Timothy McVeigh, Soldier

On February 24, 1991 a freezing dawn broke in the Syrian Desert. The soldiers of Charlie Company loaded their weapons and listened to the thump of artillery shells and the whine of missiles. The numbing, gritty wind and the endless sandy plains made them feel vulnerable, haunted, as they prepared for the afternoon offensive. There was reason for their anxiety. Iraqi nerve-gas attacks seemed inevitable, and the Army's battle plan allowed for Charlie Company to take 70 percent casualties.

Among the troopers there that day was 22-year-old Sergeant Timothy McVeigh, a gunner in charge of protecting his Bradley fighting vehicle, an aluminum troop transport. If he misfired, froze or panicked, its occupants might be incinerated.

At 2:30 P.M. the countdown to battle reached one half hour. Jason Smith, the driver in McVeigh's vehicle, fired up the 600-horsepower, turbocharged diesel engine. Lieutenant Jesus Rodriguez, the vehicle commander, took his seat to the right of McVeigh and tested the radio system. McVeigh strapped himself into the gunner's turret and checked his weapons. In his lap he couched a Bushmaster 25mm cannon that could fire armor-piercing shells through six feet of reinforced concrete, or high-explosive shells with a kill radius of five meters. In an exterior box mounted to the left of the turret, two tube-launched, optically tracked, wire-guided missiles were poised to destroy enemy tanks within 3750 meters. A coaxial machine gun provided close-in support. The coaxial fires 1000 rounds a minute and is fitted with detachable barrels to prevent meltdown. An automatic cartridge-ejection system would prevent McVeigh from being instantly buried in casings during battle.

When McVeigh leaned forward, his forehead rested against a padded viewfinder. Its thermal sensors lit up the desert with a red background, and targets glowed. His screens were so accurate that he could pick off desert rats from 200 yards.

When thousands of synchronized watches hit 3:00 P.M., the M1 tanks (equipped with gigantic blades for plowing sand) and the Bradleys stormed toward the Iraqi bunkers. They then turned sharply to the left or right and began dumping tons of earth into the trenches. This plowing maneuver was so successful that Iraqi soldiers, many of them Kurdish draftees who would rather have shot Saddam Hussein than face the First Infantry, crawled frantically from the trenches as they saw walls of killer sand whirl their way. They ran straight into the crosshairs of Bradley gunners such as McVeigh.

"It was like a video game," said Robin Littleton, a gunner who fought in a Bradley vehicle alongside McVeigh. "We went through there shooting our asses off. The guys coming up behind us said it was the most horrendous thing they had ever seen. They were finding people beheaded, buried alive or trying to crawl with their arms blown off."

For nearly 48 hours this procedure was continued. The artillery bombarded the Iraqi trenches, then any Iraqis with white flags were taken prisoner. Finally the plows and gunners moved toward the trenches, turned smartly and shot or buried any of the remaining Iraqis.

"Once you made that turn, there was no time to let prisoners out," said Captain Jeff Coverdale, who fought in the brigade with McVeigh's company. "Everybody there dies. Then you move on to the next objective."

Two colonels who led this operation, Lon Maggart and Anthony Moreno, later estimated that between 650 and several thousand Iraqi soldiers died in the two-day attack.

McVeigh would later receive a Bronze Star, five other medals and an invitation to commando school for his part in the war. The citation with his Bronze Star proclaims that his "selfless actions were key to the flawless execution of the mission, the liberation of Kuwait and the ultimate defeat of the Iraqi army. Sergeant McVeigh's flawless devotion to duty truly exemplifies the finest tradition of military service and reflects great credit upon him."

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In the aftermath of the devastating blast at the Alfred Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, the FBI and the Army have been reluctant to discuss the military career of the chief suspect. "I'm doing my best to distance the U.S. Army from Timothy James McVeigh," said Lieutenant Colonel Bill Harkey, a military spokesman.

And yet, many who knew McVeigh have been willing to talk about their former comrade-in-arms, sifting for clues to what could have made the alleged bomber commit such a crime. The soldiers and veterans who spoke about McVeigh, especially the gunners who served in McVeigh's platoon, insist that the Pentagon and the FBI have clearly downplayed McVeigh's weapons training and combat leadership. They describe a dedicated young soldier who fearlessly led his squad into battle. They also describe McVeigh as an intense student of war who read and reread complex weapons manuals.

The men of Charlie Company, including McVeigh, were part of many Army experiments, including those with untested vaccines, a new generation of experimental tanks and a community housing program designed to enhance group unity. This unity experiment, known as a Cohort program, kept the 115 men of Charlie Company together from basic training through combat. Many were in the same bunks, tanks and training courses as McVeigh for more than three years. These are the men who know him best, who fought alongside him in war and who are now bound together again by the possibility that their Charlie Company colleague had a hand in killing 168 people in Oklahoma City.

Before he joined the Army, Tim McVeigh saved $7000 to buy a ten-acre plot of land outside Buffalo, New York. With friends, he took his favorite guns to the plot for weekend shooting sprees. Neighbors complained that these sounded like a battle zone. During the week, McVeigh worked as an armored-car guard, where he got into trouble for wearing bandoliers of bullets across his chest. Two months after his 20th birthday, in May 1988, McVeigh enlisted for a three-year hitch in the Army. As a gung-ho infantryman, he would be encouraged to explore and expand his gun fetish--without such civilian limitations as ornery bosses and complaining neighbors.

After three months of training at Fort Benning, Georgia, McVeigh was assigned to the Second Brigade of the 16th Infantry Division, a mechanized infantry unit at Fort Riley, Kansas. His outfit was known as the 2/16, or by its Army title, the Dagger Brigade.

The blue-eyed, brown-haired McVeigh appeared to be the studious type. "He didn't cuss, didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't chew tobacco and he didn't go out with us," said a fellow soldier at Fort Riley. "He just stayed in the barracks and read his covert operations books and Soldier of Fortune." McVeigh seemed to socialize with guns more than with people, and he never had much of a way with women. Not one soldier could remember McVeigh's having a date or female friend in his three and a half years in the Army. He wasn't gay, they say, just awkward.

Franklin Whiddon, a military colleague, remembers McVeigh for his enthusiasm. "When we chanted 'Kill, kill, kill, blood makes the grass grow,' his voice was the loudest."

The men were assigned to work with armored troop carriers, and McVeigh immediately volunteered to run the guns. While his colleagues were still learning the mechanics of the M16, McVeigh had already mastered that and three other weapons: a high-caliber machine gun, a precision missile system and a 25mm cannon. His marksmanship was unparalleled. "If he was given a mission and a target, it was done," said James Ives, a colleague.

The soldiers of Charlie Company were packed eight to a room in the barracks on Custer Hill at Fort Riley. With thousands of combat troops stationed so close together, blowups were inevitable. McVeigh's unit was called the Wacky Ward by fellow soldiers.

According to internal audits, Fort Riley was consistently rated as having among the worst morale of any Army installation. Coverdale, who lost two nephews in the Oklahoma bombing, was a public affairs officer at Fort Riley. He noted that the Dagger Brigade might well be renamed Renegade Brigade for its number of racial complaints and recent shootings and suicides. When Coverdale discovered that McVeigh was a former soldier with the 2/16, a rage burned inside.

"There was a major who was an arsonist--twice he burned down barracks--and he wasn't disciplined," said Coverdale, now a high school teacher in Junction City, Kansas. "What happens if that guy, who is now in the civilian world, sets fire to somebody's house and burns up somebody's kids? It may never happen, but a guy who committed a criminal offense was released back into society without even a slap on the wrist. So why shouldn't he think it's all right for him to do it again?"

Coverdale predicted more vicious consequences from the military budget cuts that had forced tens of thousands of soldiers to return to civilian society. "The drawdown creates frustrated, hostile people. There are some guys who were kicked out who think they are God's gift to the military and are mad at the world now. They are prime recruits for the militia organizations--which, by the way, look for new members on post."

Racism also festered in the 2/16, according to members of the unit. "McVeigh's unit had been a hotbed of racial activity for years," said Coverdale, who is now filing a discrimination complaint against the First Infantry Division. "I'm glad that Todd Regier [a colleague of McVeigh's] talked about how McVeigh gave the worst jobs to 'the niggers,' because that is exactly what went on there."

Several black soldiers in McVeigh's company complained to their superiors that McVeigh called them niggers and consistently gave them demeaning tasks. He received a mild reprimand.

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"He was promoted shortly after that and was made a squad leader," said Coverdale. "So you take someone who was reprimanded for messing over three guys and put him in charge of nine? What example does that set?"

Others praised McVeigh. "This racism stuff really burns my butt," says Captain Terry Guild, who was McVeigh's platoon commander. "He was a good leader. He took care of his men. He was a sound man, proud to be in the Army and serving his country."

In March 1990 McVeigh was promoted to corporal and, along with a group of his peers, was invited to participate in a three-month Bradley training course at Fort Riley. Now he could practice on the live-fire range, aiming TOW missiles at plywood targets. In a 25mm cannon course, McVeigh was taught about the different explosives used to blow up tanks or destroy small bunkers. Weapons were becoming his specialty.

By the summer of 1990 McVeigh was the pride of the infantrymen, at least on the battlefield. But back in the barracks, he was a shrewd entrepreneur who ran a loan-sharking operation. When other soldiers in Charlie Company blew their cash on lap dances or pitchers of beer at strip joints, they had two options: the row of pawnshops just outside the Fort Riley gate or a loan from McVeigh. When payday came, McVeigh opened his accountant's book and sought out the men who owed him money. He also ran a gun business, showing pictures of weapons and procuring them for his buyers. He carried a small arsenal under the seat of his car, in the glove compartment and in the trunk. He was rarely separated from a black Glock semiautomatic pistol, which he usually tucked into his pants at the small of his back.

In the autumn of 1990, as McVeigh finished his Bradley course, he reenlisted. He was aiming for a long career in the military, with retirement sometime around 2023. On November 8, 1990 the men in McVeigh's unit were notified that they were headed to Saudi Arabia. They began preparing for a tank war in the Iraqi desert.

One month later, McVeigh and the 115 men of Charlie Company were bused 60 miles east of Fort Riley to Forbes Field. Each soldier was issued a 15-day supply of ammo, a five-day supply of food, one M16 and one nerve gas survival suit. They also received anti-nerve gas injection kits, which they stored inside their chemical warfare masks. The nerve-gas serum and other experimental medicines caused fear and resentment among the soldiers. According to one widely told story, a Fort Riley soldier who was sleeping on his gas mask accidentally pressured a syringe, causing a needle to jab into the back of his neck and kill him instantly. The Pentagon sought to stop this rumor with bulletins denying the incident, but the collective fears of 500,000 green troops would not be so easily quashed.

When the vehicles arrived in Saudi Arabia, McVeigh was given a Bradley just off the assembly line in San Jose, California. Inside the vehicle, the governor that limited its top speed was removed and the end caps came off the TOW missiles. Now the driver, Smith, could maneuver the Bradley at up to 70 mph and McVeigh could fire guided missiles at live targets rather than at Fort Riley's plywood mock-ups.

Colleagues say that McVeigh was neither aggressive nor bloodthirsty as his date with combat neared. He did, however, volunteer for extra work so often that they joked he would have signed up for an extra dose of the feared Desert Storm vaccine. While other soldiers played cards and shared meals, McVeigh could usually be found holed up in his Bradley turret for hours at a time, eating alone and showing his comrades only the back of a gray fiberglass swivel seat.

McVeigh's battles had already begun. His first adversary was the desert wind, which threatened to foul his weapons with sand. Although it was a tedious task to dismantle, clean and lubricate the 25mm cannon and the coaxial machine gun, McVeigh labored to keep them in combat-ready condition. He was fastidious about his sleeping quarters as well. One could lift the flap of his tent and find hospital corners, folded socks and military precision down to the last stacked ammunition box.

McVeigh knew that his million-dollar Bradley fighting vehicle was a virgin war toy. The only hits it had taken were press reports calling the aluminum troop transport a gold-plated coffin. In the Iraqi desert, the million-dollar vehicle would finally face enemy fire.

"They told us that if the hatches were closed and we took a direct hit, the pressure alone would blow us up," explained Troy Charles, a Bradley driver in Charlie Company. "It's kind of like an unopened Coke bottle, you know, when you shoot it with a rifle? We were the Coke. We were actually told that the life expectancy for an infantryman on the battlefield was 13 seconds. We had to live with those kinds of figures."

On February 1, McVeigh was promoted to sergeant, his fourth promotion in less than three years. The young soldier was proud that he would go to war as an officer. His colleagues were more interested in his ability to precisely lob cannon shells 2000 yards across the desert. McVeigh had received an Army Commendation Medal for his marksmanship. On the Bradley qualification test he racked up a perfect score.

As sergeant, McVeigh was the deputy commander inside the vehicle. By military protocol, he was subordinate to Jesus Rodriguez, the lieutenant in the same vehicle. In reality, McVeigh ran the vehicle and reviewed the battle plans. According to other men in the Bradley, Rodriguez was a lackluster lifer who was unable to unite the troops.

"We survived in spite of Rodriguez," said Sheffield Anderson. "McVeigh was a calming force in the vehicle."

By the middle of February the air war was rattling to an end and the artillery had taken up shelling Iraqi trenches with cluster bombs. The Apache helicopter pilots practiced on Nintendo Game Boys, and infantrymen trucked their tanks to the front. McVeigh arrived at King Khalid Military City on February 12, then headed north to the border. The troops were having live-fire practice, sighting their weapons and adjusting for the terrain.

On February 22, orders finally came to attack the Iraqi lines. The offensive would begin in 48 hours. McVeigh and his comrades would be in front as American forces attempted to break through. Some soldiers tied Rambo-style bandannas on their heads. But McVeigh, close-cropped and intent, would go to battle in strict military uniform.

The night before battle, his carefully controlled emotions unraveled a bit during a conversation with Anderson, who is now a probation officer in Florida. "We were in the desert, sleeping on the sand, and he really thought we were going to die," recounts Anderson. "He was worried that we would be killed by our own helicopters or tanks." Indeed, the original battle plan had the troops advancing on foot, which would have caused many casualties.

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When the order came to storm forward, the Bradley gunners protecting the tank operation were instructed to "take no prisoners" and to open up on the trenches "as fast and as hard as possible," according to Littleton. But first they bombed the Iraqi positions a final time.

"Even before we attacked the trenches we brought all the artillery up on line and pounded them," remembers Cover-dale. "We were watching all this, saying, 'No one can live through that."

"The Iraqis fought back until they figured out what was happening," recounts Littleton. "They saw it all coming. The M1s with the plows were burying people alive. They said 'Jesus, fuck this' or 'Muhammad' or whatever and started jumping out of the trenches."

From inside the turret, McVeigh, like the other three gunners in his platoon, spent two full days riveted to the screens, deciphering the squawk of two radios and blasting away. Thick smoke from burning oil wells, incinerated vehicles and grenades posed no problems for the talented gunner. With his integrated sight unit he could fight and fire under the worst conditions. The combat high, the soldiers later said, is like no other.

"It was fucking ridiculous," said Littleton, who listened to the Jerry Garcia Cats Under the Stars album during the massacre. "I joined the Army because I was on the wrong road and wanted a little money for college. Not to kill people. You would be riding the trench line and there would be 1500 people running around. You were getting only 300 shots a minute from the 25mm cannon, so you went to the coaxial machine gun and had 1000 rounds a minute."

When McVeigh's platoon spotted an Iraqi vehicle that had miraculously managed to survive the stealth bomber, the artillery and the helicopters, all the gunners were eager to have the first shot. The honor went to McVeigh. With half the platoon watching, he launched a missile and destroyed the vehicle. No one was surprised.

"He was a good shot," said Anderson. "I remember when he reported shooting an Iraqi from 1000 meters. He took off the guy's head with a cannon shell, which you're really not supposed to do. I remember that he was very pleased."

Larry Frame was following behind McVeigh's Bradley when the incident occurred. "I saw him blow up a position that had three or four guys in it," Frame said. "Afterward, he showed no remorse. He screamed and yelled like he had really done something. The guys he shot at were trying to give up."

Regier, who was outside the vehicle at the time, also remembers the incident. "Some were trying to surrender, but they were all in a bunch, and others were still firing. He probably should have used a smaller-caliber weapon. The Geneva Convention says you're not supposed to use those [antitank] weapons on people."

Right weapon or wrong, everybody agreed it was a great shot.

When the men of Charlie Company finally stopped firing and plowing long enough to take a head count, they were astounded. Not one of them had died. Four or five had been injured, and several seriously burned, but considering the projected 70 percent kill rate, it was nothing short of what one soldier called "a fucking miracle." Their sister unit was not so fortunate. Three soldiers in the 5/16 died and one was blinded when they stepped on cluster bombs fired into Iraqi-held territory by American artillery. As the American forces advanced, they inevitably came upon unexploded ordnance. The 33-ton Bradleys rolled over the bombs with ease, but against "soft targets" such as infantrymen, the American cluster bombs were terrifyingly effective.

The temporary cease-fire ordered by President Bush on February 28 caught the soldiers by surprise. Contingency plans to occupy southern Iraq and invade Baghdad were being drawn up, but apparently the White House was worried about extending the carnage. The mission was over: Kuwait had been returned to the sheikhs and Iraq had lost another generation of young men.

American soldiers in the desert were baffled as the U.S. urged Shiite and Kurdish groups to overthrow Hussein, then watched mutely as the designated revolutionaries were mowed down by Iraqi helicopter gunships. They could watch but not act as Iraqi army trucks loaded tanks and war supplies and drove them north to Baghdad.

Still, most of the troops celebrated the surprise cease-fire. McVeigh did not. He was bemoaning the abrupt orders, which had eliminated the second part of Charlie Company's mission: to occupy Basra, inside Iraq. "McVeigh was upset that we didn't go all the way," said Littleton. "He thought the United Nations had let him down. He believed that our government had stopped short of what it needed to do. We felt empty. It was almost worthless to leave Hussein in power and capable of that much destruction and evil."

Charlie Company was dispatched to an Iraqi airstrip known as Safwan, where the allied command would hold the cease-fire meeting with Iraqi military leaders. For several days they guarded the biggest sitting duck of all, General Norman Schwartzkopf. McVeigh's comrades hastily unloaded 18 Chinook helicopters and set to work: A tent city arose from the desert. A gauntlet of tanks was prepared to provide an intimidating welcome for the Iraqis.

While infantrymen Regier and Anderson wandered the peace talks gawking at Iraqi generals, driver Smith and gunner McVeigh were on the ready, scanning the perimeter for an unlikely Iraqi kamikaze attack.

After the details of a permanent ceasefire were agreed upon, Charlie Company was sent farther north to an isolated Iraqi desert town. For several weeks the company holed up in a city park, manning checkpoints and watching a family across the street try to save an emaciated herd of goats.

McVeigh's spirits lifted when he was selected for a coveted tryout with the Special Forces. If he passed the 21-day Special Forces assessment and selection course at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, McVeigh could become a commando.

A standard 12-man Special Forces squad has six pairs of specialists, including those in communications, medicine and weapons. McVeigh's specialty was weapons, and in preparation for the course he had studied special operations manuals in the barracks and marched around the post with extra equipment. As a Green Beret, McVeigh would work with claymore mines, plastic explosives and 1000-round ammunition feeds and use special hand-to-hand combat-survival training. His missions would take him behind enemy lines, or to the School of the Americas, where he would train foreign armies.

McVeigh also dreamed of becoming a prototype for the Army's Digitized Dismounted Battle Lab Soldier--a fusion of man and machine gun. With his laser beams to blind enemy troops, night-vision equipment to target them and shoulder-launched missiles to pulverize them, the digitized soldier was the Army's vision of the 21st century commando. March 28 was the last day that Charlie Company saw Sergeant McVeigh in the Gulf. While his comrades looked on, he threw his rucksack and duffel bag into a command jeep, the first step in his journey to Fort Bragg. Few of the men in Charlie Company had any interest in joining McVeigh in the grueling Green Beret tryout, but almost any excuse to return to the States was worth a shot.

Until now, McVeigh had had nothing but success in his military career. But he met his match in the Special Forces assessment. The tryouts are designed to squeeze a man's head, wear out his body and test his skills as a killer. Fewer than half the recruits finish the three-week course. Of those, only the best are offered an opportunity to join the Green Berets. According to The New York Times, McVeigh withdrew from the course when officials saw the results of his psychological tests.

The Army offered its own version, claiming that McVeigh voluntarily dropped out after failing a rigorous march. A Special Forces officer at Fort Riley refuted that story. "The Special Forces school has a way of dropping you without making you look stupid or incompetent," he said. "A colleague at Special Forces said McVeigh was a nut so they washed him out."

"I think it was the Special Forces rejection that snapped him," said Regier.

Terry Guild, McVeigh's platoon commander, agreed. "That was the first time he had failed at anything in the Army. It might have been enough" to have cracked McVeigh.

When McVeigh returned to Charlie Company his pride was crushed. Few people could recognize the young warrior who had performed so enthusiastically in Desert Storm and been widely decorated after the war. He still had the skills of a top gunner, but his devotion to Army rituals dissolved rapidly. There was no more talk of an Army retirement sometime in the next century. Now, like the men who had mocked his own Army loyalty, McVeigh bitched about the military and planned a return to civilian life. Students who met him noted his criticism of just about everything, and called him "Anti McVeigh."

In the months since the Oklahoma City bombing, McVeigh's former colleagues have scoured their memories for any indications that his combat duty in Operation Desert Storm left him psychologically scarred.

"I don't think combat experience is an issue. There is nothing he did that the rest of us didn't do," said Regier. "If he had been on a police force, the same thing could have happened."

Littleton paints a grimmer picture. "I have spent the past few years trying to forget about that nightmare," he says.

Littleton also questions the Army's failure to follow up with the soldiers after combat. "There we were in combat in February and back on the streets in May. How come the Army never mailed out a postcard to us--say, six months after we got out--saying, 'We are getting the guys together and we'd like to chat about what's on your mind'? That was never done."

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After his arrest, McVeigh sat calmly in the Noble County Jail in Perry, Oklahoma. Herbert Ferguson, a deputy at the jail, noted that McVeigh never said anything about the explosion that had shocked the nation. "He always acted like he was sleeping," the deputy wrote in a letter that was distributed to reporters. "I told him, 'Damn, dude, you sure sleep a lot.' He laughed and said he was catching up on the sleep he lost in the Army."

In a 25mm cannon course, McVeigh was taught about explosives. Weapons had become his specialty.