fighting saddam

by Lt. Matthew Wolka, U.S. Navy (retired)

The best thing about the Persian Gulf War was that there was no waiting for a draft notice, and no agonizing over who would be sent. To the U.S. military, Operation Desert Storm was little more (and much less complicated) than a training exercise.
When the war started in January 1991, I was at a huge NASA and Navy facility that occupies thousands of acres of prime marshlands in Virginia. Like anyone else would have done, I went to the American Legion to watch CNN. When that got tiresome, I shot pool or played table shuffleboard while quaffing 75-cent drafts. My classes at the complex ended in March and every indication pointed to the war ending long before that. Still, I was torn. If the war ended, I would miss out on all the cool ribbons and medals that I knew would be handed out like penny candy at a state fair. Besides, the status of being a Bona Fide War Hero looks good if you're running for Congress, etc. On the other hand, I would be spared the chance of being maimed or killed. Tough call.
As it ended up, I had it both ways. The coalition forces stopped bombing the bejesus out of Saddam Hussein on February 28, three weeks before I was scheduled to ship overseas. Desert Storm was still going on, but nothing was happening. My participation hung in the balance until March 14, when I received a ticket to fly to my ship in the war zone.

I was on my way! I drove home to Ohio for a few days, then traveled to Washington to say good-bye to my girlfriend before I shipped out. We went to a club and watched white people dancing to reggae. We met some Notre Dame graduates who were awed that I was a Soon-to-be Bona Fide War Hero. As the evening progressed, everyone became more and more impressed. Soon I had become a Soon-to-be Bona Fide John F. Kennedy War Hero. We were in high spirits. Then the suggestion sprang for a "Statue of Liberty Sendoff," which consists of dipping two fingers in a shot of Rumpleminz, lighting them, and holding them high in the air while drinking the shot. All agreed it must be so and we called the waitress. The bar had no Rumpleminz. The mood soured: What other liquor would be flammable enough? Unfortunately, you cannot get flammable vodka in the States.
The next morning, I wore my white uniform on the train to Philadelphia. Children stared at me and old ladies smiled at me. It was a beautiful day. I checked the paper. The war was still on. In Philadelphia, the airport was full of sailors. I went to the snack bar and ate a slice of pizza and drank four beers. I would have paid but everyone kept buying them for me.
The Military Airlift Command chartered an airline called World Airways to take everyone to the Naval Air Station at Sigonella, Sicily. World Airways is perhaps best known for their appearance in any film where a generic airlines is needed. The stewardesses, usually the most beautiful women you've seen outside a magazine, had obviously not made the cut on the "real" airlines. The only one who couldn't speak English made the safety announcements. After we were airborne, the pilot announced, "I think we have enough fuel to make it to Sigonella, but we may have to stop," as if he were driving the interstate instead of over the Atlantic.

The air terminal in Sicily looks like most Greyhound bus stations; three ticket windows, two rows of chairs, and a small baggage claim area. Now add 300 arriving World Airways passengers and another 200 departing. An announcer then listed a few Navy ships and said, "You are going back to the United States. Your ships are on their way home." About 200 people got back on the plane. My ship was not called. I asked an agent about it. He flipped through some papers and handed me a ticket. "You are going to Hurghada." Where? I'd find out soon enough. I got a room at the Naval Base, showered, and went to sleep.
Early the next morning, I returned to the airport, where they announced, "Now boarding to Hurghada," and 27 of us walked to a DC-9 with U.S. Navy printed over the windows. The plane took off and headed southeast. When I woke up, I looked outside and saw only desert. Where the hell was Hurghada? Half an hour later, we descended. I saw bunkers and then a runway and aircraft. Russian built MiGs. Old ones. Must be Egypt. And it was.
We walked half a mile through sand to a tent like I'd seen on CNN. They were sending us to helicopters to fly to our ships. But my name wasn't called.
"Oh," said the man who had the list, "your ship won't be in until tomorrow. Until then, you have a room at the Jasmine Palace." We took a bus to the hotel. Buildings along the road looked like they had been freshly bombed, but I later realized that most buildings in poor Arab countries look that way. I got a room and slept. That evening, I drank beer (plentiful and cheap in Egypt) and played table tennis.

Wednesday I felt rested and clean. I went to meet my ship and arrived just as it came into port. I hitched a boat ride out and tried to check in, but this was its first "liberty" port and everyone was anxious to get ashore. No stranger to fun, I tagged along with some of the Bona Fide War Heroes with whom I'd soon be working. We went straight to a hotel bar. These were the crew's first beers in nearly three months and everyone was drunk by 4 p.m. I was a little surprised these proven warriors were not able to party longer.
Friday was my 24th birthday and my third day in the war zone. It rained, so I stayed on the ship. I didn't talk to anyone.
Saturday, we set sail for Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. We arrived Monday and went to the pier compound. Each spring, Arabs observe Ramadan, during which from sunrise to sunset no one eats, drinks, smokes, has sex, or listens to loud music. To prevent the Americans from desecrating the holiday, the Saudis built a compound in Jeddah using empty shipping containers. The rules: No American could leave the compound except to use the phone or get on special buses at 9 p.m. for a three-hour trip to the mall. We stayed in Jeddah for five days. The highlights:

• The mall. Most Arab countries boast excellent shopping. Except for the Saudis in gowns, the mall could have been from Woodbridge, New Jersey. Best buys; sandals and water pipes.
• Playing basketball in the compound. The Navy set up enough hoops so even an uncoordinated white guy like myself could get into a game. One of the other officers broke his ankle and was sent to a hospital in Germany. He smiled as he left, a Bona Fide Injured War Hero. I jammed my finger a little.
• Getting a cavity filled when a Navy tender was in port with a dentist on board.
• Lunch with the French. One of their destroyers was in Jeddah and we arranged an exchange of officers. I didn't make the cut and ended up exchanging pleasantries aboard our ship over some really bad onion soup, sloppy Joes and French fries.
• Leaving. We were supposed to leave Jeddah after ten days, but on Friday we pulled the lines. That's war, never in port on weekends. But why had we left early? Some urgent war task? Hardly. We steamed in circles off the coast for three days. No one knew where we were supposed to go. Several Admirals in Washington, Europe and Saudi Arabia fought over where we should be sent and what we should do. Finally, on April 2, they told us to go ... home.

I was returning from the war! God Bless America! I felt lucky to make it out alive.

Nineteen days later, Staten Island loomed in the fog and cold driving rain. A high school band played. The New York City police bagpipe band played. Families rushed the ship. The New York Times recorded tearful reunions. David Dinkins, the mayor of New York, sent a letter with a lame excuse for not being there. I knew no one would meet me; no one knew I was back. I spent the night on the ship. Three black limos pulled up about 5 p.m. and delivered enough gourmet Italian food for the entire crew; it was leftover from the funeral of mobster John Gotti's driver, which took place earlier that day.
The next two months were a happy confusion of freebies and heroic posturing. As war heroes, the Veterans of Foreign Wars offered us free membership, the State University of New York at Stony Brook invited us to a Welcome Back ceremony (dinner and a bonus ice cream sundae at Friendly's), bar owners gave us drinks and meals, as well as two games of bowling and a ribfest, and we marched in no fewer than three Memorial Day parades, all of which included refreshments and the possibility of meeting people who would buy you stuff.
The all-girl band "Skin Tight" picked up several of us one night for free rock 'n roll as well as a chance at the microphone. Better yet, consider this exchange that happened at one of the local miniature golf courses:

Me: "How much is golf?"
Owner: "Five dollars."
Me: "Even if you're a Bona Fide Desert Storm Veteran?"
Owner: "Here's two free passes."

Not everything worked that way. The tolls for the bridges into New York range are $4 to $5. One sailor tried this:

Sailor: "The mayor said Navy people could use this bridge for free."
Toll collector: "The mayor doesn't own this bridge."

For my efforts fighting Saddam, the Navy awarded me the Southwest Asian Service Medal with one bronze star. Everyone who entered the war zone got one. Those there during Desert Shield got two bronze stars. I missed out on the February 28 cut-off for the Kuwaiti Liberation Medal, which looks like a pimp's hood ornament, as well as the Navy Unit Commendation ribbon everyone else on the ship received.
Postscript: I ended up spending four months in the Persian Gulf. When I came home after my second tour, I got another bronze star but practically nothing free.

visitor feedback

From R. Garcia, Infantry, 3rd Armored Division:
To the author of this ridiculous article: I am a Gulf War veteran, and I find your humor to be immature and insulting. Myself and many others truly earned our medals. We did not get to party and drink beer like you. Some of us actually went over there and killed for our country. Instead of being so humorous, you should be more respectful. In my battalion we lost two fine men to Saddam's tyranny, one of whom had just become a father. So I ask you this, would the child of a man who laid down his life for his country enjoy this garbage? You need to grow up, apparently the Navy did not teach you anything about honor or respect. I have said my piece. Thank you.