The good captain, p.9
The Good Captain, page 9
It is true that more than a decade of peace had dulled the U.S. military’s warfighting edge, but some blame must attach to senior leaders who had withdrawn into comfortable peacetime routines, foregoing hard, realistic joint training. If anything, Grenada was too “joint,” in the sense that every service insisted on playing a role. The Marines were a case in point. With two Ranger battalions and six Army battalions on the ground facing a Cuban engineer battalion and a few hundred Grenadian troops of poor quality, adding a Marine battalion proved an unnecessary complication that added confusion and inter-service rivalry to an already complicated plan. (The decision to delay the parachute assault on Point Salines until daylight to accommodate the Marine landing at Pearls is one example.)
Although the Marines were located just a few miles from the 82nd command post (CP) at the airfield, coordinating boundary changes between maneuvering Army and Marine units was nightmarishly bureaucratic. Proposed changes were flown from Trobaugh’s headquarters to the carrier for review and approval by the admiral’s staff, then flown back to the Marine CP, where a Marine one-star passed them to a colonel and finally to the lieutenant colonel commanding the battalion. (Major General Norman Schwarzkopf, later of Gulf War fame, reportedly served as Admiral Metcalf’s deputy for ground operations, but I never saw him on the island and, as far as I could tell, he exercised no meaningful positive influence on our chaotic operations.) The procedure could take up to a day. Angry junior officers confronted each other on the ground, arguing over lines on the map. A much cleaner and simpler solution would have been to place all forces on the island under a single ground commander, but service politics forbade it and the friction continued.
Even within the Army, tempers could flare. Only a few days into the operation, Ranger commanders began to lobby for redeployment, as most combat had clearly ended. One day, a Ranger major accompanied by several captain liaison officers stormed into the 82nd CP, buttonholing my major and demanding airplanes to return to the States. The major replied with some heat. No one had detached the Rangers from the 82nd’s control, and he quite properly insisted that he could not act without General Trobaugh’s approval. A shoving match ensued, and we all dived for cover as the Ranger officer (very short on sleep and patience, no doubt) went for his .45 as his officers rushed to restrain him. He was dragged away, not to be seen again, but within 12 hours or so the Rangers began flying back to their home bases and Grenada became exclusively an 82nd show—except for the Marine enclave around the capital.
By the end of October, the mission was winding down, the Rangers were leaving, and there seemed little left to do but comb the island for any stay-behind forces. The Marines cleared a few remaining towns and villages and made a few landings to search small islands off the coast, while the 82nd patrolled Grenada’s uninhabited areas looking for possible “guerrillas” or “insurgents.” As the operation wound down, I fielded a strange radio call from the Special Forces Command at Fort Bragg. Apparently, they had received information about some potential holdouts in the Grand Etang forest, on the high part of the island’s center. The officer on the radio informed me that the Special Forces “are coming to drop 150 troopers into the forest to find them and take them out.” I relayed that we had received no such information from the CJTF and that it was unlikely General Trobaugh would approve. The SF officer insisted: “We’re coming … tell your boss.” After the previous week—Urgent Fury had assumed something of a Keystone Cops flavor by now—it wouldn’t have surprised me if they did. I passed the information to Akers, who laughed dismissively, and that’s the last I heard of that.
In early November, I requested permission to join a unit in the field, as many more staff officers had arrived and I wasn’t really needed in the CP anymore. I accompanied a small element of the 82nd’s Reconnaissance Platoon on a daylong foot patrol which began with a helicopter insertion onto one of the many small peninsulas which indented Grenada’s coastline on the southeast part of the island. Leaving two troopers to secure the landing zone we moved north for several “klicks” or kilometers.
Passing through a small village, I was astonished to see the locals bearing an ancient woman towards us in a chair. As they passed out cans of orange crush, she grasped our hands and thanked us profusely, with tears streaming down her face, for coming to Grenada. Her grandson, a conscript taken for the Army two years before, had deserted and rejoined his family, whom he had not seen for the whole time. High politics aside, we felt intuitively we were doing the right thing.
After several hours of moving, we came upon a small hut in a clearing. The lieutenant in charge sent several more soldiers up the trail to secure the far side of the area, leaving only him, me and an Air Force air liaison officer (ALO), attached to enable direct communication with the AC130 Spectre gunship, a converted transport packed with heavy weapons including a 105mm cannon, orbiting high above.
At this point the patrol leader, a senior lieutenant, motioned to me to enter the hut. Drawing my .45, I crept up to the door. Hearing nothing, I kicked the door in and entered the small, darkened room. The Air Force captain stood right behind me with the muzzle of his rifle close to my ear. Suddenly, without warning, my pistol discharged (I learned later that Dad had modified the weapon with a hair trigger). The noise in the small space was deafening, the surprise so sudden that the ALO jumped back, lost his footing, and fell in a heap on the ground. Sheepishly, I holstered my weapon. The hut was empty.
Suddenly our radio nets sprang to life. Hearing the gunshot, units several miles away called in to ask if we were in contact. The artillery wanted to shoot, Army attack helicopters wanted to launch and even the Navy offered air strikes. Overhead, Spectre came on the net requesting permission to fire on “personnel targets” at our location. Our ALO frantically worked to cancel the request, which had gone to the 82nd’s fire control cell in the command post. When asked to authenticate his radio call the Air Force captain couldn’t, as he had failed to bring his code book. Panic-stricken, we scattered, knowing we had little chance to escape the terrible firepower of the gunship circling far above. His urgent radio calls recalled those old World War II movies, when the hero gets out of the jam by reciting that year’s World Series winner. Fortunately, the division command post refused permission and we lived to tell the tale.
A few days later I logged the following message: “Commander CJTF-120, in consultation with the military commanders, has determined that hostilities have ended.” The 82nd Airborne Division returned to Fort Bragg and Urgent Fury came to an end. Awards and decorations rained down on its participants, but criticism was pointed. The operation, mounted in great haste, had been successful in removing a radical and violent revolutionary regime, restoring stability to the island, and rescuing hundreds of U.S. citizens. But few would argue it had been well done. Intelligence was execrable, inter-service coordination was poor, command arrangements were flawed, and execution was generally sluggish. Though overwhelming force was used, losses were high given the scanty opposition: 19 U.S. service members were killed with 116 wounded, many by friendly fire.
What had I learned? I had not managed to serve much with troops during the operation, but I had seen and heard much about crisis response, rapid deployment, joint and combined operations and the workings of a large headquarters. I learned that you don’t sleep much on operations, excuses aren’t welcome, and mistakes carry a high price. I learned that sometimes you’re your own worst enemy; the destroyed helos and body bags I’d seen on my first day were caused as much by our own mistakes as by enemy action. Most importantly, I learned that the consequences of error and miscalculation fall most heavily on the troops—and that more often than not, they will find a way to accomplish the mission in spite of almost any obstacle. The entire U.S. military would learn valuable lessons from Grenada and apply them to great effect in future operations.
Back at Bragg, I soon found myself moved up to be the XO for Echo Company. There would be no return to 1/504 for me. Now I was responsible for more than 50 vehicles, hundreds of weapons and radios, the unit budget, the company training schedule, supply operations, readiness reporting to the Department of the Army, and every other administrative aspect. Being the XO was a graduate seminar in running units, especially in such a complex unit, and great preparation for company command. My final year as a lieutenant in the 82nd passed uneventfully, with long hours and little time off. (In one stretch I worked for 26 consecutive weeks on Saturday and Sunday without a break.) I graduated from the Pathfinder course at the Infantry School and continued to jump as often as possible, proudly swapping my Senior Parachutist Badge for Master Wings once I completed 65 jumps. One highlight was the chance to jump with my father, now a full colonel nearing retirement, an event I’d replicate 25 years later with my own son.
All this left little time for a personal life. Meeting new girls took time I didn’t have, so I reconnected with old flames a few times, but not much came of that. The problem was more than just limited time to devote to relationships. I was consumed by my new profession, determined to master it, and probably not able to balance the personal with the professional very well. One look inside the house I rented with two other lieutenants was usually enough to scare away any potential romantic partners. The house itself was nice enough. Inside, it was furnished with a card table, four chairs, and a small TV resting on a footlocker. On the wall hung our Academy diplomas and our cadet sabers. Over the fireplace I nailed a gun rack with the weapons my father had passed on to me: an M1 Garand, an M1 carbine, a 1903 Springfield, and most prized of all, a .54 caliber breech-loading cavalry carbine, picked up after the battle of Iuka during the Civil War and handed down, father to son. The refrigerator was stocked with cracker barrel cheese, Vidalia onions and cold beer. On a good night, if we really felt like cooking, we’d heat Campbell’s soup on the stove—in the can.
Towards the end of my tour, I drew a choice assignment to lead a platoon and part of the company headquarters on an off-post exercise to Fort Huachuca, Arizona. The company first sergeant came with us, along with the platoon’s lieutenant. We flew across country and jumped into the desert, staying in the field for seven days. Afterwards, we came in for a weekend off before returning to Bragg. Housed in a dilapidated World War II barracks building, the men prepared for a night on the town.
By now I was a seasoned officer, and I knew what to expect. I had the men huddle up. “Okay guys, here’s the plan. I want you to go out tonight and have fun but behave yourself. Stay in groups of at least four. There are only two bars in town. The lieutenant here will be at one. The first sergeant will be at the other. Curfew is at midnight. I will be here to sign you all in. Any questions?”
It was, I thought, a foolproof plan. At midnight not a single trooper was back. At 0100 hours, a group of NCOs carried the first sergeant in, howling drunk. My young clerk, sitting behind a field desk, politely asked the first sergeant to sign in. Shaking off his handlers, the first sergeant picked up the field desk and hurled it across the room before falling into the first bunk in a stupor. I decided to wait before confronting him. At 0200 the phone rang. It was the post commander, a two-star general. “Are you the man in charge of those damned airborne guys?” he demanded. “Yes sir,” I replied, meekly. “Godammit it!” he roared. “The mayor just called. They’ve got a Lieutenant Hooker down at the jailhouse with about 40 paratroopers. I want you to get down there, round up your guys, get your ass back to Fort Bragg, and never come back!”
This is not good, I thought. Hopping into my rental car I went down to the local police station. Most of my guys were milling around. The lieutenant was in the drunk tank. He had given them my name in the hope that he might escape justice. I asked how it had all started. The fracas began at a bar called the “Sin of Cortez.” A corporal with 20 jumps had quarreled with a new sergeant with only 10 jumps over his fitness to hold his rank. Heeding my admonition, they carried the argument outside to the parking lot, followed by the other members of the unit. Forewarned about the presence of a bunch of paratroopers, local law enforcement augmented by several state troopers converged on the scene to arrest the lawbreakers. A melee ensued, with my troopers giving as good as they got.
The following morning, I met with the local magistrate. He was incensed, but willing to let most of my guys go. The lieutenant and four other malcontents, however, were fined heavily. We flew back to Bragg, and I reported at once to Colonel Shelton. As I feared he had already been briefed. He gave me a long look. “Well, Lieutenant, they tell me you lost control of your unit. Is that right?”
I had to agree Shelton was right. Excuses would not do. “Yes, sir,” I admitted. “Big time.” Shelton paused for a long second. “Well,” he drawled, “It happens. Hopefully not again, though. That’s all.”
Outside of the headquarters I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I would never be called upon to take a bullet for Hugh Shelton. But I would have.
In July of 1984, a classmate called to tell me that we had lost one of our own. Billy D. Hubbard, from Iuka, Mississippi, had been an enlisted paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne and we had gone to the Prep School together. Tall and fair haired with an infectious grin, he had commanded the 3rd Regiment as a senior at the Academy. The son of a convict and raised in poverty, Billy had joined the Army, as so many did, for a chance at a better life. We were close friends, so close that we had spent our graduation leave together visiting my parents in the Philippines, where Billy dated a former Miss Asia! After graduation he went to flight school and became a scout helicopter pilot in the 2nd Squadron, 17th Cavalry at Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
On a routine training mission in the mountains of North Georgia, Billy’s bird went down in the trees for reasons that were never fully established. The autopsy concluded that he had lived for some 45 minutes, but he died before a medevac arrived. I was crushed. Billy was the first close friend I had ever lost, and his death robbed us of a life that couldn’t have had more potential. He left a young wife and treasured memories that, for some of us, have never faded. In time, almost 10 percent of my West Point classmates who branched aviation would die in training accidents.
Thus, we lived as young lieutenants in the early 1980s. Ours was an Army on the way back. We were getting better and we knew it, could feel it, and wanted to be a part of it. The future beckoned with war, and more war. We likened ourselves to the young French officers we read about in the classic novel The Centurions who said, “We like war. We are tooled up for it.” In the end, we would get our fill, and more.
CHAPTER 3
Geronimo!
“It makes no difference what men think of war,” said the judge. “War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting the ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.”
CORMAC MCCARTHY, BLOOD MERIDIAN
In October of 1984, I completed my three-year tour with the 82nd Airborne Division and reported to the Infantry Officers Advanced Course at Fort Benning, the Infantry School. The six-month course was a nice respite from the rigors of troop duty, and a chance to reconnect with old friends and classmates. The idea was to prepare for company command, the next step on our career ladder.
A bonus was the four Israeli exchange officers on my course. Each had been handpicked and would go on to bigger things. Giora Eiland was a veteran of the ’73 war and the raid on Entebbe; he would rise to command the Paratroops Brigade and retire as a major general before becoming national security advisor for Ariel Sharon. Mati Harari would also command the Paratroops Brigade and retire as a brigadier general. Moshe Kaplinski, badly wounded in the 1982 incursion into Lebanon in the famous battle for the Beaufort castle, would later command the elite Golani Brigade and become a major general and the deputy commander of the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF).
These three would become good friends and I learned much from them all. The fourth, Amir Meital, was nearest to me in age and we became very close. Amir would later gain fame as the youngest lieutenant colonel in the IDF and commander of a famous special operations unit. In 1989 he would be killed in Lebanon and honored with a book and a movie.
The famously casual Israelis became great favorites with the students but were the bane of the crusty colonel running the schoolhouse. Admonished for refusing to wear headgear, Amir responded by donning a U.S. Marine Corps patrol cap. The others, slightly older, indulged themselves by ostentatiously putting their hands in their pockets, wore sunglasses in class and insisted on addressing the colonel by his first name—all designed to infuriate and all invariably successful. We Americans sat back and enjoyed the fireworks.
When it came to war, however, the Israelis were deadly serious. On one memorable occasion Giora rose, walked up to the stage, took the pointer from the instructor, and proceeded to finish the lecture in front of 800 students. When their practical experience diverged from U.S. doctrine they would speak up and say why. Always, their focus was on accomplishing the mission with the least risk to soldiers. Often our minds would wander as the platform instructor listlessly meandered through his 80 or so viewgraphs. But when an Israeli spoke, we sat up and took notes.
Soon after arriving at Benning, I was promoted to captain. On the date of my promotion, about 80 of us were asked to stand in the huge lecture hall. A colonel intoned “You are now captains. Congratulations. Sit down.” Then there began a stormy correspondence with my personnel assignment officer in Washington, who planned to leave me at Benning after graduation to command a basic training company. As I knew well, a training command would hopelessly disadvantage me in competition with my peers. (I later learned that almost every 82nd lieutenant from my year group who had served in Grenada was assigned to a training unit. It was the revenge of the personnel weenies.) I explained that I was perfectly willing to serve anywhere in the world where I could command a combat unit, but that I would absolutely refuse a training command. I maintained my case obstinately, even when the branch chief, a lieutenant colonel, called me personally. Halfway through the course Infantry Branch visited us and I was given a short interview with the colonel.
