A gray sky removed the color from the afternoon desert sky, but rain was not an issue. We were placing equipment anywhere we could. Tents and gear would be packed in and on top of anything that would roll. Again, there would be a convoy through the desert. This one, however, would be substantially shorter, and would be lead by a forklift. This time, there was no road to follow. Sandstorms had long erased the path to our next stop, but I believe Chris Allen was good with the compass. I believe it was during this move that Chris’s navigation skills found one of the phone centers. There were always lines leading to the tents housing the banks of telephones. Although we may wait quite a while, the voices we heard on the phone were worth the wait. There was always a slightly irritating delay when we stopped talking as our voice was tossed half way around the world through space, but this was the most important five minutes we would spend.
It was after nightfall when we finally twisted into the latest encampment. Our location was within a few miles of the Iraqi border, near the western end of a neutral zone separating Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Kuwait. It should be noted that these folks are not real big on signs that define an entry point. Although we were within a couple of miles of a town we were told was called Ash Shabbah, we could not know for sure. Nestled in the center of a region comprised of a series of small hills sat our company. After a quick, dinner meal, despite our protests, we set up our equipment. We worked well into the night, but when we arose the following morning, we were ready to work again.
Our new area was quite a large spread. The company area was expanded to handle a large surplus of various supply items, ranging from clothing and boots to field-ready goods, stored on pallets and when necessary, housed in tents. In our travels, we stopped by a tent to visit Staff Sergeant Al Fuller. Al’s job was, in part, cooking hamburgers and selling candy bars and the like, to raise money for various functions. Working with another Staff Sergeant, Joe Ursone, he had the area set up similar to an E.M. club, complete with benches. A true oasis. Although he was located quite a distance from our platoon’s field sight, he was centrally located in camp.
One major change that evolved was each platoon now provided their own mess sections. In our platoon, several of the female troops had volunteered to run a selfcontained mess tent. They would fix breakfast and dinner, while lunch was MREs or whatever we found in stock. Throughout the company, cardboard boxes outside of various tents contained a variety of commodities. There were toothbrushes, toothpaste, unscented deodorants (after-shaves and perfumes were taboo), foot powder, pain relievers, disposable razors, various candy products and other items free for the taking. There were cases of soft drinks, long-life milk and bottled water along with instant coffee and tea that were always available. My lunch usually consisted of chicken soup and long-life milk, which isn’t bad despite the fact that it was hot, just like everything else. I was also told that the soup mix was supposed to be put in water and boiled but, hey, who wants to wait. In time, our platoon was serving others who found their food not as palatable through their sources. This may have been, in part, because lots of our food was purchased in town, rather than using issued foods. It cost a flat fee for the better meals, which was reasonable; maybe it was the friendlier atmosphere. Helicopter pilots were treated to great hot meals, which broke the string of endless meals of MREs they were consuming.
Field troops, who were interacting with other nations’ soldiers, were collecting meals from around the globe. In most instances, they would trade their MREs for the foreign equivalent, with the understanding that they were not designed for taste, but sustenance. Not so, said the French. Their theory held that a good meal makes for better morale. Although the package was somewhat cumbersome, most had no problem toting the box, which contained a day’s dining. The meals were commissioned from a famous French chef who provided great meals in great detail, right down to the bottle of cognac. While the French didn’t care to trade their provisions for ours, they would trade for other items and sometimes simply give them away. The best meal we could have offered, I felt, would have been the pork patties, but those were pulled from the menu to avoid offending our host country. But this couldn’t begin to compete with the cuisine afforded the French.
The other major commodity was tobacco. Although everyone realized it was a nasty habit, it was one I acquired in youth. There were even a couple of us who thought we would try to give it up during the war. During one NBC warning, I remember having just lit a cigarette as the siren went off. There I was, pulling the mask over a cigarette. We were trying to figure out how one could smoke with the mask on. We always kept cigarettes stashed in our duffle bags. I had chewing tobacco, which I supplied to Sergeant First Class Barnes, our mess sergeant. While he wa