by Oliver North
Griff and I were supposed to fly with the squadron this morning out to one of the ranges so that the gunners could “zero” their weapons. But the training missions and all other nonessential flights have been canceled for the duration of the storm. Instead, we’ve been summoned to a briefing for all the correspondents assigned to MAG-39 squadrons.
First Lt. John Neiman is the air group’s public affairs officer (PAO), and even though there are no official “censors” to review what we print or broadcast, the PAO has been ordered to give all of us the parameters concerning what we may report.
As in all past wars, someone “up the chain of command” has decided what the media can and cannot say, print, or show on the air. Those of us in the fourth estate who are accompanying the combat units being assembled on the Iraqi periphery have also been admonished not to report exact unit troop strength figures. We’ve already been directed that we may not state exactly where we are. Instead, we are told to euphemistically describe this remote and very austere air base as “in the vicinity of the Iraqi border.”
Quite understandably, we’re also not permitted to report where we are going—or when. Some of the other correspondents covering other squadrons in MAG-39 chafe at what they perceive to be restrictions on the “freedom of the press.” Most, however, seem to understand the rationale for the limitations. Those who find the burden of “self-censorship” too onerous can always “unvolunteer” and simply go home.
That option, of course, doesn’t apply to the rest of the volunteers over here—the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines, more than 200,000 of them, who are now deployed in the trackless desert along the Iraqi border. On days like this, with a vicious sandstorm blowing across the dry, flat “moonscape,” going home sounds even more attractive than usual. Life in this extreme climate and terrain prompts a longing not just for the companionship of loved ones but also for the simple pleasure of living without sand. One Marine said today, “I don’t think I’ll ever go to the beach again for the rest of my life.”
Two months ago, HMM-268 was at Camp Pendleton, California, without any particular plans to travel—although like all Marines in this post–September 11 environment, they were prepared for various contingencies. Then, on January 10, the word came down: “Prepare your aircraft for immediate embarkation.”
Four days later the squadron’s twelve CH-46 helicopters, their blades removed, were all packed and sealed, and on January 15, the aging aircraft were lifted aboard a commercial ship in San Diego. Accompanying the birds was a detachment of a dozen Marines, led by a sergeant. “Now think of this,” said 1st Lt. Williamson. “Here’s a shipment worth more than sixty million dollars being signed for by a twenty-two-year-old Marine sergeant. Where else would you get that kind of responsibility at that age?” Where else indeed?
The rest of the Red Dragons departed from California at midnight on February 9 (for reasons still inexplicable to this old leatherneck, the U.S. Marines never go anywhere in daylight). When they arrived “in country” on February 11, the unit, officers and enlisted alike, pitched in to build tents and fill sandbags—more than twenty thousand that first week alone, according to Chief Warrant Officer Sean Wennes.
“Why so many sandbags?” asked one of the horde of media that have descended on this remote desert air base. “Because these tents don’t even stop a sandstorm. They sure wouldn’t stop a Scud,” replied Cpl. Phillip Sapio. “Sometimes a sandbag is all you have between us and them.” By “them,” of course, the Marine means the Iraqis—who deny even having any of the long-range weapons capable of carrying chemical or biological warheads into the heart of this desert base.
“Six hours after the helicopters arrived in port, they had been stripped of the weatherproof covers, had their rotor blades replaced, and were ready for flight,” explained Lt. Col. Driscoll. “Some people think that’s extraordinary. And maybe for some organizations it would be—but for these Marines, this is what we do for a living,” he added.
Picking up and moving isn’t the only thing that these Marines do for a living: they must also be prepared to fight when they get to where they are going. The Red Dragon helicopters have to be ready at a moment’s notice to carry Marine infantrymen in a heloborne assault, resupply the units in contact, insert reconnaissance patrols deep into enemy territory, and evacuate casualties. That means their “Frogs,” or “Phrogs”—the nickname Marines gave to the twin-rotor CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters nearly forty years ago—must be constantly maintained. Right now, in the middle of a sandstorm, that’s difficult at best.
After the PAO security briefing, Griff and I walk over to the flight line and find Marine maintenance technicians wearing gas masks so that they can work on aircraft in conditions that can only be described as “extreme.” It’s now nearly noon, but conditions have not improved. The wind, blowing steadily at twenty-five to thirty knots, howls like a banshee through antenna guy wires. The storm has the strange effect of turning daylight into dusk, blotting out the sun, and giving an orange hue to every structure, man, and machine. Visibility is still less than twenty yards. The air appears to be foggy, the way it does along the Atlantic or Pacific Coast when there is a large storm offshore. But the “fog” in the air isn’t water vapor, it’s dirt—tiny particles of sand that the Marines inhale with every breath and swallow with every mouthful of food. It whips through the air, jamming weapons, seeping into every crevice, and clogging the intakes of jet engines and the filters of the gas masks we all carry everywhere, all the time. Griff asks one of the maintenance technicians who has just climbed down from one of the birds if the dust and dirt will affect the performance of his aircraft. The Marine veteran, tongue planted firmly in his cheek, replies, “Dust storms aren’t allowed to affect us. It’s contrary to Marine Corps policy.”
As we’re walking back to the squadron area, my Iridium satellite pager goes off, informing me to call the foreign desk at FOX News Channel in New York. Brian Knoblock, head of our overseas operations, asks if we can bring up our satellite videophone and do a live report for FOX & Friends on how the storm is affecting war preparations. We are in the process of setting up our equipment when the “Great Giant Voice” blares that the base is under attack by incoming missiles and to take shelter immediately. As bad as it seems, apparently the sandstorm isn’t affecting Saddam’s rocket forces. We grab our flak jackets and helmets and run for the nearest bunker. This time, Griff has his gas mask.
CHAPTER THREE
GOOD TO GO
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM SIT REP #7
HMM-268 Forward Operating Base
Ali Al Salem Air Base, Kuwait
Sunday, 16 March 2003
2330 Hours Local
It’s been an exhausting but productive couple of days. As soon as the sandstorm passed, Gunnery Sgt. Dennis Pennington, a weapons and tactics instructor, arranged to fly all the helicopter gunners—the Marines who man the .50-caliber machine guns mounted on the left and right sides of the CH-46 helicopters—out to the Udari range so that they could test-fire every weapon in the squadron armory. Griff and I videotaped the entire exercise as Gunny Pennington, a very experienced combat veteran, coached young Marines who had never fired a shot in anger on rules of engagement, how to lead a target, and the best way to protect a helo that has to land in a “hot” landing zone (LZ). They came back sweaty, dirty, and tired—but confident that they were ready if and when the shooting starts. Gunny Pennington’s encouraging assessment: “They know what to do and they know how to do it.”
Everyone here believes that war with Iraq is imminent. President Bush met in the Azores today with Prime Minister Tony Blair of the UK, President José Maria Aznar of Spain, and Prime Minister José Manuel Durao Barroso of Portugal. Marines here repeatedly asked Griff what news was coming from the conference. When the four heads of state issued their communiqué, declaring that efforts to reach a diplomatic solution would end in twenty-four hours, dozens of Marines were huddled around our tiny video receiver, linked by
satellite with FOX News Channel in New York.
Back on March 5, France, Germany, and Russia joined forces and declared that they would “not allow” a resolution authorizing the use of force against Iraq to pass in the UN Security Council. Despite this, everyone here expects that when President Bush addresses the nation tomorrow night, Saddam’s refusal to come clean on his weapons of mass destruction will mean war. They aren’t jumping up and down, talking tough, or swaggering with bravado, but there is a palpable sense of resolve—an aura of quiet competence in these Marines. Though no one has said that they are itching for a fight, it’s pretty clear that they are tired of waiting. Every one of them seems to know that they have done everything they can to prepare for what lies ahead.
Even though today is Sunday, except for a very brief pause early this morning for chapel services, it’s been a full day of training, and has been that way since the sandstorm finally passed. Starting Friday, all the MAG-39 pilots and aircrews that will be flying into Iraq have been coming in groups of fifteen to twenty to the MAG-39 Air Operations Center—a partitioned area inside the steel building next to the squadron ready room tents. There, intelligence officers brief them on the enemy situation. The Air Group S-3 then issues a detailed Operations Order and the Survival, Escape, Resistance, and Evasion (SERE) plan in the event they go down behind enemy lines. After all this, the Air Group S-1 has them all update their next-of-kin (NOK) information.
As the pilots and aircrews depart the Ops Center, there is no back-slapping or joking around as there was when they arrived. Nothing focuses the mind of a Marine like an NOK form. It contains the details of who is to be informed, and how, when a Marine is killed, wounded, or missing in action.
While none of this is a laughing matter, Griff and I have managed, quite unintentionally, to provide just a bit of comic relief. Late Friday night we went out near the Iraqi border with a couple of CH-46s so that the pilots could practice landings, takeoffs, and low-level flying while wearing night-vision goggles (NVGs). After two or three practice landings, we had them put us down in an LZ a few kilometers south of the border so that we could check out how well our night lens could videotape the birds as they came back in. Almost immediately after the two helicopters took off, leaving us alone in the desert, three jeeps came racing across the open terrain and surrounded us, their headlights blinding our NVGs.
The two CH-46s waved off their landing and pulled away as five or six men carrying submachine guns poured out from the jeeps. “Oh great,” said Griff as the armed men encircled us, their weapons at the ready. “How’s your Arabic?” he asked me as one of the men who had jumped from the jeeps yelled something unintelligible through a bullhorn. Now we could make out their uniforms—Kuwaiti Border Patrol.
Relieved that it wasn’t an Iraqi patrol, we quickly produced our Kuwaiti Ministry of Information–issued media credentials—to no effect. We might well have spent the night in a lockup if I hadn’t been able to explain that we were videotaping U.S. Marine helicopters and pointed at the orbiting CH-46s. Suddenly, our inquisitor smiled and said in broken English, “Ahh . . . U.S. Marines. Good, good.” The weapons were quickly slung over shoulders and the patrolmen came up to us, shook hands, and returned to their vehicles waving, and repeating over and over, “Marines good . . . Marines okay!”
As soon as their jeeps departed the landing zone, the two birds came back in and we quickly loaded our gear, took off, and headed back to Ali Al Salem Air Base. After we landed, I asked Maj. John Graham, the squadron XO, what he would have done if the armed men in the jeeps had taken us away. Without hesitating he deadpanned, “I wasn’t worried about you guys, I figured you’d had it anyway. I was trying to figure out how to explain to the skipper that our two embedded correspondents had gone AWOL.”
An even more comical incident occurred earlier today while we were doing a live feed to FOX News Channel in New York City from beside the HMM-268 ready room tent. In the midst of my report with Col. Dave Hunt, one of the FOX military analysts in New York, the “Great Giant Voice” sounded another alert. Since the sandstorm, these alerts have been coming several times a day. But this time the chemical attack alarm was sounded as well. Marines came running from the squadron ready room tents and the MAG-39 Ops Center, hastily putting on their flak jackets, gas masks, helmets, and chemical protective suits.
As I wrapped up my report, Lt. Col. Hudson, the air group XO—a generally calm and unexcitable officer—came running out of the MAG-39 CP and yelled, “Everyone into the bunker, full MOPP. Now! This is not a drill!”
I looked into the camera, and said to Dave Hunt, “Well, I guess that’s it from here for now. We are apparently under chemical attack, so we’ll have to get back to you later.” I assumed that New York would cut away at that point. I shouted to Griff to head for the bunker and I put on my gas mask, ripped open the sealed plastic bags containing my two-piece, military-issue chemical protective suit, and proceeded to start putting it on.
Unfortunately, try as I might, I could not pull the chemical protective trousers up over my waist or put on the suspenders. For more than a minute I fumbled with the trousers and suspenders—all of it on live TV—at one point observing out loud, “Man, these things shouldn’t be this tight in the crotch.” Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Dave Hunt was carrying on a running commentary about the courage of our FOX News Channel embedded correspondents, “willing to brave enemy incoming to make sure that the story gets out.”
Finally, just as the Patriot PAC 3 battery across the airfield opened up on the inbound enemy missile, I noticed through the lenses of my gas mask why I couldn’t get the trousers up—they were tangled in the microphone and IFB cords between my legs. By the time I unsnarled the mess, the Iraqi missile had been knocked down, and a few minutes later the “All clear” was sounded. By the time the Marines who had dutifully sought shelter exited the bunkers, I was in “full MOPP,” had the microphone up to the speaking port on the gas mask, and was describing the attack. Many of the younger Marines were amazed that I had enough confidence in the Patriot ABMs (anti-ballistic missiles) to stay outside during an attack. But of course, they knew nothing of my chemical suit–mike cord fiasco. And I was blissfully unaware that the whole thing had been carried live on FOX News Channel. Unfortunately, a good number of my former Marine colleagues watching the news saw it, and were happy to enlighten me. For days afterward, I was subjected to ribald, chiding e-mails from old friends about how to put on a chemical protective suit in less than five minutes.
THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington, DC
Monday, 17 March 2003
2000 Hours Local
It is three in the morning here in Iraq, and as President George Bush appears on the tiny screen, dozens of Marines are gathered around our satellite audio-video transceiver to hear their commander in chief address the American people. When he says that the time has come for Saddam Hussein and his sons to leave Iraq and gives them a deadline of forty-eight hours to do so, a few heads nod in agreement, but nobody says a word. There is a similar reaction when he says, “Their refusal to do so will result in military conflict, commenced at a time of our choosing.” And again when he adds, “The tyrant will soon be gone.”
Without naming them, President Bush castigates the leaders of France, Germany, Russia, and China for their stubborn opposition to his new resolution for UN authorization to use force to disarm and topple Hussein and accomplish a regime change for Iraq. The United States, Britain, and Spain withdrew the proposal before it came to a vote, since France had said it would veto the resolution even if all other voting nations approved it.
When the president says, “These governments share our assessment of the danger but not our resolve to meet it,” and “The United Nations has not lived up to its responsibilities, so we will rise to ours,” there are more nods from the hushed crowd. No one in this little gathering objects to his claim that “the Iraqi regime has used diplomacy to gain time and advantage” and that “diplomacy can
’t go on forever in the face of a global threat.”
When President Bush encourages the Iraqi people with the promise “The day of your liberation is near,” I watch as several of those who will have to make good on this commitment simply pat the back of the Marine nearest them.
As he closes with his customary “May God continue to bless America,” he looks grim. So do the Marines who have just heard him speak. Without so much as a word, the crowd breaks up and the Marines go back to their duties or to sleep.
The sword has been readied. The steel has been honed. The blade is drawn.
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM SIT REP #8
HMM-268 Forward Operating Base
Ali Al Salem Air Base, Kuwait
Tuesday, 18 March 2003
0930 Hours Local
Today, more than 200,000 U.S. soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines, joined by a coalition of international partners, are poised to begin what they believe is the next campaign in the war on terrorism. Some here have taken to calling it the Baghdad Urban Renewal Project.
According to what we have heard on our satellite videophone, at this very minute the Iraqi Parliament, in an emergency meeting, is considering the ultimatum given them last night by President Bush. Everyone here expects the Iraqis to reject it.
Many of these young Americans are taking time today to write home. They understand that their spouses, family members, and friends are concerned for their safety. They know, because of our satellite feed, that back in the United States there are unfounded reports that the troops here are unprepared and ill equipped for the mission that lies ahead. A bevy of “experts,” including former generals and admirals, have been adding fuel to this fire by saying that our chemical protective suits don’t work, and that there are not enough troops, the right weapons, or enough equipment to take on Saddam’s 480,000-man military.
