Waiting in Kuwait

March 10, 2005

I’m nestled into a top bunk at Camp Doha, Kuwait.

Rain pitter-pats on the warehouse’s tin roof.

Sleep is quickly winning the fight.

Soft snores come from the bunk beds around me. We’re finally dry, clean and on real beds. Sleep will come easy tonight.

Our second day in Kuwait was filled with a 17-hour headache called military logistics.

Throw in a sandstorm, two rainstorms and the fact that the only shelter available was in 5-ton trucks that don’t have roofs and that was our day.

It started at 5:30 a.m. with a wake-up in my cot on a sandy motorpool in the middle of the Kuwait desert. We’re in southern Kuwait, south of Kuwait City, which is not a far haul in this tiny country from the Iraqi border to the north.

Actually, let’s back up a bit.

My day started about 3 a.m., when I woke up to a very cold breeze that was blowing up under the blanket I used to cover my head. I unzipped my sleeping bag, untucked the blanket and searched in the sandy soil for my boots.

Then I walked the half mile to the one Port-a-Pottie at the gate of the motorpool. There, behind the toilet seat, was a wooden sign with the 39th Brigade patch painted on it. It’s a Bowie knife over a diamond.

And the unit was not on level ground. It tipped to and fro as I shifted my weight.

As I was stumbling through the sand against the strong wind back to my cot next to the 5-ton truck I’d been riding in all day and would continue to ride in the next, I rubbed my dry left eye.

Out popped my contact.

Gone.

I decided to just go back to bed.

At 4 a.m. I was awakened by a muffled alarm clock.

“Shut it off!” the little voice screamed in my head.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I heard the cots around me begin to creak with movement.

That’s when I realized my backpack was beeping. While digging for sunscreen earlier in the day, I must have bumped the button on my travel alarm clock, activating it.

An hour later, everyone was awake and scrambling for towels and clothes, preparing for the bus ride into Camp Victory and hoping to find a hot shower and breakfast before the crowds who live there awake.

In the rush, I forgot an essential item — my pink flip-flops.

Flip-flops are as essential as soap when it comes to community showers. But I needed a shower, so I decided to risk it. Wish my feet luck.

Back at our campsite, the wind was picking up and everyone was pinning everything down with our 70-pound Army duffel bags to keep things from blowing away. I lost my travel pillow. I’m sure it sailed on that wind to Saudi Arabia by now.

By 10 a.m. I was on my way in an SUV to Camp Doha, where the rest of the brigade is stationed. At the first gate, the guards said Staton, our photographer, and I did not have the proper paperwork to pass.

See, the 1st Cavalry Division never issued us credentials showing we were embedded journalists. We’ve run into trouble getting around camps for a year now because of that refusal to credential us.

But it always works out.

It just wasn’t going to happen today.

We were ushered to two other gates, where finally we had to turn over passports and drivers’ licenses and were issued a piece of paper allowing us access only if we were accompanied by a particular soldier.

Whatever works.

After wasting a couple of hours on that, we zipped back to Camp Victory and rejoined our convoy. As we arrived, however, a sandstorm whipped up, turning the sky amber and filling the air with grit that pounded our skin like a sandblaster.

The 5-ton trucks had “hillbilly armor” for the last year, scrap metal welded on to cover the windows and make a roof for a little extra protection against bullets and shrapnel.

We were at the motorpool to get that metal cut off so incoming units could use it. The cutting was finished in the wee hours of the morning. There were no roofs left, no sides, no protection from the storm.

I stood by my 5-ton, putting the truck between me and the blowing wind. It offered little help in the swirling insanity.

The convoy was ready to move by noon, but coordination of escorts and movement to Camp Doha kept us in the sand all afternoon.

The sandstorm died down in about an hour and the football emerged; so did the sun.

Within an hour, lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a low rumble.

Oh no.

I looked over my shoulder at the duffel bags and computer bags and camera bags in the back of our truck. One soldier dug out his Gore-Tex rain gear and offered me his coat. I looked at my white shirt and gladly took it.

We were going to get soaked.

The rain came fast and hard with droplets the size of dimes. And it was cold rain falling through the warm air.

Oh yeah, we were drenched within minutes.

Then the sun came out and began to cook.

The hours crept by as everyone wondered why we were still there waiting. We would be completely dried out by the time we finally left. It was dark before we saw the front gate of Camp Doha, a short drive away.

And it started to rain again.

Our convoy of trucks would line up in one place, wait for a while and be moved to another place to wait.

The rain continued.

The rain mixed with the hardened sand on our faces to make a muddy crust that would prove very hard to scrub off.

Finally we arrived at the warehouses we’ll call home until the planes arrive to haul us to Fort Sill. It’s filled with bunk beds and way too few electrical outlets. There is a string of power strips connected to each other leading from the two lone outlets that feed power to each living section that houses more than 100 soldiers.

But the beds are comfortable and soldiers are allowed to wear civilian clothes. There are baseball and basketball games going on. There’s fast food to eat and movies to watch.

This place is the beginning of the demobilization process. It’s where soldiers are supposed to decompress from the stress of war.

It’s a place to wait.

Posted by Amy at March 10, 2005 10:45 PM