Chapter 11
Doha was a large U.S. Army base, and played important roles in both the First and what would be the Second Gulf War. We were given a warehouse there and framed-out rooms with the help of some Seabees, the Navy combat engineers. We'd come to rely on the Seabees for similar support in the future.
Ali al-Salem was even more primitive, at least for us. There we got a tent and some shelving units; that was about it. I guess the powers-that-be figured SEALs don't need much.
I was in Kuwait when I saw my first desert sandstorm. The day suddenly became night. Sand swirled everywhere. From the distance, you can see a vast orange-brown cloud moving toward you. Then, suddenly, it's black and you feel like you're in the middle of swirling mineshaft, or maybe the rinse cycle in a bizarre was.h.i.+ng machine that uses sand instead of water.
I remember being in an airplane hangar, and even though the doors were closed, the amount of dust in the air was unbelievable. The sand was a fine grit that you never wanted to get in your eyes, because it would never come out. We quickly learned to wear goggles to protect them; sungla.s.ses wouldn't do.
60 GUNNER
Being a new guy, I was the 60 gunner.
As I'm sure many of you know, "60" refers to the M-60 general-purpose machine gun, a belt-fed weapon that has served the U.S. military in a number of versions for several decades.
The M-60 was developed in the 1950s. It fires 7.62-mm bullets; the design is so flexible that it can be used as the basis for a coaxial machine gun in armored vehicles and helicopters, and a light, man-carried squad-level weapon. It was a workhorse in the Vietnam War, where grunts called it "the Pig" and occasionally cursed over the hot barrel, which required an asbestos glove to change after firing a few hundred rounds-not particularly convenient in combat.
The Navy made substantial improvements to the weapon over the years, and it remains a potent gun. The newest version is so improved, in fact, that it rates a different designation: the Navy calls it an Mk-43 Mod 0. (Some contend it should be considered a completely separate weapon; I'm not going to wade into that debate.) It's comparatively light-in the area of twenty-three pounds-and has a relatively short barrel. It also has a rail system, which allows scopes and the like to be attached.
Also currently in service are M-240s, M-249s, and the Mk-46, a variant of the M-249.
As a general rule, the machine guns carried by shooters in my platoons were always called 60s, even when they were actually something else, like the Mk-48. We used more Mk-48s as time went on during my days in Iraq, but unless it's significant for some reason, I refer to any squad-level machine gun as a 60 and leave others to sort out the fine print.
The old "Pig" nickname for the 60 survives, which leads a lot of 60 gunners to be called Pigs, or a creative variation; in our platoon, a friend of mine named Bob got tagged with it.
It never applied to me. My nickname was "Tex," which was one of the more socially acceptable things people called me.
With war becoming inevitable, we began patrolling the border across Kuwait, making sure that the Iraqis weren't going to try and sneak across in a preemptory strike. We also began training for a role in the upcoming fight.
That meant spending quality time in DPVs, also known as SEAL dune buggies.
DPVs ("Desert Patrol Vehicles") look extremely cool from the distance, and they are far better equipped than your average ATV. There's a.50-caliber machine gun and an Mk-19 grenade launcher on the front, and an M-60 on the back. Then there are the LAW rockets, one-shot anti-tank weapons that are the spiritual descendants of World War II
Practically every picture you see of a DPV has the sucker flying over a sand dune and popping a wheelie. It is an exceedingly bad-a.s.s image.
Unfortunately, it is just that-an image. Not a reality.
From what I understand, the DPVs were based on a design that had been used in the Baja races. Stripped down, they were undoubtedly mean mothers. The problem is, we didn't drive them stripped down. All that ordnance we carried added considerable weight. Then there were our rucks, and the water and food you need to survive in a desert for a few days. Extra gas. Not to mention three fully equipped SEALs-driver, navigator, and Pig gunner.
And, in our case, a Texas flag flying off the rear. Both my chief and I were Texans, which made that a mandatory accessory.
The load added up quickly. The DPVs used a small Volkswagen engine that was, in my experience, a piece of junk. It was probably fine in a car, or maybe a dune buggy that didn't see combat. But if we took the vehicle out for two or three days, we'd almost always end up working on it for the same amount of time when we got back. Inevitably, there was some sort of bearing or bus.h.i.+ng failing. We had to do our own maintenance. Luckily for us, my platoon included an ASCE-certified mechanic, and he took charge of keeping the vehicles running.
But by far their biggest drawback was the fact that they were two-wheel drive. This was a huge problem if the ground was in the least bit soft. As long as we kept going we were usually okay, but if we stopped we ended up in trouble. We were constantly digging them out of the sand in Kuwait.
They were a blast when they worked. Being the gunner, I had the elevated seat behind the driver and navigator, who sat side by side below me. Geared up with tactical ballistic goggles and a helicopter-type helmet, I strapped myself in with a five-point restraint and held on as we raced across the desert. We'd do seventy miles an hour. I'd let off a few bursts with the.50-cal, then pull the lever up on the side of the seat and swivel around toward the back. There I'd grab the M-60 and shoot some more. If we were simulating an attack from the side while we were moving, I could grab the M-4 I was carrying and shoot in that direction.
Shooting the big machine gun was fun!
Aiming that sucker while the vehicle was bounding up and down across the desert was something else again. You can move the gun up and down to keep it on target, but you're never going to be particularly precise-at best, you lay down enough fire so you can get the h.e.l.l out of there.
Besides our four three-seat DPVs, we had two six-seaters. The six-seater was the plain-vanilla version-three rows of two seats, with the only weapon the 60 on the front. We used it as the command-and-control wagon. Very boring ride. It was kind of like riding in a station wagon with Mom when Dad's got the sports car.
We practiced for a few weeks. We did a lot of land navigation, built hide sights, and did SR ("surveillance and reconnaissance") along the border. We'd dig in, cover the vehicles with netting, and try and make them disappear in the middle of the desert. Not easy for a DPV: usually it ended up looking like a DPV trying to hide in the middle of the desert. We also practiced deploying the DPVs out of helicopters, riding out the back when they touched down: a rodeo on wheels.
As January neared its end, we started getting worried, not that the war was going to break out, but that it would start without us. The usual SEAL deployment at the time was six months. We'd s.h.i.+pped out in September, and were due to rotate back to the States within a few weeks.
I wanted to fight. I wanted to do what I'd been trained for. American taxpayers had invested considerable dollars in my education as a SEAL. I wanted to defend my country, do my duty, and do my job.
I wanted, more than anything, to experience the thrill of battle.
Taya saw things a lot differently.
Taya:
I was terrified the whole time as the buildup continued toward war. Even though the war hadn't officially started, I knew they were working dangerous ops. When SEALs work, there's always some risk involved. Chris tried to play things down to me so I wouldn't worry, but I wasn't oblivious and I could read between the lines. My anxiety came out in different ways. I was jumpy. I'd see things out of the corner of my eye that weren't there. I couldn't sleep without all the lights on; I'd read every night until my eyes closed involuntarily. I did everything I could to avoid being alone or having too much time to think.
Chris called twice with stories about helicopter accidents that he'd been in. Both were extremely minor, but he was worried that they would be reported and that I would hear about them and worry.
"I just want you to know, in case you hear it on the news," he'd say. "The helo was in a minor bang-up and I'm okay."
One day he told me he had to go out on another helicopter exercise. The next morning, I was watching the news and they reported that a helicopter had gone down near the border and everyone had died. The newscaster said it had been filled with special-forces soldiers.
In the military, "Special Forces" refers to Army special-operations troops, but the newscasters had a tendency to use the term for SEALs. Immediately, I jumped to conclusions.
I didn't hear from him that day, even though he had promised he'd call.
I told myself, I'm not going to panic. It wasn't him.
I poured myself into my work. That night, with still no call, I started to feel a little more anxious.... Then a little freaked out. I couldn't sleep, though I was exhausted from working and holding back the tears that kept threatening to overtake any sense of calm I was faking.
Finally, around one o'clock, I was starting to crack.
The phone rang. I jumped to answer it.
"Hey, babe!" he said, as cheerful as ever.
I started bawling.
Chris kept asking what was wrong. I couldn't even choke out the words to explain. My fear and relief came out as unintelligible sobs.
After that, I vowed to stop watching the news.
CHAPTER 4
Five Minutes to Live