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.