Dale K. Robinson
April 1999
With our troops in harm's way in the Balkans, my own thoughts go back to my own war, the Gulf War. I arrived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia in the middle of the night in early January 1991, carrying my baggage and chemical warfare gear. We were herded onto a bus and driven into the dark night, deep into the desert.
The Air Commando compound was a collection of tents and pre-fab buildings and virtually pitch black. I was directed to tent D-4 and stumbled inside. A single unshaded light bulb lit the interior, which was divided by makeshift walls of mosquito netting and ponchos and blankets. Muffled snoring came from behind those cubicles. I found an empty cot and dropped my gear by it. I had found my new home for the better part of the next six months.
The war was still a week or so away then. President Bush had given the Iraqis a deadline, but no one was certain what they would do. Saddam could decide to launch his Scud missiles against the coalition forces massing on the Saudi border at any time. We were in a heightened state of alert -- our chem warfare gear was never far away, but we weren't carrying it on our persons.
I was on the flightline, working on one of the huge MH-53J Pave Low helicopters that my squadron, the Green Hornets, flew. It was hot and sunny and I had just clambered down from the top of the chopper when the siren went off. A voice boomed over the loudspeaker system: "CONDITION RED, CONDITION RED!" That meant that a missile launch had been detected!
I was more scared then than I had ever been before or ever have been since. My chem warfare gear was across the flightline in the terminal facility we were working out of. I ran for my gear as fast as my short, chubby legs would move and ducked into the terminal as the doors were closed. I pulled out my gas mask and slipped it on, clearing and sealing the mask and positioning the hood to protect my head. Sweat poured into my eyes and pooled in the mask. My heart was racing as I waited for whatever might happen next. Would it be the explosion of a Scud warhead filled with chemical or biological agents?
Instead of explosions, the "ALL CLEAR" sounded instead. The alert had been a false alarm, a software clitch somewhere. It took a while for my heart rate to subside, but I was never too far from my chem gear after that. That had put the fear of God in me.
The only other time I was really frightened, but not nearly so, was after the war started. It was a night like most had been. The siren went off and the loudspeaker announced "CONDITION RED, CONDITION RED!" We could nearly set our clocks by it. We called it our nightly wake up call, since we had to get up for our duty shift anyway. But this night wasn't like the others. As we finished getting into our chem gear and started to saunter out of our tents to the bunkers, instead of getting the "ALL CLEAR" signal, instead there was a loud explosion and the ground shook. A Scud had landed about five miles from our compound. It took a long time for the "ALL CLEAR" to come that night, since the bomb disposal and disaster preparedness folks had to check it out to ensure that there was no danger from chemical or biological agents.
The Gulf War was unlike any before and probably unlike any in the future. We were extremely lucky that American casualties were light, but I was on duty the night that Spirit 03, an AC-130 gunship, went down with thirteen fellow Air Commandos aboard. It was a sobering time. Our own Pave Low helicopters roamed deep behind Iraqi lines, as close as 60 miles from Baghdad, inserting and resupplying Special Forces troops, and performing search and rescue missions. Aboard those choppers were people I knew and worked with. The loss of Spirit 03 really brought the realities of war home to us -- it could have been someone we knew or even one of us but for the grace of God.
I came home from Saudi Arabia in July of 1991, safe and mostly sound, a welcome anniversary present for my wife. It had been a long six months in the desert, a lot of hard times, a few good times. I was proud that I had done my part for freedom, proud of the men and women I worked with.
That pride surfaced again recently when the Green Hornets and their MH-53 Pave Low choppers again went in harm's way to rescue the downed stealth fighter pilot in Kosovo. A tip of the Air Commando hat to them. Once a Hornet, always a Hornet!