A Spring Sandstorm
For as long as I can remember I've spent as much time outside as possible. I've had to work outside in the worst storms and blizzards Iowa has to offer. My years in the military put me in every condition imaginable, from hell hot swamps to deep freeze snow covered mountains. Of all the extreme climates I've been in, the memory of a spring sand storm at the National training Center, NTC, stands out well above the rest.
I was fresh from the Army Ranger battalion and on my first field assignment for my new commander, 2nd brigade 24 infantry, Col. Bill Taylor. He was a very imposing man of 6 foot 5 inches tall and a chest that looked like a cab over truck. Even if his "full bird" insignia hadn't been visible, his commanding presence left no doubt who was in charge.
I had been sent ahead to the National Training Center, near Death Valley in California, with a jeep, trailer, tent, and all the rest of his field gear an O-6 has. My first impression of Death Valley was it is a barren, desolate, and godforsaken place. After three different visits this impression never changed. It didn't feel as hot as I had anticipated, the dry steady breeze made the 90 degree plus spring days feel not so bad. The visual impact was worse than I had thought, nothing but rocks and sand interspersed with small, gnarly, sparsely leafed little bushes as far as you could see. Col. Taylor was only going to be there for a few days, but because of security issues I had to remain with the equipment at all times as it travelled by train with the unit he was observing. They would be there for a month.
I set up just a few miles from post alongside a main trail. At first other units were there but they moved out after just a few days; leaving me on my own to wait for Colonel Taylor. It was nice digs as far as the military goes; big tent with a floor, a desk, a stove for heating and cooking, and all of it in new condition.
One afternoon about a week or so into the trip, the skies got a little dark and the wind picked up. I went out and checked all my stakes, tightening the ropes as I went, then went back inside to read a book.
The wind got worse. All the flapping of the tent broke a rope on one corner. Grabbing the repair bag I headed out to fix it. The first thing I saw was a huge dark wall covering the whole horizon for as far as the eye could see. As I started fixing and adding ropes, I had to put gloves on to keep the sand blowing along the ground from stinging my hands. By the time I finished the sand was blowing four and five feet off the ground. The noise inside the tent was intense with all the flapping and pressure. It was hard to see and breathe so I decided to put on my gas mask and chemical protective gear. Thanks to good training this didn't take but a minute.
Just as I finished and was standing up, there was what felt like an explosion. Tumbling and banging into things, I found myself outside, slammed into the side of my jeep. The wall had arrived. Sandstorm my ass! There were rocks the size of quarters flying at head level.
Visibility was five or ten feet at most; however, I could make out that almost everything in and around the tent was gone. Just a few ropes tied to stakes remained, flailing in the wind.
I couldn't see enough out of the gas mask to drive the jeep. So I knew if I wanted shelter I would have to walk. Heading to post would have meant walking directly into this hail of sand and rock. Luckily, I knew of a small shack about a quarter mile or so down the trail. Three payphones were available there for use by training units. Walking with the wind, I realized I could stumble from one roadside telephone pole to the next, which would eventually take me to the shack.
After what seemed like hours I found it. Thankfully, the shack was well-sealed and I could take off the mask. I was exhausted. Areas around my neck and wrist were blasted raw and bleeding. Bruises from the rocks peppered the backside of my body. The wind calmed after a few hours and I slept there till first light.
As I walked back to my campsite, I found a mangled cot and the stove along the way. At the campsite there was nothing left but ropes and stakes, along with my jeep and trailer. All the glass on the jeep was cracked and frosted; its tires were coal black and spots on the body were worn to shiny metal. Fortunately my personal gear and rations were locked up in the jeep trailer. Good thing, because I wanted to be wearing a fresh uniform when I explained to Col. Taylor what had happened to all his gear!
The typically stoic Colonel Taylor never said a word about this when he arrived, as if it were nothing. For me, even almost 30 years later, the memory of the spring sandstorm in Death Valley is as clear as if it happened yesterday!
