Comfort Moon

In January, 1991, around 1 a.m., I was standing outside of my vehicle in the desert near Dhahran, Eastern Province, Saudi Arabia. A convoy of twenty other military vehicles lined the hard-packed sand behind me, all of us doing what had become routine at that time and place in my life: just waiting.  

Our unit was moving to an abandoned airfield not far from the Iraqi border, where the next phase of the war would commence, and while my attention should’ve been on that operation, for reasons you’ll soon understand, my eyes were glued to the sky overhead and the spectacle of an airborne missile headed in our general direction. Its intended target was not us, but neither was it far from us and because the war was still young in those days, with so many uncertainties, we had no way of knowing if we were in any danger whatsoever from whatever fallout might occur with the rocket’s proximity to where we were standing in the open air. 

A full moon illuminated the cloudless sky, and, in fact, in the moments just before the red tail of the Iraqi Scud entered my field of vision, I was thinking were it possible my friends and family, many thousands of miles away, might be gazing in that very moment at that very same moon, and if they were, might they be finding the same comfort in it as I was feeling in this celestial, shared landmark. 

I had no idea, of course, if that was even possible. At that time, as far as I knew, Saudi Arabia might have been on some other planet; that might not even have been the same moon overhead. That’s how far from home I felt. That the moon might bridge the gap between me and those I loved delivered a peace of mind that suggested I might bear a bit longer this fucked up mess in which I’d found myself. Then came the missile, arcing through the night sky, a long thin tube, a plume of orange, red and white. 

Behind me and down the length of the waiting convoy, voices rose in alarm and astonishment. Fucking-A, someone called out. Jesus, exclaimed another. I, myself, the one in charge, was speechless.

Someone yelled, Gas. Gas. Gas. Which came always in threes, for whatever reason. This newest idiom of our wartime existence. To many of us there’d never been a word spoken in that precise manner which bore so much angst or trouble, nor so automatic of a response. I looked over my shoulder at the shadowy figures standing beside their vehicles and already many of them were in various stages of donning their masks and protective chemical suits. 

There, the engineer Rodriguez pointed out, comes a Patriot.

The Patriot interceptor sprang from the earth with amazing speed and precision. There was the sound of its rockets, as it launched not far from the base, but it was the image that captured my attention. This historical and technological marvel, darling of the news media and conveyor of citizen sentiment and reminder to all of everything that was right and just about the American involvement in the war. The Patriot, sweeping across the sky to save the day.

The collision that followed was a thing of beauty, truly. A burst of light with so great a meaning that it raised in me thoughts of Armageddon. I reached toward my hip for my mask then remembered removing my LCE and dropping it along with the mask in the front seat of the Humvee, which at the moment was not where it was supposed to be, at the head of the convoy. 

I looked across the desert at the lights of the motor pool. Ten minutes before I’d had the discussion with my driver that sent the PFC scrambling to fill the tank with gas.

What do you mean you forgot to gas up? I’d said.

I mean I didn’t fill up with gas.

I stood there then a moment looking at the young soldier and feeling a number of conventional urges but not one of them being to speak. For his part, the PFC, too,  appeared short on that longing as well.

Well, I told him, I imagine we’re going to need some of that if we’re expected to cross this desert, don’t you?

Yes, sir, Silver replied as he stepped around me and climbed behind the wheel and headed off toward the motor pool.

In the seconds immediately after the missile impact, I gauged the distance to where my vehicle and, more importantly, my gas mask were currently sitting at roughly seventy yards, a short enough distance to cover but leaving the road would mean loose sand and that would slow me down. Distance won out over sure footing and I took off running.

As a child living in Fort Wayne, Indiana, I’d had this reoccurring dream in which my body hovered just over the ground with some evil presence in hot pursuit and I’d be pumping my legs to outrun the danger but was unable to find any traction, the ground itself elusive, another enemy of sorts. Running across the desert, slipping in the loose sand, reminded me of this. It raised in me the same fear and certainty that my efforts were useless. 

As I neared the motor pool, voices called out and I looked and saw two figures standing in the lighted doorway of one of the larger buildings waving their arms. I ran toward them. My mind buzzed with the question of the scud missile’s payload and whether or not the collision overhead would’ve prevented dispersal of any chemical or biological agent the missile might’ve had onboard.

My feet touched down on hard pavement and now with the ground my ally I hurried past the gas pumps and the Humvee and crossed the threshold of the door, stopping well inside. I leaned over to catch my breath, my hands resting on my knees.

Neat, huh? my commander said behind me.

I stood straight and turned and looked. He and my driver were standing at the door, both looking up at the sky. I walked over and joined them and watched now as the night sky had returned to normal and the moon hung right where I’d left it.

I hope you enjoyed this special Tuesday edition of The Revelate. Consider it a short, dramatic preview of what's coming this Thursday.

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