Uninvited guests: part 1

Everybody had a pattern to deal with stress.

Ralph Roman clipped his nails, then the cuticles, and finally, he trimmed away the calloused flesh of his fingertips with the nail clipper tied to his combat harness. Mike Stone slept, a puddle of drool gathering in the corner of his mouth and waiting for gravity to give it means of escape. Sgt. Hilgenhurst composed a letter to his wife in the subdued, tactical red glow of the cargo hold. Normally, I would have dissected lyrics I hadn't heard in awhile, picked apart the phrasing and painstakingly assured that I had every word, line and verse correct.

Had I not been painfully aware that I was flying nap-of-the-earth, 500 feet above Panamanian jungles where, soon, I would meet people who wanted to kill me, I might have thought of a song to work with. I couldn’t. I pushed bad thoughts away and tried to focus on anything, even the 150 pounds of equipment hanging from my shoulders and the 30 or so hanging as the parachute from my back.

When the jump doors opened, 80-degree air filled the cabin—quite a shock after the 30s in North Carolina and the chill of 30,000 feet. As the heat intensified, faces turned pale and canteens came out. Half the chalk looked like it would suffer heat exhaustion before leaving the bird.

The engines' drone stuttered and dropped to a fluctuating hum. When the light turned green, I had tunnel vision on the door.

Feeling the tug of jet engines and the roar of the wind, I counted four seconds, checked that I had a canopy—the plane had almost disappeared from view in the night sky. Heat and humidity brought stillness to the night. Other than people being killed just below, it felt almost tranquil.

Beneath me, green tracer rounds flew outward. Red ones returned, some streaming toward the planes overhead. Explosions rocked the airport terminal; the heaviest fighting.

As treetops passed, I pulled the straps to drop my rucksack; two of them would send it sprawling to the end of a 15 foot line, where it would hang until I landed. Unfortunately, the line didn't extend before it hit the ground. I wasn't high enough. I came barreling in on top of it, bounced, and landed with the gun I carried firmly embedded in my ribs.

I like trees.

Hence, I spent the ensuing 30 or 40 seconds staring at a majestic acacia. It took most of the time to focus and to ascertain that it was an acacia, but that's what I looked at while I tried to figure out if any bones or equipment were broken beyond repair.

Merry Christmas, Pfc. Davidson, welcome to Panama.

****
Sunday, Dec. 17, 1989 had been a good day. That is, it had been a good day until someone woke me from drunken slumber to tell me I had 24-hour duty. I had slept about four hours. I reported as runner to the Charge of Quarters, CQ. My job entailed anything the sergeant on duty required. I did receive the bonus of Monday off, but not until 9 am.

Nothing about that day stands out in memory with the exception of a 24-hour bug known as hung-over-bag-of-ass syndrome. "Rough shape” didn't do my physical ills justice. I had planned on sleeping most of the day.

Monday's relief arrived right on time—about 23 hours later than I wanted—and I went to bed. For waking me around noon, Traveling Matt Farrel received a laundry list of expletives as he told me we had been put on alert. Sgt. Hilgenhurst wanted me in the command post, immediately. Farrel had a habit of playing jokes when people were most vulnerable. I went back to sleep.

I should have listened. A little later, Hilgenhurst burst through the door and unceremoniously dragged me from bed. He let me shower and shave. I got the short form on what had happened the previous three hours and what the next 18 held in store.

That afternoon, we headed to green ramp, the section of Pope Air Force Base reserved specifically for paratroopers. The grounds provided all the space and equipment for training and preparation. Long, wide benches had room to don parachutes and sit comfortably while awaiting inspection. Randomly arranged tables bolted in place stood ready for loading magazines, rearranging gear, packing, repairing, even eating. Vacant lots had storage space for equipment or—on a drizzling day in December—for paratroopers who were not flying out on schedule.

After drawing ammunition and ordinance, we learned that parachutes wouldn't arrive until morning–not enough covered cargo trucks. Paratroopers operate efficiently when drenched. Parachutes, not so much. We took the rest of the day getting ready, going over plans, doing whatever needed to prepare ourselves. At night, some played cards; some wrote letters. I made my gear ready for quick morning departure, and sacked out in my cot before the tent lights went out.

Tuesday defined Army life and the 1000 clichés it’s spawned. Hurry up and wait; multi-denominational services every hour, Catholic on the 15s, Episcopalian on the 30s, etc; repetition breeds remembrance; if it ain’t raining, we ain’t training. We had a hot breakfast and lunch and were back to green ramp proper for 3 pm. The brain trust scheduled takeoff for 6 with a six-hour flight to a coordinated airborne assault at about half passed midnight. During a fresh sleeting, we feasted on MREs while technicians de-iced wings on a fleet of C141 Starlifters, their sleek, black backs shimmering in sub-freezing evening sky.

Around 6, we packed in like school girls on the free bus to a New Kids on the Block concert. I’m sure a few would rather have gone to a show rife with teenage girls than hang out in a freezing plane waiting to wage war.

I had to piss as usual, had since before we loaded. I tried to sleep. It lasted about 20 minutes before one of the crew shouted down the line. I woke, spent the rest of the flight meditating in silent dread the concept of actually going to war. Sure it’s what I’d signed up for, but I never expected to have to do it.

Our mission was a classic airborne operation: an airfield takedown. Intelligence pinpointed Noriega's Dignity Battalion's strongholds, though there were few. We, in concert with the 1st Battalion/75th Rangers, intended to reduce resistance at Tucomen Torrios Airfield, establish a base of operations and then take a sunrise helicopter ride to the south coast of Panama City, a village called Panamá Viejo.

But at our target time, we were still over the Gulf of Mexico. At altitude, ice formed on our wings, so we flew lower and slower than planned. We were going to be late. Already on station in Panama instead of flying in from Georgia, the Rangers would be on time and, potentially, notice our absence. By 1:15, everyone was awake, internal clocks suggesting that something was wrong.

At 1:30, the jumpmaster gave the 20-minute warning. In those last minutes between the door opening and steps out of the plane, it sank in that this wasn't another training mission. Locals waiting below wanted to kill me.

I searched my mind for something to concentrate on. Nothing came. The jumpmaster held up thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. Thirty seconds. Counting down mentally, I held my cool until the jumpmaster motioned to the door jumper, "Stand by."

The tension was palpable; it wasn't a feeling in the plane. It carried the plane. It was a creature in space breathing down every neck. It was every hair, every hackle, every fluttering eyelid and labored breath. I leaned into my assistant gunner's ear and with all the strength I had—which amounted to quite little at the moment—I screamed "fuck yeah."

I wasn't motivated. I was scared shitless, but I had to make it seem as though I was motivated. Stewart responded with a sort of open-mouthed growl, "aargh," and the whole plane lit up. It culminated in cries of "get some," as the light turned green.

I charged the door fast on Stewart’s flank, handed off my static line and passed through roar and shake, into calm. I could see Rangers were in the thick of the fight.

Something else had changed. The original plan had thousands of paratroopers dropping unannounced in the middle of a runway before any fighting began. Call it a misdrop; call it quick thinking on the part of the pilot. He had veered right of his intended target. Perhaps he was afraid of having his ship and cargo shot up during the approach; maybe, he knew we would be landing in the middle of a firefight. Either way, we landed about a kilometer away from where we needed to be. And being the first plane, all other pilots had followed him.

As I surveyed all this, I forgot to do my math problem: If Pvt. Joe Snuffy exits a C141 aircraft traveling 200 miles per hour at approximately 500 feet above ground level, descends four seconds at 75 feet per second, how long does he have before he hits the ground descending under canopy at approximately 20 feet a second. Answer, not long (8-12 seconds, depending on atmospheric conditions—humidity and heat help keep parachutes aloft).

I was close to the ground. Dropping my rucksack, I watched it impact from about 12 feet up. I didn't have time to prepare for landing. Feet and knees together, I angled my legs and tried to miss the ruck but couldn't. It happened too quickly.

Pulling my gun from what seemed to be permanent residence in my ribcage, I got ready to move, which, believe it or not, included what’s known as the sixth point of performance. I took a piss.

I left my chute where it came down, donned my rucksack and unsheathed my mortar tube. Trees obscured the landscape, but my compass knew the way. I spied the elephant grass that I had to pass through, alone, in the dark. The scraping and ticking of blades brushing together in the breeze sounded like footsteps and whispers.

And a song finally came crashing into my thoughts, a Grateful Dead tune that, as of 0150 hours, Dec. 20, 1989, I knew exactly three lines to: "Dire Wolf." I knew the chorus, and as I waded, pistol drawn, among eight-foot stalks of elephant grass, I sang them in my head.

"Don't murder me.
I beg of you, don't murder me.
Please, don't murder me."

Bean Soup

Plump black bodies soaked in brine
ruptured or whole, purpled and bloated
steam steals the moisture from their hearts

The Gladiator

It wasn’t that it was cold at night. It was that the temperature dropped from mid nineties to high fifties. In the morning, we would freeze as we stirred, some going so far as to keep an empty water bottle with them so they didn’t have to get up to piss.

Something called "stand-to" required us to remain immobile in the chill from half an hour before sunrise until half past. Theory held it as the most likely time for an attack. But we were so far from the Iraqi and Kuwaiti borders that we’d know a day in advance if anyone was attacking on any given morning.

It was September, and we were just practicing. But we sat and shivered as told.

Once the sun rose and security was placed, we started preparing for the day. But the preparations started well before that. In pre-dawn darkness, we shook out our boots and helmets. Scorpions spent the night hunting, and as dawn approached, they’d hunt something else, solitude, more darkness.

So after boot shaking and breakfast, we’d flip rocks and sandbags to see what the night had provided. It’s easy to get bored half a world away from everything you know. Reality was all we could cling to, and reality was war, casualties, and possible death. We found hobbies, some our own, some shared.

Scorpions liked to gather beneath sandbags, and we liked scorpions. They came in three varieties. Black, white, and green. None of us had ever seen the white ones. Legend told of a white scorpion named Moby Dick.

We had modified a box to suit our needs. Cutting the corners off and layering sand across the bottom, someone had scrawled "Madison Square Garden" on the side. It was our Coliseum. We held battles daily with scorpions culled from under rock and sandbag.

The battles were all perfunctory, nothing to write home about. Usually, the bigger scorpion wandered around the arena while we used bayonets to push the smaller ones back toward him. Eventually, fear would lead the smaller ones to strike preemptively, or annoyance would make the big one kill them off.

The reigning champ was a green scorpion about three inches long, not counting pinchers and tail, about five inches total, almost an inch wide, luminous, translucent. He was the arachnid equivalent of the soft-shell crab. His veins weren’t quite visible, but they were easily imagined. He looked soft, squishy, like a bug should be.

We never pitted him against anything except smaller green ones because we had never seen anything bigger or different.

***

No one was sure who found it because it was already in the Coliseum when we gathered that day. Black, like see-in-the-dark black. About three inches, Black sent a chill down the spine, the kind of thing one is loathe to have crawling across his chest in the middle of the night. His lobster claws looked solid, like he could use them to smash stones. His textured tail, equally armored, looked incapable of extension—the way the green ones spent most of their time. Where the green tail rose only when agitated, the black tail looked like it rarely came down.

We gathered. Out of his box, Green landed on the battlefield. He knew instantly something was different. Where previously his stinger had taken time to show, it swung up immediately. He moved quickly around the rocks and across the hills and valleys of the sand floor. He covered the two feet in seconds, searching out his adversary.

And their eyes met.

Stingers wet with venom showed immediately as they felt each other out. The dance took them each a step left in concert, two steps right, and back. They circled, neither an aggressor.

Green advanced and withdrew. Then, Black advanced. They mimicked each other two minutes or more in attempts to get the advantage.

Green had size, weight, and reach in his advantage. Black mirrored him, his perpetually curled tail twitching. His presence alone had put green on edge.

It happened instantly. Green took the offensive. His tail like the trail of a whip swung forward. He aimed for the only soft spot Black offered, the spot that would have been a mammal’s neck.

Before it could find purchase in flesh, Green’s stinger slammed harmlessly into Black’s right claw, captured. At the same time, Black snatched Green’s right claw in his left, pulling him close.

Black’s stinger pierced above and just right of Green’s left eye, where it unloaded lethal doses. Black withdrew then, prancing around the arena, the victor, as Green’s body convulsed with neurotoxins flowing through his brain.

We stood, impressed with images of the impenetrable beast exercising its wrath on all who opposed.

The Coliseum went unused a few days.

The crash site

Eastern central New Mexico is about as flat and geographically unspectacular as anyone would expect from an area called the High Plains. Geometrically sound towns are formulaic from start to finish. Avenues and streets run north to south; drives and boulevards run east to west. There are no cities; it's just miles and miles of nondescript, perfectly gridded suburban sprawl.

Clovis, New Mexico, my home town, was one of these. It boasted a 10 storey hotel and a 7 storey city hall, kind of pathetic, really, but a pleasant place, none the less.

My family lived in a standard-sized suburban lot with some vines and fences at 600 Sandia drive. From the front, it pretended to be adobe up to the roof, where it became something else. It would be called a ranch in New England, except that it wasn't made of wood. It was stucco, chicken wire covered in plaster.

Streets had alleyways between them wide enough for dump trucks to get to the dumpsters. As a child, these were my favorite routes from A to B and points beyond. I could see into backyards sometimes, each one a little insight into the owner's mind.

Two alleyways intersected behind our house, forming a T. We would go out, my brother and I –sometimes with our sister – and we would ride our motorcycles down the alley to a field near Barry Elementary school.

Our dad would escort us most of the time, to make sure we didn't do anything stupid. We were a little family-sized fleet of motorcycles, my brother on his Suzuki 125 cc, my sister or me on my Honda 100 and my dad on his Honda 450.

My brother was the more adventurous. He fearlessly raced around the trails, trying to perfect jumps and speed into turns. He loved to spray dirt on anyone standing near the track. He handled the motorcycle same as I handled my bicycle. What we called an "enduro," it was made for off-road, with lights and signals making it street legal.

And it was light. On the few occasions he dropped it, he picked it right up. Mine was proportionately heavier, especially in relation to me. Being older, my brother was probably 40 pounds heavier, but the bikes weighed almost the same.

I had never really had a lesson other than stop and go. Decked out for a street-riding midget, the Honda fit me better than my brother's fit him, but the suspension wasn't meant for potholes and jumps. All I did was find flatter tracks and will the thing to do what I wanted. Basically, I learned to use my weight to maneuver it as I drove in dirt circles around the field.

It didn't always work out well, but the worst that ever happened was running through Yucca plants or brambles—until one day when my brother had to mow the lawn. I must've been about 9 years old.

Dad brought out the mower so my brother could cut the grass. We kept the motorcycles parked beneath a fiberglass awning at the right side of the yard and dad threw me the keys, telling to move the bike.

I kicked it started and eased into the saddle. Pulling the clutch with my left hand, the transmission clicked lightly as I stomped it into gear.

New Mexico is hot during the summer. On the average August day—like this day—it routinely breaks 100 degrees. People sweat just for standing, and I had been out playing in the yard. After all, I was 9.

Starting to let the clutch out, I gave it a little gas.

I remember having wiped the sweat off my face with my bare hands then wiping them on my jeans. Well, it turns out denim isn't all that absorbent.

The clutch lever slipped from my sweaty palm and engaged the transmission, causing the bike to lurch forward, throwing me off balance and forcing me to hold on. The only solid grip I had was on the throttle; as I jerked backward under the strain of momentum, my right hand twisted the throttle higher.

I rode the length of the fence, screaming. Bare wood shredded the end of the grip just inches from my right hand, and I managed to avoid the first three support beams of the stockade fence, some by only millimeters. When I finally returned my left hand to the handlebar where it belonged, I realized I was headed straight for the house. This distracted me from the support beams, one of which was approaching rapidly.

The beauty of hydraulics is that the brake lever doesn't pull all the way in unless there's no brake fluid. So when the brake lever hit the beam, my fingers weren't crushed. The brakes did what brakes do, stopped the bike. The bike did what physics dictated: it jammed the front wheel into the fence.

I flew up and over the handlebar, flipping and landing on my back in the overgrown grass.

I remember hearing my sister scream and my brother yell to our dad. He was kneeling over me before I even realized that the ride was over, saying my name and asking if I was okay.

I was fine. I said something prophetic like "ouch," or "oops." I remember how glad I was that mom wasn't home.

When the motorcycle and I were both standing again, dad gave me a look of assessment. I was fine, and it was fine. "I told you to move your bike," he said, holding out the keys once more.

I hadn't even had time to replay the scene in my head or to be scared. "Okay," I said. I got back on and moved it to the front yard, avoiding fences and all other structures.

That was 30 years ago.

Since then, I've upgraded from 100 cc to 1450. I've fallen down a few more times, and I still try to avoid running into things.

And I still ride in circles; they're just bigger.

Call it what you will.

We get the names we're given in life, rejecting some, embracing few. And the Army gives new ones each day as readily as it's currently passing out disabilities. And in a similar though far less dramatic way, a name changes a person's view of the world, sometimes for good, sometimes for not so good.

Like my parents did when I was born, the Army gave me a name. I had no choice but to accept it until I had the rank or anonymity to change it. Fortunately, it didn't suck.

Soldiers ("Joe's") like shortcuts above all else, excepting beer, women, and time off. Each day revived mantras celebrated like hymns: "if you're not cheating, you're not trying," "if you get caught, you're not trying hard enough," and "if you look busy, you are busy." The goal was to accomplish more while doing less. If less was accomplished, well, that was ok too.

It applied equally to names; a name disappeared quickly in favor of something shorter or more appropriate. It was part convenience: fewer syllables required less effort, resulting in verbal economy. But it sometimes left a mark like Hawthorne's scarlet "A" marked Hester Prynne.

Most often, the nickname was derivative of the surname. Two weeks into Fort Bragg, my name officially and forevermore became Dave—far less cumbersome than Davidson. Even as a sergeant, I was Sgt. Dave.

Some got off easy like that, names not morphing much or at all. Todd Gravely was always Gravely (although occasionally mispronounced like the adverb); Casey and Stone were never anything but. Bernholtz became Bernie, Burgmeyer – Burgie, Williams–Will, etc.

Mickey Paolucci became whatever that combination of vowels and consonants allowed–Pappy Loochie, Pappy, Pooch, etc (though it seems like a significant change, remember that many infantrymen had a tough time pronouncing words like pasghetti or Massatoosis.). He might even have been the original Papa Roach.

Derek Battle and Sgt. Slaughter had names built for an airborne infantry unit. One Sergeant's last name eludes me because his first made him Stormin' Norman long before the media passed it off to a general. John Friezen became the Freeze. Matt Farrell became Traveling Matt of "Fraggle Rock" fame.

With a high percentage of southerners, some people became an abomination of themselves. Anthony Powell became Powl (rhymes with fowl); Bradley B. Binkley (I am not making that up) got Binky or Blinky depending on mispronouncer preference. We kept those.

Others kept their names, but with new meaning. James Keck was neither reliable nor competent. When people addressed him, it sounded like something was caught in their throats. Steve Gurly, "girly," had to deal with the name his parents passed down.

Nicknames also came from traits. Ralph Roman loved comics and video games. When the movie and game based on the comic "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" came out, Roman's resemblance to the venerable rat Splinter won that as nickname until someone dubbed him Ratman. The latter stuck like a high school reputation.

Sean Stewart resembled a shrew. His mannerisms, dwarf-like appearance, and facial expressions earned him Shrewert. And Sgt. Foster, the company's chemical expert spoke with such a lisp that behind his back he was Tharenfothter—you have to say both aloud to appreciate them.

Because the Army is above all a hierarchal order, names we used varied with situations. My friend John Friezen was a Sgt., so I called him by rank and name on duty and whenever there were sergeants or officers present. Among the enlisted men, references were usually along the lines of "The Freeze is looking for you."

As enlisted men, we also had endless fun with officers. My first company commander was more motivated to kill than anyone I met before or since. Among the enlisted and lower ranking sergeants, he was known as Captain Combat.

His replacement, Capt. Ramsdale, seemed more concerned with appearance during combat drills than with Joe's proper execution of the drills. Because of this, he became Captain Kevlar, named for the helmet we wore.

Next to lead us was Capt. Martin P. Schweitzer, Marty P. (also occasionally Herr Scvitzer), and since the senior Sgt. in our company was Martin B. Matney, they became collectively "Marty B and Marty P."

Second in command was the XO (executive officer), Lieutenant Stephen Donaldson. Donaldson's name was the first step in him becoming Lt. Sam. The second was the way he talked to people; sometimes you believed that he thought he was addressing an entire nation on the five o'clock news. His best friend and roommate was first platoon's leader, Lt. Dan Cotell. Cotell somehow avoided a nickname. Collectively, they were Sam-and-Dan, pronounced samandan.

Third platoon's Lt. Guthrie didn't like me, mostly because I created his nickname. He was transferred to our unit late one night while we were training in the woods. Because he hadn't eaten since the previous day or slept in over 24 hours, Marty B moved him to the front of the chow line, right in front of me.

"Good morning, sir," I said. He responded in kind.

And then I saw his name. "Sir, I don't suppose you're related to Arlo, are you?"

"It's a distant relation," he said. I didn't note the distaste in his voice, took it for exhaustion.

"Sir," I said, oblivious to the fact that I was digging my own grave, "will you sing a verse of 'Alice's Restaurant' for me?"

Oops.

We had about a week left in the woods; the only shitty job I didn't do during that time was sleep. His opinion of me never recovered. But from that moment forward, he was Arlo.

Names were mutable. A Joe could spend years with the best nomenclature in the Army, and do one stupid thing Sunday Morning in the chow line in front of two people and be changed forever.

There was one kid who couldn't help fucking up. It didn't take long before everybody but the officers in the company called him Soup, from the phrase "more fucked up than a soup sandwich."

I wonder what would've happened if he had gotten to keep his real name. Would it have made a difference in his assimilation into military life? As it was, the obvious lack of support that "Soup" suggests played into his rapid departure.

It almost happened to me as well. One sunny day in Iraq, I almost let stupidity—and a healthy dose of wise ass—brand me as Nine Toes. But I'll get to that later.

Would an IPod be the apple of my eye?

The song was from an album called "War."

I hadn't heard it in about 16 years, but suddenly it was playing again. It takes a second to say goodbye. Say goodbye, oh, oh, oh.

The kid behind the counter called it "classic rock" and mused on then-and-now differences in the world as he tried to get me to buy an iPod to accompany my new laptop computer.

"It's got room for every song you'll ever want to hear," he said, "like this one, 'Seconds.'"

It takes a second to say goodbye.

I declined as gracefully as possible over his much-rehearsed, enthusiastic up-sale pitch.

"Why?" he asked.

They make me nervous.

Eleven days after I landed in Saudi Arabia in August, 1990, I turned 22. I didn't yet know that the half-way point in my Army career was destined to make me part of history. I was with the second U.S. military unit to arrive in the Persian Gulf. Operation Desert Shield had started.

They packed us into a windowless garage at an unused military base near a town called Safjwa. Miniscule villages dotted the countryside, but Safjwa was the only city of stature within about 50 miles. Desert stretched out around us, the curvature of the world showing plainly wherever heat waves and blowing sand permitted.

We spent the first weeks anticipating a fight. Saddam Hussein's Republican Guard sat at the Kuwaiti-Saudi boarder, waiting to cross. Even if they didn't, we still had to deal with the ever-present threat of chemical warfare.

We clung to any news that suggested more troops had arrived, especially ones with tanks. In early September, the worst-case scenario had a company of about 150 airborne light infantrymen facing 55 tanks, should Hussein have decided to move.

Push the button and pull the plug.
Say goodbye, oh, oh, oh.

We had heard that media coverage brought the build-up right into America's living rooms, people watching every minute of it. President Bush's campaign for support resulted in mail by the truckload. Soldiers traded books and played cards. This was all the entertainment we had for a while. A girl from Ohio sent me a Sony Walkman and some tapes.

By mid-October, Saudi Arabia's American population had grown by hundreds of thousands. Crum's parents sent his guitar; our first sergeant had a harmonica. Some nights, we sat outside and sang horribly off-key songs to relax.

Inside, our cots were lined up in rows with just enough room for someone to pass between, about six inches of personal space. We kept everything we owned beneath them. We weren't allowed to have more than a few items out at any time because, if we had to leave, it would be in a hurry.

We piled our chemical protective suits in corners. We kept our weapons at the edge of our cots or slept with them. Most of our personal stuff, pens and paper, tape players and the like, stayed in the pockets of our uniforms. It saved the hassle of trying to find space.

By December, we had as much comfort as we could ask for, given the situation. We exercised two or three times a day, rolled dice, read books aloud to each other. Someone figured out a way to play VHS movies on a projector, so we had movie screenings some nights.

The locals were permitted to open a shop in a storage space near our building, where we could buy snacks, cigarettes, tape players, and eventually, Nintendo Gameboys. Donations came pouring in so we had all the shampoo, writing paper, cheap disposable razors and shaving cream we'd ever use.

Five times a day, a loudspeaker just down the hill from our section would broadcast a Muslim praying. To my juvenile sense of humor, it sounded like he was saying "Alah, that's all I want, a Walkman." I heckled it, and others joined. It wasn't long before everyday at prayer time, we'd face the locals' shop and pray for a Walkman.

Then, Capt. Schweitzer caught us. Marty P. had a good sense of humor. The problem was that he wasn't at all tolerant of racial insensitivity.

That got us weeks of extra duty hanging out in front of Battalion headquarters at the position of attention, checking IDs on anyone who looked like they didn't belong and saluting or otherwise greeting everyone who looked like they did.

On one of those nights, I returned to my cot, lay down and put on my walkman. I was listening to a pirate combination of U2's "War" and "October" that I'd found in the trash. I had it loud enough to drown out minor noise, but not loud enough to disturb anyone around me. I was lying there with my eyes closed, letting my mind wander. The drums thumped away, when one thumped out of rhythm.

Lightning flashes across the sky
East to west, do or die
Like a thief in the night
See the world by candlelight

I heard it, but it didn't register until the lights came on. Everyone sat up at once to a siren in the distance. One of the platoon sergeants jumped up and swung his chemical protective mask up to his face. Stunned, it took most of us about a second to realize what was up. Before he was finished, everyone in the building had done the same. Troops jumped to their feet, running to the corners to start passing out the charcoal-lined chemical suits.

The owner's name on the bag, we waited frantically to hear the names on our shirts. In the meantime, we shuttled them down the rows of cots to their proper owners.

We dressed, waiting to rip the suits from their bags. Chemical alarms spread hundreds of meters out into the desert were wired to control panels in the nearest billet. One sat 20 feet away. If one of the detectors connected to it sensed a chemical weapon, the panel would light up like a Christmas display.

We sat for 45 minutes, staring fish-eyed at the speaker and waiting for the alarm that never sounded. We dared not go outside because if their were any chemicals present, it could quickly permeate the room. Experts from our regiment's chemical units were out there, they told us, checking the area. Brigade would also have people on site. So I sat, sweating beneath the curtain of the mask, sticky in the humidity of my own breath.

No one spoke much during that hour or more. Every so often, someone would come from the offices, other end of the building, and talk to the platoon sergeants. They'd then talk to the squad leaders, and eventually, word would come down to us. Mostly, we just wanted to know how the litmus tests outside were going.

No one had any idea what had happened. Finally, someone decided that the sulfur-rich Saudi air was breathable and they told us it was all clear. A few of us sat outside for a while, too wound up to sleep and telling our individual stories about how tight our asses had become when the air-raid siren went off.

When I went back to bed, I put my walkman on, but the ghost explosions wouldn't stop.

Next morning, I gave it away.

Say goodbye.

It took a while for word to get around about what happened: Hussein had been sending scud missiles toward Israel, trying to get them involved; this would serve him by turning Muslim countries against the U.N. The U.S. had Patriot missiles that shot down other missiles. This time, one had impacted on the ground, dragging us into a tense hour of waiting for the end.

"Why don't you want the iPod?" the kid behind the counter asked again.

"Because a dollar a song is way too expensive," I said.

Coming up half a foot short

Staff sergeant Burgemeyer opened the wrinkled bag of Red Man chewing tobacco, pulling out a wad of leaves, stems, and scrap. "Thank you, Nine Toes," he said, stuffing it into his mouth, folding the bag back up and tossing it 15 or 20 feet back to me.

It was a pivotal moment as the whole of Charlie Company looked at me, wondering why I was suddenly no longer just "Davidson" to my superior.

I got lucky on two counts: first, that Burgey's nickname for me didn't stick; and second, that it hadn't turned out to be accurate.

Late March, 1991, hostilities had come to a halt. Hussein's disarmed troops were pushed back to a manageable area or captured for later release. Tank and armor units settled in for an extended stay while lighter units, like the 82nd, prepared to fly home.

One of the things we had to accomplish on the way out was to disarm ourselves. In its infinite wisdom, the U.S. Army decided that having us expend all ammunition was smarter than packing it home and hoping no one stashed anything for use in the civilian world.

So we got to have a mad minute, several mad minutes, in fact.

We went to an area of unoccupied desert, surveyed to make sure it was devoid of life, to relieve ourselves of what armament we had. Capt. Marty P Schwietzer spelled everything out clearly: from 9mm pistol to M-60 machine gun, we were to "expend all ammunition."

Anyone found with munitions afterward would learn exactly what Shit's Creek smelled like.

It was as nice a day imaginable when return to civilization is less than a month away. They marched about 40 out at a time. The Army requires a safety briefing before each live fire (actually, the Army requires a safety briefing before just about anything—even a long weekend). So, an officer tromped into the sand ahead to reinforce the tenets of responsible marksmanship.

Then, he got out of the way. Down range, a few mutilated targets still hung, and markings indicated the nearest we were allowed to aim. Safely behind us he said the one phrase guaranteed to excite any infantryman, "Lock and load."

Forty M16 rifle bolts slammed forward almost simultaneously. Some of these guys had gotten confirmed kills in Panama; even they looked thrilled. The big difference from other training exercises was the absence of a limit. All others set them. This time, we had at least seven 30-round magazines each. The goal was to fire them all.

Protocol required that we check if anyone was in our firing lanes. "Is anyone down range?" We all shouted. The safety officer followed with "Rotate your fire selectors to burst," indicating the setting which fired three bullets with every squeeze of the trigger. And then, he said something that has largely fallen from the military lexicon since the end of the Civil War.

"Fire at will."

I've heard and seen myriad explosions from many different sources. But as 40 fingers eased out the slack on 40 triggers and we released a wall of lead into the shimmering desert, we were a match for any of them.

Most of the Joes had spent the morning lamenting that we never got to use the ammo on Iraqi troops. But they were having a good time. Most aimed beyond the targets to the top of a dune where they could see clearer evidence of their accuracy.

The remains of an ammo can filled with sand teetered amid the onslaught but never fell.

I had chosen to sit. I had fashioned myself a little hill in the sand and crossed my right leg under my left. My left elbow rested on the knee beneath it as I fired burst after burst at a stake that once held a target some 150 meters distant. My goal was to cut it in half with 210 rounds or fewer.

One magazine gone, I ejected it to the sand and shoved in another. Empty, another. I don't know if I even hit the stake. While I rattled them off, I didn't notice the small collection bullet casings from the guy on my left that had landed around my right foot.

The M16A2 assault rifle fires a NATO standard 5.56mm round. Brass casings eject after each shot at 300 degrees Fahrenheit or hotter. The ones that landed on my leg and hadn't fallen off would have hurt on bare skin, but through my DCUs, they only heated up enough to surprise me. Where I had felt nothing, I suddenly felt heat.

Without losing the rhythm of my trigger squeeze, I jerked back to look for the heat source. The sudden movement caused the small sand hill beneath my ass to give, and I slid off balance. I lifted and straightened my left leg to keep from tumbling backwards—this would have caused the whole group to have to stop. In the process, I lifted my left foot into my own line of fire, just as I was squeezing off a three-round burst.

It took me a second and another burst to realize what had happened. I felt it, but no pain, nothing obvious, just heat and numbness in my left foot and small hole in my boot.

I lowered my rifle calmly. Still holding the pistol grip with my right hand, I reached forward and felt my foot. The boot yielded little; I couldn't tell, and whatever was going on inside the boot, I couldn't feel anything. Sgt. Bernholtz sat to my right. Firing left handed, he was facing me.

"Bernie," I shouted in a whisper. The third time, he heard me. Not moving the butt stock from his cheek, he eyed me.

"What?"

I pointed to the boot.

"What the fuck did you do, Davidson?"

Plenty of firing was still going on, but I looked around nervously anyway. "I think I shot my boot."

"Is it bleeding?"

"I don't know."

"Does it hurt?"

"I can't feel anything."

"You're fucked," he said, and returned his eye down range to fire more.

It wasn't a wave of nausea so much as butterflies the size of sparrows that gripped my stomach. I put my rifle down and had just started untying my boot when Bernie saw. "Don't take it off, dumbass," he spat. "If it doesn't hurt, you might as well finish firing and go see Doc after."

It wasn't the best plan. It was, however, a plan, which I hadn't hitherto had. I didn't finish firing my remaining ammo. Dropping the remains in the bin as we filed off-range, I found the senior medic.

Individually and collectively, medics are known as Doc. I don't remember his name, the sergeant in charge of the medics for our company. I found him standing by a truck talking with a couple others. We were friends. My arrival prompted almost immediate attention.

"How'd it go, man?"

I leaned toward him almost conspiratorially. "You got a second?"

The look on my face said enough. His demeanor changed to concern as he led me away from the crowd. In the back of an empty half-ton truck, I ripped my boot off as he opened his medic bag.

Much to my surprise, I found five toes. Doc inspected my foot for any damage, cleaning it first with iodine, then alcohol. Once we determined I was fine, he started laughing. I don't remember the jokes he made at my expense; I only remember the look of relief on his face before he broke.

Apparently, the bullet had passed directly between my left big toe and the toe next to it; about 1/8 inch separates them at the widest spot. We couldn't imagine the odds of me not suffering any damage, so much so, that Doc made me stand a few times so he could compare the bullet hole to the placement of my toes as I put weight on them.

By all rights, he figured, the bullet could have taken both toes and a significant portion of foot with it. One lucky count was that the bullet hadn't had time to expand, as it wasn't even six inches from the barrel when it passed through my shoe.

Another lucky count was that of all the places it could have done significant damage, it hit in the one place where it couldn't. I passed Bernie as I walked back. He said something suggestive to find if all was OK. It was.

Not long after, they put us in formation to load the trucks. Ssgt. Burgemeyer wondered aloud if anyone had a chew, and I supplied it. I saw him exchanging laughs with Bernie; I knew the topic. En route back to camp, the jokes started privately. For some reason, the story never made it around, partly I think because I accidentally made Bernie an accomplice the moment it happened, but mostly I think, for reasons of their own, the two of them decided that it was better not to fry me. If word had gotten out, I would have gotten in real trouble.

The jokes never stopped about how, here or there, I'd come up half a foot short. Burgey would call me Nine Toes if I saw him out drinking but never at work. When I got out of the Army, I kept one of my desert uniforms, including the boots that I wore that day. I still have them, haven't seen them since I put them on for a Halloween party in 2001, but they pop into my head now and again when I'm contemplating something stupid.

And of all the lessons, experiences and even college money that I had when I left the Army, the best thing I took away, by far, was something that I took in with me: my tenth toe.