OFF TO WAR

            

The date was August 2, 1990 and I was with my team doing a mine recovery exercise (MINEX) off the coast of Santa Rosa Island in Southern California.  Around 6:30 pm, while we ate dinner, the news came on saying that Kuwait had been invaded by Iraq.  We all sat there in the galley watching the tanks roll in to Kuwait thinking that it was just like in the movies.  Somebody said something to the effect of "Well, there they go again, another neighborly war." The speculations started flying  fast and furious; and being that we were the next mobile detachment in rotation to deploy, it got worst.  At the time I was attached to EOD Mobile Unit THREE detachment THREE THREE, out of San Diego.  The det included Chief Warrant Officer 3 Jim Alexander, Machinist Mate First Class Bill Woodward, Parachute Rigger Second Class Fred Fleener, Boatswain’s Mate Second Class John Carr, and Gunner’s Mate Guns Third Class Brian Economy.

Some of us did not even know were Kuwait was, so we started searching through the ship's library for a chart or map.  After finding the speck of the country in a National Geographic map we figured that it was too far; some other mobile unit would send their team.  The topic then turned to what kind of terrain, weather and type of ordnance those poor bastards going over would encounter.  This went on until midnight.  In the morning we finished the operation and Kuwait was forgotten until nine days later.

August is a good month for some of us.  Some classmates of mine, who were also stationed at Mobile Unit Three, had birthdays in August with me. Mike J. Bowers, James Edwards and myself  decided to have a big party and celebrate all of them on Saturday the 11^th, at Mike's house.  We had a very nice party with a lot of friends (I don't recall everybody present that day) and the topic of war in the Middle East came up once or twice but nothing too serious. 

Around 2:30 pm my beeper and John's went off and without saying much we looked around and it seemed like every one knew what that meant.  Some of the wives had watery eyes.  We called the command immediately and the XO answered.  We were told to start packing now because we were going to war aboard the USS Okinawa Monday morning.  I took my wife and daughter home and headed to the shop.  All I remember was feeling fear, uncertainty and anxiety but at the same time also felt lucky to be going; after training for so long to do a job, I was going to get a chance to prove myself, do it during a war and we would probably be some of the first ones there.  I was very exited, although I don’t know if that is the right word.

The shop (Navy slang for the workplace) got packed in three triwalls and we were ready to leave by Monday morning.  In the middle of all this, the command fired our OIC (Officer in Charge) and replaced him with CWO3 Gary Burns.  Alexander wasn’t even notified of the impending deployment. So Monday morning comes around and he shows up for work and finds the shop packed and all his things neatly thrown in a box.  He asked Bill what was going on and he replied: "Well Gunner, if you don't know I guess you ain't going!"  We all laughed for the first time in three days. Monday came and went, and the week, and the next and the next.  It became the old “hurry up and wait routine”, standby to standby.  In the meantime Fred "developed" a strange case of back pains and was replaced by Sonar Technician First Class Pete Williams.

 An interesting thing happened when we asked for our weapons; the command said that there were no weapons for us.  So obviously we raised some serious hell about it, we could not believe that they wanted us to go to war without weapons!  We then decided to buy our own and we started shopping for carbines and pistols.  When the command found out what we were doing, weapons mysteriously

appeared.  They came from the bottom of one of the SEAL team's armory, but they were weapons and that's all we wanted. I kept telling everyone that we are not going anywhere…that this thing was going to be resolved before we left. I even told the guys that if and when we ended up going, I would shave my mustache off. 

Then one day we were told that there was a change of plans and that now we are going by plane to Saudi Arabia as a land team instead of on a ship.  Once again the panic button set in and instead of just three triwalls, we were scrambling to find a trailer, a boat, a pickup truck, and a Blazer to take, plus a pallet of High Explosives, a pallet of hazmat (hazardous materials) and a pallet of personal gear.  We were given two weeks to get everything ready.  We did and on 28 September 1990 at approximately 5:00 pm we gathered at Naval Air Station North Island, San Diego to say goodbye to our families and friends.  After leaving everyone behind, CDR Lanning, our skipper, gave us his final words of wisdom: "Stay low, keep your heads and asses down and don't get shot". We took off from San Diego; onboard a C141 headed into God knows what…with my friends, weapons, explosives and my razor to shave my mustache.

The Search for the Surfing Utopia

THE SEARCH FOR THE SURFING UTOPIA

  Every surfer, if he or she sticks with the sport for a while, will reach a point where certain questions will start coming out. They may not acknowledge them at first, but they will be there and they will need answering sooner or later, usually later for most of us. It’s part of the process of becoming a surfer, of finding oneself.

  Usually one of the first ones is what is surfing? It is not just going to the beach with a surfboard, paddling out, catching the first wave and standing up. That is just the technical part. Surfing is much more than that, much more than just a water sport. It is a lifestyle, a healthy lifestyle. Granted, we all see and hear the young surfers getting drunk and doing drugs, but are they really true surfers? They can surf, but are they surfers? I have my doubts. So then the question begs to be asked: what is a true surfer?  A true surfer doesn’t necessarily have to be a world-class athlete and professional quality surfer. He or she doesn’t have to have all the “right” moves and doesn’t have to act flashy and eccentric out of the water. The trendiest boards with the proper decals are not needed. I have seen some of the best surfing done on boards that are so old and ragged that King Kamehameha probably used them

  So what then is a true surfer? To answer this question correctly we must start at the beginning of surfing, the Mecca, the alpha of surfing…Hawai’i. We must understand the roots of the sport, thus the culture that started it. Surfing started in the Islands centuries ago as the sport of kings. Even though anyone could surf, there was a definitive hierarchy in the line-up. This hierarchy involved the royalty order of the surfers; it involved the social order of those involved and also the age of those brave enough to dare the waves. There were even surfing beaches reserved for the ali’i, the royalty. Caught surfing there if you were not ali’i, probably meant certain death for breaking a kapu, a royal decree or order.

  Surfing nowadays in Hawai’i is pretty much the same as before, except there are no death sentences for surfing the wrong break. But to be able to observe that, one has to be of open mind and heart and definitely live in Hawai’i Ne for an extended period of time, not just a surfing season of October to March. One has to immerse oneself in the culture and lifestyle of Hawai’i. Having lived in Oahu and Maui for years and having associated myself with true Hawaiians, I have experienced the true surfing, the surfing of the kings, and the surfing lifestyle in its true form.

  So what is the modern hierarchy in the line-up? It is an unwritten rule that one must learn and follow as soon as possible if one wants to surf in Hawai’i, and in most parts of the world for that matter. One cannot just paddle out and catch the first wave that comes along, ahead of people already there, no. One must first sit in the line-up and observe who is who and who is doing what. The only exception to this is if you are an exceptionally good surfer. Then you can jump on the first one and let it rip. The problem with this is if you do that and wipeout on the first one, then you can expect not to be afforded any respect, and that means waves, from then on. Having learned this rule at a very early age, it saddened me, and sometimes made me laugh, when I saw a J.O.J. (Just Off the Jet) haole enter the lineup and immediately drop in on the first wave, wipe out and then sit the rest of his session on his board because he was not allowed any more waves. That was the best-case scenario. If the infraction occurred at places like the west side of Oahu, he was given a serious lesson; but if the sin was committed at the North Shore the haole would sometimes loose his or her life in the treacherous big waves.

  At most spots I have surfed over the years I have always noticed that there is a group of people considered locals. These locals have the right of way on the waves, after all, it is their spot. Now, whether one believes in localism or not it is inconsequential. I am not talking about the bad localism, the kind that if you don’t belong they will slash your tires at best or beat you up at worst. I am talking about the kind where you were born at or near the spot and it is your home break. Within this group there is also another order: the old-timers. They have the right of way over everybody else. And that is out of respect. What gives them this respect, one might ask? Their time in the water, their knowledge of the ocean and their respect for it, gives them that respect.

  That is the essence of being a true surfer. One must spent time in the water, essentially “pay your dues”. By spending time in the line-up, one learns all its intricacies, all its different moods, for every break is different. Every swell is different; no two waves are the same. So understanding the break is a must. One must also know the ocean in general, and that can only be achieved by being out there, by observing the ocean and learning all her moods. Above every thing else, one must respect Mother Ocean. She is a very fickle and temperamental Lady. That does not mean one should be afraid of Her, just give Her the respect She deserves. The ocean can be as calm and flat as a lake one minute and in the matter of hours she can be a violent woman spitting anyone out that dares to intrude in her domain. I know, I have seen it, I have been spat out.

 These “old-timers” have done all of this. Not only that but they live a healthy lifestyle. They have been surfing most of their lives, probably since they learned to walk. They are in excellent shape and take care of their bodies. They are Watermen. Not only can they surf but also when there are no waves, one can find them in or near the water. Whether they are in an outrigger canoe paddling for the local club or diving for fish, or paddling to stay in shape, or just hanging out at the beach, these men are in or near the water, still paying their dues and learning about Mother Ocean; for Ocean Education is never ending. Mother Ocean always has something to teach us.

  I started surfing at an old age, by Hawaiian standards, of 16. These things I had to learn the hard way. There are no guidebooks, no “Surfing for Dummies” manual. No web site on the Internet can teach you these things. I just paid my dues and was always respectful of the locals and “old-timers” and listened when someone tried to teach me something. I started when the short board revolution was barely in its infancy, therefore my brother and I jumped right on it. For two decades I searched for that ultimate surfing utopia: being a true surfer. I lived in Hawai’i during my time in the Navy. Every year gone by, every birthday celebrated, I thought I had achieved my goal. However, the more I thought I had reached I, the more I realized that I hadn’t even begun to understand it.

  So what was this quest for the holy grail of surfdom I was searching for? What was driving me? And more importantly why? In the early summer of ‘94 I was posted back to Oahu, after nine years of forced absence from my adopted and beloved Islands. The previous four years had been very crucial in my life, from going to war and becoming a man, to having lost a child. Certainly defining moments in my life. And so I reached Oahu on April 1^st, 1994, April’s Fools Day, with a new and different outlook on life and myself. I was still inwardly searching for surfing utopia. I arrived without boards, without even a decent pair of surf trunks, decided on finding my surfing roots. That’s it, my surfing roots. But how to go about it? Very shortly after arrival I was at a military beach, watching an incredible south swell, the first one of the year as I recall, when this wahine approached me and asked me if I knew how to surf. I told her I did but was board-less. Without batting an eye she offered me hers. I couldn’t believe my ears, since I wouldn’t even let my brother use my board, let alone a total haole boy J.O.J. Anyway, I took her up on it and picked up her 8’6” mini-tanker and hit the waves. I don’t know what happened next but something did. I felt transformed, something in me told me I was on the right path. I had not been on anything bigger than a 6’6” in years. My surfing roots had taken a hold of me, I knew, I felt it. I immediately set out to buy a long board, and after that it was a long slow process of learning to surf again. Yes, learn all over again. I had to forget the flashy, snappy, aggressive short board moves and learn to become fluid. I had to learn from the Masters. No, not Dora and Edwards and the likes (although certainly they are masters), but from the local boys, from the watermen doing this for decades upon decades. I had to learn to walk the board, to hang five (and eventually ten), to soul arch and I had to learn how to become a surfer.

  The last four years in the Navy I spent them surfing, or so it seemed. I was in the water at every opportunity; every excuse I could muster was used to get my okole wet. I went thru many boards. I even had my first custom board made to my specifications. Part of the process. One has to learn your instrument, in our case, the surfboard. So I spent hours on end talking to the braddahs on the beach about surfboard design and what would work for me.  I was growing, I was finding myself. I joined the West Oahu Surf Club, where I made many friends and was one of the few accepted haoles. Also met legends like Aunty Rell Sunn and Ben Aipa. I wouldn’t consider them as close friends, but I had the fortune and privilege to have met them and spent time with both of them.  In Rell’s presence you cannot help but feel the great aloha she had for surfing and her people and the keikis. It was a sad day when she passed away at such a young age, when she had such a bright future ahead of her. I met Ben because a friend was getting a board shaped by him. And through some chats I found out that we had another bond, he was part Puertorican, small world. Ben is a big man, a barrel of man, not to be messed with in or outside of the water. But inside the façade of bad boy, he is full of aloha also. I really liked him from the moment we met.

  And so I left military life to start civilian life. I got a job clearing the island of Kaho’olawe of unexploded ordnance, so I moved the family to Maui. And that’s where my real surfing education took off. Before, I felt like I was under a protective blanket of the military. Now here I was on my own, and if I got myself in trouble in the water, the Navy would not be there to rescue me. I really had to be careful. Although Oahu is where the entire surfing circus goes to during the winter, I considered Maui the big leagues for me. Do or die, make you or break you.

  In Kaho’olawe I worked mostly with Hawaiians, which I really loved because it gave me a chance to learn more about the culture and the language, but only because I asked, not because they came out and asked me to learn. The braddahs took me everywhere and I went with them. Maui has many world-class surf spots, but there are three that will define you and establish you as a surfer. That is right, you have to establish yourself to be accepted by the “Boys”. In no particular order they are Honolua Bay, Ma’alaea Harbor and Ho’okipa, with the latter also being the windsurfing capital of the world. Ma’alaea has the distinction of being one of the fastest, if not the fastest wave in the world. Honolua is known for its size and unforgiveness. When it’s big, it’s one of the spots that send shivers down my spine, and many a days I have stayed on the shore and watched the big boys go out, and the stupid ones that think it is like any other spot. These poor souls soon find out that it is not, simply because they are not even able to paddle out. These are the three spots one must surf and be seen surfing to establish oneself. I did out of fear of not being recognized by my peers.

  And surfed them I did, every chance I got. I fell in love with Honolua, tolerated Ho’okipa and just barely surfed Ma’alaea. Yes, it was fast, very fast. And then something happened. Something I was not expecting or looking for. First, I got some respect. Local surfing friends introduced me to their friends as someone that charged: “Eh Brah, dis haole can charge, he get’em, he’s da kine!” Doesn’t get any better than that for any surfer. It was music to my ears. The second thing that happened was that I felt peace with my surfing world. I didn’t feel the need to search anymore. Had I found the Surfing Utopia? Had I found the Surfing Holy Grail? Honestly, I don’t know, all I know is that I didn’t feel the need to search, I had peace. If I had found it, what was it then? The recognition? The peace? I don’t know.

  After Maui I took up another job, one that takes me traveling all over the world, usually in landlocked countries, far away from surfing and far away from the Islands. I have now been surf-less for many years. I miss the Islands, the surfing lifestyle and the water. I miss the smell of wax in the morning, and the swallowing of a bit of salt water after a wipeout. I miss the fear you get when you round the bend and see that Honolua is huge and you may not be able to paddle out. But I am at peace, and when the time comes for me to surf again, I will be there. I will be ready. I will be back in my surfing utopia.

Gulf War Procedures

The art of Explosive Ordnance Disposal was developed in part by trial and error.  Errors that took the life of many good men.  One can say that render safe procedures, or RSPs, have been written in blood.  Nowadays RSPs are developed by using high technology equipment and a lot of experience.  Sometimes these methods just don’t apply and good old EOD ingenuity kicks in.

In early March 1991, I went into Kuwait City with BM1 Pete Williams and BM1 John Carr, to start the long and arduous task of clearing ordnance from the city.  The oil fires were still ablaze, the signs of war visible everywhere.  Tanks and vehicles blown up in every corner, every building and house hit by enemy shells, and homeless people meandering in the city.  And then there was the ordnance left behind by the Iraqis.  Upon my return to the States, I heard a quote somewhere that the Iraqis had left behind more ordnance in Kuwait City than the Kuwaitis had in the beginning.  I found that very easy to believe.  There was ordnance laying everywhere, in every house, and in every corner, on the beach and in backyards. 

One day, during the morning brief, we were told that for that day there was no job for us, and that we were to stay away from designated sectors of the city because there were still some small pockets of resistance.  So, what are three Navy EOD techs to do in a war torn city and with nothing to do?  You guessed it; we loaded our truck and went sightseeing...to the places we were told not to go!

We started going from building to building, trench to trench, looking for ordnance, and the fact is that we didn’t have to look far to find any.  We soon found a box of grenades, and we decided to dispose of them by throwing them.  At this point in time, Kuwait was under martial law and we were the marshals.  We basically could do whatever we wanted.  The box of grenades was quickly disposed of, and our grenade throwing skills were 100% better.  Close to the beach we found a box containing hand thrown, anti-tank, RKG-3 grenades.  Because we were not sure of the delay and since they were quite bit bigger than the previous grenades we had disposed of, we had to come up with a plan for our disposal operation.  Like good EOD techs it took us about one minute to come up with a well thought of, intelligent plan: an improvised disposal operation.  The plan was to hit the desert road to Baghdad, hang out the window and throw one out, while I timed it from the back seat...hell of a plan.  We expressed our approval to each other and congratulated ourselves for developing such a sound and ingenious plan.

Here is what actually happened: John is driving the Blazer, I am in the backseat, and Pete is hanging out the passenger side window.  Pete tells John: “Let me know when we hit 70 mph, so I can throw this thing!”  John then replies something to the effect of “OK! I got it”.  At that point Pete thinks that John said got it as in got the speed now and out flies a grenade!  The thing detonated close to 15' behind our Blazer.  I yelled and ducked behind John who said that the last thing he saw in the rear view mirror was my eyeballs, as big as basketballs, going by!  We thought for sure that we had fragged the vehicle and there would be hell to pay when we got back to camp.

We pulled off to the side of the road immediately, and much to our relief, the vehicle was intact.  We counted our blessings, threw the box of grenades on the desert sand and high-tailed it out of there.  The decision was made right there, and was unanimous, that we wouldn’t pursue a change in the publications to reflect our new procedure.  We did not laugh for a while...until we really thought about what we had done.... and how stupid it had been.

Drone Job-Puerto Rico 1986

At one point during an EOD career you are going to do something really stupid and embarrass yourself in front of your peers.  My turn came in the summer of 1986, while I was stationed at Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico.  We had just received a call that a target drone had washed ashore near Arecibo, my hometown.  These target drones are launched from our base and used for target practice by Navy airplanes.  If the flyboys don’t shoot the drones down, then they go into a self-destruct mode by moving their wings and going into an uncontrolled spin and crashing into the ocean.  The drones contain a liquid fuel, which is very hazardous and toxic, representing a serious health hazard for the population.  This particular drone had failed to self-destruct, gliding into the water and floating for miles until it reached the shores of Arecibo.

Because of the chances of having to interface with the local authorities and because it was my hometown, the OIC (Officer in Charge) decided it would be a good idea if I went along.  The three lucky guys going were LT Tyler Heerwagen, MM2 Ricky Angove and myself.  We did some quick research about the drone, gathered our gear and departed.  Since this could turn out to be a health hazardous situation and the media probably knew about it by now, we decided to travel by helicopter. Besides, it would be faster and we could be back by happy hour (a very important consideration when planning EOD operations).  It was a beautiful flight, going along the northern coast of the island, traveling east to west.  Throughout the flight, I kept pointing out places of interest to the guys.  As we flew over Arecibo, I pointed out to them to them my family’s house, where I was born, where I used to live and so on.

Our plan was an example of simplicity: land, put holes on the drone, lift it by helo and drop it out to sea and watch it sink.  No big deal...easy.  The first obstacle presented itself as we flew over the beach where the drone was situated.  There were over 500 people waiting for us, including media cameras from every TV station on the island.  LT Heerwagen decided that since it was “my people” and in my “hometown”, I should lead everyone out of the helo after landing.  What a great idea, I thought!  I had all my “cool” equipment on, a pistol in my shoulder holster and I looked like Rambo!  What a way to impress my family and my childhood friends when they see me on the evening news.  I knew that, at the very least, I would get a TV interview out of this, and hell, maybe even a medal for bravery!

The helo landed on a grassy field and I could see all the cameras pointed in my direction as I stood by the door.  I could even feel the zoom of the cameras on my face.  There seemed to be a million eyeballs looking at me and I made sure the nametag on my uniform blouse was showing, so that they could get my name as I walked past them.  As soon as I received the all clear signal from the crewman, I unplugged the internal communication system (ICS) cable from my helmet and stepped out of the helo into instant fame; the sound of a “million” people cheering and clapping was deafening.  What a great feeling…my hometown folks cheering for me!  The feeling of euphoria was climbing steadily within me as I ran hunched over to get clear of the helo’s rotors, leading the team.  As soon as I got in front of the cameras, all the reporters trained their lenses on me like the barrels of a thousand guns.  I turned my head to look at them, just to make sure my family could recognize me.  I could hear my mother and grandmother’s voices as they told me how proud they were of me.  I could feel my father’s big hand on my shoulder giving me an approving hug.  Life was going to be grand!  And that’s when the proverbial manure hit the fan.  As soon as I turned my head, I stepped in a hole, lost my balance and fell down.  The first thing hitting the grass was the left side of my face.  I didn’t even have time to break the fall.  It was simply pathetic.  My gear flew all over the grassy field, my pistol came out of its holster and my helmet fell off.  As I lay sprawled out on the grass, there were two things on my mind: one was “Oh no, this can’t be happening to me.”  The other was: “Pick up your shit and get the hell out of there and just hope that the cameras didn’t get the name on your uniform”.  I felt I was about 2 centimeters tall at that moment.  The next thing I felt were hands grabbing me by my harness and dragging me out of there.  The guys did not even miss a beat; they just grabbed me and continued to start the mission.  I glanced back once, and saw the smiling faces of my teammates, and I knew that somehow I would never live this one down.

But it was not over yet.  We ran over to the edge of the field where we found a twenty-foot drop to the beach.  After descending, we set up our CP (command post) and staged our gear about 100 yards from the drone.  The LT, in all his wisdom, told me to vindicate myself by taking the handpick and punching the drone full of holes so that we could sink it.  I walked to the drone, while the whole “world” watched from a distance.  I took the first swing at it and when the pick hit the skin of the drone, this shock wave came out and was transmitted through the pick to my hand, arm, shoulder, and whole body, and it hurt!  I didn’t even dent the drone.  The LT saw what had just happened, and thought that I didn’t hit hard enough and told me to do it again, which, like an idiot, I did with the same resulting pain.  At that point I’d had about as much as I could take in one day and stormed over to the rest of the guys.  I threw the pick down on the sand and said the only other thing I was going to do was to get in the helo and fly back home.  I was done for the day.  After the laughter stopped, Ricky took out his pistol and emptied a full magazine from about twenty-five yards away and again, not a single hole.  We ended up taking the thing apart just enough for water to rush in.  We told the helo to come over us and pick the thing up and we jumped in the helo, departing the place.  We dropped the drone about 5 miles out over the ocean, and we circled above to make sure that it would sink.

Then, and only then, did we proceed back to our base.  I was so embarrassed, thoroughly relieved to be going home.  I caught shit for that incident for months.   As a matter of fact, I still do.  It is my father and uncle’s favorite story, which I have to tell to friends and relatives on request.

Qalat

QALAT

The AMF (Afghan Militia Force) was losing all of its big weapons and direct fire weapons to the DDR program. DDR was the “Disestablishment, Disarmament and Reintegration” program the Afghan government established to disarm the militias and reintegrate them into society after decades of fighting. One of the locations where there were lots of ordnance stored was a town called Qalat. Qalat is located in the Zabul Province, between Qandahar and Gazni provinces.  The province has long been a hot bed of Taliban/Al-Qaeda resistance, so it was not a friendly town…it was bandit country for sure.

Our job was to go up there destroy everything they had short of 7.62mm (AK-47) rounds. On a previous visit one of my mates had found 6 AGS-17 grenade launchers, similar to our MK-19 40mm grenade launcher, except in the 30mm version. These were very hard to come by and we found out that some of our “friends” could use them. So we decided to go there and retrieve them before blowing them up. The trick was to get them out without the garrison commander messing with us…which meant we had to have a show of force. For us that meant we had to go to the firebase and somehow ‘con’ our way into getting a patrol to provide security. First we went to an American company providing security for various NGO’s (non-government organization-us excluded, of course) and asked to have two security vehicles escort us to Qalat and back. Since the regional manager was a good drinking friend of ours he immediately agreed with us…it is good to have the only bar in town!

As always my teammate and I were loaded for bear, I think we took everything in our arsenal. We then drove up to Qalat, escorted by our “security force” consisting of two vehicles with 4 guards each. These guards we were sure had been Taliban at one time, so of course we didn’t trust them as far as we could throw them. We entered the firebase and immediately started sweet talking the commander into giving us some assistance. He must have thought we were “somebody” since he kept calling us ‘sirs’. All he saw was two Americans looking ragged by any standards, carrying lots of weapons and asking very nicely for his assistance. No only did he agree to it…but he gave us 4 HUMVEES loaded with soldiers, and two gun trucks (HUMVEES with .50 cal mounted on top). Now we were in business!!!

The cache of ordnance was located on top of a hill where the AMF had sort of a ‘fortress’. We rolled in there with an impressive show of force and meaning business. We immediately drove to the bunker we knew had the items we wanted, and told this very frightened officer that he had ten minutes to produce the keys or we were cutting the lock. As he scampered off to search for the keys everyone took positions, making sure that instead of keys he didn’t bring armed soldiers. Without much waiting, the individual returned with the keys and proceeded to open several doors. Mike and I just rushed in with flashlights on and started taking everything we wanted, including extra AK-47s.  The entire job lasted approximately 10 minutes, and as soon as we finished we closed the doors and locked them. Now the tricky part was to get a clean get away. We headed for our vehicle in the front of the fortress and got our troopers ready to move out. I started counting vehicles and noticed we were one short. The lieutenant (LT) in charge of the patrol was still in the rear with vehicle problems…not good. I called him on the radio and told him to put a move on it.

At this point the Operations Officer of the camp came out and started acting squarely with us. He was demanding to see authorization, to which my teammate replied that the fact that the soldiers where with us was enough prove that we had it, but he wasn’t buying it. I kept an eye on the situation while telling the LT he needed to get his ass up to our location so we can leave. I was beginning to worry about the operations officer blocking our way out.  Needless to say I was getting a bit antsy.  There weren’t that many AMF soldiers in the fortress, and I was certain that we could have taken them out, but there was only one way out of that place and I was not about to start an international incident.

Time started to pass by very quickly, and with every tick tock of time the AMF soldiers kept growing restless. The operations officer was definitely not buying my buddy’s bullshit. At this point, I got on the radio and told the LT to get up here ASAP. He very unwisely told me to standby. Well, that’s what it took to set me off. I literally pulled the driver out of the HUMMER and jumped in, racing back to where the dumb-ass was at. Now, I am not sure if the LT was used to having civilians yell at him but I came out of that vehicle cursing and yelling. I let him know that he had 5 minutes to get his HUMMER going or I was leaving him behind, whether he was in charge or not. Of course, the sight of an armed, angry, yelling puertorrican must have inspired fear in this young 2^nd Lieutenant, because the next noise I heard was the sound of the HUMMER coming to life.

As we raced to the front of the fortress I noticed the operations officer yelling at Mike, definitely not a good sign. However, as Mike heard the vehicles rolling towards him, he immediately started to run towards the now blocked gates. He quickly removed the barrier and jumped head first into my truck. The rest of the army HUMMERS quickly followed us as we departed the fortress.

The army escorted us out of Zabul province and we made it back to Qandahar without further incidents. But it was close!!!

Creatures of Comfort

Saudi Arabia, 1990

After a three-day turnover, the detachment from EODMU 5 departed for Bahrain and we stayed in our new home and commenced the task of getting to know our new environment.  One of the first things I noticed was that we were living right next to the staging area for what seemed like all the ammo for Operation Desert Shield.  That was not a very comforting thought at all.  There were five open air warehouses approximately 500 feet long by 150 wide by 50 feet tall that were completely filled and emptied around 5 or 6 times while we were there with everything in our stockpile, short of nukes and chemical ordnance. 

The next thing we all noticed was approximately 20,000 soldiers living behind our firehouse.  Dammam Port was one of the main entry ports for all personnel coming in country.  With that amount of personnel came all the troubles associated with a small town.  We had incidents of prostitution; suicides and fights just to name a few.  Worst of all was the problem of lack of adequate sanitary facilities for that amount of personnel.  The lines to go the head (restroom) were incredible.  By the time it was your turn you probably forgot why you were in line or didn't need to be in line anymore.

One night I was walking towards the end of the pier, trying to check things out, when I noticed this long line going into a CONEX box.  There must have been close to a hundred soldiers there.  I approached one of the last guys and he told me the line was for oral sex for $20.00!!

The first thing we did was to set out and make our accommodations better.  We immediately made pull-up bars, sit-up bench and a dip bar from scrap wood.  Then came the cabinets for the quarters.  On the first day we were taken to our first meal "in-country", in an Army chow hall.  The only difference between us and the guys in the field was that our chow was warm, but it was just as bad.  We quickly decided that something had to be done about the chow situation.  Since we were divers, had a boat and had slings, we looked to Mother Ocean for our solution, she would not let us down.  The team started taking turns going out fishing and snorkeling for fish.  In matter of days we gathered quite an amount of fish.  The problem was that none of us wanted to clean them; that is when we remembered that the cleaning personnel at the firehouse were Filipinos.  We struck a deal with them: they clean all our fish and they get to keep the fish heads, they were all over that like white on rice.  Next order of business was: were to cook our fish. 

John and myself went to see one of the MP companies about some training when I noticed a 55-gallon drum laying around.  I made a deal with the CO of that company: for a pair of UDT shorts and a pair of dive socks he cut the drum in half, welded hinges, legs and a handle and presto, we had a BBQ, which doubled as an emergency destruct container for classified publications.  I told John that I was beginning to like this system of "acquiring" supplies, he agreed.

A couple of days later some of us were laying around when John shows up in our Blazer grinning from ear to ear like he just got told that he won the lotto in all 50 states.  Out of the back of the truck he pulled a trash bag full of rock lobsters, we couldn't believe our eyes.  He said he traded a case of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) for them (all 220 lobsters).  Now, I cannot eat lobsters but I gladly helped clean them.  A problem then came to mind: were to keep them.  Pete went to our trailer and we started hearing all this noise; he was taking all the icepacks for our chemical suits out of the freezer.  Problem solved with room to spare for the extra fish (or whatever else we could “acquire”).

Gunner Burns introduced us to the OIC (Officer in Charge) of the Army's CID-Criminal Investigations Division, who happened to be a reserve officer, and we became good friends.  We knew Dave Annis was one of us when one night he showed up with about three kilos of fresh shrimp.  To this day I don't know where he got it but I don't care either.  Through the grapevine we heard that the new MP company arriving from Atlanta brought with them a refrigerated van full of goodies, so Brian, John and I proceeded to make new friends.  I remember the corporal in charge telling us how restricted the issue of everything was, how we had to have a special request chit signed by no less than the President himself and initialed by General Powell or Schwarzkopf and routed through Gen. Washington and the Pope, if we wanted to just look in the van.  So we returned to our humble abode empty handed but we did not give up…not by a long shot!

On our first trip to Bahrain, we brought back white rum and vodka in water bottles and we found out that a case of beer fits quite nicely in an empty case of MREs, so four or five cases of "alcoholic" MREs made it across to Saudi along with some bottles of EOD water.

Now we were ready to get anything we wanted.  We again paid a visit to our friends from the land of Scarlett O'Hara, but this time we were "loaded for bear".  We asked to talk to the sergeant in charge of supply.  When he came out with the same song and dance the corporal gave us, we pulled him aside and offered him a bottle of EOD water, letting him know that we had more were that came from if he ever got thirsty again.  The doors to the van opened up magically and by the time we made back to camp we had a dozen fresh eggs, a box of real butter, a slab of BACON (which was illegal to have because of the Muslim religion), a case of steaks and two cases of real Cokes-not the local sodas. 

Taking an inventory of our supplies at "home" showed we had steaks, fish, shrimp, lobsters, cokes, butter, bacon, eggs, booze and a BBQ, the only thing missing was a grill and we would be open for business.  The funny thing was that the Gunner had no idea were any of the stuff was coming from and he didn't care, he just said not to get caught.  The grill came from the brand new shelving unit inside the trailer.  All the chemical protective gear on that one shelf found its way to the deck-where it stayed for the duration of the deployment.

To make a long story longer, we became the social place of the camp.  On any given night we were entertaining any of the CO's of any company in port, the port commander, supply officers, in general, all the key people that could get us anything we wanted or get us out of trouble, if we happened to get into any. 

One of the most memorable times was when Captain Vaughn came to inspect the port.  He was in charge of all the Port Security and Harbor Defense Groups (PSHD) in country.  After the inspection we invited him for a fish fry at our shop.  He was very impressed with our accommodations and decided to stay the night with us instead of at his place.  At one point it was only myself, John, Brian and the Captain shooting the breeze when he turned around and asked us where did we keep the beer at.  We dutifully informed him that it was illegal to have alcoholic beverages in Saudi Arabia and being the good sailors that we were, we did not have any.  He looked at us like a father that just caught his sons telling the biggest lie ever fabricated by a human being and told us that when he was in Vietnam with the Brown Water Navy, the only place to get an ice cold beer on any day was any EOD shop and that he hoped times haven't changed that much.  Well, since he put that way, we might have one or two lying around somewhere.  Of course we knew that as soon as we handed him the can, all these MP’S were going to jump out of hiding and arrest us.  To our delight, nobody got arrested, and we spent the rest of the very long night trading sea stories, lies and getting drunk with the Skipper on the "one or two" beers we found.  He really appreciated the fact that times hadn't change and he made it a point to come a visit us every chance he could.  Two years later we received an invitation to his frocking ceremony to admiral.

House Mine

Kandahar, March 2004 

We were out on our day off looking for trouble…no, actually we had nothing to do so we decided to go out into Kandahar and do some “sightseeing”. Around 1100 we were still driving when our phone rang. Some sergeant was calling that someone had found a mine while digging the foundation for a new house. Great we thought, finally some action. Since we were only about 10 minutes away we decided to take the call and flipped the truck around.

When we arrived the sergeant gave us a guide and a ‘Terp (interpreter). The first thing the ‘Terp did was to ask us where were our bodyguards, and after laughing we told him we didn’t have any, we were it. He didn’t seem too happy with that idea. Next thing he did was to ask us if we were really going to get close, I told him that not only was I getting close to the mine, I was going to pick it up and put in the truck between my feet. He really wasn’t happy now at all. As we started following the directions from our guide we noticed he was taking us directly behind the old Al Qaeda house, which didn’t amuse me all. Mike and I started talking possibility of booby-traps, since they have been found in plenty of occasions in the area.

The house we went to was approximately 500 meters north east of Osama’s shack. Great, I thought. We got out of the truck and told our ‘Terp to stay put and watch our truck, which he didn’t have a problem doing. We opened the gates and found 6 locals around poking at the mine…immediately I shouted at them to stop what they were doing and get

the hell out of there. I am positive they did not understand a word of English but they got the point and left lickety-split.

We watched them leave and got down to business. While Mike covered me for the possibility of ambush, I started removing the earth from the top and immediately found a fuzed and armed TM-62 anti-tank Russian mine. Now the question was if it had been booby-trap. I started digging under it very carefully. Dig, look, dig, look, very tedious but necessary. With my AK-47 laying next to me, I kept an eye on Mike and he on me, he was standing around the front wall, looking at our approaches. As I cleared the mine section directly in front of me I found out that there was nothing under it. I then pushed all the dirt in, and moved to the other side, starting the same process. This side was a bit more difficult since it was lower. I started working my knife under the mine, feeling for tripwires, for anything hard.

At the third probe with the knife I hit something that sounded like metal, definitely hard and didn’t feel like a rock. My heart skipped a bit and I called Mike for a second opinion. The puddles of sweat were creating mud around me. Mike came over and after checking under the mine, agreed with me to keep digging all the way around and then get down and flat and try to see what it was.

I kept on digging and digging my hole to “China”. When I was confident that I could see underneath I stopped and took a look and sure enough, there was a rusted piece of metal under it. Shit I thought…more digging. Again, knife to earth for two more hours, the dirt was very hard and the day was getting hotter. I was sweating buckets and Mike kept yelling at me “hurry up you old fucker” my reply was always the same “bite me!” I knew he was just joking, but I was hot and dirty and tired. I dug a nice sized hole and was finally able to identify the object, it was an old nail…all that for nothing, but then again, one can never be careless. Saved the world again!!!!

I immediately removed the mine by hand and very carefully placed in the front of my truck right between my legs. We almost had to force the ‘Terp to get in. After a lot of talking, he finally agreed that it was safe. I picked up my AK and drove out to the PRT compound, where we dropped him off. Then it was to our house where we stashed the mine under my bed for future disposal. I sure slept like a baby.

Tree-Man Lift. EOD Traditions

Indian Head, Maryland 1985

The US Navy is full of traditions, it is one of the things that makes it the best navy in the world…its long-standing heritage and traditions. The EOD community is no exception, it has its many traditions, most of them written in blood. Some are not so old, nor written in blood; however, they are still part of our community.

One of the favorite things for EOD people to do to “wannabes” (those wanting to be EOD) is to play jokes on them.  One of the favorites is the “Three Man Lift”.   I am embarrassed to say that I fell for this one.

It happened during the “end of phase party” at Demolition phase in Indian Head.  We were all playing volleyball, drinking and having a good time, when Senior Chief Jack Hufty, who was probably one of the smallest EOD techs, came up to me and said: “I wonder if I still have it?”  “Have what, Senior Chief?” I responded, taking the bait.

“I used to be able to lift three guys at the same time, I don’t know if I can still do it”

“Senior Chief-I responded-there is no way in hell that YOU can lift three men”.  At this point everyone in on the joke started their bets, some saying that he didn’t have it, some saying “Come on Senior Chief, do it, try it!”

Captain Knipple-the Division Officer-came over to try to give the Chief some “pointers” and encouragement, yeah right!  Superchicken (Hufty’s nickname) told me to choose any other two guys that I wanted, which I obliged by choosing the two biggest guys in my class, which only played into the joke. 

So, feeling sure of myself, I laid down, in the middle, with my classmates holding me on each side, to the point that I couldn’t move or get out even if I wanted.  Jack straddled me and grabbed me by the belt, making some convincing gestures, trying to find a center of balance or who knows what.  He said he was going to count to three and then lift up.  During all of this “acting” I kept telling him that it was physically impossible for him to even lift me up by myself: HOOK, LINE AND SINKER!!

He repositioned himself on top of me, ONE, TWO and THREE!  All the bottles of ketchup, mustard, salsa, mayonnaise, beer, cokes, and anything else handy came spilling and penetrating into my pants while Jack lifted my belt, thus creating a nice entry hole for all of this junk!  It is not a good feeling having all of that stuff in your crotch.  Everyone had a good laugh on my account and I was indoctrinated in the ways of drunk EOD techs.  

Off To War

September 1990

The C-141 landed in Daharan Air Station, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia at 0945 after a flight that took us from San Diego to Charleston, South Carolina to Torrejon, Spain to Daharan.  In Torrejon we got off the plane just long enough to get a new crew and grab a bite to eat.  I had no idea what time it was but it was late at night and it was raining very hard and everywhere there were signs of war; soldiers with weapons, makeshift tent cities and a lot of airplanes turning with GIs boarding them.

The approach into Daharan took us over our first look at the desert.  I remember looking out the starboard window and noticing how barren everything looked and thinking "what have I gotten myself into?"  The plane came to a halt and I was still glued to the window, I saw the airman guiding the plane, he looked soaked in sweat and had a couple of water bottles in his pockets, a gas mask and his weapon by his side and I knew right there and then that this was no exercise.  When the ramp opened, it felt like standing in front of an oven while opening the door.  The heat wave rushed in the plane and all I could say to the aircrewman was "Please close that ramp and let's get the hell out of here!"  He just smiled and told us to get our gear off before all the cold air left the plane.  We really had no idea what to expect, or where we were going.  John got off the plane first, then me.  I just sat on the edge of the ramp waiting for the cargo handling trucks.  That's when I noticed some familiar figures approaching the plane and was glad to recognize LTJG Paul Hines and GMG1 Todd Enders from the detachment from EODMU Five in the Philippines, which we were replacing in country.  Paul had been a First Class Petty Officer at Det Bermuda when I was in Det Puerto Rico and Todd had been in my EOD Assistant class in '85.  It was very nice to see familiar faces.

They had arranged for our transportation.  I noticed they had their weapons with them, which made me feel safer but at the same time made me wonder: "How come ours are still packed instead of at my side".

I thought the day would never come for me but there I was, at war.  To say that I was scared is an understatement.  I had been training to do my job for 5 years and now I was going to do it for real and in a wartime scenario.

They took us to our quarters for the next six months, a Saudi fire station in the port of Dammam.  It was small but it had air conditioning and beds, not cots, eventhough the beds were made of wood with mattresses about two inches thick that compressed to nothing when you laid on them.  It also had western style toilets, which was a big plus to us.  I thought that compared with every one else we were to live like kings.  If I only knew how true that was to be.

  

Floating Mine

14 February 1991

Returning from blowing up the mine

By mid February 1991, my detachment had been called in on about five or six so called “drifting mines” which turned out to be either balls of debris, old water heaters or old refrigerators.  Needless to say, we got very relaxed about it and every time we got called we just went through the motions and took our sweet time getting on station.

Around 6 P.M. on February 14, 1991, we got a call that a mine had drifted between two tankers anchored off the port of Ras Tannurah.  John Carr said half-seriously, half-jokingly: “I’ll take this one”, to which I replied “you can’t have all the glory to yourself, I’ll be your second”.  We proceeded to take our gear, taking our sweet time since we knew this was another hoax and we would probably be back inside of an hour.  We boarded the Saudi patrol boat and headed out to “save the world”.  It didn’t take long to get out there doing over 25 knots.  As soon as we got there it became evident something was different, no other boats were around.  Usually there were 2-4 boats pointing at the mine and waiting for us, but this time there were none to be seen for miles except for two tankers.   After about half an hour of searching in near darkness, we found the mine…and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the real thing, with chemical horns and everything.  It was an Iraqi LUGM-145, with approximately 300 pounds of explosives.  We used to call it the “M&M from Hell” because of its close resemblance in shape to an M&M.  My heart sank close to my butt-hole, which was as tight as a frog’s ass, knowing very well that I had to jump in that cold, dark water to take care of that huge floating M&M.

By this time it was pitch black and the swells were increasing.  We asked the patrol boat to put a spot light on the mine so that we wouldn’t lose it.  The wind was picking up, adding to the stress and pucker factor. Well, shit! We couldn’t prolong it any longer; the weather wasn’t going to allow any delays.  I made a comment aloud, to no one in particular: “I sure hope ‘Murphy’ doesn’t come to visit us on this one.”  Pete Williams was going to be our boat driver, and me and John the swimmers.  The op was to tie a 20 lb satchel of explosives to the mine, pull the igniters and get the hell out of there, simple right?  Remember Murphy?  Right before we boarded our Zodiac rubber boat, the Gunner pulled us in to the fantail for a last minute brief.  He informed us that the mine was in about 30 feet of water, right over propane gas lines.  If we blew the mine in place like we intended to do, we would create a serious mess by rupturing those lines, great! Still no problem, we’ll just tie a line to the mine and tow it about 3 miles to deeper and safer waters, no biggie we thought.

Well, all four of us boarded the Zodiac, yes four, Mr. Murphy came along for the ride, we just didn’t know it yet.  Pete drove the boat to the mine and we jumped in with the line.  By this time, it was darker than a “coal digger’s ass” and we forgot our cyalume chem lites and the flashlights…Murphy. The sea was very rough and the damn mine was bobbing and turning like a cork.  I got the bitter end and tried to submerge to tie it to the eye on the bottom of the mine.  Well, because I was so buoyant (I forgot my weight belt), from my wetsuit, a wave picked me up and threw me right on top of the mine, right between the contact horns!  I looked over at John and his eyes were poking out through his facemask, he said: “Fuck Louie, don’t ever do that again!” No problem!  I had to take my wetsuit top off in order to be able to get under.  I tied the line and we both swam to the boat.  We then proceeded to tow the mine to deeper waters, breaking every rule in the books.  Our instructions and publications state that when towing a mine, it must be done with at least 600’ of line, we had less than 100’.  All personnel in the towboat must wear flak jackets and helmets; we had wetsuits and hair-Murphy.  At about 9:30 P.M. we reached our point and once again we jumped in the water with the satchel, which John secured to the mine.  We called for Pete to come over to us with the blasting caps and time fuse.  He yelled back that he couldn’t get close because of the waves.  So I had to swim back to the boat to get the firing train.  The problem was that in the mean time, John had untied the line securing the mine to the boat.  Now, from the boat, in complete darkness, I couldn’t find the way back to the mine and John.  I yelled at him to start talking so I knew in which direction to swim.  Because Pete couldn’t get close, I took the firing train in my left hand and a piece of tape on my right hand, which I had to keep dry by holding it high above my head.  This meant that I could only swim with my legs, which made it very difficult to swim in rough waters-Mr. Murphy!

I found John; we rigged the explosive train and initiated the igniters.  We then swam back to the boat as fast as humanly possible, and jumped in.  As soon as we were both in, we told Pete to get us the hell out of here.  The next sound scared the hell out of me: it was the sound of silence, the engine dying-Mr. Murphy!  We all looked at each other and the only thing we said was “SHIT!”  I have never been so scared in my life.  Since we had no chemlites on the mine, it was impossible to get back to the mine to pull the caps off the explosives, we had to get out of there and fast!  Pete was hard at work pulling the engine pull cord, to no avail.  I said: “Pete, quit fucking around, this ain’t funny, let’s get the hell out of here”.  I remember calling the Gunner on the radio and saying something to the effect of:  “Gunner, we have a fucking problem here, the fucking engine died, if you don’t fucking hurry here we will all be fucking fucked up!”  Nothing else was said but I heard the sound of the patrol boat’s engines coming alive in the distance.  A few minutes passed and Pete finally got the engine going and we were gone!  We almost made it to the boat when the mine detonated; we couldn’t have been more than a mile away. 

We got back onboard, looked at each other seriously, very seriously for a second, and then we broke up in laughter, praises and “high-fives”.  We laughed all the way back to the port, knowing damn well that that one was a real close one, but then again…we had cheated death once again.  Upon our return to the port, the port commander, Col. Brown, or Col. Sanders as we affectionately referred to him, had the galley open for us, so that we could get some well deserved snacks, he even let us go in there in our soaking wet wetsuits, tracking water and mud all over. He wanted to know everything about the op.  We told him the truth: that we went there with no fear, kicked ass and took names, and he loved it!  It was business as usual for us.

In his eyes, we were bad to the bone…sure we were…he was absolutely right!  That night we became “his boys” and we could no more wrong, something that was tested on a daily basis.

Kandahar 2004

February 2004

After a month in Kabul and having completed teaching my courses I traveled to Kandahar. Arriving at the airport was a pleasant surprise. First of all, it was much warmer than Kabul and the US Army controlled the airport and had its air base there, so everywhere I looked I saw friendly U.S. troops, which is very nice after years working abroad with local military. The ride to the house took about an hour, thru wide open expanses of desert; goats and camels everywhere. It was a very nice break from Kabul’s claustrophobic confines. The road was full of types of houses I have never seen before. These dwellings looked like something out of Star Wars. They were low lying homes, as if built into the ground, with very little showing but the top third of the house, surrounded by what looked like mud walls to form a compound. Even though Kandahar is not as safe as Kabul, I felt better there, I felt right at home. The last part of the journey took me into the city proper. It was dusty, and filthy, people everywhere. Seemed like everywhere I looked everyone was carrying a good old soviet Kalishnikov rifle, the AK-47.

The first day in “Dodge City”, Kandahar, was spent visiting the various teams working around the city and taking a look at where I was to teach. Driving thru the city with Mike, one of my two teammates was certainly an experience. For one, he is strung very tight, and the driving conditions were not good at all. Mike certainly gave a new meaning to the phrase “road rage”. There were traffic jams, which are very conducive for ambushes. Needless to say we took our precautions and rolled the windows up so that no grenades could be thrown inside. We drove like mad men thru the town. Early in the morning it was very dusty and with the amount of traffic kicking up more dust our road visibility was very poor. It was a miracle of life that we didn’t run someone over, but it was damn close at times. The times spent completely stopped were tense moments for both of us. It seemed like there was an ambush waiting for us at any moment. Our eyes were constantly roaming our surroundings, looking for any signs of trouble. Every person was a potential bad guy, set on wiping out some Americans; our hands were never far from the triggers of our weapons. We had decided, as per our previous military training that if we couldn’t drive out of the shit, we would just get out and fight our way back to the house, calling for back up (rescue) from the Special Forces teams near by. Of course, that extreme measure never came, but this wouldn’t be the last time we would be in that situation.

Driving out of the city proper was a big relief. We first drove to the ASPs, the ammunition supply points that the coalition had completely obliterated. These were Taliban ASPs full of ordnance. When the air strikes came there was a lot of ordnance kicked out. I have never in my life seen so much ordnance scattered about. We literally had to walk on unexploded ordnance to get from point A to point B. While at the ASPs, we started to hear detonations, which we couldn’t tell if they were friendly or not. We then decided to high-tail it from there and back to the city. On the way Mike took me to the old Al-Qaeda house. This was located on the northern fringes of the city. The house now sits amidst a heap of rubble, having taken lots hits from bombs, since it was suspected that Bin Laden actually lived there, and he did for a while.

The teams clearing the house spend nearly a year going thru the entire place. Many booby-traps were found designed not to kill the EOD technician but to completely demolish the house and destroy all the evidence.