Whirlwind Tour
June 30, 2005 | Leave a Comment
A strange white helicopter landed on the ship to fly us to Kuwait. It was a Puma, with “04″ painted on the nose. A few sailors and soldiers boarded the Puma along with CSM Mellinger and company. I was sitting facing left, and as I strapped the lap belt, I fumbled with the shoulder harness. I was not alone in the confusion–the crew chief crouched around the cabin showing everyone how to use the contraption. The “shoulder harness” actually fastened around the right arm—for those sitting facing left—like a sphygmomanometer. So, it’s like this: normal seat belt with another seat belt for my right arm, tight like a puffed-up blood pressure-thing, presumably to keep the passenger/victim from breaking sideways in half when the helicopter crashes. Still trying to fathom the design, I saw a sign: “Assembled in France,” which translates into lingua cynica as “Designed with French money, then made by the cheapest labor the world over.” And how about those nifty seat belts that are going to rip everyone’s arms off when we crash? It’s either that, or be broken in two. Good grief! Don’t they have any Black Hawks that can grab us?
Luckily the Puma did not crash, leaving the theory of the ripped-off arms untested. Back in Kuwait, we continued visiting defensive emplacements around key facilities belonging to the Kuwaitis. The tour lasted into the next day when we zoomed about in a small Navy attack boat that guards a port, until finally, after more inspections the next day, it was time to leave.
As the Navy driver steered us down an expansive Kuwaiti highway, CSM Mellinger talked via cell phone with the leader of his patrol group who were back on an Army base awaiting his return. They remind me of that old television show about desert soldiers, “The Rat Patrol.” Tomorrow we have to go back to Baghdad, and the Rat Patrol was hoping to strike out early to get a head start on the sun. CSM Mellinger told them to get some sleep if they wanted to leave early, make sure all were hydrated because–tough luck– he wasn’t leaving until they were ready and alert.
And so, at 2 a.m. the next morning, after a couple hours of sleep for me but more for the others, we start back, crossing the border from peaceful Kuwait into the Cradle of Civilization. The irony of this transition is marked by the soldiers donning all their bullet-resistant protective gear and readying their weapons for combat.
Hours and hours pass as we drive into the wavering distance, stopping for fuel at those few military waypoints that are situated just a tank-drain apart. We find that one is a bit too far, and the soldiers empty the jerry cans of diesel into the fuel tanks, and we keep going.
When we come to the spray-painted sign in the desert “watch out for dumbass camels,” I know we’re getting closer. Hours later, as we approach Baghdad, the traffic suddenly jams. A roadside bomb. These are always dicey: bombs often travel alone, but prefer to travel in packs. Bombs especially like it when snipers and machine guns wait nearby for people like us who happen to come along. And then, of course, if the enemy has mortars, he just waits until the targets stop, then he starts firing mortar “bombs,” and after the first mortars hit, all the machine guns start firing, along with the RPGs, of course.
We pass on the left side of a long line of jammed vehicles that we know could be filled with car bombs and fanatics who are willing to blow themselves up. At times there are cars on our left and right. I wonder if the enemy is aiming RPGs at us. If the situation were reversed, this would be top of the list while the enemy slows to a near crawl.
American soldiers have already blocked the road; the bomb experts are nearly ready to destroy the IED as we pull up. The little bomb-robot wheels around—the mirage effect makes it appear almost cute—and puts plastic explosives onto the roadside bomb, then the little robot scampers away and seems to hide under a Humvee. Got to be a mirage; the robot is too big to hide under a Humvee, plus robots aren’t smart enough to get scared. Boom! It’s just a little IED. I doubt it could have killed more than a single gunner. The desert air is so hot already, the explosion doesn’t even muster a mushroom cloud. Instead a clot of dust and smoke hovers over the debris for a second, staying close to the ground, and then just sort of floats and drags itself away.
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