War Stories (11 page)

In fact, I looked for a report from Central Command that morning—something that would explain the sirens and the loud explosion. There was nothing.

As we arrive at the main gate of the port, an enormous military convoy is departing through the exit, about fifty yards away. There are at least fifty HETs—forty-wheeled, heavy equipment transporters, loaded with desert-painted M-1 Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles—forming up on the highway. Military police in Humvees with .50-caliber machine guns mounted on top scurry in and among the HETs like gnats swarming around a herd of cattle.

As I reach for my camera to shoot some footage of the convoy forming up, Ali holds up his hand and says politely but firmly, “Don't do that here, Oliver. If you get caught we will not only not make it inside, we probably won't make it back to Kuwait City tonight either.” I put the camera back in its bag and nod to Ali. He works for the Kuwaiti government and doesn't want to lose his job.

Griff Jenkins and I have coerced Ali into driving us to Kuwait's commercial port, at the mouth of the Persian Gulf, so that we can shop for some necessities at the allied forces military exchange aboard the base. I'm the only one with a U.S. military identity card, and we have a long shopping list from the other two FOX teams that will be going into Iraq with U.S. units. Ali waits in the van while Griff and I
head into the enormous air-conditioned warehouse that serves as the exchange.

Inside the cavernous building is a well-ordered mob scene. At least a thousand American and allied soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines are queued up at more than a dozen checkout lines. Nearly all of them are garbed in desert camouflage, though the varying patterns adopted by the different American, British, and Australian service branches lend a distinctively international air to the scene.

Nation of origin or branch of service doesn't seem to matter when it comes to what they are buying. Each shopping basket seems identical, and nearly every one contains packages of disposable razors, shaving cream, scores of socks, bungee cords, CDs, cameras, film, videotape, batteries of every size and description, flashlights, sunscreen, insect repellent, sunglasses, foot powder, large packages of toilet paper, containers of baby wipes, and candies—particularly M&Ms and Skittles, which supposedly won't melt in the oppressive heat—and brown, green, and tan T-shirts. Many shoppers also have GPS receivers, purchased in the electronics department of the exchange—an area that appears to be stocked with as many choices as any warehouse discount store back in the States.

Griff and I pick up the items on our list and join one of the slow-moving checkout lines. It's not long before I am recognized and there is a rush to take photos and get autographs. I'm soon out of the signature cards that FOX gives me for this purpose and I end up using a laundry marker to sign desert camouflage hats, helmets, and flak jackets. I begin to hope that I never meet the supply sergeants in these units for fear they will bill me for all the headgear that never gets turned in.

“What unit are you going to be with when the shooting starts, sir?” asks a U.S. Army sergeant first class as we creep toward the line of cash registers. He's a sharp-looking, well-built soldier with a close haircut and a 3rd Infantry Division patch on one shoulder and a
small American flag on the other. His hands and neck are deeply tanned, as is his face—except where his sunglasses have stopped the UV radiation, leaving him with the reverse-raccoon look so common among real desert fighters. It's one of the ways you can tell the genuine warriors from the BS artists who talk about war and get their tans at swimming pools or the beach.

“We don't know for sure yet,” I reply. “But I'm told that my cameraman and I are going to be assigned to the Marine air wing.”

“Humph . . . the air wing,” he chides me with a smile. “I thought you used to be an infantryman.”

“I was, but we all go where we're sent,” I answer, feeling a bit defensive about my assignment.

“Well,” he says, “I understand we're going to have a FOX correspondent with my battalion. I sure hope he knows what he's doing. I don't want to have to nursemaid some prima donna who can't find his way to the latrine.” Then he adds, almost prophetically, “Once the shooting starts, I think we're going to be pretty busy.”

   
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM SIT REP #3

      
Coalition Press Information Center

      
Hilton Hotel, Kuwait City, Kuwait

      
10 March 2003

      
0900 Hours Local

“It figures that the military would take the nicest hotel in the city,” says a producer from NBC as we walk out of the ninety-plus-degree heat into the air-conditioned comfort of the Hilton. U.S. Central Command, known as CENTCOM, has taken over this spacious facility to use as a press center. It's also the place where we get our embedding assignments, countless hours of briefings, immunization shots, gas masks, and chemical protective suits.

There is a general “mill drill” in front of the reception desk, where members of the media are clamoring for any information that's being offered by the four public affairs officers behind the desk—two Army and two Air Force—who are being barraged with questions. Finally, a diminutive Navy lieutenant, dressed in desert camouflage, comes out of a room behind the desk. She looks at the chaos, steps up on a chair behind the counter, and shouts, “If you already have your press credentials, back away from the desk and line up!” The milling stops.

She continues, “If you are here for your shots, line up over there!” Some of the crowd starts to move that way. “If you are here to draw your chemical protective equipment, move over here!” More of the crowd heads in that direction. “If you don't know why you are here or if you've come here to hassle us about your assignment—tough. Go away and come back tomorrow.”

As she steps down off the chair, she looks at one of her Air Force colleagues and says, for the benefit of all, “Don't take this crap. Tell 'em what you want 'em to do and repeat it as often as necessary. These are reporters, not sheep. Sheep you can herd. Reporters are like cats. Ever tried herding cats?”

The crowd in front of the desk melts away as the reporters, commentators, cameramen, producers, field techs, and assorted media types from half a dozen countries assemble, some grumbling, in their respective lines. Now that there is some order, it appears that there are about 200 to 250 of us. Since I need both to draw my chemical protective equipment and get my shots, I go to the shortest line—the one for the shots.

We've all been told that getting the shots for anthrax and smallpox is optional, but the briefing is mandatory. A colonel in the U.S. Army Medical Corps, wearing eagles on the collar of his desert camouflage uniform, is waiting on the small stage as we file into the room. He introduces himself as Col. Larry Godfrey and he begins by reminding
us once again that being inoculated against the diseases Saddam Hussein is thought to have in his arsenal is purely voluntary. A very detailed exposition on each disease follows. It goes on for fifteen or twenty minutes and contains all kinds of dry data on mortality rates—from the diseases as well as the drugs created to prevent them.

I look around the room and notice that two or three of my colleagues are taking notes, and I assume that they must be correspondents for
Scientific American
or the AMA journal. Most of us are simply sitting mutely, barely paying attention as the colonel wraps up his presentation with, “So if you have decided to receive the shots, you must write a check to ‘Treasurer of the United States' for $109 and complete the ‘Release of Liability' form.”

Col. Godfrey concludes his presentation by asking if there are any questions. Of course there are; no room full of reporters can resist an invitation like that. They pepper him with queries about “Gulf War syndrome,” how many members of the Armed Forces have been court-martialed for refusing to get the shots, and what makes him think Saddam has these kinds of “bugs” in his arsenal. When the Q&A is over, an Army medic appears with a pile of forms and says, “Everybody who's getting the shots, please raise your hand.” Nobody moves.

Instead there is a lot of head shaking and quiet grumbling. Comments like, “I'm not crazy,” and “If it's safe, why do we have to sign a release form?” can be heard as the masters of the media start gathering their belongings, preparing to move outside for the lecture on chemical protective equipment. As they shuffle toward the door, Col. Godfrey says from the stage, “Thank you for your attention. On your way out, you may want to look at this.”

A sequence of horrific photographs appears on the screen: people in the final stages of death from smallpox and anthrax. As the terrible
images flash there is a sudden stillness in the room. A voice says, “Oh my God!”

Suddenly, there is a rush to get the “Release of Liability” forms. I already have mine, so I'm the first in line—anthrax in one arm, smallpox in the other. As it turns out, the reporters create a very long line after all.

After getting through the shot line we are escorted outside, where we form a line beside several long tables, behind which are seated a half dozen Army NCOs. One of the potentates of the press gripes, “I feel like I'm in kindergarten again.” Without missing a beat, an Army noncom replies, “In kindergarten, the children do what they're told.”

We're all measured and fitted for chemical protective suits and gas masks. After the equipment is issued, everyone is taken to the tennis courts, where Army and Marine chemical and biological warfare specialists demonstrate how the equipment is worn and then drill everyone on how to put it all on in less than ten seconds. In the aftermath of the anthrax and smallpox photos, no one is laughing.

CHAPTER TWO

SITZKRIEG!

   
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM SIT REP #4