Camille Pillay, GPC Joint Enrollment Student, Fall 2006

A Soldier’s Recollection

As a poor immigrant from the small country of Guyana, my father joined the United States Army at the inexperienced age of nineteen in 1984. He had been in the U.S. Army for six years when the Persian Gulf War launched in August of 1990. My father was immediately shipped to the endless deserts of Saudi Arabia. Exposed to challenging and demanding situations, my father stumbled into adulthood. As an experienced soldier, my father can say with confidence that every soldier has at least one vivid experience that has left a life-changing impression.

Located on the northern Saudi Arabian border, south of Baghdad in early February of 1991, my father and his comrades were attempting to relax in the stifling, dry heat of the desert. The caramel colored sands, which stretched for miles, were constantly being changed by the heavy, suffocating breezes. My father recalls sitting around a small, dirty, forest green fold-out table with three other men playing poker with a deck of sticky cards and smoking stale cigarettes. He was a member of the Sixty-ninth Armor Battalion. My father and others located at this fort were part of the ground forces that were suppose to be on call at all times. The fort consisted of fifteen housing tents, where the soldiers slept, and one large tent that held necessities such as food, water, first aid, and clothing. My father resided in the tent deemed “Atlanta” because most of the soldiers sleeping there were from Georgia. The other housing tents held names of other major cities around the United States such as Chicago, New York City, and Austin. After a small dinner, my father and the other soldiers sat outside of their tents to enjoy another tasteless cigarette when they were abruptly called to attention by their cantankerous commanding officer Barry McCaffrey. Commander McCaffrey had just received orders to move the Sixty-ninth Armor Battalion to Al Basrah, Iraq in an attempt to block enemy Iraqi soldiers from reaching Baghdad. At the time, Kuwait was liberated and Iraqi soldiers began fleeing Kuwait in hope of reaching Baghdad, which was a safe haven for them. My father and his comrades immediately began untying the tents, packing the few belongings they had, and loading the two and half ton trucks, which were already stocked with arsenal. My father remembers the sharp smell of metal and sweat. By nightfall, all of the soldiers then gathered into ranks in a block formation and loaded the trucks, not knowing what was ahead of them.

The anxious journey to Al Basrah, Iraq seemed infinitely long. They passed a few small geometric-shaped houses that sprinkled the desert. It seemed as if someone had stolen every ounce of light that existed in the desert; they traveled courageously into the obscurity. Instructed to drive one of the vehicles, my father had to wear a pair of tight-fitting night-vision goggles in order to see where he was driving. After what seemed like an eternity to my father and the other soldiers, they finally reached the outskirts of Basrah. From what they could interpret, my father and the others were driving on a wide dirt road which was lined with small brick buildings. As they entered the small town, my father began to notice small objects lying in the road. Puzzled, my father slowly approached the objects in his truck. As he drove closer, he realized the objects were dead bodies; they were strewn all across the dirt road. A few of the American soldiers jumped cautiously out of the trucks to examine the bodies. The lifeless beings on the ground were dead Iraqi soldiers. My father could never forget their faces, which were covered in a mixture of dirt and blood. Considering the carnage that covered the road, my father and his comrades had no other choice but to drive over the bodies. My father was horrified; he could not believe what he was doing. Aside from the bodies, the streets were sprinkled with debris from the surrounding buildings and vehicles. All of a sudden, the sound of gun shots exploded into the deadly silence. Quickly and routinely, my father and the other soldiers took cover in nearby buildings and alleyways. Enemy Iraqi soldiers came charging into the city from the hills and surrounded the small town. They fired relentlessly, but they soon realized they were outnumbered by at least two hundred men. My father recalls seeing the enemy soldiers retreat to the nearby hills. Commander McCaffrey reported the enemy’s coordinates to American tankers, which were located nearby. In less than a minute, a screaming missile soared through the darkness landing behind the hills in an explosion. Weary and frightened, my father and the other soldiers slowly returned to the trucks and continued their journey to the heart of Al Basrah.

Even though the Persian Gulf War ended in 1991, it was still an atrocious experience for its servicemen. Listening to my father’s stories about the Army is a common pastime in my household, the others can never compare to this incident. Through this incident and many other situations, my father was pitched into reality as many other soldiers have.