Marines scurry for cover as Iraqi missiles whistle in

There is still no siren. But the roar of the explosion was unmistakable. Bodies stumble over each other, sprinting to the bunker. A look back is a mistake. A large plume of black smoke and dust rises above the camp, just a little ways away. Is it smoke? Or maybe gas? Where is that gas mask? Where’s the damn mask? Wait, it’s in the little green satchel attached to the hip, right where it’s supposed to be. Bodies pushing, shoving into the bunker.

Everyone trying to cram inside. Impossible to pull the mask on. Just press it against the face until things calm down. Push it tight, have to get a seal, no air from the outside can get in. Don’t worry about the straps. Just hold it tight. More bodies trying to find cover.

Already inside Scud Bunker B-3 are perhaps 40 Marines, helmets on, gas masks on, rifles stuck between their legs as they sit on the dirt or on each other. A few try standing, hunched halfway over. ‘‘Move in! Move in!’’ It’s hard to breathe.

Everyone’s huffing, gasping for air. It’s impossible to get a breath. Is it gas? No, no, everyone’s just winded. Take a breath. Settle down. Hearts are racing. Still hard to breathe. The mask is suffocating. The only way to get a deep breath is to take it off. Can’t do that. Is there another explosion? What’s happened with that plume? Is it coming this way?

This is not a drill. There is fear, yes, and adrenaline and uncertainty and most of all shock. The rule in the morning had been that everyone would start to wear flak jackets and helmets, but the rule had been rescinded just a few minutes before the Iraqi missile exploded in a fireball near the camp.

The early-warning siren finally goes off. A voice echoes around the base. ‘‘Attention, Camp Commando. Attention Camp Commando.’’ It is known as ‘‘the Big Giant Voice’’. But this time it’s hard to hear. What’s he saying? Something about getting into the bunkers. Ten minutes pass, fifteen. No more explosions. Big Giant Voice says something about NBC teams — nuclear, biological and chemical — confirming there was no gas. Humour returns. Grim jokes about the accuracy of Patriot antimissiles.

The sound of Cobra attack helicopters buzzing overhead offers some reassurance. After an hour, Big Giant Voice weighs in again. ‘‘All clear. All clear.’’ The masks come off. The impact site quickly becomes a tourist attraction.

The missile left a 50-foot-wide blast circle but only a two-foot crater before it skipped and scarred another part of the dirt. The Kuwaiti cops drive up and look at it for three minutes, then leaves. But not long afterward, the siren suddenly goes off.

A scramble to the bunker again. Mad shoving, pushing. Must get in. Make way! ‘‘He’s trying to get his licks in, ain’t he?’’ a Marine grouses. Sixteen times over 27 hours Marines are sent racing to the bunkers. Sixteen times the hearts race and the adrenaline runs and it never quite becomes routine.

The only sound in the darkened bunker is the heavy breathing in the masks. Except someone has a phone: ‘‘North of Commando? We don’t have anyone there, do we?’’ Pause. ‘‘Are they going to shoot it?’’ Long pause. Finally someone says, ‘‘I think I liked Afghanistan better.’’ (LATWP)