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Posted: 10/22/2002 8:00:53 AM EDT
The Attack Tired. I am very tired. For two days we have relentlessly moved forward at a snails pace. The speedometer never once passing the ten mile per hour mark in the last forty-eight hours making for excruciatingly long passage of time. Yesterday the highlight of the day was passing through what used to be an Iraqi service station before the mechanized infantry had passed through. The evidence of their passage was in hard packed sand torn and shredded by the tracked vehicles, the buildings dismantled by machine gun and light cannon fire, and most notably the bullet riddled large wooden sign that was once a picture of Saddam Hussein, now cut in half. No bodies lay about and hence I presume the destruction was caused by the frustration of those who have sat here for many months, away from their families in a country seven thousand miles away. This morning the war became more personal for me, however. As the 106 truck convoy I was party to grinded to a stop from the ludicrous speed of five mile an hour, we dismounted from our vehicles to the side of the road to provide security. We did not dare to leave the road for fear of mines, mines are everywhere here in the lands of the Christian Faith's beginnings. A call comes from a friend to my right and with M-16 in hand, I quickly move over to his position to see what he wanted. My legs became rigid when I get to him and the reason for his call needs not be asked. Ten feet out from the road lies the first casualty I have seen, close, from the onset of all this violence. He is a young Iraqi soldier, lying in his own blood and bile and already rancid from the unyielding desert sun. My gaze is drawn to his face, what is left of it. Shrapnel has removed a goodly portion of his head, leaving brain matter spilling onto the sandy floor. His arms and legs lie in unnatural position, twisted in what must have been a mercifully quick death, although the word mercy does not seem to flow from my lips looking upon him. Something is bothering me about this soldier. Something beyond the carnage, but I am having difficulty placing exactly what it is. I force myself to continue looking upon him and at last I understand my unease. He has no weapon. His uniform denotes his as a soldier and yet that most integral part of any soldier is no where to be found. The horns of the lead vehicles sound and I am shaken from my apithamy. We are moving out once more. I run back to my truck laden with artillery rounds and missiles, and soon we are moving out again. The day passes uneventfully aside from the occasional wreckage aside the road every so often. I do not look closely on the shredded vehicles and bunkers. I know now, what lies among them. The image of one man etched to memory. Tired, I am very tired. We have stopped for the night parked one truck behind another in a column which stretches out for miles, all bearing death for the Iraqi Army. My assistant driver and I, tired as we may be, do not go to sleep immediately. We sit back in the darkness laughing softly and speaking of things back home, in denial of the reality we've found. From our conversation we could be sitting in a truck stop in Tennessee, as nothing about the war is discussed. Only our dreams and banter that carry us from this place. At long last our eyes have finally become heavier than the thoughts cloaked in our minds, and we drift to sleep in the truck leaned against the ruck sacks piled in the middle. I am instantly awakened from restless sleep as a sharp crack like thunder shakes the ground, rocking the truck. One phrase leaps from my lips unchecked as my first thought escapes: "What the fuck was that!" My confusion is soon given answer as two more bursts of artillery fire light the dark, early morning. The images return swiftly to mind, of the man on the side of the road and the bitter realization that it could soon be me comes fully to force. The sides of the roads are mined and strewn with enemy bunkers, instantly precluding any thought of running for cover away from the explosive laden trucks. I grab my chemical protective mask, the M-16 useless against artillery fire sits still against the dashboard. The seconds pass and the morning truly becomes alit as our saviors return fire. A full battery of 155 mm Howitzers and another of MLRS's have joined us during the night, and unleash absolute fury at the distant guns now revealed to them. The Apache helicopters raced overhead towards the exposed threat, soon to be nothing more than a mass of twisted metal and corpses. As I watch in numb silence I cannot help but note the beauty of the occasion. Fire stretches from the artillery in long tongues as it spits out its seeds five kilometers away. The MLRS trucks fire in sequence, rocket after rocket, each tracing across the lightening sky leaving trails of smoke behind them. In the distance I can see the white-blue flashes of the impacting rounds striking one after another. Antiaircraft fire streaks across the wounded sky above the enemy as they shoot in vain at the helicopters which are ripping them apart, systematically removing the threat to our convoy. As suddenly as it began, it ends. The sun has now peaked over the horizon, and it looks beautiful, shining in golden color, unoticing and uncaring of the happenings of the world. With a shaky hand I take a cigarette from my counterpart in the truck. I am going to start smoking today. The adrenaline leaves my body and I am tired. I am very tired.
Link Posted: 10/22/2002 8:07:58 AM EDT
[Last Edit: 10/22/2002 8:09:19 AM EDT by Benjamin0001]
Scattered across the internet are dozens of papers. Here is some that I have read. Papers written in the Politburo in Moscow , written by staff members of the Ministry of Defense. Contains an Analysis of American WarFighting capabilities versus Soviet Anti-Aircraft technology and techniques, which the Iraqi's were using. Part of a dairy from an Iraqi Lt. is on the net it is given as a commentary on the total destruction of this guys morale, and fighting ability as the war drags on. He goes from being totally for the war in the beginning to suffering from dysentary and praying for death by the time the Gulf War ends. The Lt. Dies in the war. And various pieces written by members of the US military. You have to look , but some very good reading is out there. Ben
Link Posted: 10/22/2002 1:49:02 PM EDT
Link Posted: 10/22/2002 2:18:16 PM EDT
[url]http://www.desert-storm.com/Gulflink/Glink1.htm[/url] You should be able to just jump from link to link, the archives have grown since I read them several years back. There is a ton of stuff now. Ben
Link Posted: 10/22/2002 2:44:01 PM EDT
Here the Iraqi Lt's diary: [url]http://www.ordnancemarine.com/moto/iraqi_lieutenant.htm[/url] Just did a quick search at google and this came up... appears to be what Benjamin0001 described.
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