Sand Spider

While home, a fellow Navy officer asked if I had seen sand spiders. I replied that I had not but that I had seen some pictures of some of the more larger specimens. And they can grow to be pretty large.

While at Ali al Salem, I was waiting to assist in the offload of some of our checked baggage. It was around 0130 local time. An Air Force lieutenant colonel I was speaking with said, “Hey, what’s that?” pointing the ground. We saw something that at first looked like a mid-sized brown scorpion scurrying along the ground at a pretty good clip. As I got closer, I saw it was a legendary sand spider. It seemed fearless and changed course to come in my direction. “Are they poisonous?” I asked while weaving to avoid its charge. “No, but their bite is quite painful, so I’m told.” I got out my camera and attempted to take a picture documenting this encounter. As I got closer to it, it would change course to come at me. I would back away and then again attempt to get closer. Eventually, I snapped a somewhat X-Files-like picture. It was much bigger than it appears. Really.

Back to the Future

The time passed too quickly. Shortly after getting home for leave I thought, fifteen days surely is a long time. But here I sit in Atlanta on 24 May already, waiting to catch the chartered flight to Kuwait, via Leipzig, Germany, my leave all but over. I awoke at 0315 this morning in order to catch a 0600 commercial flight from San Francisco International to Dallas. At SFO, I bid my attractive wife farewell once again with the mutual understanding that more than half of my tour already was over: only four and a half months to go. It was still hard to say goodbye.

Following the instructions given to me when I arrived in Dallas, I sought out an adjacent ticket counter at the USO where I would officially report back. The ticket counter was a sea of military members wearing Army Combat and Desert Camouflage Uniforms (ACUs and DCUs), the sight of which actually was shocking. During my short leave, my eyes quickly readjusted to civilian clothes.

The same Texan hospitality I encountered on the inbound flight once again was waiting for us. The USO provided snacks, water, batteries, and other sundry items after we made our way from the check in area to the gate. We boarded the chartered jet for a short flight to Atlanta where we picked up the rest of our group -- some 355 people all together.

We arrived in Atlanta a few hours later where we deplaned briefly and met up with more people in uniform. We re-boarded, this time taking up every seat in the chartered MD-11, and took off for Kuwait via a brief stop in Leipzig, Germany.

On the plane, I sat next to a Army staff sergeant who I learned had served previously in Afghanistan and was now in Tikrit, Iraq. Like me, he was returning from leave. When he learned I was stationed in the International Zone, he asked about the period in April where we received almost daily rocket attacks from Shiite insurgents in Sadr City. “I’ve heard several swish by,” I said. “I’m told if you can hear them, they aren’t necessarily headed your way.” “Not true,” he replied, “and I have the Purple Heart to prove it.” He explained he had been in a guard tower in Afghanistan one night when he heard the familiar swoosh of an incoming rocket. He initially thought he was safe because he could hear the rocket. Nevertheless, it slammed into the guard tower injuring him. “Were you hit by shrapnel?” I asked. He said he didn’t think so; it was likely a piece of the tower which broke loose during the explosion. So, swoosh doesn’t necessarily mean safe. Noted.

We landed in Kuwait City around 1900 local on 25 May, some ten hours in the future as far California and my family was concerned. We stepped out of the plane into a 104F Hair Dryer. Thankfully, we walked immediately into waiting air conditioned buses. Unlike our outbound leg, a Kuwaiti Police escort already was waiting for the trip to Camp Ali al Salem. There, the same Gateway crew as before processed us back in from leave and began separating us into to different groups, depending on our final destinations whether they be in Iraq, Afghanistan or the Horn of Africa.

I had hoped the flight to Baghdad would be leave later in the day, affording us some respite but at a briefing at 2200 we were told to return at 0200. At 0200 we were told that we were to be manifested on a flight leaving later that day. At 0245 we were put again in “lockdown” which you will recall is military speak for “don’t go anywhere.” At 0400 we were told to “stand by” and at 0430 we began boarding buses to go meet our flight. Out on the flight-line we boarded a huge, passenger configured C-17 at 0500 and took off for Baghdad around 0600. Although packed in again like sardines, the advantage of the C-17 is that it’s much quicker than a C-130; we arrived in Baghdad only an hour later. All told getting back to Iraq was much more efficient than leaving, the irony of which was not lost on those of us returning from leave.

Home

Dear readers: I got home last week and have another week to go. I'm so happy to be home and be spending time with my family. I'll start posting again when I return to Baghdad.

Southern Comfort - Part Two

I wrote earlier of the wonderful and unexpected hospitality we received in Columbia, South Carolina the night before we flew to Kuwait six months ago. After a brief refueling stop in Leipzig, Germany, our chartered flight landed in Atlanta, Roughly half our group deplaned here to catch commercial flights to points on the eastern half of the US. The rest of us flew on to Dallas, Texas.

We were greeted in Dallas by an Army master sergeant accompanied by a major. I turned over the Dallas manifest given to me by the team at Gateway and signed several papers recording our flight’s arrival. In the company of the major, myself and an army colonel flying with us, walked off the plane ahead of the rest of the group. We stepped into the terminal and received several thank yous and glances of admiration from people walking around. The major led us down a flight of steps to an unused customs area where he officially stamped our leave slips, recording our entry back to the US. The major told me I could exit as the colonel had checked baggage to claim. I thanked him, especially now that my official duties as flight commander were through.

I made my way to the exit not sure of where I would end up. Two closed doors opened automatically and I found myself in a long hallway. As I turned the corridor I found myself looking at close to fifty people including school children with balloons, flags and confetti. All of sudden people were shaking my hand, giving me a small gift bag, a bottle of cold water and smiles all around. Off to my left, someone played a patriotic song from a stereo loudspeaker. I looked into the eyes of the kids and shook as many hands as I could thanking every one of them. I was overcome, especially as I was caught so off guard. I apologized in fact because the rest of my group was behind me some minutes off. They all said that was okay; I was just as import walking through alone. Truly amazing.

I found myself on the street and in the bright Dallas sunshine. I turned and walked to the next set of double doors and entered the United Terminal where I would be catching my next flight to San Francisco via Denver. I passed through security again and made a call to my attractive wife to update her on my arrival time home. As I finished, an elderly man came up to me to shake my hand and to thank me for my service. I explained I was mid-way through my tour and that I was looking forward to seeing my family. After our chat, I made my way to a bathroom. As I was shaving, a tall young man came in and slapped a $20 bill on the basin and said, “Thank you for my freedom.” I was aghast, picked up the bill and said, “Sir, that’s not necessary...” but he said, “yes, it is. Thank you,” and was gone. I finished shaving, once again surprised by the genuine nature of appreciation. As I finished, a young army specialist (E-4) walked in and began repacking his back across from me. I took the $20 and said to him, “a complete stranger just gave me this $20 thanking for me my service. I’m an O-5 and you’re a E-4; you take it.” The specialist wore the same expression I had just moments earlier and said, “Thank you, sir.” I smiled and left. Pay it forward.

Thank you, good people of Dallas. This Dirt Sailor won’t forget your gestures of hospitality.

Checkpoint

We drove for about ten or fifteen minutes when we pulled over into what appeared to be a check point. Sitting in the front of the lead bus I could see Kuwaiti police vehicles parked next to a few ramshackle buildings. Several Kuwaitis, police I assumed, walked out of the building and made their way to the lead HUMVEE escort. This, I was told, would be our police escort to KCIA, still some twenty or so minutes away. We waited. And waited.

One of the soldiers on our bus had a radio which I periodically asked him to use to find out what was going on. Every time he radioed the HUMVEE they replied that the Kuwaitis were told they would be escorting two convoys, not one. All I could think of was the other group of soldiers from Afghanistan we had spent the entire day behind in customs. I knew for a fact that we had left before them, presumably because our flight left before theirs.

After an hour went by, new civilian vehicles arrived. Uniformed personnel got out and joined the growing conference of Kuwaitis and US military at the head of our convoy. I asked my Marine Corps master sergeant, who was my assistant flight commander, to accompany me out of the bus to see what was going on. As we approached the outdoor conference, I saw that one of the recent arrivals was a Kuwaiti police colonel. The other Kuwaitis were paying him much deference. The US military personnel involved in the conference were senior enlisted. One of them saw our approach and asked what he could do for us. He looked stressed and our arrival likely was adding to the stress. Nevertheless, I owed it to the 348 personnel in the buses behind me to find out what was going on.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked. “Yeah,” I replied, “we’re less than two hours from our scheduled departure. Why are we still stuck here?” “Sir,” he said moving slightly between me and the ensuing discussion not far away, “we’re just about to get moving, don’t worry.”
Right.

I knew the flight was chartered, and we were the only passengers, so it’s not like the plane was going anywhere without us. We walked back to the bus. Not long after, another convoy of four buses plus a baggage truck arrived and positioned themselves in front of us. This was the second convoy the Kuwaitis were waiting for. Slowly, the Kuwaitis and the US military personnel previously engaged in the discussions got back in their vehicles and we started moving.

After some twenty to thirty minutes, we arrived at KCIA and vectored off to a closed section of the airport. We went through some more check points and were told we would be driven directly to the flight line. The convoy that was ahead of us drove off to a parking lot. As we passed by, we saw them getting off their buses to smoke.

We drove on for a minute or two and found ourselves on the flight line. A large chartered plane was waiting for us. Our volunteer baggage handlers, where were on the first bus with me, got off and started to load our bags on the plane. I got off the bus and presented our official manifest to the plane’s crew. Some more signatures were made and our group got onto the plane. Every seat was taken.

Bus Ride to KCIA

I left the loading dock, with the last of my group and found ourselves in Yet Another Line. This one led through a causeway to another building where, we were told by those ahead of us, we would go through another X ray machine. Once again, we emptied our pockets, walked through the metal detectors, had our carry one bags X-rayed and were admonished once again that we could take such things as hand grenades, war trophies, or switch blades home. Right.

We exited into a court yard where we were instructed to wait in a tent, depending on our intermediate destinations (Atlanta or Dallas). I went to the Dallas tent and found half my group waiting seated on chairs and watching a movie. A stocked refrigerator held water, sodas and sports drinks, along with snacks on the wall. I grabbed a Coke and some potato chips. Shortly, we were instructed to walk to another building where we would pick up our commercial airline tickets and itineraries. We did so, and then gathered once more as an entire group under a wooden roofed structure. We received a blessing from an Air Force Chaplain who gave a gift to one of our soldiers. He gave it to the youngest soldier with a child (the solider was nineteen).

Our push time for the busses was set back one hour to accommodate our Dantean travel through Customs. I was informed by the movement coordinator that we would be okay. Under Gateway personnel supervision we slowly filed onto nine large buses and, under armed escort, proceeded out into the dark Kuwaiti desert.

Leaving Gateway

The next morning we re-assembled and went into “lockdown” which is a military term for “don’t go anywhere,” while we waited to clear customs. We were herded into a large, air conditioned tent, while we waited to be called to a building next door to go through the customs. We waited and waited. Finally, some two hours later, a Navy customs petty officer introduced himself to me and said we would be starting. Apparently, another unit redeploying home from Afghanistan had been two hours late starting their customs and now my group was behind schedule. We were scheduled to leave together on a bus later that afternoon in order to make trip to Kuwait City International Airport (KCIA).

As the flight commander, I went with the first group of people called to go through customs. We were ushered to the next building, told to remove our covers (hats) and empty our pockets into them. We filed by an X-ray machine, were wanded and then proceeded to a series of desks where t-shirted Navy customs enlisted petty officers went through our bags. It was hot and dark in the cavernous building.

“Why is it so dark in here?” I asked the Hispanic guy going through my back pack. “Oh, the power went out about two hours ago. We also had a small fire but it was put out.” That’s great. I took my now unpacked belongings and dumped them into a plastic bin. Moving everything over to a series of wooden tables, I repacked and went outside.

Two trucks waited on a loading dock where volunteer baggage handlers from my group and the unit from Afghanistan were loaded checked baggage. I placed my bags to the side and re-entered the customs building to see if I could get a better sense of what was going on.

“Are you the flight commander?” a Navy customs official asked me while I was still outside. “That’s me,” I answered. “We’re going to have to hurry your people up if you guys want to make your flight tonight.” “Well we’d love to,” I answered, “but we got stuck behind this other unit redeploying from Afghanistan.” “There’s no way around that,” he answered, “just tell your people to re-pack their belongings faster.” Well, thanks for that advice, I thought. I passed the word to our baggage handlers and some of them started circulating in the customs building cajoling their fellow soldiers to repack faster.

While inside, I was approached by a young army sergeant who asked if I could sign form authorizing him to take a piece of shrapnel home. Technically, this is classified as a war trophy but there are regulations allowing soldiers to take them home under certain circumstances. Gingerly, he unwrapped a towel to reveal an ugly six inch piece of twisted steel. “How did you come across this?” I asked. “My trucked was IED’d and this piece of shrapnel came flying into my truck where it bounded around. Luckily, no one was hurt.” I held the jagged pieces of steel, which was very sharp, and wondered how anyone couldn’t be hurt by having it bounce around in a vehicle. “You certainly deserve this,” I said and signed his form.

As the last of our group cleared customs, the power returned.