by Casey Clifton

I hated pulling guard tower duty. I had to sit in a hot metal stand for four hours before being relieved by the next rotation. Two soldiers at a time were assigned to each tower that lined the perimeter of our new desert camp. I counted each minute of those lifeless hours, gazing over a scorched landscape of endless sand, protected by a man-made berm and miles and miles of razor wire. My rifle never left my side. It held a thirty-round magazine, but so far no one had fired a single round. The war hadn’t officially started, but Saddam knew we were here.

But why was I here? The easy answer was to stop Saddam from using his so-called weapons of mass destruction. Yet the more fundamental reason why I returned to this isolated, hot metal box every day was because I’d taken an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

I had dreamed of joining the Army since I was a little kid. Back then, it was all about adventure—the idea of being a hero, fighting battles like the ones I saw on TV. I’d run through the woods behind our house in Maine pretending I was a soldier on some top-secret mission. But as I got older, the fantasy started to feel more like a test. Like I needed to prove something—to  myself, mostly. I needed to know I could confront my fears head-on, not just hide behind stories I’d created in my mind.

Besides, Saddam was the one who should be afraid. With around 250,000 U.S. soldiers built up along the Kuwait border, he launched rockets in our direction daily. Most were intercepted by our Patriot missile systems before entering our airspace, but occasionally one came so close that my stomach tightened when I heard it explode overhead. Whenever a rocket was intercepted, a horn sounded, causing me to stop whatever I was doing and listen intently. Three blasts of the horn signaled the threat of a potential biological or chemical attack. We heard the alarms daily. Adrenaline surged through my body every time I instinctively secured my gas mask.

It was another sweltering day in the tower, and to distract myself from the boredom, I reflected on my training as we waited for something to happen. My gas mask was my first line of defense against a rocket attack, so I always made sure it was ready. It hung from my belt in its protective case, and as I stood facing Iraq, I popped the snaps on the cover to test how quickly I could pull it out—kind of like a cowboy practicing his draw.

My mind wandered back to the first time I understood the effectiveness of this valuable piece of equipment. The gas chamber at boot camp was a small wooden hut in the middle of the woods. My heart raced when I entered the dimly lit space. I tried to keep up as the instructor sped through a speech he must have recited hundreds of times before, but everything happened so fast. He gave the order, and everyone scrambled to don their masks. I barely had time to ensure my mask had a good seal before he dropped the cylinder. I heard the ominous hiss as it clanked against the concrete. Within seconds, my exposed skin felt like it was on fire, but I was breathing clear, filtered air through the mask’s canister. Then, we were forced to remove our masks. My lungs tightened, refusing the chemically infused air. I squeezed my burning eyes shut as sounds of gasping and choking grew louder. I discovered that if I took slow, shallow breaths, instead of giving in to panic, I could endure the discomfort without throwing up, and even open my eyes a little. Eventually, the door opened, and recruits stumbled out, gasping for air. The instructors laughed as many recruits blindly ran into the oak tree a few yards from the exit. I was thankful to avoid the tree myself—a good lesson in the value of keeping calm.

That had been a year ago and now I’d been thrown into the real thing. The memory of those guys hitting the tree still made me smile. It felt good to laugh, especially during times like these when I had too much time to think. I often wondered whether the next rocket would carry a more sinister payload. Nineteen was too young to die. I wasn’t even sure I was completely qualified for this mission. What did I really know about weapons of mass destruction?

I turned my back to the border and picked up a clear plastic bottle of water. It was almost empty, and I tipped it back to gulp down its last drops. Looking through the bottle, I noticed movement in the distance. It was the truck carrying our replacements, followed by a long dusty cloud, like smoke from a signal flare, stretching across the horizon.

“Hey Harvey, looks like our ride is on its way,” I said to the soldier next to me. I was more than ready to leave, and I didn’t care how my hands burned against the rungs of the hot metal ladder as I descended  the tower. When the truck stopped at our feet, the dust chasing it finally caught up. I closed my eyes—and mouth. Not that it helped much. I ate more sand than food those days. I climbed into the back of the truck covered by a large green canvas and took my place on one of the wooden benches that lined both sides. It wasn’t any cooler than the guard tower, but at least I could catch a breeze when the truck sped off to the next tower. The soldiers sitting across from me were tired and hunched over, their faces burned by the sun while the rest of their bodies were protected by their government issued combat gear.

I pulled at the collar of my flack vest to let in some air. It was oppressive. I didn’t understand how wearing a Kevlar life preserver would protect me—it wasn’t even designed to stop a bullet. I closed my eyes, trying to feel any amount of wind that might cool my face.

“Clifton, catch!” A full bottle of water landed in my lap before I could react. I couldn’t drink enough water out here and was thankful we had bottles to supplement our little green, issued canteens. It was not big enough to quench my thirst, but I kept it on my belt anyway. It became my permanent Kool-Aid vessel because once a flavor was added, the taste never came out of the plastic. I placed my rifle between my knees before un-capping the bottle. I felt better as I drank the whole bottle, not accustomed to the heat.

We hadn’t much time to prepare for this deployment. When we received our orders, most of America was oblivious to the escalating conflict in the Middle East. The rapid deployment meant that only half of our vehicles were painted for desert operations, so much of our uniforms and equipment, including the truck we were riding in, was still in woodland camouflage.

Tired from baking in the sun, I leaned back against the truck’s canvas and closed my eyes. Just as I began to relax, the air recoiled then exploded outward, rattling my internal organs. The blast sent a shock through my entire body. A sonic boom echoed in the hot air like thunder, knocking dust off the metal ribs that stretched the canvas over our heads. I already knew what had happened, but my assumptions were confirmed a few seconds later by three horn blasts—the signal of a nearby rocket interception.

Instinctively, I reached for the pouch holding my mask, and pulled the snaps apart. I knocked my helmet off and raised the mask to my face. After pulling the rubber straps over my head, I placed my palm over the charcoal canister, and sucked in to ensure the mask was sealed properly. As the mask conformed to my face, I began to breathe normally. Though the gasket in the canister allowed air out quickly, the filtered air through the charcoal made deep breaths a struggle. My nerves were high, and my breaths became short and labored. I squinted out the back of the truck, hoping to spot the origin of the explosion, but the afternoon sun bleached my vision, making it impossible to see.

Muffled sounds of panic filtered through the air as the soldiers around me struggled to communicate through their masks. “Is he breathing in chemicals?” one of the guys asked. “He doesn’t have a canister,” said another. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the light, I stared helplessly at the soldier across from me. His hands were trembling, and he was shaking uncontrollably.

 The charcoal canisters needed to be replaced frequently. They screwed into the front of our masks, but his was missing completely. Realizing it was gone, his eyes widened in terror. He started grabbing frantically at the soldier next to him, his movements desperate. It didn’t take long for everyone in the truck to notice what was happening.

Images, burned into my memory, resurfaced from training videos—men suffering from chemical attacks. Was this soldier convulsing from nerve agents filling his lungs, or was it simply pure panic? If this was a chemical attack, he needed a counteragent fast. One of the guys grabbed an injector from this soldier’s gas mask pouch. His voice trembled as he read the instructions aloud, even though we had all trained repeatedly during Basic to inject ourselves and each other with Atropine.

“Pull off the yellow safety release. Aim and firmly jab the green tip straight down against the mid-lateral thigh.” Our driver, unaware of the situation unfolding behind him, continued toward the next tower, accelerating to escape the blast zone. We bounced on our seats as the truck maneuvered across the drifting sand. Two guys held the affected soldier still while another removed the protective cap from the Atropine injector. Fortunately, the panicked soldier regained control and yelled out, “STOP! … I’m okay!”

Everyone froze, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had the air been clean this whole time? Did this poor guy almost get jabbed for merely having a panic attack? I felt instant relief when those words came from his mouth. The soldier carefully slipped his mask over his head, since it was useless at this point. One by one, guys began removing their own masks, cautiously observing how the others reacted. I removed mine, letting the pooled sweat drain from the gasket.

Bravery seeped back into the group, and we laughed at the poor guy’s expense. Though I didn’t laugh long—I wasn’t sure I would have reacted any differently if I thought I was about to die a slow, painful death. We were all young and inexperienced, but we were learning to face our fears. Those fears didn’t seem as threatening when you had friends alongside you. If I was in danger, I knew I had other soldiers ready to administer whatever I needed to survive.

 We invaded Iraq not long after, and I quickly learned how to adapt to the numerous challenges during those months. I realized just how resilient I could be. As unprepared as I felt, I learned that no one is completely ready for the chaos of war. However, this experience helped prepare me for difficulties I would encounter later in life.

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Casey Clifton is an Iraq War veteran living in South Carolina with his wife and children. At 40, he returned to school through Vocational Rehab and is currently pursuing a degree in creative writing and journalism. He is seeking to share his experiences through his passion for writing.

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