This journal appeared in the January and April 1992 issues of Code One Magazine.

27 February 1991
(Lt. Joey Booher, Andrews wingman, is the author of the entry for this date.)

27 February (Capt. Evan Thomas' account)

I heard Joey explain that there was AAA all around him and that he was climbing up into the clouds. From the excited tone of his voice, I knew the flak had been close. I waited for Psycho to answer that he, too, was climbing into the clouds, but nothing came. Joey was talking again, still in the clouds, still with AAA exploding around him. Still no call from Psycho. When Joey was finally on top of the clouds and out of the flak, he asked Psycho for a radio check. (I found out later that he asked me too, but I never heard it on my radio.) I felt a sick feeling deep in my gut. Psycho should have answered. Something must have happened to him.

My fears were soon confirmed by an unusual voice over the radio. It was not the clear voice from an oxygen mask mike, but the voice from a walkie talkie on a windy day. "I'm in my chute," the voice yelled. It was Psycho. He had been shot down.

Psycho was talking on Guard, the emergency frequency, so everyone nearby could hear. Trying to be helpful, numerous flights started crowding the frequency, asking for Bill's position. I was fifteen miles away and above the clouds and didn't know where he had gone down in relation to the coordinates we had. I tried to get an accurate fix on Psycho's position from Joey, but he could only describe a rough position from a factory down below. In his chute, Psycho was trying to describe where he was coming down. I was torn between getting his position for AWACS and going under the clouds to find and help him. He was floating down into the Republican Guards we'd been bombing for a month.

"They're shooting at me," I heard in my radio. "They're shooting at me in my chute!" That was it. Enough radio chatter; there'd be time for that later. Abner, my wingman, and I had been looking for a hole in the clouds without luck. So I lined us up for a straight run at the target coordinates right through the clouds. As we dived in tactical formation, the world outside went from the brilliant blue of the sunny sky to the white nothingness of the clouds. Lower. Lower. The clouds turned a brownish black. Any second now and I'll break out, I thought. Any second now. Abner was out there somewhere off my wing, shrouded by the sooty smoke.

The smoke ended abruptly, revealing a flat, brown landscape right out of Dante's Inferno. The black sky blocked out the sun, creating a dusky gloom. The earth below was smeared here and there by the blackened aftermath of many bombs.

Psycho was still talking, trying to tell us where he was. I was trying desperately to find him, so much so that I misunderstood what he said and concentrated my search on the wrong side of my plane. To slow down would make us nice targets, so we had to race over the area then turn and come back. As we started our second run, I saw two lines of fire streak off the ground to my right. "Break right! Flares!" I yelled to my wingman, calling the launch location out as I hit my own flares and climbed into the clouds.

The streaks had to be heat-seeking SAMs. They were moving incredibly fast, towards Abner. "Break right! Flares! Flares!" I heard again, this time from Psycho who by now was on the ground with a broken leg. I learned later that Abner had not heard my call. But Psycho's call from the ground warned him in time to escape into the cloud deck, spewing bright flares behind him.

What a nightmare! I was relieved to hear Abner on the radio. Soon we were both on top of the clouds trying to get back together.

Things were getting worse for Psycho. On his last radio call, he said that soldiers were coming and that they were attacking him. Pete and I lined up again, this time from a different direction, and plunged into the clouds again.

... We didn't speak much that night, to each other or to anyone else. We sat alone with our thoughts. Bill's last words hadn't sounded good. When Spike Thomas had gone clown, we knew he was in a remote area. Bill had landed right amongst a lot of scared, tired, and desperate troops.

We tossed restlessly in our cots all night. In the morning came the news that we were ceasing our attack. The war was over. News that should have had me jumping for joy left me, instead, saddened and bitter. It was too terrible, too tragic that Bill had been killed on the last afternoon of the war. I learned that the Army would stop short of his crash site. It was impossible to feel the happiness everyone else felt. We merely nodded and said, "Yeah, great," when confronted with relieved shouts and large victory grins.

Many days later, we learned that Bill was alive. What a relief! When we eventually got word that he was in safe hands, I finally let my doubts drop away and began enjoying the feeling of victory. As it turned out, Bill had quite an adventure in Iraq. But that's a whole different story, ain't it now?

27 February (Capt. Andrews, continued from Part 1)

When the soldiers were very close, I saw an IR SAM launch behind them, to my northwest. An eastbound F-16 was in its path. Although I had already surrendered, I couldn't stand the idea of them shooting down a buddy so I snatched my radio from the ground and called for a right break and flares. The plane turned and spewed about nine flares. The missile missed. What an awesome sight!

The soldiers, however, weren't so pleased with the display. They began to shoot at me again--this time from a very close range. I tossed the radio to the ground. One soldier ran up to me, shooting at the ground the whole way. He blew my radio into little pieces. The other soldiers took the cue and blasted everything in sight, including my raft and survival kit.

The soldiers grabbed me and started pulling off my gear. They were particularly interested in my pistol and knives. They tore through my survival vest to get at them. I saw my watch and Swiss army knife go. When they stopped, I was surprised that I still had my glasses and wedding ring. They tossed me into a broken-up jeep, and off we raced across the desert. My leg dangled loosely, but I felt no pain. I moaned and groaned, though, to emphasize the injury. They drove to a checkpoint - possibly for a company or battalion.

I got out of the jeep and was told to sit in the dirt. I asked for a doctor, and they said okay, but took no action. I was piled back into another jeep and taken to the headquarters of the next echelon. An officer, a driver, and a guard accompanied me. The officer, a thin lieutenant, carried a paper bag with all my stuff. The guard had cleaned me out earlier for fifty-four dollars and some of my equipment, all under the nose of his not-so-observant officer. I came to refer to the guard as "the thief." He hid his booty in the doorframe of the jeep. He got some satisfaction out of making me aware of his AK-47, which he kept pointed at me inches away. Having that loaded gun pointed at me was itself uncomfortable. My discomfort worsened as the jeep bumped and jolted across the many tank tracks crisscrossing the desert. My leg didn't appreciate the bumps, either.

At the next checkpoint, I again sat outside the door on the ground. The commander at here was a tall, slender, graying young man who coolly observed me from the corner of his eye. Around us, many AAA guns fired.

Soldiers, mostly enlisted men, began gathering around me. The officers appeared interested, but kept their distance. The skinny young lieutenant had taken the bag with my equipment inside a dugout. My personal guard stayed close, watching me intently and brandishing his AK-47. He looked on while one soldier shouted at me, spit on me, and hit me in the face. Other soldiers pulled the man back and rebuffed him.

An officer asked in English if I wanted some food. I said, "Yes, but I would like to see a doctor right away." He gave me what would become the patent answer "Diktor? Yes, fifteen minutes." He disappeared inside the bunker and reappeared with a can of what he called cream and some pita bread. He opened the can and handed it to me. I ate everything they gave me to keep up my strength. I dipped the bread in the flavorless white substance in the can. I ate most of it with the bread and then handed the can to some of the soldiers around me. They snatched at the can and hungrily scraped out what was left with their fingers.

After a while, most of the onlookers drifted off. Several staff officers came and went from the bunker. A soldier came out of the bunker and set down a plate of dates in the sand in front of me. He also handed me a small, clear glass of what he called "chai," which turned out to be tea with lots of sugar. The dates were good - sticky and sweet.

I rode in the back seat behind the driver. The thief and his AK-47 rode next to me. The skinny lieutenant was up front with the paper bag containing my gear. My chute, harness, and survival kit were still in the back. Occasionally, the thief would reach into the door frame and pull out a piece of his personal booty, stealthily study it, and then return it to his secret spot.

We drove past a group of burning buildings. In front of them was a sign in Arabic with something like "Project No. 11" in English across the bottom. The buildings looked like they might be an oil pumping station. Big supply and fuel trucks rumbled by in both directions every few minutes. I saw no combat units on the move. After fifteen minutes of driving, we had to stop because the road was blocked by a brightly burning convoy of three or four trucks. The lieutenant and the driver decided to turn around. We ended up doubling back, passing by the headquarters we had just left By this time, the sun had set and darkness was closing in.

We soon came to a modern autobahn overpass. It crossed an equally modern four-lane divided highway, complete with blue autobahn signs like you ,see in Europe. The next sign offered two choices: Nasiryah or Basra. We chose the easterly route to Basra. The jeep got up to about forty-five miles per hour and then sputtered and died. The driver pulled to a stop, got out, and fiddled with the carburetor while the lieutenant held a flashlight for him. They got back in after a minute and we pressed on. It wasn't long before the engine stalled again. The driver put it into low gear, and we lurched to a halt.

Just as the driver opened the door to get out, a hellacious noise erupted in front of the jeep. A huge burst of bright gold and orange sparkles shot across the highway no more than 1500 feet away. Some pilot high in the sky had pulled some lead on us and would have scored a shack if the jeep hadn't crapped out.

I had often wondered what exploding CBU sounded like, but I never wanted such a personal demonstration. Pulling out of a dive in my insulated cockpit at 10, 000 feet, I could see the sparkles of my CBU, but I heard nothing. Fighter pilots might compare the sound to that of a 20mm gun firing, only about twice as loud with a bit more bass. For someone who doesn't fly fighters, it sounds like a very loud, slow-running chainsaw.

Nobody dove for cover. We all froze like deer caught in the bright headlights of an oncoming truck.

The close call made me more sensitive to the burned out vehicles we had been passing along the side of the road. I wanted to get the hell away from the autobahn. The lieutenant had the same idea. Once they got the jeep running, we backtracked to a spot where the highway divider was crushed, crossed the westbound lane, and headed north back into the desert.

Soon our jeep became critically ill. The driver stopped dozens of times to make adjustments under the hood. After each adjustment, the jeep would creep along for fifteen seconds at best and then break down again. We were back in tank track country, so my leg was really hurting. I still had on my G-suit, which was mostly unzipped. I started to zip it down my right leg as a makeshift splint. My movements panicked the thief, so I stopped until he got a flashlight pointed at me. My right calf was extremely tight and swollen. The firm pressure from the G-suit helped. I thanked God that my leg was not bleeding, but I sure didn't want to see what it looked like below the skin.

The officer eventually became disgusted with the jeep. He said a few curt words to the other two soldiers, got out, and started on foot across the desert. The driver decided to get serious about the carburetor. He pulled it off the engine, sat in the front seat, and performed open-heart surgery on it with a knife.

The officer's absence offered my guard an opportunity to scrutinize his booty. There in the jeep's door frame he had two of my flashlights and my survival knife from my G-suit pocket. He pulled out one flashlight and examined it. The thief couldn't figure out how to work its sliding on/off switch. I motioned to him to give it to me, but he wouldn't trust me with it. He fiddled with it for some time without success, eventually returning it to the doorframe. He then pulled out the pocketknife and studied it for a while before returning it to the doorframe. Finally, he retrieved the other flashlight. After a few minutes, he figured out how to turn it on and off by twisting the lens. He said something in Arabic, and I replied with "light" as I pointed to the flashlight. He repeated "light" and we both nodded. He seemed to be delighted by the device and switched it on and off incessantly. I became irritated about the whole thing because every time he turned it on he shined it in my eyes.

By this time, the driver had the carburetor back together and installed. After a few tries, the engine started and seemed to be running well. Before moving both soldiers called into the night, presumably for the officer. There was no reply. They both got into the front of the jeep, which gave me room to place my leg more comfortably across the back seat. We drove for about a half-mile and stopped. The soldiers once again called out into the night. Again, there was no reply. We drove on into the desert.

The moon was full and kept the desert well illuminated. Though the driver made almost no use of the jeep's headlights, he seemed to be doing a good job navigating. The windshield was dirty, though, and he had to throw the door open and stick his head out to see better.

We stopped when we reached an area deeply rutted with mechanized tracks. The two Iraqis got out and motioned for me to do the same. I was rather comfortable in the back seat, so I refused. They insisted. But I remained in the jeep. They then tried to persuade me by repeating, "Diktor," over and over. I knew that was BS. Eventually, they grabbed my arms and pulled me out of the jeep. I hauled myself around the backside of the jeep to a spot where they wanted me to sit. I sat there for about an hour with my guards waiting about fifteen feet away, keeping an eye on me in the moonlight.

Eventually, sounds from another jeep approached from the distance. My driver flashed his headlights towards it and honked the horn. The jeep arrived, with the skinny lieutenant among its passengers. My driver, guard, and I climbed back into our jeep. The other men attached a tow rope and towed our jeep (I never understood why) further into the Iraqi desert.

We pulled to a stop at the entrance of a small infantry dugout. Two soldiers carried me from the jeep and down a short ramp that led to the entrance, which was covered by a blanket.

The dugout was about ten by ten feet and three feet deep. A tin roof held about two feet above the ground by sandbags covered the dugout. Inside, blankets attached to the roof formed the walls. One wall, sloped inwards and was covered with a tarp. Blankets and plastic covered the floor. Military equipment lined the walls. A small cooking fire kept the room pleasantly warm. A television set occupied a ledge dug into one wall. The set wasn't connected to power or to an antenna. It and other items in the dugout appeared to be looted from Kuwait.

The soldiers put me on top of a long piece of foam rubber and indicated for me to lie down. The foam rubber was comfortable. It was the choice spot in the dugout. I felt fairly safe from air attack. The light from the fire was dim and shielded by the blanket in the doorway. I knew from experience that these infantry positions were virtually invisible from the air, particularly from the altitudes our planes operated.

Two soldiers were in the dugout when I was carried in; three or four followed my bearers inside. My guard took up a position beside me. The soldiers stood around and gawked at me for a while. Then an officer came in and squatted beside me. He was a captain, with broad features and a little heavy set for an Iraqi soldier (most were thin).

The captain spoke a little English. He asked me my name and how my leg was. I told him that I wanted to see a doctor. He smiled and said "Diktor? Yes, fifteen minutes. " He had a friendly manner and, like the soldiers around him, seemed curious about me. He asked me if I had a family. In training, we had been told to avoid telling captors anything that could be used against us. I told him that I didn't want to discuss whether I had a family. He seemed a bit surprised by the answer and pressed me on the issue. But I continued to resist. He asked what type of plane I flew. I replied that that was military information and I could not discuss it. Overall, he seemed more curious about my home life than about my aircraft or mission.

After a few more unanswered questions, the captain told a man tending the fire to give me some food. The man handed me a spoon and a big bowl of rice scooped from a large pot over the fire. The rice was seasoned with small rocks. Every third spoonful or so contained a crunchy surprise. The captain offered me a box of dates. Though I wasn't that hungry, I tried to eat everything anyway.

US intelligence briefers had told us the Iraqi army was starving and surviving on a daily ration of a spoonful of beans and a little water. While the soldiers here looked thin, they seemed to have all the rice and dates they wanted. (I didn't see any beans.) Our intelligence probably applied to Iraqi troops on the front line in Kuwait, troops fed by a much more tortured supply chain than those dug in on their home soil. The soldiers around me also seemed to be in fairly high spirits.

Soldiers began to come and go from the dugout. Two or three stayed with me at all times. One visiting soldier absent-mindedly propped his AK-47 against the wall next to me and walked to the other side of the dugout to talk to another soldier. After a minute, his comrade noticed the gun and scolded him. The thought of shooting them never entered my mind. I wasn't going anywhere without help.

Some soldiers tried to communicate with me. Most wanted to know if I had a family. I resisted the temptation to talk about my wife and children.

Later, another soldier sat beside me and indicated that he wanted to help. I had to do something about my leg. Though it did not hurt a lot, my lower leg could move freely in all directions with my knee stationary. My foot could rotate outwards past ninety degrees. I could feel and hear the ends of the broken bones rub against each other inside my leg. I decided to get the soldier to help me fashion a splint.

I made gestures with my hands along the side of my leg where the splints would go and pointed at wood and metal objects in the dugout. I made a wrapping motion around my leg. The soldier understood and located a length of bamboo. We held it against my leg. I held the bamboo where I wanted it cut and made a sawing motion. The soldier nodded and tried cutting the bamboo with an old saw. He didn't make much progress, so he tried a meat cleaver. The cleaver worked nicely, and he cut two pieces. The soldier located some gauze and wrapped it around both my leg and the bamboo splints. I tied the gauze tightly and felt much better that my leg wasn't moving around so much anymore

At Hahn, before the war, all the pilots had to attend a first-aid course called "self-aid buddy care. " I was the biggest joker in the class. Now, three months later, I was showing an Iraqi soldier how to put on my splints. The part I hated most about the course, the hands-on practice, turned out to be the most valuable. I was thankful that I didn't have an open fracture and didn't have to deal with a bleeding injury.

The captain checked in on me a few times. Each time I'd say I was okay. He replied with cheery smiles and told me that I would be all right. I closed my eyes intermittently and slept. During one such nap, I was awakened by the soldiers moving about excitedly, yelling, and throwing on their gear. At first I thought they were changing sentries or going out on patrol. Then, two soldiers came in and motioned for me to get up. They helped me up and out of the doorway. They set me down outside and handed me a blanket. Soldiers everywhere were packing their equipment on jeeps and light vehicles. Apparently, the order to pull out had come.

Vehicles began driving away. The dugout was stripped. The soldiers who had carried me out were several yards away, securing equipment to a jeep. No one was watching me. I was not sure what they had planned for me. Figuring that this might be my only chance to escape, I dragged myself back to the dugout and slid under the tarp against the far wall. I made sure I was completely covered and laid as still as I could. My heart raced as I listened for reactions to my disappearance.

Several minutes passed. Then I heard some soldiers shouting and running around. No one came back into the dugout. I kept absolutely quiet and still. After several more minutes passed, I heard the last two vehicles drive away. I listened hard, but heard nothing but the sound of the vehicles in the distance. I decided to stay in my hiding place for a couple of hours before moving.

As time passed, I grew in confidence that my escape had worked. My new freedom delighted me. I knew that the 18th Airborne Corps was moving rapidly eastward towards me. I remembered seeing friendly brigades close by from the ground liaison officer map in inter. My biggest hope was that the US Army would advance into my area, and I would surrender to the good guys. The Iraqi retreat was a good sign that the US Army was near.

I decided to sit tight and wait for Uncle Sam. My first priority was to find water. I also wanted to find some material for a white flag to wave at the Army. I didn't want to get shot by my own guys. I remembered books about downed World War II Luftwaffe pilots Rudel and Hartmann having harrowing times getting through their own front lines in Russia. Since so many Iraqi soldiers were surrendering, the US Army would not be too surprised to see another white flag.

As I waited, I wondered if I would be able to distinguish US armored vehicles from Iraqi vehicles. I knew if I could see them, I'd be okay because my visual recognition is pretty good. But if I were hidden or if it were dark, I might have to go by sound. I knew the M-1 Abrams is turbine powered, so it would have a distinctive sound. I also knew that we ruled the skies. If I heard a helicopter, I would try to get its attention. But what about the M-2 Bradley units? They, like the Iraqi tanks and APCs, were diesel-powered.

During my first hour under the tarp, several light vehicles drove by. Some sounded their horns. Two stopped in my vicinity while their occupants called out into the desert in Arabic. After that, I heard no other vehicles for about an hour. I pulled myself out from under the tarp and wrapped myself in a blanket. I was cold from lying so long on the damp ground.

Some heavy-caliber AAA was going up in the area from the northeast and going off right over me. It reminded me of a fireworks display. It would flash on the horizon when fired and then burst bright white overhead. A few seconds later, I'd hear the sound of it teeing fired, swishing overhead, and then the sound of the shell going off The short delay between the sights and the sounds told me that the Iraqi soldiers were still close, within a few miles.

I listened carefully for more vehicles, but heard none. I decided to go above ground for a look around. I crawled out the doorway. The full moon was bright. I kept low to avoid making a large profile. I saw no signs of life or motion. The AAA fire slowed and eventually stopped. Maybe the Iraqis had pulled back.

An amazing amount of junk cluttered the area near me. The Iraqis left behind everything from living room furniture and televisions to military hardware. I found my foam rubber mattress from the dugout and a pitcher of liquid. I tested the contents of the pitcher and discovered that it was water - about a liter and a half. The discovery made me very happy.

I then found a five-gallon jerry can full of liquid. The contents smelled a little like gas, but tasted like oily water. I found a shovel and tried using it as a crutch. It didn't work. I realized that I was stuck. My right leg was worthless. It hurt like hell when I moved.

Moving the foam rubber and the blanket took a huge effort. I crawled to a position ahead, then picked up the bedding and shoved it ahead of me. I then crawled past it and repeated the process until I got where I wanted to go. I had to rest several times during this operation because my leg was making me really tired. I brought the pitcher of water over and placed it in a protected place so I couldn't accidentally knock it over.

I set up an observation post beside the bunker. I chose a spot shielded from three sides. I stayed beside the bunker on my back. The bunker itself was to my left. To my right was a sofa. On another side was a three-foot mound of dirt, probably from the excavated bunker. From miscellaneous junk that was within reach, I erected a low wall. I laid on the foam rubber behind the wall and covered myself with the blanket.

Next to my hiding spot I found a large white sack full of nails and screws. I emptied the sack so I could use it as a surrender flag, I wondered how long I'd have to wait. I thought of ways to help the allies find me. Once the sun came up, I could use the shovel I'd found to scratch out a recognition signal I had been given. However, I panicked when I realized I had erased the signal with all the other codes from the back of my hands when I was captured. I hadn't kept it because I figured it was useless since I was in enemy hands. Instead of the signal, I'd have to rely on something like "SOS" or "USA."

My thoughts were interrupted with sounds of artillery fire. This time it was closer and to the southwest, probably the big guns of the 7th Army Corps pounding the Republican Guards around the northwest corner of Kuwait - a dozen miles away. Then I heard artillery fire from the west. It sounded very close. Seconds after the guns fired, shells whooshed through the air directly over my head. Their flight ended with tremendous explosions to the north and northwest of me. The sound of that first volley terrified me.

The blast of the next volley sent me for the dugout. Halfway over the lip of the pit, I reconsidered. The three-foot fall to the floor would probably completely ruin my right leg. I started to drag myself around the dugout to the door. Before I got there, the shells had already passed overhead and landed in about the same place as the first volley. I was probably not the target. Since any movement of my injured right leg was very painful, I decided to stay above ground.

The intensity of the barrage increased. Shells passed overhead almost continuously. They sounded like freight trains. Some of them made a loud tearing sound as they ripped through the sky to their targets. I was soon able to distinguish the sound of a shell that would land nearby. Even though nothing hit within a few miles of me, I cringed and hunkered down at the sound of every big blast.

The sounds of the impacts were most terrifying. Mixed in with the booms of the exploding artillery rounds were those chainsaw sounds of CBU-87 explosions I had encountered earlier. The cluster bomb explosions probably came from the Army's MLRS rockets, which carried the firepower of several of our CBUs. Their bomblets were just as lethal. Each CBU bomblet is designed to destroy armor with a shaped charge, soft targets with a fragmentation section, and flammable targets with incendiary material. Each MLRS rocket carries hundreds of these bomblets. One barrage can destroy one square kilometer of ground. I read later that the Iraqis referred to the MLRS rockets as "iron rain."

The impacts of these rockets roared for six seconds. The rockets kept flying in, one after another. I was thankful to be alone and away from their target. If I had not escaped, I'd probably be buried in a stalled convoy being obliterated by that firepower. I couldn't imagine what a nightmare the roads and bridges to the north must be. The Iraqi soldiers were probably bunched up trying to get through to the few remaining bridges on the Euphrates and being savaged by our artillery.

To the northwest, I could see a faint orange glow from the barrage. As more rockets and shells passed overhead, I imagined that this is what it must have felt to be in "no man's land" during World War I. Maybe this was what the night before the big push sounded like to my grandfather, who fought as a doughboy in the Meuse-Argonne offensive. The barrage went on for hours.

The barrage finally lessened in intensity, and I was able to get some sleep. I covered myself completely with the blanket; I didn't want to be seen in case I overslept. I also slept on my side to keep from snoring. I woke up every twenty or thirty minutes because I was too afraid to sleep longer. Every time I awoke, I remained perfectly still and listened for anything nearby. If I heard nothing unusual, I'd sit up and look for movement.

In the morning, the desert became suddenly visible, almost as if someone had flipped a switch. Two or three bunkers like mine, invisible at night, all appeared within fifty meters of me. Abandoned vehicles cluttered the landscape nearby. A city bus stood motionless about a hundred meters away. Half a mile away, I saw two heavy artillery pieces hitched to two large army trucks, similar to our deuce-and-a-halfs. If the Iraqis were leaving heavy equipment like that behind, they must have been pulling out to save their skins.

The area had the look of defeat. An astonishing amount of junk littered the desert. There were mountains of things that must have been looted from Kuwait - living room furniture, couches, chairs, shelves, television sets. Strewn about the battlefield were pots and pans, dishes, utensils, lamps, blankets, tools, and boxes full of equipment.

I sat up and looked around every ten minutes or so. After about a half-hour, my heart froze when I spotted a man standing above a bunker about fifty meters to my northeast. I immediately dropped below the sofa, to my right, hoping that he hadn't seen me. I looked again and he was gone.

For the next few hours I saw no one. Then I saw the man in the nearby bunker again. This time he was talking to a companion. Perhaps they were deserters. Since several vehicles had come by during the pullout, honking their horns and rounding up soldiers, I doubted these men were just left behind. Deserters or not, I didn't want them to discover me. When the two men started scavenging through the mounds of junk, I became terrified that they might come upon me. They stopped looking around after ten minutes and walked over to the abandoned bus and boarded it. They tried to start it without luck. Then they walked over to one of the trucks attached to the artillery pieces and managed to start it.

One man kept the engine running while the other went to the back of the truck and unceremoniously ditched the big gun. They drove off to the southwest towards the US forces.

The deserters were not gone long before squads of infantry retreating on foot came along the road to my south. They were traveling eastbound in groups of five to ten, carrying their weapons but not much else. I remained concealed and watched the retreating parade pass within seventy-five meters of me.

In the early morning, I had heard some jet noises and some sporadic artillery fire. As the morning wore on, the skies began to clear. The sun broke through the overcast. It appeared to be a glorious day for airpower. I expected to see many fighter bombers as the clouds cleared. But the jet noises never came. I wondered if the battle had moved across the Euphrates and was now out of earshot. I became more concerned than ever that the US Army might not pass near my position.

Soon, a pair of Iraqi army trucks approached from the north. They stopped close to the abandoned artillery pieces. About two dozen soldiers hopped out of the trucks and fanned out in groups of three orfour. They appeared to be either foraging for food and supplies or looking for stragglers and deserters. The soldiers went into each bunker for a few minutes and then moved on. A few soldiers headed in my direction. The fear of discovery and recapture shot through me. I hid as well as I could in my little junkyard. I piled a few blankets I had found on top of me. I hid tightly against the back of the sofa. I tried to conceal the shape of my body as much as possible by piling things around and on top of me.

Within a half-hour, I heard footsteps close by. One pair of boots walked right up to my hiding place. As I heard things rustling around right next to me, I felt my chances of remaining a free man slip away. I stayed perfectly still. I kept my breathing shallow and silent. A minute later, my blanket was pulled away. I looked up and saw two soldiers standing above me. I could see their shoulderboards. One was a captain, the other a lieutenant. We stared at each other. I think they were surprised to see me. One said to the other, "Ameriki pee-yosh," which meant American pilot. The other nodded. The captain asked me "American?" I answered, "Yes, I'm an American." My answer was followed by a lengthy, studied pause. The captain then said in English "The war, it is over."

I did not believe him. I thought the fighting would surely go on for at least another week, maybe a month. I queried him "The war is over? Peace?"

"Yes, peace," he replied. "No fighting anymore."

"Will you take me to Kuwait, to the Americans?" I asked.

"No." he calmly answered. We cannot do this."

I tried again: "Please take me to the Americans."

"No," he insisted. "You will go to Baghdad."

These last words filled me with disappointment. I was so close to my comrades, yet so far. Since the war was over, my best chance for freedom was a POW swap. First, I would have to join the other allied prisoners. My greatest fear now became getting sidetracked and disappearing in Iraq. There might never be a prisoner swap.

The lieutenant walked off and blew a whistle, which sent the other patrols back towards their trucks. I pointed to my leg and told the captain that I was hurt and needed a doctor. He had seen the splints and seemed to understand. He said he would take me to a doctor. While waiting on the trucks, the captain rummaged through the trash and found some boxes of dates. He ate a few from one and offered me a box. I ate some of the syrup and sesame covered fruits. He offered me some water from his canteen. Since I had been conserving the water I had found, I was thirsty. The water from his canteen tasted dirty, like all the other water I had drunk in Iraq.

The trucks pulled up and several soldiers lifted me and my rubber mattress onto a bed frame they had found. About eight soldiers then carefully slid me and the bed frame into the back of one of the trucks. I helped support my weight by grabbing the frame of the canvas canopy that covered the truck.

Three soldiers sprawled out over the equipment in the back of the truck with me. After the others climbed into the other truck, we started. As we moved, my mattress listed slightly to the right. My right foot, on my broken leg, hung over the tailgate.

Even though we traveled at a walking pace, the drive through the desert was painful. The truck's rigid suspension transmitted every little bump and jolt directly to my right leg. Deep ruts and tracks left by armored vehicles sent me bouncing high above the mattress. Every major jolt was accompanied by screams through my gritted teeth. I tried to lessen the pain by grasping the wooden frame that held up the canvas top and pulling myself up. (My arms were sore from this the next day.) The soldiers around me were sympathetic. They could see my pain during the rough parts. They tried to steady me and hold me in place. This didn't help much because they'd bounce just as high as I did when we hit a rut.

After about an hour of this torture, we reached paradise--a hard-surfaced, two-lane road. I smiled broadly, and the soldiers smiled back. One offered me a cigarette. Being a non-smoker, I refused. They seemed bewildered at the refusal. They couldn't believe that I didn't smoke. Everyone in Iraq smokes.

Once on the paved road, the soldiers tried to start up a conversation. One spoke a little English. Between his English and some improvised sign language, we managed to discuss a wide range of topics.

The conversation invariably drifted to family. The men asked me if I was married and had children. I still refused to discuss the subject. I managed to resist their questions for some time but relented when they noticed my wedding ring. They were most interested in my children. I eventually told them that I had two. The information seemed to make them really happy. I never felt that my treatment got worse when I mentioned my family. If anything, I was treated better.

I learned later that another POW, Maj. Jeff "Tico" Tice, was treated very badly by Bedouins when he was first captured near Tallil Airfield. One of the captors traced lines on Tice's face with a bullet from an AK-47. The man then chambered the bullet and placed the end of the barrel against Tice's head. The group's chieftain eventually got around to going through Tice's belongings, which included a photo of his wife and kids (which was against all military advice). The chief studied the photo for some time and then gently kissed it before placing it in Tice's lap. The American pilot was untied and asked to dine with the chief that evening as his special guest.

Eventually, the soldiers with me got around to asking about the type of plane I flew. I made it clear that I couldn't talk about military information. That didn't keep them from trying. They really kept after me, reminding me of little kids whining for something. I figured that they were just curious, but I didn't want to say anything about my mission in case they might pass on the information later. Their questions showed that they knew very little about the coalition airpower. They knew I was an American, but they asked me if I flew a Tornado or Jaguar. They eventually asked about F-15s and F-16s. I always refused to answer.

As we drove, the soldiers kept saying something that sounded like "bosch." For some time, I couldn't figure out what they meant. But each time the word was mentioned, the speaker referring to George Bush. Apparently they didn't think much about our president. They seemed to think that Bush alone was responsible for the war and for their hardships. They assumed that the US government was like their own - autocratic, with one leader calling all the shots.

The group kept asking me, "Why does bosch fight us?" I was in no position to argue with them. Instead, I kept quiet and let them tell me what they thought. They seemed to agree that we were fighting over Kuwait. One soldier said that we were fighting for oil. He summed up the war: Kuwait has the oil. Saddam wanted it. The USA didn't want him to have it.

They couldn't understand why we were fighting in Iraq. This and questions about why we were hitting water, oil, and electricity got tense. They were angry about the state of their country. I was worried a few times that they were going to take it out on me. When they pressed me with their questions, I'd shrug and blankly shake my head. The English speakers were eager to point out to me which men had lost relatives, families, or homes from the bombing.

The Iraqis had definitely taken a beating. Bombed and burned-out vehicles ranging from cars to main battle tanks were scattered along the road. The surrounding terrain looked like the high desert plains in the Western United States - flat with prairie vegetation. We were still south of the Euphrates River and west of Basra. Along the road, government projects were introduced with big portraits of a benevolent, smiling Saddam Hussein and signs with Arabic writing, a project number, and dates. Many of these buildings had been hit. Some were burned out; others looked like junk piles. Of those that were standing, most of the windows were broken or blown out.

Military equipment, soldiers, and, supplies clogged the road in both directions. Because of my experience from hiding in the desert, I paid attention to the sounds of Iraqi tanks. They have a loud staccato-sounding engine. Up close, they sound like a deep bass jackhammer. The treads squeak loudly and can be heard far away. I recognized numerous squat-looking T-72s and the more rounded T-62s. The tanks traveled in both directions in total disarray.

I saw all sorts of Soviet hardware on the trip and tried to memorize everything. Most numerous were armored personnel carriers. I also saw Soviet-built BMPs, BTRs, MTLBs, and PT-76s parked along the road and in transit. There were also some western military vehicles. One platoon of tracks appeared to be US-built ITVs. I saw many batteries of 57mm towed aritiaircraft guns unlimbered along the road. Their concentration would increase near important locations like bridges and causeways.

The 57mm can shoot to fairly high altitudes and could reach us at our normal operating altitudes. The bursts looked a lot like the flak bursts of old World War 2 movies.

Fortunately, the 57mm could not shoot very fast, so the gunner could not simply direct a stream of shells at a target. To shoot down a fast-moving plane with these guns, the operator would need an awfully lucky shot. Though most of the 57mm were barrage-fired over our target areas, we would occasionally encounter motivated gunners who could be fairly accurate. On one of our early missions against the Republican Guards, my wingman had a tough time getting in the proper position for a bomb drop. It took him two extra passes to get his bombs off. On his last pass, one of these 57mm operators almost got everything right. As the pilot pulled off target after releasing his bombs, I saw a large flak shell burst about 500 feet behind his jet. It was on course, on altitude, but just a half-second late.

The smaller 23mm and 37mm AAA had a much higher rate of fire, but they had a lower maximum altitude. Most of the time, we worked above their maximum altitude. The 23mm guns had two or four barrels mounted on a pedestal or on an armored vehicle. They could put up a lot of lead at once. When a battery opened up, it looked like the sky was filled with white popcorn. Most of the 23mm was barrage-fired. The gunners would fire into the sky whenever they heard aircraft or after the first time a bomb went off. The gunners probably never knew we were in the area until then. Our Wild Weasels and F-llls had effectively shut down the Iraqi radars, either through denial or through intimidation, so the ground forces had to rely on their eyes and ears. From the ground, however, it its virtually impossible to spot an F-16 above 10,000 feet. The plane's small size and its paint scheme make it disappear against the background. The A-lOs had a tougher time because their combat loads forced them to work at lower altitudes. They are also bigger and their forest green paint jobs were much easier to see.

Many times during the ride, I was confronted with the hardships and suffering imposed on the Iraqis by the war. The soldiers pointed out casualties and the destruction in their country. I showed that I understood, told them that war is a terrible thing, and that I was just a soldier and doing what I'm told. They suggested that I was paid money from the King of Saudi Arabia, that I was bombing them for profit. I explained that I was there under orders from President Bush in support of the United Nations. I don't think the common Iraqi soldier understood how strongly the world community had condemned the invasion of Kuwait, that it was truly a world coalition against them.

To see if the soldiers supported Hussein, I posed their thumbs up/thumbs down question back to them. A young enthusiastic soldier gave an emphatic thumbs up. One of the older soldiers looked around the truck warily and gave a disgusted thumbs down. The others were unwilling to commit. They just looked around cautiously and shook their heads.

I could tell by the position of the sun that we were heading east towards Basra. I entertained thoughts of a POW swap between Basra and Kuwait since they were so close. But I wasn't holding much hope for that possibility.

Follow Up

Capt. Andrews' war journal ends on that truck ride towards Basra. He was taken to Basra, where he saw a doctor the next day. On 2 March he was placed on a bus with other POWs and driven to Baghdad, where he was interrogated at length and placed in a small jail cell. He and most of the other POWs in the jail were released to the Red Cross on 5 March and flown to Saudi Arabia the next day. He arrived at Andrews AFB on 10 March.

Upon his return to the United States, Andrews received but turned down interview requests from a variety of publications and television shows, including 20/20, Larry King Live, and Nightline. He did, however, grant interviews to media from his hometown and his father's hometown. "I didn't want to talk about my ordeal," Andrews explained. "I wanted to get the message to the folks back home that I knew they were praying for me. I knew that because there is no other way to explain a motor stalling five seconds before a bomb hits in front of you. I just wanted to tell those people that their prayers worked."

Andrews carries two and a half pounds of metal in his right leg, including a steel rod through his tibia. He returned to flying status last June, several months earlier than doctors predicted. Andrews, who once flew EF-llls at Mountain Home AFB in Idaho, now flies as an F-16 LANTIRN instructor pilot with the 310th Fighter Squadron of the 58th Fighter Wing at Luke AFB in Arizona.

"I feel glad to be alive every single day," Andrews told Code One. "My experience over there is a closed chapter. It feels now like it was a tough week at work. While I don't relive it every moment, the experience did change my perspective on some things. My family is more important to me. I realize now that being a dad is more important than being a fighter pilot."

Capt. Andrews received the Air Force Cross, the Purple Heart, and the Prisoner of War Medal for his mission of 27 February. He later received the prestigious Jabara Award for Airmanship for his actions during missions of 24 and 27 February.