This Friday will mark 25 years since we
received the call. My National Guard unit had been mobilized to report to south
Florida, as the result of the devastation visited by Hurricane Andrew upon the
City of Homestead.
As our convoy rushed past pine trees, and
palmetto bushes, and entered “the zone
of influence,” it seemed we transcended a fine line of demarcation between
intact civilization, and what might well have passed for a war zone.
Whereas, the flora which surrounded us
showed little or no sign of having been impacted by the Category 5 winds of
Hurricane Andrew, and I had begun to wonder why we had been called away from
the lives to which we were generally accustomed, the devastation which suddenly
greeted us was nothing less than incomprehensible.
Palm trees broken like matchsticks, and
haphazardly scattered across acres of countryside which bordered our asphalt
entre into a real-life Neverland. A automobile dealership with its doors and
windows blown out, and its stock in trade heaped in colorful metallic piles
around it. An ocean going vessel, a hundred feet in length, lying on its side
beneath a highway overpass. Multiplied thousands of businesses and expensive
homes annihilated by the mindless, unmitigated force of nature.
And what struck me strange was how much
like this little piece of south Florida resembled Maine in Wintertime, as every
plant, bush and tree had been rudely stripped of their leaves; (a condition
which was summarily reversed when, so uncharacteristic of Florida, and as we
neared the end of our mission, a multitude of buds graced every stem and
branch).
It was August and it was hot, and the lack
of air conditioning, or even a fan in the green canvas Army tents which served
as our homes away from home was just short of unbearable. Rain water washed
easily across the floor of our transient tabernacle, and the buzz and
subsequent bite of a thousand bloodsuckers provided scant little respite, as we
slipped, still deeper, into our heavy, woolen sleeping bags.
Pt. 2
The 2nd Battalion, 116th
Field Artillery was stationed at the Metro Zoo; or at least what was left of
it. Most of the animals had been evacuated to other locations, outside the
projected perimeter of Ground Zero. However, a nearby research facility had
been abandoned in place and left unattended. And as a result, some unintended
results were in the offing.
Dozens of monkeys were on the prowl. But
not just your garden variety monkeys. Did I mention the facility which they
called home was an AIDS research complex? (Well, it was). And as you might
imagine, we were admonished to shoot the little fellas on sight. To my
knowledge none of our troops chanced upon any of the little boogers. Word is
that many of the hapless simians migrated to the nearby everglades, (and there
is every reason to believe that their contaminated descendants continue to
populate the area).
My section wound up with a couple of
assignments during the course of our 40 day tenure in the most God forsaken two
hundred square mile piece of ground on Planet Earth.
“Country Walk” was (and perhaps, by now, is
again) an exclusive subdivision made up of half million dollar homes. But I
regret to say Hurricane Andrew made short work of the place. And in retrospect,
it was discovered that the building codes were insufficient for winds half as
strong as this storm visited on the place.
Large heaps of plywood and orange tile
bearing little semblance to the magnificent homes which once lined the idyllic
streets upon which we navigated our camouflaged Humvees. Manicured yards
covered with fallen oak trees, and a neighbor’s kitchen garbage.
And from my guard post, near the entrance
of the formerly elite community, one of the most peculiar sights to which I
have ever been exposed.
A 1930’s era C-47 prop airplane sitting
“all by its lonely” in a nearby field; with little or no visible damage. I
asked my section chief about it, and Sergeant Hoehne informed me that unlike
the proverbial turtle on a fence post, this plane definitely got there by
itself. For you see, before the recent storm collapsed the hanger in which it
had been on permanent display, the aged “Gooney Bird” had been part and parcel
of a WWII collection of vintage airplanes.
Almost inexplicably, it had been lifted
into the air by a small, embedded twister, done its own solitary ‘Dorothy in
Kansas’ act, and managed to take its last flight… without a pilot. Ultimately,
as though resting in the hand of Providence, the plane experienced the shortest
flight, and the strangest landing of its long and storied career.
Pt. 3
Day gave way to night, and night gave way
to day, and as Sergeant Bob and I relieved the night shift one morning, and
took our place near the guard shack, a thirty something year old man stepped
out of a nearby house, (or what was left of it) ambled over to us, and
proceeded to share a story which easily gave my previous tale of the Gooney
Bird “a run for its money.”
For it seems Robert and his wife made the
fateful decision to remain in their home and weather the hurricane. Given the
now obvious state of their little corner of paradise, it almost cost them their
lives.
August 24, 1992. A day that will live in
infamy; at least a day the citizens of the Miami suburb which was Homestead,
Florida will remember for as long as they draw breath. And for those such as
Robert and Trisha, who chose to “ride it out” in their homes, the experience
was not only memorable, but the most traumatic circumstance of their entire
lives.
But I’ll allow Robert to tell the tale.
“Trish and I have experienced other
hurricanes, and we figured this one couldn’t be much worse. I mean, our house
has weathered several of ‘em, and the worst of it was always a few missing
shingles.
It began very much like the other storms.
The clouds grew dark, and the wind picked up a bit, and of course we’d tuned
our television to the Weather Channel.
I guess we had been lulled into
complacency. I mean the weatherman can ‘cry wolf’ so many times, and so many
times the storm’s bark is so much worse that its bite.
Pt. 4
But we found out the hard way. 30 or 40
minutes into the thing, it got bad. I mean, it got really bad, and we began to
question our sanity for staying put in our house. We could hear shingles flying
off the roof, and then a few hairline cracks appeared in the ceiling. Suddenly,
something smashed into our front bay window, and the wind came roaring into our
living room.
I grabbed Trisha’s hand and we ran for the
hall bathroom. It was all I could do to push the door shut behind us. The
sounds around us were just monstrous; like nothing I’d ever heard before. At
this point, we got into the bathtub, clothes and all, and just sat there in
each other’s arms.
Sergeant, I’m not ashamed to tell you I was
more afraid than I have ever been before, or ever hope to be again. We just
held one another, affirmed our love for each other, and said our ‘goodbyes.’ I
honestly expected a first responder or insurance agent would discover our
bodies. Of course, I didn’t share my thoughts with Trish.”
Robert continued.
“Thank God for that small bathroom. It was
the only room which came through the storm intact. We simply could not have
survived in any other room in our house. The ceilings collapsed, and every
window had been blown out. Glass and debris was everywhere.”
Before Robert returned to what was left of
his former home he made us aware that he’d just been interviewed for a feature
segment on the popular news show, “20/20.” (And though I have attempted to
locate that particular segment, I’ve never run across it).
Pt. 5
Of course, I previously inferred my section
performed another role during the 40 days we served in aftermath of Hurricane
Andrew. (And I have never been able to refer to that season without thinking of
Noah, and the 40 day aftermath of the Great Flood; when the Ark waited to rest
on dry land).
About halfway into that little season,
(although it seemed interminable) our duties at Country Walk culminated, and we
were diverted to the flea market in Homestead. And admittedly, under such
circumstances one might wonder what eight or ten reservists would be doing at a
flea market, after what at the time was the worst storm in U.S. history. And I
can only respond, “Well, I’m glad you asked.”
The federal government was, as the result
of the storm, in the process of dispensing emergency food stamps to the
citizens of that extended community, and since the value of this commodity was
in the multiplied millions of dollars, our unit provided armed security. (And
my dear readers, armed we were). Whereas, the 25,000 active duty troops in the
area walked around with unloaded M-16’s, (as Martial Law had not been declared)
each and every one of the 10,000 members of the Florida Army National Guard
carried a full clip of live rounds. (None of that Barney Fife and the one
bullet in his pocket thing for us).
I recall a couple of unforgettable
experiences during our tour of duty at the flea market.
A young Haitian woman approached my section
chief with a question, but it was readily apparent she didn’t speak English.
Having had a year of French in college, I immediately recognized her need, and
I responded with, “Voila la toilette,” and pointed towards a distant
Port-a-Potty. (Had she wanted a rundown of the latest stock market report I’m
afraid my fluency in the French language, or lack thereof, would have failed
me).
Pt. 6
I will always remember the kindness of an
elderly Cuban woman who offered me a cup of that rich dark coffee for which her
little island is so widely known. And while I was not then, nor am I now a fan
of coffee, I absolutely loved it. As it fell together a quarter of a century
would ensue before I would taste it again. Just the other day my wife and I
walked into a local Cuban restaurant and ordered a cup of the lovely stuff. (Somewhat
of a distant echo of a mission completed, and a job well done).
A few minutes later the sky grew dark, and
a common, run of the mill Florida thunderstorm approached from the east; (the
same direction from whence Hurricane Andrew and its devastating 180 mph winds
had come). As the wind freshened, and it began to sprinkle, a little
dark-haired girl in the crowd, perhaps all of five years of age, began crying,
and could not be comforted. I immediately recognized the symptoms, and surmised
that like Robert and Trisha, her family had, just three weeks before, chosen to
remain in their home, rather than flee the impending storm. (No doubt, the now
thirty-something year old woman is still triggered when the sky grows dark, the
winds begin to blow, and a little H2O descends from the sky).
We must have been quite a sight walking in
and out of stores and eating establishments wearing camo clothing, and with our
M-16’s slung over our shoulders. (Somewhat reminiscent of Uganda and Idi Amin).
On one especially memorable day, perhaps a month into our tenure in that
storm-stricken city, SFC Hoehne and I walked out of a local McDonald’s; having
just purchased our own respective “to go” meals. And without warning, a lovely
young woman walked up, wrapped her arms around me, and exclaimed,
“You guys just don’t know how much we
appreciate you” (and) “Thank you for helping us.”
And as quickly as she appeared, she was
gone. I never cease to think of her, and though her name eludes me, I hope she
is well, and I often mention her in my prayers.
Pt. 7
The last day
finally arrived and several hundred guardsmen were more than ready to bid
‘adieu’ to their adopted city. Our task was complete, and yet, there were tasks
and missions plenty for countless volunteers in the months which lay ahead.
As we walked
across the parking lot reminiscing about our singular experiences, a bald eagle
drifted over our heads, flew the length of our compound, and disappeared on the
horizon. Tears filled my eyes. The tour was done, but would never be 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
whom 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.
Odd, it took
two weeks before I overcame the unexpected fatigue which overwhelmed me, and it
became apparent that I had too long been exposed to the whites and blacks and
browns and grays of that hurricane-stricken city. And I realized how that awful
place had somehow impacted my visual sensibilities, and resulted in a physical
weariness.
But 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.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 67. Copyright pending
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