EDITOR'S NOTE - Associated Press reporters
examined thousands of pages of material accumulated by investigators
into Pat Tillman's death - and interviewed dozens of people
with knowledge of the case - to assemble this reconstruction
of the events of that day.
Pat Tillman spent his last day of life
on the broken roads of Afghanistan's Paktia province,
a thumb on the map that juts into northwestern Pakistan.
It's a land of barren and towering mountains that can
turn a vehicle into a pile of scrap metal.
That's exactly how Tillman and the rest
of his "Black Sheep" platoon, the U.S. Army's
75th Ranger Regiment, found themselves bogged down in
the badlands of Afghanistan on April 22, 2004. The primitive
roads had crippled yet another Ground Mobility Vehicle,
or GMV, a Humvee bolstered for extra durability.
Over the previous week, the platoon had
struck into enemy-held territory along the Pakistani border,
killing and capturing enemy fighters, including remnants
of the Taliban.
Now, as the Black Sheep prepared to move
deeper into Afghanistan, one GMV wouldn't start.
A helicopter ferried in a replacement
fuel pump, but a mechanic couldn't get the rig to turn
over. They hired a local Jinga truck to tow the GMV, but
it could only hoist the front end off the ground, and
the GMV began to fall apart. They needed a heavy-duty
military tow vehicle.
The leader of Tillman's platoon, then-Lt.
David Uthlaut, asked for a chopper to do it. But commanders
at a remote operations center told him no flight would
be available for at least three days.
"We should blow this thing,"
Kevin Tillman, Pat Tillman's brother and fellow Ranger,
urged a superior, according to transcripts of sworn testimony
he later gave an investigator.
No, commanders decided; its charred carcass
might be used as propaganda.
Meanwhile, enemy fighters lurked, unseen,
plotting an ambush.
Several soldiers said they had an eerie
feeling they would be attacked. Two Rangers in the same
battalion had recently been killed during daytime maneuvers,
prompting the battalion commander to limit such movements
to nighttime hours.
Yet the platoon hunkered down in broad
daylight as Uthlaut ironed out a plan with superiors by
e-mail.
The concern about an ambush apparently
extended to the operations center, where an officer had
asked in advance for airborne support to back up the Black
Sheep that afternoon. The request was denied.
The brass leaned on Uthlaut to get going.
But how? Should he split the platoon, with one section
escorting the GMV to a waiting tow truck on main highway?
Or should he keep the platoon together, everyone delivering
the GMV to the wrecker, then continue to their destination?
That destination was Manah, a village
of humble stone houses. To get there, the platoon would
have to thread its way through a series of canyons and
valleys.
Uthlaut was anxious about leaving two
sub-units of Rangers with inadequate firepower in a known
ambush zone.
But his bosses disagreed.
The order came: Split the platoon.
"I tried one last-ditch effort,"
Uthlaut said in a sworn statement. He pointed out that
the unit had just one .50-caliber machine gun between
both sections, and asked the officer relaying messages
on the other end, Capt. Kirby Dennis, if that changed
anything.
"He said that it did not," Uthlaut
said. "At that point I figured I had pushed the envelope
far enough and accepted the mission."
Meanwhile, Afghans they had passed hours
earlier now "weren't as friendly," one soldier
testified. "They looked like they were kind of like
watching us."
Around this time, according to the sworn
testimony of several Rangers, an Afghan civilian handed
one soldier a written warning: "You're going to be
ambushed," it read.
Squad leaders ignored it. "If we
sit there and stop for every single little letter that
we get, you know, we'd be here forever," one soldier
later said. The information never made it to the platoon
leader.
After a hasty briefing by Uthlaut, the
two convoys began rolling toward their separate destinations.
First, both groups had to negotiate a slot canyon barely
wide enough for trucks to squeeze through, its walls rising
500 feet on either side.
"I knew damn well we were going to
get hit," Kevin Tillman recalled. "If we were
ever going to get hit, that is where they should have
hit us - whoever was in the mood to take a potshot."
The first group made it through, but the
second came under fire from enemy Afghans who peppered
it with machine-gun fire and rocket-propelled grenades.
None of the Rangers was struck, but the
ambush unleashed the chaos that would cost Tillman his
life.
Pat Tillman's unit was the first to navigate
the canyon. When the gunfire erupted behind them, they
sprinted back toward the gunfire to give their comrades
cover. Tillman's brother Kevin was in the trailing convoy
under fire.
The former NFL star charged up a hill,
with Spc. Bryan O'Neal and one allied Afghan fighter.
They started firing at enemy gunmen.
The soldiers in the second convoy were
stalled and under fire in the depths of the canyon, blocked
by their lead vehicle. The Afghan driver of the Jinga
truck had abandoned it and was cowering behind rocks.
On a radio, Staff Sgt. Matthew Weeks,
who was leading Tillman's squad on the hill, tried frantically
- but unsuccessfully - to reach the convoy being ambushed.
As the lead assault vehicle in the second
convoy navigated around the stalled Jinga truck and floored
it out of the canyon, one Ranger spotted human figures
and muzzle flashes on the hillside above.
Was it an enemy? The Afghan holding the
AK-47 certainly looked like one, they later said. "Contact
three o'clock!" one of the Americans cried.
In fact, the Afghan was the U.S. ally
alongside Tillman, one of a half-dozen members of the
Afghan Military Forces hired to fight with the Americans.
Recruited and trained by the CIA, they were provided to
the Rangers as "force multipliers," people familiar
with the mission said.
Of the six Afghans traveling with the
Rangers that day, five stayed in their truck when the
firing broke out. A lone Afghan joined Tillman and O'Neal
on the high ground, firing at the ambushers.
But the platoon had done little or no
training with the allied Afghan fighters. The Rangers
weren't even clear on what uniforms these battlefield
companions were supposed to wear, though they had been
together for two weeks.
Photos taken of the platoon in the days
before Tillman's death show the Afghans wearing uniforms
virtually indistinguishable from those of the Americans,
raising questions about why the Rangers mistook the Afghan
with Tillman for an enemy, who typically wore darker fatigues
or traditional regional dress.
Yet Paktia province was also a place where
shifting Afghan allegiances were often inscrutable to
the Americans. In January 2002, a CIA agent and an Army
sergeant were waved through a Paktia checkpoint manned
by Afghan militiamen who appeared friendly, said a former
intelligence official. On their way back out the same
militiamen shot and killed the Army sergeant and wounded
the agent.
More than two years later, Sgt. Greg Baker,
who led the barrage, said he saw an Afghan with a dark
complexion wearing a "tiger stripe" uniform
and missing the signature American helmet. Baker said
he saw the Afghan firing a rifle typically carried by
the enemy, and Baker thought it was pointed at him. In
fact, it was the allied Afghan aiming above him, at enemy
on the ridge.
Baker shot and killed the friendly Afghan.
"I zoned in on him because I could see the AK-47.
I focused only on him," Baker testified.
Baker and his squad aboard the racing
truck saw other "shapes," they later testified.
Although Baker could clearly see the Afghan's weapon,
he said he couldn't identify the brawny NFL player or
O'Neal, both standing a few feet from the Afghan.
The two Rangers threw their hands in the
air and shouted "Cease fire!" but Baker and
three other gunners pounded the hillside with machine
gun fire.
"They did not look like the cease-fire
hand-and-arm signal because they were waving from side
to side," one of the shooters, Staff Sgt. Trevor
Alders, would later tell investigators.
Their vehicle was not under fire, Spc.
Steve Elliott and Spc. Stephen Ashpole testified. But
Ashpole heard someone in the truck say "contact"
and swung his .50-caliber machine gun to the north, toward
Tillman. He said the lighting conditions were "OK"
as he looked through an unmagnified gunsight and trained
his fire on the ridge.
Ashpole "saw two shapes, and put
my last bursts into the target," he said. "I
assumed others had PID" - positive identification,
he testified.
Baker testified he was two football fields
away from the targets when he started firing; O'Neal said
they came as close as 30 yards while firing.
Baker also insists the truck kept moving
and denies a contention - apparently in an early investigative
report that has since disappeared - that he jumped off
the truck and charged 15 meters toward Tillman before
opening up, insisting that the truck was moving the entire
time. Two soldiers who witnessed the shooting told the
Tillman family that Baker got out.
The driver, Staff Sgt. Kellett Sayre,
said the AK-47 confused him "for a split second,"
but he soon recognized what the others did not: The vehicles
parked nearby belonged to Rangers. The men on the ridge
were Rangers. A friendly fire disaster was unfolding before
his eyes.
"It was like (Tillman and Spc. Bryan
O'Neal, who was next to him) were trying to say, 'Hey,
it's us,'" with their hands straight up in the air,
he said.
Shouting "cease fire!" Sayre
reached back and grabbed Ashpole's leg. "I screamed
'no' and then yelled repeatedly several times to cease
fire."
"No one heard me," Sayre said.
The deafening gunfire drowned out his cries.
Sayre says he then made a critical decision.
If he stopped the Humvee, it would have offered a stable
platform for the shooters, he later explained. Instead,
he said, he kept driving, hoping to carry the shooters
out of range.
Instead, it had the opposite effect, giving
the Rangers a better angle to blast away at their comrades
as the assault vehicle raced across the valley.
It was a complete failure.
Tillman lives! Every soldier learns from
Pat's death.
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