War Fever
by Kathleen Tighe
“War is like love. It always finds a way.” —Bertolt Brecht
One afternoon during a rare visit home, my son Chris sauntered into the kitchen carrying a gas mask encased in a jungle green knapsack.
“I found this upstairs, in the closet,” he said. “Let me show you how it goes.” He deftly snapped straps around his hips and in seconds the knapsack was attached tightly to his left thigh.
“So here’s what you do,” Chris continued. “You’re in imminent danger. You lift the flap, pull out the mask, put it on.” He demonstrated. Chris had just completed months of training as a newly commissioned officer in the U.S. Marines. That experience included exposure to chemical weapons.
His speed impressed me, even as my stomach twisted familiarly at the possibility he might need it. “Is that mask like the one you used at Quantico?”
“Nah,” the new Marine sneered. “This one’s way old.”
In the safety of my Michigan kitchen, I gazed at the gas mask, remembering that it was already old when I first saw it, over 25 years ago in a far-off land, when I hoped it could save my life.
*
Today, cable TV fills my home with burning buildings, shell-shocked refugees, tank convoys, grieving victims. The images shock, reminiscent as they are of old WWII documentaries, yet horrifyingly immediate. War has engulfed us again. This time it lands in Ukraine, an unprovoked attack by its neighbor, Russia. Nations have unified in opposition but the aggression continues unabated.
*
My earliest childhood memories include scenes on the nightly news of young men clad in jungle camouflage running through rainforests or rice paddies, helicopters whirring overhead, daily tallies of death. In fourth grade, a classmate’s older brother was killed and we were all somber for a day or two, contemplating the unimaginable. By the time I discovered Holocaust-themed novels, Saigon had fallen and the United States had retreated from Southeast Asia.
*
As a young adult, I assumed my place in the world with confidence. Even as I traveled to countries with conflicts, through unsettled regions, I moved with complacency, as though wrapped in a cocoon of protection. Its proof was the blue passport I wielded. That, and the Cold War was ending. We were entering an era of peace. My optimism was based on naiveté.
The West’s euphoria over the fall of the Berlin Wall and the crumbling of the Soviet Union ended abruptly when Iraq invaded Kuwait in August 1990, setting the stage for a new hot war. For months the world’s leaders debated responses while Saddam Hussein rattled sabers and promised “rivers of blood.” In the staff lounge of the international school in Saudi Arabia where I taught, colleagues shared news, rumors, fears.
The school year had barely begun yet families were leaving. As students withdrew, the staff grew nervous. A few teaching couples resigned. Others talked of it.
The US Consulate warned of possible terror attacks, so we held drills on campus, amassing the entire student body into the gymnasium, a Quonset hut set far back from the highway. Could a school be targeted? Surely not. Deniz, a Turkish student in my 7th grade class, walked alongside me as we hurried to the gym. “We’ll be fine,” she assured me. “My mother says the Americans would close the school if it wasn’t safe.”
Today’s Twitter feed features the destruction of Ukraine. Heavily-pregnant women are led from a devastated building, a maternity hospital. A theater sheltering frightened families with children is bombed. People lined up for bread are shot. Warmongers know no bounds.
From my classroom window, 30 years ago, I watched as military forces poured into that desert kingdom, C-130s landing on nearby airport runways, unloading, taking off again. As I read aloud from Where the Red Fern Grows, fighter jets flew sorties overhead, so loud I had to stop reading. The buildup was called Operation Desert Shield. We were safe within the shield, our school administration asserted, echoing State Department officials. Staff could leave if they were afraid, but leaving would result in termination. In any case, the school would remain open. It was a symbol of security. Close, and too many people would leave. Oil production would slow down.
All these years later, I still feel the uncertainty, that deer-caught-in-the-headlights sense of not knowing what to do. Leave, and lose a job I loved. Stay, and risk being caught in a war’s crossfire. I remember the anger I felt toward those who would use a school as a political pawn. It was a moment of profound disillusionment, one that has shaped my skepticism toward our government ever since.
This morning my email inbox is flooded with pleas for donations, anything to ease the plight of millions of Ukraine’s evacuees fleeing their homes in desperation. It is impossible to imagine, yet the scene is astonishingly familiar. It replays itself, it seems, every few years or so. Only the faces and locations change. I think of the highway I took to campus in Dhahran, its westbound lanes choked with cars, station wagons, minivans, all laden with suitcases, grocery bags, mattresses lashed to rooftops. President Bush’s deadline in the sand was drawing near. In my classroom, dwindling numbers of students awaited me. The Clash played on repeat in my head: Should I stay or should I go now?
My husband and I were awakened one night in January as waves of jets roared overhead, streaming 200 miles north. The dreaded war had begun. I pictured Kuwait’s modern coastline city and the destruction heading its way.
A few nights later, scud missiles were launched our way.
The first hit as I prepared for bed, brushing my teeth in a second-floor bathroom. Despite the concrete construction of our villa, the percussion rattled walls and windows and all illusion of safety. I took the stairs two at a time, swallowing toothpaste as I leapt, racing for the safe room we’d prepared in a closet beneath the stairs.
The night sky exploded: Iraqi scuds were lobbed indiscriminately toward Dhahran where the US military controlled the international airport, and Patriot missiles overtook them midflight. As interceptions thudded overhead, I remembered the words of a young soldier reassuring me as he wolfed down Thanksgiving dinner in our dining room a few months earlier. “Don’t you worry, ma’am,” he said earnestly. “We’ll take that scud out before it even leaves Iraqi airspace.”
Rumors of chemical-laden missiles flew rampantly, and we now clutched Vietnam-era gas masks, shipped to us from Dan’s brother, who had found them in an Army Navy surplus shop in Florida. We were glad to have masks, but they offered scant comfort as we huddled under the stairs.
The gods were kind that night. Fragments of exploded missiles fell harmlessly into the desert surrounding our housing compound. The dreaded chemical warfare never materialized.
*
Six weeks later, Iraq abandoned Kuwait. Americans view this as a “success story.” Three days before the war ended, one last scud missile was launched. It hit a US Army barracks, killing 27 soldiers and wounding 98. That barracks, just miles from where we lived, was located behind a toy store where I would later bring my two little boys to shop.
One of those little boys is now in Europe, prepared to defend NATO if the war in Ukraine spreads. I stumbled too close to a war unintentionally; my son has chosen the life of a warrior. Thoroughly perplexed, I once asked him why. He answered simply, “You always told me to find a way to serve others. Not everyone can do this. I can.”
Humanity is stuck in a continuous spiral, despite our best intentions. We grow up learning of evil men – Josef Mengeles, Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin – and we admire the heroes who stood against them. We turn the page, close the chapter, assure ourselves that particular horror is behind us. And then it rises again. And again.
In the face of it, it is easy to despair, but I seek out glimmers of hope.
As leaders around the world fail us, others step up. A comedian-turned-politician becomes an inspirational giant; a chef sets up field kitchens to feed the hungry; young men and women willingly shoulder new burdens to once again defend democracy.
In Ukraine, a grandmother fills the pockets of her invaders with sunflower seeds. She tells the Russians when they die on Ukrainian soil, sunflowers will grow where they fall.
“As the drums of war began beating again in Eastern Europe, dusty memories from my experience in Saudi Arabia during the first Gulf War were revived. Those memories, the ongoing war in Ukraine, and my son’s military service resulted in this essay, ‘War Fever.’” —Kathleen Tighe
Kathleen Tighe is a writer and educator based in Michigan. She writes creative nonfiction, flash fiction, and poetry. Her work has appeared in The Write Launch, Dunes Review, Still Life, Qua Literary and Fine Arts Magazine, Writing From the Inside Out, and The Purposeful Mayonnaise. Her lifelong travel influences much of her work.