This from a Time Magazine Reporter which gives it an especially telling value:
Since returning from Iraq a short time ago I have been answering a lot of
questions about the war from friends, family, and strangers. When they ask
me how it was over there I find myself glossing over the fighting, the
heat, the sandstorms, and the flies (these last could have taught the Iraqi
army a thing or two about staying power). Instead, I talk about the
soldiers I met, and how they reflected the best of America. A lot of people
are going to tell the story of how this war was fought; I would rather say
something about the men who won the war.
War came early for the 1st Brigade of the 101st Airborne when an otherwise
quiet night in the Kuwaiti desert was shattered by thunderous
close-quarters grenade blasts. Sgt. Hasan Akbar, a U.S. soldier, had thrown
grenades into an officers' tent, killing two and wounding a dozen others.
Adding to the immediate confusion was the piercing scream of SCUD alarms,
which kicked in the second Akbar's grenade exploded. For a moment, it was a
scene of near panic and total chaos.
Just minutes after the explosions, a perimeter was established around the
area of the attack, medics were treating the wounded, and calls for
evacuation vehicles and helicopters were already being sent out.
Remarkably, the very people who should have been organizing all of this
were the ones lying on the stretchers, seriously wounded. It fell to junior
officers and untested sergeants to take charge and lead. Without hesitation
everyone stepped up and unfalteringly did just that. I stood in amazement
as two captains (Townlee Hendrick and Tony Jones) directed the evacuation
of the wounded, established a hasty defense, and helped to organize a
search for the culprit. They did all this despite bleeding heavily from
their wounds. For over six hours, these two men ran things while refusing
to be evacuated until they were sure all of the men in their command were
safe.
Two days later Capt. Jones left the hospital and hitchhiked back to the
unit: He had heard a rumor that it was about to move into Iraq and he
wanted to be there. As Jones-dressed only in boots, a hospital gown, and a
flak vest-limped toward headquarters, Col. Hodges, the 1st Brigade's
commander, announced, "I see that Captain Jones has returned to us in full
martial splendor." The colonel later said that he was tempted to send Jones
to the unit surgeon for further evaluation, but that he didn't feel he had
the right to tell another man not to fight: Hodges himself had elected to
leave two grenade fragments in his arm so that he could return to his
command as quickly as possible.
The war had not even begun and already I was aware that I had fallen in
with a special breed of men. Over the next four weeks, nothing I saw would
alter this impression. A military historian once told me that soldiers
could forgive their officers any fault save cowardice. After the grenade
attack I knew these men were not cowards, but I had yet to learn that the
brigade's leaders had made a cult of bravery. A few examples will suffice.
While out on what he called "battlefield circulation," Col. Hodges was
surveying suspected enemy positions with one of his battalion commanders
(Lt. Col. Chris Hughes) when a soldier yelled "Incoming" to alert everyone
that mortar shells were headed our way. A few soldiers moved closer to a
wall, but Hodges and Hughes never budged and only briefly glanced up when
the rounds hit a few hundred yards away. As Hodges completed his review and
prepared to leave, another young soldier asked him when they would get to
kill whoever was firing the mortar. Hodges smiled and said, "Don't be in a
hurry to kill him. They might replace that guy with someone who can shoot."
The next day, a convoy Col. Hodges was traveling in was ambushed by several
Iraqi paramilitary soldiers. A ferocious firefight ensued, but Hodges never
left the side of his vehicle. Puffing on a cigar as he directed the action,
Hodges remained constantly exposed to fire. When two Kiowa helicopters
swooped in to pulverize the enemy strongpoint with rocket fire, he turned
to some journalists watching the action and quipped, "That's your tax
dollars at work."
Bravery inspires men, but brains and quick thinking win wars. In one
particularly tense moment a company of U.S. soldiers was preparing to guard
the Mosque of Ali-one of the most sacred Muslim sites-when agitators in
what had been a friendly crowd started shouting that they were going to
storm the mosque. In an instant, the Iraqis began to chant and a riot
seemed imminent. A couple of nervous soldiers slid their weapons into fire
mode, and I thought we were only moments away from a slaughter. These
soldiers had just fought an all-night battle. They were exhausted, tense,
and prepared to crush any riot with violence of their own. But they were
also professionals, and so, when their battalion commander, Chris Hughes,
ordered them to take a knee, point their weapons to the ground, and start
smiling, that is exactly what they did. Calm returned. By placing his men
in the most non-threatening posture possible, Hughes had sapped the crowd
of its aggression. Quick thinking and iron discipline had reversed an ugly
situation and averted disaster.
Since then, I have often wondered how we created an army of men who could
fight with ruthless savagery all night and then respond so easily to an
order to "smile" while under impending threat. Historian Stephen Ambrose
said of the American soldier: "When soldiers from any other army, even our
allies, entered a town, the people hid in the cellars. When Americans came
in, even into German towns, it meant smiles, chocolate bars and C-rations."
Ours has always been an army like no other, because our soldiers reflect a
society unlike any other. They are pitiless when confronted by armed enemy
fighters and yet full of compassion for civilians and even defeated
enemies.
American soldiers immediately began saving Iraqi lives at the conclusion of
any fight. Medics later said that the Iraqi wounded they treated were
astounded by our compassion. They expected they would be left to suffer or
die. I witnessed Iraqi paramilitary troops using women and children as
human shields, turning grade schools into fortresses, and defiling their
own holy sites. Time and again, I saw Americans taking unnecessary risks to
clear buildings without firing or using grenades, because it might injure
civilians. I stood in awe as 19-year-olds refused to return enemy fire
because it was coming from a mosque.
It was American soldiers who handed over food to hungry Iraqis, who gave
their own medical supplies to Iraqi doctors, and who brought water to the
thirsty. It was American soldiers who went door-to-door in a slum because a
girl was rumored to have been injured in the fighting; when they found her,
they called in a helicopter to take her to an Army hospital. It was
American soldiers who wept when a three-year-old was carried out of the
rubble where she had been killed by Iraqi mortar fire. It was American
soldiers who cleaned up houses they had been fighting over and later
occupied-they wanted the places to look at least somewhat tidy when the
residents returned.
It was these same soldiers who stormed to Baghdad in only a couple of
weeks, accepted the surrender of three Iraqi Army divisions, massacred any
Republican Guard unit that stood and fought, and disposed of a dictator and
a regime with ruthless efficiency. There is no other army-and there are no
other soldiers-in the world capable of such merciless fighting and
possessed of such compassion for their fellow man. No society except
America could have produced them.
Before I end this I want to point out one other quality of the American
soldier: his sense of justice. After a grueling fight, a company of
infantrymen was resting and opening their first mail delivery of the war.
One of the young soldiers had received a care package and was sharing the
home-baked cookies with his friends. A photographer with a heavy French
accent asked if he could have one. The soldier looked him over and said
there would be no cookies for Frenchmen. The photographer then protested
that he was half Italian. Without missing a beat, the soldier broke a
cookie in half and gave it to him. It was a perfect moment and a perfect
reflection of the American soldier.
Mr. Lacey, a Time magazine correspondent, was embedded with the 101st
Airborne Division.
