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The GIs were dirty, mosquito-bitten, fatigued, homesick. They had been on the road almost constantly for two weeks. Many had not slept in days.
At dawn on April 4, they arrived at Saddam International Airport to the sound of sporadic gunfire and the acrid smell of distant explosions. Breakfast was a mushy, prepackaged concoction the Army optimistically calls "pasta with vegetables."
Still, the mood was upbeat.
Reaching the airport meant the war was almost over. Some of the men broke out cheap cigars to celebrate.
Afterward, Sgt. 1st Class Paul R. Smith and his combat engineers set about their mission that day, putting up a roadblock on the divided highway that connects the airport and Baghdad. Then, just before 10 a.m., a sentry spotted Iraqi troops nearby. Maybe 15 or 20. By the time Smith had a chance to look for himself, the number was closer to 100.
Smith could oppose them with just 16 men.
He ordered his soldiers to take up fighting positions and called for a Bradley, a powerful armored vehicle. It arrived quickly and opened fire. The Americans thought they were in control until, inexplicably, the Bradley backed up and left.
"Everybody was like, "What the hell?"' said Cpl. Daniel Medrano. "We felt like we got left out there alone."
The outnumbered GIs faced intense Iraqi fire. Whether they would survive the next few minutes hinged largely on Smith. He was 33 years old, a 1989 graduate of Tampa Bay Vocational-Technical High School, a husband and father of two.
To his men, Smith was like a character in the old war movies they had watched as kids, an infuriating, by-the-book taskmaster they called the "Morale Nazi."
But Smith had spent much of his adult life preparing for precisely this moment. Indeed, in a letter to his parents composed just before the war, he seems to have anticipated it:
There are two ways to come home, stepping off the plane and being carried off the plane. It doesn't matter how I come home because I am prepared to give all that I am to ensure that all my boys make it home.
He studied woodworking in high school and did trim work for a contractor. After graduating in June 1989, Smith joined the Army. He was motivated not by patriotism but a desire to find a job offering more stability than the paycheck-to-paycheck life of a carpenter. As a new recruit, Smith left an impression of someone more interested in partying than, say, marksmanship.
But by the time he got to Saddam International Airport, Smith was a different man, a master of the soldier's art. On April 4, in the words of his commanding officer, Smith displayed "extraordinary heroism and uncommon valor without regard for his own life in order to save others . . . in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service. . ."
What Smith offered his men, Abraham Lincoln, in an earlier age, called "the last full measure of devotion."
Smith and his men were part of the 3rd Infantry Division, 23,000 strong, which moved into Iraq on March 20. On April 4, elements of the division occupied Saddam International Airport.
That day, Smith's combat engineers were part of a force of about 100 men assigned to protect the eastern flank by erecting a roadblock on the highway to Baghdad. The Army believed a Special Republican Guard battalion was in the area. The roadblock would keep the Iraqis from moving on the airport, about a mile away.
The Americans' arrival had been uneventful. But about 9 a.m., the infantry at the roadblock came under fire. The Iraqis seemed to be somewhere to the south. About 20 infantrymen set off to find them. The engineers soon heard explosions and the rat-tat-tat of automatic rifles.
About 9:30, the infantry radioed, asking for a place to put a handful of prisoners.
"Hey, I've got a great place," Smith said. He had seen a walled courtyard on the north side of the road about a quarter-mile from the roadblock. He would string concertina wire across a corner of the courtyard to form a holding area. A short tower just outside the wall could serve as a guard post.
Smith called for a bulldozer, which knocked a hole through the courtyard's southern wall, nearest the highway. He then gathered two squads, 16 men in all, and they began preparing the POW site.
Smith sent two men to guard a louvered aluminum gate on the far side of the courtyard, about 50 yards from the hole punched by the bulldozer.
One of them was 19-year-old Pvt. Thomas Ketchum. Peering through the gate, he could see something that looked like a bus stop, a stand of trees, and off to the right, a white building.
A half hour passed. It was getting hot, fast approaching 100 degrees. Ketchum was tired and bored. Then movement caught his eye. "Hey, I think I see something."
Sgt. Joshua Henry, who had come up with a canteen, asked for Ketchum's rifle, which was fitted with a scope. In the distance, out by the "bus stop," Henry saw 15 to 20 Iraqi soldiers walking from the building. They wore dark green uniforms and carried AK-47 rifles, rocket-propelled grenades and mortars.
"Holy s--, look at all the Hajis," said Henry, 23. ("Hajis" is a GI slur for Iraqi soldiers, taken from the word for the Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca, "hajj.")
They yelled for Smith. He ran up from the middle of the courtyard and squinted through his own scope, purchased at Guns "R" Us back in Hinesville, Ga., near Fort Stewart.
"We're in a world of hurt," Smith said. He ordered two men with machine guns to get into position behind the gate. Then he sent Ketchum to get a Bradley, an armored vehicle loaded with missiles, a rapid-fire cannon and a machine gun.
"Tell the Bradley there's 50 enemies with RPGs," Smith called to Ketchum, who was sprinting back across the courtyard. Smith's eyes got wide. "No, it looks more like a hundred."
At dawn on April 4, they arrived at Saddam International Airport to the sound of sporadic gunfire and the acrid smell of distant explosions. Breakfast was a mushy, prepackaged concoction the Army optimistically calls "pasta with vegetables."
Still, the mood was upbeat.
Reaching the airport meant the war was almost over. Some of the men broke out cheap cigars to celebrate.
Afterward, Sgt. 1st Class Paul R. Smith and his combat engineers set about their mission that day, putting up a roadblock on the divided highway that connects the airport and Baghdad. Then, just before 10 a.m., a sentry spotted Iraqi troops nearby. Maybe 15 or 20. By the time Smith had a chance to look for himself, the number was closer to 100.
Smith could oppose them with just 16 men.
He ordered his soldiers to take up fighting positions and called for a Bradley, a powerful armored vehicle. It arrived quickly and opened fire. The Americans thought they were in control until, inexplicably, the Bradley backed up and left.
"Everybody was like, "What the hell?"' said Cpl. Daniel Medrano. "We felt like we got left out there alone."
The outnumbered GIs faced intense Iraqi fire. Whether they would survive the next few minutes hinged largely on Smith. He was 33 years old, a 1989 graduate of Tampa Bay Vocational-Technical High School, a husband and father of two.
To his men, Smith was like a character in the old war movies they had watched as kids, an infuriating, by-the-book taskmaster they called the "Morale Nazi."
But Smith had spent much of his adult life preparing for precisely this moment. Indeed, in a letter to his parents composed just before the war, he seems to have anticipated it:
There are two ways to come home, stepping off the plane and being carried off the plane. It doesn't matter how I come home because I am prepared to give all that I am to ensure that all my boys make it home.
He studied woodworking in high school and did trim work for a contractor. After graduating in June 1989, Smith joined the Army. He was motivated not by patriotism but a desire to find a job offering more stability than the paycheck-to-paycheck life of a carpenter. As a new recruit, Smith left an impression of someone more interested in partying than, say, marksmanship.
But by the time he got to Saddam International Airport, Smith was a different man, a master of the soldier's art. On April 4, in the words of his commanding officer, Smith displayed "extraordinary heroism and uncommon valor without regard for his own life in order to save others . . . in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service. . ."
What Smith offered his men, Abraham Lincoln, in an earlier age, called "the last full measure of devotion."
Smith and his men were part of the 3rd Infantry Division, 23,000 strong, which moved into Iraq on March 20. On April 4, elements of the division occupied Saddam International Airport.
That day, Smith's combat engineers were part of a force of about 100 men assigned to protect the eastern flank by erecting a roadblock on the highway to Baghdad. The Army believed a Special Republican Guard battalion was in the area. The roadblock would keep the Iraqis from moving on the airport, about a mile away.
The Americans' arrival had been uneventful. But about 9 a.m., the infantry at the roadblock came under fire. The Iraqis seemed to be somewhere to the south. About 20 infantrymen set off to find them. The engineers soon heard explosions and the rat-tat-tat of automatic rifles.
About 9:30, the infantry radioed, asking for a place to put a handful of prisoners.
"Hey, I've got a great place," Smith said. He had seen a walled courtyard on the north side of the road about a quarter-mile from the roadblock. He would string concertina wire across a corner of the courtyard to form a holding area. A short tower just outside the wall could serve as a guard post.
Smith called for a bulldozer, which knocked a hole through the courtyard's southern wall, nearest the highway. He then gathered two squads, 16 men in all, and they began preparing the POW site.
Smith sent two men to guard a louvered aluminum gate on the far side of the courtyard, about 50 yards from the hole punched by the bulldozer.
One of them was 19-year-old Pvt. Thomas Ketchum. Peering through the gate, he could see something that looked like a bus stop, a stand of trees, and off to the right, a white building.
A half hour passed. It was getting hot, fast approaching 100 degrees. Ketchum was tired and bored. Then movement caught his eye. "Hey, I think I see something."
Sgt. Joshua Henry, who had come up with a canteen, asked for Ketchum's rifle, which was fitted with a scope. In the distance, out by the "bus stop," Henry saw 15 to 20 Iraqi soldiers walking from the building. They wore dark green uniforms and carried AK-47 rifles, rocket-propelled grenades and mortars.
"Holy s--, look at all the Hajis," said Henry, 23. ("Hajis" is a GI slur for Iraqi soldiers, taken from the word for the Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca, "hajj.")
They yelled for Smith. He ran up from the middle of the courtyard and squinted through his own scope, purchased at Guns "R" Us back in Hinesville, Ga., near Fort Stewart.
"We're in a world of hurt," Smith said. He ordered two men with machine guns to get into position behind the gate. Then he sent Ketchum to get a Bradley, an armored vehicle loaded with missiles, a rapid-fire cannon and a machine gun.
"Tell the Bradley there's 50 enemies with RPGs," Smith called to Ketchum, who was sprinting back across the courtyard. Smith's eyes got wide. "No, it looks more like a hundred."
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