My non-stop post-9-11 deployments inexorably creep west across Asia. Less than a year after the towers fall, I relinquish my stateside command, and take a deployed C-130 unit launching sorties from Jacobabad, Pakistan, and airdropping supplies to special forces at night in the rugged Afghanistan mountains. Eighteen months later, in early 2003, I command a hybrid squadron of active duty and air national guard C-130s flying out of Seeb, Oman for the initial invasion of Iraq. Now, in autumn of the same year, I command my fourth squadron in fifteen months, another hybrid unit operating from Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar.

Every new deployment moves closer to Baghdad. The longer the conflict persists, the more our armed forces’ infrastructure and bureaucracy balloon. The military machine cannot help itself—give us forty-eight hours and we’ll erect a tent city for three thousand personnel. A month and we’ll contract with Green Beans Coffee, then sign a negotiated agreement with the host nation to serve beer within our base boundaries. Contrary to the Air Force-bashing myths, I’ve never seen plans for a golf course at a deployed location, but I did command a base in Kuwait where my service had built a swimming pool.

Al Udeid—or, The Deid—is the hub of this inevitable growth. It serves as both the Central Command’s Air Force Headquarters, and as the launchpad for the largest concentration of combat aircraft in the Middle East. Fighters and bombers line the ramp. Air refueling and cargo planes use the mile-long asphalt tarmac like a giant bingo board, parking in perfect rows and columns.

A typical C-130 squadron contains 12 airplanes. My new unit flies 36 of the lumbering four-engine aircraft and includes 50 six-person aircrews. It’s the largest operational C-130 unit ever put together.

Before exiting my tent for the in-brief with the operations group commander, I pause at my ops officer’s bunk.

“What do you figure this fighter guy will think about three-hundred C-130 guys moving in to his base?” I ask Lt Col Bill Rudd

The fighter pilot mafia runs the Air Force. An F-16 three-star general leads the headquarters. Another F-16 one-star commands the wing. And the 379th Air Expeditionary Group—the unit my squadron falls under—is run by an F-15 colonel. There’s more testosterone floating around this base than the beach volleyball scene in Top Gun.

Rudd laughs. “You know better than that, Sir. Those fighter dudes don’t think about us at all.”

He’s not wrong. My new boss worries about targeting, friendly fire, downed airmen, and all the sexy kinetic action a flier expects during a prolonged air campaign. After five minutes of “welcome to Al Udeid,” Colonel Black sends me out the door with his commander’s intent: “You know what to do—so do it.”

Another commander might have been disappointed at the lack of guidance from their supervisor. I’m not. The fewer fingers he has in my business the more time for me to escape my make-shift office, either walking the ramp talking to flight crews and maintainers, or hopping onboard with an aircrew and flying missions. I stop by the schedulers desk and put myself on a mission to Baghdad later in the week.

Seventy-two hours. That’s how long my squadron manages to stay under Col Black’s radar. When I return from the late-night Baghdad mission, my ops officer greets me at the plane.

“Boss, we got an issue. Two of them, in fact. I need to brief you before you go in and see Col Black.”

“What do we got?”

“We got two planes impounded, each for a missing M9 round.”

I squint at Rudd. The M9 is the semi-automatic pistol that replaced the Smith & Wesson revolvers used by the Air Force until 1985. The M9 shoots 9mm rounds. A missing round—especially in an aircraft—is a serious problem. If a maintenance technician gets off the aircraft with fewer tools than he or she entered with, that aircraft is impounded until the tool is found, or a multi-day inspection is completed. Same procedure for a missing bullet.

But how can our crews lose an ammunition round? We store our weapons in the C-130’s locked gun box, each loaded with a full magazine and a round in the chamber. Before we takeoff, each aircrew member retrieves the 9mm from the gun box and holsters the weapon for the flight. When we land, we stow the M-9s back in the gun box. You can’t lose a round unless you fire the weapon and require a reload. And if we got guys firing weapons during our missions, I would have already heard about it.

“Two aircraft? What the fuck, Rudd?”

“I know. I can brief you on the way in.”

I ask my copilot to finish filling out the flight paperwork. Rudd gives me the details on the way back to the squadron.

“It’s the Guard guys. One loadmaster lost a round clearing his weapon on the ramp. The other plane had a navigator lose one right next to the gun box.”

“But why–?”

“Let me finish, boss. The Guard guys don’t like our system. They’re asking how they can confirm there’s really a round in the chamber when they pull the M9 from the gun box? How do they know the weapon is good to go unless they do a function check? So they’re clearing the round, to make sure it’s there, reloading the mag and chambering the round.”

I shake my head. “Unnecessary. We’ve told them it’s got a round in the chamber. And Life Support inspects the weapons every week.” I keep my voice even, but I’m pissed. This is the type of thing that always plagues active-duty and guard unit relationships. We active duty aircrew always think the guard runs things fast and loose—just a bunch of good ol’ boys with keys to an airplane. They all think we active-duty guys got a stick up our ass, and only pull it out if we lack a pencil and need something to write a new set of rules with. “I’ll go see the boss. You put out a read file reiterating our procedure. I want the duty officer personally briefing each crew.”

“Roger.” Rudd stares at his feet.

“What?”

“They kind of got a point, boss. The guard aircraft commander told me that if he’s flying one of our active duty aircraft into a combat zone, he has the right to make sure everything works.”

“Put out the read file, Bill. Let’s fix this. I’ll go see the Colonel.”

Col Black is none too impressed. I endure a ten-minute lecture about how impounded aircraft are useless, this is a matter of attention to detail, and how it cost us two missions that soldiers in combat are relying on. Actually, we had a spare aircraft and were able to come up with another, so we haven’t lost the missions. But I keep that to myself and answer with ‘yes sirs’ at all the appropriate moments. Before my dismissal, Col Black surprises me with a declaration I’ve never heard from a boss before. “Torrens, if this shit happens again, it’s on you. I’ll have you on the first plane out of here and find someone who knows how to run your unit.”

I’ve worked for a several commanders with a temper. The issue tonight is no joking matter. But I’ve never been told this is strike two before.

“Got it, sir.” I salute.

Col Black doesn’t return it. “Go fix it.”

Rudd already has the read file printed by the time I return. The duty officer is briefing early morning crews on our procedure—and the reiterated prohibition not to clear weapons on the flightline or in the aircraft.

I grab four hours of sleep in my tent. At breakfast, I seek out the guard’s only chief master sergeant, Chief Barnes, who sits with a major I met when they first arrived. They’ve both heard about last night’s events. The chief isn’t happy about the lost objects—the rounds—but makes the same argument as Rudd. “You can’t send guys into combat without knowing whether their weapons are functional.”

“Bullshit, Chief. We do it all the time with our flare system.” The flares are what the C-130 uses as decoys when evading heat-seeking surface-to-air missiles. “We don’t launch flares out in flight to see if they work. We trust the folks who installed them.”

“Bullshit back at you, Sir. You run a systems check on the flares in the cockpit before takeoff. That’s more than you’re letting the aircrew do with their M9s.”

Chief Barnes is right—I hadn’t considered that before.

For the next two days, everything on the schedule runs smooth. The two impounded aircraft are back flying. The first was operational within four hours after maintainers found the missing round. The second was on the ground for a full day and night before the inspection cleared the aircraft to fly. The bullet was never found. Meanwhile, I’m touring other flying squadrons around the base to see how they work the weapons issue. The fighter units all have armories where they store their weapons with clearing barrels where aircrew can individually function check and load their weapons. Transit cargo and refueling aircraft use a gun box like we do, but they’ve personally checked their M9s before leaving the US at their home-station armories.

I call home to the tech sergeant running our stateside armory and ask him questions about how to set one up. It’s a hell of a lot of work—at least a three-week process if we have to order a clearing barrel from out of theater. I make a checklist of everything that needs to be done. I spend another day thinking about it.

That night we lose another round in the plane.

I try for the first word when I walk into Col Black’s office, but instead of the irate commander I encountered the first time this happened, my boss seems almost serene.

“Cam. Thanks for coming by. This isn’t working.”

“I know, Sir. I thought the guidance we put out would do it, but—”

Col Black interrupts. “I’m not talking about your guidance. I’m talking about you working for me. It’s not working out. I’m replacing you.”

My stomach feels like it’s dropped through the floor of the forty-foot trailer in which we sit. I’m unsure why I’m surprised. Col Black told me there wouldn’t be another chance. I know he doesn’t have time for this shit. This very serious shit. But I’ve never been fired before.

“Sir, I have a plan.”

“I do, too. I’ll be working the phones tomorrow sourcing your replacement. You’re in command until they get here. Don’t fuck things up in the meantime or I’ll send you home with paperwork as well. That is all.”

I give myself a single minute on the walk back to my unit for a pity party. A couple of “fucks” muttered under my breath. A brief glance at the sky with an accompanying “why?” But by the time I walk through the door I have a plan. We’re building an armory. I’ve got two major goals—build a system that works, so our bumbling bullet issue goes away. And finish it before my replacement arrives.

I don’t know who Col Black has told about my impending loss of command, but I’m not telling my unit until the door hits me in the ass on the way out. They all know something is up, though, because I’m full-court-pressing this armory issue every waking hour. I know my home-station troops are wondering what’s gotten into their normally even-keeled commander. The guard members aren’t surprised at my honed focus—they just think that stick in my ass somehow got wedged tighter.

The deputy ops group commander stops by life support. He finds me personally supervising construction while encouraging the civil engineering airmen voluntarily helping us out. Pulling me aside, the deputy asks questions about this new armory and what processes we’ll use. Before he leaves, he tells me my replacement hasn’t left the states yet.

On the third night, life support personnel transfer the weapons from the C-130s to the new armory. We have the required clearing barrel on order, but our maintenance metals team was able to fashion a temporary one out of a 55-gallon drum. Fortunately, we’ve had no more lost bullets while we were building our solution. The next morning, we’re operational.

Col Black pops in two days later.

“Show me this armory,” he says.

I walk him through what we’ve built and explain our processes. He nods at all the right spots. We both know building and using an armory isn’t rocket science. He’s probably wondering why it took a genius like himself to make these “we’ve always used the gun box”C-130 guys start doing things the fighter way. I just wonder if he’ll reconsider firing me.

“Your replacement is delayed for an issue at his home-station squadron. I need you to run things until he gets it squared away. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Yes, Sir.” There’s no way I’m letting on how relieved I am at the delay. But I am. Now that we’ve solved the problem, I’m even less excited about telling my subordinates I’m fired. So I don’t.

Three weeks later, Col Black stops me in the chow hall. “Looks like that armory’s working out OK. Any issues?”

“Working great, Sir. No issues.”

“Guess you guys fixed the problem.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m calling off your replacement. But you’re still on probation. Anything else and you’re gone. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Another commander might suspect Col Black has been toying with me. Using empty threats to get me to move faster.

I don’t.

My unit created a problem for him. I’m responsible for that unit. He decided to fire me. Now he’s changed his mind. I don’t care if he’s an asshole. I don’t want to be fired. I take my second chance and run with it.

Our aircrews thrive for the remaining three months of the deployment. When an earthquake nails Bam, Iran, we make headlines flying the first US military aircraft into Iran since the botched hostage rescue of 1980. Col Black starts smiling at me. My shattered confidence slowly returns to fighting form. The relationship between the guard and my unit is strong—the guard crews might have been frustrated at our rules and procedures, but they like our team. My active-duty guys feel the same way—they respect their guard counterparts. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.

When we pack up to fly stateside, we exchange goodbyes on the tarmac. Chief Barnes slaps me on the back.

“You made it, Sir.”

The only person I’ve shared my “almost-fired” story with is my ops officer, Bill Rudd.

“Yep.” I still don’t plan on sharing the experience with anyone else.

Chief Barnes grins. “Come on, boss. We all knew. No one wanted you to get fired. The guys think you’re OK.”

I’m surprised but try not to show it. “Well, I appreciate them falling in line with the armory. Saved us from losing more bullets.”

“Hmmm.”

“What?”

“It helped, I agree. But some of our guys are gun guys. They just can’t help themselves with those end-of-the-ramp function checks.”

“They were still doing it?” I gape at the Chief. I can’t believe it.

“One or two.”

“Thank God they didn’t lose any more ammo.”

Chief Barnes slaps me on the back. “No, Sir. You should thank God they brought extra bullets for when they did!”

When I enter my office, the blast of air conditioning instantly deep freezes my sweaty desert Cammies. I drop into the chair behind my desk, and check another box on my ‘to-do’ list, even though I don’t feel like I’ve done anything. Although the US Air Force has maintained a footprint at this remote Kuwaiti Air Base since the early 1990s, we didn’t start running one-year tours here until the US invaded Iraq in 2003. I’m the sixth Colonel selected to lead this base. This is Day Three of “walking and talking” to my new troops, who are crammed into temporary buildings on an appendage of the airfield the Kuwaitis provide. I recognize how important face-to-face contact is with my subordinates, but my eyes can’t help but drift to the middle item on the list—my theater orientation flight to Baghdad, Iraq, next Thursday. The worst part of command is reduced flight frequency. I’ll have too many obligations to the seven-thousand servicemen and women at this base to fly as often as I want. That said, the best part of command is that I have to fly. You don’t run an operational air base without proving your credibility as an operator.

At the bottom of the list are more meetings. Meet the judge advocate general, meet the Office of Special Investigation detachment commander, connect with the chaplain.

Whoa. I pencil the last one in above my theater orientation flight. Can’t hurt to fit in the chaplain’s visit before I fly into a combat zone.

My vice commander, Pete Quindlen, pokes his head into my office. “Boss, we got an issue.”

“What’s up?”

“General Ahmad wants you in his office like ten minutes ago. And I’m pretty sure I know why.”

I stand. “Walk with me. What happened?”

Pete steps aside as I exit my office, then tucks in beside me down the short cinderblock-lined hall. My executive officer stands as I nod at her. “Already heard, Sir. Good luck.”

“Gate security on the north side stopped General Ahmad and wouldn’t let him on to our section,” my vice says. “When they asked for his ID, he told them he didn’t need it because it’s his base. We’re his guests.”

“Shit. He’s right. That’s exactly what he told us the first day. Our guys are supposed to give him, and whoever is with him, access anytime he needs it.”

“Right. Except the SF guys rotated in the same day you and I did. They didn’t get the memo.”

I leave my number two within the confines of our half-mile-by-half-mile US compound to fix the gate issue with the SF squadron commander. I’m sweating from the fifty meter walk to my vehicle, then cold again when I crank the air conditioning on my way to General Ahmad’s office. They say it takes several weeks to get used to 118-degree daytime highs. I’m not so sure.

A young Kuwaiti officer ushers me through the door. General Ahmad greets me with a bristly-beard triple kiss that I’m still getting used to before he waves me to a chair. His aide brings me a cup of tea. The general eyes are warm as he asks about my family. I’m impressed with his recall—we only met three days ago, yet he remembers my wife’s name.

Fifteen minutes of conversation pass and I’m struggling to keep my mouth shut. I want to apologize and explain to General Ahmad what we are doing to fix the issue. I want to assure him this will not happen again.

Finally, during a two-second pause in conversation, I say, “General, about today—”

General Ahmad raises his hand with a slight smile. “Cam. Is it fixed?”

“Yes, Sir. I am briefing—”

The general raises his hand again. “I’m sure you have taken care of this. What I called you to my office for was to invite you to join my brothers and I on Thursday evening for dinner. Will you be able to join us?”

He’s rocked me on my heels just a bit. I feel like a second lieutenant, ready to beg for a second chance, and General Ahmad is inviting me to join his family to break bread? But Thursday is the day I’ve blocked off as my flying day. Or at least it used to be.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

So begins the most important relationship of my year. After the liberation of Kuwait by coalition forces in 1991, the Kuwaitis have been grateful and gracious hosts. But that was seventeen years ago, and stories abound about US leaders in Kuwait who have taken their hosts’ hospitality for granted. The US three-star in charge of our Air Force in Central Command tells me to “keep our Airmen in line, deliver everything the combat commanders want anywhere and anytime, and—most of all—don’t piss off the Kuwaitis.”

I juggle my schedule and fly Monday night instead. It’s a standard troop haul to Baghdad International. Standard, in that we’ve done a lot of these over the last five years. Non-standard, in that back home we aren’t concerned about an errant surface-to-air missile or small arms fire greeting us upon arrival. I’ve got an instructor with me for my first flight in theater, and she signs me off as “good to go” when we return to Kuwait. Sure, I was going to have to screw up pretty badly for a captain to tell the wing commander he needed another qualification flight, but I recognized the flight went well. Training works—and I’ve spent the last three months re-qualifying in the same model C-130E I initially flew as a first lieutenant.

Pete Quindlen joins me on the drive across the desert for dinner at General Ahmad’s on Thursday night. We leave the base at five and it takes an hour to follow the general’s directions. Like an ocean horizon, the sand stretches before us to the sky. Unlike the sea, roads crisscross the dusty main highway, and English signs are scarce. One of our security forces teams tails us with estimated GPS coordinates for our destination. I’m sure they’re laughing at our meandering route, but I had to ask them to join us. No matter how secure we believe we are in this country, I’d have my ass handed to me if my boss found out my deputy and I both left the base at the same time to drive off into the Kuwaiti desert.

When we arrive, I’m surprised at the set-up. I knew we would be outside because General Ahmad told us we should bring a jacket. He didn’t tell me we’d be eating in tents. The compound is a canvas C-shape with a tent on the left for service staff, a tent on the right for dining, and an open tent bridging the two others with chairs arranged close to a fire.

The general greets us with his trademark kisses and whispers in my ear, “You can greet my brothers whatever way you feel comfortable. A handshake is okay. They will not be offended.”

Pete and I move through the line of men all dressed the same—white disdashas with a white keffiyeh held on their head with a black cord—as General Ahmad does introductions. As I shake hands with the last man, the general says, “Now you have met twenty-one of my twenty-two brothers. Khaled could not make it tonight. Welcome to my family.”

My jaw drops. I give Pete a ‘we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto’ glance. He appears as impressed as I am.

“Sounds like your mother is an incredible woman.”

The general laughs, to my relief. I’ve just violated my training on cultural sensitivity with my observation.

“Four mothers. My father had four wives. Mine was the first.”

Now I really have questions. Four wives? How does that work? Four bedrooms under one roof or four residences his father rotates between? But now is not the time.

General Ahmad ushers Pete and me into the main tent and has us sit at his side by the small fire between the chairs. We drink tea and talk. We drink more tea and talk some more. Three hours later, and an equal number of bathroom breaks, we are still drinking tea. I’m wondering what the plan is for dinner. Finally, at 11 o’clock, two trucks show up and back toward the side of the tents. Men lay down plastic wrap—the kind I’d use if I was repainting my kitchen—and distribute large dishes of food across the tent floor. I keep waiting for General Ahmad to make a move toward the dinner tent, but he just smiles and as the staff continues hauling in more and more food. I can identify cumin, garlic, maybe saffron—although I’m unsure if I recognize the scent or note the color of the rice dishes passing by. Back at the base, I’d be asleep by this time—or flying—but certainly done with dinner. My stomach rumbles.

The meal is something out of The Arabian Nights—or at least how I would imagine a traditional Arab feast. Exotic casseroles, salads, rice, bread, and hummus, all arranged around the body of a goat.

My paradigm of traditional formality quickly shifts, however, when we begin to eat. We reach from our cross-legged positions and scoop the meat into our mouths with our right hands, then squeeze rice balls with our grease-laden fingers to chase the goat meat. A challenge for Pete and me, as we studiously avoid using our left hand to help pack our bites together. I knew when we accepted the invitation that alcohol wouldn’t be an option, but I can’t help thinking I’m experiencing the Kuwaiti version of an American tailgate party—a loud, man-dominated, bro-fest minus booze and a corn hole game.

General Ahmad graciously ensures that our security team, positioned in the parking lot, is also provided food. Men arrive to pull up the plastic wrap and dispose of the leftovers. I love this experience. A taste of the “real” Kuwait I suspect most never get. But it’s past midnight and we’ve got work tomorrow. General Ahmad pulls me back to the fire and offers coffee. We sit for two more hours talking about family, nibbling on a variety of dates and knafeh dishes.

“What did you think?” Pete asks on the way home.

“Totally different experience than I expected. But I’m kind of glad it’s over. By the time we get back to base, we’ll have been gone eight hours.”

Pete laughs.

“What?”

“General Ahmad told me they do this every Thursday. And you’re invited every time.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I shit you not.” Pete waits a couple of seconds before continuing. “He did say the last commander would sometimes send his vice commander in his place if his schedule didn’t allow him to make a week. I debated on whether to share that with you.”

“Asshole. Every other week then, OK?” This was a once-in-a-lifetime meal. I don’t want it to become routine.

“Yes, Sir.”