Introduction: This story happens during my second deployment to Iraq, starting roughly June of 2011. We’ve been the brigade of troops told that we would be closing up Iraq and going home within six months. (We would later find out that “home” would be defined as Camp Buehring, Kuwait for six months ... but that would be after this story).

One of the nice things of being in the Signal Corps (Army computer nerds) is that we’re amongst the first people in the brigade to go to whatever location we are going to. After all, your unit wants to have communications established when they get there. No Brigade Commander wants to not have communications with the other Battalions under them. In my case I took advantage of this fact with the soldiers who were getting ready to leave. One of whom was trying to sell his 24” TV and Playstation 3 (again, 2011 here, so PS3 was still very current.) In his case, he didn’t want to pay to have it shipped back home, so he was happy to get what he could from it. Me, I was happy to buy the TV, PS3, controllers, and several games from him for about $125. I can’t feel too bad as he was happy to have the cash, while I did almost feel like I had taken advantage of him in the process.

He did give me a few tips about the FOB we were on and what to expect. Mortar and/or rocket attacks weren’t uncommon. We could expect them to happen roughly two to three times a week and at varying times, though most commonly during late night or early morning hours. We had been briefed during the week we were in Kuwait that if we did have an attack the announcement would come over the PA system with “INCOMING, INCOMING, INCOMING!” At that point our job was to leave whatever area we were in and to get into the bunkers. The bunkers consisted of solid cement walls built like a tunnel with a six foot tall ceiling. The idea being that it should absorb the blast and shrapnel instead of our bodies absorbing it.

Our living quarters consisted of Containerized Housing Units (CHUs - I have mentioned that the Army loves it’s acronyms if you haven’t read my previous Army life stories) that were roughly ten foot by twenty foot containers that were shared between two people. Bathrooms and showers were similar units solely for that purpose and only a short walk from our CHUs. Where my row of CHUs was there was my platoon Sergeant next to me and then the bunker was next to him, so we only had a short distance to go in case of an attack.

I do need to cover a little background here: I’m short at five foot three inches. My platoon sergeant is not. He is a roughly six foot three Samoan who in his skinnier days was a guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Side note for any Army folks reading this: if you ever need help with your dress blues or pinks and greens grab a former Tomb Guard. You better believe they can square your uniform away to inspection perfectly.

The first few days our advanced party is on the FOB go fairly well. We’re waiting for our equipment to catch up to us and shadowing the unit that we are RIPing (Relieve In Place - see what I mean by acronyms?) in with. Along the way I also find out that one of their soldiers is just giving away an old school Army tough box, complete with latches that lock and a good seal. So of course I’m all over that as it will make for a great TV/PS3 stand and then gear storage.

Unfortunately for us, the enemy had figured we’d been given enough of a break to get used to things and settling in. The early morning hours of our fourth day we were roused from bed with that great big boy voice “INCOMING, INCOMING, INCOMING!” Three AM is not the time anyone wants to get out of bed. But when its the first time you’re hearing it, you’re out in a hurry. I took thirty seconds to throw on PT shorts and a PT shirt, shoes, grab my rifle, and high tail it for the bunker. As I do my platoon Sergeant is right in front of me coming from his room.

To help visualize this I’ll remind you. Me: five feet three inches tall. Samoan platoon sergeant: six feet three inches tall. Bunker: six feet tall. He was also in PT shirt and shorts ... with no helmet. Right as the word “Duck!” Is escaping my lips he forgets about the height of the bunker and basically clothes-lines (you know, like a professional wrestler does their opponent) himself with the bunker. So I get to watch the man go almost perfectly horizontal before landing on his back in the dirt.