Worst place to be: lost without ammo

CAMP STRYKER,

IRAQ - Our first convoy as a squad took us farther north into Iraq to a facility called Victory Base Complex/Camp Stryker.

Just outside of Baghdad, VBC is a sprawling complex. To put it into perspective, imagine the drive from Carson City to Meadowood Mall in Reno (minus traffic delays) and you might get an idea of how long it takes to drive from one end of the post to the other.

Smack dab in the middle of it all lies one of Saddam Hussein's palatial estates consisting of three gigantic palaces and several smaller homes. By "smaller" I mean what comes close to rivaling it would be Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch.

The entire estate surrounds a beautiful emerald green man-made lake. As if to add insult to injury, almost literally on the palace's front doorstep the U.S. military built an enormous Post Exchange (department store), Popeye's Chicken, Burger King, and Taco Bell. I'm relatively certain that Saddam and his two sons would not have been pleased with their new neighbors.

While en route to VBC, my gun truck began experiencing acceleration issues.

Whenever our convoy stops, it's my truck's responsibility to prowl the convoy and provide an armed overwatch.

While doing so, we began to experience complete loss of power whenever we would make a slow turn or have to back up. This isn't what you want to happen when you come under fire.

As soon as we arrived, I dropped it off at motor pool.

KBR, the private civilian contractor in charge of all vehicle maintenance in theatre, told me to check back by noon that day for an update. As soon as I did, I learned that my truck needed new fuel injectors as well as a new fuel pump and would be down until at least noon the next day.

I broke the news to the squad and was met with claps and cheers. If one is unlucky enough to get stuck overnight anywhere, VBC is the place to be.

Behind schedule

The next day, I checked in with maintenance and learned it would be at least until 5 p.m. before the truck would be ready.

I reminded the specialist behind the desk that our convoy was scheduled to push out at 8:30 p.m. and that I didn't have a whole lot of room to play with. At

5 p.m., I went back and was told that the truck would be ready in half an hour, but it was at another shop 40 minutes away and would be delivered.

So I waited. Then I waited some more. By 6:15, my truck was nowhere in sight.

Just as I was about to get up and go back inside the office to flex my stripes, a silver Ford F150 pulled up driven by another sergeant.

He told me to get in and that he would take me to my truck. As we drove on, he remarked that I would have to find my own way back to my staging area as he had other business to take care of. He assured me that it was an easy route.

We made "S" turn after "S" turn, a right, a left, drove through a dusty traffic circle and past an old Iraqi Army outpost. I tried to memorize landmarks but was soon confused.

At the shop I met with the KBR supervisor who told me that it would be another 30 minutes. My lieutenant's words rang in my head, "Don't be that guy that makes us miss an SP (Start Point) time! God have mercy on you if you do!"

I nervously looked at my watch: 6:45 p.m. Mechanics scrambled over my truck, feverishly trying to beat the clock. When I looked at my watch again, the time sucker punched me in the face. 8 p.m.! Holy crap!

Though the supervisor assured me that the truck was almost done, it was too late. The drive back was at least 40 minutes, and that's in the daylight and if I knew where in the hell I was going.

I watched in agony as the minutes ticked away. I had no way to communicate with anyone at the staging area and they had no idea why I was delayed. At 8:40, the supervisor told me my truck was ready and running fine.

Like a NASCAR pit crew, they put the front wheels back on, snapped hoses back into place, and slammed my hood. I jumped in, backed her out, and pulled out into the darkness. Within 100 yards I was lost.

No ammo

Being lost in Iraq with no map, no radio, and worst yet, no ammunition, feels a little like being the last one to know that you just showed up to work wearing nothing but your wife's underwear, a Viking helmet and a little league chest protector. Disconcerting doesn't even begin to cover it. I was not even sure I was on post anymore. I suddenly found myself driving down a pitch black road surrounded by tall reeds, palm trees and water. Soon I passed small mud huts and shacks and bearded guys in robes who seemed as surprised to see me as I was them.

I began to speed up, hoping that if I drove faster, maybe I would catch someone's attention - like a friendly patrol or the MP's - or at the very least I would make myself a difficult target to hit.

Instead, I veered right, and struck the curb. The HUMMVEE lurched and I smelled burning rubber as the right side tires squealed against the concrete. I fought the panic to overcorrect and struggled to keep my 15,000-pound up-armored truck from flipping upside down into the dark water. I drove on, not recognizing a damned thing. I made several more turns in what I was sure was the direction of VBC. I looked at my watch - 9:30 p.m. I was sure by now that they were signing my demotion order.

I don't know how, but eventually I found my way back on post. I flagged down a passing SUV and got directions back.

Soon, I began to see familiar landmarks and at last knew where I was. I pulled into the staging area, spinning the huge tires on my HUMMVEE and spitting gravel as I ground to a halt. I got out and prepared to face the music. I explained my tale of woe and misadventure to whoever would listen, hoping to gain a bit of sympathy and save at least a couple of my stripes. Instead, I was greeted with hugs, slaps on the back, and uproarious laughter. Our Start Point had been pushed to 11:30 p.m. It took me a while to find the humor in it all, but eventually, I came around - my life and stripes intact.