From 1988 to 1991 I was a photo journalist in the U.S. Army. I wrote stories and supplied supporting photos for the Ft. Hood post newspaper. During that time I went to Desert Storm, where I and a videographer were assigned to document the First Calvary Division’s first strike against Iraq.

I had been in country for about four months, when I was assigned to tag along with the B Battery, 3rd Battalion, 82nd Field Artillery Regiment for a few weeks while the air war raged.

Artillery often fires first, to soften up the enemy’s position before the tanks and infantry attack. It was my mission to capture this initial strike.

Because of the artillery’s great range we sped those weeks in the middle of no where between Saudi Arabia and Iraq. There were times the desert was so flat featureless it felt like being on a tan ocean.

After about three weeks, the first evening that there would be no moon, the unit packed up and headed out, without telling us.

My videographer and I scurried behind in our militarized Ford Bronco. We did not rate a Humvee. In the total dark I drove with one hand on the wheel, and night vision goggles held to my eyes with the other hand. We also did not rate the bracket to attach the night vision goggles to my helmet.

Nervous sweat slicked the wheel, and ran cold down my back. If we did not keep up, there was no way to communicate with the artillery we were chasing. I focused on keeping up, and pushed the thoughts of being stranded to the back of my mind.

We were able to keep up. These howitzers are mounted on track vehicles, but because of the soft sand in some areas, they had to throttle their speed and avoid sharp turns. This was likely the only reason we could keep up. It also helpful that their tracks left a obvious trail for us to follow.

Without any signal the artillery unit slowed and circled into their firing positions. While personal hurried to set up and aim, I jumped out to establish a spot to capture my photos of the guns a blazing.

The night was almost pitch dark. Even the starts seemed dimmer than usual. While setting things up, a squadron of Apache helicopters flew low overhead. Without any light or reflective surfaces, and muffled motors, it was the closest think to seeing an actual phantom. Grim reapers flying north east to collect enemy souls.

I paced out the distance from my tripod to a spot between two of the M109s, and then calculated the camera aperture and shutter speed settings in my head. It was really just a guess, but for depth of field I was working with infinity at one side so there was some wiggle room.

The difficult side of the equation was exposure. I wanted the camera shutter slow enough to give the muzzle blast time to stretch out, but not stay open too long and over expose the shot. We didn’t have a radio so I listened hard for any fire command, but I could only hear my heart thump in my plugged ears.

My plan was to take my shot immediately after a cannon fired, and let the bright muzzle blast take care of exposing the 50 mm black and white ISO 125 film.

I stood in the total dark, my thumb on the remote shutter button, trying to control my shivers. It was cold and topped off with adrenaline.

I didn’t have a motor drive, so I would have to advance the film manually. I mentally rehearsed this action to minimize moving the camera too much on the tripod.

Just after the ghost Apaches flew overhead, a Multi Launch Rocket System, to the forward and right of our position, fired. You can see from the photo, these rockets leave a bright trails as they fire. In one moment we could have been in a cave from the extreme darkness. The next moment it was twilight, and I could see everything.

I pivoted the camera to the right and started snapping away. Of the handful of pictures I took, the one above was the only one in focus.

In the dark I was not aware my videographer partner had walked up and in front of my blocked out shot. When the film was developed my major bitched me out for this. I felt he should have bitched out the videographer, but fairness or intelligence were never an Army thing. In the picture above the videographer and another howitzer are cropped out.

The artillery unit fired a handful of lethal for-real rounds. I don’t remember how many because I was consumed with processing the roar and extreme percussion each gun produced. I had my Army issued ear plugs, which worked fine at the firing range, muffling a snappy M16 just fine. That evening the cannons’ discharge struck me with so much power it felt like I needed ear plugs for every organ in my body.

The percussion of these big guns slammed the air hard against me with enough force it reminded me of when I was hit by a car.

As I stood there snapping away, I had the sober thought that somewhere down rage people were likely dying. In an instance the MLRSs stopped and the desert fell even more dark with the rockets’ and howitzers light echoing on my retinas.

As fast, and unexpected as it started, it ended. The artillery vehicles took off, again without notice. The videographer and I scrambled back into our vehicle, and by the time I started the motor, all I could see in my night vision goggles were deep ruts in the sand and dust hanging in the air.

Firing the big guns revealed our position, so we had to get moving. Getting lost or stranded now was a little more worrisome.

I knew some compass settings that would lead us close enough to the rear headquarters, but because of the possibility of land mines, we could not simply head across bare desert. Driving in someone else’s tracks was the safest way to travel across the desert, so that is what I focused on.

If we got separated from the artillery brigade, we would have to sit tight where we were, dig in and wait. Between me and the videographer, we had six M16 magazines of ammo If an Iraqi patrol found us, an unlikely event being so far from the front line, it was still a scary thought. I kept driving.

A few times we came upon a rise, and the desert floor fell away into the dark below the vehicle’s hood. In these instances I quickly switched on and off the dim tactical light to get glimpse of the terrain. I imagined a Iraqi scout scanning the horizon and seeing my brief flash of light. My seat with now slick with sweat.

A few times there was nothing ahead accept dark. The technical light revealed nothing as we approached a widi (dry river bed). I drove blind off the cliff, not knowing how deep the wadi was. Each time the vehicle landed hard, first banging the rear end on the wadi rim, and then landing hard as the front end slammed into the bottom of the ravine. Each time equipment stored in the rear flew forward. Luckily the vehicle survived these white knuckle drops and kept going.

We set up out cots next to the vehicle, too exhausted to dig a fox hole first, which was procedure. I remember falling quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next day I was called back to the rear headquarter. My captain commanded I return to the rear to take over co-editing the First Cav in-country news paper. This picture is scanned from a copy of my first issue.

I documented the First Cavalry Division’s initial shots in Desert Storm’s land war. It turns out the First Cav was acting as a feint, a decoy, meant to draw the Iraqi force’s attention from the true invasion to the East.

The major who yelled at me wrote a long article crowing the 1st Cav’s historic maneuver, key to US success. This is a perfect example how military journalism stands a little closer to public relations than traditional news sources of the time.

Yes. I am aware my experience is laughable when compared to the many, many that experienced real combat, then and after. I am the first to admit the stakes of their risks were much higher than getting lost in the desert. I performed my duty and completed my mission. So, yes, I feel I deserve my 10% military discount at Lowes.