by K. Sue Roper
We were constantly being told that water would be scarce once we reached Kuwait and Iraq. I decided it would be more important to drink whatever water we would be issued rather than to use it to bathe. As a result of this information about the scarcity of water, combined with additional information about the ferocity and abundance of sand flies in the desert, I decided to get my first “marine barber haircut.” It was horrible and very short. I remember thinking how embarrassed I would be for my family to see me looking like a little boy and only hoped the war would last long enough for it to grow in before I returned home.
I soon grew tired of waiting, filling my days with redundant drills, exercise, and lectures. I wanted to move on, and I was ready. I felt much the same as a racing greyhound must feel waiting to come out of the starting gates.
Throughout the week of 9–15 February, we heard rumors that we would be leaving by the end of the week. On Thursday, 13 February, we received definite word that we would be boarding a flight to Kuwait on Saturday. We had little left to do to prepare for our departure. Our clothes were washed and packed along with our war gear. We were ready. To celebrate the news of our departure, we went out to dine on Mexican food at a restaurant in town. As the beer and margaritas flowed, we all wondered when, if ever, we would have another opportunity to be surrounded by friends while savoring the food and drink of an American restaurant.
As it turned out, because 15 through 17 February was a three-day liberty weekend for military personnel in honor of Presidents’ Day, we were ordered to check out of the barracks on Friday. This created a problem, though, because those of us from Portsmouth really had no place to go. Fortunately, one of the operating room nurses stationed at Camp Lejeune graciously opened her house to Kelly, Maria, and me just so we had a place to rest our heads for a few hours. Other local military families also opened their doors for my transient colleagues. It was a beautiful example of how the navy is a true family and so willing to be there for one another in a time of need.
Muster was held at 5 AM Saturday morning. There were about two hundred of us now that we had been joined with those assigned to the Second FSSG from Naval Hospital, Camp Lejeune. Once we were assembled, the chaplain offered prayers, and families began the arduous and very sad process of saying good-bye to loved ones. It was heartbreaking to watch the young children cling to their fathers and mothers as they bid their final farewells.
Prior to leaving for Cherry Point, North Carolina, we made one final stop at the armory, where we picked up our pistols and ammunition. I stepped up to the barred window, showed my military identification card and pistol data card, and became the sole proprietor of this weapon that would serve as my “last resort” life-saving device. As the supply petty officer handed me this weapon, he said, “God speed, Commander,” and I knew he meant it. His words touched my heart, and I thanked him.
From Camp Lejeune, we traveled by bus to Marine Corps Air Station, Cherry Point. This last stateside base served as the place where all our gear would be thoroughly processed for clearance. We were allowed just one seabag and one carry-on bag. A strict weight limit had been mandated for each seabag, and should the bag exceed that specified amount, items would be indiscriminately discarded. Because we would be flying into Kuwait, a territory that could easily come under fire, we had to carry our gas masks, helmets, and weapons on our person, along with our carry-on bag. Fortunately, I had packed my carry-on with only the barest of essentials—a washcloth, a clean pair of underwear, a clean T-shirt, tampons, a toothbrush, jellybeans, and a few energy bars.
Once cleared for transport, we were sent to a hangar-bay area that consisted of nothing more than a large enclosed shell with a very cold cement floor. We made ourselves as comfortable as possible because this waiting period would drag on for several hours. Periodically, we would hear news about our plane’s status. The news was that the plane was delayed, delayed, and delayed again. We offered support and reassurance to one another as best we could. Sitting on the cold cement floor, knowing that we were headed into a world none of us had ever experienced before, we began to form personal bonds with one another.
Food provided us with some semblance of comfort, and we sustained ourselves by eating donuts, potato chips, and energy bars. At this point, though, I realized I needed to practice self-discipline and conserve my meager supply of energy bars. We were on the verge of entering a chaotic and unpredictable world where confusion and chaos would reign. I knew nothing could be taken for granted, and I had no idea when I might have access to food again. Other than the potential of having no food, I had no idea what else I would be facing.
Finally, our transport, a United Airlines carrier, arrived. Gear and seabags were quickly loaded, and we boarded the plane shortly after midnight. My day had started at 3 AM, and I was exhausted after not having the opportunity to sleep for twenty-two hours.
The captains and commanders were seated in the plane’s first-class section. Unlike my experience with the cramped seating spaces of the Bluebird school bus, I found ample room to stretch out and relax. It was true bliss! The all-volunteer crew on this United Airlines flight was phenomenal. No matter what was asked for, whether it was a bottle of water or information specific to flight time, each member was there for us and enthusiastically met our every need.
The plane was filled with signs and symbols of American patriotism, loyalty, and support for those of us who were headed into the unknown world of war. A large American flag was proudly displayed directly in front of me, and smaller American flags were displayed everywhere throughout the plane’s cabin. The flight crew, consisting of more mature folks who had transported troops to the Persian Gulf in 1991 during Desert Storm and to other hostile locations throughout the world, proudly wore red, white, and blue uniforms as a show of support for us and what we were about to do. They were well aware that they were putting their own lives in danger, yet they had volunteered to be with us, to provide extraordinary service to us, and to do all in their power to ensure that we were as comfortable as possible as we flew to Kuwait. I could readily feel their sense of pride, support, concern, and caring for every single one of us on that flight, and it gave me chills. It also provided me with a gentle, calming sense of comfort, and I was finally able to sleep.
The first eight hours of our flight ended in a refueling stop in Germany around 2 AM eastern standard time (EST). As many of my colleagues raced for the phones to call their loved ones to offer words of reassurance and, perhaps, to say goodbye again, I decided that I really did not want to awaken my family. I had already said my goodbyes, and they knew how much I loved them. All I really wanted to do was to wash my face, brush my teeth, and freshen up as much as possible using supplies I had carried in my carry-on bag.
The Red Cross had set up a few tables that offered some basic grooming supplies, hot coffee, and cookies. The volunteers working at these tables were gracious, supportive, and extremely generous in assisting us to achieve a sense of comfort while we waited. Once again we could readily see and feel the tremendous support Americans had for us, even those Americans who were thousands of miles from their own homes.
Our wait in Germany was longer than expected because it was not until we had landed that the airline was informed they would not be allowed to refuel in Kuwait. As a result, they were directed to land in Kuwait, unload us as quickly as possible, and immediately take off for an alternate destination at which to refuel. It took several hours for the alternate refueling site to be identified and for landing clearance to be granted. Eventually, Turkey was determined to be the place the plane would refuel after the crew unloaded us in Kuwait.
The flight from Germany to Kuwait took another six hours. On our approach to the airfield, the plane’s window covers had to be down and all lights turned off. A single flicker of light might alert hostile troops on the ground of our landing, and then the plane could easily serve as a prime target for our enemies. In early to mid-February 2003, Kuwait was not a secure area, and being on
e of the first military groups to arrive in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom, we were entering into a volatile and hostile region where just about anything could happen.
We landed in Kuwait safely and without incident. Once on the ground, we quickly disembarked. We were like little ants, descending the steps from the plane and being counted one by one. We then passed through two security checkpoints that consisted of two mini-vans equipped with high-tech computers and scanners. Our military ID cards were scanned, and we were asked such questions as “What is your date of birth?” It was pitch dark, and I know the security personnel could not clearly see us even with their flashlights. Still, expediency and safety were the main priorities, and the whole process took no more than twenty seconds. They clearly did not want us to be out in this potentially volatile and lethal area for any extended period of time, for we were on the brink of a major military conflict, and we all realized that anything could happen at anytime. Our lives were in danger, and everyone was on high alert, needing to tread softly and, more important, quickly.
The Kuwaiti buses were waiting at the airstrip to transport us to our next destination. We had no idea where we were going, and we did not have much time to really think about it. We just continued to file along swiftly in our “ant lines,” boarding the buses, claiming whatever seat was available, and simply traveling to wherever the bus would take us.
We had not traveled far before the buses stopped, however. We then filed off into some sort of staging area surrounded by bunkers, barbed-wire fences, and trucks sporting machine guns. Although we were in the middle of the desert somewhere, this place was covered with rocks, and it was freezing cold. For four and one-half hours we stood in this dark, cold, wasted, and desolate place, doing nothing more than waiting and trying to keep warm. To this day, I have no idea where we were or why we were there, questions I would find myself pondering frequently as my journey continued.
As the sun started to rise around seven or eight o’clock, we once again boarded the buses, and I found myself crammed in the back of the bus with several people. I was totally exhausted and fell asleep for the bumpy ride, only to awaken two hours later to see nothing but desert. My last glimpse out the window before falling asleep had been of the machine-gun trucks that were serving as our escorts. When I awoke, I tried to look out the window again, but all I could see was dust. Dust and sand seemed to be coating everything. Then I realized that what I was seeing was not just dust and sand on the windows, but instead the vast desert landscape into which we had entered. There was no distinction between ground and horizon. Everything as far as I could see had become nothing more than brown sand. I remember thinking “I am in hell now. This has got to be hell.”
The road we were driving on consisted of the same brown sand that was creating this personal hell. Everything looked the same—just sand, sand, and more sand as far as the eye could see. The world into which we had entered was flat, dull, and ugly, broken up only by a fleeting glimpse of a wild dog or a small sage shrub. The sight of this enormous and seemingly infinite brown gritty sand landscape was not only dreary and oppressive but also very eerie. How our bus drivers knew where they were going and how we arrived at our next destination remain mysteries to me. Still, eventually, the buses would stop, and we would enter a world and a lifestyle few, if any, of us had ever experienced before.
6
OUR NEW HOME
The buses finally stopped at a place called Camp Guadalcanal, a small site within a larger American-controlled area designated and named Camp Coyote. Our new “home,” one of several small encampments in this northern vicinity of Kuwait just south of the Kuwait-Iraq border, consisted of a dug-out sandbox surrounded by a sand wall berm approximately eight to ten feet in height. Concertina wire, sandbags, and a guard shed staffed by marine guards protected the entrance to the camp. Home was nothing more than several old canvas tents and a lot of sand. We had no phone, no pizza, no Taco Bell, no e-mail. We were told some camps and bases somewhere in Kuwait had these conveniences, but ours was definitely not one of them. Our modern conveniences included gravel that had been spread on the ground within this sand-walled complex to diminish the ever-present sand from invading our noses, mouths, and other bodily orifices. We also had electricity, with a few lightbulbs strung within the interior of our tents. To us, simply having electricity was a true luxury.
Two tents had been designated for female berthing. My assigned tent was packed with more than twenty female officers from the Portsmouth and Camp Lejeune contingents, as well as others from Jacksonville, Florida. After collecting our seabags from the buses, we began to set up our gear within the tents, which featured a plank wood floor, dim lighting, canvas walls, and a canvas roof. We claimed our small living and berthing spaces, and I chose one near the tent’s opening so I could see outside and feel more in control of my environment. Later we would string rope up so we would have a place to dry our clothes.
Adaptation to basic wartime survival began immediately. Because we were located a mere twenty-three miles from the border with Iraq, we were required to wear our Kevlar vests and helmets and to carry our gas masks and pistols with us at all times, except when we were taking showers or participating in physical-readiness training. And even though we were not actually required to wear this gear during those activities, we had to have it readily accessible, either just outside the shower door or strapped to our waists.
Feeling cramped, uncomfortable, and vulnerable, and living within the small, confined, and uncivilized space of our berthing tents, we did not always get along with one another. The squabbles we had were often silly, consisting of such unimportant, mundane things as who was first at a particular spot and who would bunk next to whom. Feeling lost and having little control over this bleak, empty environment, we tried to take reign over simple things that we believed would give us an increased sense of comfort and stability. We soon realized that stability and even comfort were concepts sacrificed when we boarded the plane in North Carolina. Our American way of life, with all the luxury and comfort with which we were accustomed, had been replaced with nothing more than the basic essentials of survival, namely, shelter, food, water, and clean air. Even these small things would not always be readily available to us.
My bed consisted of my sleeping bag and a mat placed on the desert floor. Chairs were constructed from boxes and reinforced by empty water-bottle containers that served as supports so the box would not be crushed by our body weight. We secured ropes to our box chairs and carried them with us wherever we went, including meals, classes, and informal gatherings.
A highly valued commodity, our box chairs were built over the course of several days. We were each issued one meal ready to eat (MRE) and two one-and-one-half-liter bottles of water daily. Construction of a sturdy chair required at least six empty water bottles, and we were always on the prowl for an opportunity to acquire “an empty.” Being able to sit on something, anything, other than the desert floor was a luxury.
Shower facilities had been constructed and were designated male and female. We were allowed to take a three-minute shower every other day when we had an adequate water supply. Some members of our group arbitrarily broke the rules and would shower every day, diminishing the water supply and breaking down morale. “Job johnnies,” or little outhouses, maintained by local civilians, were also set up along the berm. These primitive structures provided little more than a means for us to take care of our basic needs in some semblance of privacy.
Our mess tent provided morning and evening meals prepared and supplied by Kuwaiti civilians. Breakfast consisted of green eggs, bread, cold coffee, and—rarely—fruit. I refused to eat the green eggs and sustained myself by eating two pieces of bread and a cup of cold coffee each morning. Our evening meal usually consisted of one meat dish, such as chicken, fish, or lamb, and sides of rice or potatoes.
The dining facility had no tables or chairs, so we relied heavily on our water-bottle box chairs for some semblance of comfort a
nd civility. The Kuwaitis would bring in the boxes of hot food and set them on tables made of scrap wood. We would line up, collect our ration of food, and, carrying both our food and our box chairs, find a place to plant ourselves. Then we would sit, eat, talk, and simply look forward to returning to our tents to sleep.
Nights in this newfound hell were bitter cold, the temperature dipping well below 40 degrees. Having been diagnosed with Raynaud’s disease several years earlier, I was extremely sensitive to the cold, and my prescribed medication to prevent my peripheral arteries from vasoconstriction did little to provide me comfort. The cold nights, combined with sleeping on the wood floor in a sleeping bag, was a miserable experience. I tried desperately to achieve some semblance of warmth, but even when I wore two pairs of socks and three layers of clothes to sleep in, the cold always seemed to find its way into my sleeping bag.
A brief nightly hike to the john was a gloomy adventure. Dressed in our sleeping bags, we would find another “battle buddy” with the same nightly need (we were never to venture outside our tents at night alone), join forces, and somehow manage to find our way to and from the johnnies, guided by nothing more than the dim glow of a red-lens flashlight. Finding someone in the middle of the night with the same urgency to urinate became a major challenge. No one wanted to leave the relative warmth of the tent to wander outside, protected from the cold by little more than a sleeping bag. I quickly learned to consume fewer fluids than what we were allocated on a daily basis in order to avoid dealing with this unpleasant nocturnal excursion.