The call was
not totally unexpected, and yet it took him back a little. The voice on the
unseen end of the line said, “Prepare to be here about five days.”
In a bit of
a daze the guardsman began to pack his duffle bag, first rather slowly and then
with increasing speed as the import of the message slapped him squarely in the
face.
The
guardsman reached out for the last time to take his wife in his arms and to
reassure her of his affection. The last kiss would be remembered for a long
while to come. He knew in his heart that the separation would be long and
difficult.
“Gentlemen,”
the captain shouted above the noise of the ceiling fans, “We’re going to be
there until power is restored and until civil authorities deem our mission
accomplished.”
There was a
murmur among the troops which seemed to build to a crescendo. Most of us were
thinking, “But I only packed for five days.”
Thousands
converged upon the city. Men from every military service, and civilians from a
myriad of state and federal agencies. This was the biggest of the big. Never
before in our history had so many military members been called to assist
civilians in need.
The sight
was overwhelming. Miles from the scene the devastation was apparent. Pines and
mangroves were broken like proverbial toothpicks. Sugarcane fields lay smashed
against the mulch of mother Earth. And yet, this was just the faint outskirts
of Ground Zero.
Tears flowed
freely down the guardsman’s face. This was nothing less than America’s own
Hiroshima. Utter devastation on a full arc. Where ever his gaze fell,
destruction greeted his anguished spirit. For long minutes, only darkness
spoke. All other voices were shut off, as if by a common valve.
The
guardsman glanced up into the surreal and advancing blackness of the midnight
sky. What he saw there was like nothing he ever beheld. A lone meteor imposed
itself against the barrenness of all else in the city. He understood the
message. Even in the complete annihilation surrounding him, his was a mission
of hope, of mercy, and of future reconstruction.
The days
were innumerable and duplicates of themselves, and yet subtle differences made
each day its own day.
The
guardsman was new at all this, as were the unfortunate inhabitants of the city.
Everything was experienced on a grand scale. Eight days without a shower, 40
days in a tent; rain flowing easily across the dirt floor. Up at 5am, to bed at
9am, arms and face burned by an unrelenting sun; lips cracked and bleeding.
Devastation
greeted him as he attended his daily mission. Giant splinters where mansions
once elegantly graced the landscape, staircases leading to nowhere but to an
open sky. Small ships tossed unto beaches, thousands of stray animals wondering
what might have happened to their Johnny or Susie. Acre after acre of avocados,
lemons, limes and nursery stock flattened as if by some unseen ogre’s giant
hand. Concrete buildings knocked over like so many dominoes.
The stories
were the sort you only dream about. Families saved by a single garage wall. A
couple whispering their last goodbyes as they lay together in their bathtub.
The house shaking as if on the back of a runaway locomotive. Fathers searching
for grown children days after the storm. The guardsman experienced a
magnification of reality in a microcosm of existence.
He guarded
darkened streets. He distributed food stuffs. He drove the little lanes of once
elegant subdivisions. He cleaned the littered yards of the storm’s hapless
victims. His rifle over his back. He staunched the flow of gangs and looters.
He met those
who now called an automobile their home. There was the lady who apologized for
accepting emergency food stamps. “I’ve never needed these in my entire life
before,” she said. The guardsman spoke kind words. “Then you are the one who
most deserves it.”
There was
the woman who shook his hand, and then unexpectedly embraced him, and kissed
him on the cheek. . “You don’t know how much we needed you here, and how we
appreciate your having answered the call.” She walked away in tears; unable to
say more.
The last day
arrived and we were all ready to bid ‘adieu’ to the city. Our task was
complete, and yet there were tasks and missions plenty for countless volunteers
in the months which lie ahead.
As we walked
across the parking lot chatting and reminiscing, a bald eagle drifted over our
heads, flew the length of our compound, and disappeared on the horizon. Tears
again filled our eyes. The tour was done, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.
We were
back, but we would never be the same. We could only be the better for that
which we had seen, that which we had experienced, and for those brave citizens
we had met.
We had
returned to our natural environment. The air seemed fresher. The flowers more
colorful. The sky a bit bluer. Oh, how thankful we were on the other side of
the storm.
And what of
those we left behind? Their lives were budding again. Just as surely as the
trees of their city began to bud anew after being so rudely stripped of their
leaves.
SSG William
R. McDonald was a member of HQ, 2nd Bn, 116th Field
Artillery, Lakeland, Florida, and a resident of Winter Haven, Florida.
This article
appeared in The Lakeland Ledger and The Winter Haven News Chief shortly after
his mission to south Florida concluded.
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