Tag Archives: Hurricane Camille

Thanks for the Ride

While scrolling my Facebook newsfeed recently, I came across a post by an old friend that caught my eye and made me smile.  It said that it was seventeen years ago on that particular day that our army reserve unit left for Iraq.  I couldn’t believe it.  I had to count it out, using all my fingers and some of my toes.  It really had been seventeen years since we left Ft. Dix, New Jersey, headed for war.  Since I didn’t have Facebook when we left Ft. Dix in 2008, the event of going wheels up to cross the Atlantic Ocean doesn’t show up in my Facebook memories once a year like so many other things do.  To remedy this, I made a Facebook post referencing my friend’s post, that it had been seventeen years, and that I was making that post so it would show up in my memories.  I went on to mention that I had a bunch of pictures from that deployment and I would try to find them and post some on my Facebook page.

My post created somewhat of a mini-online reunion for many of my fellow soldiers from the 320th Military Police Battalion.  And when I started posting some of the 5,000 pictures I took while deployed, the reunions and stories and memories just kept coming.  On a side note, one of my “extra duties” while deployed was to be the battalion photographer and NCOIC (non-commissioned officer in charge) of the battalion newsletter.  Hence, the insane amount of pictures I took.  But to be honest, I likely would have taken most of the pictures anyway, without having that task added to my list of duties.  So many pictures!  And those pictures helped us relive plenty of stories and memories.

During our whole deployment, one of my fellow soldiers and I had kind of a little inside joke where when he saw me, he would annoyingly, almost angrily say, “You’re welcome!”  To which I would reply, “Thanks for the ride.”  Even recently while posting pictures from seventeen years ago, he made a comment on one of my Facebook posts, “You’re welcome for the ride, haha.”  There is a funny story as to why we would greet each other that way.  And it all started with the first time we met.  But before we get to all that, we have to go back to the start of that particular day, to about sixteen hours before we actually met.  To before I even made it to that unit and before I started taking all those pictures.

In the Army Reserves, it is not uncommon for soldiers to get cross-leveled into other units to fill a need in a unit that is preparing to deploy.  As a matter of fact, I was cross-leveled to a new unit for both my deployments, the first to Iraq, the second to Afghanistan.  For the Afghanistan deployment, not only was I cross-leveled to a new unit, but that new unit loaned me and some others to an active duty unit for the entire deployment.  And in the case of going to Iraq, I was transferred last-minute to a Military Police Battalion in Pennsylvania.  It was so last minute that I and about a dozen other soldiers had to do a few months’ worth of training in just a few weeks to catch up with the rest of the unit.  There was a lot to learn in a condensed time frame.  There were plenty of areas that each of us needed to be certified in to go on that deployment.  This made for long days.  But maybe none of them as long as the day I traveled to that new unit for the first time.

I remember it was the first day of the new school year for my kids here in Florida.  Right offhand I don’t remember the exact date, only that it was mid-August.  I dropped my kids off at their respective schools and then my wife dropped me off at the airport.  It was a nice, sunny day here in the panhandle of Florida.  But somewhere in the south or central part of the state there was a tropical storm or hurricane making waves.  All the flights in the southeast United States were affected.  And from where I was departing most of the flights go through Atlanta, where it ended up being a bottleneck of air traffic with endless delays.  My first flight was delayed long enough to where I would not make my connection, which in turn would prevent me from getting to the small-town airport somewhere in Pennsylvania before it closed for the day.  Unless I was to fly out the next day, the only option was to reroute into Philadelphia and have someone drive the 120-something miles (240-mile roundtrip) to get me and bring me back to the town where I was originally supposed to arrive.  And when I called the unit about the flight delays, arriving a day late was not an option.

I don’t remember a lot about the flights that day.  I don’t remember if I still flew through Atlanta or somewhere else.  But I remember finally arriving at Philadelphia International Airport around midnight and having no clue where to go to meet my ride that was supposedly coming.  I hadn’t spoken to anyone at my new unit since before I boarded the flight for Philly.  Somehow, and I don’t know how I got this lucky, I ended up going out the correct exit to find my ride.  But along the way from the baggage carousel to the exit, I found someone else that was going to the same unit as I was.  He was a young lieutenant that was looking to get a taxi for the more than two-hour drive.  But instead, we found the white passenger van with government tags and got on the road in the middle of the night.  I remember hearing my name called out and looking over to see someone waving me to come over.  After confirming that was my ride, I introduced the young lieutenant and the driver said something along the lines of, “Ok.  I wasn’t told about anyone else, but whatever.  Let’s go.”

We climbed into the van.  The young lieutenant went straight to the back row, stretched out on the seat, and went to sleep.  I sat in the row behind the front seats.  The passenger seat up front had a co-driver in it, but he was asleep, occasionally mumbling in his slumber during the trip.  The driver, focused on the mission, started the engine and we were on our way.  I made small talk with the driver, asking about the unit, the leadership, and a list of other topics.  It didn’t take long to realize he wasn’t happy about this 240-mile round-trip mission he was given.  He wasn’t rude.  He stayed professional.  But he wasn’t happy.  He had been pulled from a pre-deployment party, celebrating with his section and the families at an Outback Steakhouse, basically saying their goodbyes since we were leaving for Ft. Dix in a couple days. That would explain the almost lifeless body in the front passenger seat, ha-ha.  Turns out, I completely interrupted that party by needing a ride from halfway across the state.  Or we could blame the weather in South Florida. 

I probably thanked him over and over again for coming to get me.  Since he didn’t really want to be there in the middle of the night, driving us from the airport to the hotel, I wanted to make sure he knew that I appreciated him.  His response was, “You’re welcome!”  It was loud and forceful.  It wasn’t a normal “you’re welcome,” it was a frustrated “you’re welcome.”  But it was amusing and humorous for some reason and it kind of stuck with us.  From that point on that’s how he greeted me for the entire deployment.  It became a fun thing.  It was a weird circumstance that led to some camaraderie that still lives seventeen years later.

Aside from the travel delays on that day in August of 2008, another painful part of the adventure from that day happened when we arrived at the hotel where the unit was staying.  I think we got to the hotel around 2 am.  Maybe 3, it is all a blur.  The young lieutenant checked in at the front desk and got his room.  But for some reason when I tried to check in, they didn’t have my name on the list for a room.  It was a debacle.  I had no idea who in the unit to ask for and I didn’t have anyone’s cell phone number to call and ask.  And the driver of the van who might have had an answer already vanished as soon as we arrived.  Even if I wanted to pay for a room myself, there were no rooms left at the hotel.  Thankfully, the young lieutenant overheard and asked the clerk if his room had two beds.  It did.  I had a place to crash for two hours before we had to wake up and start the day.  That gesture by the lieutenant has never been forgotten.  It was the beginning of great friendship during deployment, another crazy circumstance that fostered camaraderie.

Throughout my time in the army, especially after I went back into service the second time, I met and served with some amazing people.  From different army schools for training, to the various reserve units I was part of, to the deployments I went on, there is a special bond I still feel with all those I served with.  I love every single one of them.  We might not have seen each other or spoken for more than 15 years, but we wouldn’t miss a beat if we chatted today.  That is evident in some of the messages and comments that resulted from all the pictures I recently posted on Facebook.  In some cases, we picked up like we had just spoken yesterday instead of “forever” ago.  There are few professions outside of the military where this happens on that deep of a level.  Being forced to trust each other with our lives tends to create some strong bonds.

Thanks again for the ride, Blake!  “You’re welcome!”  I appreciate you.  To all the others I served with, thank you for all the stories and memories.  Let’s catch up sometime.  And for everyone else that found your way to Story of My Life, thanks for stopping by today.  I hope you enjoyed this piece.  Good day, God bless.

Dave

Top: Mural of the 320th MP BN on a T-wall at Camp Bucca, Iraq, 2008.

Bottom: 320th MP BN Unit Ministry Team on mission to Umm Qsar, 2008.

The Brick

I bought a house.  Way ahead of schedule for what my original plans were.  I thought it would be at least a couple more years before I was in a position to buy, but sometimes things work out.  It’s a great house, built in 1972, and had only one owner until I bought it last month.  The gentleman that bought the house almost 50 years ago passed away in January.  It does need a few minor things taken care of, but it got a brand-new roof and a complete electrical re-wire before closing.  The seller was extremely accommodating in selling the house she grew up in.

The move was a huge pain, not fun.  The closing had to be moved back a week, so I was worried about getting out of the condo I was renting by the time I said I would.  On top of that, Hurricane Sally was approaching the Gulf Coast.  And to make matters more stressful for me, I was the on-call guy at work for the week that my closing got pushed to.  We got our stuff moved in just before the weather deteriorated, all while working in between moving loads of stuff from one place to another.  And then the storm hit.  I worked a total of 17 days in a row.  I haven’t even come close to getting settled in yet at my new home.  But, I’m here, and I’m happy.  Things will fall into place as they will.  No hurry.

During my move I found many memories while packing.  It’s amazing to find stuff you haven’t seen in years and relive old times while going through closets and boxes.  One thing I found was a brick.  Just a simple, red brick.  It has no monetary value.  It’s not pretty or decorative.  But it might be the last one left of the bricks that were part of my grandparents’ house which was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina in 2005.  They had already sold that house at the end of Beach Bayou Rd in Biloxi, Mississippi years before, but my childhood memories of it still remained.

Grandma had all the Tupperware you would expect in a house during that era.  She had a tan sugar dish with a lid that opened on both sides.  Open one side and it pours out from a small hole; the other side was big enough to put a spoon in.  Of course, she had the orange pitcher with the push down lid.  Is Tupperware even a thing anymore?  Grandpa had a music room where he composed.  I don’t know if he did his paintings in there as well, or just his music.  I have all his music somewhere in a box that hasn’t been unpacked yet.  I always loved his music.  I have a number of his paintings as well, at least one of which is already hanging here at my new house. 

From when I was a child visiting my grandparents’ house, I can remember looking at the stars with my uncle out in the yard and him taking me on the water in his blue fiberglass boat; only time I’ve caught a shark.  I remember my aunt and cousins living in the next house up the road.  We had way too much fun as kids jumping ditches up and down the street.  Grandma would always fuss at us for that because of the snakes in the ditches.  We never got bit.  I remember the times my sister and I would spend the night at the red brick house on the bayou.  So many wonderful memories.  And all that’s left from that house is a brick. 

In 1969, Hurricane Camille devastated the Mississippi Coastal area.  At that time, it was one of the most intense hurricanes to make U.S. landfall.  It was a Category 5 storm. Camille brought 7 ½ feet of water into my grandparents’ home.  When the water receded and the sun came out, they cleaned and rebuilt.  As far as fixing the damage to their home, they left only the watermark in the detached laundry room as a reminder of how high the water had come.  Basically, their house was underwater except for the roof.  In 2005, when I finally got through on the phone to my grandparents after Katrina, I asked how it compared to Camille.  My grandfather told me Katrina made Camille look like an afternoon thunder storm. 

My first opportunity to go to Biloxi after Katrina was in early in 2007, for my grandfather’s funeral.  While there, I took my oldest boy and explored the area, giving him a glimpse into an early childhood chapter of my life.  We went by the old house on Beach Bayou Rd.  As we drove down to where the road disappears into the bayou, I couldn’t see the house.  It was gone.  Only the foundation and a few bricks that still made a small corner of the house remained.  I wanted to cry.  It was all gone.  Only the memories remain. 

I took a brick that day.  I still have it.  It just sits on a window sill in my bedroom at my new home.  It’s place at the condo I moved from was on the window sill in my bedroom there.  Before that, it was on the very top of a small wall unit in my now ex-wife’s house.  There’s no elaborate display for it.  No fancy case.  No markings as to where it came from or how it got here.  It’s just a brick.  But it’s all that’s left from some of my most cherished childhood memories.  It mostly stays out of sight, I barely notice it’s there.  Most days I don’t even think about it. 

Maybe our memories are like that brick.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Then once in a while we notice.  Something prompts us to take a walk down memory lane.  Hopefully good memories, but it can go both ways.  I hope your memories are like my brick, mostly good.  Thanks for enjoying my memories with me today.  Good day, God bless.

Dave