My Share of the Task (12 page)

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O
n June 23, 1997, I returned to the Rangers. I assumed command of the Ranger regiment in a ceremony on the main parade field at Fort Benning. As it did every two years, the entire regiment had come to Benning for the occasion, with the change of command preceded by several days of athletic and team-building events. Rangers from earlier eras, from those who had landed at Anzio or climbed Pointe du Hoc to those who had fought in Mogadishu, gathered for a reunion. They were bound together by a shared history and values, best reflected in the Ranger Creed.

The Ranger Creed is a six-stanza summary of Ranger values that was adopted in 1974 with the formation of the 1st Ranger Battalion at Fort Stewart. One of the first requirements I was given when I joined the regiment in 1985 was to memorize the creed and to recite it each day at physical training. Memorably, parachute-laden Rangers also shouted it out inside aircraft in the final minutes before the regiment's combat jump into Panama in 1989.

But it was most poignant at ceremonies where it began with a predesignated Ranger somewhere in the formation loudly stating, “The Ranger Creed, repeat after me.” The Ranger then recited the first stanza of the creed, breaking it into short phrases that were repeated by every Ranger present.

“Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of my Ranger regiment.”

To be heard, the Ranger yelled out each phrase, and Rangers on the field and in the audience repeated them either loudly or quietly to themselves. Some were lost in thought—they all knew the words by heart. The Ranger only kept them in cadence.

For the second stanza another Ranger, normally in another part of the formation, took over, giving a sense of spontaneity.

“Acknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster and fight harder than any other soldier.”

The third stanza evoked strong emotions.

“Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong, and morally straight, and I will shoulder more than my share of the task, whatever it may be, one hundred percent and then some.”

Often very young Rangers were selected to lead stanzas, a daunting experience in front of two thousand fellow Rangers and a large audience. On one occasion a young Ranger began the fourth stanza:
“Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier.”

The formation's response was followed by an uncomfortable silence: Naturally nervous, the Ranger couldn't remember the next phrase. Seconds passed, then a nearby sergeant seamlessly stepped in.

“My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow.”

Most of the audience never noticed, but to me the sergeant's quick help for a fellow Ranger embodied the very creed he was leading.

By the fifth stanza the crowd's responses were typically stronger. In seemingly practiced harmony, they stated the most important part of the creed.

“Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle, for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. ‘Surrender' is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy, and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.”

Then the final stanza.

“Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor.”

The creed ended in crescendo: “Rangers lead the way.” Although it had a rhythmic quality, the Ranger Creed was neither a poem nor a mindless mantra chanted by masses. It was a promise, a solemn vow made by each Ranger to every other Ranger.

My relationships with senior NCOs had always been important to me, so I saved the final couple of hours that first day for a session with Mike Hall, the regimental command sergeant major. With almost twenty years in the regiment, Mike was an icon to Rangers, and although I knew and respected him, we still had to bond as a team. We talked that afternoon and into the evening, building a relationship that grew first into a partnership, then into a deep friendship. Annie quickly became close to Mike's wife, Brenda, and when Brenda and Mike decided to renew their wedding vows under the Catholic faith, Annie and I attended, along with their son Jeff, as the only witnesses.

Early in our partnership, Mike and I decided to focus the regiment on just four priorities: marksmanship, physical conditioning, first aid, and small-unit battle drills. We'd obviously perform other tasks, but we prioritized and constantly reinforced high standards of mastery on what we called “the Big Four.” We'd never have the time to do everything we'd like, but we decided to do what we could do very well.

Marksmanship was an obvious priority. Lightly armed, often outnumbered, Rangers must be able to hit what they shoot at before the enemy can shoot them. Because we operated aggressively at night and new night-vision equipment enabled it, marksmanship was critical in the dark.

In war, especially of the modern era, the vast majority of
deaths occur on the field, not in field hospitals, where skilled doctors and technology can offer high survival rates. While we had a dedicated cadre of combat medics, they accounted for a small percentage of the force. To ensure that everyone on the battlefield could provide immediate care, we trained each Ranger in the regiment as a first responder. A tenth of them received advanced training to be
emergency medical technicians (EMTs). After the experience of Rangers in Mogadishu in 1993, it wasn't difficult to convince the force that every Ranger must be able to save his buddy.

Mike Hall and I led the Rangers from 1997 to 1999 and never deviated from the Big Four. I'm glad we didn't. Although at the time our nation was at peace, the Big Four would later save lives. During the first eight and a half years of the war on terror, the Rangers conducted
more than eight thousand operations. Most were targeted raids, and many of them were under my command. In the course of these missions, thirty-two Rangers were killed, but none of them died in the field from wounds considered survivable; one Ranger with potentially survivable wounds died after being evacuated, because of
complications from surgery. This 3 percent
rate proved to be lower than some estimates for all American fatalities, wherein 24 percent of those with survivable injuries died.

Commanding the regiment was far different from commanding a battalion. Leading three geographically dispersed units, each led by very experienced second-time commanders, drove a different type of leadership from the more autocratic styles I'd seen, and sometimes practiced, earlier in my career. I learned to demand high standards of performance but to be far more flexible in the approach used to attain them. Increasingly, I also sought for objectives to be jointly developed as people worked harder to meet goals they themselves had a hand in setting.

In my last month of command I was notified I'd been selected for promotion to brigadier general. Mike Hall passed me a note written on a page from one of the small notebooks he carried: “To my friend the new Brigadier General—congratulations.” It meant more than all the others.

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I
n the summer of 1999 I found myself in another fellowship, this time at the Council on Foreign Relations in New York City. The year was another opportunity for some unfettered thought. I attended meetings, many with fascinating news makers, and had the opportunity to work on a couple of interesting projects. But perhaps the greatest benefit was another period of time to read, think, and discuss issues that were difficult to spend time on in most army jobs.

As at Harvard, Annie interviewed for and got a job at the Council that allowed us to share experiences and friendships. Sam, exhibiting his too-often-exercised adaptability, attended the local public high school in Bay Ridge, along with more than five thousand other students, and we spent many evenings on then-seedy Coney Island, where his team practiced hockey. To give Sam a glimpse of the memorable experience I was having at the Council, I brought him to the Council's father-son evening. United Nations secretary-general Kofi Annan's face broke into an appreciative grin when I introduced Sam—sporting his most recent look, bright blue hair—as displaying “U.N. blue” in the secretary's honor.

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F
or much of the 1990s, America was the world's sole superpower, buttressed by an ever-expanding economy. Vigorous debates on our foreign policy centered not on what America's role could be but on what America should choose it to be. When should America intervene—as it did in Somalia and the Balkans but declined to do in Rwanda? What was our role in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict? It felt as though America's future was America's to decide.

But not always. On the late morning of August 7, 1998, trucks bulging with explosives tore into the American embassies in Nairobi, Kenya, and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. The twin attacks killed 224 people and
wounded 4,500—mostly Kenyans.
Shattering glass blinded one hundred fifty people. Commanding the Ranger Regiment at the time, I remember the horror of the attacks, but even more I remember thinking that it was perpetrated by a faceless, amorphous foe that would be difficult to defeat.

The U.S. government
immediately suspected Osama bin Laden. A decade after forming Al Qaeda, the forty-one-year-old Saudi financier, whose anti-American tirades had increased in the previous two years, was still unknown to most Americans. But he had been busy.

After Saudi Arabia forced bin Laden to leave in 1991, he had
lived in Sudan. During his years there, he ran military training camps, kept apace as a businessman, and through his money was connected with terrorists across Africa and Asia. A guesthouse he ran in Pakistan sheltered the mastermind of the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center, Ramzi Yousef.

Under American pressure, Sudan evicted bin Laden in 1996 and he flew to Afghanistan, where the Taliban would take Kabul a few months later and begin their five-year reign. That August, purportedly by
fax machine from the Hindu Kush, bin Laden sent a letter to Arab newspapers. His long epistle addressed Muslims worldwide, calling on them to wage jihad against the United States in order to expel its troops that still “occupied” Saudi Arabia, the “cradle” of Islam. Bin Laden, still considered
primarily a financier, decried the Saudi government but directed to the United States his now-famous taunt, which sounded as giddy then as it does ominous now. “I'm telling you,” he said, “
these young men love death as much as you love life.”

The embassy attacks put teeth on these taunts. And two years after bin Laden's declaration of war by fax, the bombings showed worrisome operational reach and sophistication. For a group hanging its reputation on its violent theater, the simultaneous, deadly attack was a coup—and a name-making moment.

On August 20, 1998, thirteen days after the embassies were bombed, U.S. naval ships in the Arabian Sea unleashed a
volley of cruise missiles. Thirteen of them, fired toward Khartoum, hit what American intelligence believed was a factory connected to bin Laden and producing chemical weapons—
including nerve gas. The intelligence was later judged to be wrong; the building had in fact
produced pharmaceuticals. A Sudanese worker was killed, and to the ire of many, the destruction of the factory
deprived thousands of Sudanese of medicine. The true owner of the factory—who was not connected to bin Laden's murky business holdings, as was once believed—later
filed suit against the United States.

The same day,
sixty-six Tomahawk cruise missiles sailed toward Al Qaeda training camps in eastern Afghanistan, where the United States
thought bin Laden would be; he was instead
on the road to Kabul, ninety miles to the north. In the aftermath of the explosions, Al Qaeda observers counted five or six dead Arabs, while the Taliban accused Americans of killing twenty-two Afghans and
wounding twice that number. The Clinton administration estimated up to
thirty militants were killed.

There were other casualties of the strike, largely unaccounted for at the time. Prior to the strike, U.S. officials feared the Pakistanis would think the U.S. missiles crossing over their country were from India. But they worried more that members of Pakistan's military and intelligence establishment would tip off the Taliban or bin Laden about the impending strike. So they gave the Pakistanis notice, but just barely: Over a late-night chicken tikka dinner in Islamabad on the night of August 20, Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Joseph Ralston told the head of the Pakistani army, General Jehangir Karamat, that in ten minutes, missiles would be entering Pakistani airspace.

Not only were the Pakistanis kept in the dark, but they also lost men. Some of the buildings blown apart by the missiles were in fact used by Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), killing, by some accounts, five of its intelligence officers and
twenty of its trainees. The event left the Pakistani leadership irate and the Americans ever more skeptical, asking why Pakistani officers were near bin Laden's camps in the first place.

The relationship continued to degrade. After bin Laden disappeared into the
snow-tracked Afghan mountains, the United States increasingly pressured the government of Pakistan to intervene with bin Laden's hosts—the Taliban, who received significant patronage from Pakistan—to turn him over. These demands were met with indignant replies.

“Quite honestly,” one Pakistani official complained in a
New Yorker
article printed during the winter I spent at CFR, “what would Pakistan gain by going into Afghanistan and snatching bin Laden for you? We are the most heavily sanctioned United States ally. We helped you capture Ramzi Yousef . . . and all we got were thank-you notes. You lobbed missiles across our territory with no advance warning! You humiliated our government! You
killed Pakistani intelligence officers!”