Part III: Iraq 2003, Camp Britney “Words Not Deeds”

Text and Photographs by Norbert Schiller

My final assignment to Iraq was in mid-November when I was embedded with the 1st Battalion 22nd Infantry, or 1-22nd as it was known, in Saddam Hussen’s hometown of Tikrit. I arrived at the tail end of the “Ramadan Offensive” when insurgents had launched numerous attacks throughout the country, downing helicopters and killing and wounding dozens of coalition soldiers. Tikrit was spared the brunt of the offensive, but tension was at an all-time high.

The 1-22nd, part of the 4th Infantry Division, was based in Hussein’s former presidential compound. The eight square kilometer complex, located high on a bluff overlooking the Tigris River and surrounding farmlands, was home to approximately 40 palaces. The embedded press corps was assigned to a palace named after Saladin, the celebrated 12th century Arab conqueror who defeated the Crusaders. We shared the mansion, nick-named “Camp Britney” after popstar Britney Spears, with the reconnaissance and scout platoon, mortarmen, and members of the psyops (Phycological Operation). We adopted the “Deeds not Words” motto of the 1-22nd but reversed it to make it more applicable to our profession.

The media was assigned to a large hall with a high ceiling and a big window. The glass had been removed to avoid injury in case of rocket propelled grenade (RPG) attacks and then boarded up to protect against the cold and the rain. My initiation consisted of a tour of the compound after which I was handed a piece of paper listing the rules and regulations that applied to the embedded press. Those basically spelled out restrictions that were meant to protect the troops including consumption of alcohol. Shortly after I signed the paperwork, I made the rounds introducing myself to my colleagues. That was when an officer walked into the room and asked if I was the new European Press Agency (EPA) photographer. When I answered positively, he pulled me aside and said, “I had an arrangement with the guy you just replaced, and I’d be interested in continuing it with you.”

“Ok,” I answered, “what kind of deal did you have?”

“Well, he let me use his computer every evening to answer and send emails and I kept his fridge full of whatever he needed.”

I hadn’t even noticed there was a refrigerator in the room, but I was onboard. As soon as I agreed to this arrangement, the officer went over to the fridge, took out a can of beer, and poured it into his coffee cup. He then sat at my computer for about ten minutes checking his email. After he finished, he got up, thanked me and walked out with his empty coffee cup in hand. This ritual repeated itself nearly every evening and, as promised, there was always beer in the fridge as well as liquor for anyone who needed a stronger drink.

My first night at “Camp Britney” was quite eventful. The insurgents fired RPG rounds at the compound from the fields just across the Tigris River, and the mortarmen returned fire lobbing 120mm mortars from their Bradley vehicles. After an exchange that lasted well into the night, we were finally able to fall sleep.

Our small group of 8 embedded photographers and journalists would join the 1-22nd on patrol nearly every day and on some nights. As most patrols consisted of three Humvees, we divided ourselves accordingly to sit beside the soldiers in each of the vehicles. The Humvees were all open with very little protection in case of an attack. There was a bullet proof strip of Kevlar on the seatback that covered us partially. Other than that, the only other protection was the armored vest and helmet that we wore outside the base.

I always chose to sit in the last Humvee because I felt comfortable beside Rodriguez, who manned the rear gun. Rodriguez inspired confidence as he always kept his cool no matter how high the tension. I once asked him when he planned to retire from the army. “Never!” he replied, “As long as I’m enlisted my two ex-wives and their children will be looked after.”

Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) Steven Russel, the commanding officer of the 1-22nd, always accompanied his men in the lead vehicle. The LTC was a special breed of officer, who earned everyone’s admiration and respect. Married with five children, he was religious and patriotic. Since he was a family man, we felt that we could rely on him to make wise decisions that protected the troops under his watch. The one thing LTC Russel hated most was waste. One day he took us to a farmhouse outside Tikrit that had been used by the insurgents to launch attacks against US forces. He said that the high command had decided to fire a missile from Baghdad, 160 kilometers away, to destroy the house. “This is how the military wastes millions of dollars. I could have easily gone to the village leader and asked him to tell his people to tear down the house for scrap metal and anything else they can recycle.”

That night we drove to a small ridge to witness the spectacle. After we were informed via radio that the missile had been fired, nothing happened. It turned out the missile had gone astray landing in a farmer’s field west of Baghdad. This incident only proved the LTC’s point. After retiring from the military in 2006, LTC Russel wrote a book about his experience in Iraq, titled We Got Him. He then became a politician serving as Oklahoma state senator for two terms.

Just about every day our small group of journalists would join the LTC on a patrol or a mission. The day after the insurgents fired RPG rounds on the compound, we accompanied LTC Russel and the 1-22nd on what was simply called a “Show of Force.” The 1-22nd went through the center of Tikrit with numerous tanks, Bradley fighting vehicles, and foot soldiers to show the Iraqis that nothing would deter them from following through with their mission. The maneuver was uneventful other than creating a massive traffic jam in the city center.

One morning the LTC received information about an imminent insurgent attack. We piled into the vehicles and headed to the village of Auja, the birthplace of Saddam Hussein just outside Tikrit. After surrounding the village, the troops got out of their vehicles and walked through the fields turning up everything they deemed suspicious in search of weapons. Insurgents were known to bury weapons underground and then disguise themselves as farmer to dig them up before an operation. They even brought out metal detectors looking for weapons that might be buried underground. The soldiers also entered homes to conduct searches and question inhabitants. Despite the intense search, no weapons were found.

We also accompanied the 1-22nd on night patrols which were an even more nerve wrecking experience in the middle of a curfew where anyone circulating on foot or in a vehicle was a potential suspect. Besides patrols in Humvees, we joined the 1-22nd on foot patrols which were more daunting as we didn’t have the option of driving off in case of an attack. Special precautions were taken when we were outside the military compound but at night the level of alert increased drastically. We had to walk in silence, keep a distance from one another, and refrain from smoking because a lit cigarette could be easily spotted by the enemy. Only tiny red penlights were allowed when checking a map or for use during a quick emergency. When we reached a “safe zone” we could let down our guard, take a cigarette break and chat briefly. Unfortunately, that down time was always short-lived and before we knew it, we were back on the patrol.

In early December I was invited to join the 1-508 Airborne Infantry (part of the 173 Airborne Brigade) based in the town of Kirkuk, 120 km north of Tikrit. Their mission was to flush out Saddam Hussein loyalists from the town of al Hawija. Since the initial plan was to use transport helicopters during the raid we rehearsed jumping on and off helicopters for the mission. By the time we were finished, my body was aching from all the weight I was carrying. That night, shortly after we fell asleep, we were woken up and told there was a change of plans. Due to the dense fog, the helicopter raids were cancelled, and we were now heading out on the backs of trucks. It was freezing cold during the drive and my only shelter from the biting wind was the soldier sitting in front of me.

We arrived to the outskirts of al Hawija before sunrise and quickly made our way into town on foot. The unit I was with had a list of houses to search looking for males who were allegedly responsible for financing and facilitating attacks on U.S. and coalition troops.

The targeted homes were in an upscale neighborhood and each property was surrounded by a high wall with a metal gate. The soldiers didn’t give much warning; a few bangs on the metal gate, and, if nobody showed up, they would force their way in through the metal gate, and conduct room to room searches dragging everyone they found out into the cold. This was particularly hard to watch especially when young children and women, still half asleep, were among the victims of these raids. Once the residents were outside, the soldiers singled out the men tying their hands behind their backs and placing a bag over their heads before leading them away. “Grab him, bag him and send him to someone who gives a shit!” yelled an officer in reference to Kyra Sedgwick’s famous line in the 1995 film, “Something to Talk About.”

By midday 27 suspects had been apprehended and the mission had been accomplished. Since my work was finished, I hitched a ride on a military convoy going back to Kirkuk and then flew on a helicopter back to the presidential compound in Tikrit.

During downtime at “Camp Britney” I took care of routine tasks, but I also worked on photo features. Besides doing laundry or shopping for basics at the commissary, I documented the soldiers’ daily life in the camps. Camp Britney or the Saladin palace, had a huge central room with a giant domed roof. This room milled with activity focused on sports such as basketball, hockey, and even the occasional baseball game. The two main groups that competed in these games were the mortarmen and the scouts and sometimes the competition got so heated that fights broke out. There were also more low-key activities such as billiards, Ping pong, and a golf driving range which took place on the back terrace overlooking the Tigris River.

The mess hall offered an impressive variety of food options. The catering was outsourced to former vice president Dick Cheney’s company Halliburton which handled the support services for the military in Iraq. However, regardless of the quality of the cuisine, it didn’t come without controversy. Halliburton’s goal was to make a fortune, and, since their client was the U.S. government, the sky was the limit. Later it was determined that a lack of transparency in the billing led to huge profits for Halliburton at taxpayers’ expense.

Although I had confronted more dangerous situations during my previous visits to Iraq, I felt far more vulnerable being embedded with the 1-22nd. When I was in Baghdad, the capital was dangerous and chaotic, and I was caught up in several incidents that could have been fatal. Yet, I felt less threatened because it was in a crowded city which projected a feeling of safety in numbers. In Tikrit it seemed like we were constantly on patrol, traveling along empty roads surrounded by farmland and I was haunted by the feeling that an insurgent ambush was imminent at any moment. Every time we encountered a garbage bag on the side of the road or passed any items that seemed out of place, my first thought was that it was an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). My senses were in a constant state of overdrive which was wearing me down and making me increasingly jittery.

After my three-week embed was up I had mixed feelings about leaving. On the one hand, I was sad to part with fellow journalists and the soldiers the 1-22nd that I had come to know. On the other hand, I felt lucky that I hadn’t suffered any serious injury. During the last few hours before my ride back to Baghdad, fellow journalists tried to coax me into joining them for one last patrol. I thought about it, but at the last minute I decided against it because I felt uneasy. I had made it so far without serious incidents and didn’t want to jinx my luck.

I arrived in Amman, Jordan, on the evening of 13 December. I checked into the Intercontinental Hotel, and, after putting my bags in the room I headed directly to the bar. Since it was a Saturday night, the bar was packed with patrons having fun, drinking, and making a lot of noise. Above the bar, the TV was tuned to CNN and from the live feed I could tell something was happening but couldn’t make out what it was. There was a shot of a military vehicle with flashing lights, but nothing else to show the location. Suddenly, the picture angle changed, and I realized that the live shot was coming from the presidential compound in Tikrit where I had just been embedded. I paid for my drink and rushed back to my room to turn on the TV. Just then it was announced that Saddam Hussein had been captured and the 1-22nd had been part of the operation. To say that I was disappointed to have left Iraq is an understatement. Unfortunately, there was no going back because I had made arrangements to spend the Christmas holidays with my family in Santa Barbara, California, my childhood hometown on the other side of the world.

In spite of my sister’s efforts to create a festive atmosphere and my own attempt to be thankful and civil, I couldn’t let go. Memories of Iraq were still too fresh, and I was still tormented for having left just days before Saddam Hussein was found hiding in a hole a few kilometers from where I had been staying.

Andy, my brother-in-law who was also a friend, felt my anguish and he went out of his way to cheer me up. One evening, in an effort to get me out of the house, Andy took me to a gathering in the woods behind his home. We walked up a tiny ravine to where a group of friends were sitting around a campfire smoking marijuana, sipping wine, and discussing the beauty of life. As I sat staring at the flames and listening to what to me sounded mundane and out of touch with my world, I became agitated. Suddenly I turned to Andy blurting out what had been eating me up without giving it much thought. “I wonder what these fuckers would do if I tossed a grenade into the fire!”

Instantly the chatter died, and everyone disappeared into the dark night. Andy took out a cigarette, lit it with a burning stick and handed it to me and took out another one lighting it for himself. We sat quietly for the longest time staring at the coals and the smoke rising into the darkness. Finally, Andy broke the silence and said, “Dam Norbert, I can’t imagine the serious shit you’ve witnessed.”