Sitting in the co-pilots seat of the Black Hawk, I look out across the desert to the north where a black plume is spiraling into the sky. The pilot Captain Marks, call sign "Dr Dave", turns sharply to the west heading back to my remote desert home, Log Base Echo.
As the chopper turns, I gasp involuntarily as giant black plume after giant black plume comes into view. Dr. Dave's voice comes into my headset. "The Iraqis are retreating and their farewell gift to the Kuwaitis and Coalition Force is setting several hundred oil fields on fire".
Horrific scenarios start to run through my mind. Blackout conditions. Air filled with oil. Will we be able to breathe without venilators this close to the oil fields?
"Burgan?" I mouth the name of the largest oilfield in Kuwait.
"Burning." Dr Dave's is silent for several minutes. He is listening intently to the radio traffic.
"The radio operators keep refering to Burgan as Inferno." Dr Dave listens and talks to me simultaneously. "Apparently the heat is so intense that the Kuwaitis can't get near enough to figure out how to put it out and..."
I wait for the rest and finally ... "And?"
"Not certain I heard this correctly." Dr Dave looks puzzled, "It is raining oil? Pools of oil are forming in the desert just a few miles from here."
"Is that possible?"
"Something about trying to use salt water to smother the fire. The oil is bonding to the water mist and ending up on the desert floor in small ponds."
There is the sound of a massive explosion as another oilfield is set on fire. In the helicopter we can't feel the earth shake but on the ground that must have felt like a small earthquake. In minutes another oil plume takes shape. This time closer than the others.
Dr Dave cuts into my thoughts, "The Iraqis put in minefields around many of the oil wells after lighting them on fire."
We are quiet for the rest of the flight watching the plumes and wondering what will happen next. What will the impact be to us? To the people in Kuwait?
Dr Dave's voice comes back over the headset. "I've got orders to drop you and get the hell back to the airbase asap. Sorry I can't stick around."
"Thanks for the ride."
"Any time LT. Thanks for securing the radio gear for the engineers."
I was opening the door and preparing to leap out of the helicopter before the skids touch down. I leap and feel the beating wind from the rotor blades whipping over my head. As my feet hit the ground, I duck my head and clutch my gear to my stomach. Moving quickly but carefully I get away from the helicopter.
Within seconds Dr Dave is back in the air and gives me a quick informal salute.
I return the salute and turn to see a HumVee with a handsome Sergeant in the drivers seat waiting for me at the end of the makeshift desert helipad and Jet A refueling point.
"Thanks, I wasn't looking forward to the hike back into camp."
"Dr Dave radioed back that you got some bad news and might appreciate
seeing a friend."
"It was a three strikes day. Bad news from HQ on our ammo and flak jackets. Bad news from the Red Cross about my grandmother. And bad news that our path into Kuwait is on fire. Not a great day."
Author Note: The Iraqi troops set over 700 oil fields on fire as they fled Kuwait during Operation Desert Storm in late January 1991. For weeks the oil in the air formed around our mouths and noses. Soldiers living exposed in the desert developed severe respiratory problems. And the blackouts came throughout the middle east as the oil worked its way through the air and back to the ground. It took 4 major firefighting companies 9 months to put out all the fires. The true human and environmental impact of the fires is unknown.
About Me
- Airborne_One
- My writing talent is just average but I have a fun story to tell! Once in a Blue Moon is the often action packed and humorous book about life in Saudi Arabia during the 1990-91 Gulf War. My journey is full of military adventure, cultural misunderstandings and falling in love with a guy who is completely off limits.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
First Day of Gulf War
Twenty years ago today, the Persian Gulf War started with a massive coalition aerial bombing campaign...over 100,000 sorties, dropping 88,500 tons of bombs, and widely destroying Iraqi military and civilian infrastructure.
Five hours after the first attacks, Iraq's state radio broadcast a voice identified as Saddam Hussein declaring that "The great duel, the mother of all battles has begun. The dawn of victory nears as this great showdown begins."
Iraq responded by launching eight Al Hussein missiles into Israel the next day. These missile attacks on Israel were to continue throughout the six weeks of the war.
The Israelis showed enormous restraint in the face of 230 people injured and the substantial fear of biological weapons. The Israelis did not retaliate at the request of the Americans.
This was the scariest moment of the war. It appeared that the coalition would collapse and the Americans would be surrounded by Arab forces unwilling to fight with us.
Miraculously the coaltion held but the political fallout from inviting US troops into Saudi Arabia would have far reaching consequences. The bombing of Khobar towers and possibly even the 9/11 attacks.
Five hours after the first attacks, Iraq's state radio broadcast a voice identified as Saddam Hussein declaring that "The great duel, the mother of all battles has begun. The dawn of victory nears as this great showdown begins."
Iraq responded by launching eight Al Hussein missiles into Israel the next day. These missile attacks on Israel were to continue throughout the six weeks of the war.
The Israelis showed enormous restraint in the face of 230 people injured and the substantial fear of biological weapons. The Israelis did not retaliate at the request of the Americans.
This was the scariest moment of the war. It appeared that the coalition would collapse and the Americans would be surrounded by Arab forces unwilling to fight with us.
Miraculously the coaltion held but the political fallout from inviting US troops into Saudi Arabia would have far reaching consequences. The bombing of Khobar towers and possibly even the 9/11 attacks.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
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
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
Sunday, December 5, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Alvarez and I arrive in the downtown. Alvarez is driving the CUTV, a big Army SUV, as fast as he can while trying to follow the swerving British LandRover. There are no traffic rules here but the roads are no where near as hazardous as Korea. The Koreans drive where ever and when ever they want; at least the Saudis stay on the roads.
After watching a Saudi driver pull up on a sidewalk I reconsider; the fact is there are simply fewer cars, people and buildings to run into in this Saudi city.
We pass store after store with Arabic signs. There are men on the street in their long white robes; black cords hold their white headscarves securely on their heads.
Some of the Saudi men are holding hands while walking down the street. We were briefed that this common practice is a sign of friendship, not homosexuality; but still surprising to witness.
We finally lose the Brits in the heart of the downtown. Alvarez finds a place to park. "Wonder how we will know if this is a no parking zone?"
A Saudi policeman drives by. "We might be okay. Should we split up and start looking for these items?" I quickly copy my list on a second sheet of note paper and hand it to Alvarez.
"Seriously? You are going to walk into a store by yourself?" Alvarez frowns at me. "There will be mutawwa. You are in men's clothing with no head scarf."
The mutawwa or religious police are known for hassling and even arresting women who attempt to act independently or dress inappropriately in public places.
"We've got a lot to do. It is really inefficient to have both of us doing one job." I climb out of the CUTV, grab my M16 and smile big. "I will try to be diplomatic."
"Don't get arrested or shot. Meet me back here in one hour." Alvarez heads across the street to one of the plain buildings on the corner. He calls back from the middle of the street. "And don't beat anyone up."
I head to the opposite corner. My focus is on simply finding something that resembles a retail outlet.
Two men walk towards me. I hope my limited Arabic will help to get directions. "Al-salaam alaykum (hello). Titkallam ingleezi? (Do you speak English?)
They look down and walk quickly away. I wonder if I said something offensive.
I keep walking. Two more blocks.
The men in front of me suddenly cross the street. But they look back and stare openly at me. Probably not accustomed to seeing soldiers carrying weapons in their streets. It would bother me too.
Finally I see a small hardware store. Inside two men are talking to each other excitedly and one points at me. He looks alarmed. As I walk towards the door, they rush to change a sign, pull down the door blinds and lock the door.
I pause for a moment contemplating my first experience of complete denial.
This is going to be much harder than I thought.
I had no idea.
The second store was just two blocks away. I walked in without causing a stir. There are 3 other soldiers doing business with shop workers. The workers in western clothing appear to be Phillipino. This was also in our training. Most of the sales and front line work in Saudi Arabia is handled by Phillipinos. But managerial work is often the purvue of Sudanese.
After multiple attempts to gain assistance from the English speaking staff, I look around to see who is calling the shots. A tall black man in white robes glares at me and moves quickly to my side saying quietly,"It is not good that you are here. It is a problem."
I stepped outside to regroup. Should I fight for my rights? Go back inside and yell at them? I feel a minute of confusion and anger. We are here to defend the Saudis. I am part of the army that is here to defend these people. What are my rights in Saudi Arabia?
As I start to head back to the CUTV, one of the soldiers walks out of the store and calls out to me. "Hey LT."
I turn. A fellow Lieutenant. From the 82nd Airborne.
"This is a hard country for women to do anything. Do you need some help?"
"I hate to admit it but without raising a fuss I'm trying to figure out how to get my job done."
"This is a tough situation. They are afraid the religious police will shut them down. What do you need?"
I hand over my list. "Know where to get any of these items?"
He laughs as he looks at the list. "You guys just arrive?"
"Yes. Why?"
"You won't need most of this. Hold on a sec." He pulls a sheet of paper out
of a briefcase sized green canvas bag. He jots down a dozen items. "Start with these. Go to Al Faris Construction. Two blocks south and four blocks east of here. Ask for Nasir and tell him Lt. Ryan sent you."
"Thanks. Is there anyway I can help you?"
"No problem. Nah. Unless by some chance you have TP?"
"Toliet paper?" The smile on my face must have said it all. "Come find me on the port. I'm living on a cot under the first overhang by the Commodores hut. Just ask for Lt Maxton with the 300th. The guard will find me."
"I know it well. That is where our unit was housed until we were sent into the desert. Can I swing by tonight around call for prayer?"
"What time is that?"
He laughs. "You will soon know when all 5 call for prayer times are ... because everything just shuts down."
I wave the paper. "Nasir at Al Faris Construction. Thanks!"
"See you tonight.'
When I get back to the CUTV, Alvarez is waiting. He has two small items.
"Not very productive trip?"
"Terrible. But..." I showed him the list and talked about the recommendations from the LT of the 82nd.
"Do you want to try this afternoon or should we wait till tomorrow?"
Suddenly I can hear singing from what sounds like a loud speaker
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar
Ashhadu an la Ilah ila Allah
Ashadu an Mohammad rasul Allah
Haya ala as-salat
Haya ala as-salat
I look for the source. Alvarez looks at me. "What is that?"
"Call to prayer." Alvarez looks blankly at me.
You know, There is no god but Allah and Mohammed is the Prophet of Allah ... the Islamic call to prayer.
On cue, all the Saudis pour out of their stores onto the streets. They all begin to walk the same direction taking no notice of Alvarez and I standing on the street gawking at the mass exodus.
The call to prayer continues and then suddenly the streets are deserted.
"How long does this last?"
"I would guess the shops will not reopen for an hour. And they do this five times each day."
"How do they get anything done here?"
"I don't know. Let's go back to the port. We need to be at Al Faris as soon as morning prayer is over."
After watching a Saudi driver pull up on a sidewalk I reconsider; the fact is there are simply fewer cars, people and buildings to run into in this Saudi city.
We pass store after store with Arabic signs. There are men on the street in their long white robes; black cords hold their white headscarves securely on their heads.
Some of the Saudi men are holding hands while walking down the street. We were briefed that this common practice is a sign of friendship, not homosexuality; but still surprising to witness.
We finally lose the Brits in the heart of the downtown. Alvarez finds a place to park. "Wonder how we will know if this is a no parking zone?"
A Saudi policeman drives by. "We might be okay. Should we split up and start looking for these items?" I quickly copy my list on a second sheet of note paper and hand it to Alvarez.
"Seriously? You are going to walk into a store by yourself?" Alvarez frowns at me. "There will be mutawwa. You are in men's clothing with no head scarf."
The mutawwa or religious police are known for hassling and even arresting women who attempt to act independently or dress inappropriately in public places.
"We've got a lot to do. It is really inefficient to have both of us doing one job." I climb out of the CUTV, grab my M16 and smile big. "I will try to be diplomatic."
"Don't get arrested or shot. Meet me back here in one hour." Alvarez heads across the street to one of the plain buildings on the corner. He calls back from the middle of the street. "And don't beat anyone up."
I head to the opposite corner. My focus is on simply finding something that resembles a retail outlet.
Two men walk towards me. I hope my limited Arabic will help to get directions. "Al-salaam alaykum (hello). Titkallam ingleezi? (Do you speak English?)
They look down and walk quickly away. I wonder if I said something offensive.
I keep walking. Two more blocks.
The men in front of me suddenly cross the street. But they look back and stare openly at me. Probably not accustomed to seeing soldiers carrying weapons in their streets. It would bother me too.
Finally I see a small hardware store. Inside two men are talking to each other excitedly and one points at me. He looks alarmed. As I walk towards the door, they rush to change a sign, pull down the door blinds and lock the door.
I pause for a moment contemplating my first experience of complete denial.
This is going to be much harder than I thought.
I had no idea.
The second store was just two blocks away. I walked in without causing a stir. There are 3 other soldiers doing business with shop workers. The workers in western clothing appear to be Phillipino. This was also in our training. Most of the sales and front line work in Saudi Arabia is handled by Phillipinos. But managerial work is often the purvue of Sudanese.
After multiple attempts to gain assistance from the English speaking staff, I look around to see who is calling the shots. A tall black man in white robes glares at me and moves quickly to my side saying quietly,"It is not good that you are here. It is a problem."
I stepped outside to regroup. Should I fight for my rights? Go back inside and yell at them? I feel a minute of confusion and anger. We are here to defend the Saudis. I am part of the army that is here to defend these people. What are my rights in Saudi Arabia?
As I start to head back to the CUTV, one of the soldiers walks out of the store and calls out to me. "Hey LT."
I turn. A fellow Lieutenant. From the 82nd Airborne.
"This is a hard country for women to do anything. Do you need some help?"
"I hate to admit it but without raising a fuss I'm trying to figure out how to get my job done."
"This is a tough situation. They are afraid the religious police will shut them down. What do you need?"
I hand over my list. "Know where to get any of these items?"
He laughs as he looks at the list. "You guys just arrive?"
"Yes. Why?"
"You won't need most of this. Hold on a sec." He pulls a sheet of paper out
of a briefcase sized green canvas bag. He jots down a dozen items. "Start with these. Go to Al Faris Construction. Two blocks south and four blocks east of here. Ask for Nasir and tell him Lt. Ryan sent you."
"Thanks. Is there anyway I can help you?"
"No problem. Nah. Unless by some chance you have TP?"
"Toliet paper?" The smile on my face must have said it all. "Come find me on the port. I'm living on a cot under the first overhang by the Commodores hut. Just ask for Lt Maxton with the 300th. The guard will find me."
"I know it well. That is where our unit was housed until we were sent into the desert. Can I swing by tonight around call for prayer?"
"What time is that?"
He laughs. "You will soon know when all 5 call for prayer times are ... because everything just shuts down."
I wave the paper. "Nasir at Al Faris Construction. Thanks!"
"See you tonight.'
When I get back to the CUTV, Alvarez is waiting. He has two small items.
"Not very productive trip?"
"Terrible. But..." I showed him the list and talked about the recommendations from the LT of the 82nd.
"Do you want to try this afternoon or should we wait till tomorrow?"
Suddenly I can hear singing from what sounds like a loud speaker
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar
Ashhadu an la Ilah ila Allah
Ashadu an Mohammad rasul Allah
Haya ala as-salat
Haya ala as-salat
I look for the source. Alvarez looks at me. "What is that?"
"Call to prayer." Alvarez looks blankly at me.
You know, There is no god but Allah and Mohammed is the Prophet of Allah ... the Islamic call to prayer.
On cue, all the Saudis pour out of their stores onto the streets. They all begin to walk the same direction taking no notice of Alvarez and I standing on the street gawking at the mass exodus.
The call to prayer continues and then suddenly the streets are deserted.
"How long does this last?"
"I would guess the shops will not reopen for an hour. And they do this five times each day."
"How do they get anything done here?"
"I don't know. Let's go back to the port. We need to be at Al Faris as soon as morning prayer is over."
Sunday, October 31, 2010
November 1990
Today I drove past the one story and innocuous US Army Reserve building in Lafayette, Indiana. Memories of November 1990 flood back.
I receive orders to deploy as part of Operation Desert Shield with the 300th Combat Support Battalion. They were based out of this small bureaucratic looking structure.
My previous unit was a wild, tough, bunch of former Ranger, 82nd Airborne, Pathfinder and Special Forces soldiers. They provided a very exciting, adventure filled assignment. I spent as much time bailing them out of trouble (often jail or base commander's offices) as I did commanding the unit. Later, remind me to tell you about the Korean snake dancer and my soldier who bit the head off the Korean rare mountain snake ...
My new unit, the 300th Battalion HQ has a very different culture. No adrenaline junkies in this bunch. Many of the enlisted soldiers are students at Purdue University. It is a well-educated, quirky, close knit family.
When I arrive at the HQ, I don't know any of the soldiers but quickly develop friendships with two young officers.
Two of my book charachters are loosely based on these fellow HQ newbies.
"1Lt Melissa Hart" served in the same Airborne unit but at the Company HQ. We had never worked together but airborne q'd women were very uncommon in 1990. We knew each other by reputation. "Melissa" is a smart, hard-working gal from the Upper Pennisula of Michigan. She has a great sense of humor, infectious smile and all sorts of crazy stuff going on at home. She will become a great friend in Saudi Arabia.
"CPT Kent Stevens" served as the commander of a transportation unit and recently transferred to the Bn HQ. "Kent" is a big,tall guy with a big tell-it-like-it-is personality. He is loud and unconsciously swears in every sentence. We quickly develop a bantering dialogue and a love-hate relationship as we compete for resources.
I struggle initially with the transition from command of my renegades to a HQ staff position.
Did I make a mistake by agreeing to deploy early with the HQ? Should I have stayed with my Airborne Unit who will likely deploy later?
At the time, I had no idea that this knee jerk decision to join the HQ will impact the rest of my life.
I receive orders to deploy as part of Operation Desert Shield with the 300th Combat Support Battalion. They were based out of this small bureaucratic looking structure.
My previous unit was a wild, tough, bunch of former Ranger, 82nd Airborne, Pathfinder and Special Forces soldiers. They provided a very exciting, adventure filled assignment. I spent as much time bailing them out of trouble (often jail or base commander's offices) as I did commanding the unit. Later, remind me to tell you about the Korean snake dancer and my soldier who bit the head off the Korean rare mountain snake ...
My new unit, the 300th Battalion HQ has a very different culture. No adrenaline junkies in this bunch. Many of the enlisted soldiers are students at Purdue University. It is a well-educated, quirky, close knit family.
When I arrive at the HQ, I don't know any of the soldiers but quickly develop friendships with two young officers.
Two of my book charachters are loosely based on these fellow HQ newbies.
"1Lt Melissa Hart" served in the same Airborne unit but at the Company HQ. We had never worked together but airborne q'd women were very uncommon in 1990. We knew each other by reputation. "Melissa" is a smart, hard-working gal from the Upper Pennisula of Michigan. She has a great sense of humor, infectious smile and all sorts of crazy stuff going on at home. She will become a great friend in Saudi Arabia.
"CPT Kent Stevens" served as the commander of a transportation unit and recently transferred to the Bn HQ. "Kent" is a big,tall guy with a big tell-it-like-it-is personality. He is loud and unconsciously swears in every sentence. We quickly develop a bantering dialogue and a love-hate relationship as we compete for resources.
I struggle initially with the transition from command of my renegades to a HQ staff position.
Did I make a mistake by agreeing to deploy early with the HQ? Should I have stayed with my Airborne Unit who will likely deploy later?
At the time, I had no idea that this knee jerk decision to join the HQ will impact the rest of my life.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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
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
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