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http://www.madison.com/captimes/news/stories/56352.php
Monona GI's life in Iraq
'We are stuck here,' he writes to family
By Pfc. Andrew Govier U.S. Army Reserves
September 8, 2003


Pfc. Andrew "Drew" Govier was called to active duty in the Middle East in February. He is currently serving in Iraq with the 353rd Transportation Company (Buffalo, Minn.) of the 88th Reserve Support Command (Fort Snelling, Minn.).

The son of Gordon and Anne Govier, Monona, Drew is a senior broadcasting/electronic media major at Northwestern College in St. Paul. The following are excerpts from an e-mail sent to his family on Aug. 10.

I miss you. I never truly realized what awesome friends and family I have. It's one of those things I took for granted living a somewhat easy life day-to-day. Now that you've been taken away from me, it's painful.

I doubt I'm coming home any time soon. The truth is this: We are stuck here until the thing gets under control. I don't know when I'm coming home and my speculations are as hollow as the promises they make us every few weeks. All I can say is it's going to be a while and your support and prayers keep me strong. Keep it up.

I realize that none of you have really any idea what I'm going through over here. I once considered my life to be tough. Compared to what I've dealt with over here, I'd welcome those old college-day burdens with open arms.

Let me take you through the last half year.



There are two seasons over here: the hot season and the hotter windy season. It's currently the hotter windy season.

We landed in Kuwait Feb. 28 at midnight. One of the first things I noticed getting off the plane was not just the smell, but the waft of warm air as I paced through across the tarmac. When we left Wisconsin, it was probably 35 degrees with snow on the ground. Like some kind of twisted Stephen King novel, we had flown over spring and landed in summer.

Before the war started, we were living in warehouses on a brand-spanking-new military installation called Camp Arifjan. When our maintenance crew got ground last November, it was nothing but sand. In just four months, it was a working deployable base like any you'd find in the States.

There was a PX (think military Wal-Mart), a weight room I would have used if it weren't so close to the 24-hour movie tent, and a bazaar every Wednesday afternoon selling local treasures and cheap trinkets. They even had Baskin Robbins, Pizza Inn (just like Pizza Hut) and a Burger King. Life in Kuwait was good.

Then the war started. One of the things that makes this military so amazing is that we train endlessly on tasks we hope we never have to do, like shooting an enemy soldier 400 meters away or putting on your protective mask in nine seconds so you don't become infected by a chemical or biological agent.

The day we woke up to the news that Baghdad was on fire, we knew these tasks could be tested very soon. One more than any other. Later that day we heard the signal that will be forever branded in our mind: three horn blasts. It means "gas, gas, gas." When we hear this, we have less than nine seconds to don our protective mask and a remaining eight minutes to be in our full chemical suit; a condition called MOPP 4. In the 48 hours after the war started, we went to MOPP 4 at least a dozen times. I got about three hours of sleep the night between those two days.

When the alarm was sounded, we were ordered to go to MOPP 4 and run to a bunker. The first time we did this, it was probably one of the scariest moments of my life. Each time after that was a little less stressful until it became routine: get up, put on your suit, go eat breakfast, wait for the two warnings between then and lunch. That kind of thing.

What was really eerie was the silence that followed once we made it to the bunkers. Arifjan was rimmed with Patriot missile launchers like every camp in Kuwait. Now, there were a good three or four missile sites between us and the Iraqi border, which means if you heard them launch, you knew there was a problem. Thankfully, I never heard one of those things launch. Chalk that one up for God's protection.

Four days after the ground war started, we had our first mission to Iraq. Before coming over here, me thinking that I'd never cross the border shows you how shallow I was. Not only did we make it our weekly route, but it would soon become our new residence.

Our first mission to Baghdad, everybody was tense. A few were even in tears. Many were praying and reading their chaplain-supplied military desert camo Bible. I was eating Peanut Butter M&Ms. My nervousness actually made me hungry and the sugar I was eating only made me more anxious.

But even though I was nervous, I wasn't scared. Deep down I knew we'd be OK. I had peace in wartime. Once again, something only God could do.

We spent the night outside the border and waited half of the next day in the rain for the MPs. At our safety briefing, we were told there was a 90 percent chance we were going to be attacked. Think about that for a second. That means there's a 1-in-10 chance we'd make it to our destination without being attacked. Needless to say, that didn't help with the nervousness. I think I had four pieces of gum in my mouth as we set out late that afternoon.

Once we had crossed the border, we were in a small town called Safwan. Lining the streets were children and standing off to the side were the adults. The kids begged for food and water, but by military order we weren't allowed to give any to them.

Seeing them reminded me of a missions trip I went on to Mexico the summer after sixth grade. There, we were encouraged to help the people any way we could, whether it was giving them food, water, toys or even just spending time with them.

As the sun started to set that first night, we were still driving through frequent rainstorms and blowing sand. I didn't get to see the sunset. By then our vision had been reduced to about 15 feet.

How do I describe a sandstorm? Well, it's kind of like a thick fog in that you can't see anything. It's like a humid day in that sometimes you just can't breathe in it. It's like a rainstorm, but instead of rain, sand blasts across your face. Put all those things together, and you have one of the worst.

Six hours later (four hours longer than it would usually take us from the border), we were outside the camp and parked off to the side of the road. We had made it. We were given a 10 percent chance of making it without a scratch and we did it. The sandstorm may have slowed us down to a crawl across the six-lane highway, but it also shielded us from whatever enemy had been waiting for us. We'd been in the Middle East for about a month and God hadn't let us down once. Pretty amazing if you ask me.

For the next couple weeks, we ran fuel into Iraq. On April 7, we were told we were moving up to Camp Cedar where we had been dumping to. We were also told we'd only be there for a couple weeks. That was four months ago. But I live by three simple words: adapt and survive. It's that simple.

We spent the rest of April and all of May at Camp Cedar. Easter Sunday was spent on the road. It was also the first day we got the brunt of the blistering heat this desolate land has to offer. See, when we got here it was like, "Ooh, 90 degrees. Ouch." Then April came along. "110 degrees!?! Agh! Get us out of here!" Recently we were just like, "130 degrees, huh? Hmm. Another scorcher. Oh well." But for the next couple weeks, it's supposed to be as hot as 150 degrees.

Sidetrack: Let me tell you first and foremost that it is im-poss-ible to survive for 40 days without food and water out here. Says a lot about Jesus, especially since I have to drink9 or 10 liters of water a day out here just not to pass out.

May 5 was probably one of the most frustrating days out here. With rumors of us heading back to Arifjan, we were told to be prepared to head back the very next day. By that evening, the rumor had been dispelled.

For months rumors have come and gone, but almost all of us have taken to the fact that we're stuck here for a while. Hopefully we'll soon move into A/C tents, just as the temperatures start to drop again. That's just the way things go around here.

The Fourth of July was a good day off. I actually did an improv show with a buddy of mine who has absolutely no experience at all. Surprisingly, we did all right. Don't worry, I got it all on tape.

A week or so after, I finally got a chance to go on a humanitarian mission. You all know who Jessica Lynch is. Well, the town they were attacked in is right down the road from us: Nasariyah. I accompanied a battalion as we visited two orphanages and one girls school. The boys orphanage was just a brief stop, but the baby orphanage we went to afterwards was just astonishing. I walk into this room and sitting on the edge of a bed are seven toddlers just looking up with big eyes.

Some knew the girls by name, and seeing them play and share English words was a testament to the potential influence America has on Iraq. We can make a difference here, but we need a lot more help than we've been getting from both countries.

We've been seeing troops from Spain, Romania, Ukraine, Italy and South Korea. In my opinion, I think we'll be seeing some major improvements here by the end of the year.

In a nutshell, that's how things have been out here. I don't know when I'm coming home, but I am coming home. Just believe in that. I miss you all and can't wait to see you again.