Iraq Invasion - 2003

My story of my experience during the 2003 invasion of Iraq with the 4th Infantry Division, by David Smith.

Arrival in Kuwait

Invasion 

“Dear God, this crap is going to kill me before the Iraqi’s have a chance!” I exclaim as I continued to cough up what felt like both of my lungs while a crimson river of blood flowed from my nose.  I look around and think to myself, so this is what Mars looks like.  Unfortunately, I’m not on Mars.  In fact, I am still on planet Earth, just some 8,000 miles away from where my journey began.  I am in a desolate, barren, God-forsaken desert a stone’s throw away from Saddam’s homeland, Iraq.  The air is so arid and filled with sand my nose bled almost hourly like a morbid geyser.   

Our final briefing has just concluded and we were finally heading north into Iraq.  It is April 2003 and after a long delay the 4th Infantry Division from Fort Hood, Texas was finally forging its way into the history books.  I climb into the cab behind the large steering wheel of my M931 5-ton tractor-trailer heavily laden with equipment and look into the nervous eyes of my co-driver who is manning a M249 light machine gun, “It’s time to roll.” I push in the air brake controller, and the brakes release.  Our convoy lumbers north out of the relative safety of Kuwait.  We pass over a trail cut through massive dunes overlooking no-man’s land, the barrier dividing Kuwait from Iraq.  A battered sign stands in the sand like a silent sentry reads: Iraq Border 100 meters.  Nausea builds in our stomachs, and certainty sets in.  This is really happening.  We are invading Iraq.  

Equipment fire in Iraq

For two days we trudge north deep into the heart of Iraq to the cheers of the liberated citizens of the country.  We halt periodically for fuel and food at make-shift rest stops on the side of two-lane highways.   The stops feed the rumor mill and tensions mount.  Thus far it has been very easy; the Marines and the 3rd Infantry Division have cleared the way.  However, Iraq’s elite Republican Guard troops are rumored to be spoiling for a fight in Baghdad which is only 50 miles to our north.   

Mount up!

Iraqi Tank

The Commander halts the convoy one final time just south of Baghdad, and we gather in a horseshoe formation around him.  He gives a very frank yet encouraging speech.  The rules of engagement are simple: hit what you aim at.  We will be driving straight through downtown.  Whatever you do – do not stop for any reason.  Weapons locked and loaded, keep your eyes peeled and watch your buddy’s back.  The Commander shouts, “Move out!” 

The Cummings 6-cylinder turbo diesel roars to life, and my truck sluggishly moves forward behind the column of desert tan vehicles.  Fluorescent orange fabric insignias are tied across our hoods and flutter in the wind.  This is to identify us as Americans to other combat forces to prevent fratricide.  Thankfully, we picked up MP escorts in Up-Armored Humvees with Mark 19 30mm grenade launchers and Ma Deuce, the M2 .50 caliber machine gun, in their turrets.  I feel extraordinarily vulnerable in this under-powered turtle of a truck.  We begin rolling into the city.  The sights, sounds, and smell of war is all around.  Thick black smoke billows out of enemy tanks.  Then, a sight I never wanted to

US M1 Abrams Tank

see.  Just to my right is a destroyed M1 Abrams tank.  That wasn’t supposed to happen!  How did they destroy that thing?  I pray everyone in it got out safely. If the Republican Guard can destroy that tank, then I don’t have a prayer in this un-armored turtle! We move into the city, and I am amazed at what I see.  Amongst all the destruction and fires, the city is still alive with cars driving down the road.  The traffic lights are still operating, and taxis are moving about.  Are the taxis a red herring?  Are they going to open fire on me?  Remember rule #1 –Don’t stop for any reason!   I pass a smoldering Iraqi T-72 tank hull on the right with its turret permanently and forcibly detached and thrown to the left side of the road.  It was attempting to hide under a bridge from the circling hunters above.  Like great white sharks circling their prey, Apache attack helicopters itch for a chance to unleash their deadly payload.  I am thankful that they are above, my deadly guardian angels ready to smite the enemy with and fury.   

Awaiting MP escort in Baghdad

The convoy heads toward a long, tall, arching bridge over the Tigris River. The bridge is scarred and blackened from previous challenges for control.   A sense of dread wells up like acid in the pit of my stomach.  There has got to be a better way to get wherever it is we are going!  My truck starts the climb it rapidly decelerates from 50 miles per hour to little more than a crawl.  The turbo strains against the load.  At about this time green tracers from enemy forces spit at us from below.  The fire is immediately repaid fivefold by the gun trucks.  Red tracers stream like a glowing red waterfall into the building that barked at us.  The outer face of the building collapses, and the enemy machine gun falls silent. 
We are on the downward side of the bridge and the truck finally begins to accelerate away from the battle-damaged bridge.  We turn into a bombed out airfield to regroup and await orders to our final destination.  I will never forget this night.  We spend the night sleeping on, in, and around our trucks and watch the war from relative safety.  Each green tracer that defiantly jumps into the air is responded to by a tremendous volley of red.  I begin to wonder if the Iraqis understand that tracers work both ways.  They let you know where your fire is going, but it also tells the other guys where you are.  Sleep is fleeting. It is rudely and frequently interrupted by the staccato of Ma Deuce and 25 mm Bushmaster cannon from Bradley fighting vehicles.  

We arise early in the morning and push on toward our final destination, Tikrit, Saddam’s home town.  We arrive at what will eventually be named Camp Speicher. This place is devastated with carnage all around.  It is obvious that the locals did not surrender the airfield.  Bombed out hangers, trucks, armored personnel carriers, and anti-aircraft gunners who were senseless enough to fire on Apaches - it seemed that nothing survived.  That is, of course, except for us.  We were alive.

Keith Roddy, David Smith & Dustin Perdue 

Iraqi Helicopter anyone?

125 degress in Tikrit