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It's just before dawn and eerily quiet for the second day of fighting. I should be using this calm to steal a couple of hours of rest. I've had precious little since war broke out. But I can't sleep. For the past 14 hours we've been continually subjected to chemical-attack alerts, so many that I've lost count. Yet every time the siren goes off -- two long, alternating high and low wails -- I feel the same sickening dread.
The first alarm sounded just after noon on Thursday. Saddam had fired three Scuds into Northern Kuwait to the southwest of our location in Camp New York. I grabbed my gas mask from the pack strapped to my leg and madly fumbled to get it on and adjusted with a proper airtight seal in nine seconds -- as I'd been trained. But I assure you, no amount of rehearsals can prepare one for the rush of panic and adrenaline when it happens for real.
I ran into the closest tent and struggled into the rest of my NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) gear. When I tried to guide the zipper into place on my charcoal-treated jacket, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't manage it. For a split second I had an image of myself as a child, trembling from the Canadian winter cold having the same problem with my snowsuit jacket. But this time, I couldn't ask my mom or teacher for help. I sat down, took several deep breaths, and tried to will my panic away. The zipper took hold.
NO DOUBT, IT'S OLLIE. Then, suddenly, my journalistic instincts kicked back in. I grabbed my camera and started photographing. The first shot I took was of a soldier in a gas mask watching Fox News on TV. Oliver North was reporting live from Kuwait City. He, too, was wearing a gas mask, which looked to me like maybe it was custom-made for TV, for Ollie was still clearly recognizable. Our Army-issue gear, on the other hand, makes it impossible to distinguish one person from the next, so that each suit must have one's name -- and blood type -- clearly printed on the chest.
After 20 minutes, the all-clear signal sounded. (Two of the Scuds had been shot down by Patriot missiles, and the third exploded harmlessly.) I removed my facemask. That first breath of clean air was intoxicating.
Then I took a second. I could smell perfume. Did anyone else? I wracked my brain about the details of my NBC classes. The scent of almonds, garlic, fresh-mown grass could mean danger. I started asking if anybody else could smell it? Had the Iraqis developed a new chemical?
Nobody responded. Then a woman soldier started laughing. "I don't think you need to worry, unless Saddam has developed Fuchsia." I leaned in close to her and inhaled her scent. Then I joined the laughter.
PREPARATION PAYS. After that the driver of my Humvee or heavy utility vehicle, came into the tent. I hadn't seen him since shortly before the first alarm sounded. He had taken off on a short errand, promising to be back in a few minutes. Against his advice, I insisted on taking my NBC gear from the backseat. It was he who reminded me of this fact, commending me on my decision. Preparation can save your life, I told myself.
I'd like to say things got better after that, but that's simply not true. On the second alarm, we piled into a bunker. I was lucky enough to be one of the first in, ensuring me a place far away from the opening. I felt lucky and guilty at the same time. We sat between the sandbags in silence. A soldier sitting across from me took off his glove and stared at his hand, forcing it to steady. I asked him if he was scared. He nodded.
The alarms grew even more frightening for me as it grew dark. Sitting there in the bunker, I thought about the millions of men who endured conditions far worse in the bunkers for years, and survived.
DUSTY RIDE. Yet, unlike those soldiers, and the young men and women who are fighting this war, I've come here by choice, and as my editors assured me on the satellite phone during a panicked call after one of the many alarms, I can leave any time I want. But I've come a long way already. It's 4 a.m., and I've made it through the night. We are about to leave for Iraq. For now, I'll stay.
So I'm sitting in the back seat of a Humvee, waiting to join a convoy of 400 vehicles driving into Iraq. They say some 8,000 coalition tanks, Bradley fighting vehicles, anti-aircraft Avengers, and trucks supplying fuel, food, and ammunition are moving to the front. I'm warned it's going to be a dusty ride: A convoy this size can churn up enough sand to cover large swaths of desert with dust clouds that can reduce visibility to 50 feet.
Drivers are instructed to keep a distance of at least 100 meters from the vehicle in front. This is more than mere smart road safety to prevent pile-ups. It also helps minimize the extent of casualties should one our fleet drive over a landmine.
ROADLESS TREK. We roll out of Camp New York at shortly after 8 a.m., late by military standards, but the fighting brigades left hours ago. As the logistical support, we've waited to give them a lead. No road leads to the border.
As we head out across the desert, the sand begins flying everywhere. Though I've wrapped my laptop with cellophane to protect it from the dust, there's no point in trying to type through these white-outs.
Balfour is normally a BusinessWeek reporter based in Hong Kong
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