The good captain, p.30
The Good Captain, page 30
Inexplicably, at this critical juncture Secretary Rumsfeld decided to place the Army’s most junior three-star, Lieutenant General Ricardo Sanchez, in command of the military component in Iraq. (Rumsfeld would later deny any role in Sanchez’s selection, a position described by one biographer as “not remotely credible.”) The original war plan called for Third Army, now led by the deeply experienced Lieutenant General David McKiernan, to stay on following the invasion to superintend the initial occupation. Third Army boasted a large, well-trained staff that was intimately familiar with Iraq. Sanchez, in contrast, had just been placed in command of V Corps, a much smaller headquarters based in Germany with little understanding of the mission. Personality conflicts with Bremer prevented the kind of seamless cooperation required to succeed in such a difficult and complex setting. We had, we thought, won the war. Now we set about losing the peace.
As graduation approached, I learned that I had been selected for promotion to full colonel, but my next assignment was up in the air. At one point I was ordered by the Army to interview as military assistant to one of the assistant secretaries of defense, a job which held no appeal. (I had long since adopted the view that any job title which contains the word “assistant” more than once should be studiously avoided.) Purposely flunking the interview, I was next sent to interview with Scooter Libby, chief of staff to Vice President Cheney.
Libby would later be convicted of obstruction of justice and perjury in the aftermath of the Valerie Plame affair, but I thoroughly enjoyed the interview and found him both personable and engaging. He had reviewed my CV and expressed interest in an article I had written dissecting the German invasion of Russia in 1941. We spent an hour talking about Operation Barbarossa and little else, and soon after I was notified that I had been hired as special adviser.
Excited about a return to the White House, I bought five new suits and began a deep dive into Middle East issues, my new portfolio. Only days before reporting, Libby’s assistant called me at home.
“The Army chief of staff wants you assigned to his office, we’re told. What do you want to do?”
Many years before, I had been told to stand clear when the elephants were stomping around the yard, and I replied dutifully, “Thanks very much. When my orders show up in the mailbox, I’ll follow them.” Those orders materialized the next day. A week later, I reported for duty to the Army Staff, this time for an assignment in the chief of staff’s office as an “Army Planner.” The term was something of a misnomer, as the service staffs were concerned with manning, training, and equipping the force—the so-called “Title 10” functions—and not actual operational planning. Each of the four military services had three 06 officers assigned to the service chief’s office with responsibilities for joint matters. In his capacity as a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Army chief attended weekly JCS meetings in the “Tank”—the JCS conference room—and his Army planners were responsible for preparing him for those sessions. All joint issues sent to the Army for consideration and comment passed through the planners, who alone (except for the chief and his three-star operations deputy) had the power to sign off on joint actions with the official “Army position.” It was a responsible job which again afforded me regular contact and interaction with the Army’s top leadership, as well as a deep understanding of the joint world and its many areas of friction.
I assumed these duties in the summer of 2003, only days before General Shinseki’s retirement. For a few months General Jack Keane, the Army’s vice chief, served as the acting head until General Schoomaker came out of retirement. Schoomaker had enjoyed a successful career as a special operations officer and former commander of the Army’s premier “high end” counterterrorism unit, rising to command SOCOM in the Clinton era. He now found himself staring down the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun.
Any Army chief would be challenged by the requirement to support not one but two shooting wars, on top of the Army’s other worldwide commitments. But Schoomaker had been specifically selected to champion “Army Transformation” as well. Here the idea was to reorganize the Army into “modular brigades,” by deemphasizing the division as an echelon of command and by restructuring maneuver (infantry and armor) brigades. Modular brigades would “own” their own artillery and support units, which had formerly been assigned to the division. Crucially, the brigade’s three maneuver battalions were reduced to two, while a Reconnaissance, Surveillance and Target Acquisition (RSTA) squadron (essentially a small battalion-sized reconnaissance unit) was added. Overall, the brigade grew in size, but in terms of actual combat soldiers—“boots on the ground”—the decline was marked, some 1,000 soldiers. Central to this concept was that the Brigade Combat Team or “BCT” would now be the “Unit of Action,” a “plug and play” entity that could in theory work under any division headquarters or none at all.
The basic idea was lifted from Breaking the Phalanx, a book written by a renegade Army colonel then working in Rumsfeld’s Office for Transformation. Conceptually, the modular brigade was full of holes. First, the idea was rushed through before the Army could generate doctrine or training programs to give commanders and staffs some idea of how to employ it. The loss of combat strength could not be overcome by the greater “situational awareness” provided by the high-tech but weak RSTA unit, whose systems were in any case poorly suited to our low-tech opponents in Iraq and Afghanistan. Ultimately, maneuver units must seize and hold ground and there were now far fewer soldiers to do that. Sending brigades to the fight willy-nilly, under division commanders and staffs they had never met or trained with, was simply foolish. Finally, reequipping and reorganizing every brigade in the Army during active conflict proved wrenchingly difficult and problematic.
Virtually every division commander in the Army opposed this approach, seen to be both flawed and untested. (Later, the Army would revert to the three-battalion format and reempower the division level.) On the Army staff, we marveled that the Marine Corps—organized on similar lines—was not subjected to such heavy pressures for radical change. It soon became clear that the new chief would embrace Army Transformation enthusiastically, and Army generals dutifully fell into line and resolved to make the best of a bad bargain.
In the spring of 2004, I received word that one of my former officers in 2 Panther had been killed in action. In the wars that followed 9/11 I knew a lot of officers who were loved and respected by the soldiers they led. But I never knew a man as beloved as Captain John F. Kurth from Beaver Dam, Wisconsin.
Captain Kurth was a rifle company commander in the 1st Division, the “Big Red One.” He had led his unit, Company B of the 1st Battalion, 18th Infantry, all through the training and preparation for deployment to Iraq. He was only 31 when the “Bushmasters” deployed, yet he carried a sincerity and an affection for his soldiers that made people want to follow him.
“I would have followed that man through hell,” said one. “He was everything I wanted to be.” “I think of you every day,” said another.
Kurth seemed a born soldier. Tall, rangy, and handsome, a high-school wrestler and football star in Beaver Dam, he was called “Hans” by his friends. At West Point his infectious sense of humor, willingness to lend a hand and never-failing optimism made him legions of lifetime friends. As one classmate put it, “I never told you this because we were too full of pride and the stubbornness of youth, but I loved you like I love my own brother.” “You were the best of us.”
After graduation he went to the 82nd Airborne Division. It was my good fortune to have Hans in my battalion. He was supremely competent, but then many of the lieutenants were. What set Hans apart was an unaffected and genuine love of his fellow man, a sense of empathy and compassion for all that filled a room. There was no ego or bluster about him. Self-confident and assured, with a wonderful fund of humor and good fellowship, he could make both soldiers and peers feel special. It was a rare and precious gift that we all wished we had.
A few years later, I ran into Hans in Germany. He was frustrated, waiting on the staff for his turn to command a company and lead soldiers again. Eventually his chance came. He worked hard to get his troopers ready. Morale was high. He had trained the unit well, and they were all eager to show what they could do.
When the time came, B Company flew into Iraq and pushed up to its assigned area of operations near Tikrit. Then it happened. Hans’ convoy was hit by small arms fire from the rear. Seconds later a roadside bomb detonated with crushing force, destroying his HMMWV. Kurth was killed, along with his driver, Specialist Jason Ford, from Bowie, Maryland. Three other soldiers in the vehicle were wounded, one seriously.
For Captain Kurth’s soldiers and for his friends and loved ones, it was as though a small piece inside died that day, a piece that would never come back. Like so many, his death was random. He did not die leading an attack against great odds or carrying a wounded trooper to safety. There was no glory in his death or the way he died. But there was something else. Kurth’s death mattered because his life mattered, in large and consequential ways. He had touched us all in ways we would not forget. A bereaved comrade wrote later, “I breathed for you and my breathing wasn’t good enough. I miss you. My life is not worth your death.”
After recovering their dead and tending their wounded, his company mounted their vehicles, moved off and got back to the war. It was Day 1 of their tour.
As I grieved for the loss of Hans Kurth, the Army was beset by reports that NFL football star Pat Tillman, who had joined the elite 75th Ranger Regiment after 9/11, had been killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan. At the time, Tillman was the most famous soldier in the Army, celebrated for walking away from millions of dollars to serve on the front lines of the Global War on Terrorism. Initial reports attempted to obscure the facts and—most seriously—Tillman’s commanders recommended him for a Silver Star for heroism in combat against the enemy. The officer who signed the citation was Major General Stanley McChrystal. It quickly became clear that he had signed the award in the full knowledge that it was false.
McChrystal in 2004 was commanding an elite headquarters exercising operational control over Tillman’s Ranger unit in Afghanistan. A former commander of the Ranger Regiment, he had enjoyed a storied career. Subsequent investigations by the Pentagon’s inspector general concluded that McChrystal and others had submitted “inaccurate” and “misleading” information in an attempt to obscure the circumstances of Tillman’s death. A separate investigation by General William Wallace would spur a later Army secretary to conclude that the incident “called into question the Army’s credibility … and strikes at the very heart of Army core values.” As one of the Army’s most high-profile commanders, McChrystal attracted intense media attention and the story consumed Army leaders for months. Across America, the Army took a beating. The IG recommended “appropriate corrective action” against McChrystal and other officers involved, and some were severely disciplined (one general responsible for administratively processing the award was demoted in disgrace). However, McChrystal himself escaped formal censure and would go on to further promotion and celebrity. For its part, the Army would endure years of criticism and painful congressional scrutiny over the Tillman incident.
As though cursed by the decision to invade Iraq, an even more devastating blow fell upon the Army at the same time when photos surfaced in the national media depicting torture and inhumane treatment at the Abu Ghraib detention facility in Anbar province in Iraq. The photos were shocking in the extreme. A small group of Army Reserve soldiers led by Specialist Charles Graner had subjected Iraqi detainees to multiple forms of mental and physical abuse, much of it documented in dozens of photos. In many cases, the abuse was calculated specifically to offend the religious sensibilities of the detainees.
Subsequent investigations revealed that just about everything that could go wrong at Abu Ghraib did. Lines of responsibility between military intelligence interrogators and military police detention units became hopelessly blurred. Civilian contractors enthusiastically applied “enhanced interrogation” techniques pushed by the White House and Secretary Rumsfeld. From General Sanchez to the most junior officer in the chain of command, oversight and supervision of detention operations was virtually non-existent. Graner, the ringleader, had been enlisted in the Army Reserve despite a troubled record as a civilian corrections officer. Abu Ghraib was a perfect storm of bad leadership, flawed and ethically questionable policy guidance, and plain inhumanity. To this day, when people think of Iraq, they think of those pictures. They are a stain on the Army’s honor, and the nation’s, that may never really wash away.
As the Army leadership convulsed over the Tillman and Abu Ghraib crises, I received a cryptic message to report to the director of the Army Staff. A personal interview meant one of two things. It could be good news. Or it could be very, very bad. I responded with alacrity and soon found myself seated in front of his secretary.
“The general will see you now.”
I rose from my seat in the general’s outer office, thanked the secretary and walked into a large office decorated with the memorabilia of a long and successful career. In the corner stood an American flag and the large red three-starred banner signifying a lieutenant general. Standing at attention I saluted.
“Sir, Colonel Hooker reports as ordered.”
Not knowing what this was all about, I tried to keep a neutral expression. Though my conscience was clear, one never knew what to expect from touchy senior officers. I stood, motionless and expressionless, as he returned my salute. Rising from his desk he strode forward, hand outstretched and smiling. Instinctively I relaxed. Shaking my hand and motioning me to a large leather easy chair, he sat down beside me, leaning forward intently.
“I’ve got good news. You’re being offered brigade command. At Fort Bragg. Congratulations.”
I paused for a moment as a thousand conflicting thoughts raced through my mind. I had done well as a battalion commander, and since. But I had served exclusively with paratroopers—something of a liability in an Army that prized diverse career assignments—and some of my assignments had been outside the mainstream of the Army. I had hoped, but not expected, to get a brigade. I felt momentarily overwhelmed.
And there was one other thing. There were only three infantry brigade commands at Bragg, all in the 82nd Airborne Division. I was well aware that all three were filled. Had someone been fired, or more likely, badly injured on a jump?
The general waved my question aside. “You’re not going to the 82nd. You’re going to XVIII Airborne Corps. You’re getting Dragon Brigade. And you’re going downrange, to Baghdad, about six months after you take command.”
I bit my lip. To be selected for brigade command was a real accomplishment. Of a hundred lieutenants, fewer than 10 might gain brigade command 20 years later. On the other hand, few would call Dragon Brigade, or more formally the “XVIII Airborne Corps Combat Support Brigade,” a premier slating. None of its previous commanders had ever been promoted to general, and this development probably meant I wouldn’t either. Dragon Brigade had been created some 20 years before to provide command and control for a number of unaffiliated “separate” units located at Bragg that lacked a full colonel as commander. In its time it had included air defense, signal, explosive ordnance disposal, psychological operations, garrison, public affairs and many other battalions and companies. What it did not include was infantry soldiers. Dragon Brigade was a consolation prize in the eyes of many, not a command sought by fast movers. Officers assigned to command the brigade often developed “medical” issues that would see them re-slated, hopefully to a more desirable command, the following year. In fact, that had happened this time around; the original pick had developed “cardiac” problems that somehow did not prevent him from being later assigned to brigade command in the 1st Cavalry Division.
On the other hand, Dragon Brigade was an airborne organization. I’d be back on jump status, serving with paratroopers again. The unit was going into the combat zone by year’s end. And the corps commander was Lieutenant General John R. Vines, “Viper 6,” my old boss from battalion command days. Perhaps this had not been an arbitrary selection after all. As for promotion—well, declining a combat command would earn me the disapproval of everyone I respected most in the service. I didn’t see that as an option.
The general must have seen this internal debate in my expression. A harder tone crept into his voice. “Well, do you want it or not?”
I straightened up and looked the three-star in the eye. “Sir, I’ll need to talk to my wife tonight and get her blessing. Can I give you my answer tomorrow morning?”
A faint look of disapproval crossed his face. “Fine. Let me know first thing. That’s all.”
As I left the office, I knew what my answer would be. But I owed Beverly a chance to speak her piece. After putting me on the airplane many times before, to Somalia, and Rwanda, and Bosnia, to Kosovo and the Sinai, she deserved that. With a full-time job as an engineer, and three kids at home, she carried a heavy burden. And there was more. None of my previous deployments had exceeded six months. This would be a full year. And while I had been shot at before, Iraq was different. We were losing hundreds of soldiers every year, in a war with no real rear area. Most casualties were caused by improvised explosive devices (IEDs), homemade bombs of enormous size that could cause catastrophic injuries. Temperatures in Iraq rose above one hundred degrees for seven months of the year. This would be the hardest, most dangerous year of my career. By far.
That night we held hands and talked about the future. By now we knew each other bone deep. Beverly knew that if she asked me to stay I would. But she also knew that I would always regret it. Our relationship would be changed, just as my parents had been when Dad returned to Vietnam. We brought the kids in to the discussion. The boys were 16 and 14. Rachel was just 11. They were frightened as children always are. But they were also Army kids. They knew this was Dad’s job. The next morning, I sent word that I’d accept the command. A few months later we found ourselves back at Bragg.
