Morning light came. It never really seemed clear in the desert winter. We were dirty, and that was endless. I longed for the days when we were free spirits, running the roads, doing what we wanted, stopping in at Log Base Alpha for hot pressurized showers. Those days seemed like they were so long ago now.
We were all up for about 30 minutes when it was clear that something was going on at the front of the convoy. Officers and gunships rushed up there, and we watched curiously. A group of Iraqi soldiers came over the next hill and surrendered to the group. They were starving and cold. Coalition forces had cut off their supply lines back in January. They had not been replenished since before Storm began.
The officers came back and asked for our used chemical clothing. The heavy charcoal and neoprene line camo jackets and trousers would be more than enough to warm the prisoners up. I laughed about this, putting myself in the Iraqi soldiers' position for a moment. Of course, they were thankful to be warm and to be given food and water. I wondered what they thought about the clothes.
The NBC MOPP gear jacket and trousers consisted of a heavy, camouflaged cotton/poly outer layer, with an "everything-proof" neoprene skin inside, then a fine, heavy mesh with activated charcoal powder that would get all over you and your clothes. I cannot imagine what these poor guys must have thought as they put them on: "These Americans are the weirdest people ever!" I can tell you, we were filthy from wearing those things for all of the days that we had.
Once the commotion calmed down, I made coffee. There was a sound, something big. Earthquake? Tsunami? We looked back, and it was the entire 3rd armour division sweeping through. They came through like giant iron locusts. It was spectacular and humbling and made me thankful to be on their side. Watching them come through was like watching a parade on steroids. I suddenly put it all together. This area was not cleared yet. The foxholes last night, the 50/50 guard, the prisoners this morning. We were supposed to be behind these guys, but we ended up several hours ahead of them! Surprisingly, given how many times our trucks got stuck. Someone was messing up.
Iraqi T55 tank destroyed along our route
People from the 3rd AD took our prisoners, and later that day, we were maneuvered up the next rise and then relatively back to where we were, but facing the opposite direction. I was clear we were not going anywhere that night. The leadership had coaxed some fuel for the convoy, as well as food and water, since some people were really down and out. Jeff and I were fine in all areas. I even had the luxury of a shower. Well, sort of. I had strapped a 6-gallon jug to the tractor's catwalk. I loosened the strap, loosened the cap on the jug, and tipped it, creating a small stream of clean water to wash my hair and face in, then filled a small basin, climbed up into the back of the truck with the rockets, and cleaned up. It was crude, but way better than the alternative. Some of the people I knew in this convoy were so dirty, I could almost not recognise them at first glance. These are the unsung horrors of war.
As it got later, we learned that the captured Iraqis were armed, but had no intention of using them against us; they were cold, hungry, and missed their families. In fact, the only groups of Iraqis who fought back were the elite Republican Guard. They were Iraq's version of Special Forces. Our prisoners were not that. So, the weapons they left behind, a pile of AK-47S and grenades, were still with us. The leaders decided it would be fun to fire a few rounds of enemy weapons and throw two grenades. Of course, this was a huge attraction. No one got hurt, except when Bob threw a Soviet grenade, which kicked up a rock that then broke the small vent window in truck 31, and the glass had cut Marsha's arm. It could have been worse.
When you are trained for combat in the military, it is all about math. Your job is to take measures to reduce the odds of getting killed as close to zero. If you leave a percentage in place, in all evaluations, YOU ARE DEAD. That is a fail. Had this been one of the previous wars, like Vietnam, in which we were up against the Viet Cong, doing whatever they could to get us to leave their country, things could have been very different.
Tactics like modifying weapons to detonate on the user when fired were common. Take your enemy down by whatever means you can, no matter how dishonorable the method. War is dirty. Jeff and I were discussing the boobytrap grenades. We had heard that the Soviets had crafted a grenade that would explode the moment the spoon was released. While the AKs were inspected before they were handed out, and the grenade clearly appeared to be a nomenclature that was familiar in the required procedures of identifying enemy weaponry, in my opinion, this is still an act of stupidity and blatant vulnerability. The leaders of this convoy were wrong. DEAD WRONG. These, my friends, are the gods of war.
The sun set after the "fireworks" and we got to sleep in our normal configuration this night, Jeff in the truck and me on the hood. Life was good again. We had no idea where we were going. The nighttime airwaves were just discussing the political aspects of the ceasefire. It was all white noise, offering no itinerary for what was happening with my friends or me.
About an hour after daybreak, the convoy began moving again. We moved out of Kuwait and again northwest into Iraq. Everything was the same, and we got by the best we could. At night, Jeff and I would break into packs of MREs and steal the peanut butter packets, the cheese packets, and the crackers. "Chiz and Peanut Butterz" (in our trademark Czech accents). It was our food of choice. We were completely over everything else at this point. We would sit in the truck and exchange music cassettes so we each had something different to listen to. I loved one of these nights when Jeff asked if I had dental floss. I did, and he proceeded to sew up his favorite, non-military work gloves that were coming apart at the seams. We were quite a self-sufficient team. There were also quiet moments. I recall Jeff writing letters to his daughter Danielle. "Damn water." He complained quietly, wiping his eyes. Yes, all you winers, my partner, Jeff, did indeed have a heart.
Daybreak would come, and after coffee, we would be on the move again. Jeff and I cleaned up because we brought provisions to keep us that way. Other people, not all, you could not get within 20 feet of without holding your breath.
The trek through the desert was brutal all these days. There were no roads, the trucks were too heavy, and many hurdles remained to be overcome. Iraq was hillier than Saudi Arabia. We had long climbs through loose sand. The convoy leaders did their best to manage the overloaded trucks through these traps. One particular challenge came with one of the biggest hills we had seen. We sat at the bottom per instructions, waiting while the trucks in front of us made a make-or-break run up the hill. It was a long process. I made coffee while we waited for the truck in front of us to complete the challenge. I had a full canteen cup of freshly made hot coffee.
Our turn came. Jeff kept the massive load moving without breaking traction as we hit the climb, differentials locked in, pedal to the floor, demanding that Cummins give all it could. The drive axles would hop every now and then as they broke traction, trying to pull the tri-axles on the back of the trailer through the deep sand. Jeff would back off the accelerator just enough to keep our momentum.
Just as we hit the top of the hill, Jeff did not relent. He kept his foot pressed to the floor. The top was sharp. As we crossed the peak, the ground dropped below us. It felt like we were airborne. One thing went through my mind: SAVE THE COFFEE. I thrust my right arm out the window, canteen cup in hand. The coffee seemed to rise slowly into the air, leaving the open cup for a moment. Then, as the truck slammed into the ground beneath us, the coffee dropped back into the cup, and some rained down on my hand, but I managed to save most of it. The Captain, who was standing on the ground watching as we came over the hill, I could see him shaking his head in disbelief as he watched the truck and the coffee scene.
It was the ultimate test of a fifth wheel and kingpin for sure. The truck and trailer were asked to do something they were never built for. Had this been one of the old canvas-topped M818 Tactical tractors, it would have handled all of this without any effort at all. As the 40-foot trailer crested the sharp edge of the hill, two pallets of 155 mm projectiles took off into the air and smashed on the ground. There was no subsequent explosion, for which we were thankful.
Now we had a problem. As we got to the bottom of the hill, where the ground was firmer, the realization that when the next truck crested the hill, it would directly hit the 6 155 mm rounds we had dropped at the top of the hill. We parked and ran to the top of the hill. We could barely move them; they were so heavy. But knowing the next truck was at the point of no return, the was no option, we HAD to move these. We dragged the projectiles out of the path of the convoy, where they sat for who knows how long. Nothing exploded. These 155 mm rounds consisted of an armor-piercing uranium-lined steel casing, explosive filling, primer, and shrapnel. They weigh 100 lbs each, but these were fastened to the top and bottom wood pallets with steel straps in packs of 6. It is amazing how much strength you can find when you do not have an option.
The days all ran together, and we were marking them with a Sharpie on the windshield because we would never have been able to count otherwise. It was sunny, and our giant convoy rumbled into the military settlement of Nelligan in Iraq. We supposed this would be where we dropped the ammunition that we had just carried for over nine days. As we stormed through the compound, we saw the flag and sign for our own company, the 744th. We were amazed, they had moved to Iraq from Saudi Arabia. We were home. Our 36-hour mission had taken nine days. We roamed the desert low on food, fuel, and water, too prisoners, dug foxholes in a minefield, endured the most dangerous lightning storm I have ever seen, and that includes those I have seen in Texas and Oklahoma, man! We were coaxed to take experimental drugs (Jeff and I played along but never took a single one). We existed out of time for much of that journey. It will always be a nebula in my existence in which a memory surfaces. We did not know what was next. Some of us speculated that maybe they would suddenly direct us to Baghdad.
