DESERT SANDS
1. Late February 1991 … somewhere just inside Iraq with the 1st Cav. Blinding desert dust storm.
I sit nervously in the passenger seat of our M35 "Deuce-and-half", peering through the dirty windshield at the Humvee driving "point" for our little column of six trucks carrying fuel for the armor up ahead. My sergeant, who sits next to me at the wheel, keeps up a constant chatter as we creep along through buffeting gusts and swirls of wind-blown sand.
"Ya know Moore, it just ain't fair," she drawls, "It’s still a man's army. Them guys get all the fun whipping Saddam's army, while we women bring up the rear, chasing 'em around with resupplies of fuel and ammo. What I wouldn't give to be up front where the real action is!"
I look at my gung-ho Sarge dubiously. I was never cut out to be a soldier. I only joined the reserves a few years back to help pay for college. I never ever expected to be out here. But they called me up for "Desert Storm" and here I am. I think I am already closer to the "action" than I care to be, but dutifully answer, "yes Sarge."
There seems to be plenty to worry about. People are being killed out here ... mostly Iraqis from the looks of all the burned out vehicles we passed several hours ago ...their blackened hulks strewn seemingly endlessly along the road ... but rumor has it the elite Iraqi Republican Guard is somewhere up ahead waiting for us.
But what was worrying me even more is that I am all but certain we are lost. It's been a long time since we left the road to strike out across the desert, and with the dust storm, visibility is down to almost nil. We haven’t seen a “friendly’ for hours. I take a swig of water, pour some over my fingers and wipe the grit from around my burning eyes and blink.
I glance in the side mirror to see if the other five trucks in our all-female supply unit are still behind us. I can only see one, with all the blowing sand, but assume everyone is staying in column. We may be women but we are good with our vehicles. The Sarge should be proud. We are doing our part.
The Humvee in front of us slows, turns and then lurches onto a desert track. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least we have a road of sorts under us again. The Sarge guns the engine and our deuce-and-a-half careens onto the road and picks up speed. Visibility has improved a bit too. I can see three truck-lengths back now.
I turn to face the front, unfold a map on my lap, and am about to ask the Sarge if she has any idea where the fuck we are when with a roar and a blinding flash ... right before my eyes ... our Humvee escort is lifted clear off the road and tossed on its side. The Sarge brakes hard and pulls over to the side. I can hear the other trucks braking behind us.
"Shit!" exclaims the Sarge, reaching for her sidearm, "Iraqis!"
"Where?" I yell, slapping my helmet on my head and peering into the blowing sand.
"All around us," she replies as she throws open the door to the cab and jumps out, weapon drawn. But before she even hits the ground, a burst of automatic fire cuts her down.
I am stunned. I stare at her blood spattered all over the open door and at her body crumpled on the road. I start to retch, fight the urge to lose my lunch and look up. The road is suddenly full of Iraqis advancing on our stalled convoy with leveled weapons, behind them clanks the tank that destroyed our Humvee.
An Iraqi soldier strides up to my side of the cab, yanks the door open, shoves his weapon in my face, and gestures with his free hand for me to get out. I put both hands on top of my helmet ... a sign of surrender ... slide off the seat, and drop to the ground. Looking back over my shoulder, I see the other women in my unit clambering down from their trucks, and headed toward the front of the column, hands over their heads.
We are swiftly herded together, and forced to kneel in the shelter of a ditch beside the road. I make a quick head count. There are eleven of us. The Sarge is dead, as are the guys in our Humvee escort.
We are all scared. Some of the girls are crying. We huddle together for comfort. An officer stands over us and speaks to us in heavily accented English. He orders us to strip to the waist.
We look at one another doubtfully. He waves his weapon at us menacingly and says, "Now!"
I hear safeties released all around as several dozen Iraqis look down on us from all sides, guns leveled.
Slowly we comply while the soldiers watch, many of them lighting up cigarettes, pointing and joking among themselves. I set my helmet aside, cross my arms and take my desert-sand-colored tee off over my head. After a few moments hesitation, I reach behind, undo and drop my bra, quickly crossing my arms to cover my breasts.
We are ordered to remove our belts and surrender our boots. My mind races as I unlace my desert boots and toss them away ... wondering all the time if they intend to shoot us all and leave us here in the ditch.
Several of them jump down into the ditch to bind our wrists behind our backs. I lean forward, breasts and dog tags dangling, wincing as the cord wrapped roughly around my wrists is pulled tight and bites into my skin.
They line us up in a neat row and walk back and forth behind us, stopping randomly to poke us in the back with their gun muzzles, and laughing among themselves at our terrified reactions.
Suddenly the sharp bark of a shot, deafeningly close, rings out. The girl next to me slumps forward, a bloody hole in her bare back between the shoulder blades. I watch in horror as she flops about in the sand then lies still. Another shot … another victim, and then another ... screams of terror.
I close my eyes, shaking uncontrollably. A gun muzzle presses against my neck and slowly slides downward along my spine, coming to rest between my shoulder blades. I gasp.
But then the killing stops as abruptly as it began. We are gotten to our feet with kicks and blows, herded up onto the road, formed into a column ... only eight of us left now ... and led away, passing by the destroyed Humvee and the bloody remains of its occupants.
A short distance down the road, we are deafened and nearly knocked off our feet by a series of stupendous blasts as our six trucks are blown up. We stop, turn around to look, and then move out.
The dust storm continues. I slit my eyes and lean into it, the blowing grit stinging my unprotected bare skin. Night is falling, the temperature dropping. Barefoot and half-naked we trudge under guard into the desert night.
TO BE CONTINUED
1. Late February 1991 … somewhere just inside Iraq with the 1st Cav. Blinding desert dust storm.
I sit nervously in the passenger seat of our M35 "Deuce-and-half", peering through the dirty windshield at the Humvee driving "point" for our little column of six trucks carrying fuel for the armor up ahead. My sergeant, who sits next to me at the wheel, keeps up a constant chatter as we creep along through buffeting gusts and swirls of wind-blown sand.
"Ya know Moore, it just ain't fair," she drawls, "It’s still a man's army. Them guys get all the fun whipping Saddam's army, while we women bring up the rear, chasing 'em around with resupplies of fuel and ammo. What I wouldn't give to be up front where the real action is!"
I look at my gung-ho Sarge dubiously. I was never cut out to be a soldier. I only joined the reserves a few years back to help pay for college. I never ever expected to be out here. But they called me up for "Desert Storm" and here I am. I think I am already closer to the "action" than I care to be, but dutifully answer, "yes Sarge."
There seems to be plenty to worry about. People are being killed out here ... mostly Iraqis from the looks of all the burned out vehicles we passed several hours ago ...their blackened hulks strewn seemingly endlessly along the road ... but rumor has it the elite Iraqi Republican Guard is somewhere up ahead waiting for us.
But what was worrying me even more is that I am all but certain we are lost. It's been a long time since we left the road to strike out across the desert, and with the dust storm, visibility is down to almost nil. We haven’t seen a “friendly’ for hours. I take a swig of water, pour some over my fingers and wipe the grit from around my burning eyes and blink.
I glance in the side mirror to see if the other five trucks in our all-female supply unit are still behind us. I can only see one, with all the blowing sand, but assume everyone is staying in column. We may be women but we are good with our vehicles. The Sarge should be proud. We are doing our part.
The Humvee in front of us slows, turns and then lurches onto a desert track. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least we have a road of sorts under us again. The Sarge guns the engine and our deuce-and-a-half careens onto the road and picks up speed. Visibility has improved a bit too. I can see three truck-lengths back now.
I turn to face the front, unfold a map on my lap, and am about to ask the Sarge if she has any idea where the fuck we are when with a roar and a blinding flash ... right before my eyes ... our Humvee escort is lifted clear off the road and tossed on its side. The Sarge brakes hard and pulls over to the side. I can hear the other trucks braking behind us.
"Shit!" exclaims the Sarge, reaching for her sidearm, "Iraqis!"
"Where?" I yell, slapping my helmet on my head and peering into the blowing sand.
"All around us," she replies as she throws open the door to the cab and jumps out, weapon drawn. But before she even hits the ground, a burst of automatic fire cuts her down.
I am stunned. I stare at her blood spattered all over the open door and at her body crumpled on the road. I start to retch, fight the urge to lose my lunch and look up. The road is suddenly full of Iraqis advancing on our stalled convoy with leveled weapons, behind them clanks the tank that destroyed our Humvee.
An Iraqi soldier strides up to my side of the cab, yanks the door open, shoves his weapon in my face, and gestures with his free hand for me to get out. I put both hands on top of my helmet ... a sign of surrender ... slide off the seat, and drop to the ground. Looking back over my shoulder, I see the other women in my unit clambering down from their trucks, and headed toward the front of the column, hands over their heads.
We are swiftly herded together, and forced to kneel in the shelter of a ditch beside the road. I make a quick head count. There are eleven of us. The Sarge is dead, as are the guys in our Humvee escort.
We are all scared. Some of the girls are crying. We huddle together for comfort. An officer stands over us and speaks to us in heavily accented English. He orders us to strip to the waist.
We look at one another doubtfully. He waves his weapon at us menacingly and says, "Now!"
I hear safeties released all around as several dozen Iraqis look down on us from all sides, guns leveled.
Slowly we comply while the soldiers watch, many of them lighting up cigarettes, pointing and joking among themselves. I set my helmet aside, cross my arms and take my desert-sand-colored tee off over my head. After a few moments hesitation, I reach behind, undo and drop my bra, quickly crossing my arms to cover my breasts.
We are ordered to remove our belts and surrender our boots. My mind races as I unlace my desert boots and toss them away ... wondering all the time if they intend to shoot us all and leave us here in the ditch.
Several of them jump down into the ditch to bind our wrists behind our backs. I lean forward, breasts and dog tags dangling, wincing as the cord wrapped roughly around my wrists is pulled tight and bites into my skin.
They line us up in a neat row and walk back and forth behind us, stopping randomly to poke us in the back with their gun muzzles, and laughing among themselves at our terrified reactions.
Suddenly the sharp bark of a shot, deafeningly close, rings out. The girl next to me slumps forward, a bloody hole in her bare back between the shoulder blades. I watch in horror as she flops about in the sand then lies still. Another shot … another victim, and then another ... screams of terror.
I close my eyes, shaking uncontrollably. A gun muzzle presses against my neck and slowly slides downward along my spine, coming to rest between my shoulder blades. I gasp.
But then the killing stops as abruptly as it began. We are gotten to our feet with kicks and blows, herded up onto the road, formed into a column ... only eight of us left now ... and led away, passing by the destroyed Humvee and the bloody remains of its occupants.
A short distance down the road, we are deafened and nearly knocked off our feet by a series of stupendous blasts as our six trucks are blown up. We stop, turn around to look, and then move out.
The dust storm continues. I slit my eyes and lean into it, the blowing grit stinging my unprotected bare skin. Night is falling, the temperature dropping. Barefoot and half-naked we trudge under guard into the desert night.
TO BE CONTINUED
Last edited:
)
