A Tense Christmas

December 29, 2009

Here's what happened to me on Christmas five years ago:

Christmas morning.

2004

Balad, Iraq


We have a system of sirens here on the base to alert us of danger. One pattern of siren blasts indicates an incoming aerial assault (usually mortars or rockets). Another pattern indicates a ground invasion. Another pattern indicates a nuclear, biological, or chemical attack.

There are signs posted everywhere to remind everyone what the sirens mean. Normally, the insurgents pop off a few mortars a day, and we hear the mortar siren, and we hustle to a bunker until the all clear signal, which is all we can do since mortars are shot from far away and more often than not, the insurgents are long gone from the launch site by the time the mortars make impact.

I'm in my room -- a space not much larger than a walk-in closet, enclosed by little more than a thin layer of corrugated tin on the outside and wood paneling on the inside. But, it's better than living in a tent with a platoon of other people.

Iraq has surprisingly cold winters, and I'm shivering a little bit.

I'm putting on my uniform to have what I'm sure will be a better-than-usual (since it's Christmas) lunch with some friends, when I hear a different siren than the usual mortar alarm. I don't immediately recognize which alarm it is, but I know that the other two siren options are really, really not good.

Oh. Crap.

It just got real.

I feel paralyzed for a split second.

Then, my eyes go round, I get tunnel vision, the blood drains out of my face, a lump goes into my throat, and my mind starts racing.

Is that the ground invasion siren or the chemical alarm? Where's my gas mask?!? Wait, that's definitely the siren for ground invasion. Those punks waited all year to invade the base on Christmas Day! I can imagine the newspaper headlines back home. I pat my chest to make sure I'm wearing my dogtags so they can identify me at the hospital. There's no way I'm letting them capture me and parade me on TV. I'm going out of this world fighting. What do I do first? Fasten my pants or grab my rifle? How many of them are coming in?

This is why I went to basic training. This is why I spent all that time lying in the cold, wet mud at the rifle range. All that training was designed to harden me. Exhale. Let's do this.

I jerk my belt through the buckle without buttoning my pants, slam my helmet on my head, strap on my vest, grab my M16, and pull out my ammo magazine. It's cold, my hands are slightly numb, I fumble the magazine. If you are even a little familiar with semi-automatic magazines, you know they're spring-loaded.

The magazine hits the floor. Cartridges spill out and roll off in 20 different directions like a river delta. My face, which was chalk white a second ago, turns hot red as my blood pressure pounds my head.

GAAA!!!! That's not supposed to happen! I pick up the magazine, and it's only half full now.

Great!

I realize that my unit only gave us one magazine to carry so it would be less weight. The idea is that we are to use our one magazine to fight our way back to the main ammo supply. Brilliant.

Almost panicking, I slap my half-loaded magazine into the well of my rifle, put a round in the chamber, and bust through my door into the colder air outside.

I want to yell, "Where are they?!?", but I don't see anyone else. Then, the siren changes to the mortar alarm.

What's that mean? I trot to the nearest bunker where a few other people are as confused as I am.

This all happened in about 20 seconds. It turns out that the person controlling the alarm just hit the wrong button or something, and it was just the usual incoming mortars. Not nice, but a lot better than having to deal with a ground invasion.

After everything settled down, I went to lunch with my friends and enjoyed a somewhat uptight day off with them.

True story.