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PANAMA
My feather pillow was flattened and stuck to the side of my drooling face as I dug for the sheet behind my shoulder. The itchy wool blanket was annoying next to the smooth white sheets knotted underneath it. I found the sheet and pulled it up around my neck, I dreaded to wonder if I had been asleep for thirty minutes or four hours. As I hoped for the best, scattered “beeps” from digital watches sounded around me, indicating the top of the hour… But what hour?
I was beginning to relax for another hour until I heard the “buzz.”
Being on the top bunk, my head was just an arms-length away from the ceiling. After sleeping there for the previous ten weeks, I learned that the florescent bulbs inset above my head would faintly buzz for a couple of seconds before turning on, just long enough for me to acknowledge and to pull my blankets over my head to protect my darkness.
I yanked up the wool blanket just in time and tightened my eyes, anticipating the blinding white light.
Bunk springs creaked and a few more digital watches chimed, including mine. I opened my eyes under the blanket and let them adjust before exposing them to the bright white ceiling of my platoon’s army barracks. Basic Training had been over for two weeks, but not much had changed. My platoon’s transition from Basic Training to Military Police School was seamless with the exception of a short formation to acknowledge a new lesson plan. The training brigade was designated as One Stop Unit Training, or “OSUT” as it read on my orders.
I sat myself up and swung my feet off the side of the bunk. I paused for a moment to prepare my tender feet and sore legs before dropping off my sanctuary onto the hard tile floor.
“Hey Moo, you got any spare shoe laces?”
The voice came from beneath me. Mike Richards was my bunk mate and assigned Basic Buddy. He was from southern Missouri, a real Missouri good ol boy. His animated stories from home kept me entertained for the duration of our stay in Alabama.
“Dude, no.” I said.
“Try Rodgers, he don’t need em.”
Rodgers was a recruit who was in the process of getting discharged due to “foot problems.”
I slid off of my upper bunk and hit the floor as delicately as possible as the “ka-CHUNK” of the back door warned us of the Drill Sergeant approaching.
“AT EASE!” was hollered by a private at the opposite end of our bay.
“Carry on!” The Drill Sergeant replied to the room. His boots knocked sharply in a rhythm too swift in comparison to the tired soldier’s movements he surveyed as he began to pace the rows of bunks. Soldiers he paused near simultaneously quickened their actions. Some tripped into running shoes, some straightening bed covers, others zipped into sweatshirts…
As he quickly strolled down the center of our bay, the shine on his boots matched the gloss of the floor we had spent hours waxing.
Weeks earlier, this same floor was nearly mud covered, with scattered field gear and the occasional loose, scurrying scorpion that had hitched a ride back from our field exercises, but that was Basic Training.
This was Military Police School.
For now, the classroom was the only place we’d place our boots. The only time we’d break a sweat outside of morning physical training would be when we were dropped for push-ups, which at this phase, was for any reason at any time.
The Drill Sergeant stopped near the exit of our bay and spun on his heels, placing his hands on his hips...
"TROOPS! A Marine was killed last night in Panama..." he shouted.
We all paused.
"The media has called it friendly fire on a count of a drunk Marine not responding to orders to halt."
We all began to move again, walking towards our Drill Sergeant to head out for our morning formation. He held his ground firmly with his hands on his hips and elbows flared out sharply.
Soldiers funneled towards him as he eye-balled & asked various troops that passed him out the door...
"Do you think that's what happened, Private?"
"Do you, Private Richards?"
"What about you Private Moore?"
"I sure hope so, Drill Sergeant..." I said while shuffling past.
1/15/12
JUNE
FORT CARTOON
Fort Carson, Colorado was hot but not like the sticky hot humidity I’d left behind in Alabama. Southern Colorado was hot and dry in the middle of June. As I rode through town in a plain white US Government "duty-van" from the airport to the Fort, the driver pointed out places to go and things to do. I found myself breathing deep to test the altitude that everyone kept warning me about. The elevation was listed as 6,020 feet on the “Welcome to Colorado Springs” sign, but I really couldn’t tell much of a difference.
As we drove into the populated area of Carson (described by the van driver as “Fort Cartoon”), we rode along clusters of boring brick buildings separated by rock gardens and parking lots filled mostly with little economy cars and small pick-ups. The Fort Carson Reception Station was intermingled with the barracks of administrative type units such as Finance and Post Headquarters. The mammoth Cheyenne Mountain, which was where N.O.R.A.D was located, overshadowed the entire post.
As I slowly wandered across the parking lot towards the reception station, stumbling slowly, shuffling my feet and balancing my stuffed duffel-bag on one shoulder as I starred up at the clusters of antenna array’s and satellite dishes placed around the mountain. I felt unusual comfort knowing that I was being stationed at probably the safest U.S. Army Post in the entire world. Later on, I'd observe that my comfort level was shared among most of the troops I encountered at “Carson,” and it was later apparent by the general mood and flow of the post’s activities once I began my patrols.
As I wandered into the building, the smell of floor wax, and the sound of a buffer in the distance snapped me back into my new "Army-green" reality. My stomach tightened slightly as I reported in to the Staff Sergeant behind the long, chest-high counter near the entrance. I wasn’t standing there more than ten seconds before I saw a couple of my fellow Privates from MP training. Jay and Steve came strolling out of an echoey stairwell, dressed in civilian clothes. Back in Alabama, Jay Heinz had wall locker was next to mine throughout BASIC and MP School. At 26 years old, he was much older than most of the troops in our platoon, and quickly gained the nickname of “Grandpa.” He had driven his car to Colorado from his home in Wisconsin during his leave time. I respected his discipline for carrying out such a task with such limited time given to us after our seventeen weeks of training in Alabama. I had spent my previous eight days of leave-time partying hard and hanging out with my old high school buddies, trying to soak up as much of home as possible before falling back into formation.
PFC Heinz was an overall cool, calm and collected guy. Nothing seemed to get him over-exited. He was tall with blond hair and bushy eyebrows. He was a guy who loved to crank up the Frampton and Nugent. In Basic Training, we’d always tease him about being stuck in the “old days” and he’d talk about his big blond “fro” in the 70's and how cool it was to grow up in the days of Disco and Guitar Rock.
Private Link was a true good ole’ boy from my rival platoon during Basic and MP school. Link was from West Virginia. This guy would soon look most fulfilled when you’d see him hanging around outside of any miscellaneous doorway, hat slightly kicked up, foot resting on a high stoop, a big fresh dip in-between cheek & gum, Marlboro in his right hand, and an empty Mountain Dew (or Budweiser) can in the other. The coolest thing to me about Link was, he loved to talk about anything, anytime, for as long as you could stand it.
Link and Heinz had buddied-up at the Reception station the evening before I arrived. They would eventually become long-term roommates once we settled in our unit.
As they approached me, I noticed that they were both sporting 8-day-old mustaches.
“Dump yur gear and come on, Moore. We’re gonna go check out the town,” Link twanged as he walked up and purposely scuffed his sneaker over my freshly shined low quarters.
Jay laughed and pointed as I yanked my foot away, “Ha! Yeah, come on E, I got my car.”
“Cool, gimme a minute” I said as they continued to head for the door.
“We’ll be out here,” said Link.
“Hey Link, you got pubic hair on your lip,” I hollered as they headed towards the door.
Link turned back and gave me a wink, “Sure do... leave-time was good ta me.”
I chuckled and turned back to face the Staff Sergeant at the counter, who was not smiling, “You an MP too?”
“Yes-sergeant,” I replied.
“Sign in here,” he said as he slapped a clipboard in front of me. He said nothing more as I signed in.
I thought to myself, "Welcome to Fort Carson."
Colorado Springs was a nice change from Alabama. The culture was closer to my native Seattle than the high hills of Anniston Alabama. Seeing retail chains and fast food restaurants that I was familiar with allowed me to exhale a bit since my arrival earlier that afternoon. Jay drove us around like he was on a mission. He was noting everything from ski shops to strip bars. I was noting car dealerships and malls. Link kept going on about hunting big game up in the Rockies which by early evening, had led to Jay navigating his 85 Ford Thunderbird closer and closer to the wall of mountains that flanked the city. Our shouting over the music to each other became hushed as Jay clicked off the blaring Guns & Roses on his stereo while he curiously rolled through the streets of the exclusive Broadmoor neighborhood. We worked our way closer and closer to the hillside until the pavement became gravel. We soon found ourselves tearing up a winding gravel road with the city lights behind us. We rolled down the windows, and turned the music back on.. louder. We had a full view of the entire city as the ridge widened to twice its width.
“Pull over here Jay.” Link pointed to the a wide spot as he shook a cigarette out of his pack and threw it over his shoulder at me. We climbed out of the car and leaned up against it.
“Rocket Queen” ended and the ominous silence prompted us to take long drags from our cigarettes as the tape the cassette player clicked over to, “Welcome to the Jungle.” Jay jolted off of the car at the opening riff and reached into his car, cranking the volume all the way up. The opening of the song echoed off the side of the mountain and flooded the entire hillside.
We all smiled to each other as Link played a little air guitar.
Jay situated himself in front of us..
“So I ran into a couple of MP’s at the chow hall during lunch today,” he hollered over the rock music.
“I found out, there’s two MP companies on Carson! One is primarily a field unit, spending weeks at a time in the field, and the other’s called, “Worldwide Deployable,” and those fuckers are packing for Panama!”
Link stopped playing his air guitar. I just stopped. Jay continued..
“Word was, from these two MP’s, that we’re all going to the 984th, Worldwide Deployable MP company, and that we were given orders specifically to Carson to build up for this deployment to Panama.”
“Holy shit, my mother’s gonna shit!” I said.
Link flicked his glowing cigarette butt onto a huge boulder next to the car and watched it explode off of the rock.
“That’s bullshit Jay; those MP’s were just playin’ the rookie.”
Jay did the same with his cigarette. “Maybe so Steve, lets go talk to some guys at the gates.”
As we drove towards Post, we tried to milk Jay’s memory for exactly what he was told by the MP’s to see if we could diagnose it as a prank, but Jay kept repeating the same thing, “They were pretty blunt, fellas... they just said- We’re all goin’ and we’re getting all the new MP’s between now and the time we leave.”
Once we reached the busy “B Street” we found the MP’s there to be pretty straightforward with the same information. One of the MP’s chatted with us near the visitor’s booth while the other waved traffic on what was a busy Saturday night. After a while, they swapped, and we got the same second opinion from the next MP, “Yep, you guys are headin’ out... They’re even takin’ volunteers from the 4th MP’s.”
Link and Heinz were discouraged by the news, but I was completely distraught, and it showed. Gone were my naive hopes of earning my next stripe by shaking doorknobs and writing traffic tickets. Most of all, I was stressed about how I was going to explain this to my mother back home. I was the son of a codependent, manic-depressive, super-left, ex-anti-war activist. I had just won her over with the Army by earning awards and recognition in training. After months of arguing about joining serving, she was finally seeing the payoff on my face. She even made the trip down to Alabama for my graduation. I felt vindicated when as she was sitting in the covered General’s section of the bleachers during the ceremony.
Well, that gain of support would pretty much be “out the window” with this news. For a few months, the media broadcasting out of Panama consisted of Noriega’s indictment, troop build-up, and increased political tension in the region. While I was in Basic, our Drill Sergeant advised us about a Marine that was killed in Panama. It was described as a “friendly-fire” incident, but from all of our points of view, if there’s enough tension to accidentally fire on your own troops, there’s enough tension for much more.
As the MP headed back to join his partner at the gate shack, he held traffic for us as we filed back onto the main road. I slunk down in the backseat even lower as Link and Heinz stared silently at the darkness in front of us. After about a minute or so, Heinz reached toward his stereo knob and let out a little sigh, “Well those guys seemed pretty cool…” ..Welcome to the Jungle..
STRIKE!
In-processing at the reception station went by way too slowly. I expected that by after training for seventeen weeks I’d be used to the “hurry up and wait” methods of the Army, but the difference was that outside of a training unit, the people controlling the flow are in no hurry at all. They were just doing their daily grind.
Every morning we would fall into formation based on what day of in-processing schedule we were taking part in; Day One, Day Two, Day Three platoon, etc. During my several days assigned to reception, the remainder of the soldiers I was with in Alabama slowly trickled in. I was surprised not to find everyone as fast as I found Link and Heinz, but the rest of the guys had excuses from requesting extended leave, to logistical family issues, to just plain signing-in late.
There were eight troops sent to Fort Carson from my training company. One of them, a female, “flipped-out” when she heard we were deploying to Panama. Private Juliann Lefevre joined the Army because her husband was a solider and stationed at Fort Carson. Before we even packed our bags at the reception station, she started talking about taking the “ladies way” out of the Army to avoid the deployment. This meant she was planning to get pregnant.
Despite the talk of the deployment, I was glad to be finished with the reception station. I was looking forward to getting settled into my unit. Link, Heinz, Foster, James and I all completed reception on the same day and were loaded onto a van to take us to our new unit. As we traveled to the other side of post, we noted that we had not all been together in a vehicle since we were stuffed into the troop moving cattle cars of Fort McClellan. Now we were established soldiers. Our uniforms were a little faded, our boot tread was a little worn down, and Heinz and Link’s mustaches were filling-in. We were comfortable.
We stretched out in the van as the Private behind the wheel gave us a guided tour of our new surroundings.
“You all are gonna be stayin all the way down at the end of the Banana Belt,” he said, as he looked up at us through the rearview mirror, with his oversized-teardrop sunglasses. “That’s where the MP’s stay.”
“The what?” Link said.
“The Banana Belt!” He said louder, with a slight Texas accent. “That’s what we call all these buildings off-here to our left. They go all the way down around this bend, and from the air, they look like a big banana.”
We all leaned to our left and watched the pattern of barracks go by, followed by smaller unit offices, followed by more barracks, and so on.
“Th-th-these look pretty good to me.. pretty.. pretty good.. huh, E?” Foster said, as he nodded in my direction for my opinion.
Foster was from the Highland Park area of Detroit and spoke with a bit of a stutter over his thick urban accent. He was a good pal from training, and had a strong interest in the ladies, which always made him fun company when hanging out during those coveted 24 hour passes. Foster was a character to watch at the nightclubs.
I nodded back, “Yeah, it doesn’t look too bad... Nicer than where we came from, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t get used to it fellas,” James said as he pushed himself down behind the rear seat and propped up one knee.
Harold James was a huge man. In training, we tried to nickname him “Tyson” because of his strong physical resemblance to the then undefeated boxer, Mike Tyson; but the name just didn’t stick. James was just too mellow and too deep to be regarded as a stereotypical brute.
After what seemed like a few miles, the van slowed and pulled into a parking lot that hosted offices, which were a carbon copy of the ones we’d been passing for the past few minutes. Looking ahead as we piled out of the van we could see that there were only two more large orange barracks buildings left, followed by pretty much nothing. We were truly at the butt-end of the Banana Belt.
“That’s us guys,” Heinz pointed up at a huge emblem on the side of the nearest barracks building. It was a large crest and banner which had a sword with a snake wrapped around it. Across the banner it said, “984th Military Police Company” “STRIKE!”
“Cool… Hey, is that a dragon, or a snake?” Link said as he dug the tobacco out of his cheek and flicked it into an adjacent rock garden.
“Looks like a snake,” I said as we all started up the stairs in front of the office doors.
“I know, but why does he got ears then?” Link said as he kept squinting at the sign.
James pushed him gently up the stairs to the front door of the battalion. Stenciled on the door was, “Welcome to the 759th Military Police Battalion.”
Fort Carson, Colorado was hot but not like the sticky hot humidity I’d left behind in Alabama. Southern Colorado was hot and dry in the middle of June. As I rode through town in a plain white US Government "duty-van" from the airport to the Fort, the driver pointed out places to go and things to do. I found myself breathing deep to test the altitude that everyone kept warning me about. The elevation was listed as 6,020 feet on the “Welcome to Colorado Springs” sign, but I really couldn’t tell much of a difference.
As we drove into the populated area of Carson (described by the van driver as “Fort Cartoon”), we rode along clusters of boring brick buildings separated by rock gardens and parking lots filled mostly with little economy cars and small pick-ups. The Fort Carson Reception Station was intermingled with the barracks of administrative type units such as Finance and Post Headquarters. The mammoth Cheyenne Mountain, which was where N.O.R.A.D was located, overshadowed the entire post.
As I slowly wandered across the parking lot towards the reception station, stumbling slowly, shuffling my feet and balancing my stuffed duffel-bag on one shoulder as I starred up at the clusters of antenna array’s and satellite dishes placed around the mountain. I felt unusual comfort knowing that I was being stationed at probably the safest U.S. Army Post in the entire world. Later on, I'd observe that my comfort level was shared among most of the troops I encountered at “Carson,” and it was later apparent by the general mood and flow of the post’s activities once I began my patrols.
As I wandered into the building, the smell of floor wax, and the sound of a buffer in the distance snapped me back into my new "Army-green" reality. My stomach tightened slightly as I reported in to the Staff Sergeant behind the long, chest-high counter near the entrance. I wasn’t standing there more than ten seconds before I saw a couple of my fellow Privates from MP training. Jay and Steve came strolling out of an echoey stairwell, dressed in civilian clothes. Back in Alabama, Jay Heinz had wall locker was next to mine throughout BASIC and MP School. At 26 years old, he was much older than most of the troops in our platoon, and quickly gained the nickname of “Grandpa.” He had driven his car to Colorado from his home in Wisconsin during his leave time. I respected his discipline for carrying out such a task with such limited time given to us after our seventeen weeks of training in Alabama. I had spent my previous eight days of leave-time partying hard and hanging out with my old high school buddies, trying to soak up as much of home as possible before falling back into formation.
PFC Heinz was an overall cool, calm and collected guy. Nothing seemed to get him over-exited. He was tall with blond hair and bushy eyebrows. He was a guy who loved to crank up the Frampton and Nugent. In Basic Training, we’d always tease him about being stuck in the “old days” and he’d talk about his big blond “fro” in the 70's and how cool it was to grow up in the days of Disco and Guitar Rock.
Private Link was a true good ole’ boy from my rival platoon during Basic and MP school. Link was from West Virginia. This guy would soon look most fulfilled when you’d see him hanging around outside of any miscellaneous doorway, hat slightly kicked up, foot resting on a high stoop, a big fresh dip in-between cheek & gum, Marlboro in his right hand, and an empty Mountain Dew (or Budweiser) can in the other. The coolest thing to me about Link was, he loved to talk about anything, anytime, for as long as you could stand it.
Link and Heinz had buddied-up at the Reception station the evening before I arrived. They would eventually become long-term roommates once we settled in our unit.
As they approached me, I noticed that they were both sporting 8-day-old mustaches.
“Dump yur gear and come on, Moore. We’re gonna go check out the town,” Link twanged as he walked up and purposely scuffed his sneaker over my freshly shined low quarters.
Jay laughed and pointed as I yanked my foot away, “Ha! Yeah, come on E, I got my car.”
“Cool, gimme a minute” I said as they continued to head for the door.
“We’ll be out here,” said Link.
“Hey Link, you got pubic hair on your lip,” I hollered as they headed towards the door.
Link turned back and gave me a wink, “Sure do... leave-time was good ta me.”
I chuckled and turned back to face the Staff Sergeant at the counter, who was not smiling, “You an MP too?”
“Yes-sergeant,” I replied.
“Sign in here,” he said as he slapped a clipboard in front of me. He said nothing more as I signed in.
I thought to myself, "Welcome to Fort Carson."
Colorado Springs was a nice change from Alabama. The culture was closer to my native Seattle than the high hills of Anniston Alabama. Seeing retail chains and fast food restaurants that I was familiar with allowed me to exhale a bit since my arrival earlier that afternoon. Jay drove us around like he was on a mission. He was noting everything from ski shops to strip bars. I was noting car dealerships and malls. Link kept going on about hunting big game up in the Rockies which by early evening, had led to Jay navigating his 85 Ford Thunderbird closer and closer to the wall of mountains that flanked the city. Our shouting over the music to each other became hushed as Jay clicked off the blaring Guns & Roses on his stereo while he curiously rolled through the streets of the exclusive Broadmoor neighborhood. We worked our way closer and closer to the hillside until the pavement became gravel. We soon found ourselves tearing up a winding gravel road with the city lights behind us. We rolled down the windows, and turned the music back on.. louder. We had a full view of the entire city as the ridge widened to twice its width.
“Pull over here Jay.” Link pointed to the a wide spot as he shook a cigarette out of his pack and threw it over his shoulder at me. We climbed out of the car and leaned up against it.
“Rocket Queen” ended and the ominous silence prompted us to take long drags from our cigarettes as the tape the cassette player clicked over to, “Welcome to the Jungle.” Jay jolted off of the car at the opening riff and reached into his car, cranking the volume all the way up. The opening of the song echoed off the side of the mountain and flooded the entire hillside.
We all smiled to each other as Link played a little air guitar.
Jay situated himself in front of us..
“So I ran into a couple of MP’s at the chow hall during lunch today,” he hollered over the rock music.
“I found out, there’s two MP companies on Carson! One is primarily a field unit, spending weeks at a time in the field, and the other’s called, “Worldwide Deployable,” and those fuckers are packing for Panama!”
Link stopped playing his air guitar. I just stopped. Jay continued..
“Word was, from these two MP’s, that we’re all going to the 984th, Worldwide Deployable MP company, and that we were given orders specifically to Carson to build up for this deployment to Panama.”
“Holy shit, my mother’s gonna shit!” I said.
Link flicked his glowing cigarette butt onto a huge boulder next to the car and watched it explode off of the rock.
“That’s bullshit Jay; those MP’s were just playin’ the rookie.”
Jay did the same with his cigarette. “Maybe so Steve, lets go talk to some guys at the gates.”
As we drove towards Post, we tried to milk Jay’s memory for exactly what he was told by the MP’s to see if we could diagnose it as a prank, but Jay kept repeating the same thing, “They were pretty blunt, fellas... they just said- We’re all goin’ and we’re getting all the new MP’s between now and the time we leave.”
Once we reached the busy “B Street” we found the MP’s there to be pretty straightforward with the same information. One of the MP’s chatted with us near the visitor’s booth while the other waved traffic on what was a busy Saturday night. After a while, they swapped, and we got the same second opinion from the next MP, “Yep, you guys are headin’ out... They’re even takin’ volunteers from the 4th MP’s.”
Link and Heinz were discouraged by the news, but I was completely distraught, and it showed. Gone were my naive hopes of earning my next stripe by shaking doorknobs and writing traffic tickets. Most of all, I was stressed about how I was going to explain this to my mother back home. I was the son of a codependent, manic-depressive, super-left, ex-anti-war activist. I had just won her over with the Army by earning awards and recognition in training. After months of arguing about joining serving, she was finally seeing the payoff on my face. She even made the trip down to Alabama for my graduation. I felt vindicated when as she was sitting in the covered General’s section of the bleachers during the ceremony.
Well, that gain of support would pretty much be “out the window” with this news. For a few months, the media broadcasting out of Panama consisted of Noriega’s indictment, troop build-up, and increased political tension in the region. While I was in Basic, our Drill Sergeant advised us about a Marine that was killed in Panama. It was described as a “friendly-fire” incident, but from all of our points of view, if there’s enough tension to accidentally fire on your own troops, there’s enough tension for much more.
As the MP headed back to join his partner at the gate shack, he held traffic for us as we filed back onto the main road. I slunk down in the backseat even lower as Link and Heinz stared silently at the darkness in front of us. After about a minute or so, Heinz reached toward his stereo knob and let out a little sigh, “Well those guys seemed pretty cool…” ..Welcome to the Jungle..
STRIKE!
In-processing at the reception station went by way too slowly. I expected that by after training for seventeen weeks I’d be used to the “hurry up and wait” methods of the Army, but the difference was that outside of a training unit, the people controlling the flow are in no hurry at all. They were just doing their daily grind.
Every morning we would fall into formation based on what day of in-processing schedule we were taking part in; Day One, Day Two, Day Three platoon, etc. During my several days assigned to reception, the remainder of the soldiers I was with in Alabama slowly trickled in. I was surprised not to find everyone as fast as I found Link and Heinz, but the rest of the guys had excuses from requesting extended leave, to logistical family issues, to just plain signing-in late.
There were eight troops sent to Fort Carson from my training company. One of them, a female, “flipped-out” when she heard we were deploying to Panama. Private Juliann Lefevre joined the Army because her husband was a solider and stationed at Fort Carson. Before we even packed our bags at the reception station, she started talking about taking the “ladies way” out of the Army to avoid the deployment. This meant she was planning to get pregnant.
Despite the talk of the deployment, I was glad to be finished with the reception station. I was looking forward to getting settled into my unit. Link, Heinz, Foster, James and I all completed reception on the same day and were loaded onto a van to take us to our new unit. As we traveled to the other side of post, we noted that we had not all been together in a vehicle since we were stuffed into the troop moving cattle cars of Fort McClellan. Now we were established soldiers. Our uniforms were a little faded, our boot tread was a little worn down, and Heinz and Link’s mustaches were filling-in. We were comfortable.
We stretched out in the van as the Private behind the wheel gave us a guided tour of our new surroundings.
“You all are gonna be stayin all the way down at the end of the Banana Belt,” he said, as he looked up at us through the rearview mirror, with his oversized-teardrop sunglasses. “That’s where the MP’s stay.”
“The what?” Link said.
“The Banana Belt!” He said louder, with a slight Texas accent. “That’s what we call all these buildings off-here to our left. They go all the way down around this bend, and from the air, they look like a big banana.”
We all leaned to our left and watched the pattern of barracks go by, followed by smaller unit offices, followed by more barracks, and so on.
“Th-th-these look pretty good to me.. pretty.. pretty good.. huh, E?” Foster said, as he nodded in my direction for my opinion.
Foster was from the Highland Park area of Detroit and spoke with a bit of a stutter over his thick urban accent. He was a good pal from training, and had a strong interest in the ladies, which always made him fun company when hanging out during those coveted 24 hour passes. Foster was a character to watch at the nightclubs.
I nodded back, “Yeah, it doesn’t look too bad... Nicer than where we came from, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t get used to it fellas,” James said as he pushed himself down behind the rear seat and propped up one knee.
Harold James was a huge man. In training, we tried to nickname him “Tyson” because of his strong physical resemblance to the then undefeated boxer, Mike Tyson; but the name just didn’t stick. James was just too mellow and too deep to be regarded as a stereotypical brute.
After what seemed like a few miles, the van slowed and pulled into a parking lot that hosted offices, which were a carbon copy of the ones we’d been passing for the past few minutes. Looking ahead as we piled out of the van we could see that there were only two more large orange barracks buildings left, followed by pretty much nothing. We were truly at the butt-end of the Banana Belt.
“That’s us guys,” Heinz pointed up at a huge emblem on the side of the nearest barracks building. It was a large crest and banner which had a sword with a snake wrapped around it. Across the banner it said, “984th Military Police Company” “STRIKE!”
“Cool… Hey, is that a dragon, or a snake?” Link said as he dug the tobacco out of his cheek and flicked it into an adjacent rock garden.
“Looks like a snake,” I said as we all started up the stairs in front of the office doors.
“I know, but why does he got ears then?” Link said as he kept squinting at the sign.
James pushed him gently up the stairs to the front door of the battalion. Stenciled on the door was, “Welcome to the 759th Military Police Battalion.”
AUGUST
CARLOS
"So what’s the deal, Edwards?"
"OK, first thing,” he whispered, “Do have a nickname you want me to call you by?"
“Just call me E.”
“Okay”, Edwards said, “and I'm going by “Red”.
“So who is this guy?” I said.
“Dunno, he walked up to a gate shack with no shoes on his feet. He told the MP’s there that he wanted to seek political asylum and was rushed to the hospital.”
“He’s supposed to be someone really important. He went from a hospital room directly to here... We gotta stay here while we wait for his flight to be scheduled out of the country.”
About an hour after the investigator left, the man came out from the back bedroom. He was an older gentleman, early to mid 60's, about 5 foot 10, & 250 lbs. or so. He looked like your typical Hollywood version of a Colombian drug lord.
He was wearing a red bathrobe and yellow fuzzy slippers on his feet, which were both brand new. Probably from the Post Exchange, I assumed. I could tell that his feet were quite torn up from running around in hiding without and shoes.
He looked at me and smiled as he limped out of the dark hallway, "Oh, you’re the new one.” he gestured a handshake. I shook it once firmly.
"You can call me E". He smiled a tired smile and said reverently, in perfect English, "OK, Mister E!"
He pulled a chair up to the flimsy round dining room table that Red and I were sitting at. As he watched Red flip another card, he began to brag that he’d learned how to play Solitaire the night before. Red pulled his cigarette away from his mouth and jerked to attention, “Yeah, can ya believe that?!? Your what, probably in your sixties, and never learned how to play solitaire!?”
I shook my head in phony astonishment and pointed at the pack of Marlboro Lights on the table to change the subject as I had no idea myself how to play. Red nodded and smiled as he flipped over another card.
In the middle of the table was an AM/FM radio that was constantly chattering in Spanish.
“They ever play any music on this station?” I said.
The man looked at the radio and then looked at me for the first time without a smile and said, “They were talking about me last night… There is a reward for me."
My eyes widened, and he watched my reaction as I held my lighter’s flame inches away from my cigarette.
He continued, "We cannot open that door for anyone, without knowing exactly who it is!” My eyes widened more.
Red interrupted, “Yeah man, we don’t open that door for fuckin’ anyone who hasn’t called us on the radio first... You got it?”
For the first time I realized the level of the danger. That MPI guy wasn’t bullshittin’.
To have this man so afraid for his life to beg me to comply with a commanding tone, when I’m the one wearing the gun?
Prior to that point in time, I had been focused on keeping him inside the apartment rather than protecting him from being killed by someone barging in. He knew that if he walked out that door, he would be a dead man.
Red nodded in confirmation as he flipped over another card and took a drag from his cigarette. I lit my smoke, got up from my chair, and walked across the large room to the couch. I released the clip from the .45 that was strapped to my chest and reached into my duffle bag where I kept the rest of my ammo. I filled the clip to capacity, replaced it, removed my spare clip from my tankers holster, and did the same as I sucked a long drag out of my lip-clenched Marlboro and blew it out of my nose. I went back into my duffle bag and slid out the 12-gauge shotgun and two boxes of ammunition. Tore open the boxes, and loaded four rounds. I then placed the shotgun and the rounds on the couch for easy access. The man looked at me, smiled, and nodded silently.
Red took another drag from his smoke as he squinted at me through his cloud with a smile, “Man, I’m glad they got you in here, all Bernie did was sleep.” I grabbed his cigarettes off the table and stuck one behind my ear as Red flipped over another card.
"So what do we got in here?" I said as I stepped into the small dingy kitchen. The kitchen was a “nook” that had a small window looking off into the nearby jungle-line at the end of the housing development. I examined the outside briefly and noticed two pre-teen American boys walking between the adjacent apartment building. These people had no idea what was going on around them.
Nearest to the window was the refrigerator, followed by a short counter and cabinet, a stove, another short counter and cabinet, and a sink. On the counter were some torn-open packages of cookies. The fridge contained a few cans of Coke, some leftover pizza, half a loaf of bread surrounded by used paper plates and plastic utensils.
I grabbed a can of Coke and flicked a cigarette ash into the sink. “This sucks,” I whispered.
. . . . .
As the first evening came around, we got a call on our radio that MPI was coming by with some food.
“So, whaddayo guys want to eat?” ... the Investigator asked over the static.
“How about pizza?” I muttered to Red.
“We could go for some pizza from building 95,” Bone said. Our captive gave a subdued scowl as he looked toward the dimming sunset through the closed curtains. Redbone noticed this just as I did, then glanced at me, and shrugged an “o-well”.
“WHADDAYA WANT ON IT?” MPI said back.
“Whatever... you choose,” Redbone said as he placed the radio back on the charger.
About an hour later, we got several squelches over our radio. I jolted out of my chair and grabbed the shotgun, Red slowly got up with a look as calm as it was ten seconds earlier and drew his 45 from the small of his back. Our inmate watched our reactions and looked surprised and a bit nervous as he quickly scooted up from his chair at the table and scurried into the back bedroom. I glanced through the blinds down at the parking lot just in time to see the MP investigator slam the back door of his sedan closed with his foot. He was bogged-down with two large pizza boxes with a large brown paper bag on top of it; not too smart, I thought. Then I noticed the marked MP patrol car on the street at the end of the parking lot.
I went to the door and removed the chain and dining room chair from under the doorknob. Redbone and I both stood near the door and listened to the investigator stomp slowly up the stairs, just as loud and as slow as possible.
On the landing of the second floor, the door of the apartment below us opened just as our person was stomping by.
“Hey, what’s going on upstairs?” The yelling voice resonated from both the stairwell, and from the entire floor we stood on. Immediately I felt naked to the world. If we could hear this man so clearly, even though we were being quiet, the squelches of our radio, and the footsteps of men walking around all day and not leaving, had to give up our operation to this nosey solider. This guy was spending enough time listening to us to put the person with the pizza together with our sudden movements over his head.
We were compromised.
The stomping stopped. “Nothing… I’m new here.” The investigator said with no sense of authority, whatsoever.
“Bullshit,” said the angered voice... “You got people up there, putting my family’s life in danger!”
The MP investigator took two more loud steps up, and then stopped... his voice possessed the appropriate authority this time... “The only one endangering your family’s life is you! .. Go back inside your house!”
There was a long pause of silence, and then the deafening sound of the door slamming beneath our feet. Our food recommenced its loud march up to our doorway.
Red slid the deadbolt, opened the door quickly, and silently as MPI stomped his way in. I aimed the shotgun passed him while Red, just as quickly and silently reversed the procedure and secured the door.
"So what’s the deal, Edwards?"
"OK, first thing,” he whispered, “Do have a nickname you want me to call you by?"
“Just call me E.”
“Okay”, Edwards said, “and I'm going by “Red”.
“So who is this guy?” I said.
“Dunno, he walked up to a gate shack with no shoes on his feet. He told the MP’s there that he wanted to seek political asylum and was rushed to the hospital.”
“He’s supposed to be someone really important. He went from a hospital room directly to here... We gotta stay here while we wait for his flight to be scheduled out of the country.”
About an hour after the investigator left, the man came out from the back bedroom. He was an older gentleman, early to mid 60's, about 5 foot 10, & 250 lbs. or so. He looked like your typical Hollywood version of a Colombian drug lord.
He was wearing a red bathrobe and yellow fuzzy slippers on his feet, which were both brand new. Probably from the Post Exchange, I assumed. I could tell that his feet were quite torn up from running around in hiding without and shoes.
He looked at me and smiled as he limped out of the dark hallway, "Oh, you’re the new one.” he gestured a handshake. I shook it once firmly.
"You can call me E". He smiled a tired smile and said reverently, in perfect English, "OK, Mister E!"
He pulled a chair up to the flimsy round dining room table that Red and I were sitting at. As he watched Red flip another card, he began to brag that he’d learned how to play Solitaire the night before. Red pulled his cigarette away from his mouth and jerked to attention, “Yeah, can ya believe that?!? Your what, probably in your sixties, and never learned how to play solitaire!?”
I shook my head in phony astonishment and pointed at the pack of Marlboro Lights on the table to change the subject as I had no idea myself how to play. Red nodded and smiled as he flipped over another card.
In the middle of the table was an AM/FM radio that was constantly chattering in Spanish.
“They ever play any music on this station?” I said.
The man looked at the radio and then looked at me for the first time without a smile and said, “They were talking about me last night… There is a reward for me."
My eyes widened, and he watched my reaction as I held my lighter’s flame inches away from my cigarette.
He continued, "We cannot open that door for anyone, without knowing exactly who it is!” My eyes widened more.
Red interrupted, “Yeah man, we don’t open that door for fuckin’ anyone who hasn’t called us on the radio first... You got it?”
For the first time I realized the level of the danger. That MPI guy wasn’t bullshittin’.
To have this man so afraid for his life to beg me to comply with a commanding tone, when I’m the one wearing the gun?
Prior to that point in time, I had been focused on keeping him inside the apartment rather than protecting him from being killed by someone barging in. He knew that if he walked out that door, he would be a dead man.
Red nodded in confirmation as he flipped over another card and took a drag from his cigarette. I lit my smoke, got up from my chair, and walked across the large room to the couch. I released the clip from the .45 that was strapped to my chest and reached into my duffle bag where I kept the rest of my ammo. I filled the clip to capacity, replaced it, removed my spare clip from my tankers holster, and did the same as I sucked a long drag out of my lip-clenched Marlboro and blew it out of my nose. I went back into my duffle bag and slid out the 12-gauge shotgun and two boxes of ammunition. Tore open the boxes, and loaded four rounds. I then placed the shotgun and the rounds on the couch for easy access. The man looked at me, smiled, and nodded silently.
Red took another drag from his smoke as he squinted at me through his cloud with a smile, “Man, I’m glad they got you in here, all Bernie did was sleep.” I grabbed his cigarettes off the table and stuck one behind my ear as Red flipped over another card.
"So what do we got in here?" I said as I stepped into the small dingy kitchen. The kitchen was a “nook” that had a small window looking off into the nearby jungle-line at the end of the housing development. I examined the outside briefly and noticed two pre-teen American boys walking between the adjacent apartment building. These people had no idea what was going on around them.
Nearest to the window was the refrigerator, followed by a short counter and cabinet, a stove, another short counter and cabinet, and a sink. On the counter were some torn-open packages of cookies. The fridge contained a few cans of Coke, some leftover pizza, half a loaf of bread surrounded by used paper plates and plastic utensils.
I grabbed a can of Coke and flicked a cigarette ash into the sink. “This sucks,” I whispered.
. . . . .
As the first evening came around, we got a call on our radio that MPI was coming by with some food.
“So, whaddayo guys want to eat?” ... the Investigator asked over the static.
“How about pizza?” I muttered to Red.
“We could go for some pizza from building 95,” Bone said. Our captive gave a subdued scowl as he looked toward the dimming sunset through the closed curtains. Redbone noticed this just as I did, then glanced at me, and shrugged an “o-well”.
“WHADDAYA WANT ON IT?” MPI said back.
“Whatever... you choose,” Redbone said as he placed the radio back on the charger.
About an hour later, we got several squelches over our radio. I jolted out of my chair and grabbed the shotgun, Red slowly got up with a look as calm as it was ten seconds earlier and drew his 45 from the small of his back. Our inmate watched our reactions and looked surprised and a bit nervous as he quickly scooted up from his chair at the table and scurried into the back bedroom. I glanced through the blinds down at the parking lot just in time to see the MP investigator slam the back door of his sedan closed with his foot. He was bogged-down with two large pizza boxes with a large brown paper bag on top of it; not too smart, I thought. Then I noticed the marked MP patrol car on the street at the end of the parking lot.
I went to the door and removed the chain and dining room chair from under the doorknob. Redbone and I both stood near the door and listened to the investigator stomp slowly up the stairs, just as loud and as slow as possible.
On the landing of the second floor, the door of the apartment below us opened just as our person was stomping by.
“Hey, what’s going on upstairs?” The yelling voice resonated from both the stairwell, and from the entire floor we stood on. Immediately I felt naked to the world. If we could hear this man so clearly, even though we were being quiet, the squelches of our radio, and the footsteps of men walking around all day and not leaving, had to give up our operation to this nosey solider. This guy was spending enough time listening to us to put the person with the pizza together with our sudden movements over his head.
We were compromised.
The stomping stopped. “Nothing… I’m new here.” The investigator said with no sense of authority, whatsoever.
“Bullshit,” said the angered voice... “You got people up there, putting my family’s life in danger!”
The MP investigator took two more loud steps up, and then stopped... his voice possessed the appropriate authority this time... “The only one endangering your family’s life is you! .. Go back inside your house!”
There was a long pause of silence, and then the deafening sound of the door slamming beneath our feet. Our food recommenced its loud march up to our doorway.
Red slid the deadbolt, opened the door quickly, and silently as MPI stomped his way in. I aimed the shotgun passed him while Red, just as quickly and silently reversed the procedure and secured the door.
SEPTEMBER
RODMAN
I held onto the side of the bench with my right hand as I gripped my rifle with my left. The driver of our 998 (a covered pick-up truck humvee) was not focused on the comfort level of the ten MP’s he was transporting as he cranked the steering wheel to turn off of the main highway towards the Marines standing poised at the main gate of the Rodman Marine Installation. It had been raining all day, and I was worried less about the conditions than I was about the masking of movement that the rain caused when we would sit and wait. I was officially down in the mouth. The backs of my legs and all exposed areas of my skin were riddled swollen and itching from bug bites of some type. My face was caked with camo paint mixed with bug repellent, which was irritating the bites from the night before. The only thing I was looking forward to on this night was the sun coming up. Our platoon was just one week into a month-long commitment to guard the ammo supply bunkers at the Rodman Marine Installation.
The Rodman ASP (Ammo Supply Point) skirted along the main highway just west of the Bridge of Americas. The ASP was on a large area of thick jungle with a few miles of asphalt that winded like a maze around to various exposed areas within its multiple ten-foot high razor wire fences.
Within these exposed areas were large concrete bunkers, buried into the mucky hillsides along these small roads.
When we were briefed on our mission, we were told that the bunkers contained ammunition of all types for our US forces in country. This made them a nice target to Noriega’s PDF for multiple reasons. The ASP was in an unpopulated, yet central part of the country. It was ideal geography for a strategic jungle battle zone. It was thick and hilly with streams cutting through the woods to muffle movement and a ton of jungle wildlife to confuse, distract and deter any bunker protectors. It was a perfect place to stir up an international incident. The story passed around was, months earlier, before our arrival, Noriega’s PDF had regularly harassed areas on the opposite side of the freeway where the US forces’ stockpile of fuel was housed. That area was known as the “Tank Farm.” Insurgent activities in that sensitive area eventually led to a major firefight which resulted in one Marine dead, and 18 PDF killed (some of which were identified as Cuban soldiers). This was the same Marine reported killed by friendly fire while my buddies and I were in MP school. When we heard “the real deal” about the Tank Farm firefight, we all said the same thing, “Friendly fire my ass!”
Now, PDF insurgents were regularly probing the ASP, just a couple of miles from the Tank Farm. Now, the basic Marine response to an insurgent was to shoot it. Then shoot it again. Then have your fellow Marines continue to shoot it until it glows red with hot led. A respectable policy, but impossible to “untrain” to a Marine when trying to avoid all out war in a region where American forces, US government employees and family members intermingle with corrupted Panamanian forces on a daily basis.
In order to instill “fire discipline” within the fence-lines of the ASP, MP’s would be needed to guard the bunkers without engaging the enemy.
The 998 dimmed its headlights and slowed at the Marine’s gate shack then jerked forward when the Marine waved us through. Hughes’ rucksack slid off his lap and hit Private Puchalski in the side of the head. “Fucker,” Puchalski said heedlessly as he pushed the bag back towards Hughes. Hughes liked the ASP. He often brought extra gear to his guard post to remind him of the comforts of home. An extra poncho to line the jungle floor, a machete, a makeshift ghille suit for extra concealment, and survival knives you could only find in US Cavalry magazine were just a few of the goodies Jon always had on hand. The 998 continued to our Control Point with lights dimmed. The humidity and the smell of the deep jungle increased as we rolled up the small winding roads. Shuffling of field gear and rifles increased as heads rose. Our eyes opened wider, trying to adjust to the darker blackness.
An intersection of small roads where a small warehouse sat served as our Control Point of Operations. Our vehicle rolled up and cut its engine. We piled out. The dense air dulled our voices.
"E, you wanna dip?" Link said as he held his can towards my nose.
"No dude," I said. I tightened my rucksack to my back and shouldered my empty rifle. Ammo was only located at the security posts that we manned. 7 clips of 28 rounds for my M-16, 3 clips of five pistol rounds for my Vietnam era, Model 1911, Colt 45; One pair of night vision goggles, two white parachute flares and one red.
Jon's silhouette moved toward me as we all corralled ourselves under the single floodlight attached to the single open doorway of the long concrete warehouse.
"Who's got the assignments?" He asked.
I pointed to the doorway where a faceless lieutenant wearing pressed BDU's and a soft cap was exiting, holding a clipboard.
We all shuffled towards the man as our sergeant retrieved the clipboard and held it to his chest. "Fall in on me," he said.
We backed up and formed one row facing him as he read off the assignments,
"Nobody's on point one tonight! Puchalski, 2, Link, 3, Heinz, 4, Red, 5, Foster, 6, Spanky, 7, Spader, BUSH! 8!"
Spader always looked confused, "Bush? What's BUSH, Sergeant?!"
We all snickered.
"Bush!" The sergeant replied as he thumbed over his shoulder to a golf cart painted green and covered from top to bottom in camo netting, jungle branches, vines, and palm leaves. The only thing that made it recognizable as a golf cart were the little black wheels beneath the "bush."
Spader still looked confused.
The sergeant continued, "Moore, 9, Huey, 10..."
"Haayyell YES," Huey said.
The sergeant looked up from his clipboard, "You will not sleep, Private Hughes!"
Huey grinned with a wink as he scratched the flea bites on the back of his neck.
I held onto the side of the bench with my right hand as I gripped my rifle with my left. The driver of our 998 (a covered pick-up truck humvee) was not focused on the comfort level of the ten MP’s he was transporting as he cranked the steering wheel to turn off of the main highway towards the Marines standing poised at the main gate of the Rodman Marine Installation. It had been raining all day, and I was worried less about the conditions than I was about the masking of movement that the rain caused when we would sit and wait. I was officially down in the mouth. The backs of my legs and all exposed areas of my skin were riddled swollen and itching from bug bites of some type. My face was caked with camo paint mixed with bug repellent, which was irritating the bites from the night before. The only thing I was looking forward to on this night was the sun coming up. Our platoon was just one week into a month-long commitment to guard the ammo supply bunkers at the Rodman Marine Installation.
The Rodman ASP (Ammo Supply Point) skirted along the main highway just west of the Bridge of Americas. The ASP was on a large area of thick jungle with a few miles of asphalt that winded like a maze around to various exposed areas within its multiple ten-foot high razor wire fences.
Within these exposed areas were large concrete bunkers, buried into the mucky hillsides along these small roads.
When we were briefed on our mission, we were told that the bunkers contained ammunition of all types for our US forces in country. This made them a nice target to Noriega’s PDF for multiple reasons. The ASP was in an unpopulated, yet central part of the country. It was ideal geography for a strategic jungle battle zone. It was thick and hilly with streams cutting through the woods to muffle movement and a ton of jungle wildlife to confuse, distract and deter any bunker protectors. It was a perfect place to stir up an international incident. The story passed around was, months earlier, before our arrival, Noriega’s PDF had regularly harassed areas on the opposite side of the freeway where the US forces’ stockpile of fuel was housed. That area was known as the “Tank Farm.” Insurgent activities in that sensitive area eventually led to a major firefight which resulted in one Marine dead, and 18 PDF killed (some of which were identified as Cuban soldiers). This was the same Marine reported killed by friendly fire while my buddies and I were in MP school. When we heard “the real deal” about the Tank Farm firefight, we all said the same thing, “Friendly fire my ass!”
Now, PDF insurgents were regularly probing the ASP, just a couple of miles from the Tank Farm. Now, the basic Marine response to an insurgent was to shoot it. Then shoot it again. Then have your fellow Marines continue to shoot it until it glows red with hot led. A respectable policy, but impossible to “untrain” to a Marine when trying to avoid all out war in a region where American forces, US government employees and family members intermingle with corrupted Panamanian forces on a daily basis.
In order to instill “fire discipline” within the fence-lines of the ASP, MP’s would be needed to guard the bunkers without engaging the enemy.
The 998 dimmed its headlights and slowed at the Marine’s gate shack then jerked forward when the Marine waved us through. Hughes’ rucksack slid off his lap and hit Private Puchalski in the side of the head. “Fucker,” Puchalski said heedlessly as he pushed the bag back towards Hughes. Hughes liked the ASP. He often brought extra gear to his guard post to remind him of the comforts of home. An extra poncho to line the jungle floor, a machete, a makeshift ghille suit for extra concealment, and survival knives you could only find in US Cavalry magazine were just a few of the goodies Jon always had on hand. The 998 continued to our Control Point with lights dimmed. The humidity and the smell of the deep jungle increased as we rolled up the small winding roads. Shuffling of field gear and rifles increased as heads rose. Our eyes opened wider, trying to adjust to the darker blackness.
An intersection of small roads where a small warehouse sat served as our Control Point of Operations. Our vehicle rolled up and cut its engine. We piled out. The dense air dulled our voices.
"E, you wanna dip?" Link said as he held his can towards my nose.
"No dude," I said. I tightened my rucksack to my back and shouldered my empty rifle. Ammo was only located at the security posts that we manned. 7 clips of 28 rounds for my M-16, 3 clips of five pistol rounds for my Vietnam era, Model 1911, Colt 45; One pair of night vision goggles, two white parachute flares and one red.
Jon's silhouette moved toward me as we all corralled ourselves under the single floodlight attached to the single open doorway of the long concrete warehouse.
"Who's got the assignments?" He asked.
I pointed to the doorway where a faceless lieutenant wearing pressed BDU's and a soft cap was exiting, holding a clipboard.
We all shuffled towards the man as our sergeant retrieved the clipboard and held it to his chest. "Fall in on me," he said.
We backed up and formed one row facing him as he read off the assignments,
"Nobody's on point one tonight! Puchalski, 2, Link, 3, Heinz, 4, Red, 5, Foster, 6, Spanky, 7, Spader, BUSH! 8!"
Spader always looked confused, "Bush? What's BUSH, Sergeant?!"
We all snickered.
"Bush!" The sergeant replied as he thumbed over his shoulder to a golf cart painted green and covered from top to bottom in camo netting, jungle branches, vines, and palm leaves. The only thing that made it recognizable as a golf cart were the little black wheels beneath the "bush."
Spader still looked confused.
The sergeant continued, "Moore, 9, Huey, 10..."
"Haayyell YES," Huey said.
The sergeant looked up from his clipboard, "You will not sleep, Private Hughes!"
Huey grinned with a wink as he scratched the flea bites on the back of his neck.
DECEMBER
…I was halfway home.
Everything I had on was new except my socks and underwear. Three days back at Fort Carson was just enough time to catch up on sleep, unpack my gear and shop for some civilian winter clothes.
Now I was walking up the jet-way after my short mid-morning flight from Colorado Springs to Denver.
I had a 90 minute layover at Colorado’s Stapleton airport before continuing on to Seattle. The air on the jet-way was ice cold, crisp and odorless. It still felt odd wearing so many clothes; New running shoes, blue jeans, a wool sweater and a new bomber jacket. As I strolled in line up the walkway I reached over my head to move the thick wool sweater away from my scarred neck. My cold hands shocked and soothed the skin at the same time; it felt good. I palmed the back of my neck as I walked into the large open terminal.
In the gate area, families and couples embraced and shed tears as they greeted loved ones for the holidays. New Army Privates on leave for Christmas walked in pairs and sat in isolated corners smoking cigarettes. Their green dress uniforms were stiff and new and looked plain, lacking a unit patch or training ribbon. Their eager yet innocent faces made me feel seasoned in their presence and put a knot in my stomach at the same time. I had gone from “that” to “this” in less than a year. I was still a Private, but not like them.
I walked a few gates from my connecting gate to a crowded airport café and bought a small cup of coffee. As I stirred in a sweetener at the condiment bar an Air Force Captain in a decorated flight jacket strolled up to me. He looked puzzled as he gazed at my new bomber jacket.
“Are you Air Force?” he said.
“No Sir, Army” I replied.
“What’s the patch?” he asked as he pointed at my left shoulder.
I snapped the lid back on my Styrofoam coffee cup and pulled back the plastic tab.
“It’s a Panamanian Infantry unit… I got it from a PDF soldier.”
The Captain tilted his head to examine it as I turned towards him.
“Nice,” he said. “When did you get back?”
“Three days ago, Sir…” I said as I began to shuffle out of the crowded café.
“Well welcome back… Have a good leave.” he said.
“You too Sir…” I offered a modified salute as I turned away and towards my gate.
As I approached my area, hoping for an open chair, I turned the corner to see almost all the seats available. I took a seat and noticed a small crowd gathering under a large elevated television set. After a few sips I was drawn to investigate. The cable news channel was showing images of a terrible plane crash. The silent screen flashed between an anchor in a newsroom and pictures of a PAN AM 747 nose section lying in a field. The caption across the screen said, “…Pan Am flight 103 …possible explosion…”
Someone in our crowd muttered, “Where is that?”
“Scotland,” someone else replied.
Staring up at the TV screen I continued to sip my coffee, thinking about the tension in Panama and about the other world events I previously ignored, growing up safe from everything in the USA.
I felt safe from violence in Grenada, Greece, Lebanon, Libya, and Honduras. War in Iraq & Iran, Russians in Afghanistan …now American passenger jets blowing up in the UK?
Here we were in a Cold War against the USSR, but our threats seemed to be coming from everywhere but Russia.
I turned back towards my claimed chair and gazed out across the runways as I shuffled around other passengers. Jets of all sizes taxied left and right as others took off in the distance; Icicles formed on nearby ledges just outside the terminal.
I plunged back into my seat and looked at the TV screen again from a distance. I thought about all of the US troops heading home for Christmas on that Pan Am flight... then I got a little mad.
I thought to myself, “If its terrorists, maybe it’s personal… maybe it’s for Reagan’s attack on those terrorist camps in Libya… We’re just a couple of weeks away from a new President… Reagan’s almost out and Bush is comin’ in… Maybe that’ll help make things safer…”
I finished my coffee looked closely at my plane as it taxied up to the gate.
Everybody did.
Everything I had on was new except my socks and underwear. Three days back at Fort Carson was just enough time to catch up on sleep, unpack my gear and shop for some civilian winter clothes.
Now I was walking up the jet-way after my short mid-morning flight from Colorado Springs to Denver.
I had a 90 minute layover at Colorado’s Stapleton airport before continuing on to Seattle. The air on the jet-way was ice cold, crisp and odorless. It still felt odd wearing so many clothes; New running shoes, blue jeans, a wool sweater and a new bomber jacket. As I strolled in line up the walkway I reached over my head to move the thick wool sweater away from my scarred neck. My cold hands shocked and soothed the skin at the same time; it felt good. I palmed the back of my neck as I walked into the large open terminal.
In the gate area, families and couples embraced and shed tears as they greeted loved ones for the holidays. New Army Privates on leave for Christmas walked in pairs and sat in isolated corners smoking cigarettes. Their green dress uniforms were stiff and new and looked plain, lacking a unit patch or training ribbon. Their eager yet innocent faces made me feel seasoned in their presence and put a knot in my stomach at the same time. I had gone from “that” to “this” in less than a year. I was still a Private, but not like them.
I walked a few gates from my connecting gate to a crowded airport café and bought a small cup of coffee. As I stirred in a sweetener at the condiment bar an Air Force Captain in a decorated flight jacket strolled up to me. He looked puzzled as he gazed at my new bomber jacket.
“Are you Air Force?” he said.
“No Sir, Army” I replied.
“What’s the patch?” he asked as he pointed at my left shoulder.
I snapped the lid back on my Styrofoam coffee cup and pulled back the plastic tab.
“It’s a Panamanian Infantry unit… I got it from a PDF soldier.”
The Captain tilted his head to examine it as I turned towards him.
“Nice,” he said. “When did you get back?”
“Three days ago, Sir…” I said as I began to shuffle out of the crowded café.
“Well welcome back… Have a good leave.” he said.
“You too Sir…” I offered a modified salute as I turned away and towards my gate.
As I approached my area, hoping for an open chair, I turned the corner to see almost all the seats available. I took a seat and noticed a small crowd gathering under a large elevated television set. After a few sips I was drawn to investigate. The cable news channel was showing images of a terrible plane crash. The silent screen flashed between an anchor in a newsroom and pictures of a PAN AM 747 nose section lying in a field. The caption across the screen said, “…Pan Am flight 103 …possible explosion…”
Someone in our crowd muttered, “Where is that?”
“Scotland,” someone else replied.
Staring up at the TV screen I continued to sip my coffee, thinking about the tension in Panama and about the other world events I previously ignored, growing up safe from everything in the USA.
I felt safe from violence in Grenada, Greece, Lebanon, Libya, and Honduras. War in Iraq & Iran, Russians in Afghanistan …now American passenger jets blowing up in the UK?
Here we were in a Cold War against the USSR, but our threats seemed to be coming from everywhere but Russia.
I turned back towards my claimed chair and gazed out across the runways as I shuffled around other passengers. Jets of all sizes taxied left and right as others took off in the distance; Icicles formed on nearby ledges just outside the terminal.
I plunged back into my seat and looked at the TV screen again from a distance. I thought about all of the US troops heading home for Christmas on that Pan Am flight... then I got a little mad.
I thought to myself, “If its terrorists, maybe it’s personal… maybe it’s for Reagan’s attack on those terrorist camps in Libya… We’re just a couple of weeks away from a new President… Reagan’s almost out and Bush is comin’ in… Maybe that’ll help make things safer…”
I finished my coffee looked closely at my plane as it taxied up to the gate.
Everybody did.
12/4/07
Intro...
Before Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Global War on Terror,… Before Somalia, Bosnia, Operation Desert Storm, and Panama’s Operation Just Cause, joining the military was an almost casual decision for high school graduates looking for structure, college money, travel, excitement, status, or simply just to get away.
The threat was nuclear; the enemy was the massive Soviet military machine on the other side of a wall, bogged down in their own “Vietnam” in Afghanistan, and lurking as insignificant advisers in small “communist friendly neighborhoods.” As teenagers in those days, the combat we saw in some U.S. made movies about the Vietnam War were respectable, but one movie about combat in Grenada carried-out by the then current military was trivialized, glamorized, and mocked our then active duty U.S. Marines. To a teenager watching the news and going to movies, the military looked challenging but fun. Most of all, safe...
...
In Panama, after December 20, 1989, the media flooded in without resistance & swarmed at the chance of covering the aftermath of the battle between U.S. Armed Forces and Noriega’s Panamanian Defense Force and his elusive “Dignity Battalion.”
The battle was reported as a success by mainstream media, but the entire rationale was not clearly absorbed. It was repeatedly reported solely as a manhunt for Manuel Noriega.
The true fact was that a week prior to the operation Noriega was not hiding from anyone. Our intelligence knew where he ate, where he drank, where he slept, where he worked, where his plane was parked, and so on. The invasion army was a pro-active measure to suppress any response of the removal of Noriega. At least one PDF defector advised officials prior to the planning of the operation that PDF officers had orders to attack U.S. installations and destroy specific areas of the canal’s locks to deem it inoperable if an ousting were to occur or be attempted.
I was deployed, along with hundreds of other MP’s, to the Panama Canal Zone in the summer of 1988. Our role was primarily as peacekeepers and protectors of military personnel and dependants within the Canal Zone.
Based on my orders and briefings, as a Private with a common "secret" level security clearance, I was made to understand that pulling my trigger in Panama could cause an international incident and lead to the early expulsion of US Armed Forces out of the Canal Zone, and possible revocation of the indictment of Manuel Noriega.
My understanding, as an individual solider, was that this truth was the main motivation behind Noriega ordering his PDF to adopt the policy of conducting menacing activities towards U.S. citizens, military personnel, and installations during the MP deployments of 1988 & 1989. Details of all U.S. service personnel and family members that were killed, raped, beaten, kidnapped, detained, harassed, mugged, and intimidated throughout the Canal Zone, prior to December 19, 1989 would be overshadowed by the overwhelming ultimate response to these activities; the response was called “Operation Just Cause.”
What is written here is my personal story, and hopefully it will stimulate others to share their experiences regarding this time and place. Parents, children, and other family members in Panama & the U.S. will mourn the loss of their loved ones that died during the indictment period and during Operation Just Cause… It was an unfortunate, unnecessary waste of hundreds of lives. Perpetuated by one persons dream to become a “Pablo Escobar with Stars,” or a “Fidel Castro with perks.” He could not succeed in the presence of thousands of resident U.S. service members & and their families. More importantly, he could not use them as pawns as a means to propel him from his warrant.
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