. Below, candles and lanterns provided dim illumination for home less refugees who lived in dark rooms and corridors in the basement, taking refuge from enemy guns until thirst and hunger forced them up and out onto the treacherous streets that surrounded the Parliament building and the nearby Holiday Inn. The main drag was called “Sniper’s Alley” and those few people with gas for their cars drove with pedal to the metal, swerving around shell craters and hurtling across intersections at manic speed to evade sniper fire. Some did not make it. Overturned and burned cars filled with bodies littered the road. For those (network or major press journalists, or U.N. personnel) who could afford them, armored vehicles were the transport of choice, but the local residents relied as much on luck as on driving skills.
A few weeks earlier, after the disintegration of Yugoslavia was turning quite bloody, I contacted my old friend and running partner, merc Bob MacKenzie, to see if he was up for a quick trip to Sarajevo sniper land to play journalist and get an adrenaline fix.
“But of course,” he replied and with that we were off to the charming tourist town of Split on the blue Adriatic, where we would link up with members of the Croatian Defense Council (HVO) Foreign Press Bureau, an organization set up by another Vietnam vet, J. P Mackley, who I met during the Gulf War. The plan was that they would facilitate our movement to Sarajevo. Well, that was the plan. However, like with any military oper ation, plans change once the first round is fired. In this case, the plan went awry the minute we got off the plane in Split.
We found out that the only flights into Sarajevo from Split were those occasional ones flown by U.N. aircraft. They occasionally graciously al lowed journalists to ride along. If they were in the mood, that is. So one day, two days, three days, four went by, and nothing. We were all used to the wait, wait and wait some more, but that did little to make it any more pleasant. Meanwhile, we picked the minds of other journalists as to how to best get stories and stay alive. The rules were simple:
“You need to check in to the well shot up Holiday Inn which, though on the front lines, had a bar in the basement. Preferably a room with glass in the windows. An opportunity to a get a free workout as the elevators didn’t elevate. Sometimes the water ran . . . keep the bathtub full of water . . . sometimes the electricity was on. . . just make sure you insist on a room on the back side of the hotel. You will still hear plenty of gunfire to lull you to sleep,” they collectively told us.
“Get a fixer,” one added. “He will have a vehicle . . . will know who to see to get you access to the action. And, of course, he will translate. Ask the hotel desk for recommendations for fixers.”
“Oh, and by the way, don’t get shot,” one smartass said.
Simple enough. Mac and I bummed a ride from the airport to the hotel, got a room on the opposite side from the gunfire and let it be known we were in the market for a “fixer
.” We then decided to recon the area. Going out the back of the hotel, we noticed a number of armored jeeps and SUVs. This was the only war I knew of where journalists went to the front in their own personal, or leased, armored cars. We saw a jeep of in determinate age with “Washington Post” daintily painted on the driver’s door with a couple of civilian males babbling about something nearby. I wasn’t thrilled about asking somebody from the Post for anything, but what the hell.
“I am Robert Brown, publisher of Soldier of Fortune magazine and here is my fellow journalist, Bob MacKenzie.”
I told Jim Rupert from the Washington Post, “We are looking for a fixer.” Fate smiled on us, or so we thought.
“Tell you what, I am leaving tomorrow,” Rupert said. “You can hire my fixer.”
“Sure, why not?” we figured, working on the not unreasonable assump tion that if this dude was good enough for the prestigious D.C. mouthpiece of liberalism it should work for us. Wrong.
“One hundred dollars a day is what we can afford if you can get us where we want to go and to who we want to see,” we told the fixer.
Three days later, we hadn’t gone anywhere or seen anyone. Our mission was to do an inside story on the Sarajevo counter-sniper units and ascertain how effective they were. Our fixer couldn’t fix anything. Maybe he couldn’t score credentials for us or he may simply have not wanted to go there. Even in the relative safety of the backside of our hotel, the rattle of small-arms fire provided a fairly constant background melody. Explosions from in coming mortar, recoilless rifle and artillery fire echoed around the city every half-hour or so. The fixer had to live that shit 24/7 and couldn’t be blamed if he didn’t care to risk his life so a couple of nutso gringos could get a few photos and interviews while dodging rounds of various calibers, all of which were quite lethal.
I Am Soldier of Fortune Page 39
