THE ZOO CREW OF '92

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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, 2^nd Bn, 116^th 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.

THE ZOO CREW of ‘92

As close as the then serving members of 2^nd Bn, 116^th 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 1^st Platoon, 1^st 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 2^nd Battalion, 116^th 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).

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.

Bill McDonald, PhD