The Foxtrot No One Enjoyed

The American military has a way of describing nearly everything with its own unique, arcane language.  Gossip, for example, is scuttlebutt.  A collection of brightly-colored ribbons on a dress uniform is fruit-salad.  A situation that is irreparably chaotic, hopelessly marred by poor communication, or just a big mess is a  . . . wait a minute.  This is a civilized blog.  We will refer to the big mess as charlie foxtrot, and I beg you to excuse my language, but I found myself dancing in a foxtrot I never wished for.  Some one should have cut in.

April 11 was a milestone day for my son, a Sailor.  It was not only his three-year service anniversary; it was the start of what might have been his longest and final deployment.  In addition, my Sailor was to receive his Good Conduct Medal for three years' service without any disciplinary action.  Mr. Powers and I have never missed an opportunity to see his ship leave or return, and this day was to be no different.  Last minute schedule- shifting had been necessary, but we had arrived in Jonathan's base city late on the night of the 10th.  That was a spur-of-the-moment arrival, to be sure, but we had a late supper with our son and made plans to arrive at the base by 0830 the following morning.  That would give us ample time to clear any security details and proceed to the pier before the Sailors began to man the rails.  There would be sad smiles, hugs, and congratulations all around.  There would be pictures!

We were in line at the main gate in plenty of time, drivers' licenses, registration, and proof of insurance in hand.  (Hey, this ain't our first rodeo!)  We presented an MP with our paperwork with the expectation that he would direct us to a checkpoint ahead where we would be identified as members of a deploying Sailor's family.  Instead, the busy MP informed us that we could not "just drive onto the base," as if we didn't know.  He stopped the traffic in the outbound lane so that we could U-turn around the gatehouse and pull into the parking lot of the Base Pass Office.

Every base has one of these cinder-block, square buildings with a giant label by the door that says BASE PASS OFFICE.  A visitor parks his car, goes inside, presents his credentials, and gets a placard to go on his dash.  We parked and entered the building.  There was one other customer there, a Sailor registering his motorcycle.  No one else was waiting.  It was here, at 0827 on a Friday morning, that we had the misfortune of meeting Mr. B.  I will give no information here as to Mr. B's racial/ ethnic group, religious affiliation or ELL status.  I want there to be no unfair generalizing.  What I will state is that Mr. B., a civilian contractee with little to do, was the most indolent, apathetic creature I have ever been cursed to encounter.

"Help you please?"  he asked.  (Translation:  Do I have to deal with you?  OK, let's get it over with.)

Mr. Powers and I proceeded to the window with all our credentials in hand.  (I should note that the MP had already run a check on both drivers' licenses and our car tag.  What a relief!  We are not suspected of being terrorists.)  We put the paperwork on the windowsill, explaining that our son was aboard a deploying ship, and that we were there to see the departure.

"I don't see a  special event on the calendar for (Ship Name).  Is it a departure or an arrival?"  (Translation:  I am not listening whatsoever.)

"It's the (Ship Name).  They pull out at 10:00."

"Is there a list?  Who's your sponsor?"  (Translation:  I don't know what to do.)

Was this a trick question?  How would we know if there were a list?  There always has been, and we've always been on it.  We told him our son's name for the second time.  Mr. B. heaved himself out of his chair and went into another room.  He came back in 10 seconds.

"You can't go on base without a sponsor.  Your sponsor will have to come to the gate and escort you while you're on base.  You can sit over there and wait for your sponsor."  (Translation:  I'm done.  This is your problem.  Get out of my window.)

I got on my cell phone, thinking that Jonathan would still have time to leave the pier area and drive to the gate to act as our escort.  Jonathan, however, was aboard ship. probably changing into his dress whites in preparation for manning the rails, and was unable to receive wireless signals.  I tried calling, texting, emailing, and Facebook messaging, all to no avail.  I was finally able to get ahold of another Navy mom who was already on the pier, having stayed overnight with her son and his family.  I explained our dilemma to her, she passed the word (scuttlebutt!) to another Sailor, and he went aboard to tell Jonathan about the charlie foxtrot we had encountered.  But by that time, no Sailor could leave the area, so our chance of getting any escort was just about zero.  It occurred to me to call the ship's family liaison, but the cell number I had wasn't connecting for some reason.  Thinking I had the wrong number, I ventured back to the window and asked Mr. B if he had a number for that individual.

"I  can give you the number ma'am," he intoned.  (Translation:  Oh my God, lady, can't you see I'm trying to set up a dental appointment here?  Hold on a minute.)

He did give me a number.  It was a landline, and it rang to infinity.  I hung up in despair.

Lest you decide to stop reading here, concluding that this is just a sentimental mom's lament that she didn't get to say Fair winds and following seas to her kid, I should tell you that there was also a practical matter that needed our attention on the base.  Jonathan doesn't store his truck on base; we bring it home during deployment.  He likes it to be driven; we like the convenience of having a nice pick-up truck to use.  He had brought the key along with him to give to us before he had to go aboard.  His friend got to him with the charlie foxtrot message just in time for Jonathan to pass the key along to a Navy wife.  She was able to bring us the truck key, but she only showed up at the Base Pass Office after the ship had pulled out and was out of sight.  Can you blame her?  Her husband was aboard that ship.  She gave me a ride down to the parking lot where Jonathan had left the truck.  Mr. Powers waited at the gate with our car.  By that time, we were fearful they'd tow it away if it were unattended.

Jonathan's white Dodge was where he said it would be.  I thanked the young lady for the lift, unlocked the door, silenced the alarm, and turned the ignition.  The truck idled smoothly.  It hadn't even gotten hot inside the cab yet.  I rolled the window down and pulled the seat forward.  Jonathan is so much taller than I am.  There was an Episcopal service order on the floor from the previous Sunday, a black sock without a mate on the seat, a coffee mug from the NEX in the cup holder--just the everyday trappings of a Sailor on the job.  I pulled out of the lot and headed back the way I had come in. As I passed the deserted pier, I glanced out the left-hand window at blue-gray water lapping against the concrete and stretching to the empty horizon.  I was careful to fasten my seatbelt and stay below the speed limit.

An hour later, Mr. Powers and I were a motorcade of two headed west.  He drove the truck; I was back in my car.  We stopped for lunch, asking each other the same questions we had been asking all morning:  Why didn't Mr. B just call the ship and verify the deployment?  Why didn't he simply ask a Sailor to escort us the half- mile we would need to travel down to the pier?  What was the point of holding us at the gate once they had verified who we were and why we were there?  There was no unusual security on base that day.  What would prevent a couple of aging baby-boomers in a Chrysler from proceeding to a pier where their bona-fide, natural-born son is waiting to pull out?  We couldn't come up with any answers.   We knew only two things for certain:  We were sadly disappointed, and our Sailor was mad.

I mentioned earlier that it was a milestone day for Jonathan.  Check the date.  I wrote this on April 13.  On April 14, 200 miles north of Bermuda, the USS Hue City caught fire.  My Sailor and the rest of the crew fought major flames for nearly two hours, and miraculously, no one was killed or injured.  The deployment ended that day, and the ship began her return home.   On April 17,  Jonathan received the official word:  He's the Sailor of the Quarter.   On April 18, I got the call that let me know my son was safe in port.   I guess even good Sailors get the charlie foxtrot treatment once in awhile.  But having just celebrated Easter in a way I never expected--in the happy company of my whole family--I also guess that charlie foxtrot is a relative term.

Name This Blog!

"What's in a name?" Juliet famously wondered.  I wonder, too.  I have an unusual problem today  in that my story, chameleon-like, changes its colors each time it dons a new title.  I have been unable to name this blog accurately, but I have been able to borrow a few titles from their better-known authors.  Also,  I am familiar with the Chinese proverb that tells us that the beginning of wisdom is calling things by their right names.  Therefore, you may choose any of the following titles for this blog or you may make one up.  I, wondering what's in a name anyway, will never be the wiser.

The Journey to the East

(borrowed from a lesser-known work by Hermann Hesse)

The Summer Solstice is only days away.  Afternoons have grown long, and they languish for hours, especially as we move into the Eastern time zone.  My companion on the trip is my husband, who prefers to drive.  I am the navigator.  So we pull onto Interstate 10, heading toward the Atlantic Ocean.  This trip is a labor of love, for our #1 son, a 23-year-old, will head even further East soon.  He is in the Navy; it's his first deployment.  We intend to see that ship leave its home, Mayport, FL.  But first, we are going to spend some quality time with him and let him know, once more, that we are brimming with pride.

As we get closer and closer to Jacksonville, the text messages fly.  He wants to know where we are, how many miles out of Tallahassee, when we will make the next pit stop.  Then he is texting directions:  follow the Jax Beaches signs, exit onto Atlantic Blvd., stay straight, keep right, you're almost here.  There is still plenty of daylight when both our vehicles pull into the motel parking lot.  Mr. Powers and I are a little bedraggled from the long, boring road trip; Jonathan is refreshed and smiling, winding up a much-deserved day off-duty.

Hugs are exchanged, news from all corners shared, supper plans made.  We eat together on the patio of a local restaurant, and by the time the last daylight fades, it is after 9:00 p.m.  We cannot believe how late it already is, and suddenly everyone is exhausted.

Sunday morning finds the three of us in church together.  It is Fathers' Day, and at this particular church, it is the day of the Bishop's visit.  There are many young adults being confirmed here, a very good sign for a parish in the city.  Jonathan shows me the bulletin, and points to his name.  He is on their prayer list.  During the Peace, parishioners greet him happily, but they hug him when he says he is about to be deployed.  The Priest-in-Charge, Teresa, beams at him as he shakes her hand at the end of the service but looks distressed when he shares the news of his departure.  "You'll be prayed for extra hard by name, every day," she promises.  She turns to me and says, "We absolutely love your son.  He is an awesome young man!  But you knew that."  Yes, I guess I did.  How strange and wonderful to discover that others seem to know it, too.

"How I Spent My Summer Vacation"

(borrowed from Ernie Souchak, a fictitious character played by John Belushi)

The wind blows constantly off of the gray-green Atlantic.  I sit beside the pool at our hotel reading a book.  Later on, Mr. Powers and I decide to be touristy--we crank the Chevrolet and head toward the public beaches.  We are used to the Gulf of Mexico, like most Alabamians.  We cannot help making comparisons--the sand here is gray and coarse with many, many shells and pieces of shells.  The surf is active, roaring; only a few people swim.  Many walk their dogs.  A man sleeps, fully clothed, with newspaper for a pillow.  The strand is firm beneath our feet.  We remember that Jonathan says he runs 2 miles on the beach right outside base housing.  We see how that might be possible, but he insists he'd rather run in the loose, sugary sands of the Gulf coast.  He says it's harder running and therefore, better exercise.

Then it's back into the car and on to do some shopping.  We find a bookstore, buy what's on sale, and get iced coffee.  We are vacationers, and we pay no mind to the clock.  But the sunlight is fading, and we remember that it is probably supper time.  A beachy-looking restaurant beckons as we drive up A1A.  We eat steamed shrimp until well after dark in a screened-in, second floor dining room with newspaper spread on the tables.  The wind rustles through the palmettos, and we can see the steely expanse of the Atlantic from where we are sitting.  It's not crowded, and only the two of us occupy this corner of the room.  I wonder if Jonathan, who is on duty his last night stateside, has ever been here before?  Not likely, we decide.  He is allergic to shellfish.

A Comedy of Errors

(borrowed from that English playwright)

With our son facing a nine-month deployment, we must bring his pick-up truck home with us.  Two vehicles will return to Alabama where there was only one.  I will of course drive home in the Chevrolet; I am used to it; it is reliable.  Still, I am not looking forward to getting out of the congestion of downtown Jacksonville, nor do I relish the thought of the long stretch of highway that is I10 West.  I know my way home, but I get drowsy sometimes, and what if  . . . ?

I strongly recommend to Mr. Powers that he get a cell phone; just a cheap pre-paid one would be fine, but something, anything, just in case . . . 

Mr. Powers says NOPE.  "We're going to stay together," he tells me.

And for the most part, we do.   Mr. Powers has the truck and therefore GPS, but he wants to follow me out of Jacksonville.  I am OK with that as I do know my way out, but I am not always sure how many lanes of traffic I have to cut to get to my exit or how long I have to get over.  That makes me not the best person to follow if you are not sure where you're going.  When we make a pit stop, Mr. Powers tells me there are certain rules of etiquette I must follow if I am going to be the lead auto.  I am not in a very good mood, and I really don't listen to his complaints.  I thought I was doing great.

At any rate, it is only an hour or two later that I signal for another stop.  I have plenty of gas, but the car feels shaky and hard to handle when braking.  We look at the left front tire, which had been suspiciously low the day before, but all appears well.  Mr. Powers is no longer annoyed, since driving on the straightaway of the interstate has apparently improved my ability to lead considerably.  When we get back on the highway, I let him pass me, since he is hungry and will decide where we'll stop.

We pass Lake City.  Tallahassee.  I am enjoying the symphony on Florida State University Public Radio when noise from the back right side of the Chevrolet intrudes.  This is not a "What was that sound?" kind of noise. This is "Get off the road RIGHT NOW" noise.  So I put on my blinker and roll onto the shoulder.  The white pick up in front of me never sees a thing.

I do have a cell phone.  It does many things, and on that particular morning, it had been a workhorse of a camera.  What I do not have for this trip is a car charger.  I have enough battery left to text my neighbor, who is caring for our dogs.  I tell her I have car trouble and may be delayed.  I call 911.  I wait.  A State Trooper comes.  He ascertains my tire size, because the back right tire has peeled its top layer like a cheap re-cap, exposing a now-useless steel belt.  A service truck arrives with the appropriate new tire, replaces the useless one, and charges me $100. I stand in tall roadside grass under a mean Florida sun and try to fend off fire ants.  The fire ants win.  After two hours I am back on the road.  Sweat is rolling down my cheeks.  My child is deployed.  I don't know where my husband is.

If I weren't in such a hurry to get home, I would kiss the pavement on 231N.

War and Peace

(borrowed from a Russian who knew a whole lot about both)

Jonathan arrives at our hotel room shortly after 0700 on 20 June 2012.  He collapses onto one of the beds.  He has been off duty for half an hour, since he had to stand watch while on duty overnight.  He says he'd like us to get him up in two hours, because he has to be at the ship by 1000.

We get coffee and newspapers in the lobby.  I have already done Jonathan's laundry, and he will pack some of it into his seabag when he wakes up.  The rest will go home with us.  True to his plan, he is awake again around 0900.  He is wearing civvies--he says he won't man the rails, because he has to put on his coverall and get to work.  He is a DC--a damage controlman--and he works below decks.  He is tense and impatient on the ride to the base.  We are all three in the truck, in which Mr. Powers and I will leave the base later on.

There are so many people on the dock.  Sailors in dress whites are walking up and down the ramp where there is a banner:  USS Hue City.  There are strollers with little kids, babies in their parents'arms, groups of three and four posing for pictures.  The wind is brisk and constant; the engines rumble.  It is hard to converse.

Jonathan reminds us that he will not be in whites.  He boards the ship after "one more hug" and tells us we can go on if we want; he has to get to work.  He does not know exactly how he'll stay in touch.  He loves us.  He goes aboard.  

We are not leaving until the Hue City leaves.  Sorry, Jonathan.  You'll understand when you're a parent.  Right now we will sit here and talk to --who is this?--a nice set of Kansas parents whose son, Sean, just made E-4.  Congratulations!  Nice to meet you, Sean.  How long did your trip take?  Our son is still E-3, looking for a promotion during this deployment, hopefully.  

Then he is walking toward us, looking a bit sheepish, but looking handsome all the same in his dress whites.  Yes, he is going to man the rails!  Photo ops begin in earnest now.  We take one of just him, one with Sean, one with his dad, and the lady from Kansas volunteers to take one of all three of us.  Then it's 1130, and everyone in uniform needs to be aboard.  The giant crane removes the walkway.  Sailors take their places on all three decks.  They all look the same in dress whites, of course, especially from this distance, but I can see Jonathan next to a ladder.  I know he sees me, too, because he stands still while I take another picture.  The  Hue City bellows a good-bye into the cloudy sky.

Then she is free and drifting away.  The Sailors stand fast, not waving, gazing at their children, wives, husbands, and parents, who are waving good-bye or holding American flags.  Tugboats bring her slowly around, and she is headed out to sea.  A little one wails that she wants her daddy.  In another group, a young woman says to her mother-in-law:  "You OK mama?"  The older woman nods slightly, solemnly.  I do not think it is her first deployment.  Mr. Powers and I walk back to the truck.  I will not cry.

The USS Hue City is a guided missile cruiser assigned to the USS Eisenhower battle group.  They are headed for the Mediterranean and then the Gulf.  She is carrying more than enough to defend with if anyone should be so foolish as to meddle with the carrier.  This, say Navy spokesmen, is a longer-than-usual deployment.  Nine months.  They go in peace.  May they not encounter war.  Godspeed.