City Slickers in the Desert

I came to Saudi Arabia expecting to witness the beauty of rolling white desert sands; the incredible strength and stamina of the camels and the majestic flowing headdress and robes of the Arabs. The epic scenes straight out of Lawrence of Arabia circa early 1900s looming in my mind’s eye.

My first trip into the desert is in a brand new HUMVEE fresh with desert camouflage paint. Blazing along at 75 miles per hour we reach the Main Supply Route (MSR) that will take Alvarez and I northwest, away from the Port of Dammam, the Gulf waters and into the northern desert.

Our initial excitement at being in the desert is quickly dashed. The drive is monotonous. In the mid-morning light, the flat, colorless landscape stretches on as far as I can see.

No rolling hills of sand. No color contrast. No beautiful landscape. My heart sinks. Was this ugly view to be our constant companion for the foreseeable future?

For the first hour we see only military vehicles on the MSR. Tanks, semis full of gear, fuel tankers, CUTV, HEMMTS and more HUMVEE.

The Main Supply Route (MSR) is little more than a two lane road carved into the desert. Vehicles flying past with no regards to traffic rules. No speed limit. The MSR is the road to the wild, wild west. You enter and exit at your own risk.

There are piles of stones and cardboard signs occasionally to identify a demarcation point to outposts throughout the desert.

Vehicles will pass by racing on the side of road and kicking up clouds of dust.

The dust is terrible and not just because it makes it hard to see while driving. Alvarez and I both wear green cotton rags tied around our necks. We simultaneously pull the rags over our mouths to keep from inhaling the dust. I quit breathing through my nose and look around for the goggles that were part of our driving kit.

Alvarez unsnaps his helmet and places it between us. He takes one of the goggles from me and slides the strap over his head. I quickly do the same. We both struggle to blink the dust from our eyes.

The goggles and neckscarves will have to make do. The Battalion Commander will not let us wear headscarves. The Commander had a small fit when he saw one poor soldier attempting to wear a headscarf during a shooting exercise. The soldier had witnessed the Arabs wrapping the headscarf over the nose and mouth while creating a hood over the eyes.

This very practical approach to dealing with sand served as a negative reminder to our Commander and apparently many others who had served in Vietnam. The “headrags” were apparently commonly worn in Vietnam by soldiers celebrating the rampant drug culture of the 60s.

My initial take is the headscarves were incredibly practical in this environment. Since most of these soldiers weren’t born until the late 60s and 70s, they had no recollection of Vietnam. But our commander stood fast, no headrags on his soldiers.

I snap back to our journey, re-adjust the lensatic compass and double check the map. We have 3 more hours before we reach our first northbound turn. My eyes search the desert for something interesting.

Abandoned military vehicles are common place. Some appear to be accident victims and others simply broken down roadside. I begin to notice that many of the vehicles have been cannibalized. Bumpers, hoods, windshields are gone. Initially I think the Bedouin are taking the parts but this made no sense as the Bedouin travel light and would seemingly have little need for car parts. Later I discover that the cannibalization has become part of the Army repair system in the desert. This is no surprise as repair parts are so difficult to come by.

As Alvarez carefully watches the road, I see my first camel in the desert. The animal appears small and dirty dark brown in color. The camel is hobbled with a strap that ties the right front leg to the left rear leg.

I watch as a Japanese pickup truck comes slowly through the desert. “Is the truck herding those camels?” I point to a small herd of slightly larger animals.

The truck stops and I see three Bedouin pop out of the cab. The cab has fancy, colorful curtains with small tassels hanging around the base. One of the Bedouin pulls the curtains around the inside of the front windshield protecting the black interior from the full force of the sun.

I’m dismayed. Little Japanese pick up trucks? Where are the proud, mythic Bedouin riding their camels with brightly colored robes?

These Bedouin wear ground length earth colored tunics and headscarves. The city dwellers in contrast wear immaculate ground length white robes and headscarves. The tunics are very loose and appear so practical in this heat.

Our battle dress uniforms are not practical at all. The cloth doesn’t breathe and in this environment the baggy military clothing is too close fitting. The heavy green camouflage cloth is soaking wet with sweat at the points where the pants touch our bodies. The waist band, the knees, the ankles where our pants are neatly tucked in our completely impractical black leather combat boots. Uniforms and boots that are perfect for the snow or mountainous terrain but not the desert.

The Arabs all wear slip on sandals under their tunics. I’m quite envious as I sit sweating in the HUMVEE cab. No air conditioning. We try opening the windows but the dust makes that action undesirable.

I watch as many vehicles stop. The local drivers get out of their vehicles and roll out small prayer rugs on the sand.

They all face to the west. Towards Mecca.

I look back at the Bedouins as they kneel down on the prayer rugs and prostrate themselves in the scorching sun.

This is a sight that will never cease to amaze me although we will see this scene play out in the desert many times each day.

Time for prayer.

We drive on for hours in silence.

“Hungry? “ I mouth to Alvarez.

“Yea”. He mouths back.

“Crackers with some PB&J?”

He nods taking a big swing of water from his warm water bottle.

I break out the dehydrated food from dark brown plastic Meals Ready to Eat (MRE) bags. I knead the peanut butter mixture in the plastic sleeve until it feels smooth. Cut the plastic end with my utility knife and squeeze some PB on a cracker. Then opening the apple jelly in similar fashion, I repeat the steps. I hand Alvarez the cracker sandwich.

Alvarez yells over the sound of the engine,” This might taste great if my mouth wasn’t full of sand”.

I eat a cracker but it is so hot. The idea of peanut butter turns my stomach. I drink a little water and study the map.

About 20 miles to our turn off. I turn back to the window and my study of the desert.

At one point I am certain there is a giant hill in front of us and later a lake. "Is that an oasis?" But as we get closer to the geographic features, I can see the way my brain seeks familiar patterns out of the light contrived shapes. The sun moves across the sands creating a variety of shadows.

Right now my brain is still wired for the bright colors and patterns of cities and the western world. Over the next few weeks my brain and ultimately my eyesight will adjust to this new environment.

The subtle color variations of the sand and the shadow patterns of each day will become second nature. And the beauty and bitterness of the desert will be revealed in many interesting ways.

Prologue (Once In A Blue Moon: One)

My war was yesterday. At least in my mind it was yesterday.

I'm on the phone with my 19 year old nephew, Zachary. Reliving the incredible 125 degree heat in Saudi Arabia, the earth shaking explosions, the fear of biological weapons from Sadam's SCUD missiles, and the smell of burning Kuwaiti oil fields. These are all crystal clear memories for me. So are the images of Saudi men in their long crisp white robes and the camels ambling across the endless light brown stretches of the northern Saudi desert. I remember the long nights with no sleep and eating dehydrated food for weeks on end.

And the loneliness. Wondering when letters from home would finally get to us. The excitement of finding a pay phone and calling home.

1990 is crystal clear to me. Never mind I can barely remember what happened last month.

The reason for the phone call is that my nephew, Zachary, is leaving for Afghanistan in just a few weeks. He seems so young to me. But war is a young person's profession. When you are young you are physically strong but more important, you still believe that you are invincible. You have trained for war and you are excited to have the experience of going to war.

"I know we won't be able to talk to you for quite a while and that will be hard but we will write weekly." I wonder to myself how long it takes for mail to be delivered to the troops in Afghanistan.

"Aunt Flory, It really isn't that big a deal. I am taking my laptop. We won't be able to use our cell phones but we will have access to a satellite phone in our compound." Zachary kindly explains to me. "Hey, will you download videos and music onto thumb drives to send to me?"

The feeling of deja vu settles on me. It is September of 1990. I am 24 years old. My father (Zachary's grandfather)is telling me about the day he arrived as a young soldier in Vietnam in 1966. He was leaving my mom and infant daughter (me) at home. He got mail once a month or less although my mom wrote him every day. He remembers the heat and incredible humidity. He remembers the bravery of the South Vietnamese soldiers in the losing battle with the North.

I listen to my father with the ear of someone who is hearing an historical account. A war that is before my memories begin. But for my father the account could have happened yesterday. The memories are vivid for him.

As I hang up the phone with Zachary, the obvious hits me. Zachary was born the week I came home from Saudi Arabia. The Gulf War, which seems like a recent event to me, is ancient history to my 19 year old nephew.

I call my dad. "I've officially joined the old warrior's club." He laughs with me during the recounting of my conversation with Zachary.

Then his tone becomes somber. "Have you written the story of your year in Saudi Arabia?" he pauses. "Your mother has a box of every letter you sent from the desert. Think they are even still full of sand."

That night I am sitting at my parent's home sifting through and dusting off the letters. I am now completely reliving the year that has shaped my adult life and the world around me.

It is easy to think of the Persian Gulf War, nearly 20 years ago, as a relatively short, clean but massive military operation. An intense air war followed by the 100 hour ground invasion to free the Kuwaiti people from the Iraqi occupation. The entire operation took less than a year.

But the Persian Gulf War was the first step to the conflicts that continue to rage today.

The Persian Gulf War changed the game and marked a shift in our geographic focus. No more talk of the cold war, the USSR and communism. Now the emphasis in US foreign policy moved rapidly to the Middle East and most critically oil.

Following the war there was an increase in Arab frustrations with the enormous US military presence and influence in Saudi Arabia. In steady succession we've watched the bombing of Khobar Towers, the attack on the Cole, 9/11, the US invasion of Iraq and now the ongoing war in Afghanistan. We struggle now as we did in 1990 to understand the Arab culture(s) and our dependency on foreign sources of oil.

But my story is not a commentary on politics or foreign policy. My story is a soldier's story. The story of war. The story of entering a foreign and seemingly exotic culture. The story of falling in love.

I was just seeking adventure. Like my father before me. And like my nephew today.