I was very fortunate yesterday to have been deposited back at Camp Victory in the safe and secure hands of our coalition partners, the British Forces. One thing I have always been pretty good at is getting things done. I try really hard to know who the people are that I need to butter up, smile at and otherwise be nice to in order to get things done. So when Pauline and I got to the LZ to try to fly Space A home, I went right up to my buddy controlling the flights and told him we needed to get to Griffin (Victory) or BIAP (Baghdad International), he said, “let’s go” and we were on the British helo bound for BIAP. I don’t know where the other 40 people waiting were going, but we got out fast - key!
We found out quickly that the Brits must have must different protocol for flying than the Americans. I thought the Blackhawks flew low. We actually had to ascend to fly over the high power lines. We had both doors open with the gunner switching from side to side depending upon which door was facing down. I don’t think we spent too much time not flying sideways and doing wacky maneuvers. Did I ever tell you that I won’t go on roller coasters because they scare me? My helo ride was jolly good fun!
Brits will always hold a special place in my heart. Back in October 1983, when I was stationed at RAF Akrotiri, Cyprus I got a first hand look at how wonderful and loyal allies the Brits are to us “Yanks.” As you might remember on Sunday morning, 23 October 1983, a terrorist drove a truck laden with explosives into the Marine Barracks at Beirut International Airport, killing 241 American servicemen. We were awoken that morning with pounding on our doors that a bunch of Americans had been killed and wounded in Beirut and they were sending many of the casualties to the British hospital on the base because we were so close to Beirut. We all jumped in our car to head up to the hospital to start giving blood and I saw something that still brings tears to my eyes to this day. The road to the hospital was clogged with cars full of British soldiers and airmen waiting to get in line for their turn to give blood for the “Yanks” who needed it. They knew we were Americans and started beeping their horns and telling us to go home and take care of what we needed to do – they were taking care of giving blood and our Marines that had to come there.
We never knew how many came through there because of all the usual confusion surrounding these events. I only knew that one of the Marines who came to Akrotiri that day didn’t make it. I never knew his name, I just knew that our detachment was responsible for ensuring that he made it from the hospital to the C-130 with the utmost honor and respect that we could possibly give. We had to take the flag from the Commander’s office flagpole to place over the casket, but we made sure we got everything right. If I remember correctly there were six of us – I was on the right in the middle – and I can still feel the steel handle digging into my fingers. It was only a short walk from the vehicle into the back of the C-130, but it seemed to last a lifetime.
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