To be in a hostile land...

With all the recent craziness going on in the Mid-East, from the murder of our Ambassador in Libya, rioting in Cairo and across the region, to more of our troops in Afghanistan being killed by supposed friendlies, I keep thinking about how very vulnerable our citizens are in these areas that are so inflamed. I can't imagine how scary it must be to be a civilian trapped inside a compound, listening to the angry mobs crushing in, getting closer and closer. The Iranian Hostage Crisis, that horror show that riveted our nation for over a year, comes to mind. Times like this are why God made the Marines.

While I don't know what it's like to be a civilian under attack in a hostile land, praying for rescue, I do know what it's like to be in a Mid-Eastern country operating under the highest of threat levels. During Operation Desert Shield and into Operation Desert Storm, while my unit was camped at King Fahd International Airport in Riyadh, we were targeted by terrorists on several occasions. I never thought much about those instances until fairly recently. All these infiltrations of our bases in Afghanistan and killings of our troops that I keep reading about really get me. How the hell does that happen?

I'm writing a book about my experience going through the Persian Gulf War with the 101st Airborne's very last Huey unit. I call it "Riders on the Storm." The story below is my last addition, written about a month ago, before all this craziness erupted.

The Visitors

One night during Operation Desert Storm, just before my unit deployed north for the ground invasion, my friend Barstow and I landed guard duty together. Our post was the main entrance to the compound at King Fahd International Airport in Riyadh. With the air war going on, we were at DefCon 4, the Army’s highest threat level. Shit was real. Upon manning our post, we were given orders to not let any foreign nationals into the compound. Easy enough, I thought.

We started our shift at 11 p.m. The air was biting cold and it was pitch black. Flood lights lit the area around us and down the road a bit. We couldn’t see a thing beyond that. Everything was still and quiet for the most part. So many soldiers had moved up north towards Iraq already that the area was a virtual ghost town. At that hour, those who remained were mostly asleep. As one minute seeped into the next, I thought about everything feeling different again, changing quickly; countries, temperatures, encampments, threat levels. Within days we would be moving north, to a whole new environment and situation. What lay ahead, I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Armed with a silly grin and lots of ammo, Barstow was ready for action. He stood behind the wall of sandbags eagle-eyed and locked and loaded; such a Boy Scout. He was being goofy, cracking jokes as he scanned the vast darkness beyond. I think he was trying to amuse himself as much as he was trying to entertain me. Dude was always cracking me up, no matter where we were or what we were doing. Like randomly walking by his hooch, he’d call out after me, mimicking a drill sergeant, “left, left, left riiight left!”

  

Sometime late into our shift, a small, white Toyota pick-up truck approached. The driver brought the truck to a slow, dusty stop as I moved out from behind the barricade. Holding my M-16 tightly, I flipped the safety off as I neared the driver’s side window. As the glass came down I got a good look at the driver and his passenger; both slim, young Arab men in rumpled civilian clothing. They looked to be in their mid-twenties, tops.

Barstow had my back, standing behind the wall of sandbags with his weapon pointed at the driver. I could tell the guy was nervous; his eyes darted between me and Barstow as he gripped the upper steering wheel. His pal riding shotgun sat as still as a statue, looking straight ahead. I asked the driver what their business was. He looked up at me with brown saucer eyes and told me in good English that they were Saudi policeman and they needed to get onto the compound. I asked him for ID but he said they had none. I smelled a rat. “You hang tight,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

Why would Saudi policemen not have any ID? And wouldn’t they know we had strict orders about who could enter? It sounded hinky to me. I moved away from the truck and waved Barstow over. I told him what they said. We agreed that without any ID, they’d have to see our First Sergeant before they got anywhere near inside our compound. Our landline was down, of all times, so Barstow had to double-time back to our area to tell “Top” what was going on and to bring him back. Before Barstow left, I walked back to the truck and told the driver what was happening and that they’d have to wait. He acknowledged, nodding sullenly.

I walked around the truck and stood about three feet in front of it. I raised my weapon and aimed for the drivers’ head. I held that position for what seemed like forever. If that guy revs the engine at all, I thought, or makes a move, I’m taking them both out. No hesitation. No bullshit.

I could see the driver leaning slightly toward his passenger, lips moving, his eyes locked on mine. Shotgun guy listened, and then nodded cautiously. They were agreeing on something. I tickled the trigger of my M-16 with my finger tip, hoping the guy wasn’t planning to get stupid. I really didn’t want to kill two people that night; and I didn’t want to see that kind of hideous mess. The fact was, though, I was absolutely ready to do just that – if I had to. There was no way I was letting any unauthorized people into our compound and near my unit.

It was a strange and powerful feeling knowing I literally had someone’s life in my hands; being a breath away from possibly killing someone. And not just one person, but two. If the situation called for using deadly force, though, I had absolutely no problem with it. We were at war and I knew that our enemies were very real. As real as those who attacked and killed 220 of our Marines in Lebanon back in ’83. There are times when deadly force is the only option; and I was ready.

Suddenly, I heard the crunch of sand and saw the truck’s front tires slowly turning. The driver reached out the window with his left hand and motioned to me that they were leaving. I waved the barrel of my rifle, signaling for him to proceed. I kept my aim as he made a very slow U-turn, picked up speed and disappeared into the darkness. Once the truck’s taillights faded from sight, I lowered my weapon and put the safety back on.

I walked back around the barricade, leaned up against it and lit a cigarette. I took a long drag and exhaled, wondering what the hell just happened and who those men really were. I took another drag and blew a couple smoke rings up into the beam of light particles floating down from above. It suddenly hit me that I wasn’t even cold, like I was before our visitors arrived. The adrenaline must’ve jacked up my body temperature. 

Glancing back toward our unit, I could see Barstow quickly approaching. I finished my cigarette and put it out as he made his way over to me. Before I could ask him where “Top” was he said, “What happened? Where’d they go?”

“I have no idea what all that was about,” I said, shaking my head. “Guess they decided whatever they came here for wasn’t so important after all.”

“Huh,” he grunted, staring straight ahead into the darkness. “Seems to me those boys were up to no good.”

I nodded. “Yah and they were in such a big hurry, too. They said they were Saudi police. If they really were Saudi police on some mission, don’t you think they would’ve waited for the First Sergeant?”

“Damn skippy.”