I knew it was a bad day when I bolted awake at 6:10, glanced at my alarm clock to see the power was out and cursed loud enough to wake my roommate. Yelled at the LT that were late, and we both jumped into our uniforms and ran out the door, me yelling “I don’t have my key!”
Ran off to parking lot and grabbed vehicles to load five soldiers we needed to deliver to the airport, where they needed to be at, uh, 5:30. Got them and their 20 bags of gear and weapons loaded and to airport an hour late, but thankfully the RAF (as usual) was two hours late, so they got there in time… whew!
Came back and loped to the cookhouse, where we were 15 minutes late meeting a British Sgt. Major who was coming with us on the convoy to Kuwait. After wolfing down breakfast, we tell her to meet us at the gate in 10 minutes. Run back to Cube and discover the LT doesn’t have his key, he thought I said “I have my key!” (sigh)
Run off to Guardhouse, grab bolt cutters and cut off our lock, grab gear and weapons and off to gate, where we are 10 minutes late to meet the Sgt. Major… (do you sense a theme?)
Drive off to the convoy point and we are 10 minutes early, so the briefing and departure is fine. No troubles on the road except we take a longer route we’ve never been before, which means we get to the border an hour behind our planning schedule. We drop from the convoy once in Kuwait and strike off south, aiming for an airbase where we intend to pick up a Sergeant returning from R&R. The Sgt. Major had decided to tag along as she’d never been to Kuwait and was hoping to visit an American PX. “Hoping” turned out to be the operative word.
So, you figure with all the close calls in the morning, what could go wrong? Well, we were chatting too much while driving and blew right by the airbase exit… (sigh) Granted, the signs are poor – being small and infrequent – but still, totally our fault – we knew it was about 120 km from the border but we were too busy explaining the sights... So we’re driving along and we make a turn, which is familiar but somehow just seems wrong. We drive along some more, make a second turn and realize, with a great sinking feeling, that we are headed to the wrong base. There goes another hour off track…
Ok, so we turn around and are storming back, and now every exit seems like it could be right or wrong… (the directions? Remember the whole bolt cutter lock thing? yeah, the directions, fluttering to the floor as we rushed in, slipping under the desk and forgotten…) … and we miss one turn, losing what are now precious minutes, before we get back on track. Suddenly, there it is! We slip off the exit and drive an agonizing 20 minutes to the airfield, make it through the gate, with every delay painful (and we haven’t stopped at a latrine all day either). Jump out of the vehicle – a big, old armored Suburban with pretty-much tank armor (i.e. a $225K armored limo) – and ran inside to grab the Sergeant at about 2 pm. No where to be seen. We split up to search… I know, I know… (sigh) And the Sgt. Major saves the day! Sergeant P-, who has been waiting for us since noon, spots her uniform and thinks “Aha, she must know something about Basra!” He wanders up and there is much rejoicing! He asks when did we get here and I say “5 minutes ago,” he asks when do we need to leave and I say, “Now.” Yes. Right. All would be well, except now we’ve lost the LT… (sigh)
Sergeant P- runs off to get his stuff and the Sgt. Major and I stand around, waiting. The Sgt. Major is annoyed that we have no time to hit the PX, or get some lunch, but Sergeant P- mollifies her a little bit by noting the PX is closed owing to a failed a/c unit.
Finally the LT returns – he’d run off to the barracks tent to find Sergeant P- – and we load up and zip off to the gate thinking, no worries, we have an hour to get to the border and meet the return convoy, easy.
Then we pull up to the exit. A long line of cars and trucks. No one is moving. Ack! The time begins ticking away, second by second, and we have visions of spending the weekend in Kuwait (the next UK convoy north is days later), which wouldn’t be a bad thing except we have no orders to do so and we’re all expected back for work the next day (not to mention no clean clothes, no sleeping bags, etc. – remember the whole rush out the door thing?).
We send the LT up to the gate to sweet talk us to the head of the line, which, amazingly, he pulls off – arguing correctly that we need to catch a convoy at the border. By the time I back the suburban the 200 meters between trucks and cement barriers I’ve broken out into a sweat, and we zoom out the entrance road shaking with relief. We have 40 minutes to go about 100 kilometers…
We get to the highway and I put the pedal to the floor, and we scream right by the only exit we have to make… (argh!) .. so there’s another lost 5 minutes. Turns out there was a quick turn around, lucky us, as we’d heard of a previous trip where a guy made a wrong turn and had to go 15 miles before he could turn around.
Roar up the hill, past the police checkpoint speed bumps and with the engine screaming we hurtle the armored behemouth down the highway – I don’t even want to think how heavy the vehicle is (probably 3-4 tons) – and I glance down in horror to see the gas gauge wavering on empty. So, we’re stuck between the twin tyrannies of time and distance. The only way to possibly make the 80 km to the convoy point in 20 minutes is to drive 90 to 100 mph, but if we do that, the giant engine will burn through the remaining wisps of fuel and leave us in the middle of the desert. Ugh.
Suddenly, there is a peculiar curly-cue sign with a gas pump symbol on it! We pull into the Kuwaiti gas station and, thankfully, the Indian employee who pumps gas (you don’t expect Kuwaiti’s to actually dirty their hands, right!?) agrees to take dollars (did you know the Kuwaiti dollar is equal to four U.S. dollars! – I kind of felt like we were from a third world country…). We get half a tank of gas for $20 (probably cost $40 in the States) and peel out north, with one of the tyrannies defeated. Roar into the convoy base in a cloud of dust and gravel 15 minutes late – and thinking we are soooo hosed – when, joy for all, we spot the Brits getting ready to depart, they were late again. Love those Brits! We all breath a huge sigh of relief, especially the Sgt. Major.
After all that, the convoy through Basrah province was a cakewalk. No troubles.
The only problem now is that the LT and I have been made fun of for days. Looks like I’ve still got the cloak of shame...
Did I send this photo already? See, the Brits opened up combat jobs to women too.
Fair Winds and Following Sands!
For past Brown Sand Sailor entries and pics, visit: Brown Sand Sailor Web Site