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. Copyright pending
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