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Twenty-Two Nights in Baghdad
by Russell Still
as printed in AutoPILOT Magazine, September 2003

The night of 24 March, 2003 was dark. Pitch black, really. Soldiers and technicians walked through the sand, raising an unseen cloud of desert dust as fine as talcum powder. For the locals, dust was just a fact of life. For westerners, though, it was a constant irritant.

Secretly, eighteen U.S. Army helicopters from the 1st Cavalry Division left their base in Kuwait and proceeded northeast to a staging point. There they downloaded auxiliary fuel tanks used for the jump deep into Iraq. Their target was a military encampment on the outskirts of a town called Karbalah.

The Apache Longbow attack helicopters carried two men each, both trained as pilots. Divided into four groups, the Charlie Company choppers spread out in their scripted attack pattern. Groups on the flanks protected the Apaches charged with the run up the middle. Four would initially attack in the center and acquire targets for the second group only ten minutes behind them.

Chief Warrant Officer Ron Young, his face and helmet illuminated by dim lights and multifunction displays, had no idea what he and pilot Dave Williams were about to get themselves into. Ron Young grew up Lithia Springs, Georgia. He had lived with his family in the same house for twenty-two years. They were a close-knit family of strong ties and strong convictions. Ron was finishing his second year at Southern Polytech working on a degree in mechanical engineering when the prospect of flying helicopters struck him. His dad had served on a gunboat in Vietnam so the idea of the military was not all that foreign. Military aviation seemed fast and sexy. He admitted to anyone who asked that Top Gun was his favorite movie and the hi-tech toys and attendant babes were what attracted him to that lifestyle. The fun, the girls, the action, the adrenalin; all rolled into one. They were what he called "the best of life, the cream."

In May of 1999, Ron signed up with an Army recruiter in Douglasville. The Warrant Officer program that led to helicopters started with thirteen weeks of infantry boot camp. It was the same three months of hell that everyone who joined the Army had to endure. Eight weeks of Warrant Officer Candidate School immediately followed. With that successfully completed, Ron moved into a one-year program of intensive flight instruction. Bell 206 Jet Rangers, designated as TH67s, were used for initial training. After a hundred and twenty hours, students transitioned into Apaches for tactical training.

Ron graduated as an Army aviator in 2001 and continued into Apache flight test and carrier operations trials. By the time the war started and he shipped out to Kuwait, he had accumulated over 450 hours in helicopters. By some standards, a lot of flight time. By others, precious little. Regardless, it was the experience that he took with him as he slipped over the border into Iraq on the first night of the war.

Skimming low over the countryside, Ron and Dave scanned the world around them on video screens fed from FLIR pods - Forward Looking InfraRed. Fourteen choppers flew ahead of them in the attack and Ron's flight of four was scheduled as the hammer blow. They cruised at 130 knots for several hours in relative silence.

It was a long way to Karbalah, itself just 80 miles south of Baghdad. Everyone in the assault group felt that surprise was on their side and expected only minor resistance. Ron felt little anticipation until he suddenly saw a wall of red tracers fanning up across the horizon ahead. The antiaircraft fire seemed to approach them as the helicopter flew toward the engagement area. It struck Ron that he wasn't even breathing as he viewed the fireworks. By the time they arrived on the scene, everyone on the ground was wide awake and firing everything they had at the Americans.

"Turn left, turn left," Ron yelled at Dave over the intercom. "Don't fly through that."

"I'm not! I'm not!" assured Dave as they weaved to the south.

From his front seat vantage point, Ron attempted to verbally guide Dave through the fusillade of brightly lit tracers and cannon rounds. "Turn left, turn left, turn left," Ron yelled out breathlessly. "All right, roll out, roll out, turn right."

As he pulled the trigger to lay down suppressive fire, Ron suddenly realized their problem was even worse. He had a total malfunction of his weapons systems. No chain gun, no rockets, and in the midst of the biggest firefight imaginable. At that point, the battle became very real. People were shooting at the helicopters from every direction. Feeling like a sitting duck, Dave and Ron flew big circles trying to evade enemy fire. Although Dave could still shoot from the back seat, Ron could do little more than provide an extra pair of eyes. It only got worse.

From the frantic radio traffic, it became obvious that Ron's helicopter had gotten separated from the rest of Charlie Company. They had rallied to the south at Checkpoint 17. Ron and Dave were alone at Checkpoint 19. Large red 14mm rounds streaked by the canopy and Ron became aware of the plink, plink sounds of random bullets scoring hits on their Apache. In desperation, Dave turned to the south to attempt a retreat from the area. Instantly, the two men heard an explosion and felt a violent shudder all through the airframe. The Apache had taken a direct hit in one of its two engines.

With the loss of an engine, the chopper could still fly, but only at a greatly reduced speed. More plinks were heard and smoke began to fill the cockpit. The controls went sloppy and the Up Front Display screen started scrolling a continuous stream of warning messages.

"Rotor low," warned the automatic voice annunciation system, indicating that rotor rpms were dropping. The helicopter was going down. In twenty seconds, the chopper impacted the terrain, tail first.

Dave had taken a shrapnel hit in the foot, but the two men were otherwise unhurt in the crash. It seemed to be their only piece of good luck. In seconds, Ron and Dave bolted from the aircraft and sprinted away from the crash site. A ditch afforded them some temporary protection so they jumped in. A quick inspection of Dave's foot showed the shrapnel injury to be minor. With random shots from Iraqi AK-47s zipping by, Ron attempted to make emergency radio contact with American controllers.

The closest friendly ground forces were forty miles away and enemy troops were slowly closing in. Slipping out of the ditch, the two ran further trying to place distance between themselves and their crashed Apache. Running through a shoulder-high field of weeds, they stumbled into a narrow river and swam across it. From there they were forced back and forth, this way and that, by Iraqi searchers. While moving toward a treeline, they heard shouting. Iraqi militia had them targeted and were crying out in Arabic. Ron had his 9mm Berretta out, but Dave could not get to his own handgun. With only 15 rounds of handgun ammunition available, the two Americans faced a force of Iraqis armed with automatic weapons. Resistance was futile so Dave made the decision to surrender and waved his intentions.

In short order, the Iraqis had Ron and Dave tied up and marched them toward a village. The whole time, the Iraqis were angrily chattering at the Americans and intermittently smacking them with fists, sticks, and gun butts. Ron was seeing stars. After being paraded through the village streets, bloody and bruised, Ron and Dave ended up at some sort of military building. Dawn had broken and the aviators found themselves sitting in chairs with their hands cuffed behind them. The interrogation, implemented through a translator, seemed amateurish and ineffective. A general asked occasional questions amid a barrage of random questions shouted out by others in the room. Ron's impression was that the Iraqis were just trying to get the easy information out of them before killing them. The two Americans had now been awake for over twenty-four hours.

The interrogation continued for another two hours and ended abruptly. Ron and Dave were jerked up by their captors and shoved down a hallway. They were temporarily locked in a room that seemed to be converted into a holding cell. After another hour, several uniformed soldiers arrived and blindfolded the Americans. It would be the last time that Ron would see Dave for many days. A chance peek under his blindfold told him that he was being placed in the back seat of a Toyota SUV. With Ron wedged in between armed guards, the vehicle rolled out of town. They arrived in the capital city of Baghdad in the mid afternoon.

In Baghdad, Ron faced another round of interrogation. Dried blood from previous sessions was evident on the floor. Leering down from the wall was a large portrait of Saddam Hussein. By sundown, the interrogation was over and Ron was again blindfolded and herded into a car with his hands manacled behind him. After a short drive, they passed through a gate into a prison compound. Once inside, he was yanked out of the car by his arms. The guards forced him over by pulling his arms up behind him. They knew how to make it hurt. Kicks and occasional punches were administered as if for good measure. Half dragged and half shoved, he finally found himself thrown into a small cell with a rough concrete floor. The guards removed his blindfold and handcuffs, and motioned him to strip. They left him naked sitting on the cold floor. An hour later, guards returned with a pair of blue pajamas and a wool blanket. Ron quickly dressed in his prison garb and flopped down on the blanket for his first sleep in over thirty-six hours.

For the next two days, Ron grabbed intermittent sleep, frequently interrupted by rounds of interrogation. Small meals of cold rice were brought to him in his cell. On the third day, the rice was supplemented by a piece of partially cooked chicken. Knowing that the bacteria in the water would raise havoc on Western stomachs, Ron avoided drinking for as long as he could. But after several days, dehydration compelled him to drink. Symptoms of intestinal dysentery quickly surfaced.

On day eleven, American tanks rolled into downtown Baghdad and within shouting distance of the prison compound. This first major incursion into the city forced the relocation of all American captives in the prison. Over the course of the next week and a half, Ron was moved every couple of days closer into the heart of the city, just out of reach of American forces. Finally, as the city was overrun by Coalition troops, the prisoners were moved north and handed over to civilian police officers outside of Tikrit.

Not quite sure what do with their seven Americans, the police took them to a small farmhouse for safekeeping. The Iraqi military was in clear disarray and the last vestiges of central government were collapsing. Ron noted how much better they were treated during their rural confinement. Food was considerably better and there were no beatings. Although they were not allowed outside, they could move relatively freely within the house where their arrest was maintained. Some of the guards admitted to watching international news broadcasts and understood what the Coalition forces were doing for their country. They were outspoken in their distaste for Saddam.

Two days later, Ron heard gunfire outside. Before he could discover the source, the front door to the residence was kicked in. Everyone dove to the floor as several Marines hustled in with M-16s cocked and aimed. Ron's ordeal was over. A day later, he and Dave were safely settled in Kuwait.

Most people view their lives in terms of events and experiences. For many, they are commonplace, perhaps even mundane. But some people survive an experience that defines their lives. It becomes a focal point for all that they will become. Ron Young is looking to a future that includes completion of his engineering degree and continued flying. He remains, nonetheless, a person who has lived through an extraordinary experience. One that has changed him. This Georgia aviator's life will forever be colored by his twenty-two days in Iraq.