In Deskevich’s words, the spectacular display of flame and shot added a sense of vengeance to the battle. The display seemed fitting after Sergeant Moller’s death a couple of hours earlier.

As a scout section drove by to take position on flat ground behind Deskevich’s fire-support vehicle, Sergeant Lashley told Deskevich, “Sir, we need to fire smoke grenades and disengage.”

Deskevich would have none of it. He knew that in the poorly illuminated night, smoke would simply identify where the fire-support vehicle was. “No! Stop that crap now. The Iraqis do not know where we are in the dark, so don’t mark our position.”

“Ok, sir,” snapped Lashley, “Then, we’ll move.”

“No f—cking way!” yelled Deskevich, “We are not broadsiding ourselves. We can’t pivot steer out of here in this thing. Stay where you are.”

“Then it’s on you if we get killed,” yelled Sergeant Lashley.

“Fine,” replied Deskevich. “We’ll justify it to God if we get there.” Hearing on the fire-support net “Splash out, splash over,” signaling steel on Ghost 13’s target, Deskevich asked where the hell Kinsley’s platoon was, calling directly to Kinsley, “Green 1, Ghost 13, do you see what is shooting at us?”

After a couple of calls from Deskevich, Kinsley answered, “Ghost 13, negative, over.”

“Why not?” asked Deskevich “Can you shoot in my direction?”

“Negative Ghost 12, the firing pin in my tank is broken, over,” answered Kinsley.

“Roger, what about the other two?” asked Deskevich.

“Can’t identify the targets,” answered Kinsley in a voice that was barely audible. “They have electrical problems too, over.”

That’s bullshit, thought Deskevich. How can those tanks be down now? What do you mean, they can’t see? They haven’t fired a single main-gun round.

Fortunately, the artillery falling on the advancing Iraqis made the matter academic. Once again, as soon as the artillery poured in around them, the Iraqis stopped, making themselves easy targets.

Hearing Deskevich’s calls for assistance, Sartiano turned the Godfather south and sped toward Haines’ screen line. On arrival he discovered that Haines’ platoon had pulled just behind the small rise that ran parallel with the 73 Easting and was engaging the halted Iraqi tanks and armored vehicles to his front.

Sartiano pulled up on the Iraqis’ flank and opened fire with his main gun. Sartiano’s gunner was by now accustomed to Sartiano’s battlefield opportunism. He carefully aimed, without haste, and fired.

Sartiano, unimpressed with the Iraqi tanks, called Mecca on the radio saying, “Hey XO [executive officer], come up on line and start shooting.”

Mecca, who was already on his way drove up, and halted fifty meters to Sartiano’s right. Before the second main-gun round went off, another dangerclose mission—meaning there were friendlies close to the target—of forty-eight rounds of DPICM crashed down on the Iraqis while Mecca opened up with twenty rounds of 25-mm sabot ammunition. Mecca now called Kinsley on the troop command net and told him, “I’m firing to your left and marking the enemy with 25-mm for your platoon to engage.”

Announcing, “Gunner, sabot BMP,” to his gunner, Sergeant Hunnicut, Mecca engaged a BMP that pulled up behind the four Iraqi T72 tanks. Mecca, not expecting to see much effect from his 25-mm, was surprised to see a direct hit achieve complete destruction of the BMP. Upon seeing the explosion, Mecca took aim at another—destroying that BMP too.

At this point, Sergeant Hunnicut was flying high. He asked Mecca on the intercom, “Hey sir, you want to try a tank?”

Mecca replied, “What the hell, give it a shot!”

Sergeant Hunnicut fired nine rounds of 25-mm sabot ammunition into the rear panel of the last of the four T72 tanks, engulfing it in flames. Mecca and Sartiano continued to engage and destroy the four T72 tanks and BMPs. Within minutes, all the Iraqi vehicles were destroyed and all of the Iraqi troops were dead. Privately, many of the soldiers in Ghost Troop were happy they did not have to take prisoners. The memory of Sergeant Moller’s death was still fresh in their minds.

For good measure, one of the Bradleys in Haines’ platoon decided to launch a final TOW missile in the direction of a hot spot that looked like a tank out beyond 3,500 meters, but the weapon blew up just after leaving the tube. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but this was one of several defective TOW missiles that launched and then detonated within a few meters of the Bradley. We later wondered how many of the missiles in Cougar Squadron’s first basic load of TOW missiles were also defective.

By 2030 hours Ghost Troop’s third major action was over, and the condition of Iraqi troops to our front was dismal. Scattered here and there among the wreckage, many of the Iraqi troops who were still alive fired pointlessly in our direction. At times, the Iraqis would stick their heads up and plink away at us from the distance. Occasionally, section-sized elements would charge forward, only to be cut to pieces in seconds. Iraqi resistance at this point was worse than futile, It was suicidal. But many of the Iraqi soldiers seemed to fight with the courage of despair.

Staff Sergeant Foy, who had played a leading role in the tank assault, spotted a truck full of Iraqi troops moving from right to left across the front of his platoon, on Eagle Troop’s right flank.

Before anyone could engage, Foy said, “Hold your fire. Let’s see if these guys really want to fight.”

Thanks to Foy, several dozen Iraqi Arabs missed the opportunity to see paradise early. Foy’s instincts were right. This bunch was just trying to get out of the beaten zone. When Foy fired a few 7.62-mm rounds over their heads, they quickly surrendered.

THE ENEMY IS BROKEN

Sitting a couple of hundred yards away as I participated in the adjustment of white-phosphorous rounds from Eagle Troop’s mortars onto the heads of the Iraqi soldiers concealed in the wreckage to my front, I suddenly paused and asked myself, “What the hell am I doing?”

The battle was over. These men no longer needed to die. Perhaps the Iraqi soldiers were still firing at us because we were firing at them. None of the surviving Republican Guards presented a serious threat any more. In fact, it was worse. Whatever else these Iraqi soldiers were, they were still human beings.

Out of curiosity, I dropped down to the Eagle Troop net and listened to tank commanders speculating on which tank or Bradley would succeed in dropping mortar rounds on the few Iraqis who remained alive. This change in atmospherics disturbed me.

There was no glory or glamour in this enterprise. The fiery desert to our front had become a valley of death, a place of ruthless extermination. I was no longer orchestrating a battle. I was now just the principal executioner.

Reasons of statecraft and national interest had brought me, along with thousands of other American soldiers, to Iraq, but I had not come to Iraq to spread hatred and cruelty or to wage a ruthless war of extermination, a guerre à mort. The killing had to stop and stop now, I told myself. I called McMaster on the Cougar Squadron command net: “Eagle 6, this is Cougar 3, meet me behind my tank ASAP, over.”

McMaster acknowledged, “Eagle 6, roger out,” and dismounted from Mad Max.

I pushed the switch to intercom and told the crew—Ward, Jones, and Abercrombie—“Listen guys, I am getting out. Until further notice, we’ve got to cease-fire, understand?”

“Roger that, sir.”

Then, Ward asked, “Sir, do you mind if I get out with you?”

“No problem, but one of you three needs to stay behind the gun until this thing is over. I am going to call a cease-fire and see if these people will surrender. I think we’ve killed enough for one day.”

With that comment, I took off my CVC helmet, grabbed my Kevlar one, and climbed down from the tank. McMaster was already behind the tank waiting for me. Ebullient and excited, McMaster reached out and slapped his hand into mine a second time saying, “Goddamn, this is great, isn’t it?”

I nodded in agreement but came right to the point.

“H.R., I want a cease-fire so I can see if the few who are left alive will surrender.”

My words struck him like a right punch to the jaw. McMaster was clearly surprised.

“Sir, already? I mean we’re kicking their ass. Why stop now?”

“H.R., the enemy is broken. They may be the Republican Guard, but they do not all deserve to die. Please, get on the net and tell your troops to cease fire immediately. Understood?”

There was a hint of agitation in McMaster’s voice, so I added, “H.R., I don’t have time to discuss this. I am bringing up the PSYOPS team, broadcast a surrender appeal, and see what happens.”

McMaster and his soldiers had done so much to win this battle that they were still caught up in the excitement of combat. But since we could not advance any farther, it made sense to me to try and stop the killing. McMaster’s face indicated a certain amount of disappointment that the battle was over, but he understood.

“Got it, sir,” he said, “I will get my guys on the radio right away.”

With that, McMaster scurried off toward his tank, and I returned to Cougar Forward to make the call to the PSYOPS team myself.

As I walked back to Cougar Forward, Lt. Danny Davis, Eagle Troop fire-support team leader, walked up to me. Danny knew that I was frustrated at our inability to advance and finish off the remaining enemy. He approached me with a plan for an artillery strike that would terminate the action once and for all. Explaining that enough guns were in place to put five hundred rounds plus rockets into the main concentration of enemy troops to our front, Danny Davis asked for permission to prepare the mission.²

I paused for a second, then, said, “Danny, go ahead.” But I also insisted that I wanted him to tell me when the guns would be ready to fire before anything happened. He assured me he would do so and returned to his track, where he and McMaster jointly planned and organized the strike.

I walked back from the tank line to talk with Hillen to catch up on whatever traffic was coming in from Dragoon Base, because I could no longer hear the traffic from Regiment. Then we heard Ghost Troop report it was “black on TOWs” through the administrative logistic radio net to Dragoon Base, the regiment. This report meant that Ghost Troop’s scouts had fired all of their TOW missiles. This was, of course, utter nonsense. As soon as I heard the report, I knew it was nonsense.

“John, that’s bullshit, and you know it.” John agreed. I said, “Get Mecca up on the f—cking net and tell him to send us the true picture, ASAP.”

Quite suddenly, Larson’s tank reappeared, driving out of the darkness behind us, parking near Cougar Forward. Larson dismounted from his tank and hurried over to where Hillen and I were talking. He seemed genuinely happy to see me. Dispensing with the usual greeting, he immediately mentioned the Ghost Troop report concerning TOW missiles, asking: “Doug, did you report that Ghost is ‘black on TOWs’ to Regiment?”

I quickly said, “No, sir, I did not. I think the report is nonsense. Ghost is probably overreporting the situation on the ground. They need to crosslevel between vehicles.” “Cross-leveling” involves redistributing TOW missiles between scout sections inside the troop.

Larson ignored my response. He was clearly irritated that I had not sent the message up to Dragoon Base.

“Doug, I think we should report that Ghost is black on TOWs to Regiment. The regiment does not understand what we are doing here, because you are not reporting enough.”

Larson was not entirely wrong. I had told Tony to be careful what he relayed to Regiment from Cougar Forward and from me. But I was concerned as much about accuracy as exaggeration. Both Ierardi and Hillen understood my concern very well.

As Holder was fond of saying, “The first report is always wrong.” I was quite convinced that Holder’s adage applied to Ghost Troop’s report of “black on TOWs.”

“Sir, John is reporting routinely what we know to be true. Under the circumstances, I strongly recommend we wait for verification from John Mecca before sending anything up to Dragoon Base.”

My response did not placate Larson. Larson again insisted that we report the information to Regiment.

Seconds later Mecca came up on the Cougar Squadron command net and corrected the earlier report. Ghost was not black on TOWs. During the months of training prior to G-day, the troop executive officers and Hillen had established a “private” radio net for frank lieutenant-to-lieutenant conversation. It was originally Lt. Jack Waldron’s idea. Anyway, the lieutenants used the radio frequency normally designated for use by the “F Troop mess team.” Since there was no such mess team, the lieutenants used it as their own forum to keep their bosses out of a trouble.

The code phrase “Meet me on the side” was used by the lieutenants to indicate they needed to talk on the secret net about some serious—and at times, not so serious—issue. The conversations were often heated, but mostly they were just frank prodding to get things done. Mecca lost no time in telling Hillen that Garwick’s report was wrong.

In the excitement of battle, Garwick reported that he had fired all of the TOW missiles on his Bradley. Mecca now reported that Ghost Troop was cross-leveling its TOW missiles. Larson was silent when Hillen gave him the news. In the meantime, I told Hillen to revise the earlier report and inform Dragoon Base. Hillen called Dragoon Base and explained what had happened, but the report was never changed at Regiment. The exaggeration stuck.

While we waited for the PSYOPS team to arrive, the Iraqis in front of Ghost Troop briefly renewed their assault. In less time than it takes to read these lines, the fight with the last counterattacking Iraqi troops ended with an exploding TOW missile. Sergeant First Class Lawrence, Garwick’s very able and competent platoon sergeant, launched one more TOW at an Iraqi armored vehicle he saw in the thermals about 3,500 meters to the front. When the missile left the tube, however, it exploded almost immediately, engulfing the whole Bradley in flame.

Alarmed by the sight of the Bradley’s turret in flame and smoke, Sartiano called Lawrence to see if anyone was hurt,

“Negative,” said Lawrence. “It will take more than a little explosion to keep me out of the fight.”

Sartiano was relieved, but he was not happy. He wanted to deliver a killing blow against the Iraqi armored elements three to five kilometers away, lying beyond the 73 Easting in 3rd Armored Division’s zone of attack.

Deskevich, working with Mecca and the Ghost Platoon leaders, directed artillery strikes throughout the evening against these columns of Iraqi troops. Once again, Iraqi troops who fell back in disorder hid inside the bowl-like depression about a thousand meters to Ghost Troop’s left front.

Plunging fire from Ghost mortars into the depression pinned down some of the survivors, but the depression offered a temporary sanctuary from Ghost Troop’s devastating direct fire. Mecca also complained that Iraqi artillery rounds continued to periodically fall behind Ghost’s line of contact in and around the Ghost Troop supply trains, disrupting Sergeant First Class Davis’ resupply operation. The whole thing bothered Sartiano, who became more determined than ever to root out the remaining Iraqi troops to his front, once and for all.

“Cougar 3, Ghost 6 over,”

“Ghost 6, send it.”

“Cougar 3, request permission to move to positions one thousand meters farther east, break. From there I can wipe out the enemy and end this, over.”

Now, there was a thought. Why not advance to complete the enemy’s destruction? What a wonderful idea, I thought, but our opportunity had passed.

“Negative, Ghost 6. Sorry, can’t do it. Spearhead is on its way, our air is forward of the 73 Easting right now, break, can’t risk it, over.” A short pause followed until Sartiano finally spoke.

“Roger. Understand, Ghost 6, out.”

Sartiano’s instincts were right. We should never have stopped, but there was nothing any of us could do about it. I had to turn my attention back to the PSYOPS team.

About ten minutes after I told Cougar 32 to send forward the PYSOPS team to my location, two Humvees rolled up and parked next to where I was standing, just to the right of my tank. The first to step forward was the team leader, a reservist who normally taught high school English. I said “Welcome” and shook his hand. He suggested that I speak directly to the interpreter who would actually broadcast the surrender appeal in Arabic. With that, the Kuwaiti interpreter, a student at George Washington University, in Washington, D.C., stepped forward to receive instructions.

I told him, “Call them on the public address system and give them a couple of minutes to surrender. Tell them if they do not surrender, the divisions that are now closing fast behind us will soon be here and they will destroy them. OK?”

“Sir, I recommend that we give them no more than sixty seconds.”

“Really? Do you think that is enough time?” I asked.

“Sir, based on our experience, I guarantee it is. Believe me, if they do not come out after sixty seconds, they aren’t coming out at all.”

“Very well, then. Make it sixty seconds. Let’s do it.”

As the Kuwaiti interpreter predicted, it did not take long for dozens and dozens of Iraqi soldiers to fumble over the trenches and wreckage, move forward, and surrender. Within seconds I was astonished by the number of little white flags that suddenly popped out of the wreckage to our front. Some men staggered, some walked, and a few were carried, but they all displayed anything white they could get their hands on.

Within a couple of minutes at least twenty pale and bloody Iraqi soldiers in dirty green uniforms cluttered the ground around my tank. Lieutenant Gio Kotori’s medical platoon, which had practiced so long and hard to keep us alive if we were wounded, now went to work saving Arab lives. Some of the wounds were quite gruesome and required immediate medical attention.

Staff Sergeant Burns took charge of securing the prisoners, in his usual humorous way. To his everlasting credit, Sergeant Burns was anything but harsh. Burns was firm, yes, but not severe. He made a point of smiling, reassuring the tired and the wounded that they had nothing to fear. After searching through pockets, he carefully returned all of the Iraqi soldiers’ personal items, such as the pictures of girlfriends and family.

What I saw next shocked me. If anyone wanted proof that Gen. William T. Sherman was right when he insisted “war is hell,” the proof was here in abundance. As I walked around inspecting the motley gang of Iraqi wounded, I noticed quite by accident a gash in one Iraqi soldier’s arm. A small speck of white phosphorous from a 4.2-inch mortar had eaten like acid right through the man’s arm. Small wonder the Iraqis popped out of the bunkers and trenches when these “Willie Pete” rounds were dropped on their heads.

How long the man with the wound in his forearm had suffered I do not know, but the look on his face was beyond pain. He sat motionless in front of me, saying nothing, staring into the distance while his comrades lying next to him clutched white bandages to wounds in their heads and torsos. It was the first time my nostrils had been filled with the putrid smell of burnt human flesh. But these surviving Iraqi soldiers were the lucky ones. Far more of them were dead. We will never know how many we killed.

Miraculously, more and more Iraqi soldiers surrendered and walked into our lines. Meanwhile, the eyes of the recently captured Iraqi Republican Guard officer darted quickly between Sergeant Ward and me. The Iraqi officer, who survived the battle, turned out later to have been the Republican Guard brigade commander. He told me afterward that during the war with Iran, Iranian tank attacks had been followed by waves of dismounted Iranian infantry, reminiscent of the Red Army’s tactics during World War II. Apparently, it had not occurred to the Iraqis that our tanks would have instead armored fighting vehicles with 25-mm automatic cannons and 7.62-mm machine guns just behind them, carrying scouts who could dismount under armor protection if needed.

Nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed since we had begun accepting the surrender of Iraqi troops. No more white flags were visible anywhere. The fight appeared to be over. I decided to walk over to the Iraqi commander and ask him if he thought any more of his soldiers might still be out there.

To my horror, he said: “Yes. There might be some badly wounded men ... men too badly wounded to walk.”

I was furious. I immediately walked back to Cougar Forward to ask Lieutenant Colonel Larson if I should not go forward to see if there were any more survivors. I said, “Sir, perhaps I should take a detail and see if any wounded men out there are still alive.”

Larson was strongly opposed. He was adamant that I stay where I was.

His high-pitched voice rang in my ears, “Doug, absolutely not. John [Hillen] says Apache attack helicopters are flying forward of us. There is no way to turn them off. You don’t need to become a friendly-fire victim.”

Larson was right, and I knew it. But the whole affair made me angry with the Iraqi brigade commander. Why had he waited to mention that some of his wounded soldiers might have been left behind on the battlefield? This lack of regard for his own troops reflected a casual attitude toward human life that was quite common among the Arabs, as we would confirm weeks later in the Euphrates River valley near An Nasiriyah, but I did not like it.

“Sir, I know you are right. I am just angry that there is nothing I can do about it,” I said to Larson. Thinking about it for a second, I followed up with, “Anyway, if there is anyone still alive out there, they won’t be alive much longer.” I then told Larson about the planned artillery strike to our front.

Davis now walked up behind me to tell me that all was ready for the artillery strike. So I said, “Let it rip.”

It wasn’t long before we heard the guns fire and Davis’ artillery strike begin. This was the first time in most of our lives that we had seen concentrated artillery fire, fire that began falling no more than a thousand meters away from us. Just as it had impressed Mecca earlier in the evening, the violence of the falling artillery now shocked me. The rounds fell in sheets like rain and seemed to walk deliberately across the desert.

Danny Davis stood next to me during the artillery strike. As Davis and I gasped, startled by the storm of destruction to our front, I turned to Davis and said: “My God, it looks like Armageddon.” Davis agreed. The name stuck, and forever after we referred to this artillery barrage as “the Armageddon strike.”

When it ended—with the firing of the last of 1,100 155-mm artillery rounds in the space of perhaps three hours—Lieutenant Colonel Larson engaged me on an entirely different matter.

Larson surprised me with the revelation that he wanted to relieve Ghost Troop, move it into reserve, and replace it with Hawk, Cougar Squadron’s tank company.

Larson’s idea really worried me, but I did not interrupt him as he explained his rationale for his course of action.

“Doug,” Larson continued, “Fox led all the way up here. Eagle and Ghost have had their opportunities to do stuff. The tank company really hasn’t had a chance to do anything.”

To me, the notion that we were running a kind of military talent spot in the desert was disturbing. I did not give a damn how many rounds the tank company fired in anger. We might fight again tomorrow or the next day, in which case the tank company, if left in reserve, would be fresh and ready to go. The whole matter irritated the hell out of me, but I suppressed the urge to be sarcastic.

“Sir,” I stopped to clear my throat, “Hawk’s job is to act as Cougar Squadron’s reserve, and they’ve done that very well. We can commit them if we need them, but right now we don’t need to commit them. In addition, I recommend not moving Ghost Troop back and Hawk Company forward while Ghost Troop still has sporadic enemy contact, regardless of how weak or intermittent. It’s just too dangerous.”

“Doug, Ghost Troop is probably tired, and Hawk really needs to get into the fight,” Larson insisted plaintively.

“Sir, the troops are undoubtedly tired, but not that tired. It is dark, and there are still Iraqi troops wandering around the battlefield. The tank company will have itchy trigger fingers. Frankly, executing a relief in place at night after significant enemy contact is not a good idea. Please consider conducting the relief at first light when there is less likelihood of confusion.”

Hillen watched with more than a little interest because we were now being told to prepare for a passage of lines forward on the left flank by 3rd Armored Division and right through Cougar Squadron by the 1st Infantry Division. Adding complexity to an already increasingly complicated situation made no sense to us, but none of my entreaties not to replace Ghost with Hawk before first light changed Larson’s mind.

“Doug, I want to conduct the relief of Ghost Troop with Hawk.”

Larson’s mind was made up, and there was little I could do to change it.

Of course, I felt terrible, but any idea on my part of raising this matter on the evening of 26 February was pointless. Since arriving in Saudi Arabia, Larson had deferred to my judgment and consistently supported my directives to Cougar Squadron from the time we crossed into Iraq. What else could I say other than “Yes, sir?” Perhaps, I thought, we can make it work. After all, the contact on the left had diminished dramatically. The reports from Sartiano and Mecca did not indicate a serious problem. I was preparing the PSYOPS team to go to Ghost Troop’s zone of attack and broadcast surrender appeals.

“Sir, it will be done,” I responded. “Hillen will inform Ghost and Hawk on the command net, so that everyone knows what’s happening. The two executive officers, John Mecca and Tim Purdue, will work out the details of Hawk’s movement forward. However, can we do it after 2100 hours?”

Larson was pleased at last, enthusiastically responding with; “Yes. Yes, that’s what I want to do. I am going over to Ghost Troop right now to talk to Joe about the relief in place and make sure it goes the way it should.”

“Sir, very well,” I said. “Then, I will remain here until the situation changes or you direct otherwise.”

“Good, Doug, you stay here with Eagle Troop, and I will go to Ghost Troop.” With that statement, Larson adjusted his gear and moved out.

I stood at attention, saluted, and watched as Larson drove off in his tank to personally supervise the relief of Ghost troop by the tank company.

As his tank disappeared into the darkness, Larson could be heard on the Cougar Squadron command radio net telling Ghost 6 nervously, “This is Cougar 6 moving toward your location. Do not shoot. I am in the tank moving across your front to your location, do not shoot, acknowledge over.”

Larson’s plea on the squadron command net precipitated some laughter and snide remarks on the Ghost Troop command net. Sartiano intervened to silence it.

By this time, Caisson, our howitzer battery was firing rocket-assisted propellant (RAP) rounds against targets beyond the 80 Easting, and the 210 Artillery Brigade was now striking targets for Davis in Eagle Troop.

Other than the guns behind us, only the occasional burst of machine-gun fire was heard in our immediate vicinity. Looking up briefly, I noticed the night sky was now completely clear and filling up with stars. I took in a deep breath and, for a second, relaxed.

“Thank God,” I said to myself. “Thank God.”

The next item on the agenda was the proposed passage of lines. I told Hillen to get hold of Tom Sprowls and with Captain Clark, the engineer company commander, and ask both of them to report to me as soon as possible. Fox Troop would handle the passage of lines for the squadron, and Captain Clark would support him by helping to mark the passage lanes. So that I could stay forward on the firing line in the event that the enemy renewed contact with us, I called Tony Ierardi and told him that once I personally briefed the Fox Troop and engineer company commanders on the mission and its specialized requirements, he would have to coordinate directly with the brigade S-3s from the 1st Infantry Division and the 3rd Armored Division as necessary.

This was one of those moments when I said a short prayer of thanks for Tony Ierardi. I knew that Tony was the man running the squadron TOC. Fortunately for Cougar Squadron and me, Tony had the energy and presence of mind to do the job. Tony would talk to 3rd Armored Division and 1st Infantry Division throughout the night until their units had moved forward on our flank or through us on their way into the battle.

While I waited for Sprowls and Clark to arrive, McMaster walked over to the command Bradley, where he found me talking to Hillen. McMaster slapped his hand into mine and said, “Sid Vicious, how’s it going?”

“Not bad, H. R., not bad at all. What’s happening in Eagle Troop? Find anything new out from our Iraqi prisoners?”

“Yes. The Iraqi brigade commander, who holds the rank of major, claims he is a graduate of the Infantry Officers’ Advanced Course at Fort Benning, Georgia. The man’s English is really good.”

“Well, Fort Benning explains a lot,” quipped Hillen, “No wonder these Arabs are so f——cked up.” Hillen’s levity was welcome, but I really wanted to know what else Major Mohammed Whateverhisnamewas had said.

McMaster continued, “He keeps insisting that the Iraqi army is actually much better than it seems.”

Hillen couldn’t resist the opportunity and smarted off with, “That wouldn’t take much effort.”

“No, really,” explained McMaster, “He says that Saddam Hussein removed all of the competent generals and replaced them with ‘yes men’ who would follow orders regardless of how stupid they were. He says he served for eight years in the war with Iran and that they have better generals than the people Saddam put into command.”

As always, McMaster did not miss the opportunity to rib me for what he called my explosive drive through the minefield. He remarked, “Only a thickheaded infantryman would drive straight into a minefield.”

“It was not Ward’s fault, H. R.” I said. “We were moving very fast down the middle of the formation trying to maintain some form of contact with Ghost and you at the time. Had I been driving, I would have probably done the same thing. While Eagle’s tanks may have seen it, I did not. It was my fault, not Ward’s.”

McMaster was too busy laughing to listen to my defense of Ward’s driving skills. Fortunately, Ward was not around to hear McMaster’s comment; he was guarding prisoners. Ward is a good professional soldier and would have taken it very, very hard.

Sometime after the artillery’s “Armageddon” strike and my conversation with Lieutenant Colonel Larson, the Iraqi brigade commander approached me with a proposal I will never forget.

“Why are you stopping?” asked the Republican Guard officer, who was now near the back of my Bradley fighting vehicle as a prisoner of war in the hands of the 2nd Armored Cavalry. “Why do you not go to Baghdad now? You have the power. Your army rules the heavens and the earth. Do you think we love Saddam?”

Was my grasp on reality slipping? It was the second time in the course of the battle that someone had asked me to continue the advance, to press the attack.

First it had been Joe Sartiano urging me forward, now it was a captured Iraqi officer of the Republican Guard, a man in his mid-forties with eight years’ experience of fighting in Iraq’s war with Iran.

“Saddam killed our best generals. He kills everyone.” In a voice filled with more anguish and frustration than fear, my prisoner looked me straight in the eye and said in heavily accented English, “Major, you must go to Baghdad and end this. You must save Iraq.”

“Save Iraq?” I wondered. What an amazing thing for a prisoner of war to say to his captor about his own government. Of course, our argument was with the leadership of Iraq, not its people. We treated the Iraqi prisoners we took with dignity and humanity. In turn, they responded positively to us. And the Iraqi commander had a point. Why commit this enormous force to battle and then just stop?

But I knew there was no appetite at Regiment or Corps to do any such thing. From the time we had crossed into Iraq, the chain of command had seen only danger, never opportunity. Sadly, Regiment and Corps were content to keep their distance and run the Iraqis out of Kuwait. The grossly inflated picture of Iraqi military power had been undiminished by the reports of weak resistance we sent up the chain.

The original war plan, however irrelevant, would be followed. There would be no appreciation of the strategic importance of what the Iraqi brigade commander was saying. It did not take much imagination to figure out why the colonels and generals were not interested in anything we “at the point of the spear” might suggest. They were too busy gazing at campaign maps spread on the walls of distant command centers in Iraq and Saudi Arabia, as though if they looked hard enough they might find easy options instead of hard, critical decisions to make.

Still, I was not inclined to explain the U.S. Army’s internal problems to my enemy. Stymied by the boldness of his question, I said the only thing to the Republican Guard officer I could think of: “We are ordered to halt. I have orders. I cannot advance. That’s the way it is.”

More bewildered than anything else by my response, the Iraqi officer slowly turned around and walked at a deliberate pace back to a group of Iraqi prisoners huddled nearby. What he really thought, I will never know. I only knew what I thought. I agreed with him. It made no sense to stop, at least not until we were certain that we had destroyed the Republican Guard.

Soon after my encounter with the Iraqi commander, I found out that T. J. Linzy was leading 3rd Armored Division’s cavalry scouts forward into their zone of attack along Ghost’s flank. As Linzy brought them forward, Garwick coordinated with them on their command net, warning them not to crest the rise to their front.

“There are still enemy vehicles in the depression on the other side,” Garwick said. “We drove them back, but there are still some live ones in there, over.”

CEASE FIRE, CEASE FIRE!

Coordination between Ghost Troop and Hawk was well under way when Lt. John Stephenson, Hawk Company’s fire-support team leader, drove up in a Humvee behind Deskevich’s fire-support vehicle, a modified M113 track.

Stephenson got out of the Humvee and banged on the armored fire-support vehicle’s rear door. Inside, Deskevich’s crew was still jumpy, and someone suggested that it might well be an Iraqi soldier who had somehow managed to walk through the screen line in the dark. When Stephenson blurted out his name and knocked again, everyone inside the fire-support vehicle breathed a sigh of relief. The door opened.

Stephenson knew that an American Multiple Launch Rocket System (MLRS) artillery battery supporting the 2nd Cavalry (C Battery, 1-27 Field Artillery, a 227-mm rocket battery), was now firing at deep targets beyond the 78 Easting. What Stephenson did not know was that Deskevich had opposed Captain Millar’s plan to position the MLRS battery just behind Ghost Troop.

Deskevich had said no because he felt that moving the MLRS forward would place the rockets too close to friendly troops. Grudgingly, Millar accepted Deskevich’s argument and held the MLRS in a position farther to the rear from which it continued to fire at deep targets for the rest of the evening. These strikes definitely had an impact on the Republican Guard storage areas to our front, creating major explosions and fires until well after midnight.

Because the left flank was still exposed to periodic fire from Iraqi units milling around on the edge of 3rd Armored Division’s zone, Sartiano told Garwick to hold his position and tasked Haines with the mission to go back, pick up Hawk Company’s fourteen tanks, and lead them forward. Things seemed to go relatively smoothly until Hawk’s lead tanks reached the forward edge of the battle area.

Due to the extreme heat generated by TOW missiles that had exploded inside Ghost 16 after it was hit, the Bradley’s turret had melted into the chassis, creating the illusion from only twenty-five meters away that it was an MTLB or BMP. Even in the thermal sights of one of Hawk’s tanks, the Ghost Bradley, glowing brightly, looked exactly like a sleek, low-profile MTLB.

Inside Hawk Company, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the bright-red armored vehicle was Iraqi, seeking to infiltrate Ghost Troop’s collapsing screen line. In short order, the fire commands went out: “BMP, direct front! Up! Identified! Fire! On the Way!” ... boom! A sabot round punched through the glowing remains of Ghost 16 before anyone could prevent it.

From where I stood next to Cougar Forward, I could hear Sartiano yell, “Cease fire, cease fire, you just engaged one of my Bradleys!” Larson chimed in with, “Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire!”

John Hillen and I said nothing. We didn’t need to.

What we feared would happen had happened. When Hillen established that Hawk Company had fired a sabot round into Ghost 16, Sergeant Moller’s now abandoned Bradley, I was saddened but relieved to know that no one had been killed.

Walking from vehicle to vehicle, Mecca got control of the situation and hurried Ghost Troop to the rear, where fuel and water were waiting. For Mecca, however, the fight was not yet over. The Ghost Troop first sergeant and Cougar Squadron’s command sergeant major were waiting for him when he brought Ghost Troop back from the firing line.

“Why did you leave Sergeant Moller’s body up there, lieutenant? You never leave a man behind like that. What the hell were you thinking, Lieutenant?” yelled the sergeant major in his squeaky voice and heavy southern accent. Mecca was tired but still tried to be polite.

“Sergeant Major, it was too dangerous to bring up the M88 and the ambulance. There was too much shooting, and the TOW missiles on board the Bradley were exploding inside the vehicle.”

Sergeant First Class Lawrence’s Bradley had gotten the wounded out, and, in truth, there was very little of Sergeant Moller to retrieve after the devastating explosion and fire that had killed him. But Mecca didn’t want to go into details. Unfortunately, neither the first sergeant nor the command sergeant major would let up.

Finally, Mecca could stand it no more. He said, “Sergeant Moller’s body was in pieces. Do you want me to draw you a picture? Now that’s f—cking it. You have no right to question my decision in the middle of combat.”

The two noncommissioned officers withdrew, finally realizing that they had pushed too far and that Mecca was exhausted.

Not long after the altercation with the first sergeant and the command sergeant major, Mecca and Deskevich ran into the reconnaissance platoon leader from the Centurions—2nd Battalion, 66th Armored Regiment, in the 3rd Armored Division. The 2-66 lieutenant reported that 4-7 Cavalry (that is, 4th Squadron,7th Cavalry Regiment had lost six Bradleys in the area where Ghost had repelled several counterattacks.

Mecca was sad and angry. He knew that Garwick had warned 4-7 Cavalry as it moved forward into the zone on Ghost’s flank, but most of all he regretted the fact that the 73 Easting limit of advance prevented Ghost Troop from attacking into the area and cleaning it out. Mecca had a point, but he had no idea just how complex our small part of the battlefield had become.

Around 2100, I received word from Tony Ierardi that despite his lengthy coordination meetings with the brigade of the 1st Infantry Division that was planning to pass through our lines, the 1st Infantry Division leadership had decided to simply drive through us wherever they liked. In other words, the extensive work by Sprowls and Clarke to mark lanes, position vehicles, and assign Fox Troop scouts to provide guides and liaison would be ignored. I temporarily suspended my disbelief and called Colonel Robinette.

U.S. Army manuals are filled with elaborate schemes to conduct the passage of attacking combat troops forward through defending units, but I had never been comfortable with the idea, for reasons rooted in personal experience. Werner Binder, the former Wehrmacht officer who was my intellectual godfather, had related to me more than once how the German army on the Eastern Front abandoned the idea of moving fresh combat troops forward through defending troops in contact. Instead, the German command would establish a time at which all its troops in defensive positions would be withdrawn into the flanks of defending units and then fresh, attacking troops from the rear moved forward through the now-empty sector.

The attacking troops were told that once they crossed the so-called line of departure, drawn just behind the old defensive positions, they could engage anything they found to their front. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the Germans found that if their troops on the line of contact maintained good light and noise discipline, the Russians could not react fast enough to exploit the German withdrawal. This approach dramatically reduced incidents of fratricide and allowed the attacking troops to focus on their offensive mission without fear of accidentally killing or injuring their countrymen.

We knew of the fratricide that had already occurred in the 1st Infantry Division. In addition, when Colonel Adair returned to Cougar Squadron after several hours with the 1st Infantry Division on the night of 25–26 February, he related to me how a battalion task force had described his own artillery battalion on the radio as “slow, lumbering enemy tanks” and requested permission to engage. Fortunately, Adair overheard the transmission, reminded the 1st Infantry Division of his presence in their formation, and averted a disaster. None of this buttressed my confidence in the 1st Infantry Division’s ability to distinguish us from the enemy in the middle of the night.

Talking to Robinette, I made no secret of my concerns, concerns he readily shared. After a short discussion, I told him that I would use all of the glow sticks and lights in the Cougar Squadron battle group to decorate the rear of our armored fighting vehicles. I realized this was unorthodox on any normal battlefield, but I was unwilling to take any chances.

I said, “Dragoon 5, this is Cougar 3, just so you know, the Big Red One will think it is Christmas in the desert before I am through, over.”

Robinette unhesitatingly approved my plan. From the rear, the sight must have been something to behold: hundreds of armored vehicles and trucks illuminated in outline by lights glowing green, orange, and yellow.

At about 2315 hours, we received new orders: “Republican Guard Corps fighting at greatly reduced strength and appear to be moving north. Second Armored Cavalry Regiment occupies Assembly Area Spur as corps reserve at 270630 February [meaning 0630 hours on the 27th]; 210 Field Artillery Brigade reinforces 1st Infantry Division.”

For the moment, the 2nd Cavalry would turn the war over to the rest of the VII Corps. Given what the soldiers of Cougar Squadron had just done, I didn’t mind too much. I decided to lie down on top of the tank turret and get some rest.

In what had become his nightly ritual, Hillen pulled out his Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar, writing in the block marked 26 February: “We moved 35–40 km east in the late morning/afternoon. Fought the battle. 1st Armored Division, 3rd Armored Division, and 1st Infantry Division passed through our lines that night.”

Thirty minutes later, I was dozing when Hillen shook me to tell me that the 1st Infantry Division was moving primarily through 3rd Squadron’s zone after all and that 3rd Armored Division was moving in great strength through its attack zone on our northern flank.

“With everybody else getting into the fight,” noted Hillen with some degree of relief, “all we have to do is wait for morning.”

Cougar Squadron’s roller-coaster ride across Iraq’s southern desert to the 73 Easting was over.

Perhaps, I thought, we will get back into the fight later. Maybe we will swing north toward Basra. After all, someone has to go to Baghdad and end this thing once and for all, right? But I was too tired to speculate.

Now, as I stretched out on top of the tank turret, only the occasional groan of distant artillery and tank fire broke the quiet that enveloped us. Thanks to the fires burning to our front, the night never seemed to grow completely dark.

I fell asleep.

MORNING, 27 FEBRUARY 1991, ALONG THE 73 EASTING

Sunrise was hardly noticeable. The morning skies were so heavily overcast that it took time to sense the increase in illumination. Thankfully, there was no more black rain.

Around us stood the ruins of an army: abandoned bunkers, smashed armor, discarded weapons, and desert sand stained red with the blood of our enemies and of one of our own—Sergeant Andy Moller. I am not sure any of us grasped what had happened the night before. There wasn’t much time to figure it all out.

As soon as we had enough light to see, we began checking our engines and tracks. Rod Abercrombie called me over to the side of the tank to see where we had struck the mine during the attack to the 73 Easting. Most of the metal that constituted two ninety-pound track blocks was completely demolished, but miraculously, the metal end-connectors on the inside of the two blocks held what remained of the tank’s track together. Rod and I were amazed. This small miracle had kept us rolling straight through the minefield. This time we both gave thanks to Detroit and Tank Automotive Command. They had screwed up the engine by installing a gas-guzzling turbine when we should have chosen a good diesel piston engine, but they had definitely got the rest of the tank right.

Not until first light did the last shot ring out. McMaster called me on the radio insisting that an Iraqi T72 tank about five hundred meters to our front had somehow acquired a new crew of Iraqi soldiers during the night. Eagle scouts confirmed that the gun was traversing. McMaster wanted to engage before the enemy tank got a round off. Knowing that troops from the 3rd Armored Division and the 1st Infantry Division were, though well forward, still in front of our positions, I gave permission to McMaster to engage the tank but instructed him to use a HEAT round, which would detonate on contact. A hypersonic sabot round would go right through the T72 tank and potentially end up striking an American element in front of us.

McMaster acknowledged my transmitted order, and about ten seconds later, with an ear-splitting sound, a 120-mm tank gun sent a HEAT round straight into the Iraqi tank, which instantly belched smoke and flame as its turret sank into the chassis beneath it. After McMaster’s rather one-sided engagement with the last remnant of Iraqi resistance, I noticed 7.62-mm rounds occasionally striking the sand near in and around our tanks.

The fire was not aimed so I assumed that the bullets came from some distant 3rd Armored Division element to our flank and would soon stop. I walked over to Cougar Forward, where Hillen was calling the 3rd Brigade of the 1st Armored Division to remind it we were friendly and still along the 73 Easting.

Our call was answered and our presence acknowledged, so I walked back to my tank, where I shaved and enjoyed a cup of coffee. T. K. Wightman and I were chatting about the previous day’s battle when T. K., gazing over my shoulder, alerted me to one of the most frightening sights I ever beheld in any desert: McMaster in the nude. McMaster was standing naked on the back deck of his tank, trying to wash off the black stain from the charcoal lining in his chemical suit. He put on quite a show for the Iraqi prisoners, who were apparently unused to such public nudity.

The stray machine-gun bullets, however, did not let up, and more rounds struck the desert around us. When the bullets reached the EPW area where Burns and Hillen were standing, it was time to move. Burns and Hillen did a hundred-meter sprint back to Cougar Forward, with the Iraqi EPWs in hot pursuit. Burns jumped into Cougar Forward through driver’s hatch, landing on Spec. Hank Wells, nearly breaking his ribs, while Hillen dove through the rear hatch—followed by two Iraqi EPWs!

Our efforts to sort out things with the 3rd Armored Division on the radio were not working, so I decided it was time to pull the plug. I had no objection to being shot at by the enemy, but I saw no point in getting shot by American soldiers. I stuck my head into Cougar Forward and told Hillen to get on the command net and direct the squadron to withdraw two thousand meters farther west. I figured that would keep us from sustaining any casualties from what I was sure were unintentional rounds from American units on the left flank.

Moving that instant was not so easy, however. We had several hundred prisoners, and there was no time to bring up trucks if we were going to avoid the friendly fire. Burns dismounted and began rounding up Iraqi prisoners and placing them in the custody of Eagle Troop scouts. Ultimately, Cougar Forward and the Eagle scouts piled as many Iraqi prisoners as possible on top of our Bradley fighting vehicles.

Once we were loaded, we cleared out quickly. Whoever among the prisoners could not ride ran alongside one of the Brads, seeking cover from the occasional bullet that whistled by. The whole scene looked a little ridiculous, with dozens of scared Iraqi soldiers hanging on to the armored vehicles for dear life. A few Iraqi prisoners were allowed to ride inside of Eagle Troop’s vehicles, though under continuous guard. One of the few Iraqi soldiers allowed to ride inside of Cougar Forward was the brigade commander who had been captured the night before.

Major Mohammed, as Hillen and Burns called him, noticed the photograph of Rommel inside the Bradley asked, “Why do you have a picture of one of your enemies?” The response this question elicited surprised even me when I learned of it.

“Shut the f—k up, motherf—ker,” snapped Burns. “If you had read about Rommel, your ass wouldn’t be riding in my Bradley.”

Holloway was a little shocked by the master gunner’s aggressive response and moved quickly to defuse the situation. Holloway cracked a broad smile and laughingly said, “Chill, man, don’t be so intense. The guy was just asking.” Realizing Holloway had a point, Burns smiled, turned around, raised his seat, and looked out of the turret. For Burns, however, the war was far from over.

After moving a short distance, we stopped, and Hillen jumped up on to the tank to tell me that the president was going to order a general cease-fire, mentioned the night before on the regimental command net. It would become effective at 0800 hours on February 28. For the soldiers, the announcement of a cease-fire was greeted with considerable relief. It was easy to see why. Though the Iraqi enemy had turned out to be as incapable as we had anticipated, the effect of having lived and fought under direct fire for several hours the day before could easily be read on their dirty, exhausted faces.

However, news of the pending cease-fire confused me. The 1st Armored Division, the 1st Infantry Division, and the 3rd Armored Division were only now beginning to engage whatever was left of the enemy. How could it all be over so soon? Surely, what we had seen along the 73 Easting was not all the enemy had to offer. It was hard to believe that the fighting would actually end within the space of twenty-four hours. Where was the enemy now? Until our fight along the 73 Easting the war had seemed almost civilized, but since then more fighting seemed necessary, if not unavoidable.

To me, it seemed that we had not done enough to justify a cease-fire. Apparently, in his bunker on the outskirts of Riyadh, General Schwarzkopf did not share this view. He later said, “My gut reaction was that a quick cease-fire would save lives. If we continued to attack through Thursday, more of our troops would get killed, probably not many, but some. What was more, we’d accomplished our mission: I’d just finished telling the American people that there wasn’t enough left of Iraq’s army for it to be a regional military threat. ... Why not end it? Why get somebody else killed tomorrow? That made up my mind.”³

In Ghost Troop, news of the cease-fire evoked a mixed response of relief and depression. Joe Sartiano decided to bring the troop together for a memorial service for Sergeant Moller as soon as possible. Many of Ghost Troop’s soldiers were too dazed to completely comprehend what had happened to him. A few who had been close to Andy were nearly inconsolable, but most of the soldiers, sergeants, and lieutenants would deal with the experience later, quietly, in their own ways.

Joe’s handling of the affair was touching and tasteful. His short remarks to the soldiers of Ghost Troop reminded everyone of the simple truth that in war there is no victory without sacrifice. As Joe put it, Andy had paid for our victory with everything he had.

A couple of hours later, close to tears, Major Ruiz told me there had not been much left of Sergeant Moller to recover. The secondary explosions from the TOW missiles inside the Bradley had caused a severe fire, burning everything inside beyond recognition. When Hawk Company’s sabot round was fired into the dead hulk, the vehicle and its contents had been totally destroyed.

When John Hillen and I finished planning the move to Assembly Area Mexico, I walked a short distance away from the command post and looked out over the desert. Why, I wondered had we lost Moller?

Sergeant Andy Moller’s move into the gunner’s seat on his Bradley, Ghost 16, had been my call before we left Germany. I’d done it reluctantly, and now I wondered whether I should have, but I could not change the outcome. With life still streaming toward him, Moller had given up everything. Andy had looked like the all-American kid, the kind of young man any father would be proud to call “son.” Perhaps, that was the reason why Sergeant Andy Moller was taken from us. I don’t know, but I would think about this particular “what if” for many, many years.

As I turned to walk back toward my tank, my right boot caught on something. Looking down at the desert floor to see what it was, I saw that I had stumbled over what was left of an Iraqi soldier. He’d obviously been shot to pieces by something much larger than a machine gun, maybe a 25-mm high-explosive shell. With half the torso gone, the remains hardly looked human. In fact, but for his torn jacket, helmet, and weapon over the charred remains of his upper body, I would not have noticed him at all. As many of our soldiers put it at the time, the remains of Iraqi soldiers strewn across the desert were just “road kill.”

It was indeed strange to me at the time how just a few days of close combat could modify my attitude toward death. Killing human beings should not be this easy, I thought. War should exact a greater emotional toll from the victor. In a brief moment of reflection I wondered whether this Iraqi soldier also had a family waiting somewhere on the other side of the Euphrates for word of his fate.

Then I stopped thinking and walked on.

It was unhealthy for a professional combat soldier to think about such things while a war was still in progress. It was time to mount up and move out to our new assembly area. As Goethe warned two centuries earlier, “The man of action has no conscience.”

As our instructors in the Winter Ranger Course had been in the habit of telling us miserable Ranger students in December 1976, “You got a break when you got here. You get a break when you leave.”

As I climbed up the front slope of my tank, the last warmth of the sun was cut off by the low gray clouds that veiled the horizon. For a change, at least, there was no wind. Still, the soft air that hung over the blood-stained desert seemed cold to me.

I shivered.