We anxiously waited for the next move, as this one would be the final one in country. Kobar Towers was a sprawling housing complex which had been built for the Bedouins. True to their nomadic culture, they had declined to use them. We were told that each apartment had hot and cold running water, indoor facilities and air conditioning. Heaven. But each time we thought we were on the way, something stopped the show. One time, there simply was no room. Hey, we’ll sleep in the open- we had done before. There was another delay because our airplane wasn’t ready. Okay, we’ll walk home. But just when we thought we had exhausted all our options for sanity, word came down.
It was just another beautiful day in the neighborhood as we quickly began gathering our possessions. We had lugged the duffle bags, MOPP gear, backpacks and weapons for so long now that we were one with them. Even those of less physical means were slinging their weighted bags with no problem. The trucks arrived for the gear and, soon after, the busses arrived for the troops. In a strange way, we had grown accustomed to Cement City. But we were able to shake the melancholy mood quickly as we now delegated the sprawl to memory.
The bus pulled into a secured compound, which looked unusually American in style. Street after street of buildings reached upward about seven stories. We rolled up to our building, secured our gear and began seeking our separate rooms. Infantry soldiers who jumped out of airplanes had previously occupied our building, which translated into why certain things were trashed. The elevator didn’t work, allegedly being broken by previous tenants. That meant that for those of us destined for housing on the seventh floor there was the stairwell to conquer. As promised, cool air laboriously circulated from the undersized air conditioning unit. And there were flushing toilets. But the center if idol worship was the shower. The hot and cold pleasure dispenser had no time limit affixed. Our need for a hat rack behind the door was fulfilled when someone took an atropine injector and injected it through the wood. A story circulated regarding a soldier that was using his protective mask as a pillow. The atropine needle activated, sending the needle into the soldier’s head, killing him. Our door, however, seemed to be unaffected.
A variety of features were located in a centralized area: a commissary, post exchange, and shops of all varieties lined the streets. There was even one area where we could get our picture taken riding on an elephant. It was tempting, but the only picture I had taken there was another soldier, as we stood on the roof of our building in the late afternoon, looking onto the Gulf from one viewpoint and looking at the airport from another.
There would be a formation at three o’clock in the morning so we could receive a new boot issue. Ordinarily, most of us would have slept through this, but it was mandatory. This was because the boots we were wearing had to be pitched. The pair I had on had created some foot problems for me, but I wasn’t about to say anything at this point. So, we fell out for our rise and no shine cluster and quietly marched though the streets to our issue point. It was here where a Tennessee National Guard unit with no observable charisma greeted us. Initially, we couldn’t figure out why they were so hostile. Even our officers were rudely handled. They were out of the most common sized boots, which happened to include mine. I was thinking maybe I could just paint the boxes black and wear them. I now realize that the pair of boots that had been left on my bunk was through divine intervention. If it weren’t for them, I could have been left in country while the rest of my unit headed home. There was an apology from Tennessee’s brass to our people. It seems this unit was on standby throughout the war, but wasn’t activated until after the action. For us, it really wasn’t important. We had paid our dues. We marched back to our apartments and waited for the sun.
By late morning, it was once again time to reload all of our gear. With the elevator broken, we employed field-expedient tactics. Although we had not developed them, we used common practice. Two troops would go to the sidewalk; other troops were several floors up. They would open the window and attaching lines-bed sheets, clothing or usable extender gear- all the gear was lowered. This would take quite a while, but eventually, if the object wasn’t fragile, the two men on the ground became safety personnel, warning pedestrian traffic as the items were simply tossed out the windows. It was a real time saver. The gear was taken away, and we cleaned our room as we waited for our busses. During the final room inspections, the atropine injector was overlooked. Hopefully, someone managed it’s use as we did. The only thing left to pack was the human cargo. With one last glance at the Gulf, we stepped from the building to the sidewalk where we made last-minute purchases from sidewalk food and drink stands within a two-block area. Then the busses arrived for the short ride taking us through the streets and highways of Dhahran for the last time. It was late evening as we stepped from the bus and entered a huge hangar for departure preparation.
Hurry up and wait! It’s not an idle phrase; it’s an ideology practiced and honed to perfection through endless military campaigns. We were told that we had to be something like ten hours early for our flight. This was because we had one last process