Desert Storm(part 1)

GERMANY – THE LAST NORMAL THING

Before everything kicked off, life in Germany felt like the last stretch of “normal” I ever had. I was just a young kid with a routine, buddies to hang out with, and that kind of confidence you only have before the world shows you what it’s really capable of.

Then the orders came down, and everything flipped almost overnight.

Pre-deployment turned into a blur of paperwork and needles.
Immunizations.
Wills.
Life insurance beneficiaries.
Sign here, initial there, try not to think too much about what it all really meant. There were definitely more profound thoughts underneath it — not dramatic, just honest. We didn’t know how long this was going to last or what we were heading into. I remember thinking about family and friends back in the States and wondering if I’d get to see them again. That was the quiet part nobody said out loud.

We all had to get our picture taken in our Class A's; these were for the Army to have in the event we were killed in action, they had something to show people. We didn't really think about what they meant at the time, but we figured it out later when we saw the pictures of soldiers who were killed. 

Then came the packing — the moment it all got real.
I wasn’t just tossing things into a bag.
I was putting everything I owned into one massive box — four feet by four feet by four feet.
Clothes, books, pictures, personal stuff, all of it. As I closed it up, the thought hit me straight-on: I didn’t know when or if I would see that box again. It wasn’t fear — just the plain truth. The future had turned into a big unknown, and that box was kind of the line between what I’d known and whatever was coming next.

Then came the self-deployment — taking our helicopters from Germany to Rotterdam, Holland. Dead of winter. Miserably cold. Everything damp, everything heavy. We weren’t flying into a combat zone yet, but the whole trip already felt like something bigger was pulling us toward the next chapter.

During hot refuel, I got drenched with fuel from a bad vent valve. Numb hands, freezing water, trying to wash it off in the cold barely helped. So I climbed right back into the aircraft smelling like a fuel can, and we kept on going. That’s just how it was — no time to dwell on it, just move to the next thing.

When we got to Holland, we stayed on a Dutch Air Force base. There was a big crowd outside the gate protesting us being there and protesting the war in general. At nineteen years old, that was strange to take in — seeing people angry at something you were about to risk your life for.

But then the Dutch military club opened its doors to us. They served Heineken for 25 cents a glass — fresh, cold, and honestly amazing at that age. For a few minutes, it felt like life slowed down and gave us one last normal moment before everything changed.