|
BOOTS ON THE GROUND BY DUSK: MY TRIBUTE TO PAT TILLMAN |
|
Chapter 7
Patrick, Mike, and I return the rental car and pick up our tickets for the flight home. Mike and I are traveling together; Patrick is scheduled to fly earlier on a different airline. The three of us have coffee at Starbucks before we part. Patrick looks drained and tired as he leaves to catch his flight. At the souvenir shop, I buy bottled water and Mike gets a book. Onboard the plane we sit in near silence until we are in the air. Then Mike puts on his glasses, takes out a Patricia Cornwell novel, and begins to read. I stare out the window at the billowing cloud formations. I wonder what it must be like to parachute through the floating vapor. Several years earlier, Patrick had taken the boys and me to the nearby community of Morgan Hill to go skydiving, but I decided not to participate. Pat and Kevin at nineteen and eighteen were old enough to take the course, but Richard was fifteen, so Patrick signed paperwork stating he was older. I was sick to my stomach about all of them jumping out of an airplane, but I was especially concerned about Richard. "There are age restrictions for a reason," I said. Patrick assured me Richard would be fine, as he would get training and jump with two "spotters," who would stay with him until his chute opened. For several hours, I watched Pat and the boys go through the training. At several points, I felt inclined to go, too, but each time I chickened out. After Patrick and the boys were deemed ready to go, they suited up and were escorted to the plane. Richard was supposed to go with his dad on the second trip, but he wanted to go with his brothers, so Patrick and two other student divers and their spotters waited for the next turn. I was given directions to a field where I could watch them make their descent. I stood there, palms sweaty, waiting with one other observer for the plane to fly overhead. We heard the hum of the engine before the plane appeared. As it came into view, I saw three figures dive from the plane. The first jumper and his spotters fell together until the jumper's parachute opened. A few seconds later, the parachute of the spotters opened, and the next jumper and his spotters descended. Once their chutes released, another set bounded out of the plane. As the first jumpers came closer to earth, I could tell from the color of their suits that it was Pat and Kevin. While they floated toward the ground, I kept my eye on the third set of divers, who were still in a freefall and rapidly approaching Kevin and his spotters' position. I could tell that Richard was the jumper. I was petrified. His chute wasn't opening; I felt helpless. Suddenly, the ripcord was pulled and he began to drift gently down. Richard was in his freefall so long that he ended up landing before Pat did. All three boys touched down safely. They wrapped up their chutes and walked the two hundred meters to where I was waiting. They wore huge smiles, and their eyes were as big as saucers. "What the hell happened up there, Rich?" Pat asked. "Yeah," Kevin said. Richard laughed nervously. "I forgot to pull the ripcord." I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and told myself not to come unglued. "Holy shit, Rich!" Pat and Kevin bellowed at the same time. "You're damn lucky it wasn't too late to open the thing or you'd be a grease spot on the ground," Kevin added. "I know," Rich said. "It was just so awesome up there, I zoned out." I must have gone pale because Pat gently touched my arm and said with a grin, "Mom, Rich's chute would have opened automatically after so many feet." After I mockingly smacked the three of them, Pat and Kevin walked over to their spotters and thanked them for their help. Rich and I jokingly thanked his spotters for saving his life, and then the four of us waited for the plane to return with the next round of skydivers. Kevin yelled as the plane came into view. We watched several sets of jumpers leap from the plane. Once the chutes opened, Rich announced that the second jumper was Dad. We watched him glide through the sky and land solidly on the ground. The boys ran over to him and helped him gather his parachute. The four of them were exuberant about their adventure, and they yammered excitedly all the way home. I'm sure that experience somewhat prepared Pat and Kevin for jump school in the Rangers. But I recall vividly that Pat had his father, brothers, Marie, and me in hysterics during our first visit with him and Kevin at Fort Benning, Georgia, as he recounted his first several jumps. For some reason, the harness he wore tugged tightly once his parachute opened, painfully pinching his private parts. He said he howled in agony the whole way down, gyrating in vain as he tried to readjust himself while his noncommissioned officer, or NCO, hollered at him through a megaphone, "Put your feet together!" If Pat hadn't been positioned properly when he hit the ground, he could have injured himself badly. That visit to Fort Benning in late October of 2002, after the boys' boot camp graduation, was so much fun. Marie hadn't seen Pat and Kevin for eight weeks, and the rest of us hadn't seen them for nearly four months. We spent our first afternoon together laughing in a motel room in Columbus, Georgia, listening to stories of their boot camp experience. We had dinner in a little Italian restaurant with a wonderful throwback atmosphere and bold Chianti. The next morning, we ate a hearty Southern breakfast at a little cafe in downtown Columbus, then leisurely chatted as we strolled in and out of antique stores and walked the promenade that runs along the banks of the Chattahoochee River. We didn't see Pat and Kevin again until a month later, when they got an early Thanksgiving leave from the Ranger Indoctrination Program (RIP). I once again had a few bales of hay delivered to the house, and we had our turkey feast outside in the autumn sunshine among the fallen leaves. I was sad when they had to leave, but they both assured me they would be home for Christmas. A month later, Marie picked Pat and Kevin up at the San Jose Airport. I can still hear the honking horn as Pat barreled up the driveway. He and Kevin bounded out of the car, both of them wearing crazy Christmas sweaters they had picked up in the women's department at Target. Marie got out of the car laughing, her eyes sparkling and her nose and cheeks rosy from the crisp, cold December air. Pat and Kevin ran immediately to Peggy and Syd, who stood on their front porch to greet them. Rich arrived that evening after driving up from Los Angeles. We had a wonderful holiday. The boys and Marie spent time shuttling from my house, to the home of Marie's parents, to Alex and Christine's, and to their dad's place. There was decorating, gift giving, eating and drinking, laughing, and playing lots of rounds of Trivial Pursuit. But during that time, we also spent hours discussing Iraq. It was widely reported that Bush wanted to invade that country, and it appeared he was looking for any excuse to do so. We all knew Saddam Hussein was a brutal dictator, but we also knew there was no connection between him and Osama bin Laden or the terrorist attacks, despite the administration's efforts to convince the American people otherwise. Bin Laden was a militant fundamentalist, and Saddam was a secular leader, and for that reason bin Laden hated Saddam and considered him a traitor to Islam. It didn't make sense that they would ever work together on anything, and it shocked me that more than 70 percent of the American people believed Bush and Dick Cheney. In addition, if the administration knew the location of Saddam Hussein's weapons of mass destruction, as claimed, why not tell international weapons inspector Hans Blix and his team in Iraq where to find them? We discussed many of the books we had been reading -- Bush at War, by Bob Woodward; 9-11, by Noam Chomsky; and Bin Laden: Behind the Mask of the Terrorist, by Adam Robinson. We were all trying to understand the reasons for 9-11 and our government's response to it. During the month of November, Marie and her parents looked for a house in the Tacoma area, near Fort Lewis, where Pat and Kevin would be stationed after Ranger School. Marie and her mother found the perfect house situated on a knoll overlooking the Tacoma Narrows and the Olympia Mountains. From the photographs Marie showed me, I knew Pat would love it. The little house was cottagelike, with a fireplace, wooden floors, a basement, and a welcoming Dutch door in the back. A few days before the New Year, Pat and Marie packed their Volvo with Christmas presents before setting out for Tacoma. Kevin had intended to go with them, but he came down with a bad case of the flu and ended up driving up with his father a few days later. Pat was a bit sad to leave home. His eyes welled up with tears as he hugged me good-bye. He told me he hated to leave home -- the little cabin, he called it. Marie and I glanced at each other and smiled. We knew once he saw the home she had found for them, he would be just fine. The next morning the phone rang. I read Pat and Marie's new number on the caller ID. "Hello," I said coyly. "Mom! This place is fucking awesome! Marie did a great job. We can look out over the water and see the mountains, and the place has wooden floors and a fireplace." We talked for a few minutes, then I spoke to Marie, who was more thrilled than ever with her lucky discovery. I hung up the phone delighted, knowing Pat was in a "little cabin" of his own. *** The plane suddenly hits turbulence. I glance over at Mike and notice he has just tucked his book in the pocket behind the seat in front of him. "Bad book?" I ask. "No," Mike says rather uncomfortably. "Isn't Patricia Cornwell's main character a forensic pathologist? Seems like the book should be interesting." "Yes, but this is a bit more graphic than I expected." "What's it about?" "Oh, it's not worth talking about." I look at him quizzically. "Well, okay," he says reluctantly. "The plot centers around the University of Tennessee's Decay Research Facility, which is used in the study of forensic anthropology. You know, the study of the decomposition of human bodies." I instantly comprehend Mike's uneasiness. But I'm struck by the fact I'm not repulsed by the topic; rather, it seems Pat's death has made me curious about it. In fact, I've found I'm strangely comforted talking about the dead. The flight attendant asks for our drink preferences. Mike orders a coffee, and I order a Bloody Mary. As I dig around in my purse for the money, Mike decides to continue reading and settles back with his book. I pay the flight attendant, pull down my tray table, and then take my copy of the 15-6 [1] report from my bag and place it on the tray. I sit for many minutes staring at the first page, dated May 28, 2004, more than two weeks ago. Memorandum For Commander, ________, Afghanistan APO AE 09354 Commander, U.S. Army Special Operations Command, Fort Bragg, North Carolina 28310 Commander, Special Operations Command Central, MacDill AFB, Florida 33621-5101 SUBJECT: Report of Fratricide Investigation My eyes scan the next few lines and focus on the last paragraph: All requests concerning the report made pursuant to the Freedom of Information Act and/or Privacy Act should be Forwarded to USCENTCOM, attention FOIA [2] officer." It is signed by John F. Sutter for John P. Abizaid, general, U.S. Army. I wonder if it's typical that all requests for documents be forwarded to CENTCOM. I turn the page and begin to go through the 110 pages of narratives and question-and-answer statements taken from the soldiers who were present when Pat was killed. The documents are redacted, meaning names, places, and sensitive information are blacked out. However, I'm able to identify some of the soldiers based on information I learned at both briefings and in conversations I've had with Kevin. As I read through the first several pages, Colonel Jeffrey Bailey's shocking statement plays in my head: The driver recognized the Afghan as an allied soldier, and he saw friendlies on the ridgeline before Sergeant Greg Baker shot and killed him. I again wonder why he couldn't prevent Baker and the others in the vehicle from shooting at their fellow soldiers. I begin searching for the driver's statement. I come upon several lines in a narrative that read, "I screamed 'no' and then yelled repeatedly several times to cease fire. No one heard me." My stomach is churning. This has to be the driver, Sergeant Kellett Sayre. I start the narrative from the beginning, and then I come upon the disturbing testimony that confirms it's him.
"Nothing follows?" That's all he has to say after the men in his vehicle kill two of their own and wound two others? He seems to have no disgust at himself for not doing more to stop them or outrage at the men who were shooting. I look over at Mike to vent my frustration, but he has dozed off. Peering momentarily out the window, I take a deep breath. How could Sayre recognize the Afghan soldier, the vehicles parked down the road, and the friendlies on the ridgeline, but the others could not? Rage burns in my throat. I think back to when Colonel Bailey came to my house and told us that Sergeant Baker was out of the vehicle when he shot the Afghan and that the vehicle had stopped. What if that story was true? Why couldn't the soldiers see that they were firing on a friendly position? The platoon had been with the Afghan Militia Force soldiers for several weeks. Their uniforms, according to Kevin, were very similar to the ones the U.S. soldiers were wearing. If the Afghan was indeed standing, as Bailey said at first, why didn't Baker recognize him? And if he was prone, as Bailey now contended, how could he get shot in the chest? He would have had to have been a contortionist. I think of Pat, frantically yelling and signaling his presence. He had such distinctive body language; he was big compared to most Rangers and certainly bigger than the enemy. He was wearing an obvious U.S. uniform, and he was carrying a SAW [5] gun. Even at 100 to 150 meters, he would have been hard to miss. How can we make sense out of all this? I lean my elbows on the tray table and rest my head in my hands. "Dannie," Mike says groggily as he raises his seat, "are you all right?" "No," I reply. "Mike, I'm really concerned. I think Bailey and Nixon lied to us, and I'm having trouble believing Pat could not be seen. Maybe they couldn't tell it was Pat, but they had to see it was an American soldier, I don't care if he was one hundred or more meters away." "I think you're right," Mike says. "I believe they lied, too. I also think Pat was a lot closer than what they're saying. Put the report away for now. I'll go over it with you after we have our drinks." One of the flight attendants hands us a pack of pretzels, and the other serves our drinks. I stick the pretzels in my purse, then pour the vodka and Bloody Mary mix into the plastic cup. Mike and I sip our drinks quietly. When we finish, we each take out our copies of the report. I have Mike read Sayre's statement. When he finishes, he looks up in disgust, expressing the same concerns I have. "Why didn't he do more to stop the shooting? And why is he the only one who sees the friendlies?" "I don't know," I say, shaking my head. As I thumb through the pages, I come upon a statement I know is Private Bryan O'Neal's, the young soldier positioned just feet away from Pat when he was killed. My hands start to tremble as I scan the narrative. I'm gripped with anxiety at what I am about to read and close the pages. I look out the window in order to gather myself, and then I open to O'Neal's statement again. Stumbling over the redactions, I read about Pat and O'Neal's actions prior to Baker's vehicle coming out of the canyon, and the fateful shots that took Pat's life.
My eyes fill with tears and I feel trapped in my seat as I'm overwhelmed with nausea. I close the pages and lean back in my seat as tears fall down my cheeks. "Dannie," Mike says not lifting his head from the documents in front of him. "Have you read O'Neal's responses to the questions?" "What?" I ask numbly. "Did you read O'Neal's responses to the questions he was given?" I'm afraid to speak, afraid I'll be sick. Mike looks over at me and sees I'm upset. "What's wrong? What did you find?" "I read O'Neal's statement, page seventy-one," I say, barely audibly. Mike opens to O'Neal's narrative. When he finishes, he leans back in his seat and remains silent for many minutes. "Dannie, remember how Nixon said there was no lull in fire, that the vehicle shot continuously down the ridgeline?" "Yes," I respond. "Well, on page seventy-three, O'Neal is asked, 'How did CPL Tillman get killed?' and O'Neal says: 'He was yelling "cease fire" to the GMV that was shooting at us. He got up and left his position to throw a smoke grenade. Once the smoke grenade was thrown, the firing briefly stopped. We both stood up, and then the firing resumed again.' Dannie, O'Neal is saying there was a lull in fire." I sit up in my seat. "Bailey told us there was a lull in fire when he came to the house. He said they stopped to reload. Mike, we need to go through these statements carefully to see if any other soldiers testify there was a lull in fire. If there was, then why couldn't Sayre stop them?" "Good point. Another thing: Remember a few minutes ago I said I believe Pat was a lot closer to the shooters than they're saying?" "Yes, why do you think that?" "In part it's a gut feeling," Mike says. "But I don't think Pat would be yelling his name so desperately if he was that far away. I think Pat was shocked they weren't seen. Even O'Neal makes reference to the guys in the vehicle making eye contact with them." "I know, that remark stood out to me, too," I say. "The thing that is odd about his statement, though, is that he indicates there was a cargo GMV that passed their position before Baker's vehicle came along. No one has mentioned a vehicle passing by the position before Baker's." "If another vehicle did pass by the position and went by safely, then that would make Baker's vehicle look even more negligent. As it is, they admit they weren't aware of being fired upon other than the Afghan firing over their heads." "Mike, do you think the jinga truck driver had anything to do with the ambush? I know Bailey said he didn't. What do you think?" "I don't know. At this point, I just don't trust what they're telling us. Did you see anything yet about the note that was given to the platoon while they were in Magarah? Remember? Bailey told us about it at your house." "Yeah, I remember him telling us that, but I haven't seen anything yet." Mike and I pore over the statements together and find another one where a soldier indicates there was a break in fire: "What I thought was mortar fire from Tillman's position was the smoke he popped off which slowed down the fire." Another statement says Baker's vehicle stopped after exiting the canyon. As we read, I become frustrated by the redactions. It is very difficult trying to figure out who is talking and who they are talking about. Pat's name is the only name not blacked out. We come upon a document of questions and responses. The responses are from the SAW gunner in Baker's vehicle. Kevin told me his name is Trevor Alders. One question asks, "Why did you fire at waving arms?" He replies, "I saw the arms waving, but I didn't think that they were trying to signal cease fire." "What!" I gasp. "He saw waving arms and he just kept firing. Isn't it against the rules of engagement to shoot at the enemy if he's waving his hands?" 'Yes," Mike answers. "This is insane." Several questions down it reads, "At this point in time, were you taking enemy fires?" Alders answers, "I couldn't tell. Others were firing and I wanted to stay in the firefight." "Jesus!" Mike says. "They weren't even taking fire. This guy didn't even know what he was firing at; he just wanted to shoot." Mike and I are getting increasingly angry, but we continue to search the documents. We find a statement by the XO, [8] whom Kevin identified as Captain Kirby Dennis, who testified, "The Commander wanted the platoon leader [to] have 'boots on the ground' by daybreak to clear the Manah village per the Battalion's tasking." Others testified that the commander wanted the platoon in the village by dusk. "Why all this confusion with dusk and daybreak?" I ask. "It makes no sense that platoon leader Uthlaut believed he had to be in Manah by dusk. Why didn't he clarify the time of day? I don't understand why the orders were so confused. I wish I knew who the commander was." "Doesn't Kevin know?" Mike asks. "No. He has asked other soldiers, but none of them knows who the commander was in Khost." Mike looks back at the document. "Look at this," he says. "Captain ... what's his name again?" "Captain Dennis." "Captain Dennis is asked, 'What's the policy on [DELETE] movements?' There are indications in the documents that he is referring to daylight movements. Dennis answers, 'I didn't know that there's a direct prohibition against them. It was my understanding that the battalion commander strongly discouraged them and that they were to be avoided whenever possible.''' "Sounds like Bailey didn't want the troops to move during the daylight or dusk hours," I say. "Why would the commander in Khost go against that policy? Why was there such a sense of urgency for this mission?" "Dannie, I don't know who this is -- it might still be Dennis -- but he says the company commander gave the order to split the troops and he thinks that order came from the S-3, [9] who I believe is the head commander, yet this guy implies the S-3 had no idea the troops were split." I remember listening to my father's Civil War lessons about the danger of splitting troops. The splitting of Pat's platoon resulted in the chaos and confusion that led to the devastating outcome of April 22. Who is going to be held accountable for that irresponsible order? "Oh look, Mike. On page forty-four, this is the S-3. He says, 'I did not know the platoon was split into sections. I first found out during the AAR [after-action review] process that followed the incident. I did not order the splitting of the platoon. My only comment to the company commander was, 'This vehicle problem better not delay us anymore.' How could he not know the troops were split! And I don't understand why they didn't blow up that damn vehicle or just leave it behind. That's what all the soldiers wanted to do." Mike, reading ahead of me, says, "Uthlaut apparently requested fire support, but it was denied." "Fire support?" "Air support, I believe," Mike says. "It was denied? I thought all Special Forces missions had air support." Mike, disgusted, replies, "Not this one." "In looking at these documents, I can see that the ambush was frightening and a bit confusing in the canyon, but there was no carnage. The vehicles even came out unscathed. Why was the reaction of Baker and his men so hysterical? No one was even shooting at them once they exited the canyon." "I don't know, Dannie. And it makes no sense that Baker wasn't looking for the first serial. Didn't Bailey tell us that Uthlaut informed his squad leaders that Serial One would be taking the canyon route?" "Yes, and Kevin said he heard his platoon sergeant tell Baker and the other squad leaders the plan. Plus, everyone saw Serial One enter the canyon ahead of them." "Where the hell was his situational awareness? These Rangers are trained to go back to help each other," Mike says, his anger rising. "Baker should have known to control his fire team." "Baker was Kevin's squad leader in Iraq. He and Pat both observed him to be pretty competent. I can't understand how he could have been so incompetent that day." "Do we know who the company commander was?" Mike asks. "I believe Kevin said it was Captain [William] Saunders. Marie worked with Saunders's wife in Seattle." "Okay, so it's the S-3 we can't identify?" Mike asks. "Yes. Kevin said he would try to find out." Mike and I are both exhausted after looking at the report. We put the documents away and lean back in our seats. I close my eyes and go back to thinking about Iraq and how worried I was when Pat and Kevin were there. This was a war Pat and Kevin did not enlist to fight and one that everyone in our immediate family considered illegal. Before departing for the Middle East, Kevin and Pat could not tell us when they were leaving, and because they were with a special operations unit, once they were there, they couldn't communicate with us at all. I knew there was going to be an invasion, and I was very worried. I was mistaken on this count. The American invasion began March 20, 2003. In the early stages, the Marines were getting hit hard. My heart was breaking for the families of those Marines. I was on edge all the time. Kevin told me later that being in Iraq was difficult for Pat. While he and his brother were usually separated on mission, Kevin recalled a time when they had been in the same armored vehicle. As it moved down the street, Pat saw a frightened old man and a child, maybe his grandson, standing against a chain-link fence. There was a look of terror in the old man's eyes. Pat yelled in Arabic over the roar of the vehicle: "We will not harm you!" He felt so awful for the man and child. Because I was unable to write to Pat and Kevin while they were gone, I started writing to them in a composition book that I would give them when they returned. It comforted me to do so, even though I couldn't share the thoughts at that time. My sons had departed sometime in late February or early March, and by early May, I felt as though they had been gone for years. Mother's Day that year fell on May 11. I invited my mother to stay with me that weekend. On Saturday, she and I were talking when I noticed a red flag on my e-mail. I checked to see who had written and found this wonderful message, now embedded in my memory, sent from a base in Saudi Arabia.
I'm startled as the flight attendant asks me for my trash. I wipe tears from my cheeks and hand her my plastic cup. Mike and I put our tray tables up, and I look out the window as we begin our gradual descent into San Jose. Staring down on the tops of trees, building rooftops, and commuter traffic, I think about Pat and his honorable and loving character and also about the contradictions in the two briefings. I am angry and confused by the conflicting stories. It will take a lot of concentration and time to carefully read each word of testimony. I know less about what happened to Pat today than I did the day he was killed. Colonel Bailey and Colonel Nixon told us two different stories, one that Bailey told us when he first came to the house, and another later. _______________ Notes: 1. An administrative investigative procedure implemented to find out what has occurred in military situations that are under question, which can determine if a criminal investigation should take place. 2. Freedom of Information Act. 3. Paktia militia fighter. 4. Ground mobility vehicle (sometimes called a Humvee). 5. Squad automatic weapon. 6. Toyota 4 x 4 pickup trucks outfitted for military use. 7. This caliber of round would have been shot from a SAW (squad automatic weapon). 8. Executive officer. 9. A battalion commander's principal staff officer concerning operations and plans. |