Iraqi Missile Attack

I lay down on top of my sleeping bag feeling too tired to take off my boots or even remove my camouflage uniform jacket.

There is a stupid metal rod running right through the middle of the cot. No matter which way I turn the rod is jamming into the middle of my back, side or stomach. Sleeping on the ground would be infinitely more comfortable.

My tired mind turns to the morning equipment trade. Maybe I should think through accepting 18 miles of fuel assault hose more carefully. Seriously who is going to want …

I feel a warm salty breeze across my face and twisting my hair. The peaceful gulf water fills my sight line just a hundred yards away from my cot. A shooting star in the corner of my vision suddenly catches my attention.

It is a subconscious reaction that brings me to my feet. A second flash, from the Patriot missile battery, appears before I can utter a single word.

The explosion overhead as the Patriot missile smashes into the Iraqi SCUD ballistic missile is deafening. All the warning sirens go off.

“Gas Attack!!” A dozen or more voices sound off at the same time across the port.

No panic. Just pure adrenaline floods my body.

We have trained for this attack since the day I entered the military. It is a pavlovian response to pull the protective mask out of my hip bag and slide it over my head.

I inhale as much air as possible, collapsing the mask around my face, tightening the straps behind my head for a tight seal and pulling the hood over the back of my neck.

My charcoal laden protective suit is in the bottom of my sleeping bag. Yanking it out and pulling it on over my uniform is hard in the dark and with the protective mask on. I feel for the zippers since I can’t see anything.

The last zipper slides up from my waist to my neck easily. I pull the rubber boots on over my combat boots with a feeling of elation. That had to be record reaction time.

My adrenaline is still pumping but my mind focuses on the biggest question. Is this a chemical or biological attack? I pull the rubber gloves on over the white cotton insert gloves.

What do I feel? No burning, no shortness of breath, no pain and no nausea. No physical symptoms from an attack.

Breathing a sigh of relief I hear the air exit the filters. As I breathe back in the mask contracts around my face. I fight the feeling of claustrophobia.

Focus on other things. I look around and see if anyone is in trouble or needs help.

My eyes struggle to focus on the people around me. It is hard to tell if anyone is in pain or panicking. We all look like aliens with giant bug eyes, breathing ventilators, matching earth tone chemical suits and black rubber gloves and boots. The sight would be comical if the situation weren't so serious.

All I can hear is my labored breathing; the sound is like Darth Vadar in Star Wars or an asthmatic gasping for air with every breath through the mask filters.

Concentrate!

I snap out of my internal focus and look carefully at the soldiers around me. Everyone around me appears to be safely in their protective gear. Buck, or the person standing near Buck’s cot, gives me the thumbs up. I return the signal and turn towards the rows of cots behind me.

My smile is hidden inside the hideous mask as I watch the giant wave soldiers across the port giving the thumbs up to their buddies.