Rescued by the Marines

No crap, there I was, stuck in Al Asad airbase in the middle of Al Anbar Province, Iraq. My five man team sent on a mission to the borders only numbered two after three members saw no hope on the horizon of escaping the base and bailed out, opting to take their chances of catching a flight back to Baghdad without their military escorts. Now it was just the LTC and I, stranded on a remote airstrip, determined to reach the edge of this country if it killed us. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that important, but we really did want to complete some portion of the original mission and we were prepared to wait out the finicky air system, or at least until they kicked us out of our VIP storage closet. After considerable nagging of flight personnel at the airhead, we soon realized that all of the original flight plans were cancelled with little hope of making it west any time soon. It was time to cash in a life line. We phoned-a-friend and called up the regional Marine team who originally made the travel arrangements for our little borders jaunt to see what they could do for us poor Army pukes. Phone calls were made, information was traded, and I found myself standing outside under the desert sun searching for satellites on my GPS to give the choppers a grid coordinate (because the folks at the airbase didn’t know where they were in relation to earth, which concerned me). After some questionable information was passed through our Marine contact, we discovered that the birds (helicopters) were already in route to pick us up at LZ Ripper. LZ Ripper? We were at Al Asad Airbase, not LZ Ripper! Communications were abruptly cut off and we only had the name of an LZ and a time to be there. We were scrounging for a person who could tell us where this LZ Ripper was at. Again, the personnel working the air movement desk just shrugged their shoulders at our questions, but salvation came in the form of a Marine gunny sergeant who not only knew where this LZ was, he also had a vehicle that could take us there. Success! We gathered our armor, weapons and bags and climbed into a 4 door Ford Ranger for a bumpy ride across the base to this remote landing zone. Now, let when I say remote, I mean in the sticks. There was no air transportation office, no building, no shed; there was no structure of any type. There wasn’t even a port-a-potty. Just a strip of concrete surrounded by low jersey barriers surrounded by sand. This caused a slight hint of concern as the gunny dropped us off. Were we about to be bamboozled and left in the middle of the desert as part of an elaborate trick that the Marine Corps did for all Army personnel unfortunate enough to go through their base? He assured us that this was in fact LZ Ripper, and then he left. The LTC and I looked at one another, looked at the setting sun, and tried to reassure ourselves that everything was going to work out despite the fact that we had no communication capability with the person who made this flight plan or with the pilots picking us up. If something did go wrong, we’d have to hump it pretty far to the next piece of semi-civilization. Everything was going to work out, wasn’t it? I mean, what could go wrong?

Okay, we were a little concerned, but as the sun started to dip behind a distant berm we heard the familiar thud of UH-60 Blackhawks, a sound that I normally scorn since my living trailer back in Baghdad is next to a landing zone. A forceful dust storm proceeded the landing of two helos on this little remote pad and a gunner directed us to approach the bird. We couldn’t help but feel a little important. I mean two Blackhawk helicopters were sent across the country to come pick up the two of us, a light colonel and little ol’ captain. We had to be somebody to rate our very own choppers! The gunner ignored our giddy excitement of our new found status and exchanged some cursory information.

Helos to the rescue!

“Good evening sir. Are you the two officers we’re suppose to pick up?”

“I guess so, because I don’t see another human being for miles around.”

“Where are you going sir?”

“Going to FOB Spiecher.”

“Roger that sir. Which landing zone?”

“Not sure. We didn’t realize that there were multiple locations. The Marines said that they were sending a few helos to come get us. Can you take us to the nearest Marine unit on the FOB?”

“Sir, I’m not sure where the Marines are on Spiecher.”

“Umm. Okay. Can you just take us away from here? We lost our VIP room.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind.”

After a smooth flight across barren landscape of Anbar Province bathed in a warm orange glow of the quickly setting sun, we landed an hour later at FOB Spiecher in the complete blackness of a desert night, clueless to where we were or where to go. Across the tarmac I lugged my gear to a set of lights and found that the Marines we were looking for lived a mere 45 yards away. How lucky was that? We stumbled into their TOC (tactical operation center) hidden in an enclave of T-walls and Hesco barriers under a Semper Fi flag. Our reception into their operation center, which also served as their living quarters, resembled a reunion of long lost friends. With open arms they offered us water, food, and a place to rest, all the while apologizing for the mess up in the flights. They took us on a nickel tour of the office and without our knowledge, swept our gear up and placed it on cots in an air conditioned tent just around the corner. I think that if they had mints to put on our beds or knew how to make funny animals out of towels, they would have done both. Weary from traveling, we retired to our tent, glad to be away from Al Asad.

Our little M*A*S*H like hooch

And that is how we were rescued by the Marines.

We woke up this morning in our MASH like tent to the sounds of choppers and UAVs racing into the fight. The Marines are now busy beating up on an Army team in softball and today I’m rooting for the Marines. The LTC and I are just waiting for the next leg of our journey after trekking the half mile to the nearest chow hall and being introduced to the “co-ed” toilet and shower facilities. Interesting. Okay, maybe not that interesting. The shower trailer has a sliding sign to denote the sex of the occupants, but we were informed that it is always wise to knock so that no one is surprised. The toilet trailer, now there is a different story. It has a row of stalls and sinks, absent of the normal stand up urinals. Really not that far out of a concept due to the limited space here, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t a little weird to use a stall in a bathroom and hear a woman’s voice in the next stall. Making eye contact at the sinks afterwards is also a little awkward.

God bless the Marines!

Our stay here should not be long as the Marines have manifested us on another bird. If all goes well, a helicopter will get us to FOB Sykes tonight.

Hopefully.