By January 1991 I found myself with a squadron of British Royal Engineers in the Saudi desert - by the way the Saudi desert is not sand it is hard, dusty dirt - a sand storm is not sand, it is dust so fine it hangs suspended...
But but but, that is not the story...
I was a dispatch rider (on the British Armstrong 500) and heavy equipment operator (bulldozers, scrapers, excavators etc) with my Squadron, so my bike was also my transport to get to site, as and when needed.
Anyway I found myself building up the defences of an American squadron of Blackhawk helicopters, probably 20 clicks from my home base. I would leave camp at early o'clock, ride to the Blackhawk camp, work, and then ride back. The route was drive from the camp to the 'road' I use the term 'road' very broadly as it was basically a big pot hole with bits of tarmac sticking out at acute angles - not to dissimilar to shark fins in an ocean. I would then drive the road to the turnoff for the Americans and drive their track to their camp - simple.
But the road was treacherous, it was easier driving the ugly desert than the ugly road. One night I finished late and I thought I would take a short cut - as the crow flies, drive the desert to the camp. At best is was a weak plan, but at 21 - I made the mistakes of a 21 year old.
The rumour was Iraqi death squads had infiltrated the area and were looking for easy targets - a loan squaddie on a bike? An easy target.
I set off and pretty soon it got dark, and dark in the desert is dark. There are no lights, no glow of distant towns or cities - the only light is from the moon (none that night) and the stars (lots). I kind of get lost and because it is a war zone, every military camp is on black-out.
I am riding around and looking for the camp when the bike's timing belt goes. Now the Armstrong is a simple bike, heavy, low power, easy to fix. The timing belt had gone multiple times, and I had replaced them multiple times - on this very bike. I had the tools and I had a spare belt. I also had a flashlight to see what I was doing - easy.
Not so easy. The timing belt cover plate is held on by five (if I remember correctly) bolts. And the bolts on this plate had been removed so many times that they were difficult to remove at the best of times - in the dark, using one hand (flashlight in the other) I could not get the cover plate off. I was in a bit of a pickle...
Trying to work out my options I see the lights of a truck on the horizon, driving right to left. My instant thought was 'friendly forces or not friendly?' (Iraqi insurgents?) It is a war zone and the allied standing orders are no lights after dark - but I also assume any Iraqi forces would have the same order. My conclusion was unfriendly forces would be less likely to drive with lights.
With my headlight I flash the morse code for help (SOS) - dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. Nothing, I'm thinking any military guy would know this, why are they not turning? They must be able to see me I am the only flashing light, in a sea of darkness. I try again - dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. Nothing. I am at a loss - why are they not turning - Iraqis? I try again and again and again, eventually the headlights... although by this point I am not certain I want that.
The vehicle gets close and I realize it is an American military pick-up truck with a driver, passenger and looking very much like they should - very good. The driver, drives his vehicle up to me, winds down his window and says...
Now recall, I am a lone soldier, in the middle of the desert, bike in a disassembled state, it is a war zone and I am signalling a distress signal for help.
... in a southern drawl "Can you tell me where the AT&T phones are...?"
Desert, war zone, distress signal, soldier all alone... looking back I ask myself, just what was he thinking when he drove up to me - "hey look there is a soldier, all alone, in the middle of nowhere, flashing us so he can give us directions..."
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| The Armstrong 500 |
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