The Colonel’s Tent

Yet another installment of my Desert Diary.... For those of you who may be interested.

This takes place sometime in mid to late January 1991.....

"I'm nauseated. Cornered in this 7 man tent I have to listen to this lieutenant tell us how good we have it here, betweeen mouthfulls of chips and canned bean dip. Is he being faecitious, I wonder? God, I don't  know. One instant I know he has got to be kidding and the next I am equally sure he is dead serious. Is he a maniac or what- college graduate yet. Does he truly believe the drivel spewing out of our Public Affairs detachments? Doesn't he see the obvious or am I missing something?

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't feel we were being lied to . We are not here to liberate a damn thing except oil.

For crying out loud- sure we have radios as opposed to two months ago- if that's how we'll measure our standards- available for purchase at twenty-one dollars a shot (where are the 40,000 free ones the Japanese supposedly sent to the frontline troops. 'Scuze me...Eightysecond Airborne Infantry in the middle of the fucking desert....do I qualify as  a "frontline troop"? ) Sure we're dry at night; when was the last time it rained in goddamn Saudi Arabia?

Who flipped his "on" switch, causing him to whirr into life, babbling already stale phrases as he "motivates  the troops" while pilfering our care packages for snacks?

I'm in a rage, have been far too long now. The harder I try to pass the time the further adrift I'm cast, tossed on the waves of solitude in my mind. I can't stand it any longer.....

Should I grab my weapon and fire automatic bursts of tracers into the leeching desert sky? How about into the dunes around me, watching the red tails of the bullets fizzle out amongst the puffs of dirt? Maybe plunge into the bleak moonscape , yelling, bayonet fixed, charging shadows Quixotic-like in my sun-baked insanity?

No, I don't think so. It would be over too soon, 30 round magazines don't last very long in automatic rifles and tracers burn out too quickly. My aerobic capacity is nowhere near enough match for my charge into anger, I'd fall breathlessly sweating, bogged down in Arabia long before my rage could subside.

Not enough; I don't have enough to manifest myself; I don't have the inner strength to face the exposure of my inner being to those around me. I must maintain control.......


Desert Journal Entry, 1991

"Just look at this shit! Four Mirages and two MIGs downed last night. It's a sad day in history Rodgers."

Looking up at Colonel Roach crunching the SAUDI TIMES in one hand, Private Rodgers said nothing. Seven days into the the air war over Iraq with no marching orders for his infantry was taking its toll on Roach.

"It's an IROC war, that's what we've come to. A goddamn IROC war. Where do I sign?"

"Uh, here sir, and here. ....A supply request. IROC.....Iraq, sir?"

Roach slapped down the pen. "Goddamn soda pop...seven truckloads of the stuff. Back in 'Nam all we drank was water. Maybe beer." Then, "do you know racing?"

"Sir?"

"Racing, son. Auto racing. The International Race Of Champions. IROC."

"I think so, sir."

"Everyone drives the same car. Skill versus skill. We've got an IROC war!"

Silence.

"We're shooting down our allies equipment dammit. The French. The Soviets. We've sold Hussein all this arsenal; we're up against our own planes."

"And tanks, sir"

"Exactly. Our own tanks face us. Older ones, but it's the principle. It's a damn International War Of Champions"

"IWOC" said the private.

Roach blinked. "It's not supposed to be like this! It's American equipment against the enemy. THAT's what war's about!"

"And allies too?"

"Yes, yes, of course" He came arounbd the field desk and put his hand on the small clerk's shoulder. "How can we run a decent war against pithy skill alone? It detracts!"

"Sir?"

"From the glory, son, the glory. Gotta have that one-two combination. Men and Material for a decent war. Our designs, our factories against theirs."

"Do they have any, sir? Factories, I mean?"

"No!" he barked "That's just it, just money! They buy our stuff. Look at this" he gestured towards the tent's wall. KNOW YOUR ENEMY, the poster stated, depicting common Iraqi weaponry, tanks, aircraft, uniforms. "Hell...uniforms! Made in Carolina mills no doubt!" Colonel Roach grew excited. His fingers turned to pistols, pointing, firing as he spoke.

Rodgers watched him. "Umm... we can stop selling can't we?"

"NO"" he boomed "We've got to take the market. They'd simply buy from someone else! It's a buyers world out there...we've got to maintain our share, son. It's good for the economy. It's in our national interests."

"Quality!" he shot Rodgers with the right.

"Dependability!" a wild shot from the left as he spun on his heel.

"Back not too long ago our goods meant strength. A smart shopper bought American. Now..." both pistols skyward "we've got competition. Industrial espionage (Bang), thievery (Bang), has spread this edge to other countries and the scumsuckers undermine our lead (Bang Bang)."

The private held the forms stiffly, unsure whether to leave. Roach stared out the tent flap in silence, blocking the exit. Suddenly he whirled, questioning loudly "What kind of car do you drive, son?"

"Truck, sir. Ford...."

Squinting, he cut him off "Compact? One of those labeled Jap things?" he aimed straight for Rodgers belly with both barrels.

"Big one sir" he swallowed "four by four."

Roach holstered his fingers. "You're a good American Rodgers."