Back about 15 years ago or so, some of us were engaged in a little something called Desert Storm. During that time, I was assigned to a C-130 Airlift Wing which combined with a bunch of other C-130 units to form what was lovingly called the 1st DAWg, since we were the first Desert Airlift Wing set up and operating in theater. The powers that be eventually came up with an official designation, but who cares. We were and remained 1st DAWg for the duration.

My position at the time was as a Logistics Plans technician, so I got to be involved with the packing of the aircraft, the ordering of supplies and parts to keep the aircraft and support staff functioning, and figuring out how much water to palletize and store in case we had to bug out in a hurry. It also came to be that I had to do a bunch of load plans for the aircraft for everything from hauling those blasted tanks up country to finally packing us to go home.

We generally had a pretty good time where we were, in spite of the heat, the dust, the isolation, and the station brass which mostly didn't have a clue. We had beer! Which everyone drew, whether they liked the stuff or not.

After the war was over, it seemed to many of us in theater that the job was just beginning. But, instead of finishing it, we were packing up to leave. I remember standing out in a dust storm asking why we were being sent home. It felt rather foolish at the time, because I, too, wanted to sleep in my own bed for a change, but many of us agreed that we would rather stay for as long as it took than have to come back in 10 years or less.

Yes, 10 years seemed to be the consensus among those of us opining as to the maximum amount of time it would be before we, or someone, would have to return to the neighborhood. As crazy as it sounds, there were many of us muttering about leaving without finishing the job. Sometimes it does not feel at all good to be proven right.

Contributed by Bobbie (OWB) on October 5, 2006 at 12:23 AM in Bobbie Craig | Permalink

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