Chapter 24: The Traveling Soldier

The Operation Desert Falcon deployment was nearing an end finally.  That light at the end of the tunnel was starting to get a bit brighter as November arrived.  That didn't mean the job load or threats were lessened by any means.  Captain Kungys told us of yet another attempted car bombing on a post location near us.  The guards were on their game and thwarted the attempt, but the captain told us that the threats were starting to be more frequent.  This caused us to keep an ever watchful eye on our surroundings, as if we didn't already.  I wondered if one day while driving to the tactical site if a fanatic would try to ram my vehicle or try to blow their vehicle up at our ECP.  After the harrowing experience in Al Jubail, I wasn't sure I even trusted our Saudi allies.  This concern came to light once again on a trip to MODA.  I was taking some soldiers to the hospital one morning in the sport utility vehicle that was provided to us, just as any other time I or someone else was tasked to do.  As we drove into the populated area just before the gate to the airbase, I noticed an increased presence of Saudi military vehicles and troops meandering about.  When we approached the gate, two soldiers waved for us to stop; not an uncommon thing, because they always checked our credentials and did a quick look in our vehicles every time we arrived.  This time, however, was different.  As I rolled the window down to the vehicle, the soldier told me to turn around.  I told him that I had patients that needed to go to MODA for appointments, but he still insisted that I turn back.  Behind me was another HUMVEE and some cars behind it, so I was hemmed in.  I tried to talk to the soldier but he refused to listen to me and I could tell was becoming agitated.  I was envisioning the Al Jubail ordeal all over again, when an Air Force security police sergeant walked up to my vehicle.  He asked the Saudi guard what the problem was and they moved away from the window.  Meanwhile, the other guard was holding position at the passenger's side of our vehicle.  A couple of minutes later, the security police sergeant told me to hang tight and he would move traffic to let us back out of the area.  I asked what the problem was but he just said to follow him out.  We maneuvered out of the way and followed the HUMVEE away from the gate, which was within sight of MODA.  A few minutes later, we were waved down by the security sergeant and he asked if we knew the back way into the airbase, through the American sector.  I knew the route, even though it was about thirty minutes out of the way and the soldiers with me would not meet their appointment times.  I never got a straight answer of why we weren't allowed to go onto the Saudi sector of the air base, but we arrived at MODA finally, forty-five minutes later than scheduled.

Riding out an alert inside a bunker on Bravo Battery's tactical site.

Advanced party soldiers were arriving and the incoming medical commander and his NCO stopped in the clinic one day to tour the facility.  His name was Colonel Potter, which I thought was funny because of the TV show MASH's commanding officer having the same name.  Another funny name moment came when I was working the check-in desk at sick call one morning.  A sergeant handed me his ID card so I could log him in and his name was Palmer, Harry S.  Harry Palmer...the juvenile joke started echoing in my head and I looked at him with a perplexed look, prompting him to say, "yeah, I know."  Duty days hadn't changed much, except we were starting to move things from our tower to another building across the complex.  Anything non-essential would be moved to what was called the transitional housing area.  We also were starting to catalog items and prepare them for shipping back to Germany.  I hadn't realized just how much I had acquired since August until I started this  process.  In addition to those daily activities, we still maintained the tactical site.  We still had alerts and would have to go to our bunkers occasionally, but they had became routine.  I still had the occasional soldier become overheated and require an IV, but for the most part, the months of endless hydration had worked out well for everyone.  There was one incident at the clinic where a Saudi national had nearly severed his finger and walked in with his hand wrapped up in a shirt.  One of the other medics asked if she could help him, all he said was, "I have pain."  No expression of pain at all, even though his finger was mauled pretty bad.  Apparently, he was working outside our building and had smashed his hand in a metal grill or something.  Captain Kungys and LT Balser worked the best they could to patch up the injured man's finger, but it was way out of our capacity.  The captain loaded the man into the SUV and took him over to MODA for treatment.  I'm not sure if he was able to keep his finger or not.
Another part of the clinic job was to do the medical out-processing for our soldiers.  This was like the same process we went through at our pre-deployment phase, just not as many injections.  One soldier came in and we started the out-processing checklist.  He was to get a shot of the ISG vaccination and a TB skin test.  Remember, the ISG shot was thick and went into the hips.  The guy bared bottom, assumed the position and I started giving him the vaccination, like I had so many times before.  This time was a bit different; the soldier's legs buckled and he went unresponsive.  Great....I had killed my first patient.  I called for LT Balser who was in the next room and he came in and laughed at the sight.  By this time, the soldier was starting to come around and looked at me saying, "what the Hell did you do to me?'.  Lieutenant Balser explained to me that in the hip is what's called the Vagus Nerve and when it is stimulated or compressed, it can cause fainting.  I had injected the thick medication too close to the nerve and it compressed it, causing the soldier to pass out.  Relieved that I hadn't indeed killed the guy, I apologized and sent him on his way.  Always a learning experience to be made, for sure.

Commander's Day at Half Moon Bay, November 1993.

Sometime around early November, we were treated to a rare R&R day at a place called Half Moon Bay.  It was called Commander's Time, but clearly a chance to kick back and forget about things for a day.  The beach was a resort area used by the Aramco staff and had a small restaurant, jet ski rentals and other amenities that was found on an American beach.  The vast expanse of the Persian Gulf was ahead of us and the water was crystal clear.  The day's events featured lots of volleyball, tanning and swimming.  Jeremy and I decided to rent out a couple of paddle boats and race each other in the gulf.  We were several meters off shore when I spotted something off in the distance.  Something big was moving around in the water and what looked like a dorsal fin popped up.  Jeremy yelled out, "shark" and started paddling with all his energy toward the creature. I followed suit, partially curious and thinking I would have to drag his half eaten body back if indeed it was a shark.  The creature surfaced two more times, but we were getting no closer.  Jeremy finally got a good look and noticed it wasn't a shark, but a dolphin.  We pushed those little paddle boats as hard as we could to get closer, but the dolphin kept going further away.  We stopped to rest a minute and heard a lot of yelling behind us.  The shoreline was full of people yelling for us to get back; we had gone far, far out into the gulf, and had we caught the current, we would have been pushed far beyond the limits of the resort.
Jeremy and I finally got back to shore and we were properly scolded for our off shore adventure, but nothing more was said to us.  Some of us obtained some snorkeling gear, something I had never done before.  Jeremy grew up in North Carolina and had spent some time at the local beaches there, so he showed me the basic principle of snorkeling.  After ingesting a few gulps of salt water, I finally got the hang of it and spent a while in the shallow water watching the small crabs and fish dart around.  As the day went on, the sunscreen I had used washed off and I didn't reapply it like I should have.  Eventually the brutal desert sun started to take its toll on me.  I knew I was getting burned so I got out of the water and put a shirt on; but the damage was already done. 
The day ended and was well needed for all, especially for me.  I was still in a funk, and the events at Al Jubail just dug into me.  I wasn't sleeping well at all, and the constant feeling of being on alert wore me down inside.  After the trip to Half Moon Bay, I nursed a nasty sunburn for a few days and got back into the routine.  It seemed that the month was starting to fly by; a lot of activity was happening all at once.  I did one more shift at Lucky Base and spent almost the entire twenty-four hours cleaning the clinic from top to bottom, in between breaks of watching the movies I had rented.  I'm sure the commander would have really loved walking into the clinic and hearing the video concert of Queen Live at Montreal blasting at top volume.  I drove back from Lucky Base that last morning and as I was driving down the roadway, I was passing a vehicle when another darted between us at high speed.  I swerved off to the left to keep from making a Caprice Classic sandwich and nearly ran off into the sandy median.  The car sped away, not even slowing down.  This was by far the craziest driving I had ever seen.
I had to make a supply run to the airbase late one afternoon, a task that wasn't too bad, but still a long trip across the sand.  As I was coming back, the traffic suddenly stopped in the roadway and people started getting out.  I was in a HUMVEE ambulance and stood out like a big green elephant with a red cross on its side.  As the people exited their vehicles, some shot me hard glances and I noticed some were opening their trunks.  I was starting to worry at this point.  I reached for my radio to try and call for help, but was perplexed by what was going on around me.  The road was complete gridlock and the people were taking colorful rugs from their cars and placing them on the ground.  A moment later, the group of people dropped to their knees and bent forward on their rugs and started praying.  I nervously sat in the ambulance and waited.  I was certain the people would see me as an infidel and mob me as I sat there, but after about fifteen minutes, they returned to their vehicles and traffic slowly started to move again.  I got back to Khobar, still a little shaken from the ordeal.
I was greatly surprised one day when I found out I was on the list to go into Bahrain.  First Sergeant Banks had told me that I wouldn't have any off base privileges because of the Al Jubail debacle, but I was slated to go across the Gulf regardless.  After seeing Cowden and Toole when they returned, I was ready to enjoy a day off in drunken fashion.  The trip started by all of us reporting outside Headquarters at 1100 hours.  We were to dress in our BDU's and take clothing to change into once in country.  We boarded the bus after a roll call and instructions by the commander and first sergeant.  There would be no alcohol brought back into Saudi Arabia, period.  We were to respect the nationals at all costs and retain our military bearing at all times.  If we ended up in trouble, there was a USO nearby that would be our contact liaison, but basically we were screwed should we end up in trouble. The bus trip would take about a half hour, going across a causeway bridge in the gulf; quite possibly the longest bridge I had ever seen.  Halfway there was an island sand bar that had a checkpoint operated by the Bahrainian military.  We stopped at the checkpoint and had to exit the bus and get into formation while the guards checked the bus for any contraband.  Another guard walked around us as we opened our carry on bags to show we only brought clothing.  After several minutes, we were cleared to re-board the bus and continue.
We arrived in Manama, Bahrain's capital city shortly after 1300 hours, stopping at the USO building. As we exited the bus, we were greeted by Asian girls who immediately came up and started hugging us.  I wondered if this was like Hawaii where you get a hug and a lei upon arrival, but quickly realized it was a marketing scheme to buy shitty souvenir shirts.  The catch line was, "I sleep with you GI if you buy a shirt," and you'd be surprised how many guys fell for it.  Problem was, once they bought a shirt, they were pestered to buy more and more with the same empty promise of a good time.  Pretty smart tactic; a bunch of horn dog GI's who have been holed up at Khobar Towers for three months away from promiscuous activity and alcohol was a goldmine for these ladies.  We found the changing quarters and Bruce, Lewis, Arms and I set out for the recreation area and bar.  When we got to the bar, there was a sign that said there was a two drink limit.  Two drinks?? Really??  We soon figured out we could give other guys money and get more, but that soon came to a halt because the bartenders really kept track.  What we didn't realize was that the limit was only if we stayed there in the bar the whole time.  If we left and came back, then we could get more.  See...a loophole even there.
The city of Manama wasn't much different than Dhahran.  There was a large mosque just behind where we were congregated, an elaborate structure that dominated a whole city block.  Rows of shops lined the streets, much like downtown Dhahran, peddling anything from T-shirts to golden artifacts.  I found a music store and bought a couple of CD's, which were a bit more expensive than the ones at Khobar.  Bruce and I rejoined the others at the USO after a little while and we played games of pool, pinball and air hockey as we enjoyed the relaxed feel of things.  We noticed a few guys getting pretty hammered and a couple began to push on each other in alcoholic bravado.  The sparring was quickly stopped by a couple of NCO's and didn't escalate any further.  Another guy came back in, bragging how the Asian girls came through with their promises, although I highly doubt they ever did because he only had the one shirt he got in the parking lot when we stopped the bus.  The day was fun, relaxing and not bad at all, but at 1800 hours, we had to suit up and head back across the gulf.  We boarded the bus again, some staggering and needing a helping hand along the way.  Once underway, a sing along began in the back of the bus; rousing versions of Army cadence calls with filthy little twists.
We approached the checkpoint and one of the guys started fidgeting in his seat.  He nervously started going through his bag and when the bus stopped, the guy bent down and reached under his seat.  Everyone exited the bus as we had before, but the soldier was still acting very nervous.  When we formed up outside, he whispered, not very quietly, to another soldier next to him and me that he had brought back a can of beer.  The guards were doing the routine of having us open our bags while another inspected the bus.  After a few short minutes, the bus guard came out with the beer can talking in Arabic to the others.  The senior NCO in the group was summoned to talk to the Bahranian soldiers and we were then ordered to empty all the contents of our carry on bags so the items could be inspected.  The NCO asked repeatedly who had brought the beer on board the bus, no one stepped up.  The guards were finished with their search, and ready to let us go, but the NCO was embarrassed and furious by the discovery.
"Soldiers, we can stand here all damn night for all I care.  Who brought contraband on the bus?"  The group stood silent, but the guilty soldier was visibly nervous, prompting him to be called out of formation.
"Private, do you have something you want to tell us," the NCO barked.  The PFC bowed his head and confessed he was the one.  We boarded the bus back and headed back to Dhahran and once back at Khobar, the NCO and PFC disappeared into the headquarters building.  The soldier wasn't part of our unit, but was with the maintenance company attached to Task Force 6/43 and I would have hated to had been him.
The new building we were beginning to move into was across the facility some distance and was smaller in comparison to where we had been housed.  We occupied the first floor of the new building, probably in an attempt to keep everyone else from any further bombardments of glow sticks.  The rooms were a mess when we first moved in; books, training manuals and other debris cluttered up the area, some looked as if it had been there since Desert Storm.  We cleaned the building from floor to ceiling and found a box of old weather balloons....oh, the possibilities.  Jeremy and Bruce opened one of the balloons and unfolded it.  The thing took up half the living room area.  We weighed some possible uses for the balloon, but after the water gun scare, decided it would be in our best interests to abandon any mischievous plans.
By mid-November, we weren't being tasked out on the tactical sites as much.  The battalion had started the transition and transfer of command to the incoming Patriot unit.  We had started shipping items back to Shipton regularly; my items consisted mainly of CD's and tapes.  We were starting to have some downtime, but were still expected to come help in the clinic whenever we could.  I was still doing the Monday night DJ gig when I had time, but had started to scale it back some.  As before, with downtime, there was boredom, and the boredom led into mischief once again.  Jeremy, Kirk and I got bored one night and went around our area drawing chalk outlines of our bodies like a crime scene here and there.  There were chalk outlines under vehicle tires, below the seven-story towers and just about anywhere else we could find.  We found it rather amusing, but a day or two later, we learned that a British Air Force guy had committed suicide by jumping off the seventh floor balcony of a tower close to where we had placed the outlines...very creepy and sobering.
 Thanksgiving dinner 1993 was provided by the fine culinary staff at the Khobar Towers dining facility, sarcasm inserted here.  Actually it wasn't too bad, just not mom and granny's home cooked meals.  This was the second Thanksgiving away, and we all got to call home.  I was so glad to hear voices from back home, as my calls were infrequent due to the long lines at the phones or the things we had going on.  My spirits were starting to cheer up a bit, knowing it was just a couple of weeks before I was gone from Saudi Arabia.  I had learned so much during the deployment; about my role as a medic, self initiative, and one thing that has stayed with me...the ever feeling of alertness and cautiousness.  But I had maybe grown up a little, also.  The test of that was the Bahrain trip and me not getting hammered.  In fact, I only drank three beers on that trip.  Had this been at the Goose, I would have drank three just as I walked into the place.  I found out that I had been recommended for an Army Commendation Medal by SFC Taylor.  He told me one afternoon on site that he appreciated how I checked on the soldiers of Bravo Battery and he felt I was a top class soldier.  I thanked him and never thought more about it, but when I found out he recommended me for the award, I was humbled.  Perhaps I had made some of an impact despite my crazy and sometimes questionable antics.  During the battalion awards ceremony, I was given a challenge coin, a commendation certificate from LTC Geraci and a Certificate of Achievement.  The only medic to receive a medal award was Cowden, who received an Army Achievement Medal.  Sergeant First Class Taylor told me later that I had been "robbed of that medal", and he planned to appeal the decision, but no more came out of the ARCOM award.
One day we were tasked out to clean out an old storage container that was assigned to the clinic.  It was crammed full of things, from out dated saline solution to nerve gas antidote injectors and anything else in between.  Anything out dated was to be tossed out.  Some things we found dated to Desert Shield.  Things like small informational pamphlets and leaflets printed in Arabic and English on how to use the antidote kits and general first aid information.  We just tossed them all out, but now I wished I had kept one as a souvenir.  One of the guys kept a couple of the nerve gas antidote injectors and took it with him to the room for some reason.  Later we found out why when the guy captured one of the stray cats and used the injector of epinephrine on the poor animal.  The cat ran about ten feet and collapsed, dying instantly.  And this is what we were supposed to put in our bodies in case of nerve agent attacks??  Another non-violent thing we did with the cats that roamed around was to take our water guns and shoot them from the balconies.  The cats would wander into the open area and we would open fire with the long range bursts of water and watch them either stop and hunker down or dart off somewhere.  Again, boredom creating mischief.
November ended without much incident.  I did my final Monday Rock Night gig the last Monday night that month.  I had a blast doing it the time I was there and really learned a lot about how to mix songs and entertain people through music.  I saw Patty there and told her I was about to leave Saudi, so we exchanged post addresses to keep in touch.  She invited me to come over to their building before I left and play music with her sergeant and a couple of others.  The night before I left, I came over to their building and jammed a little bit with the guys.  When I got ready to leave, Patty walked me out and we exchanged a hug and a promise to keep in touch.  Most of the time that last month was committed to out-processing, so the final two weeks in country weren't as hectic as leaving Ansbach was.  We had already started compiling all the medical records to send back to Shipton and the task went much smoother than the pre-deployment phase.  We received our orders to ship back and Task Force 6/43 ADA's deployment for Operation Desert Falcon was essentially over.  We had a change of command ceremony at Khobar those first couple of weeks in December, then the hurry up and wait process began.
My last twenty four hours in Saudi Arabia were uneventful.  The day day prior, which was December 9, 1993, I spent packing and making sure all my bags were clearly marked for the trip back.  The last thing I wanted to have was lost luggage when I got back to Ansbach, because BDU's wouldn't go over well at the Goose. We cleaned the rooms one more time and made sure the clinic was in order one last time.  Some of the people from the battalion had already went back, so business was slow at Khobar Clinic that last couple of weeks.  We ended the day with our briefing from the commander, outlining how the next day would go. There would be no PT that day, we had to be in formation at 0600, then off to breakfast, and an inspection formation at 0830.  At the 0600 formation, we loaded our bags onto trucks that would haul them to the airbase.  We could keep out a personal bag to bring on the plane, and mine was crammed with cassette tapes for the trip.  It was hot that day, but nothing like it had been the past four months....Four months...had we really lasted in this wasteland four months? 

6th Battalion, 43rd Air Defense Artillery departing Saudi Arabia, December 10, 1993. Photo courtesy of Ellsworth Rucker III.

We arrived at the staging area on the airbase around early afternoon, sometime after lunch.  This was the same area we arrived in back in August.  It was all downtime while we were there; more hurry up and wait.  Some caught catnaps, others played card games, anything to keep occupied.  Then around 1600 hours, the order was given, "fall in".   We got into formation and did a roll call, and after some closing remarks by LTC Geraci and CSM Jemison, we were ordered to file out of the hangar and into the waiting plane.  I took one last look around as I topped the stairs leading into the plane and breathed a sigh of both relief and accomplishment.  I felt that I had blossomed as a medic during the deployment and had learned so much than what I had at Shipton.  Granted, there wasn't the battlefield trauma usually associated with war, this was a cease fire conflict, but I saw quite a bit of real time injuries and sickness; and I learned a wealth of knowledge on how to treat those who were sick and injured.  Captain Kungys and Lieutenant Balser did well teaching and guiding all of us during our time in Saudi Arabia, and I will always be grateful to them.
Our flight would take us from Dhahran to Riyadh, then out of the country for good.  I settled into my seat and dug out my trusty Walkman and a Queen compilation tape.  It was going on 1800 hours and the sun was starting to dip low on the horizon as we started our taxi down the runway; the sky painted in majestic orange and red.  The ground fell away from us as we lifted off and a cheer erupted from all of us as Dhahran grew smaller and smaller.  We arrived in Riyadh a little while later as it was getting darker out.  After the plane was boarded, we seemed to sit on the runway for a long period of time.  We started the usual taxi down the runway, then sped down the runway.  It seemed like we were taking longer to get airborne than normal and all of a sudden, the plane started bouncing, causing a slight panic with all of us.  We finally got off the ground and started the climb in the darkness.  The pilot's voice came across the public address system and he started off by saying, "Sorry about the rough take off folks, the runway was a little shorter than we thought".  Great...I had just finished a hazardous duty tour, survived hypothermia as a result of Mad Dog 20-20 and been granted a reprieve from being held in captivity for a wrong turn at Al Jubail and now the plane ride back home would be my demise, I thought.
"Anyway folks, welcome aboard and we anticipate a smoother flight back to your destination," the pilot continued.  The pilot finished by saying his name was something Nugent and that he "was related to The Motorcity Madman", referring to Ted Nugent.
The flight continued on into the night and I fell asleep.  I'm not sure how long I was asleep, but was awakened by the pilot addressing us once again by saying we were going to make a stop at Sigonella Airbase for an 'undetermined amount of time'.  I had never heard of Sigonella, let alone where exactly it was.  Someone in the plane made a comment about it and another person said it was located in Sicily.  So within the course of four months, I was going to be stepping foot into four different countries; something I would have never dreamed of doing just a year and a half before.  We landed in Sigonella sometime before midnight and disembarked the plane.  The air was humid and moist as we walked from the plane to the building we were to wait in, far different than the weather in Saudi; more like Kentucky summer humidity.  We filed into the terminal building and found anywhere we could find to sit, and we waited.  Sicilian television was to say the least, interesting.  I looked up and on the screen and there was a topless woman in a new car advertisement.  That was definitely something that would never be seen on any local stations back home.
After about two hours, we were able to board the plane once again, and this time, the take off was very smooth.  We were never told what the issue was, but as long as the plane got us back to Germany, I didn't care.  But I can say I had been to Sicily, just never left the airbase.  I drifted off again during the flight and woke up as we were flying over German soil.  It was still dark out and I couldn't really see much because of the clouds.  I was still groggy as the plane started its descent, but the sight outside woke me up.  Below, I saw the roofs covered with a thin white blanket of snow.  Wait...snow???  We had just left the sand and 90 degree heat and it was snowing outside?  The plane touched down in Frankfurt finally and we all cheered.  We had made it.  Our tour of duty was over; no more sand, 100+ degree heat, no more smells or uneasy feelings about the locals.  I couldn't wait to get off that plane and step foot on European soil, and I was kind of glad to see the snow, honestly.
We filed off the plane and down the gangway into the airport terminal.  When we ended the corridor, the Army band was playing the Army Song and a line of senior officers and NCO's from V Corps, 3rd Infantry, and 69th Air Defense Artillery Brigade greeted us with handshakes and pats on the back.  It was a good feeling to see all of this, it felt like a great homecoming for us, the traveling soldiers.  And that is exactly what I felt like; a traveling soldier.  In the past year and three months, I had gone to so many places and had seen so much.  I wasn't the gangly kid I used to be, and I wasn't the person I used to be just a few months before.  I was more confident and felt more proficient as a medic after leaving Saudi Arabia.  I hoped to maintain this high.
We boarded buses destined for Ansbach as the glimmer of daylight started to break the horizon.  The snow had tapered off some, and the weather was bitterly cold.  But it didn't matter; we were away from Hell.  We all were excited about being so close to Shipton, something I never thought any soldier would be.  We laughed and joked all the way there, energized from a near catatonic state a few hours earlier.  The most common topics were how soon we would crack open our first beers and go to the Goose.  The club would surely be hopping once we got back.  The buses finally pulled down the long road to Shipton's front gate as a fine rain started to fall.  There wasn't as much snow in Ansbach as there was in Frankfurt, but it was still cold out.  As we pulled into the gate, the guards stood and saluted us as we passed; a very humbling feeling.  We stopped in the motor pool and were ordered off the buses and into the mechanic bay.  Walking out into that cold Ansbach air never felt so good.
We got into a battalion formation and were addressed by LTC Geraci and CSM Jemison once again.  We had all made it home, but there was one problem; our bags had not made it.  Most all our military issue clothing and anything else we could cram into our duffel bags were missing.  No problem, just a minor setback, the bags would arrive later.  We were dismissed to our barracks and told not to leave or start drinking as there would be another formation later.  I almost raced back to my room just to relax on my own bunk for once.  Ace was already at the room; he had came back a week or so before with the advanced party.  It felt good to be back and see that big goof.  The hallways were alive with soldiers yelling and announcing their presence.  I dropped my bag and went out into the hall, following a group down to White's room.  We all gathered inside and closed the door, then broke the rules by cracking open beers that were waiting for us, courtesy of one of the rear detachment guys. 
We gathered again in formation at the motor pool bay and were told that our bags still hadn't arrived, that the plane that was carrying them was 'lost' in Turkey. Lost? Not only was the plane lost, but word was it had went down near an airbase in Turkey and that our belongings would have to be replaced.  I had most all of my civilian clothes in that bag, and only one change of clothing with me in my carry on bag. This was bullshit, but, what could anyone do?  We were then ordered to the armory to return our weapons that we had carried with us the whole trip back.  This was a long process that I felt just drug into our personal time.  After we turned in our weapons, we could go back up to the barracks or eat chow.  I was about starved, so I chose to eat.  After chow, I went back to the barracks, only to be met by a sergeant telling all of us to report downstairs for formation...again. 
We stood in formation, this time outside since the rain had stopped.  Captain Taylor began by welcoming us back and that we were on lock down orders until further notice; no one was to leave or come onto base and the gates would be locked.  Apparently, a pistol was unaccounted for and possibly left on one of the buses, now probably almost back to Frankfurt.  We hadn't been back even twelve hours, and already shit had started going bad.  Our baggage probably left burning in plane wreckage, a missing pistol, and no way to leave post to unwind and celebrate our return.  And to make matters worse, no one could come visit us.  If Moni really did wait on me, she would be turned away at the gate until this missing weapon was found.  What a way to welcome back the traveling soldier....confined to post.