Day 86, Walk for Warriors

Just when you think you’re getting the hang of something, another thing comes along and shows you that you’re really just so-so. I sneaked a parking place at 5:00AM with some strategic planning in mind. I drove the coast route, Highway 182-Florabama (Really, that's what they call this area), to find a restaurant that might serve good food. I based the selection on the size of the parking lot and whether I liked the look of the building. I chose the Shrimp Basket across the street from the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Location, location...

I hand wrote a note to the proprietor and left it wedged between her front doors. It said, “Dear Shrimp Basketeer, I am walking across the country for wounded veterans and I needed a place to park where after my walk I could gorge on a basket of fresh shrimp. Please call me if this arrangement does not work for you. She never called and was waiting for me when I arrived. She was actually a little curt but her waitresses were very accommodating and the shrimp was out of this world. I apologized for smelling so rank, even though I had changed shirts quickly before entering the restaurant.

The morning was sublime. I could have been in Paris or Dzibilchaltun or Perdido Beach, it was morning and I was drinking it up. The lights were washed out with a sickly metallic glow that probably had just the right period of oscillation to cause seizures. Somehow I was immune to that potential problem. No one was up yet but for a few delivery folks in box trucks. The sun hadn’t yet shone but I had enough light to stand at the water’s edge for a deep breath of her.

Much of my life from birth on has been spent standing at the water’s edge: any water. I remembered an early visual snip of a fat perch giving birth on our patio during a storm at Malibu Colony. It must have been an imprinting moment for I search to repeat it as often as I can. The waves came out of the east and that alone made me want to call a friend just to announce, “Swells out of the east at six inches with three second intervals.”

The morning air had heft and could be felt as well as tasted. I stood for quite some time enjoying the dancing light of a shrimp boat moored close offshore, probably awaiting some Papal decree allowing him to earn a living once again. I took off my running shoes of course. I wanted to feel the grains of sand under my feet and between my toes. The sand was warm like a body and felt more like fabric than the sands I know well. But it was sand and I was favored by the gods to have the chance to dip my toes in the troubled Gulf of Mexico.

I understand baptism. Certainly, I understand the baptism that we experience as Christians but there are other forms of the blessed act that are as deep and meaningful for some. Some men are baptized every day. They wake at three, stuff their bags, drive their trucks to the water and pray that today will be bountiful, and that God will allow them one more chance. In that moment, as the salty water flows off their brows and the bills of their hats, they are sinners no more. And the church that they frequent understands this and is glad that they have a place to go and be free.

As I brushed off the sand on my feet a blue bus arrived at the public parking lot that I had stumbled into for my baptism in the Gulf. Sleepy looking men and some women descended from the bus. They all wore the same green T-shirt that had printed on it,

“QUALIFIED COMMUNITY RESPONDERS”

I knew they had to be a part of the “cleanup”. I approached a man who looked like he was in charge. He stood by the bus and wore one of those government Photo Identification Cards on a string around his neck that all government contractors wear. “Good morning. How you doing? Are you here to help clean up the spill?”

“Yessir,” he said with some apparent reticence.

“Is there much oil yet? Or is it the little tar balls?”

“We have been cleaning the shoreline of tar for over a month now. It’s not such a small job.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like an easy job. I wish you all the best of luck.”

“Yes sir, I think we’ll put a dent in it anyway.”

“I sure hope so for these people’s sake. They’re getting, ummm, impatient.” The man nodded in the affirmative and pursed his lips to keep from screaming.

Nothing could have gotten me down. I had been baptized with a trickle of Gulf of Mexico water sprinkled reverently on the top of my head. So I shrugged off the woes of a million Gulf inhabitants for a moment so I could concentrate on the rest of the long walk that lay ahead.

After about a half hour or so of enjoying the State Reserves that were intermingled with large beach homes and upscale beach front condo complexes, I noticed another set of blue buses. I approached the “who-do” among the workers and tried to initiate a conversation. “Good morning, sir. Another day’s clean up.”

The thick necked man stood eye to eye with me with no humor and no interest in engaging me in any kind of conversation. I was not deterred by his demeanor. “Hey, would it be okay if I got a picture with some of the guys?”

“No. No picture,” he said as he turned to a co-supervisor who sat in his pickup writing some notes on a tablet.

“Come on. It would be fun,” I said knowing that I was jerking his chain by then. The guy looked like he wanted to swing on me for asking to take a picture. I kind of hoped he had by that point. I didn’t like him much either and we had just met. As I moved on I could see that none of the blue buses had license plates. A brown bus had Mississippi plates. I couldn’t make anything out of that, it was only an observation and I was moving.

When I began my story I started with that crack about thinking you’re pretty hot stuff and then… Well I had one of those moments when I was gliding on the surface of the pavement like a skater. My gate was smooth and my pace was quick and steady. Then it happened as it happened during my training leading up to the “Walk”.

A woman past me wearing Oakland Raider colors: The Black and Silver. She had forty inch legs and must have known I was a Charger fan. She smoked me bad. I was tempted to say something stupid but I settled for thinking it.

I was so relieved when the Raiderette did an about face after only two miles. I took it all back when she waved at me with this kind of coquettish limp wrist action. “You slut,” I thought about myself. “Good morning. Nice day for a walk…” Who’s the slut now? Did I mention she had forty inch legs? I thought, “Remember the baptism and all that?” I think that stuff about there being a living devil might be true.

On my way back from the Gulf Shores area I thought I saw the boss man who wanted a shot at my chin. I walked full speed past his truck. He was down at the beach or somewhere. It didn’t matter, I was walking and sweating and thinking a blue streak. I reached the public parking lot again just short of six hours after I had left it.

The workers were gathered around and I stood close to one man whose eyes were fixed upon a helicopter that flew overhead. He yelled to a friend leaning against the inside of the box truck, “See that?” Did you see that? That’s an L-3 Lockheed. I used to work on those.” The man nodded disinterestedly as he sipped on a 20 ounce soft drink.

The enthralled man continued anyway, “When I worked with the 10th Mountain Division guys…”

I preempted the man to hear more of what he had to say first hand, “Hey man? Did you mention the 10th Mountain Division?” I walked closer to talk with the man.

“How you doin'?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Were you in the 10th Mountain?”

“Naw, but I used to train them guys and Special Forces pilots on the instruments of those Lockheed jobs. Thirty miles over there is where these Special Forces guys fly.”

“So, how long have you been out of the Army?” I said as I realized I was dripping so much sweat it was drooling off my shorts.

“I got out in ’95. I wish I could have worked on those AC-130 Gunships, man. They got 105’s and forty-cals, and…” he started to say much more but was grabbed by a co-worker. “Hey, it was good talking to you man.”

Seeing his official name tag, I answered, “You too, Gerry. Good luck, man.”
Then I walked across the street and had a delicious shrimp basket with angel hair pasta and a beer from the tap. As I sat watching a silent sports channel on the television I remembered that if it is at all possible, it is always good to start the day with a baptism in warm salty water.

I could see when I was talking to Gerry the ex-soldier, helicopter maintenance tech, and current Gulf clean up “Responder”, that his love for helicopters was still in him.

I could see when I was talking to Gerry the ex-soldier, helicopter maintenance tech, and current Gulf clean up “Responder”, that his love for helicopters was still in him. I looked for a story of bravery and skill as exhibited by a helicopter group or individuals in Afghanistan. I give you Lt. Col. Mike Morgan and his band of professional fliers in the U.S. Army-

82nd Combat Aviation Brigade pilots earn Silver Star
Mar 12, 2010
By Sgt. 1st Class Shannon Wright/82nd CAB, 82nd Abn. Div., TF Pegasus PAO

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates presents the Silver Star to Lt. Col. Mike Morgan, an OH-58 Kiowa Warrior helicopter pilot, Tuesday at Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan. Morgan is the commander of 1st Squadron, 17th Cavalry Regiment, 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade.
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD, Afghanistan -- Two pilots serving with the 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade, 82nd Airborne Division, in Kandahar, Afghanistan, earned the Silver Star, the nation's third highest war-time medal for valor.

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates presented the awards to Lt. Col Mike Morgan, the commander of 1st Squadron, 17th Cavalry Regiment (Task Force Saber), and Chief Warrant Officer James Woolley, a Chinook pilot assigned to 3rd Battalion, 82nd Aviation Regiment (TF Talon), in front of the Talon headquarters on Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan March 9.

Morgan earned the recognition for his part in repelling an insurgent ambush directed at a U.S. Army Engineer unit known as Task Force Target Hazards, Open Roadways, or THOR, while they were performing a route clearance patrol. The RCP was sweeping a route west of Kandahar City for improvised explosive devices when they hit an IED. After the blast, the RCP began receiving heavy enemy fire in what they soon realized was an orchestrated ambush.

Morgan was air mission commander for a team of two OH-58 Kiowa Warrior helicopters that arrived in support of the RCP. According to his citation, Morgan repeatedly maneuvered his aircraft between rocket propelled grenade fire and heavy machine gun fire, enabling him to fire on and destroy the enemy positions.

His "quick reaction, skillful employment of his and other attack weapons systems and coordination of multiple aircraft over a target" ultimately led to THOR's safe withdrawal from the enemy line of fire.

"I'm honored that the secretary of defense recognized the accomplishments of Task Force Saber, Task Force Talon, and Task Force Pegasus in southern Afghanistan," said Morgan. "Although there were singular, decisive acts that led to the receipt of this award, the incredible contributions and teamwork displayed by the 4th Engineer Battalion, aviation mechanics, armament technicians, forward arming and refuel personnel, and fellow aviators cannot be overlooked."

Woolley, also an air mission commander during the operation where he earned the Silver Star, is a CH-47 Chinook helicopter pilot.

In November 2009, Woolley and his crew were called for a casualty evacuation mission in Baghdis province, western Afghanistan. As Woolley and his crew approached the pick-up site, his left door gunner reported heavy tracer fire coming at them. Woolley and his co-pilot maneuvered to avoid the rounds.

Once they were able to land, ground troops began loading five wounded Soldiers on the aircraft. Very quickly, the aircraft began taking more enemy fire. With less than a minute on ground, insurgents fired a rocket propelled grenade at Woolley's Chinook. The round penetrated the nose, flew between the two pilots, and hit the flight engineer in the back of the head before coming to a rest inside the helicopter, unexploded.

Woolley and his crew continued to take a barrage of enemy fire, but Woolley directed the team to stay on ground until the last patient was loaded. Once the fifth patient was loaded, Woolley led the team out of the hot landing zone and back to a coalition base where the casualties could receive treatment.

After they determined the aircraft was still flyable, Woolley made the decision to conduct a second casualty evacuation of several wounded and dead Afghan National Army soldiers.

"I feel privileged," began Woolley. "I guess the best way to describe it is I feel the same as I did yesterday, but it is an honor to be recognized. I would've done it anyway, but it truly is an honor and a privilege to be wearing this on my chest."

"These two officers displayed great courage while under intense enemy fire, while serving as air mission commanders in support of combat operations in Operation Enduring Freedom," said Col. Paul W. Bricker, commander of the 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade. "They exemplify the tremendous commitment to our mission and join the long line of 82nd Airborne Division paratroopers recognized for valor in defense of our nation."


©2010 John Van Dyke Cote’
All Rights Reserved

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