'90 days... and counting down'

By Hal Bernton
Seattle Times staff reporter

	THOMAS JAMES HURST / THE SEATTLE TIMES "I don't really think about being in a combat zone," says Sgt. Rachel Green, shown here washing underwear in a bucket at the central Iraq base.

BALAD, Iraq — Rushing across central Iraq in a low-flying Chinook helicopter, Sgt. Rachel Green perches at the edge of an open tail ramp, a finger near the trigger of her M-60 machine gun.

Her 150-pound frame is clad in some 50 pounds of gear — helmet, flight jacket and ballistic vest beefed up with ceramic plates.

Like some exotic nocturnal bird, she peers through night goggles that even on this nearly moonless night illuminate the land below in an eerie glow.

Green scans for the telltale flash of a tracer round, or worse, a heat-seeking missile that could down her Boeing-made Chinook with deadly consequences.

Editor's note Reporter Hal Bernton and photographer Thomas James Hurst are spending a month in Iraq, reporting on the U.S. military campaign as well as the lives of Iraqi civilians. Today's dispatch is from an air base north of Baghdad.

In this war, as in those that came before, the Army seeks to keep female soldiers away from the front line. But in the unruly realm of central Iraq, there is no way to define the front lines, and women — on the ground and in the air — face hostile fire. Nine female soldiers were killed by hostile fire or accidents in Iraq through mid-December, and more were wounded.

"You know the possibility of not coming back home, and you just have to close your eyes and look away," Green said. "But I don't really think about being in a combat zone. I just think about what has to be done to complete the mission."

Green, of Olympia, is a flight engineer with the Fort Lewis-based Washington Army Reserve Alpha Company. Back home, the company performs high-altitude rescue work in the Cascade Mountains and also fights forest fires.

	Green and fellow flight engineer Staff Sgt. Janell Correll of Issaquah, left, sit on the back of a Chinook helicopter, waiting for pilots to arrive for a mission.

In Iraq, everything changed.

Green and the more than 200 company soldiers take to the air in 14 heavy-duty CH-47 Chinooks, each capable of hoisting a couple of Humvees or a bulldozer.

Alpha Company is part taxi, part delivery service. The crews ferry troops during ground assaults, haul prisoners to internment camps and, when necessary, can defend themselves.

After spotting flares and a suspicious flash from a ground position last summer, Green fired back with her M-60.

Wedding, career plans on hold

THOMAS JAMES HURST / THE SEATTLE TIMES Sgt. Rachel Green, a flight engineer with the Fort Lewis-based Washington Army Reserve Alpha Company, is seen through the night-vision goggles she wears on missions.

Her skills and judgment have earned the respect of the company. Its commander, Maj. Grant Haugen, places her among the best flight engineers he has flown with.

Yet the 24-year-old Green doesn't fit easily into the Army mold. She is soft-spoken with a muscular build. She has big, brown eyes and long, brown hair pulled back in a bun. She grew up in the wide open spaces of Montana, enthralled by snow and horses before her father's maintenance work with helicopters prompted her to join Alpha Company, 5th Battalion, 159th Aviation Regiment.

And while she takes pride in her service, she has no interest in pursuing a career with the Army.

"I miss my freedom of speech. I miss my opinions. ... The military can tell what you say, what you do. And respect isn't necessarily gained by intelligence or by brains. It is just not a career path for me. I want other things."

Most of all, she wants to teach high-school math and science. When Alpha Company was mobilized in January, she was one year shy of earning her bachelor's degree at St. Martin's College in Lacey, Thurston County.

She also is looking forward to marrying her fiancé of four years, Sgt. Dean Wehr, a fellow flight engineer in the company, who lives in Centralia. They are a tight-knit couple, their relationship strengthened by the hardships of duty in Iraq.

"Honestly, the majority of my time I spend with Dean. We're the two luckiest souls in here because we have each other," Green said.

	THOMAS JAMES HURST / THE SEATTLE TIMES Rachel Green and Dean Wehr tell stories about their duty in Iraq with Washington Army Reserve Alpha Company. The two sergeants plan to marry. "We're the two luckiest souls in here because we have each other," Green said.

They were supposed to wed Dec. 14, in recognition of his grandmother's birthday, but the date was postponed as their tour of duty lengthened. Now they talk of trying next year, on the same day. Dean says his grandmother, who lives in the tiny town of Wilkeson, Pierce County, has been one of the most important people in his life.

Here, at this U.S. base in central Iraq, they bunk with other soldiers in a heated tent erected inside an old concrete bunker, where they are protected from the mortars that slammed the base this fall.

Sometimes Green and Wehr fly the same mission, though usually in separate helicopters. Then, they both are soldiers, focused on the task.

Sometimes one is tapped for duty while the other is left behind to suffer the agony of waiting around the base.

"If I had my way, I wish she wasn't here," said the 34-year-old Wehr, who grew up in foster homes and dreams of starting a family with Green. "To look at it selfishly, she's my whole life. I don't want anything to happen to her. If you don't get yourself into the right mind-set, you will drive yourself crazy thinking about what could happen."

Danger and disappointment

Over the past six months, central Iraq has been the scene of the most intense clashes between U.S. and insurgent forces. Convoy after convoy has been attacked by rocket-propelled grenades and improvised explosive devices spread along the roadways.

At least once, a Russian-made, heat-seeking missile was shot at an Alpha Company helicopter, according to Haugen, the commander. Five to 10 times, insurgents unsuccessfully tried to down Alpha Company helicopters with rocket-propelled grenades. And dozens of times, the crews have been subject to small-arms fire.

THOMAS JAMES HURST / THE SEATTLE TIMES Sgt. Rachel Green, center, Chief Warrant Officer John Roberts, left and Crew Chief Kieth Bunce get the fight gear on and ready for the night mission.

So far, only one bullet has pierced an Alpha Company helicopter. "I never did see the guy that fired it — just a little hole in the floor," said Haugen, who was flying that day.

But a National Guard company from the Midwest, attached to the 12th Aviation Brigade, based out of a nearby hangar, was not so lucky. A Nov. 2 attack downed a Chinook, claiming the lives of 16 soldiers.

The daylight attack came as Alpha Company flight crews were already struggling to come to terms with their tour of duty, which had been extended beyond Christmas into next spring.

"When this other company's bird got hit, it was kind of a breaking point," Green said. "It was a culmination of a lot of different anxieties and frustrations. There was a period when I was scared to fly. I got to the point where I could never fly another day, and it wouldn't matter to me. But you just work through that."

At the time of the attack, the Chinooks already were flying just a few hundred feet off the ground. The crew's goal was to avoid being seen from long distances, giving insurgents more time to take aim. The loss of the Chinook triggered tighter security measures.

THOMAS JAMES HURST / THE SEATTLE TIMES Sgt. Green loads several M-60 machine guns on to her Chinook prior to the mission.

Alpha Company was ordered to fly only at night and to turn off its running lights.

The cloak of darkness works: The engine and rotors can be heard from the ground, yet it is hard to draw a bead on the direction of the clatter.

But night flights are dangerous. Even with night-vision goggles, the crew must strain to avoid electric wires, and it can be rough to navigate in nasty weather.

Sometimes, when the freight loads are light and the distance long, Green wonders whether the mission is worth the risk.

"You don't want to die hauling tires. Granted, we're not complaining. ... It's the validation of the mission that bothers me," she said.

An uneventful mission

The day after Christmas, Green ran a careful check on her Chinook. As flight engineer, she is responsible for overseeing the readiness as pilot crews rotate through the cockpit. She calls the 32,000-pound helicopter her "baby," and her name is painted in white on the side.

Haugen, in civilian life a pharmaceutical-sales representative from Kirkland, drew pilot duty that day.

Before taking off, he reviewed the flight plan, noting clouds to the north and thundershowers expected in the south. He pinpointed the electrical transmission towers to avoid. Then he cited the latest intelligence briefings: "There's one guy talking smack, saying he wants to shoot down a helicopter. We have adjusted our route, which should take care of that."

As the helicopter lifts off, Green takes the rear gun. She says she is keenly aware that what looks like a threat might on closer examination be a farmer firing a celebratory round.

THOMAS JAMES HURST / THE SEATTLE TIMES Sgt. Green loads several M-60 machine guns on to her Chinook prior to the mission.

Two other crew members poke weapons out of side windows.

This night's flight is uneventful.

Soon after leaving, the helicopter suddenly speeds up and banks sharply near the Tigris River. This is the spot where Haugen's helicopter was hit by a bullet, and he's not taking chances.

The helicopter flies over a patchwork landscape of fields, canals and farmhouses. At a northern base outside Tikrit, Haugen pauses to savor a cigar, while Green and other crew members assist in the loading.

On the final hop, lightning flashes in the southern skies.

Back at the base, Green checks out the helicopter for signs of wear or damage. Then she heads to dinner, where she devours a midnight meal — burger, chicken patty and fries.

Later, in her tent, she sifts through the memories of home — safely held in a picture scrapbook. Some show Green and Wehr hiking on Mount Rainier and beachcombing in southwest Washington.

"God willing," Green said, "we've got 90 days to go, and counting down."

Hal Bernton: hbernton@seattletimes.com. Thomas Hurst: thurst@seattletimes.com

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