Posted on 08/26/2003 9:07:56 PM PDT by Choose Ye This Day
THE LONG ROAD HOME
There’s no daylight savings time in Kuwait. On August 22, 2003 the sun rose at 0520.
I stood on a concrete barrier, facing east as the sky turned from gray to orange. An impossibly huge crimson sun broke through the horizon, silhouetting the large gantry cranes and casting long shadows behind the towering cement factory. It became smaller and brighter as it rose above the haze, its brilliance outshining the long flames flickering atop the oil refinery stacks. I could feel its warm rays kissing my face. It was pleasant for the moment, but before too long it would become painfully hot.
I had arrived in Kuwait almost eight months earlier, on New Year’s Eve 2002, amidst an atmosphere of anticipation, uncertainty, and fear. Detachment Two of Naval Coastal Warfare Group One was assigned to provide security for Coalition ships unloading military cargo in the Port of Shuaiba. War in Iraq appeared to be all but inevitable, and this was the port through which most of the war materiel would flow. Huge ships, some of the largest roll on/roll off cargo carriers ever built, would sail into this port, discharge their cargo, and return to Europe or the United States for another load. They would all come through here: V Corps, I MEF, Third Infantry, Fourth Infantry, 101st Airborne, 82nd Airborne, 1st ACR, 3rd ACR, the British Army, the Royal Marines, the Poles, the Danes, the Norwegians, the Romanians, the Czechs, the Italians, the Spanish, and countless others. Shuaiba was what the logistics types like to call a “critical node.” But this was the Mother of all Critical Nodes—if it should fail, our alternatives would be very limited.
To make matters even more complicated, Shuaiba, with its deep water and proximity to the major oil refineries, is a critical port for Kuwaiti industry. We couldn’t close the harbor to non-military vessels, or the Kuwaiti economy would go into a tailspin. The port would have to remain open—for military and commercial traffic.
We flooded the zone. Working hand-in-hand with the Kuwaiti authorities, we built a protective bubble around the port and its approaches, establishing around-the-clock armed patrols on the water and the land. We utilized radar, sonar, visual and thermal sensors to provide surveillance and early warning of any suspicious or unauthorized vessels in the area. We erected fortified gun mounts near the land and sea approaches to the port, and constantly shifted and re-configured our security to foil enemy planning.
Out security measures were so impressive that shipping insurance rates were actually lowered for the Port of Shuaiba after we arrived. We safely escorted and protected over 300 Coalition vessels. Despite the fact that this was of the biggest, fattest target in the war, no attack against the port was ever attempted (aside from one or two poorly aimed Iraqi missiles). It wasn’t exciting or glamorous duty, but it was absolutely critical to the war effort.
But I wasn’t contemplating any of this as I watched the sunrise that morning. This would be my last day in Kuwait, and all I could think about was that magic moment, only hours away, when I would step off that plane and into the loving arms of my wife. I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to go out and watch the sunrise one last time.
Our flight wasn’t scheduled to leave until late in the evening. It was going to be a very long day.
Morning is the best time to take a shower—the water is stored in bladders that are exposed to the desert sun, and a few hours after sunrise it becomes hot enough to inflict burns. As usual, the water pressure was so low that I had to stand almost directly underneath the faucet in order to wash myself. But even low water pressure couldn’t affect my buoyant mood—I knew that my days of showering under a hot, dripping faucet were almost over.
After one last (forgettable) breakfast in the chow tent, I headed to our morning meeting. Unlike most mornings, there was no new tasking from the Commanding Officer. No last minute schedule changes. We were going home. At our unit formation, we had an awards ceremony, followed by a brief speech by the CO. He congratulated us on completing our mission, and wrapped it up with a “Hoorah!”
“HOORAH!” we shouted, waking the night shift. And then it was time to finish packing. I had mailed two boxes home, in order to eliminate one of my bags, but I was surprised to discover yet another bag of clothing that I had planned to mail home. It was hidden deep under my cot, and stuffed with sweat pants and cold weather clothing—stuff I hadn’t worn since early February. Fortunately, it was a small bag, and I was still well under my baggage allowance.
I cleared out my footlocker, throwing most of my accumulated junk away, but depositing some “gifts,” (like a tin of Altoids, and a couple dozen unused batteries) on Ed’s and Jorge’s cots. No sense in letting that stuff go to waste.
It was 1000, my bags were packed, and I had nothing left to do. I pulled out my camping chair and sat down with a book.
Lunch started at 1100, and I was one of the first people in line. The choice was between greaseburgers and overcooked fish. I took the fish. That turned out to be a mistake. The news was on the TV in the chow tent, but I paid no attention. What could be bigger news than going home?
Noon in Kuwait is 0200 on the West Coast, so I thought I’d try to take a nap after lunch, to help readjust to the time zone. No such luck—I couldn’t sleep. So I read some more. But the book couldn’t hold my attention, either, so I chatted with my tent mates for a while then went outside.
It was hot, of course, but that didn’t bother me. Several dozen people were gathered around one of the concrete barriers, where we had painted our unit logo, and everyone had signed their names and wrote witty quotes, just like in a high school yearbook.
My favorite:
When we came here, this was all just dirt… but now, it’s dirt with tents on it!
Finally, it was 1500—time to go to the airport. We gathered in the shade of the buses, listening for our names to be called. Of course, everyone was there--this was one formation that nobody wanted to miss.
We crammed into the buses like sardines, holding our carry-on bags in our laps. The air conditioning was weak, and the atmosphere became stale very quickly. It seemed to take forever for the buses to get started. Finally, we pulled out of the dirt parking lot.
Standing in formation, right before the final turn out of camp, was the unit that relieved us. They saluted us, and we waved back.
“So long, suckers!” Someone shouted out the window, inappropriately.
As we left Camp Spearhead for the last time, not a single one of us grew teary-eyed, and no one looked back. The rotten-egg sulfur smell of the Al Ahmadi refinery that had assaulted our noses for months faded away as we pulled onto the highway.
The convoy moved far too slowly…
Camp Champion, on the fringe of Kuwait International Airport, is the last stop for service members heading home from Iraq and Kuwait. Our first station was the “welcome tent,” where we filled out our customs declarations, received a brief lecture on our veterans’ benefits and re-employment rights, and answered a medical questionnaire.
One of the many questions:
Did you see anyone wounded, killed, or dead during this deployment?
(In my case, no—Thankfully).
Realizing that these forms might be used as the basis for any future disability claims, I was careful to note all of my medical concerns—including the possible long-term effects of living downwind from an oil refinery. Army medical personnel spent about one minute looking over each questionnaire, hardly enough time to make a serious evaluation—but this was just a preliminary screening for major problems, they assured us.
The next stop was the “Amnesty Brief.” An MP went over the list of prohibited items to take back to the States, including Iraqi weapons, unexploded ordnance, body parts, etc.—same drill as before. After the brief, we were sent, one at a time, past an “amnesty box,” where we could turn in any illegal items without consequences. They inspected every one of our bags. I had to completely empty out my carefully-packed bags on a table in front of an MP, who sorted through my T-shirts and underwear, and even squeezed my socks. Then I had to repack my bags. But I didn’t mind, really. I could put up with just about anything, as long as I could get on that plane at the end of the day.
Satisfied that I had no contraband, the MP directed me to the final table, where a clerk swiped my ID card, putting my name on the final manifest for the flight home. Hallelujah.
I left the inspection tent, and lugged my bags another 50 meters to a waiting cargo truck. They took my bags, and directed me into the “lounge,” which was yet another tent, this one with MREs, sodas, and a TV.
It was 1830, and our flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for another four and a half hours. I grabbed an MRE, Pasta with Vegetables, and claimed a spot in front of the idiot box. Star Trek: Nemesis was playing. I made an effort to watch, but my mind kept wandering…
An interminable two hours later, we put on the second movie, Die Hard 3.
We were only about forty-five minutes into the second flick when the announcement was made: our plane was ready, and we would be leaving early. A cheer went up in the tent.
It was a 757 chartered from the lowest bidder, American Travel Airways. All of the seats were coach, and they were crammed together even tighter than I had previously believed possible. I claimed an aisle seat, and Paul took the window. Fortunately for everyone, the middle seats remained empty.
The flight attendants were exceptionally friendly and accommodating. As I was adjusting the time zone on my PDA, when a cute blonde woman hugged me from behind and said “I’m very, very sorry, sir, but we need you to turn that off for now.” She even gave me a little squeeze for emphasis.
“Oh, er, sorry. I forgot.”
“No problem, sir,” she beamed at me, “Thank you!” The plane started rolling down the runway shortly before 2200, over an hour ahead of schedule. As the wheels lifted off the tarmac, a spontaneous cheer erupted throughout the plane.
Goodbye, Kuwait!
I didn’t even try to sleep on the first leg of the flight, from Kuwait to Cyprus. I listened to the in-flight music service, and read a book. For once, the music service wasn’t that bad. They were playing some tunes that were among my favorites a few years back, and I was really enjoying it—until the emcee came on and announced that I was listening to “Oldies but Goodies.” Am I that old?
Miss Squeezy interrupted my train of thought by whispering in my ear. “You want something to drink?” “Sure. Whatcha got?”
She paused. “Alcohol,” she whispered, as if it were a national secret.
I hadn’t had a drop of booze since December. I ordered a beer—it didn’t matter what brand. It only took me a few sips to get a nice buzz. I would have to remember to be careful, I thought; my tolerance for alcohol was unusually low…
We landed in Cyprus at about 0200, where we refueled and swapped out our flight crew. We weren’t allowed off the plane.
The second leg of our flight was from Cyprus to Shannon, Ireland. I caught a few winks after we reached cruising altitude, but the sun rose somewhere over France, and I was awake again. At this rate, I was going to be a zombie by the time I got home.
There couldn’t be two places on Earth more dissimilar than Kuwait and Ireland. From the air, Ireland is everything that Kuwait is not: cool, wet, green, hilly, beautiful. If I had seen it in a photo instead of with my own eyes, I would have sworn that the image was doctored to look greener than would otherwise be possible. But it was real.
Unlike in Cyprus, they did allow us to leave the aircraft in Shannon—but we were prohibited from visiting Shannon’s famous international lounge, with the large duty free shop and Irish pub. Instead, a makeshift duty free outlet and a five-tap bar had been erected for our benefit adjacent to the gate.
Although it was only 0700 in the morning in Ireland, the bar was open, and I was near the front of the line. A major disappointment: they had no Guinness on tap. I settled for a Beamish Stout, with a nice, thick head. It had a rich, chocolate flavor, much like Guinness, but not quite as bitter.
With beer in hand, I perused the duty-free shop. Several people were raiding the liquor shelves, but I was looking for gifts for my family. I found a Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar, Mrs. Smash’s favorite. I also purchased an inflatable neck pillow, with the hope that it would help me to sleep on the plane. Most of the other stuff was typical tourist junk.
I finished my beer, then made my way to the pay phones. I had one last pre-paid calling card with a few remaining minutes to burn, so I thought I’d give Mrs. Smash a ring, to let her know that I was safely on my way. It was shortly before midnight back home, but I didn’t expect she would mind hearing from me.
“Hello, lass!”
“Hi! Let me guess, you’re in Ireland?”
“Right you are! Bought you something…”
“Oh? What’d you get?”
“Come pick me up tomorrow afternoon and I’ll show you.”
“Sounds like you’re having a good time there—is the bar open?”
“Yes indeed, and I just had my first coupla beers of 2003 (urp).”
She laughed. “Well, you’ve earned ‘em, sailor. Now come home and have a drink or two with me!”
“I miss you!”
“Me too. But not for much longer!”
“I love you!”
“Hmmph. Probably the beer talking. You just want to get me into bed…”
“Aw, come on…”
“I love you too, Sweetie.”
“Shucks.”
We went on like this until I ran out of time on my calling card. Then I went back to the bar, and bought another round of beers for a few members of my old watch team.
Just a few sips into my second beer (a Beamish Red, not as heavy as the stout, very thick head, tasty), the announcement was made that the plane was refueled and it was time to board. Should I leave the unfinished beer behind, or down it?
I chose the second option.
The beers helped me to calm down and get an hour or two of sleep over the Atlantic, but as soon as the buzz wore off, I was awake again. From my seat, I could see that a little gaggle of flight attendants and sailors had formed up by the cockpit door—it appeared the normal FAA security regulations didn’t apply on this particular flight.
I made my way up to the front. Everyone had a drink in their hand. “Is this cocktail hour?”
One of the flight attendants smiled. “Can I get you something?”
I was feeling a little bit depleted after all that Irish beer, so I thought about getting something healthy, you know, with vitamins and stuff. “How ‘bout some tomato juice?”
“You want a Bloody Mary?”
Close enough. “Sure, thanks!”
A couple of the single guys were hitting on the flight attendants, with varying degrees of success. The co-pilot joined in the conversation (but not the drinking), and even offered tours of the cockpit. No danger of hijacking on this flight. I noticed that one of the flight attendants had rank insignia from every branch of the Armed Forces pinned on her apron. Apparently, she made this run pretty frequently.
I spent an hour or so at the cocktail party, then made my way back to my seat to take a nap. When I woke up, we were over Canada. A few hours later, the captain announced that we had crossed over into US airspace over Lake Erie. A cheer went up throughout the plane, even louder than when we left Kuwait.
Our final stopover was in Indianapolis, the hub for ATA. We were directed off the plane to a customs waiting area. I immediately went to the restroom, where I washed my face and hair, shaved, brushed my teeth, and changed my socks and underwear. I felt like a human being again, albeit a very drowsy one.
It was scheduled to be a two and a half hour layover—but after an hour or so, they told us our plane was ready. This was a cause for some worry, as it would have us arrive at home about two hours ahead of our scheduled time, and there was some concern that not all the families would get the word of our early arrival. The senior officers made some quick phone calls to their wives to get the phone trees in motion, while the rest of us boarded the plane for the final time.
Nobody slept on the last leg of our flight.
I was restless. I’d finished my book, heard all of the in-flight music stations numerous times, and seen all the movies and videos. For the last hour of the flight, I peered over Paul’s shoulder out the window, looking for familiar landmarks. From the air, I could see the border fence between California and Mexico, an unnatural straight line with radically different development on either side—First World meets Third World. We passed over the last of the Coast Ranges, and I spotted the border city of Tijuana, and then the Pacific Ocean. Out the opposite window, I could make out the skyline of San Diego, my home town.
I felt my heart beating faster as we banked to the right over the ocean, making our final approach to North Island Naval Air Station. As if to remind me of previous homecomings, we flew parallel to the shipping channel, and I had a perfect view of Point Loma though the tiny window. I spied the old light house, and the small white stones of Rosecrans National Cemetery, where my brother’s friend Tom had been laid to rest a few months earlier…
The wheels touched down on the tarmac, and the plane erupted into cheering and applause. As we rolled to a stop, I could see the crowd gathered at the hangar to welcome us home. They were holding up signs, and waving American flags in frenzied excitement. I spotted the media, a troop of Girl Scouts, and even the Charger Girls, who must have found it refreshing to cheer for a winning team—but I couldn’t pick out the one person I was looking for in the crowd.
It seemed to take forever to roll the stairway up to the plane. The Group Commodore was the first person on the plane, and he had a few brief words to say. Proud of us, job well done, blah, blah, blah. Let me off the plane already!
Finally it was time to leave the airplane. Buh-bye! As I stepped on to the staircase, I noticed the beautiful blue sky, with puffy white popcorn clouds. It was about 75F outside—almost 40 degrees cooler than it had been in Kuwait the previous day.
We formed up in four rows at the foot of the staircase, while our loved ones watched from behind the security cordon, about 50 meters away. I searched the faces in the crowd, but I couldn’t see her—had she not gotten the word about our early arrival?
We were called to attention, and the senior officers went through their routine, saluting and saying important sounding stuff.
Then the CO turned to address the troops.
“Mission complete. Naval Coastal Warfare Group One, HOORAH!”
“HOORAH!”
“DISMISSED!”
The formation dissolved. Families and sailors rushed forward, into a melee of hugs and tearful reunions.
Where was she? I felt a knot forming in my stomach, as I began to worry that she hadn’t learned of our early arrival--Suddenly, off to my left, I heard a familiar voice: “SCOTT!”
Standing before me was The Most Beautiful Woman on Earth, surrounded by my family. I dropped my bags, and closed the final yards in long, quick strides.
I was home at last.
Follow the URL to LT SMASH's actual blog--he has some pictures up. This is just a heartwarming and touching story of a true patriot coming back home.
[Didn't see it posted elsewhere.]
Thanks LT!
I'm sooooo glad I keep a box of Kleenex reeeeeal close by. LOL! Thank you for posting LT. SMASH'S homecoming account. His way with words had me almost able to feel his excitement and anticipation all the way through.
You may need some of these....I managed not to use them all. :-)
LT. SMASH'S account of his long trip home is truly touching.
Welcome Home to Lt Smash.
Thanks for the ping radu, and the tissues.
Like a baby, here, radu. Thanks for the ping. Thanks, for the post MNLDS.
Thank you, LT, for sharing your experiences with strangers around the world. Well done. Welcome home.
No need to bring your own kleenex, Freepers. Radu's providing. LT's home.
If you want on or off my pro-Coalition/anti-wanker ping list, just ping.
One last awesome LT tribute post:
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