Country Walk
was, as I have previously inferred, an upscale community of $300,00 - $500,000
homes. After the storm, it was obvious that home buyers there had been gypped.
Every house in the community had sustained damage, and though Hurricane Andrew was
later determined to be a Category 5 storm, the damage in Country Walk was
considered far too severe for the price, and supposed level of construction.
SFC Hoehne
and I patrolled the neighborhood regularly, and we never ceased to be amazed
how shoddy the construction really was. It was obvious the builder used far too
much plywood, and far too little of anything else. Long after our unit had
packed up and returned home, residents of this community were busy with legal
suits against their home insurers.
One day as
Bob and I manned our makeshift guard shack at the entrance to this once lavish
neighborhood, I happened to turn around, and my eyes fell on perhaps the most
peculiar site I have EVER seen. For there, sitting in an empty field in all its
glory sat an undamaged
… airplane.
It was one
of those WWII style C-47 “gooney birds” like “Sky King” flew on that old
television series by the same name. The plane was completely intact, in spite
of all the nearby damage, and it looked SO out of place that I could barely believe
it wasn’t a mirage.
I turned and
asked Sergeant Hoehne, “Hey Bob. What is that gooney bird doing out there in
the field?”
Without so
much as looking up, or betraying any particular emotion, whatsoever, he
answered,
“Yeah. That
thing. Well, the story is that it flew its last flight without a pilot. There’s an airplane museum about a mile from here,
and it just came apart when the storm hit. They think there were some tornadoes
imbedded in the hurricane.”
As I recall,
it was only after “Andrew” that the owner of the attraction moved his “Fantasy
of Flight” museum to the Polk City area; just a few miles from my hometown. A
similar aircraft greets customers today, as they prepare to drive in the main
gate. For all I know, it’s the same one I saw sitting out in that field.
At the time,
our troops came and went, as they liked, with M-16’s slung over their
shoulders. (Interestingly enough, Florida National Guard members kept loaded
magazines in their ammo pouches, while Regular Army troops were prohibited from
doing so, though they carried the same weapon. This was attributed to our
status as constabulary officers of the State of Florida, whereas the lack of a
martial law decree prevented the active Army from having ammunition on their
persons).
One day,
three or four members of my section drove our jeep to the local McDonald’s,
which was only just back in operation. We enjoyed our meals, and as we walked
back out into the sunshine, unwashed, sweaty, covered in camouflage, and M-16’s
over our shoulders, a young woman approached us. Without warning the lady
wrapped me in her arms, and said,
“You guys just don’t know how thankful we are
that you came to help us.”
… and then
she slipped away.
All the
hassle, all the heat, all the sweat, all the gloom, and all the “just not
wanting to be there,” well,
… that one
solitary hug, and those fifteen little words made it all worth it.
And if I
ever complained, I stopped, and if I ever regretted being there, I never did
again.
(Sometimes I
think about that young woman, and her unexpected hug, and grateful words. I
wonder who she was, where she was going, what has happened to her in the
intervening years. I wonder).
Oh, there
were the other small things which occurred, and which I fondly remember. One
day I happened to be sitting next to a clear pool of water adjacent to the
highway, and I noticed it contained several brim and other small fish. And I
had an idea.
I found a
piece of fishing line, (I have no idea where it came from) and I tied it to the
end of my M-16. I must have rigged up something which remotely passed for a
cork , a hook, and bait, and I proceeded to while away a few minutes fishing.
Well, not
quite. I don’t believe I ever pulled in a big one, (or a small one for that
matter) but I had some fun, and it broke up the monotony a bit. I’m quite sure
Bob, or another section member took a picture of me, and this “jerry rig” of a
fishing pole, but it’s been years since I’ve run across it.
I believe it
was the same day. A civilian drove up and began talking with us, and he pulled
out a U.S. flag, (and his words are suddenly new again, since I had forgotten
what he said ‘til this very moment).
“Hey guys. I
want you to do me a favor. Take this flag and fly it off your jeep” and
something like, “This city has been pretty broken up, and things aren’t so good
right now, but we’ll come back from this.”
I thanked
the man, and we found an old pole, and propped it up somehow in the jeep. I
would like to tell you that we flew “Old Glory” everywhere we went, but that
wouldn’t be the truth. We flew it that first day, and perhaps part of the next,
but it flapped in the wind, and it was impossible to maintain it in a vertical
position. I framed that flag, and cherish it today. About that time there was a
popular joke about the last Anglo leaving Miami bringing the American flag with
him. Since then I have told people I was the last one out.
Among any
circumstances I personally experienced in that place, or any story a native son
or daughter there shared with me, one stands out among all the rest.
Just behind
our guard shack, at the entrance to Country Walk, stood a house, not unlike a
myriad of other severely damaged homes. One afternoon, not long after we began
guarding the place, a man came strolling up from behind us . I turned, and he
began to share a tale of terror, the likes of which I’d never heard.
“Hi.” (And
he gave me his name). “I saw you out here, and thought I’d share my story with
you. My wife and I decided to remain in our home. We figured we’d rode out
other hurricanes. This one wouldn’t be all that much different. Well, in a
word… it was. As that night wore on, the winds outside were only getting
stronger. And then the roof began to crack, and a couple of windows broke, and
our furniture began to fly around the living room. Well, we retreated to the
bathroom, and locked the door, and got into the bathtub together.
And we told
each other… Goodbye.”
And, “We
were convinced we were going to die that night.”
The man went
on to tell me that he and his wife had been interviewed by 20/20, or one of the
other national television news magazines. Sure enough, that amazing segment was
broadcast a week or two after the hurricane. So many years hence, I have
attempted to locate some reference to this couple, and their story on the
internet, but I haven’t been able to do so.
Forty days.
August 24, 1992 – October 3, 1992. Strangely enough, on that last night, before
departure, I witnessed the most glorious “shooting star” flame through the
atmosphere above our encampment. And on that final day, a beautiful bald eagle
flew over the length of compound.
It was time
to go home.
It took me
two weeks to feel anything like myself again. I was tired. I was just plain
worn out. And I began to question why. Granted, I’d served some pretty long
days, and I’d been exposed to the heat of the day, and done things I wasn’t at
all used to doing. But there had to be something more.
And then I
realized what it was.
Color
(or namely,
the lack thereof).
Over the
course of forty days I had viewed the world in
… black and white
in a place
where color had all but disappeared, and been replaced with shades of black and
white, and gray and brown. Buildings broken down and ravaged by winds of
ungodly strength, and every vestige of green stripped from trees and bushes.
I slowly
acclimated to an environment which included color. The world seemed as new and
fresh, and GREEN to me, as it must have seemed to our first parents in their
garden home.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well Lived" Vol. 4
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