The Waiting Game

Tonight it is September 7,2010 but I am thinking about September 1990.

Twenty years ago, soon after running a complicated parachute and rigger training mission, I received my initial mobilization call for Desert Shield. Within a few days, came my initial orders to prepare my Airborne Unit for deployment to Saudi Arabia.

My unit quickly packed and shipped all of our gear. We updated our finances, our shots and our wills. We prepared our families.

And we waited.

My unit waited for orders to get on the plane.

But the orders for my Airborne unit never came.

My orders for Saudi Arabia would come. But not yet.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gulf_War#UN_resolution

Invasion (Once In A Blue Moon: Two)

August 2, 1990

My neurotic best friend, roommate and fellow soldier, Melissa, is flipping through TV stations trying to catch the morning news.

“Breaking News. Inside sources indicate that Iraqi soldiers using helicopters and small ships have taken control of Kuwait. Reports are pouring in that Iraqi operations took less than 24 hours …”

“Flory, you might want to watch this.” Melissa calls out.

A young attractive female anchor, with a large CNN sign behind her, continues in clinical fashion. “… Four elite Iraqi Republican Guard Divisions attacked Kuwait City at 2:00 this morning with an estimated 100,000 soldiers and 700 tanks … “

I grab a blueberry bagel from a big woven basket on the counter. “Is this real news? Switch over to a network station.”

“I think it is CNN, 24 hour news or something new. They have reporters in Baghdad. Shhh.” Melissa puts her hand over my mouth. “Listen.”

“Okay.” I mumble while chewing on the bagel. “Great 24 hours of news will give you endless reasons to lose sleep.”

I lean over her shoulder to get a better look at the video footage of Iraqi soldiers running under Kuwait’s landmark Water Towers with their beautiful multi-story spheres and needle tops.

“Iraqi tanks attacked the royal residence, Dasman Palace. A Saudi source indicates that Emir Jaber Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah safely escaped into the Saudi desert.” The television screen shows Iraqi tanks moving freely down the main streets of Kuwait City.

“The same Saudi source reports that the Emir’s private guard and younger half brother stayed behind to defend the palace. There is poor quality footage and an unconfirmed report that the Sheikh was shot and killed. It appears that his body was placed in front of a tank and run over.”

“That isn’t going to go over well.” Pushing dark wavy hair out of her eyes, Melissa takes a deep breath as the horrifying scene played out in front of us. Her beautiful face reflects the concern we both feel.

On the small television screen I see Iraqi soldiers pulling down the distinctive green, white and red stripes with a black trapezoid of the Kuwaiti flag. Then the screen flashes to Saddam Hussian in Baghdad announcing in Arabic with an English translator that “Kuwait is once again and rightfully the 19th Province of Iraq.”

“When was Kuwait part of Iraq?"

"Maybe Late 1800s, early 1900s? The British pulled some trick after oil was discovered in Kuwait. The leader of Kuwait signed a protection agreement with the British. The Iraqis felt Kuwait was stolen from them."

"How do you remember that stuff? Did you make that up?"

I picked up my latest geo-political novel from the counter. "I read. I read a lot. But honestly, I’ll have to check. Not certain of the dates.”

I tried to remember how the British and French had divided the Middle East through the World Wars but those particular history lessons were not committed to memory.

I put down the half eaten bagel to finish French braiding my messy blonde hair.

“Mel ... “ I tuck the braid high above the collar of my uniform jacket, “I better get to the base for a SITREP. Are you going in today?” I pull the red airborne beret neatly over the platinum braid, the soft wool material falls flat over my head and fold the excess over my right ear. My fingers automatically check that my Lieutenant's bar is correctly positioned over my left eye.

“No, I’m off this weekend. Flory, do you think we will get pulled into this?”

“There is a lot of oil at stake and that was a blatant invasion of a sovereign nation.” I shrug and grimace. “We will know soon.”

“Are you jumping today?”

I respond with a huge smile and lift my big parachute bag from behind the couch and toss it over my shoulder. “It is like going to the amusement park to ride the roller coasters.”

“Just don’t get hurt.” Melissa calls behind me. “It is hard to find a new roommate.”

I close the door as Melissa turns back to watch more footage of the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait.

My car is in the shop and my brother has loaned me his beloved convertible while he is away on military assignment in Panama. As I unlock the 1973 red Ford Mustang, my mind reverts to the TV images. How could anyone get that film footage out of Kuwait so fast? Did this new TV station, CNN actually have reporters in other countries?

I start the car and begin to back out while thinking about the concept of 24 hour news? What a dumb idea. Seriously, what will their anchors talk about all day and night?

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.

My New Home in the Desert

My new home is the 18' by 54' olive drab "general purpose" large tent in the middle of our desert outpost.

This enclosed "home" has to be an improvement over the living conditions of the past few weeks. Sleeping on the open port in Dammam and the hood of the HumVee while on the road have lost their very limited appeal.

Pushing the Ray-Bans on top of my head, I pull open the canvas flap and step out of the bright light into the relative darkness. The enveloping smell is a combination of musty canvas and dust.

Does dust have a smell? Maybe I just taste the dust.

The large kerosene heater sitting in the middle of the tent is a welcome sight. The heater vent runs to a hole in the ceiling. Since the daytime temperatures in Saudi Arabia range from the 80s to more than 125 degrees we almost left the heaters back in storage at Fort Sheridan.

The desert does not retain the heat of the day and when temperatures plummet at night the human body finds it difficult to acclimate. We will be thankful for hauling the additional equipment with us.

My eyes scan the rest of the dimly lit tent. There are four neat rows of five cots with large water bottles sitting on nearly every one. Duffel bags, ruck sacks and large black garbage bags are shoved under and around the cots. A few enterprising soldiers have put clothing and personal items in the brown boxes that orginally stored dehydrated Meals Ready to Eat (MRE). Anything to keep out the dust.

The big red kerosene cans sit by the back doorflap of the tent. Trash bags and a half pallet of water bottles sit in the back corners.

I turn around to find a combination of mosquito netting and large camouflage blankets hanging from the ceiling to the floor just left of the door. The netting and blankets create the "walls" of a tiny room.

Alvarez pops his head in the tent, "Like your new room, LT?" He throws my ruck sack at me from the door.

"You really know how to decorate. I love the way the green and brown color palette complete the atmosphere." I grimace and drop the ruck in my space quickly turning to catch my duffel bag which comes flying through the air next. The folded components of the cot are tied firmly to the duffel.

"We are stuck with you so might as well make the best of it by putting you in the corner." Alvarez returns my banter.

"Didn't you say that when I came to the Airborne unit?"

In just seconds the metal cot frame is locked into shape and I am pressing the X shaped legs firmly in the sand. The green nylon sheet slides through the header bar.

"No. I wasn't this nice. Have to be extra nasty to new Lieutenants. Helps toughen you up."

The action of pulling hard on the footer bar stretches the green nylon sheet taut.

Ouch! I pinch my fingers every time putting the last bar in place. I shake my fingers silently.

My sleeping bag is on the cot, zipped shut and rolled tightly to keep out the creepy crawlies. Everything else is sealed in my gear and stacked in the corner.

Smiling like the Cheshire cat, I spin my legs up on top of the rolled sleeping bag, take off my gas mask and put the green carrier case under my head like a pillow. An uncomfortable pillow but I like having the mask close.

I close my eyes remembering, "You told me I would never survive the Airborne unit. I was too small and too weak. I would get hurt parachuting and no one would carry my gear... or something like that."

Alvarez is sprawled on his cot about 20 feet from my room. "You know, I said the exact same thing to the two previous commanders. Well, just the weak comment because they were both pretty tall."

"They at least listened to me." I can hear him laughing softly, "But you just ignore me and do whatever the hell you want to do. Worse than my teenage daughter!"

"Yea, yea, yea. Three years of misery working with me."

I survey the rest of the tent from my cot. There are two familiar looking boxes by the front door flap. Did I walk past these coming into the tent?

Lieutenant Hart stored the care gifts from my mom: a miniature Christmas tree, a plastic blow up Easter Bunny and a huge pile of letters. She must have brought them over for me. Nice.

Alvarez follows my look and walks over to the boxes. "Does your mom think we are living in a hotel?" He pulls out the Easter Bunny. "Is there a teddy bear in all that stuff?"

"Do you need one?" I'm glad Alvarez is here. The banter has the familiar tone of my brother's endless teasing.

For now, this is home.

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.

Welcome to the Adventure

January 1991
Dear Mom,

You told me to be careful what I ask for and you were right.

I came to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia to find a great adventure.

Our “first class accommodations” are in the northern Arabian Desert bordering Iraq and Kuwait. The living conditions can be summed up with five words: sand, cots, tents, dehydrated food.

The SCUD missiles explode overhead and the big MI Abrams tanks fly across the open desert with their turrets spinning. It is both amazing and frightening.

I’m enclosing several rolls of film to help you envision this barren and desolate landscape. Hopefully you can still develop the pictures. The sand grit invades and ruins everything here.
When you look at the pictures, please don’t be upset when you see my hair. It looks like I got a haircut with a hacksaw but it is starting to grow back.

Sometimes I wear my Army camouflage uniform. Other times I attempt to go native to work with the Saudi contractors and local peoples. My Arab style outfit is complete with veils to cover my hair which looks terrible anyway. BUT I absolutely refuse to cover my face.

The guys in my unit started calling me “Florence of Arabia” when we first got here. The name caught on and now people from other units are using it too.

If I had any free time, finding a date would be statistically in my favor. There are more than 10,000 men to every female. One of the guys pulled an amusing prank on me. He is clever and handsome but completely off limits.

I’ll tell you about it later.

Private moments are rare now. The time for the ground war is coming.

Love you,
Flory

First Lieutenant Florence Maxton
Log Base Echo, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

PS. Are you keeping all my letters? I have not had time to write in my journal.

Airborne (Once In A Blue Moon:Three)

My adrenaline is pumping as I wait.

For three years now I’ve been the only female in this army airborne unit. It never bothers me. I grew up with two absolutely merciless brothers so frankly it is just like being at home.

I have more than 50 combat ready jumps with full equipment including ruck sack, gas mask and M-16 rifle all strapped to my waist and legs.

It takes an athletic person to pull off a combat jump. But today is a pure thrill ride, a short Hollywood jump. Hollywood just means that we have no extra equipment and don’t even have to pop our own chutes on this jump. The chute release is hooked to the helicopter by a static line.

Suddenly the Jumpmaster’s big hand slaps my shoulder. I can barely hear him over the deafening whop, whop, whop of the Huey helicopter rotor blades. “Go Lieutenant!”

Careful not to catch my feet in the long, thin helicopter skids, I launch my 5’3” body into the bright blue sky. The sound of the helicopter fades away as the hot summer wind rushes across my sun kissed face.

Every time I make the leap out of an aircraft I get the same rush of adrenaline and that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The dread never goes away no matter how many times I parachute but with experience I get more accustomed to the sensation.

I push myself away from the chopper and immediately begin to count, “one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand…”

There is a phenomenal rush of wind as I fall.

At the sixth count the static line pops my chute open and my body is yanked back up into the sky becoming part of the wind. Suddenly I am floating as the parachute fully opens.

In seconds, Meyers, Kolton and Brigg’s chutes open in the clear blue sky behind me. I pull the left toggle on my risers turning toward the three young jumpers.

Instead of creating air space, Meyers is turning towards the other two. What is he thinking? He is suddenly right above Kolton and tries to walk across the top of Kolton’s chute.

Kolton is so focused Meyers that he drifts too close to Briggs.

We jump at just 1200 feet above the ground and now we are too low for a safe opening of the reserve chutes now. I hold my breath.