Thank you God. Thank you God.

Well, here I am.  In the army we have a contract and an obligation.  They are not necessarily one in the same.  My contract was supposed to be up 31 July 2005.  Well, today is 31 July 2005.  I’m at a place I have never dreamed of, even in my wildest imaginations, of being.  For the past four months I have really grown to like this place.  No H-1, H-2 merge at 8:45 in the morning on a Tuesday at the beginning of the semester traffic congestion to worry about.  No financial institutions bugging me for more of my money.  I smoke a cigar at 1700 everyday.  I go salsa dancing every Friday night at the base “community center.”  We only get mortared every other day.  Ahhh… Afghanistan.  Life is good.

 

The warning sirens blare out.  I run the mile long street to the Tactical Operations Center.  My fatigues soaking wet with sweat, I rush into the office.  Standing at his desk with the phone pressed to his ear, Chaplain A-T, a tall lanky man with crooked teeth, coordinating a mass casualty event with the medical personnel.  Master Sergeant Young, a strong willed black woman from Miami with tight braids on her head, standing beside him waiting for instructions.

 

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“There’s a report of a C-130 with a malfunctioning landing gear,” Master Sergeant Young replied.

“What does that mean?”

“They can’t deploy the wheels.”

 

His face white with fear, “let’s go,” A-T said.  “We need to get to the Clamshell.  That’s where they’re setting up the triage”

“So what’s the story sir?” Master Sergeant Young inquired.

“Well, the crew was able to crank down the landing gear but they’re afraid that it won’t hold.”

“How many people on board?” I asked.

“Twenty-five.” He said.  “So, worst case scenario is, we will have to do twenty-five memorial services.”

 

As we get to the Clamshell, a tent that somewhat looks like a giant circus tent but oblong shaped, we notice the plane circling making it’s decent.  I spy a tower where we could get a good view of the impending disaster.  As the plane makes its final approach, I notice everyone murmuring prayers under their breaths.  As the plane’s wheels get closer and closer to the tarmac, my hearth sinks as I pray. O God. O God. O God.

 

The wheels make contact with the tarmac.  Dust is kicked up by hurricane force winds generated by the propellers.  And, nothing.  No fire.  No explosion.  Nothing.  Tears run down my face as the whole crowd in the clamshell erupt in jubilation.  People jumping, hugging, high-fiving, laughing and crying.  Thank you God.  Thank you God.