As close as the then serving members of 2nd Bn, 116th FA came to combat occurred in August, 1992, two years before I was discharged from the Florida Army National Guard, and transferred to the Inactive Army Reserve.
It was hurricane season, and a particularly ferocious storm was nearing the southeast coast of Florida. My wife and I were attending a little church in Winter Haven at the time, and on that particular Sunday night I recall singing a solo, and encouraging the congregation to "pray for the people of Miami."
Little did I
know at the time that I might well have completed the sentence with,
… “and me.”
As it fell
together, Hurricane Andrew was, and still remains the largest callout of Florida
National Guard troops in the history of our glorious organization. Approximately
8,000, (or half of the 16,000 guardsmen “on the payroll”) were summoned to
Homestead, Florida and the surrounding environs.
The call to
active duty automatically canceled any, and all of our plans for the beginning
of our normal civilian work week,… (since we were no longer civilians). As I
recall, my phone rang that Sunday evening, and my section sergeant informed me
that I had less than an hour to report to the armory.
A hundred
other privates, non-commissioned officers, and officers heeded the call, and we
assembled on the drill hall floor. As an E-6, I found myself on the right side
of 1st Platoon, 1st Squad. Our Battery Commander informed
us that we had been called to state active duty for what was thought, (at the
time) to be no more than “a few days.” The formation was “short and sweet.” We
were ordered to report back the next morning, and in the meantime to “get your
stuff together.”
As the
captain dismissed the formation, he encouraged each section to check out their
vehicle, and make sure it was in running order. SFC Hoehne, my section chief,
and I walked out into the darkened motor pool, and sought out our jeep, or truck,
or whatever we drove at the time. (At this juncture, I have forgotten).
Bob checked
the oil, I cranked the engine, and we checked the belts and tires, and
everything seemed to be “A-Okay” and “Good to go.”
As I drove
home that night, I think I was in the state of shock, since a decade and a half
in the National Guard had never required anything more from me than a weekend a
month and two weeks in the Summer.
As our
convoy neared Miami, and subsequently Homestead, I began to wonder “what all
the fuss was about.” Houses and trees along the interstate looked intact. Not a
sign of damage, anywhere. Until
… amazingly,
it was all around us.
I suppose we
were twenty miles from Homestead, and it was as if an angry giant had taken a
drunken stroll through the countryside. Whereas nothing had seemed amiss, it
all changed in a moment.
Trees were
broken like proverbial matchsticks. Houses of every size, color and variety
were battered and beaten. Windows blown out. Broken walls. Missing roofs. As we
soon discovered, virtually no structure within 20 miles of the epicenter had
been spared some level of damage.
I no longer
needed any convincing.
The nearer
the convoy approached our intermediate destination, the more devastated the
environment, and the “anxiouser” I felt about our mission. We finally rolled
into,… well, honestly I don’t remember. At any rate, this location proved to be
temporary mobilization site, and after a few hours, we were redirected to, (of
all places)… The Metro Zoo.
The day was
“wearing thin” when we pulled into our permanent location. For the duration of
our tour of duty there, we were known as “The Zoo Crew,” (and our unit even had
T-shirts made up with a 2nd Battalion, 116th Field Artillery
logo on the front, and on the back, a caricature of a chimpanzee in camouflage,
and armed with an M-16; the monkey symbolizing the location of our mission
headquarters.)
The Metro
Zoo had been virtually leveled by Hurricane Andrew. To my knowledge, very few
of the hundreds of animals there had been moved to other locations before the
storm. While I never saw any giraffes or elephants, or the like, we were told a
“Noah’s Ark” load of animals, including snakes, had escaped during the height
of the hurricane. Our troops were given “shoot on sight” orders to kill any
monkeys we happened to see on the zoo grounds, since before the hurricane there
was a primate research building on the premises. This facility had been
populated by hundreds of monkeys which had been exposed to the AIDS virus.
Our section
was dispatched to two locations during our tour of duty in Dade County; The
Homestead Flea Market, (where we were tasked with guarding thousands of dollars
worth of emergency food stamps), and the “Country Walk” community, an upscale
housing development which had sustained horrendous damage.
Our time at
the flea market was brief, perhaps a week, so our primary duty station was
situated at the entrance to Country Walk. During out stay at the flea market,
however, it was interesting to meet and talk with many victims of the hurricane
who had reported there to apply for emergency assistance.
There was
every shade of color and language among the people who frequented the flea
market that week. One very black woman stepped up to one of my section members,
and said something in a language which sounded somewhat like French. When Andy couldn’t make any sense of her
question, he turned to me and said, “Bill, do you have any idea what she wants?”
Since I’d
had a year of French in College, some twenty years previous, I gave it a whirl,
and in my best Francais responded,
“Oui. Voila
la toilet."
And I
pointed towards a distant porta-potty. The Haitian woman smiled, and seemed
content that one of these “Florida Crackers” knew the language of the Sun King,
and the Bourbon family.
Another interesting experience involved my exposure to “the
drink of the gods.” A Spanish lady, who spoke English, offered me a small
demitasse of Cuban coffee. I have often told my wife that I drink a cup of
coffee a year, whether I need it or not. I’m just not a big fan. But I REALLY
liked this stuff.
Near the end
of our duty at the flea market, the clouds grew dark, and the wind picked up.
One little girl, she might have been three or four, began to scream, and tears rolled
down her cheeks. It was obvious that little “Rachel” had been traumatized by
Hurricane Andrew, and no doubt had ridden out the storm with her parents in
their home. And the sudden darkness and wind made her think another severe
storm was about to overtake her mother and her.
I recall the
short (mosquito-bitten) nights and the long (sunburn ridden) days my section
members and I spent at The Metro Zoo and Country Walk. By this time, we rolled
out of our canvas enclosed bunk, (better known as a tent) and trudged towards
our make-shift showers. Out troops had spent the first eight days on the
premises without a shower. Eventually, sheets of plywood were erected to form a
large square, and a primitive plumbing configuration was installed. Since
another unit, with a female contingent, was also based on the property, we were
assigned specific night and morning hours to shower. (There was a rumor that
some of our guys had knocked out a few knotholes in the plywood, and managed to
“sneak a peek” at the lady soldiers from time to time).
To be continued...
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