Okay, so you guys want more military memoirs, here’s one I’ve threatened to tell since I got here and never got around to it.
This is mostly from a letter I sent home from the end of January, 1991. Thanks to Paddy for saving it. The rest is from memory, and you know how that goes. And I make no apologies for the rough language, it’s the way I talked back then.
Operation Desert Storm, January, 1991. Southwest Saudi Arabia, Team Stealth. F-117s in the hangars and surrounded by Arabs.
As is always the case on a deployment, the cops are overworked and getting a little crispy around the edges because they’re working, they’re trying to eat, they’re trying to keep their uniforms somewhat professional looking, some of them are trying to keep their PT up, and oh yeah, when there’s time left, they try to sleep through all the prayer calls. Cranky cops are okay for a little bit but you don’t want youngsters with guns with bad attitudes wandering around a foreign country…especially Saudi Arabia where the locals are a bit more…sure of themselves…have a healthy sense of self-esteem…oh fuck it…where the locals are the most arrogant sons a bitches you’d ever want to meet. And I know from arrogant, I used to think it was a positive character trait instead of defect.
Back then when the cops got a bit over-worked, we augmented them. By that I don’t mean we attended traffic pattern safety school and put on an orange vest and got RSD from waving cars in the gate, I mean we grabbed a gun, flack jacket and helmets and we sat posts or rode patrols and we basically did what the cops did. We watched, we reported, we told the locals, “Stay away from our airplanes.”
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