Like most kids of my generation, I grew up on my father’s stories of World War II

NOTE

The period of the Gulf War and more important, the years immediately after, were for me a time of powerful emotions. I am proud of the way the way I’ve raised myself from the depths of depression that overcame me upon my return, but the battle continues. Unfortunately the evil of prejudice will enter the story. I experienced systematized and sanctioned anti-Jewish bias by the Saudi Arabians, but instead of railing against it, I became consumed by hatred myself. This is wrong and I am ashamed. I've spent recent years trying to overcome this hatred and I'll fight as long as I live to rid myself of the last vestiges of ill-feelings I still harbor. Acknowledging my feelings is part of the process. Therefore, let the reader be forewarned, this document will contain some stark phrases which will frankly describe the prejudice I felt at the time. Remember that those feelings like all the events in this paper are history. I apologize to those I offend.

. . .

You will notice that I name very few of the persons I refer to in this document, I do this deliberately to protect their privacy.

PRELUDE

Like most kids of my generation, I grew up on my father’s stories of World War II. There were many things about him I never really understood, about why he never complained, and never let me complain, about being hot or cold or about food or clothing or anything of a domestic nature. I always assumed that his wartime experiences had something to do with this mysterious behavior, but I never could quite pinpoint an explanation. I was 39 years old when I finally understood all of my father’s quirks. In the years since 1991, I’ve never complained about the weather, or the food, nor can I really tolerate anyone who does. You see, the worst weather in Staten Island is far better than sunshine "over there," and the worst food anywhere "back home" is better than the poorly prepared, insect infested cuisine that was the norm "over there." In the years since 1991, I've never gotten over the pleasure of just being home.

I don’t think I’d ever given the Persian Gulf two thoughts until I was forcibly extracted from my comfortable Civil Service existence and dumped, along with plane load of computer equipment and other hapless deployees, on to the dusty tarmac of King Abdul Aziz airbase in Dahran, Saudi Arabia. This occured eight months after some guy named Sadam decided to make a vacation home out of his neighboring Kuwait. I was in shock - eighteen hours earlier our C-141 transport lifted off from Dover Air Force Base, amid jokes and apprehension and a small sense of adventure. But now we were there, dust, gas masks, Desert Camo Uniforms and one nagging question, "How the hell did I get myself into this mess?"

I don’t play the lottery because, back in 1972 I won the most important lottery of my life. The Vietnam War was winding down and so was my Student Deferment. College only kept you out of the draft for 4 years in those days and I was in my fifth year - and about to become eligible for service. Fortunately, I drew number 271 in the draft lottery and spent my year as "1A" without even being called for a physical. (Much to my mother’s chagrin, that "1A" on my draft card was the only "A" I would earn that year in College.)

In the mid-seventies, after graduation and avoiding any possibility of military service in Southeast Asia, I made two critical decisions that resulted in my involvement in a war in Southwest Asia some twenty years later. Firstly, I decided to buy a home computer because I really enjoyed writing software as a hobby – in those days "real" computer buffs wrote programs, we didn’t buy them. Well, that decided what I’d do for a living, and my second decision decided for whom I’d do it – and that’s entirely Dad’s fault.

Dad had been a career Federal Employee since I could remember. I looked at my father’s benefits and compared them to what my friends were getting in industry and decided that I too would work for the Federal Government. I had an entry-level Federal job and was looking around for something I could parlay into a career. At the time, Dad was working in Bayonne at the Eastern Area Command of the Military Traffic Management Command (MTMCEA) and he noticed a merit promotion notice for a computer specialist position at the Eastern Management Information Systems Office, the MTMC computer people. He gave it to me and I filled out the application, not really believing that I had any chance of getting the job.

My father had nothing to do with my hiring, EMISO was a separate organization but I wouldn't have had the opportunity if he hadn't brought home that Merit Promotion announcement. They were impressed that someone would actually like to program computers as a hobby and decided to take a chance on me. I guess the day I actually boarded that airplane to Saudi was in April 1980 when I was hired as a computer specialist by EMISO. If not then, certainly the day they handed me a project with the acronym, ASPUR.

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