POV
A core memory for me:
Showing up at a random hangar right up on the flight line and attending a briefing about what my role would be (along with others) during this exercise. Words like cargo and pax and logmod are thrown around. I didn’t know what I didn’t know at that early point, but I did know that I wanted to have the kind of influence that the tiny blonde at the front had. She strolled in late, nonchalant, and sat on a stool behind a podium, eating Burger King from a bag while someone else in uniform droned on. They had held the meeting for her and then she breezed in with a smile and wave of her food bag by way of apology. Our instructor had grinned at her and then started his speech.
Why, i don’t know, but i wanted that power. Fast forward two years later.
I am the first person on the flight line after the red line has been established. I am cold, under dressed, and pissed off. Cargo is arriving, the weather sucks, and OF COURSE, no one knows anything. Slowly things come together. We get a booth, an OX cart for heat, lights, and cargo. Neverending cargo. I am directed to the main office for an update. The door opens easier than I expect. Not used to being Inside this hangar, I’m expecting the winds to hold the door shut. Instead, it flies open, banging the empty drum behind it.
No one inside seems to notice, as they’re all staring at the board. I’m handed a black dry erase marker as I cross the threshold, and without a word, i begin transcribing notes from the crumpled papers in my hand to the board. This squadron is late, this is a no show, this is sent back for corrections. These are moved out of the yard, these are waiting load. I cross off tail numbers, squadrons, and names. I scribble in other numbers and groups in their place. What these notes don’t capture is that I’m shivering, my people are hungry and there is no word on lunch. From my pocket, my radio crackles again with the alert from the Security Forces squadron that they’re on the way. Again.
I’m asked questions, I answer. I’m challenged, I present proof. I try to clarify with arm waving gestures at the cubicle where the Log-Mod people sit. My ears are numb and my nose is red. I’ve been in and out of this room all night, wind and rain blowing through at my heels. I pull new documents off the printer and separate out the blank sheets, crumpling them in my hand and shoving them into my field jacket for insulation. I do not notice the stares. I return outside.
The wind is cold. It howls. Dawn comes and we go home to sleep. I am the last one to break red.
The next day is clear and cold. There is wind. I shiver.
Inside, the board is rearranged according to my sheets. Blank ones again serve as insulation.
Live ammunition is missing paperwork. Two dudes show up and tell me I’m wrong, but the computer does not lie and they leave, chastened by someone five ranks above me, verifying my information.
Snap to the position of attention, Airman. The base commander is here. Unexpectedly, he recognizes me from the hospital and greets me by name. He asks the Senior NCO in the room for the update, who then defers to me. I begin. It is my board and my yard. I incheck and I verify. The buck stops with me and my clipboard. The commander leaves, satisfied that my yard is moving.
I leave to follow him outside, but the senior stops me, asks where my cover is (I don’t have one, I work in the hospital), ok, where is my Gortex (what? I don’t know what that is), what about lunch? I have n0 answers for all of these questions because I am caught in the middle of an inter-squadron struggle. No one wants to pay, but in the meantime, someone freezes.
I remember this man, too, from the hospital. He is two clinics earlier than the base commander (I was a new Airman, assigned to ENT. The base commander knew me at Flight Medicine.) He said I was rude. Whatever I was, I was also humiliated. Never again would I forget his face, even if he forgot mine.
This time, though. The Senior Master Sergeant is pleased by my work. Impressed and disheartened that when I remove my field jacket (issued in basic training) to sit at his request, and a number of paper balls fall out. He stares at me over wire rimmed glasses for a long time and then sends a person who also outranks me to military clothing for a watch cap and gloves. He gives me a part of his lunch and commands me to wait until the other NCO returns. Once covered, I can feel my body temp rise. Heat returns to my ear lobes and finger tips. He hands me the Goretex from his back seat and tells me to use it until the end of shift.
I leave the room and return to the line. i am warm and feel like I have arrived. This is A Good Job. I have been Recognized.
Aircraft is in front of me, the whir of engines loud in my ear. That is no C-130. My head turns and takes in the graceful turn of a KC-10 as she completes her landing and begins to taxi to a spot. The heartbeat skips. Is Chris on this jet? Did he forget to tell me? What a surprise. She moves slowly down the tarmac, your head falling back to watch her wingtips cast shadows over your waiting in check. I know that I am reaching; if Chris were on this jet, he would have warned me to expect him. Still, my heart pounds and I cannot help but hope.
The pilot smiles and throws a wave. I wave back, swallowing the impulse to scream aloud. God, I hope that my husband is on that jet. Does he know I’m out here, on his flightline? Does he know I’m working my ass off, feeling like there’s some kind of standard. If he works hard out here in the elements, so can I. The pilot looks away, business to attend to. Until my phone rings hours from now, I have no way of knowing who is crewing that bird. I sigh and swallow the hope. It is not him, but still, I hope. It is a stretch to say so, but he is close here on this vast open space of asphalt. I, too, have weathered wind and rain and heat and misery has been close.
Three years later, the sunset is setting at a clip behind if-it-doesnt-move-paint-it-brown hangars. The whine of the engines is loud in our ears, the pitch changing as brake is applied and they touch down. Slats and flaps, brake, landing gear, smoke. She taxis briefly and takes off again, the whine of the engine rising.
I smile, my chest tight. American Democracy. No One Kicks Ass Without Tanker Gas. This is only touch-and-go drills, but it makes me happy. I love watching the planes. The military aircraft. The airframe you work on. The one that is airborne because of your work. Shenanigans, bullshit, and hard work. Blood, sweat, and curse words.
I love this and my heart is huge in my chest for the military (I am not yet jaded nor cynical about that), for the mission of the KC-10, that your baby, and good old fashioned patriotism. They touch-and-go for hours. We watch as the night falls.
I don’t remember when we did that, took an aimless drive around base and ended up behind the MPF, watching the planes. At Yokota, I had the fighter planes fr0m Misawa, the cargo refuelers from Travis, and our own cargo planes. But those KC-10s? I am a romantic at heart, especially when there is distance between us. You could have touched those jets and they flew across an ocean and time zones to land in MY yard, where her contents are unloaded and packed again with cargo that I vouched for (with your last name). There may have even been sheets with our names on them together, in different capacities with no one else the wiser.
The years are echoing, slamming hard against my chest anytime i view the old photos. High school, tech school, me at Yokota/you at Travis, our first apartment(s), and then our first house(s). How quickly the years pass, how expertly they all meld together until it feels like a kaleidoscope of watercolor, the shapes and color different each time we look at them.
Now I drive home guided by sunsets and think about those tiny inlets hidden along the shore, mangroves and sand.
tbc.