Christmas in the Arabian Desert 1990

The informal Christmas service at Log Base Alpha, Saudi Arabia must be over.

A small group of soldiers are Christmas caroling through the outpost. Their voices echo the words from We Three Kings of Orient Are just outside the work tent in the bright star light.

I briefly consider rolling off the hated cot to go outside and encourage the holiday cheer but my stomach is racked with spasms. Closing my eyes, I imagine the three wise men riding their camels across the Arabian Peninsula laden with valuable gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Who were these wise men? Perhaps the Zoroastrians, the earliest astrologers, from Iran, Babylon or Afghanistan following the brightest star in the sky to find the biblical King of Kings in a humble manger in Jeruselam.

In my delirium, I try to piece together the bible story from the perspective of the desert.

Or were the wise men really Kings or Arabian tribal leaders taking gifts to a Jewish child hundreds of years before the beliefs of Mohammed and the Q'uran swept the region.

These three travelers might have ridden on the Arabian trade route that existing thousands of years before Christ? Frankincense and myrrh, so valued for perfume, incense and embalming, would be available in Arabia as both come from the sap of trees that grow in the harsh Middle Eastern climate.

The Christmas carols continue outside. I open my eyes and rest my gaze on the one foot tall artifical tree sitting on stacked boxes of our dehydrated Christmas meals. My mother sent this tree, our single holiday decoration, in the first care package. The tree decorations are tiny candy canes, delicate white angels, and doll size drums ... must have taken mom a long time to place all the tiny decorations on the branches.

My family is at home opening their presents and sharing the holiday meal but I am really too sick to care that there will be no presents this year.

The cracker packet is sitting open next to me on the sleeping bag and the large water bottle next to the cot. My lips are cracked but I can't bring myself to touch either.

The carolers move on to the next tent and their voices fade into the night.

Pa rum pa pum pum
Rum pa pum
Rum pa pum

Heat

After five days of travel and two engine fires, it is a relief to climb down three flights of stairs, walk past the sea of military jeeps, palletized boxes and a tank.

I finally jump off the tailgate of the C-5 Galaxy on December 4, 1990 at King Fahd International Airport and walk into a wall of dry heat and blinding sunlight.

Where are those Raybans? I reach into my cargo pocket pulling out the sunglasses case. That case will never be used again. Those Raybans will rarely leave my face over the next six months. Often I will fall asleep with the mini shield still covering my eyes or put them in my helmet right next to my cot.

The Raybans aren't the only item that will become permanent extensions of me.

A small, thin soldier hands me a three live ammo clips. I expect this protective measure and after checking to ensure the clips are full, push these into the ammo "pockets" on my utility belt.

Alvarez is in front of me. He slaps a clip against his palm and watches sand slide out and through his fingers. No doubt keeping the M-16s and clips from jamming is going to be a hassle.

I look around Alvarez to see Melissa Hart receiving a case with the bold wording Atropine on the side. Her tan face goes pale as her long fingers wrap around the small plastic container which contains injectors for emergency use only.

The fear of biological and chemical weapons is pervasive among the coalition troops. The Iraqis are believed to have used these insidious weapons against their own people.

The injectors deliver life saving drugs that provide a painful salvation from a nearly certain death.

I lean down to tighten the gas mask belt around my thigh. In the process my dogtags swing loose from the front of my t-shirt and hang straight down from my neck. I clasp the tags and slide them back under my shirt.

Alvarez is staring at me. I raise an eyebrow quizically.

"What is the red tag?"

I absently pull the tags back up in front of me and flip over the med alert tag, "Severe allergic reaction to tetracycline, a bacterial antibiotic".

"Tetracycline." Alvarez repeats and turns to check the expiration date on the package of his atropine injector.

"Do you ever trust that you will be given equipment that works?" I take my atropine injector and snap it securely into a pocket on the back of the gas mask carrier.

"No. And neither should you."

My helmet is securely on my head. The M-16 is slung over my right shoulder with live ammunition in my ammo pockets. A personally fitted gas mask on my left hip with atropine injector in the back flap. Dog tags around my neck. And Raybans protecting my eyes.

I'm ready.

For something.