Each day began with a formation on a hilltop, which gave us a nice view overlooking the compound below, with the exception of our area, which was isolated from view by hills. On an absolutely delightful sunny day when peace hung in the air, I stood in formation as usual. On this occasion, however, I was called out of formation and stood in a line with a small number of other soldiers. The Captain approached each person in line. As orders were read, he would remove the collar rank insignia from the individual’s uniform and place a new insignia indicating the new rank. I had been promoted to Staff Sergeant. What made this particularly great for me was that we were standing in a war zone in a foreign country. Shortly after the ceremony, Sergeant Steele approached me. “Terry, I hate to do this to you, be we’re very shorthanded. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there was another way. You are, after all, an E-6, and this duty is normally performed by an E-5. Would it bother you to pull guard duty one more time? I really am sorry.” “Not a problem,” I said. After all, I had plenty of experience and this would keep me out of trouble. I was even given the day shift, which was nice. As I pulled my last guard duty detail, I thought of those like Chris Allen, who should have been standing there with me. Chris had already been told that he was again eligible, and would be next in line.
There was evidence that the peace process was starting to gel. Staff Sergeant Terry Bradford found that, although the NBC unit had been a very popular stop during the tense times, nobody was stopping by much to visit. He would stay hidden in his small tent, securing the gear, which had been the center of attention for so long. We learned that, at the time the war was terminated, we were on a T-minus- three-day status. Had the war continued for another seventy-two hours, we would have been moving with the rest of the battalion to Basra. We were pleased to be right where we were.
For a while, we remained busy. Vehicles were being brought in, some behind tow trucks, which were pending repair. The most interesting, however, was a foreign piece. Sitting on our compound was an Iraqi tank retriever. Unlike its American counterpart, this vehicle was a weapon-bearing device. But, like the tanks it would tow, whether domestic or foreign, the people manning the vehicle would have to be either very short or very uncomfortable. People who are claustrophobic tend not to do well here, as there is hardly enough room to turn around. This particular retriever bore an option not available on most models. There was a whole on the side where a projectile had customized the exterior. The interior wreaked of smoke and the wiring was black. Perhaps the driver escaped, which would indicate that he would be one of the countless faces at prisoner of war encampments in the region. The vehicle was ours, and talks began about how to transport the wide-load souvenirs.
The contact teams who had been attached to other units had returned, all in one piece. We were beginning to think that we, as a unit, would manage to return home unscathed. The pictures they had taken showed vast numbers of those who had not escaped the wrath of war. These were the charred remains of Iraqi soldiers who had fallen victim to the tank killers. The photographs showed roadways cluttered with war machines surrounded by those who died defending their cause.
One of the contact teams had experienced most serious and tragic incident of the war. I was walking through the compound, noting intense conversations among the officers and staff personnel. I overheard bits and pieces, then asked someone what was happening.
“Sergeant Anderson and Specialist Cook are in the hospital. It’s bad,” someone said.
I learned that the two were part of a reconnaissance mission that had left that morning and proceeded into Iraq. The first situation involved Cook, with whom I had pulled guard duty at Camp MacArthur. He had opened the door on his truck and, from what I was told, threw a soda can just outside of his truck. He was positioning himself to step down when the can struck a land mine. The steel projectiles struck him in the chest, penetrating his flak jacket and his body, landing dangerously close to his heart. He was evacuated and sent to a hospital in Germany for immediate surgery. In an unrelated incident, Sergeant Anderson had stepped from his vehicle and was walking about when he stepped on another land mine. According to one lieutenant who was an eye witness to the event, Anderson was thrown high into the air. A young soldier, Private Sam Foster, reacted and began assisting Anderson in the field as medical assistance was summoned. Foster would eventually be decorated for his actions. The rumor was that Anderson might lose part of his leg, a rumor that eventually became fact. Ironically, Anderson had always been known as one of the fastest runners in the unit.
The workload was beginning to thin down. Chris Allen was telling me that the DAS 3 van was soon going to be moved. He and Mike Reno would be taking it back to Camp MacArthur where they would perform a series of consolidation efforts. There was rumor that the trailer and its contents would be assigned to the unit, meaning we would be wrapping it up and sending it home with us. I, on the other hand, would remain at our present location and begin doing a manual process that would prepare our war inventory for turn-in. Early on, my computer operations were conducted out of a commercial carrier, which was nothing more than a conventional truck trailer. We had to poke a couple of holes in the carrier to feed electrical wiring to the computers. Because my task would involve late hour operations, I moved my cot into the trailer.
During the day, I would be doing the paper process. After dark, I would have a variety of people visit. Because of the length of the trailer, we took empty water bottles partially weighted with sand and opened a bowling alley. It was great, but involved additional house