My Share of the Task(37)
* * *
Several months after Mogadishu, and several months before the tragedy at Green Ramp, the Army Personnel Command had asked if I wanted to compete for command of a Ranger battalion. Commanding a Ranger battalion was reserved for “second-time” commanders who had already led a conventional unit. A forthcoming board would consider a slate of candidates from across the Army. I went back and forth in my mind as to whether I should pursue the opportunity. Ever since my summer experience with a Ranger company at Fort Hood as a West Point cadet, I’d wanted to lead Rangers. My four years in the 3rd Ranger Battalion had made that a passion. Yet I loved the White Devils and felt I hadn’t yet done all I could in command. Ranger selection would cause me to leave just halfway through my command tour.
I was a few days from making the decision, seesawing daily between the two options, when an old Ranger comrade came to visit. Nick Punimata had been a senior NCO in the 3rd Ranger Battalion and had since become a warrant officer in Special Forces. A thoughtful friend in a bearlike body, Nick sat down in my office and congratulated me on getting a Ranger battalion command.
“Nick, the board isn’t until next week,” I corrected him. “And I haven’t decided whether to compete for one. It might be better for me to stay here.” Nick gave me a look of surprise and exasperation.
“But, sir, what about the boys?”
I made the decision then and there, and a week or so later I was informed the board had selected me to command a Ranger battalion.
* * *
Soon after I was informed I’d return to the Rangers, the Pope crash happened. As a result, my chain of command at the 82nd recommended that my departure be delayed from summer 1994 until November to allow me to help the unit navigate through rebuilding in the wake of the tragedy. It was a good decision, and I was pleased to have seven more months in command of the White Devils.
Those months were exciting. On September 18, 1994, two months before I left the White Devils, I joined most of the 82nd Airborne Division’s roughly sixteen thousand paratroopers as we loaded into a fleet of C-130s at Fort Bragg for what was to be the largest American combat parachute drop since World War II.
Contingency planning had been ongoing for many months as turmoil roiled Haiti. The sizable parachute drop and subsequent operations would secure key facilities on the island. My White Devils would jump on the airfield in Port-au-Prince and move on foot through the city to link up with Rangers at the National Assembly building.
Four days before the designated D-Day, we were instructed to move our units into secure holding areas to conduct final preparations while maintaining as much operational secrecy as possible.
With their commanders and key staff having been sequestered for the past week, the paratroopers no doubt sensed something was afoot and were curious as they marched into the personnel holding area where we would be staging. I assembled them in the corner of what once had been a 1950s-era 82nd Airborne Division unit motor pool.
As I looked onto the sea of faces, they were familiar. I’d seen them dripping with sweat on long foot marches, and shivering with cold but grim determination during long training exercises. I remembered their serious but compassionate demeanor carrying coffins or escorting families of their comrades. Most, like me, had never experienced direct combat. They thought they were ready but needed to hear it from me.
“Gentlemen, they’ve canceled the World Series on us,” I said, referring to the ongoing baseball players’ strike. I paused to confused looks. “So we’ve decided to invade Haiti.” The paratroopers laughed and cheered.
I wasn’t trivializing a combat operation in which people would likely die. But it was important to break the tension. There would be stress enough in the days ahead. As most had already guessed, the operation would be to unseat Lieutenant General Raoul Cédras and his junta, who, having deposed the democratically elected president, ruled over what President Bill Clinton at the time called “the most violent regime in our hemisphere.”