Night was approaching as the company convoy pulled into familiar territory. Winding past the guard’s checkpoint at the entrance to our area, we were waving to those pulling guard duty, seeing faces that remained at Camp MacArthur when we pulled forward. We parked, dismounted and established our housing with assistance of headlights from the trucks. The tents were being put up in record time and, while illumination was minimal, our set-up crews were able, for the most part, to place the proper poles and pieces in the right spots. After the last heave-hos were uttered, we threw our cots and goodies into the tents. I had already established contact with Chris and Mike. The DAS 3 was being fed information from the cards I had generated, although this was only one of several functions being conducted by Mr. Machine. The days that followed were busy. Mechanics were performing a host of must do repairs on dad-lined vehicles. Had the war continued for any great length of time, it had been said that repair parts would have become a real problem. For the most part, that simply meant that repairs would have been performed in a more creative manner. Engine gaskets would have been formed from cardboard, leaks plugged with substances used for other purposes, and modifications beyond specifications would have been necessary. As it was, they were getting most of what they needed. While working in the DAS 3, Chris had received a cassette tape from home. It was a broadcast from one of the rock stations. While we had been gone, music had continued. One song in particular caught my ear. As a long-time fan of the Byrds, I heard the familiar sound of the 12-string guitar filling our office area. It was a song from a Roger McGuinn solo album. Now I had yet another reason to go home. I remember as the ground war began, the song “Midnight at the Oasis” kept playing in my head. Too much desert air, perhaps.
One night, we were sitting at our cots when the mail was delivered. One piece I got was unusual. It was an any-soldier letter from a student. She wrote that she was against wars in general and didn’t know if she was able to support us on the mission side of the house, although she was happy to write and support us as we were separated from homes and families. She also stated that she did not trust police. These letters were issued to us in a random draw. What a pick. I read the piece a couple of times. I then stared at the pile of unanswered letters from anonymous writers who were probably writing letters as a class project. The pile seemed to grow. Those of us sitting in our corner had decided that not everyone was going to get a response. I was never a big writer, so I must confess I was weary from the letters I had written in the course of the war. I’ll never know if she gained confidence in the system.
Now that we had reunited as a company, we were again under the direction of First Sergeant Hank Obester. During a lull, I happened into his office. “Sergeant Walters, I have a detail for you, “he said as we were trying to bum cigarettes from each other. The detail involved going to the different sections and finding those who would like to purchase cigarettes, then collecting the money and driving to a nearby store for purchases. I never realized how many people in our company smoked. With one or two exceptions, money was given with the expectation of no change. This allowed us, in the long run, to purchase several cartons more, which was given to the First Shirt. He was then able to distribute these to others in times of need.
Each day, during the morning formation, we would hope for news that would send us home. One of the problems included the fact that we would have to return to Cement City. Simply put, there was no room at the inn. We remained prepared, prepacked predisposed toward any optimistic indicators. It wasn’t long before the green light was given. It was an enthusiastic group that would now be rolling back to the place where it had all begun. There was the matter of our tents-our houses would not be returning with us. The canvas shelters had been with us for years and had endured summer camps and now, war. These tents were not cheap items, but they were placed in a pit and set on fire. It seemed a sad destiny for a material war hero. There, along with the memories, went the disease potential and transport problems. At least we knew we would be spending the night somewhere else.
We had conducted many miles and many hours of motor movements, be it convoy style or independent mission driving. Although there were a few situations, none could compare to the roadside incident where one of our HMMV drivers stood over a dead camel. The driver was one of the nicest people in the world. He was coordinating part of the movement when the camel apparently spooked and collided with the Hummer. The driver felt bad but was reassured that things would be all right. For the record, the vehicle suffered only incidental damage. This convoy also found Specialist Jennifer Evans behind the wheel of our 5-ton tractor, still pulling the generator sets. Although she had not relished the idea, she found that it wasn’t bad at all. In fact, Chris Allen spent a large portion of this trip as a passenger. Still, at every rest stop, we were besieged by kids trying to sell the hallmark collectibles- Arabian rugs. When we first arrived, the going rate was ten dollars. Now, as the market was thinning, wise sellers parted with their product for two bucks. The road remained littered with cars and busses that had been left in the sands.
Our arrival back at Cement City in the late afternoon hours was quite the revelation. Large, white tents that were