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.

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.  

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.