Editor’s note: This article as well as “SITREP: Veteran perspectives on combat and peace,” “Afghanistan,” and “Another suicide story” are laid out to model a SITREP reading. The reading begins with an introduction to the program and publication by Jacqueline Wilson or another faculty advisor. Then, veterans read their creative essays, stories or poetry. The program concludes with a question-and-answer time with the veterans. All pieces are published with permission of the authors. — Teri McDowell Ott
Only seven months removed from graduating high school in Colchester, Illinois, a month and a half after graduating from basic training in Ft. Knox, Kentucky, I, along with the rest of First Brigade, First Infantry Division out of Ft. Riley, Kansas, sat on an airplane at LaGuardia International Airport. I had joined the Army to pay my way through college; war had been the last thing on my mind. The drill sergeants had a field day with all the recruits of Alpha Company 2/13 the moment Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Some were told they wouldn’t live to get to use their college money, a few were ridiculed and mocked for answering in the affirmative when asked if they were willing to die for their country. I was in the latter group.
February 24, 1991: The ground war had officially begun. The first day we crept along at a mind-numbing 5 mph, a far cry from the tanks in the Army ads that sped through the countryside jumping small hills. The squeal and pop of the treads crushing against the sand was almost hypnotic.
We halted at our first objective and listened as the area ahead of us was peppered with artillery rounds for almost two hours. Salvo after salvo echoed like thunder, and I was glad I was not on the receiving end of it.
Throughout the entirety of that first day, all platoons had been informed that our scouts were out in front of us in their Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles.
But as the sun crept below the horizon, the atmosphere devolved from one of order to one of anxiety. Sitting down inside the turret, I became nervous and uneasy. My midsection tightened up; my insides felt hollowed out. Sweating and trembling, I didn’t want to let my crew down when called upon to load the main gun with its 70-pound rounds. I listened to the muted chatter from the radio transmissions between tanks and realized our entire company – 13 other tanks – were on the same radio frequency trying to relay information and updates to our company commander. Not all the pertinent information would be relayed.
One of our first platoon tanks radioed in and reported a ZSU23-4 in their position. This is a Soviet, anti-aircraft vehicle with four 23-millimeter guns. Our company commander (a West Point graduate) gave them the go-ahead to fire as we had friendly aircraft in the area. The shot went out in a blaze of light and a muted roar, followed quickly by the crackling explosion of steel as the round met its target. “Good shooting, Bravo,” was the message from our company’s master gunner. This accolade was quickly followed by the admonition to “cease-fire!”
It wasn’t a ZSU they’d hit, but one of the Bradleys. And to compound, the tragic error, the scouts evacuating their burning vehicle were fired upon by another unit on our left flank. Tragically, the Bradley’s gunner never made it out as the armor-piercing round penetrated the turret wall killing him instantly. The scout’s platoon leader, while directing his men to whatever safety they could find, was hit in the calf by small arms fire, nearly severing it from the knee down. A helpless, sick feeling pervaded in our tank. Sgt. Courtney, our gunner, was incensed. He knew it was a Bradley before the shot was even fired, but due to the configuration of the radio frequency, our tank was unable to get through to the commander in time.
The next morning, we assembled in a company formation and our commander informed us that forensic experts had found an enemy rocket-propelled grenade at the site of the shooting and that the first platoon was not responsible for what had transpired the night before. The revulsion and disbelief that sank into my bones left a stain darker than my charcoal-lined MOPP suit. Faith in my leaders eroded as the seeds of doubt and cynicism were sown into our collective psyche. Our company, even though absolved of any wrongdoing, was not allowed to fire another round the entirety of the abbreviated ground war.
Three months later, our role in Desert Storm was over. We flew back to Kansas and during the bus ride from Forbes Field in Topeka to Ft. Riley, an information officer instructed us that if we were ever questioned, to speak only of the positive aspects of our experience. For me nothing positive was gained except for living through it. During my four years in the Army, I became very familiar with the phrase “believe none of what you hear and half of what you see.” On that February night, truer words had never been spoken.
Chris Bell was a specialist in the Army from 1990-1994 and was stationed in Ft. Riley, Kansas, and Camp Casey in South Korea. While stationed at Ft. Riley, as a member of the 1st Infantry Division, Chris served in Operation Desert Storm. Chris is employed full-time at Western Illinois University in Macomb, Illinois, and enjoys reading, writing and spending time with his two grandchildren who keep him young at heart.