Twenty Years Ago (Continued)

Letters to and from home were our only connection to the world we once knew. Today things are much different for me. I have daily access to the internet here in Afghanistan and can pick up the phone at a moments notice to call home. It's not that way for the Marines just a short distance from here. Out in the villages Marines are still living in fighting holes or at best on Combat Outposts. Every now and again they get the opportunity to call home on satellite phones, but for the most part, they communicate like we have during wars over the last couple of centuries. So there we sat in the middle of the Saudi desert, a few days removed from our last opportunity to phone home, our last hot meals, and our last showers.
We moved from position to position on a pretty regular basis during those six weeks leading up to the ground war. Each time we moved, the drill was the same: set up camouflage netting, dig fighting positions, clean weapons, and wait. For days on end we waited; we waited for the word that we were moving to border, to stage for the final assault on Saddam's regime. I don't remember exactly how I felt then, but I don't recall being afraid. Maybe anxious is a better word to describe it. We never really talked about it; it's not really normal for guys to talk about our feelings. If we were afraid, it would have been a normal response seeing as how none of us had been to combat before. Most of us weren't even old enough to drink. The only one in our platoon with combat experience was Gunny Clark, my best friend's dad and our platoon sergeant. Gunny Clark spent multiple tours with Mike Force in Vietnam. He knew what he was doing and had trained us well.

When we weren't performing gun drills or participating in Division level manuevers, we sat around and told stories of home. You could tell that it made guys happy to talk about home and that special girl they left behind, happy and homesick at the same time. Everytime I talked about Teresa, it reinforced in my mind what I already knew in my heart, and that was that I loved her with every ounce of my being. I had to get through this war and get back to her. I had to make sure she knew how I felt about her. And just when I thought I would go crazy thinking about her, a package showed up. I remember like it was yesterday. It had been raining for some time and the box was delivered in a battered state, yet still in tact. I recognized Teresa's hand writing right away and immediately tore into the package. I don't remember all the different treats that were in there, but I do rember a tin of white chocolate covered mini pretzels. Underneath it all, there was a letter. I held it to my face and took a deep breath...it smelled like her. In an instant I could see her face and as I read it I could hear her voice in the back of my mind. In the letter were two photos of her in a prom dress taken a couple of years previously. She was absolutely gorgeous. It was one of my most memorable moments of that deployment.

Over the next several weeks, the letters and packages would continue to come in. I would read (and smell) her letters every night until the next one came in. We had our last mail call somewhere around the 20th of April. I remember that because it was the same night we received our operations order for the ground assault to come. The next few days were spent conducting detailed rehearsals on large scale mock ups of the breaching sights. As an attachment to Weapons Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, we got to listen as the Battalion XO told us to "look to your left, and to your right. One of you won't be here tomorrow." We were expecting upwards of 30% casualties. That was when it became real for everyone. We were to cross the line of departure at 0430 24 February 1991. The evening prior we sat around in relative silence. Our thoughts were of home, our families, and our loved ones. Those last few hours passed fairly quickly and before we knew it, the war was on.

The Mother of all Tank Battles lasted only 100 hours and almost immediately we were greated by thousands of Kuwaitis cheering us on and waving American and Kuwaiti flags. It was almost like a scene out of a WWII movie. Within a month we were back at Camp 15 in Saudi Arabia. I was able to make my first phone call home in over two months. I called Teresa and we laughed and cried and chatted for at least an hour if not more. I would call her at least once a week until I got to Camp Lejeune, NC in late April, then I was able to call every day. We finally made it back to Kansas City the first week of May 1991, five months after we left for the war. It seemed like an eternity. The bus rolled into the reserve center parking lot late in the evening. We could see the warm glow of the parking lot lights as we pulled up, and the large crowd of people that awaited our return. Teresa was at school at the time, so I fully expected to see her during the upcoming weekend. I stepped off the bus, and I saw her come running up to greet me. We held each other so tight I didn't think I would be able to let go. I knew I didn't want to let go...not then...not ever.