I fought through the fog of jet lag imposed sleep to a tent that was oddly awake. It was almost midnight and the gargantuan tent, intended to hold around 180 women, lacked the somnambular quality indicative of the hour. At the far edge of the tent, a small huddle of women chirped nervously. The pre-tremor environment spoke of an earthquake to come. Suddenly, one woman withdrew from the group and squawked down the hall “Ladies, wake up. We are expecting a rocket attack. You need to get to the bunkers, now!” I scanned the bunk next to me, home to my lone female Soldier. Not there. Scrambling into my combat boots, which accessorized stylishly with my gym shorts, I continued looking for my Soldier. Nothing. Grabbing my weapon, I followed the covey of women to the door, but cut away as we emerged from the tent. A yell into the latrine produced my unknowing Soldier, and following flight I found the bunker. It was little more than a 3 sided concrete tunnel, about 4 foot high. Protection against shrapnel alone, and then only for those lucky enough to be in the middle. The eight inches of concrete would prove little cover if hit directly. As women flocked together amidst the pressing walls, it was clear that there was not room for all. As I considered the situation, the MPs pulled up. “It’s a false alarm. Go back to bed.”