I was in the Crystal City Underground, returning from some mindless errand that I had decided to incorporate into my lunch break.  The "Underground" is a series of connected stores – a mall – that is in the collective basements of all the buildings in Arlington, a block or so from the Pentagon.

I decided to call my dad while I had lunch – an international call.  I carefully dialed the country code and number and was directed to customer service to activate "international calling" on my calling plan.

Now, I know I’m asking a lot, here.

  My carrier has notoriously poor connectivity in Arlington in the first place, I’m in a cave in the swamps of the Potomac, next door to a major airport.  So I didn’t really expect a miracle here, I was just hoping I’d get lucky from the spot I was in, which sometimes, though rarely, was possible.

No such luck.  We both made a valiant struggle to get through the conversation.  I even abandoned my food to go out to the subway entrance, where I’d get a line-of-sight to open air.  It worked – a little.  From this point we could both piece together slightly longer fragments of one another’s sentences.

I tried to explain that I was attempting to place a call to Costa Rica.

"Where?"

"Costa Rica!"

"Italy?"

"Costa Rica!!"

"I’m sorry, Sir.  Could you please call back on a land line."

Probably the most rewarding and memorable opportunity I’ve had in this time was at the end of 2006, when I was called to duty (canceling all my New Year’s party plans) to serve on the State Funeral of President Gerald R. Ford.

We had all volunteered far in advance for this duty – numbering in the thousands. State funerals are a HUGE undertaking with the President’s wishes, and then his family’s coming first. Prior to President Ford’s Funeral, all of the recent state funerals had, by chance, occurred in states with large active duty military bases. Since Michigan doesn’t have one, it fell to the National Guard to run the show.

With so many duties to be performed, I found myself

doing everything from answering telephones to entering scheduling data into computers, to running information (and errands) up and down the streets of Grand Rapids. On the day that Air Force One landed I was tasked – of all things – to assist military members and members of the media in “identifying” the VIP’s that would be arriving at the airport by ground. Now I’m not much of a “celebrity” guy, but I know enough of the local business owners by sight that I hoped I could at least be helpful.

As people slowly started filing into the cavernous airplane hangar dedicated to this purpose, I began introducing myself to everyone, one by one. This fulfilled multiple purposes: first, it was helping me ensure I even KNEW the VIP’s from the media folks, and second, since the big metal hangar was unheated, it was a good way to keep warm!

As I worked my way through the growing crowd, I met a lot of interesting people. I did what I could to make everyone comfortable, which; really, boiled down to pointing out the location of the coffee, bathrooms, and getting chairs for those few elderly guests that seemed a bit shaky on their walkers. I wasn’t “working the crowd”, mind you. I was trying to be polite, help out, and convey the solemnity of the occasion.

One particular man seemed uncomfortable. It could have been the intense cold. It could have been the fact that we were attending a funeral. Who knows – maybe he just had an argument with his wife? But I approached with a solemn smile and introduced myself: “Good morning Sir, my name is Captain Worrell, Michigan National Guard.” … with the intent to ask next if there was any assistance I could provide.

His simple response:

“Good morning to you, my name is Jack Nicklaus. I golf.”

There WE were…

No, I’m not Tom Cruise, but I am an Army helicopter pilot.

I was the pilot of the fifth ship of a flight of six.  The other pilot was the aircraft commander.  (There are always 2 pilots in a Huey).  My friend Tom was one of the pilots in the trail ship, which makes this as (or more) memorable for him as it is to me!

The pilots’ duties are split up in the following way: the pilot at the controls flies the aircraft, the other pilot talks on the radios and navigates.  Since each pilot has a nearly identical set of controls, it is easy and routine for the pilots to alternate these duties.

On this particular training mission, we were conducting a practice Air Assault, which means

we were supposed to be dropping good guys (presumably armed) right next to the bad guys.  We didn’t have any good guys with bullets available, so to make the flight more realistic – and by this I mostly mean heavy – we were giving "rides" to some of our soldiers that normally don’t get to go anywhere near the helicopters – it makes for much more realistic training, and improves the morale of the "cargo"!

One of the soldiers on my aircraft was a young ‘kid’ that I had mentored when he was still just a recruit, and he had specifically requested to be on my aircraft.  The other pilot I was flying with was a senior Warrant Officer – in this case "Senior" stands for far more than just his rank.  He had been flying Hueys in the Army National Guard since the Vietnam era and was preparing to retire as a Michigan State Police officer.  Oh… and he didn’t like to be shown up by hotshot, snot-nosed kids – in this case: me.

Now, when you’re practicing to fly in bad-guy-land, you typically want to stay below where the meanies can see you because its harder shoot something you can’t see (and there’s no such thing as "Whisper Mode!!!)  So I fly safe and I follow all the rules, but I fly aggressively because, well; trees are softer than bullets!

Since I was the whipper-snapper, and old Mr. Grumpy was the Pilot-in-command, he let me fly at the controls first – ostensibly to judge my competence.  I did exactly what I was trained to do: I flew fast, maintained the correct distances and angles from the other aircraft in the flight, and I flew low – very low.

The one little thing that I did that I was unaware of until it was too late was, apparently, challenged him to a duel of flying ability.  Still unaware of this miscalculation, we transferred controls normally and he took the second run-through of the route.  At first, his performance was nearly the mirror image of mine – really; there are only so many ways you can read a winding valley or river.  He was doing an excellent job.  He followed the natural cut in the valley as it first turned one way and then the other.  This was the perfect place to practice this kind of flying!

Then in one particular spot the "V" in the trees we’d been using for a highway made a sharp left turn.  The only problem was that this particular narrow valley had one large, soft pine tree sticking right up through the lowest point, turning the sharp "V" into more of a "W".  I’ve heard these anomalous trees referred to over the years as "widowmakers" and this particular one really popped out of nowhere!

He already had the aircraft in a 60 degree bank, which is the maximum bank limitation for the aircraft.  Briefly, I thought he was going to try and go steeper to make the inside of the turn, and just as briefly, I felt the aircraft "mush."  (This is a highly technical term that means: "It ain’t gonna work!")  When it finally occurred to him that he wasn’t going to make it to the inside, he executed the obvious alternative and tried to swing wide around to the outside.  Unfortunately, time was up to change tactics and he ended up decisively executing both and split it right down the middle, lightly brushing the grease off the underside of the bird.

When we got back to the airfield my young soldier friend patiently waited for me to conduct the post-flight inspection and debrief.  When I walked out of the briefing room he was there with a huge, thankful smile on his face.  When I shook his hand he said "That was SO awesome!… That tree went by us on BOTH sides!!!"

Epilogue: Mr. Grumpy retired almost immediately after this flight.  The young soldier in the story is now successful both as an army sergeant AND in his career in law enforcement.  Tom is still trying to collect on his debt – something about me owing him a fresh pair of underwear!

I had a couple young men in my company that I liked to refer to as Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dee.  They are both the type of soldiers you want in your command – hard working, enthusiastic and get the job done even without being told.  (Notice I didn’t include “smart” on the list… but I’d rather have a dull go-getter than a smart lump of laziness any day.)  I openly referred to them by these names – they seemed to accept it as a badge of honor (and clearly all in fun).  I never titled them as one or the other, though – I’d just wait until they were both present and ask their boss to, “find something dirty for the Tweedles to clean!”

One of them finally asked me once – while both were present – which was which.  I replied that 1) I wasn’t sure yet, 2) they probably wouldn’t want to know the answer anyway, and 3) I wasn’t sure I wanted them to know!  (I suspected they were both vying for the coveted title of Tweedle-Dumb.)

The following month I fought my way to drill in a pretty intense blizzard – about six inches of snow had fallen sometime between

three and six in the morning.  (It’s only a blizzard to those of us that live down-state: Grayling locals call this a dusting.)  After the morning formation, while my staff was busy getting to the tasks of the morning’s business, I remained out in the main area of the building, trying to get to know some of my fellow soldiers – which, I’m told, is a good thing for a new commander to do.

Since I had just dealt with a rather heart-breaking soldier issue immediately prior to formation, I was disturbed when one of the top soldiers on my staff quietly interrupted me and said, “Sir, I think you need to see this.  Quickly!”  As my mind searched through the possible calamities – critical testing failure; someone got hurt on the way in; worse??? – I followed him back to his office.

His office window is to his back, so that as you stand in front of his desk you have a clear view of the entire front yard and several hundred meters of the entrance road – you can even catch glimpses of the lake when the winter foliage is down.  It can be quite mesmerizing on a day with a fresh, deep snowfall.

Not allowing myself to be distracted by the view, I grew somewhat perturbed when he sat down at his desk and got back to work as if he’d never asked me to come deal with what in my mind had grown to an epic crisis!  After a long moment, I said, “Well?”

He just donned what I’ve since come to know as his routine mischievous smirk and pointed over his shoulder.

Ah, this was only a joke.

It didn’t take a second for mild irritation to turn to hilarity.  Outside was Tweedle, shoveling snow.  Actually, “shoveling” isn’t the right word – if there was an Olympic event for distance throwing heaping shovels of snow along an unused sidewalk for no apparent reason – the name of that sport would be the word for what he was doing.  At first, as I watched through my tears of laughter, I suspected that he had started to feel fatigued and what I was observing was the final burst of adrenaline prior to the collapse… But a quick scan of the previous 50 meters or so of sidewalk showed not a spec of disturbed snow less than a full meter from the clean path.

After my initial laughter subsided, I refilled my tiny little paper cup with coffee, grabbed my hat and headed out the door.  Out the door… down the steps, past the front of the building… another left on the main walk (all clean and dry).  All the way to the other end of the building I met up with Tweedle where he was approaching the matching set of outdoor concrete steps up the other side of the building.

He was dripping sweat through the outside of the outer shell of his uniform coat!  That’s about three inches of cotton and wool!  I took a sip of coffee knowing that surely an audience had grown in the office to watch this performance… “Excellent job, Tim!”, I said, startling him.  Spinning around, unable to stand fully erect – but trying – he snapped a sloppy salute and apologized: “Sorry sir, I didn’t see you coming up.”  After returning his salute, I assured him there was no breach of etiquette and reiterated how impressed I was with his initiative.

I must have said the right thing: I could see the wide smile even through the desperate gasps for air.  I put my arm around him in the most paternal fashion I could muster…

“You know…

next time…

feel free to use one of the snowblowers.”

We run continuous operations here – operations that I can’t halt simply to declare that I want to see all my soldiers in one place at one time. So, as things continue on normally, I meet and get to know them one at a time, starting with the ones most geographically close to me, first and working out… then working on meeting those with those same duties but operating on other daily shifts. Finally I’ve been trying to identify, by roster, those people, through sheer chance (or otherwise), have not drilled on the same weekend as our main body since the time I assumed command.

In any event, I made what fate would eventually prove to be a mistake and made eye contact with the Staff Sergeant. Accepting the slight rise in my eyebrows as an invitation to a monologue, she began to speak. To some, speaking is a chore… to some a task… yet others it is an activity. But to her it was a state of being.

“I’m really sorry about this, but Headquarters requires this class and they are inspecting you tomorrow and I’m just trying to help you pass the inspection,” she began, without the slightest hint at an introduction or explanation of what “help” she was providing. I was irritated – of course… she had hit a number of my pet peeves all at once… and yet she didn’t stop talking long enough for me to find that interjection point where it is customary to interrupt for a question. She did have one redeeming quality, though: she was entertaining! For several minutes, without the need to take a breath, apparently, she continued to drone – well, somewhere between drone and whine. She even managed to address my observation by apologizing for not giving me a chance to speak – all without giving me a chance to speak!

During this entire performance I managed to pick out several themes: I should take her seriously because she had some association with the State Headquarters; that she was very, very sorry to inconvenience me; that she wished to give a two hour “mandatory” training class; that she wouldn’t need more than a half hour to conduct the training; and that she knew that my direct commander – “what was his name again?” – would want me to cooperate with her.

It was maybe the third or fourth slog through this disorganized jumble of disjointed thoughts when I finally realized she would likely continue this forever if I didn’t intercede. I realized that I had unconsciously changed my physical posture from defense to amusement. She was hopeless and she knew it. She was begging for help while simultaneously disguising her request as an offer of help. Either strategy may have worked alone, but she lacked the self confidence to select a course of action. The poor thing… my posture and facial expression was telling her the gig was up… but she was in too deep to stop. And so she just kept rephrasing things.

“Stop!” I said, finally, first with my hand up in the manner of a traffic cop. Then offering it, I said, “My name is Major Worrell, and you are?”

Anyway, God sent me an angel that told me I had to get up and write this – if angels come in the form of big sweaty, slightly oldish, slightly overweight, permanent-5 O’Clock-shadow-bearing Army Sergeants… Come on! - my mom always told me angels would appear in forms you wouldn’t expect! …

So my body has grown accustomed to the night shift after this first week. The 5-ton trucks struggling up the hill outside my window no longer even register in my consciousness. The occasional group of rowdy soldiers passing on the sidewalk right outside my window calling each other vulgar names is as much music to my ears as the crows perched atop the tree at the end of the building.

So I think what actually awakened me was not the rasping desperate gasps for air from the room across the hall – which are not deadened at all by the ceiling, which are conspicuously not present in these quarters – but my own curiosity and sudden need to identify and categorize the sound. My first recollection was annoyance that someone had decided to audibly share their hangover with me. “But wait,” I remember my mind begging…“that’s not right.” It wasn’t the sound of pain. It was the sound of the minute joy of pain having subsided… a sound I’ve heard from myself in that moment of relief that comes from having finally puked!… But no, that wasn’t right either, because even as I grew more awake and more aware of the additional ambient clues to this mystery (as well as amused at my own curiosity – at this point) I began to realize, at first without understanding the cues, that the source of the beastly noise was human, and recently showered. Ah! That’s it! The sound of toiletries being meticulously put back in drawers and zippered bags!

At this point I remember the amusement subsiding and a sudden decision to yell something. Not something rude, but something to remind Bullwinkle that Rocky was currently nocturnal.

“Why am I not yelling?”, I remember thinking next. “Oh. I know! – I’m amused again!” I had noticed yet new clues that painted a full story about this poor sap and what was going on. The sound was now unmistakable. It was the sound of someone out of shape that had just taken a PT test – probably his first physical exercise in months! But sympathy alone wasn’t enough for me to stop the yell. In the fraction of a second that all this was going through my mind, the guttural, whispered attempts at taking breaths – and I don’t mean whispered in the sense that someone was trying to keep a secret – I mean whispered like when a automobile engine blows a pressure hose! – the breaths started taking on the form of words…

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear oh dear…

[pause]

[deep breath]

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear oh dear…

[pause]

[deep breath]

At this point, I actually remembering hearing myself giggle! Amused, but still annoyed, I decided to take a different tack. I’ll get up and walk to the bathroom, identify the culprit, and politely remind him – without any hint of sarcasm, that there are – at least some – night-shifters in these quarters. But my plan instantly goes to hell when the humming begins! Now I recognize the voice! Sergeant Ixxx! And that bastard knows I’m in here trying to sleep! For God’s Sake, he said good night to me at breakfast! But then again, I like the guy. And after all, it’s obvious he’s suffering.

I modify my plan. I rip my sleeping bag zipper down in one unceremonious jerk. I’m sure it can be heard from at least several rooms away. The sound that you only make with a sleeping bag zipper when you are in a hurry to the bathroom or pissed at your neighbor (which are now BOTH true, having been thinking about the original plan for a couple minutes.) I jump up, wrap myself in a bath towel and march to the huge steel fire-door that separates my little cube room from the hallway (you can’t enjoy this mental image unless you remember … THERE IS NO CEILING IN HERE!).

I open the door… SGT Ixxx is finished showering and has now completed his change back into his Combat Uniform… he’s on his way back to work… this leaves us face-to-face in the hallway… my half of our now-collective story suddenly, instantaneously, downloads into his head!

“Oh, my God, sir! I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it, Sergeant, I especially liked the humming!,” I said; not even sure, myself, if I was being honest, or trying to embarrass him.

“I just took my PT Test, Sir… I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know”, I said.

“Oh, of course you do. You know everyone’s schedules, being in the Operations Section”

“Actually, I don’t remember reading it anywhere. I just kind of figured it out from your breathing pattern… So how’d you do?”

“Not too good.”

“Well at least you passed, right?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“Awe, fuck! You’re kidding me!?” (Now feeling sincerely bad for the guy.)

“Well, Sir… My doctor told me I’m not supposed to do PT until my heart-test results come back… but I didn’t want anyone to think I was just wimping out, so I took the test anyway.”

“O.K. So let me just get this straight: You purposely failed a PT test, against doctor’s orders, in hope that you could come back to the “Q”, take a steaming hot shower, have a heart attack and wake my ass up to somehow miraculously revive you, because this will somehow make you look like less of a wimp?”

“I’m really sorry, Sir! I didn’t think I would fail the test! I just didn’t want to sit on the sidelines while everyone else was taking it.”

“Really, SGT Ixxx: it’s ok,” In the most paternal tone I can muster, now in a mood of sincerity and compassion, “It’s just a matter of stealing silk.”

He couldn’t have understood the reference, but he didn’t ask for clarification. As he left the “Q”, I patted him on the back. And he was smiling.

We were both smiling.

Last night we were joking about how the COL and the MAJ had started writing their names on their ice cream bars and then only eating each others! It was kind of funny… then one of the SGT’s told me that all started when someone drank all of MAJ Cain’s Gatorade on the very first night we were here!!!

Uhhhhh…. Oooops!

Well, I haven’t seen the Major since then, but I ran into town this evening and replaced his Gatorades. I didn’t really need to, since I’m obviously already in the clear, but now I feel bad about it!