The good captain, p.19
The Good Captain, page 19
Command and control were just as worrisome. On the ground, Scaparrotti and his assault command post would land at one LZ with a beefed-up rifle company. I would land at a second with a similar force. A small Special Forces element would assist with organizing and moving the Dutch to these two locations for extraction. So far so good. In the air, McDonough would orbit above to coordinate the ground force with the supporting aviation units.
Here it got sticky. The Apache brigade commander insisted on a role, though only one of his battalions was involved. He would also be in the air and insisted that McDonough pass all directives through him. The colonel who owned the Black Hawks and Chinooks was also given a role as commander of the Forward Operating Base at Dubrovnik. A lieutenant general from Germany would be in overall command from a location hundreds of miles away. When you broke it down, the chain of command was cumbersome and ambiguous, virtually guaranteeing friction.
As we trained, intelligence updates grew more and more alarming. The Serbs were squeezing the enclaves hard and it seemed clear that soon they would either collapse or be overrun. The Bosnian war was approaching a climax. Many troopers in the Combat Team began to believe that the mission to bring the Dutch out of Srebrenica was a cover story, and that the real job was to rapidly fly in to defend the enclave from the slaughter that could follow its fall. We continued to rehearse. On several occasions we narrowly avoided mid-air collisions with helos full of troops. Our worries mounted.
As we neared the end of the training program, we participated in several conferences to go over the mission. McDonough was outspoken in criticizing the many flaws in the plan. He was right, but his direct manner offended many of the commanders and generals from U.S. Army Europe in Germany. Abruptly, we were ordered to return to Vicenza and stand by. It seemed, after all this effort, that no one had thought to ask the Dutch, who apparently had no desire to be extracted by the Americans. We continued to monitor the situation closely, half expecting to be called in to save the day. NATO warplanes were now openly supporting the UN, the situation on the ground was deteriorating daily, and we were the closest and most ready intervention force.
On July 6, 1995, the final assault on Srebrenica commenced. Some Dutch soldiers surrendered, while others fired warning shots or flares, but no Serb soldiers or units were ever directly engaged. Over a period of days General Mladic and his “Drina Corps” soldiers slowly crushed the pocket. A few NATO air strikes were attempted but without effect. By nightfall on the 11th, more than 20,000 Muslim civilians had crowded into or near the Dutch UN compound. Eyewitnesses later reported open-air rapes of Muslim women and the murder of several children and infants. Numbers of civilians committed suicide.
Now the unthinkable happened. As a group of some 7,000 Bosniak men attempted to break out on the 12th they were surrounded by Serb soldiers, some in captured UNPROFOR and Red Cross vehicles. Induced to surrender, most were systematically murdered and buried in mass graves. Post-war commissions estimated the dead at between 7,800 and 9,300, including virtually all military-age males in the enclave. It was the largest civilian massacre in Europe since the Holocaust. UN and Bosniak 2nd Corps units in the area stood by helplessly, unable or unwilling to intervene.
As I watched CNN, it was hard not to feel anger and frustration. No NATO decision had been taken to intervene on the ground, but once again the U.S. government had closed ranks to head off any debate. A trained, rehearsed force was ready to go at a moment’s notice. The Serbs had previously given ample reason to expect a bloodbath. Could the Blue Falcons have prevented the massacre? With U.S. airpower, I felt the answer was clearly “yes.” The Drina Corps numbered perhaps 2,500 soldiers, a very manageable number for our 1,000 troopers. No one had felt right about saving the Dutch so the Bosniaks could be shot down in cold blood. But every 325 soldier would fight hard and eagerly to defend the pocket and the innocent civilians inside. The call never came. Months later, we would be the first U.S. unit to enter Bosnia after the signing of the Dayton Accords. There, in Tuzla, we would encounter the widows of Srebrenica in their hundreds, standing mute outside our wire, staring at us. I felt ashamed. We all felt ashamed. I am ashamed still.
Another enclave, Zepa, fell in July with 3,000 additional civilian casualties, but by now the tide had turned. Bosniak and Croat forces were gaining the upper hand, supplied with Western arms, and trained by U.S. contractors (one company, MPRI, was headed by a former U.S. Army chief of staff). In August, a massive force of 130,000 Croatian troops crushed the Serb defenders of the Krajina, territory populated by ethnic Serbs inside Croatia for several hundred years. Two hundred thousand fled in the largest example of ethnic cleansing of the war. The adjacent Bihac pocket, cut off and surrounded by Serb militias for three years, was liberated along with its 40,000 residents. The war was not going well for the Serbs.
I did not envy the politicians who had to make sense of the Balkans. Balkan politics were byzantine, and we found ourselves forced to align with unsavory characters, like Croatia’s Franjo Tudjman, to confront the greater evil of Milosevic. All sides committed war crimes and clean hands were hard to find. Theorists often pointed out that the U.S. had no clear vital interest in intervening in the Balkan wars. Yet the Europeans seemed unable, or unwilling, to police their backyard without U.S. leadership. With 100,000 dead and the UN effort clearly failing, the pressure to act grew stronger.
The Balkan drama unfolded against a complicated historical backdrop stretching back many centuries. Once part of the Roman empire, the Balkans were invaded by ethnic Slavs following the fall of Rome, eventually becoming the fault line between competing Catholic Europe, Orthodox Byzantium and the Muslim Ottomans. They had changed hands many times and violence was stamped into their histories. To this day the Balkans remain a boiling ethnic cauldron. Bismarck had remarked, a hundred years before, that the Balkans “were not worth the bones of a single Pomeranian grenadier.” Many in Washington agreed, and we waited in our cantonments as the policymakers pondered what to do.
At the height of the crisis, I was told by General Nix that he had nominated me to be aide de camp to General Crouch, then the four-star commanding general of U.S. Army Europe. Though it was an honor, I protested that I was happy where I was—and Crouch had a reputation for eating his aides alive. Nix insisted. I flew up to Grafenwoehr, in Germany, where Crouch was observing training, and was ushered into the VIP lounge at the modest army airfield there.
I formally reported to the general, a tall, stern figure. Without rising he motioned to a chair, and I took a seat. He came straight to the point.
“So, tell me why you want to be my aide.” It came across as a statement, not a question, and I answered it directly.
“Sir, with respect, I’m here at General Nix’s direction. I’m happy with the Blue Falcons, and I’m not looking to move.”
Crouch seemed genuinely surprised as well as annoyed. “Well, I guess we’re done here,” he intoned, and without further ado I rose, saluted, and moved out smartly. Back at Vicenza, General Nix was not happy, but I had been honest about my lack of interest in the job and could not be faulted for that. Three months later, the unfortunate officer who was selected was fired.
One Sunday evening in September, I received a call at home from Colonel McDonough. In brief, clipped tones he informed me that I was to catch a Spanish plane out of Dal Moulin airfield in Vicenza early the next morning. I would fly to Dubrovnik, transfer to a British Sea King helicopter, and be flown to Kisseljak outside of Sarajevo. There I would assist a newly created French-British Rapid Reaction Force as a planner.
I remonstrated, as tactfully as I could. As far as I knew, we had no Americans inside Bosnia, which was at war. There were many planners available on the SETAF staff; I was the deputy commander of the Blue Falcons, a “green tab” leader often called upon to stand in for Scaparrotti as he traveled to conferences and site visits. McDonough was unmoved. Finally, I played my ace card. “Sir,” I told him, “this is personal, but just yesterday I had a vasectomy. I’m not in good shape. I’m certainly in no condition to deploy.” The tough-as-nails McDonough didn’t bat an eye. “It’s not that bad. Be on that plane. Out here.”
The next morning, I found myself flying over the Adriatic in a small cargo plane in extreme discomfort. Upon landing I was taken to a British Sea King, a dilapidated 1960s helo streaked with oil stains and riddled with bullet holes. I comforted myself, as I always do, with the thought that the pilot didn’t want to die any more than I did, so it must be safe. Unfortunately, this was a Royal Navy helo, and even though Bosnia is singularly bereft of large bodies of water, my crew chief insisted I wear a life vest, properly worn with a strap routed between one’s legs. I demurred; he persisted. Soon our disagreement became a row, until a young flight lieutenant, the pilot in command, intervened. I explained my predicament, earning a hearty chuckle from the young man and a special dispensation. In five minutes, we were off.
The Sea King may have been old and antiquated, but the pilot was not. I’d never flown lower or faster as we weaved and dodged through the mountains. At one point we were illuminated by hostile radar, producing incredible aeronautic gyrations from our young lieutenant. I shouted at the crew chief, “Get shot at often?” He shouted back, “We don’t not get shot at often!” After an hour or so of these aerodynamic heroics we set down at Kisseljak. I was taken to see the chief of staff, a cheery British colonel, who took one look at me and blurted out, “Good God! Whatever is the matter with you?” After my sheepish explanation he called in his military assistant, a young engineer captain. “Bob, take the major to the guest quarters straightaway. Make sure he’s comfortable. I don’t want to see him for 24 hours!” Bob the engineer affably whisked me away, presented me with a six-pack of Fosters, and told me to come back when I felt up to it.
The next day I reported in and was assigned to the planning section. No one seemed sure exactly what our mission was. The Rapid Reaction Force was a 10,000-man NATO brigade, operating under NATO rules of engagement, but working for the UN. Some thought its charter was to prepare to intervene across Bosnia where needed. Others saw a narrower mandate to support and protect aid convoys moving into nearby Sarajevo. Still others saw it as a “force in being” whose presence could be a check on Serb intentions. During the day we worked on various contingency plans, though few of us saw much likelihood that they would actually be employed. At night we smoked cigars and relaxed. To me, it all seemed rather pointless.
As September wore on, it became clear that a peace deal was in the works. Diplomats from the contending parties signed a basic framework for a peace accord late in the month, leading to a 60-day ceasefire. I was pulled out and sent home, only to jump right back into serious planning of our own. A comprehensive settlement would soon be signed, we were told, after which a NATO intervention force would be rushed in to secure the peace. The Blue Falcons had been tapped to lead the way in.
Our mission, once the final peace deal was signed, was to fly into Tuzla air base in the mountains of northeast Bosnia, secure it and assist with monitoring and, if necessary, enforcing the agreement. In the early planning stages, it was thought we would be joined by our sister battalion from Fort Bragg, 4/325, the “Golden Falcons,” with both battalions under the command of Colonel McDonough. Soon, however, the plan changed. We learned that our brigade would not deploy, and we would fall under the command of 1st Armored Division, based in Germany. This was not good news. 1st Armored was commanded by a general famous for his explosive temper. We doubted this would be a good marriage.
As we finalized our preparations Colonel Scap called the majors and company commanders together. Well aware that the task organization we faced might be problematic, he asked us, “Ever heard of the Chickamauga Rule?” None of us had. During the battle of Chickamauga in the Civil War, as Union General Rosecrans attempted to retreat, General Thomas—later renowned as “the Rock of Chickamauga”—was ordered to hold off the enemy with his corps. He did, but eventually he too fell back to avoid destruction, directing three regiments to form a rear guard. All were out of ammunition, and all were “strays”—regiments not belonging to his corps but “borrowed” for the battle. The rear guard did their best but were destroyed by the advancing Confederates, hence the Rule: when a commander has a choice, he’ll give the dirty jobs to the attached force every time, not his own boys. “I expect you all to be professional and do your best—but I expect the Chickamauga Rule to be in effect, so watch out!” Events would bear him out, as we quickly discovered.
Shortly before we deployed the company commanders asked to see me as a group. What followed would change my thinking about leadership and command forever. “Sir,” they said, “you know your business and we respect you. But you spend a lot of time busting our chops. How about you let us do our jobs, and focus on helping us solve the problems that we can’t at our level?” As I thought about it, I realized they were right. They were a talented group, and most would go on to be generals one day. My job was largely to enable them, not burden them. Colonel Scap, ever the gentleman, had looked to me as his deputy commander to apply pressure where needed, but I had failed to temper that pressure with an equal measure of empathy and understanding. The company commanders were right. Swallowing a large slice of humble pie, I resolved to absorb the lesson and change my ways.
On December 14, 1995, the Dayton Accords were signed, formally ending the Bosnian war, and 3/325 moved immediately to Aviano air base in northern Italy. On the 18th we flew to Tuzla, landing after dark amidst snow flurries, accompanied by veteran CBS journalists Mary Walsh and David Martin and their hardy camera crew. At once the fog and friction of war descended. First, our request to use a small room inside the airport tower to set up a command post was refused by the Air Force. Next, the Danish brigadier in command of the UN force at Tuzla informed Colonel Scaparrotti that he had been instructed not to relinquish command for another 48 hours. As the brass sorted this out, we established satellite communications with our rear detachment at Vicenza. The rifle companies posted security, rolled out their arctic sleeping bags, and bedded down in the open air. Soon our troopers were covered in snow.
The next days were hectic. 1st Armored was in motion, moving its tanks and heavy equipment across Europe to get into Bosnia. Bad weather and high water stalled the division up north at the Sava River, but the division commander and an advance party (called the “division tactical command post”) soon arrived by air to take charge. As 1st Armored commandeered the choice real estate, we set up our tactical operations center (TOC) and headquarters in an abandoned, unheated warehouse that had been badly damaged in the fighting. It was brutally cold, hovering around 15 degrees in the daytime and even colder at night. It was worse for the rifle squads and platoons, posted out on the perimeter in the open.
More bad news followed. The C130s which had flown us in were expected to return to Aviano to bring in our tentage, stoves, rations, and other essential gear. Instead, they were diverted in favor of the 1st Armored. This was serious because our paratroopers carried only three days of rations in their rucksacks. Without tents and stoves, our men would suffer cruelly in the intense cold, and soon they would be out of food. Safely ensconced in heated buildings, and enjoying hot food three times a day, the 1st Armored headquarters was sitting in tall cotton. Tensions began to flare.
Meanwhile the UN and NATO were busy working at establishing the framework for stability operations in Bosnia. Pursuant to UN Security Council Resolution 1031, authority to conduct military operations inside Bosnia-Herzegovina was transferred from UNPROFOR to a NATO Implementation Force, or IFOR, with a one-year mandate. Sixty thousand NATO troops began to flow into Bosnia, which was organized into separate sectors. Multi-National Division North was headquartered at Tuzla under U.S. command. Multi-National Division Southeast, under French command, was based in Mostar. Multi-National Division Southwest, led by the British, was located in Banja Luka. In all, 32 countries (many of whom were NATO partners, not members) eventually contributed 54,000 soldiers to the effort, code-named Operation Joint Endeavor.
On December 21, the pot boiled over. At 1900, as Colonel Scaparrotti and Major Davis attended the nightly briefing with the Commanding General, the target acquisition battery commander in our TOC hollered out, “Redleg! Redleg! Redleg!” alerting everyone that his Q36 counterfire radars had detected incoming artillery rounds. The previous May, artillery strikes into Tuzla had killed 71 civilians in a single day. We took the threat seriously.
At once, the TOC swung into a practiced battle drill. The fire support officer shouted out the target location (provided by the radars) over the radio and the cannoneers of Delta Battery, our 105mm howitzer unit, laid all six guns on the target azimuth. Simultaneously the battery’s fire direction center quickly calculated the elevation and deflection bearings needed to hit the target, and passed them to the guns, along with the desired shell fuse combination (“HE, VT in effect” meaning “High Explosive, Variable Time” or airburst). As the howitzer crews dialed the firing data onto the gunsights, elevating the tubes to the right height and cranking them laterally in the desired direction, the ammunition handlers stood ready to load the rounds.
Hurriedly our fire support officer called the 1st Armored command post for clearance to shoot. Only they could authorize us to fire. There was no answer over the FM command net. We waited anxiously for the incoming rounds to impact. I called the division fires cell on the landline. Again, no response. After several minutes it became clear that the radars had given a “false acquisition,” a problem that would plague us throughout the deployment. I decided to go up to Division to sort things out. Taking the radar commander with me I headed up the road on foot.
As I entered the command post, I found the CG already there. (A frightened sergeant had pulled him out of the briefing.) He was red-faced and furious. Rounding on me, he began to shout and curse. As far as I could make out, someone had told the general that Tuzla was under fire, but that 3/325 wasn’t monitoring its radios and hence could not respond (at that stage we had the only artillery at Tuzla). I began to explain that he had been given incorrect information, which only made him angrier. As he advanced on me, I retreated, until I was backed into a corner. At this point his deputy, Brigadier General Stan Cherrie, intervened, physically interposing his small frame between us. Cherrie had lost a foot and a part of his right hand to a landmine in Vietnam. A humane and decent man, he had played a prominent role in the Gulf War and was widely admired. “Major, I think you had better move out,” he ordered. Humiliated, I left the tent and returned to the command post. Later, Scaparrotti shared with me that the outburst had been, in the CG’s words, mostly an act “to keep everyone on their toes.”
