4344
Pt. 1
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 Bill McDonald, PhD
