Some buddies of mine and I decided that since it's 2011 that we can start referring to the first nine years of the 21st century as "aught". And that's how this story starts.
It was the winter of aught seven and we were preparing for war in the desert. Shots, M16 and M9 qualifying, more shorts, gigs of mind numbing computer based training, intel briefings and my god, more shots. Yellow fever, small pox, anthrax and the bitch of the bunch: typhoid. Fuck me typhoid hurts. We were a walking biological mishap waiting to happen. But we were going to war in four months and we were anxious to get going.
Then the ice storm hit. On a Friday night. We were spared, but other side of the state was not as fortunate. Then they got shit on again, Saturday night. There were reports of grass incased in inches of ice. It was bad. Wide spread power outages, people with no heat, and hardly any means of safely getting anywhere. Downed trees on houses, snapped telephone poles and probably the worst part: no water. It seems someone had turned the thermostat down to 10F and broke the little handle off.
My phone rang Sunday at around 1400. The voice on the other end said the key word: Standby. Which means "pack your shit". The next phone call could go either of two ways: Stand Down, or: Go. I pulled out the dreaded green duffel bag. The one that wives, and significant others dread. It's the same one that starts my adrenaline. The excitement of the unknown. What's the mission? Where will I sleep next? Where will I be 24 hours from now? You don't know. You have no inkling. All you know is... it's game time. Get your game face, put your boots on, and pack your shit.
The second phone call came at 1800. Go. Report at 0600, wheels are turning at 0700. There were 12 of us and we would be convoying every 60k and 30k generator to the other side of the State. I had no idea how far that was, but it didn't really matter. Our deuce and a half trucks are governed at 55mph. So you just stand on the gas and you get there when you get there.
Convoys are fun. It seems that everyone likes to honk and wave. Big burly biker dudes pop their glass packs and give us a thumbs up. And yes, we occasionally get a boob flash. And then it's us giving the thumbs up. But nothing would really prepare us for when we got close the disaster area.
We pulled off for gas. It was a small town. One of these one or two gas stations and a volunteer fire department type town. Lots of flannel and pickups, but good, honest, hard working country folk. Like the people are where I grew up at. Let's call it Po-Dunk. It was a little Po-Dunk town.
Apparently the gas station was one of the few places that had power because it seemed that everyone from the town was there. As soon as we were off the interstate, the waving hands, car horns, lights flashing, even cheering and fist pumping all started happening. It was surreal. And sad.
We got the trucks parked and chalked and the diesel flowing. A couple of us headed into the gas station.
"Goddam we're glad to see you guys!" said the cashier. The rest of the store turned around and started applauding. Rockstars in uniform. But fuck me, they didn't know. I grabbed a carton of camels, two Mountain Dews and a big ass bag of sunflower seeds. The essentials for staying awake in a droning deuce.
We paid for our addictions. The guys fueling the trucks paid for the diesel. And we left. We weren't staying there and helping those people. We just needed diesel, caffeine and nicotine. We pulled out of the gas station and turned back onto the interstate, still heading west. All I could think of was: fuck. I hope they don't hate us.
Stay tuned for part 2 when Ethel pulls out the board game Sorry! and proceeds to wipe the floor with Sergeant Dee and myself.
It was the winter of aught seven and we were preparing for war in the desert. Shots, M16 and M9 qualifying, more shorts, gigs of mind numbing computer based training, intel briefings and my god, more shots. Yellow fever, small pox, anthrax and the bitch of the bunch: typhoid. Fuck me typhoid hurts. We were a walking biological mishap waiting to happen. But we were going to war in four months and we were anxious to get going.
Then the ice storm hit. On a Friday night. We were spared, but other side of the state was not as fortunate. Then they got shit on again, Saturday night. There were reports of grass incased in inches of ice. It was bad. Wide spread power outages, people with no heat, and hardly any means of safely getting anywhere. Downed trees on houses, snapped telephone poles and probably the worst part: no water. It seems someone had turned the thermostat down to 10F and broke the little handle off.
My phone rang Sunday at around 1400. The voice on the other end said the key word: Standby. Which means "pack your shit". The next phone call could go either of two ways: Stand Down, or: Go. I pulled out the dreaded green duffel bag. The one that wives, and significant others dread. It's the same one that starts my adrenaline. The excitement of the unknown. What's the mission? Where will I sleep next? Where will I be 24 hours from now? You don't know. You have no inkling. All you know is... it's game time. Get your game face, put your boots on, and pack your shit.
The second phone call came at 1800. Go. Report at 0600, wheels are turning at 0700. There were 12 of us and we would be convoying every 60k and 30k generator to the other side of the State. I had no idea how far that was, but it didn't really matter. Our deuce and a half trucks are governed at 55mph. So you just stand on the gas and you get there when you get there.
Convoys are fun. It seems that everyone likes to honk and wave. Big burly biker dudes pop their glass packs and give us a thumbs up. And yes, we occasionally get a boob flash. And then it's us giving the thumbs up. But nothing would really prepare us for when we got close the disaster area.
We pulled off for gas. It was a small town. One of these one or two gas stations and a volunteer fire department type town. Lots of flannel and pickups, but good, honest, hard working country folk. Like the people are where I grew up at. Let's call it Po-Dunk. It was a little Po-Dunk town.
Apparently the gas station was one of the few places that had power because it seemed that everyone from the town was there. As soon as we were off the interstate, the waving hands, car horns, lights flashing, even cheering and fist pumping all started happening. It was surreal. And sad.
We got the trucks parked and chalked and the diesel flowing. A couple of us headed into the gas station.
"Goddam we're glad to see you guys!" said the cashier. The rest of the store turned around and started applauding. Rockstars in uniform. But fuck me, they didn't know. I grabbed a carton of camels, two Mountain Dews and a big ass bag of sunflower seeds. The essentials for staying awake in a droning deuce.
We paid for our addictions. The guys fueling the trucks paid for the diesel. And we left. We weren't staying there and helping those people. We just needed diesel, caffeine and nicotine. We pulled out of the gas station and turned back onto the interstate, still heading west. All I could think of was: fuck. I hope they don't hate us.
Stay tuned for part 2 when Ethel pulls out the board game Sorry! and proceeds to wipe the floor with Sergeant Dee and myself.
