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The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  With this in mind, we plotted our route between two Iraqi Army bases.  Instead of driving a known route, which would be the shape of a crescent moon, we elected to try a new route for the first time.

So there we were…

Our route led us to a T intersection with a canal.  Taking a left and heading south, I noticed that we were on the road to the west of the canal.  I reasoned that both sides of the canal were the same road in opposing directions, reassuring my driver, Lieutenant Jeremy “Jay” Alaniz of San Antonio Texas, and my machine gunner, Sergeant First Class Kevin “KC” Connaughton of Sulfur Springs, Texas that we were on the correct path.  Both roads, which were labeled fairly main roads on the map, looked like an elevated gravel driveway on a bank alongside the canal, until I noticed a change.

The rocks on our side of the canal thinned out with the road becoming a dusty trail.  I glanced over the canal, which was as wide as about the length of three cars, and noticed that the road on the other side still looked very much like a gravel driveway.  As I processed this information, I looked down to the map in front of me.  There was no way to crossover until the end of the road in four miles.

Just about this time, Jay came over the radio headset, “approaching low wire.”

KC spun the turret around to face the front, “I am watching it.  Yeah…we are going to clear it.”

“Low wire to the twelve o’clock.  Slow patrol speed.”  I said over the radio.  No sooner had I took my hand off the radio transmitter did I hear KC yell.  Far from the schoolgirl scream of Sergeant First Class Danny “the Dream” Colon of Puerto Rico when he discovered a viper underneath the charcoal for our grille, KC’s yell was more of an ogre’s grunt.  “Umpf!”

“Cleared the wire and moving continuing mission.”  Jay announced over the radio, believing that KC grunt was the regular reaction to being jostled around the turret on the bumpy road like a pinball.

Sounding like he was just awoken from a deep sleep, KC said, “I got shocked!”

Relaying the situation, I radioed the bossman, “Jedi Six, this is Jedi Fox be advised, Jedi Two Seven was electrocuted by the low wire.”

The team’s medic was on the radio immediately, “KC, what did you see?”

“I saw black.” KC said with no small amount of surprise in his voice.  “My turret doesn’t work anymore.”

“I am getting out to come look at you.  I am bringing my thermometer.”  Sergeant First Class Luis “Doc” Montes of Washington State quipped.

“No, I am okay, really.  I just have a little tingling in my fingers and backside.  I will be okay until we stop.”  KC responded with certain fear of the thermometer in his voice.

‘The Dream’ came on the radio next, “Truck Two has cleared the wire.  You did not actually touch it.  The electricity arched down to you.”

As we continued with the mission, KC would abandon the turret, which he now had to hand crank, any time he saw upcoming wires.  No one half blamed him.

About half a mile after the electrocution, we came to a crater on the dusty trail.  With a canal on to our left and a farmer’s field down a steep bank to our right, we were forced to drive in reverse.  Pleaded with the changing of gears, “We don’t have to go back under the wire, right?”

We did not go back under the wire.  Instead, we ventured down trails bordering farmer’s fields that were surely never meant for 40,000 pound vehicles.  All was going quite well with our wheels hanging off the trail on both sides, until the trail gave out just as the lead truck’s rear tires drove over a culvert. 

As it were, an Iraqi was sitting on the side of the road in that very spot in the seat of a backhoe.  What luck!  Thirty minutes and many apologies to farmer later and we were back on the roads.  Angels smiled down on us on this day.  Calling in support would have been a very time-consuming process that would have definitely resulted in destruction to the farmer’s lands.

KC laughed the electrocution off fairly well, and we did not hesitate in addressing him by his new nickname, Sparky.  Doc on the other hand was fairly worried about KC.  However, since we did not return to an American base for about four more hours, Doc let the situation go, until the next day.

The next day, we called an American civilian contractor to come help fix the turret.  Sparky had burnt not only the motor of the turret but also the joystick that controls it.  “100,000 volts!” was what Chris, the contractor, said.  “KC, are you okay?”  he asked with eyes the size of saucers.

“Yes, I am fine.  Really.”  KC attempted to reassure him.

After much encouragement from Captain Aaron “DOM” Wentworth of Michigan, the contractor marched to Doc’s room, knocking with a firm fist.  “Doc, do you know how serious electrocution is?  Sometimes an arrhythmia of the heart takes a few days to be noticeable.  That was 100,000 volts!  By not having him looked at you are borderline negligent.  No, Doc, you are grossly negligent.  This is a man’s life we are talking about.  He trusts that you will look out for him.  You owe him that!”  Doc’s face flushed.

The contractor turned and a smile immediately flashed across his face.  As he walked away, Doc’s brows furrowed and his face tightened with serious thoughts.  Meanwhile, Aaron giggled like a kid.

KC and I sat in the next room in the dark watching the Sopranos.  We were in the final season with six episodes left.  A gangster was just about to be clipped when Doc burst into the door, allowing the light to pour into the room.  “KC, get your crap, you are coming to the medical center!”

KC pleaded, “What?!  I am fine!  Really!”  But Doc had his mind made up, “KC, you pick how you are going to leave this room:  on your feet or over my shoulder.”

KC and Doc spent the next hour and a half getting an EKG.

Quite irritated that he was cheated out of time talking to his wife, KC sulked the rest of the night when he heard that it was a joke.  No one crossed his path that evening.

The next day, Chris was told that he had a complaint filed against him.  He had 48 hours to pack his bags and get on a plane back to the States.

Doc denies that he had anything to do with the complaint.  But who wouldn’t deny such a thing.  After all, Italian Americans have been clipped for less.  I wouldn’t admit it either.

Reader’s notes:  Though I did use the customary “so there I was…,” this story is factual with some dramatization.  KC is in no worse shape than before the incident.  His wife took the story with good cheer.

The small side trail that we found ourselves driving on. Shortly, a backhoe will come to our rescue.