Haha. That reminds me of a humorous Desert Storm story, Warrior.
Me, photographer Bob Jordan, an Army Capt. whose name I forget - but he was a West Pointer which makes this worse - and some kid who was driving us named Cartwright peeled off from where the 1st Infantry (Mech) stopped on the second day of the ground war to drive back to some designated rendezvous where we could hand off Jordan's photographs and my typewriter written stories so they could be driven back to Dhahran to become 'Pool Reports' for the world's press.
So, the captain, who turned out to have a terrible sense of direction, gets us lost out in the vast Iraqi desert. Finally, we're driving along some dirt path, where you can see mines on either side of us, and we drive RIGHT INTO THE IRAQI LINES at a place where VII Corps had bypassed them. We spot the Iraqis first, Cartwright does a u-turn, and runs over a piece of mangled metal from airstrikes and ruptures a tire.
So, Jordan and I set to changing the tire at Indy 500 speed. We can see the Iraqis, no more than about 200 meters away, watching us out of their trenches, weapons drawn.
Cartwright cocks his M-16, gets in firing position and says "permission to fire, sir!" -- at the hundreds of Iraqis who haven't figured out yet who we are. Photographer Jordan, who was this crusty ex-paratrooper from North Carolina says, "why don't you just shoot us Cartwright, and cut out the middle-man?"
Tire fixed, we managed to backtrack out of range, and the Iraqis never open fire. Eventually we made it to Hafr al-Batin, where we were headed.
So, here's the kicker. A few years later, I'm down in North Carolina covering the murder of Michael Jordan's father, and I bump into Jordan. He says, 'You'll never guess who got in touch with me a while back. Cartwright! He told me he and the captain both got bronze stars with V for Valor for driving us into enemy lines!"