D20

This particular late June day itself started much as any other. I was deployed with my squadron for Operation Southern Watch. I had risen early, ready for the day’s work. The hairline sun already lighting the stark Persian Gulf coastline promised another hot and humid Saudi Arabian day. I’d already been in country for more than 2 months, with the encroaching summer proving as brutal as any I had encountered. I don’t honestly recall the early day, just another in a litany of unremarkable points in time. I was more than likely checking the self-defense systems of each jet as it launched, as I did many times before and after. I ate an unimpressive lunch, perhaps enjoyed the small terrarium we had at the modular building where avionics troops like myself rested when we had no work. If that had been the course of my day, then I would say it would have been preferable, even if I had no memory to remark on later.

Unfortunately, that was not the case with the night, which was unlike any night in my 20 years of service in the United States Air Force.

I had gathered with friends at the base recreation facility near the center of the living compound, which was separated from the flightline area by a four-lane highway. Originally build to house desert nomads, these dun-colored 8 story buildings and ground level garages had been given over to the U.S. forces based there for use as housing. Not all the buildings were used, but a great many had been converted for various needs. The recreation facility was one such converted garage, mostly underground, with just the top two or three feet above the desert earth. This exposed portion was boarded over roughly with plywood and painted in drab colors that did nothing to improve the look. We were together to play a game of Dungeons and Dragons, 6 geeky, bookish young men looking to escape the reality of deployment to a semi-hostile country far from kith and kin. We were smiling and laughing, slaying goblins and grabbing treasures with no care in the world.

It was just before 10:00 P.M. that everything changed forever, making this warm night both a living memory and a living nightmare.

I remember it clearly, sitting at the table, D20 in hand. The sharp points rested easily in my palm, ready to be rolled. We were in a combat, fighting evil as only heroes can. I was seated across from an outside wall, diagonal to a corner. There was a movement that caught my eye, as if the wall shook. The seconds stretched; confusion birthed into the pause. The time that passed was no more than a few seconds, at best, but more likely much less. When the pause ended, it did so with a violence I had never encountered. In an instant, the wall seemed to fly at my face, even as I flew away from my seat. I bounced, rolled, recovered. There was a pain in my shoulder, but nothing serious enough to even slow the run I launched into. I dashed out of the rec center and into the hot Saudi night, only to see the massive cloud, like an unleashed genie pouring from the ground into the night. It was distant, obviously at the edge of the compound, and in the direction of my dormitory.

I made a split decision, running towards the rising cloud. In that moment I only cared that my fellow airmen might need help, and I meant to give it to them. It was obvious we had suffered an attack, but I had no idea what kind or from whom. The truth would come later, in the cold light of day. None of that mattered in the night, not when the wound was fresh and needed tending. I ran towards my dormitory, located in a building with the spartan designation Building 129. Already rescue efforts had begun, people reacting quickly and decisively to events beyond their control. I found myself blocked from entry into any of the buildings there, including mine.

The wounded were already outside, and the blood and cries will remain with me to my dying day.

Deflected from assisting in the buildings, I instead spent the next few hours herding the wounded to triage, guiding those who could walk and carrying those who could not. The ache in my shoulder persisted, the kind you might have from hitting it too hard, but I ignored it. I assisted in the carry of one badly wounded man by stretcher to triage, all the while fighting his shock at both what had passed and his injuries. He was covered in blood in my memories; I am certain he was at the very least bleeding heavily. Those that could walk were guided as gently as possible. The gravely injured were evacuated quickly; the rest were treated with first aid and compassion until more comprehensive care became available. The night stretched onward to morning, and in the daylight, I was finally able to return to my dorm and see what had happened.

The crater the bomb had left behind was dwarfed only by the damage that had been done in its wake. Easily 30 to 40 feet deep, the hole was more than simply a blasted depression. It was the ambush strike at men and women there to defend the people that had attacked them. The bomb itself has detonated directly in front Building 131 at the edge of the compound, completely removing the western face of the building. All the apartments facing that side were exposed, like open, unbandaged sores. The buildings located nearby were cracked and ruined; my dormitory had cracks wider than my arm all through its walls.

It was in the daylight that we learned the cost paid in that attack. Nineteen men and women lost their lives that night, snuffed out by unseen hands that dealt in fear and death. Almost 500 more were injured in some way, some minor, some sent home and unable to return, though alive. The rest of the deployment was spent in a paranoid cluster near the center of the compound, away from the exposed edges and the heart-wound left by that blast.

The memory stays with me even today; the sights, the sounds always at least in the periphery of my thoughts. Perhaps worst is the ten flag-covered caskets I stood guard on, sending them home one last time. In the aftermath, the sole comfort I could claim was that my friends and I were safe, preserved by the game we played. My fate had become tied to that D20 in my hand, both in the real world and in the game that had kept myself and my friends out of harm’s way.

I don’t think anyone ever expects Dungeons and Dragons to save lives, but that night I truly believe it did.