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March 17, 2003

Like the rest of the world watching from afar, those of us here in the desert camps in Kuwait sense that we are within days of rolling.  

Tankers and maintenance crews are test driving each tracked vehicle and truck. Tank commanders meet daily around roped-off squares of desert by the command post tent, with colored yarn strung between large spikes to mark the “phase lines” of the battle plan. Toy tanks are maneuvered to show how each phase of the battle will be executed.

“Let’s talk about the enemy, because this is the next place the enemy could influence us,” the CO says. “This right here could be our next fight. That’s why we’ll move two tank platoons forward quickly and hope that motherfucker brings the fight on.”

Soldiers sit on the lowered ramps of 113s to get a last high-and-tight haircut. The live ammo was issued last week, and each morning after formation, tankers sit cleaning their sidearms, listening to the Voice of America and the BBC on shortwave radios for news that might offer a hint of when this thing will happen. Then a commotion breaks out, and the news spreads fast. 

“There’s a fucking snake over there!”

“It almost got Schenk! You shoulda seen him run!”

“Fucking thing was trying to get into 3rd Platoon’s tent. It was going after that kangaroo rat that lives there.”

Sgt. John Heath throws a sandbag on it. Sgt. Randy Smith is getting ready to whack it with a shovel.

“Then Pendergrass kicks some sand at it, and it rears up, starts hissing,” Smith said. “I said, ‘Dammit, Pendergrass, whaddayou kicking sand at that snake for when I’m trying to kill it?’ ”

Smith waits for the snake to calm down, then severs its head with the shovel. He scoops up the pieces and throws them on the trash fire.

Later, Smitty and I go over to have a look. Smitty flips the broad, venomous-looking viper’s head over with a flattened can. The head and its two inches of still-attached neck writhe. The outraged, dying viper can’t hiss without lungs, but it opens its dirt-caked mouth wide and bares its fangs, broadcasting the primeval snake message: “Don’t Tread On Me.”

Four feet away on the ash pile, the thick, rough-scaled, three-foot-long body starts writhing, as though body and head are trying to find each other.

The snake’s head has something to say. 

It says to Smitty and me: “I may be all fucked up now. But I am going to find my body, and when I do, I’m coming after you, motherfucker.”

March 16, 2003

March 15, 2003

March 14, 2003

March 13, 2003

March 12, 2003

March 11, 2003

Topics: Iraq, military

  Posted by Jules Crittenden at 12:21 am on Saturday, March 17, 2007

4 Responses to “March 17, 2003”

1. Old War Dogs Says:
   March 17th, 2007 at 2:10 am

   Bill’s Nibbles // Open Post — 2007.03.17

   Some Bill’s Bites posts, some things I excerpted and linked but I’m sending you to the original post, some things too short to excerpt and too good to not mention. I occasionally move things from Bill’s Nibbles to longer posts

2. Bill's Bites Says:
   March 17th, 2007 at 2:14 am

   March 17, 2003

   March 17, 2003 Jules Crittenden Like the rest of the world watching from afar, those of us here in the desert camps in Kuwait sense that we are within days of rolling. Like the rest of the world watching from

3. RebeccaH Says:
   March 17th, 2007 at 10:31 am

   I was asked to send rat traps to my soldiers in Afghanistan because they said cobras would come around the huts and tents looking for rats (and because the rats and mice kept getting in their food). Yikes.

4. Sierra Faith Says:
   March 17th, 2007 at 6:17 pm

   March 17, 2003

   Jules Crittenden.

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