After the war Kuwait City looked like a biblical wasteland. The concrete block houses were all burned out, with black smoke smudge over every window. Everything else was stained with greasy black soot. White cats were black. White cars were charcoal-colored.

What can I say, except to condemn the Iraqis who planned and perpetrated this outrage on our planet? How evil can you get?

Though I’m sure Iraqi citizens who lost loved ones to our bombs have felt similar outrage, to an objective viewer the Iraqi revenge on Kuwait—the Iraqi outrage to the world’s environment—can never be forgotten, and it must not go unpunished. We must find ways to prevent similar despoliation in future armed conflicts.

Chapter 12 - A Day in the War

12

A Day in the War

CHUCK HORNER

3 February 1991

0300 I go to bed, extremely tired but feeling good. The war is going well.

0345 I wake up to Scud sirens going off in Riyadh. I lie there and think, Should I get up, put on chem protection, and go to the shelter in the basement? Well, assuming the Scud is aimed at the RSAF building next door: since it will be coming from the north, and since my bedroom is facing south toward the RSAF headquarters, and since I am on the top floor, and since the Scud will have a parabolic not a vertical descent, then the Scud is liable to come through my room en route to the RSAF headquarters, and I will be killed. The RSAF headquarters, on the other hand, will suffer little damage, since most of the blast will be confined to my room.

Better yet, the Patriot at Riyadh Air Base, about half a mile to my north, may hit the missile before it gets to me, which means only debris will hit me.

About then, I hear the sonic booms of two Patriot missiles taking off to the north, followed by the pop of the intercept.

Now I am going back to sleep. I always do after Scud alarms. I guess staying in bed is more attractive than making sure I save my life.

★ 0415 The phone beside the bed goes off, and I answer, “General Horner, how may I help you?” (Old habits drilled into me at the fraternity house in Iowa City die hard.) BeBe Bell, General Schwarzkopf ’s executive officer, is on the other end.

“General Schwarzkopf wants to talk to General Yeosock,” he says. Though Yeosock usually sleeps at ARCENT headquarters in Eskan Village south of town, he had a late night at MODA and stopped here for rest.

“Okay, hold on, I’ll get him,” I answer. “By the way, how are things going?”

“Don’t ask,” BeBe says.

So I slide out of bed and go to John’s door about thirty feet away. I knock, open it a crack, and hear snoring. “John, it’s BeBe on the phone. The CINC wants to talk with”—thinking “at”—“you.”