It’s hard to describe the tension, boredom, highs and lows that occurred in that room. When CNN went off the air on the first night, we were sky-high. The tension of anticipating everything that could have gone wrong that night was erased. But then there were the moments when someone was shot down, and we watched the futile efforts to pick up the survivor. There were also the long hours of routine, coffee breath, and sand in the eyes. I often pressed a can of cold Diet Coke into my eyes to make the swelling go down. Sometimes the pain and irritation would make me tear up so much that I couldn’t read reports or pay attention to the unfolding battle. There was also the anxious excitement when “Scud ALERT” was screamed out, especially during the first few days of missile attack, before we became overconfident that they wouldn’t hit us. Blind trust. There was the preparation, about 2100 or 2200 each night, when we tried to anticipate what was going to happen that evening—usually Scuds or Al-Khafji type things. There were good times, stopping by the coffeepots to tell war stories about the good old days. There were times when you wanted to cry, as when Lieutenant Colonel Donnie Holland was shot down at Basra and there were no beacons, meaning that in all likelihood he was dead. Holland had been my executive officer when I was the two-star planner at headquarters Tactical Air Command. When he wanted to get into the F-15E, I arranged it; and he was a first-rate weapons system officer. That night he was flying with a flight surgeon who was dual-rated as a pilot, and they flew into the ground. Though we gave the Iraqis credit for shooting them down, Donnie was in the rear cockpit because the doctor’s work in the hospital kept him from getting as much flying time as the other pilots. So Holland, the old head WSO, was crewed with the doctor/pilot who was low on flying time.