The last days of Saddam Hussein, through the eyes of his prison guards

 An extract from The Prisoner in His Palace: Saddam Hussein, His American Guards, and What History Leaves Unsaid by Will Banderwerper

Baghdad, Iraq - December 30, 2006

It was time.

The old man slipped into his black pea coat, then deliberately placed a dark fur hat on his head to protect against the pre-dawn chill.

This December night was one of the coldest the American soldiers had experienced in Iraq. Six of them stood outside the bombed-out palace that had been converted to hold the prisoner. They could see their breath in the night air. They were dressed in "full-battle rattle,” clunky in their Kevlar vests and helmets with mounted night vision goggles. They each carried a full-combat load of hundreds of rounds of ammunition. As they scanned their surroundings for anything out of the ordinary, six more soldiers led the prisoner outside into an idling Humvee for the short ride to the landing zone.

The silver-bearded old man moved deliberately, almost proudly, working to maintain an upright posture despite the bad back he often complained of. His arms swung freely at his sides. Nearby, two Blackhawks waited, rotors already a blur, violently kicking up clouds of loose sand and gravel. The greenish glow of the soldiers' night-vision goggles added to the disorienting maelstrom of sound, temperature and light. It was always a shock for the young men to emerge from the cocoon-like warmth of the cell area and approach a waiting helicopter, its furious power ready to provide vertical lift and whisk away the man they’d come for.

The six M.P.’s who clustered around the old man led him into one of the Blackhawks, ducking under the swirling rotors and gingerly climbing aboard so as not to trip—their night-vision goggles impaired depth perception. One of the soldiers was especially vigilant, having been instructed to keep a close watch on the prisoner for ‘anything froggy’. The soldiers were joined by two medics and an interpreter who lent welcome body heat to the cramped fuselage. Once the first group had piled on board, the other six soldiers quickly filed onto the second Blackhawk. 

The choppers lurched skyward, beginning their short flight to an Iraqi installation in Baghdad’s Shiite Kadhimiya district. A brief look of fear flashed across the old man’s face when the chopper bounced a bit in some rough air. He’d always been a nervous flyer. Otherwise he was silent and stoic.

As soon as the choppers landed, the soldiers ushered him to a waiting ‘Rhino’, a massive armored bus. The American soldiers piled in alongside, as did the Lebanese-American interpreter, who always had a tough time wedging his large frame into the vehicle.

It was eerily quiet as the thirteen-ton Rhino began rumbling across the compound in the chilly pre-dawn hours. There was none of the casual banter that usually accompanied missions; none of the familiar jokes volleyed between buddies who’d grown to know each other’s idiosyncrasies. Just silence.

After a short ride, it was time to turn the man over. He rose from his seat near the back of the Rhino and carefully straightened his black pea-coat, making sure it wasn’t rumpled from the brief ride. One of the soldiers had carefully applied a lint-roller to it before they’d left his cell. The man then began to walk slowly from his seat near the back toward the front door. As he made his way to the front of the dimly-lit armored vehicle, he stopped to grasp each of the twelve young Americans, and in a few cases, to whisper final private words.

Some of the soldiers now had tears in their eyes.

When the old man reached the front, he turned to them one last time and said ‘May God be with you.’ With that, he bowed slightly, and turned toward the door.