Short Version of "The Big One'
By Diane Morgan
September 10, 2008
When I moved to Florida in the summer of 1988 I knew I was getting into hurricane country. But nobody there seemed overly concerned about it. I would ask my neighbors and co-workers what to expect and the answers were basically the same: the warning is given, you go out and buy groceries, return home and turn on the TV and wait. And after hours and hours of waiting, the hurricanes go elsewhere. And that's how it went the first four years I lived there. Each June I would obediently stock up on canned goods and each holiday season I would find myself dining on Beanie Weenies. But then came ANDREW.
The small compact storm that would be the costliest in U.S. history prior to Katrina came off the coast of Africa in late August 1992 and rolled across the Atlantic like a bowling ball down an alley. Shortly before noon on Saturday, Aug. 22, Andrew was officially declared a hurricane as it continued on its course toward Miami. But at the Fontainebleau Hilton where I worked as a housekeeping supervisor, it was business as usual because in Miami Beach there is one basic rule - DON'T SCARE THE TOURISTS. When I asked if the hotel was going to close I was told management was assessing the situation and would let us know,
Shortly after I got home that evening my doorbell rang. It was my elderly neighbor Lillian, visibly shaking and near tears, "They say the hurricane is coming. I don't know what to do. What are YOU going to do?" I responded that I hadn't decided yet and needed to check TV reports. She indicated that the management of our apartment building was advising residents to evacuate and that the house bus would be there Sunday morning to take those without cars to a shelter, Knowing she had significant health problems and her nearest relatives were in New York, I said I thought it would be a good idea if she went. "But I don't want to go without you", she pleaded. It was a complication I wasn't prepared for. I told her I needed time to think. She went back to her apartment and I plopped myself in front of the TV, trying to make a rational decision, It didn't take long. Andrew was picking up strength. The universal message on all of the TV stations was - GET OUT! I went to Lillian's apartment and told her "Pack your bag. We're leaving in the morning," I spent the rest of that night alternating between watching TV and packing a small duffle bag with my portable radio, flashlight, a small bottle of water, two bananas and a couple of candy bars. I didn't consider needing more because I figured we'd be safely in the hands of the Red Cross with its coffee, doughnuts, cots and all that stuff. BOY, WAS I NAIVE!
The bus took us a few miles inland to a middle school with classrooms and interior corridors around a large multi-purpose room . Unlike California schools there were few windows facing outside. We registered then made our way to the central room that was to be our home for the next 26 hours. As early arrivals we found student chairs a few rows up from a TV set and tried to stay calm.
The first few hours weren't that bad. We watched the TV. We chatted. We made jokes about the situation. We ate the bananas I brought. But as the room started filling up it became increasingly clear we were going to get hit. More and more people came with blankets and pillows and coolers with food and beverages and began setting up campsites in the hallways. It became harder and harder to walk anywhere. Things really started getting out of control in the evening when several busloads of German tourists were dropped off, complete with luggage and Disney World souvenirs. While most of us were experiencing increasing misery, they were happily videotaping their big adventure in America. By the time the doors were officially closed there were well over 2,000 people jammed into the building.
A while later came an announcement that the Red Cross would be serving food in the cafeteria. But the hopes of hundreds of hungry people came crashing down when the evening meal turned out to be a quarter of a cheese sandwich on dry bread, 2 slices of apple and 2 wedges of an orange. There was NOTHING to drink. What followed was a true night in hell....
After 8 hours of sitting my backside was throbbing. I needed to lie down, but with people sprawled in the aisles and even on the stage, I couldn't find any space, In desperation I tried curling up around the base of my chair with my feet extending under Lillian's. I heard the TV report that the outer bands of Andrew were approaching and I could hear the winds getting stronger. It occurred to me that if the place started flying apart I'd be trapped under the chairs. So I untangled myself and went for a slow walk, carefully stepping over people. After stopping in the restroom I circled around near the entrance doors and for the first time in my life heard the godawful howl of a hurricane. The power of it was beyond description. The doors were shaking like crazy. I quickly retreated, realizing that if those doors flew open I'd be sucked out like a gnat. With wobbly knees I went back to my torture chair.
Around 3 a.m. the power went out. After several moments of terrifying blackness the school's emergency lighting came on and people started pulling out flashlights and portable radios. But reception was bad and it was difficult to understand what was happening. About all we could find out was the eye was heading for the southern part of Miami-Dade County.
With no air-conditioning and with a couple thousand sweaty people crammed into the facility in the late August heat, conditions went downhill in a hurry. Condensation formed on the linoleum floors and walking anywhere became treacherous. People started slipping and falling on top of others who were trying to sleep. The only thing coming through the A/C ducts was the howl of the wind. I felt like we were trapped inside a giant sauna with a raging beast outside. People stopped talking and went into a mode of silent coping. I fantasized about a cheeseburger and a comfortable bed. By dawn the wind had died down but we were told it was unsafe to leave. They announced food would be served shortly. Of course it was more of those dry little cheese sandwiches but it was FOOD!
As the hours passed the crowd became more restless. The drinking fountains ran dry and the toilets stopped working. It was clear a mutiny was brewing. So, despite the official advice somebody finally threw open the doors and hundreds of sweaty miserable people scampered out with little concern for safety. The breeze and fight drizzle felt wonderfully refreshing. But it was as if we had stepped out of a spaceship into an alien world.
Much of the lush tropical landscape was gone. Trees were naked. Their leaves and broken branches were scattered as far as the eye could see. A large tree had fallen against the building not far from the double doors where I had listened to the wind. Other trees had come crashing down on cars in the parking lot. It looked bad but at that point we had no way of knowing the true devastation that had taken place farther south. Mostly we were upset over the news that the big buses which had brought many of us to the shelter could not maneuver through the downed trees and power lines so we would have to wait for small vans to pick us up.
Lillian and I made it back to the beach Monday afternoon. We breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of our 16-story building standing tall and strong amid the debris. The boiler room doors had been blown off and most of the trees were down, but there did not seem to be any structural damage. We checked our apartments and the only problems were soaked carpets from the horizontal rain.
With no electricity or running water there was no way to get back to normal. We were all hot and badly in need of showers. The following day I was wandering around surveying the damage when one of my young male neighbors galloped past me and with a rebel yell jumped into the debris-filled pool. Fearing what might be IN that pool, I resisted the urge to join him.
The rest of the country learned the extent of the damage long before we did. One huge problem is that radio stations no longer employ many humans. Instead they hook up with TV stations whose reporters tend to forget that in the wake of a disaster, a major part of the audience is in the dark. Thus, we heard comments like "Oh my God! Look at THAT!" And "There's nothing left. It's all gone." And there we were, draining the precious batteries of our radios to get tidbits of information and yelling - WHERE? WHAT?
Fortunately the Miami Herald stepped forward. As soon as power was restored they got their presses rolling and started delivering small, ad-free newspapers to all the big condos and apartment buildings. Few words were needed. The pictures told the story. Andrew, the first storm of the 1992 season, was indeed "The Big One".
A Close Call
By Bob Silverman
September 10, 2008
Sometimes a few hours difference can make a considerable change in our lives. It least it seemed that way in Mexico in late March of 1984.
My wife, Charli, and I had pulled our 19' Aristocrat trailer down to Mazatlan and then on to Puerto Vallarta the previous winter and were just about ready to return to California. Usually most of the "snowbirds" (visitors with trailers and campers) to Mexico would head north around the middle of March, when the weather began to heat up. And we were some of the last to leave our trailer park in Mazatlan that late March.
It had been a wonderful four months on the road, living the nomadic life in our little home away from home, relaxing, eating out every day and taking long siestas after lunch. Between jogging and swimming I had tried to stay in shape but at times, the good life won out. Still, I had learned to slow down to a quite relaxed Mexican pace and had come to realize that I was, indeed, ready to retire after one more final year of teaching.
So there we were, treading our way north to the border at a gentle pace. We had planned to see the small historic village of Alamos on our way home and to stay just outside of the town. Through the camping grapevine, we had heard good things about the campground there and about the friendly American who owned it, along with his Mexican wife.
After touring Alamos, we stopped at the park and were surprised, no amazed, to find it totally deserted. There was not a single trailer or camper in the whole place.....in fact, we were it.
Charli always ask in situations like this, "I wonder what they know that we don't know?" In this case, the answer was "Everybody has gone home....it's getting too hot down here."
In any event, we parked near the three foot high stone wall surrounding the park, not far from the highway. Hiking up a small hill, we found the owner of the park and his pretty wife at their restaurant and were invited to join them for dinner.
During the meal, we learned how they had come to settle there, build the park and to develop some 12 honesties for fellow Americans. It was, in fact, a small group of happy expatriates who lived there most of the year on land bought from the local farming cooperative. This community of farmers were not, it seemed, especially happy to have their farmland sold to the rich "gringos." After all, the land was given to them by the government to be worked as small truck farms. But somehow part of it had ended as a "gringo" development. So in the midst of a poor Mexican farming cooperative, the rich Americans stood out like a sore thumb. But we were not aware of the extent of this dissatisfaction among the local campesinos or farmers.
After a tasty dinner with good conversation, we bid our hosts a "muchos gracias" and a "buenos noches" before hiking down the hill to our trailer sitting by its lonesome near the stone wall. Before going to bed, I set the alarm for 6AM, planning to get on the way while it was still cool in the early morning.
And then, a quite strange thing happened. Before crawling into bed, for some totally unknown reason I began to assemble every kind of weapon that I had in the trailer, placing them all nearby within arms reach, where I could grab them if needed. In all our travels in Mexico, I had never done this before. There was an ax on the floor, alongside my spear gun that I used in snorkeling, and next to that was my sheath knife, then a flare gun, a large kitchen carving knife and last but not least, a three foot machete that I had brought back from the Philippines. I had no idea at all why I was doing all this except I felt vulnerable as the only trailer in the whole park.
In the morning I asked Charli how she had slept. "Like a log," she replied which was her usual answer. "Well I didn't," I complained while sipping my first cup of tea. "I had one helluva night and I want to get out of here right now," I stated emphatically. Charli knew that when I got on my high horse like that, there was no point in arguing with me.
After doing the usual checks on the van, the trailer, the compartments and the trailer hitch, we left the deserted park around 7AM heading for the border.
That night we stayed just south of the border in a small park and by the next day, after going through Mexican and American customs, we were back in Arizona. One of the first things I did was buy an American newspaper, as it had been some four months since we had seen one. Imagine our surprise and shock to read the big headlines of the Nogales Daily news.
"Armed Campesinos Take Over Trailer Park and American Colony." Wow!! It seems that about two hours after we left Alamos, some twenty armed Mexican farmers took over the park and the American colony there. And they held the owner, his wife and all the Americans hostage for the next ten days. A member of the American consulate in Mexico City was on his way to negotiate their release. And this all happened just two hours after we left!
Was there some primitive warning system at work in my head the night that we were there? Were the campesinos scouting the park while we ate dinner with the owner and his wife, or perhaps while we slept? Is that why I had all the weapons out and was up and down all night? Whatever the case, it was a close, close call. Two hours later and we would have been hostages along with the other gringos. And that's not my idea of how to meet your fellow Americans in another country. In the end, the hostages were released unharmed by the farmers but it was quite a trial for them as they never quite knew their fate.
When we went to Mexico with our trailer, our two families were quite concerned over our safety. We assured them with a smile that there was no reason to worry, since Mexico had its share of police and a reasonable system of law and order, at least so we thought. We knew they had the Napoleonic law which said a person was guilty until he/she proved themselves innocent. So this story never heard by anyone in our families because we just didn't want to hear any "We told you so." But nonetheless, it was a bit of a close call, even for us!
My Military Experience Part 8 - My Date with Jane Russell
By Dick Lewis
September 10, 2008
In the 1940's and 1950's most people knew Jane Russell was a voluptuous brunette who became famous for her role in the movie "The Outlaw". Her notoriety was not so much for her acting ability as for her physical endowments. Later she appeared in commercials for Playtex, I believe. You may wonder why I had a date with Jane Russell; since I was engaged to a lovely blonde I had met in my last semester at the University of California.
As I stood there looking at Jane Russell about 5:30 A.M. on the morning of October 14,1952,1 also wondered why I had this date. The Jane Russell I was looking at was not the Playtex model but an ugly looking hill across the valley near Kumwha, North Korea. The hill which rose abruptly out of the valley, cuhninating in two almost identical peaks, had been aptly named "Jane Russell" by the G.I.s, because of its shape. Our battalion had been ordered to attack "Jane Russell" Hill at 6:00 A.M. and seize it from the Chinese troops who were well entrenched there.
Promptly at 6:00 A.M. we started out across the valley, while on our left another U.S. Army battalion was attacking a hill mass called "Triangle Hill" and on our right a ROK (Republic of Korea) battalion was attacking "Sniper Ridge." The attack on the three hills was called "Operation Showdown." I was the machine gun platoon leader of the battalion, having recently been promoted from the more dangerous position of rifle platoon leader that I had survived for three months. My job was to support the rifle platoons with my machine guns as they assaulted the hill and then move up to the top of the hill after its capture to help defend it from the expected counterattack.
After moving several hundred yards across the valley I came to the small hill where I was to set up a machine gun to give supporting fire for the final assault on "Jane Russell." For what seemed like hours we watched as our rifle platoons moved up the steep ridge parallel to our front lines toward the twin tops of the hill. They came under artillery and mortar fire as they moved slowly up the precipitous ridge. As they neared the top the infantrymen were crawling, then moving on their stomachs inch by inch, as Chinese soldiers in their trenches popped up periodically to throw hand grenades at our troops. We tried to keep the Chinese troops in their trenches with machine gun fire but were only partially successful. Casualties were heavy. After what seemed an eternity, we saw our troops move into the Chinese trenches, and shortly after, an American flag was spread on the ground so all could see that the Americans were on top of "Jane Russell."
We packed up the machine guns and began our trek up the ridge toward the top of the hill. The climb was tedious and I marveled at how our troops had managed the ascent while under intense fire. Suddenly we came under small arms fire from our left and I realized it was coming from "Triangle Hill." I later learned that neither of the other battalions had achieved their objective so the fire we were receiving was from the Chinese. Fortunately the fire was sporadic and none of my men were hit. Eventually we reached the top and set up our machine guns hi strategic positions on the two knobs of "Jane Russell."
After setting up the machine guns I met with the other officers and found there were only five of us, all young lieutenants, the other eight officers having been killed or wounded and evacuated. Approximately 200 men were left on the hill out of a battalion of 500 or 600. It was late afternoon and the exhausted men were digging trenches deeper to strengthen our position for the counterattack we knew would be coming after darkness fell. The Chinese usually operated at night because we controlled the ah* and during the day our planes could give us direct fire support and spot targets for our artillery. We continued to receive some small arms fire from "Triangle Hill" to our left rear as it was still in Chinese hands. My date with "Jane Russell" was not going well.
We waited with great apprehension as darkness fell. Someone once said that combat is hours and days of complete boredom punctuated periodically by moments of sheer terror. The latter was about to happen. Once darkness was complete we started to receive an intense bombardment of Chinese artillery and mortar fire. I had been shelled by artillery before but I was in a well timbered and sandbagged bunker. Now in a shallow trench or in the open the shelling was terrifying. Looking north under the light of our artillery blasts and our flares we could see what looked like half of China assembling for the counterattack. We feared an envelopment since the Chinese still occupied the two hills to our left and right rear. After about a half hour of devastating fire we were ordered, by radio, to abandon the hill. We almost certainly would not have been able to hold the hill from a three sided attack. As we started down the ridge we were completely in the open while unremitting artillery and mortar fire created havoc. After getting the men started down, I came upon another officer who was sitting on the ground holding his head. I bent over and saw the head wound was not serious so I gave him a bandage and told him we were going down. He said we couldn't go through all that fire. I said "yes we can", grabbed him by the arm, and started forward. The next thing I knew there was a huge explosion very close to me, and I was pitched head first over the ridge and was careening head over heels down the steep slope.
When I finally stopped tumbling I was at least a hundred feet down the side, without my helmet or carbine. Trying to get up I found I could not stand as my left knee collapsed with great pain. I tried again with the same result. As I sat there I could still see and hear the continual blasts of artillery and mortar fire up on the ridge. In the darkness I felt my left knee and found a great deal of warmth and wetness. I had used my bandage on the other officer so I took off my T-shirt and tied it as tightly as possible around my knee. I considered my options, which seemed very limited, and started crawling, and falling, down the ridge and then moving parallel to the ridge, hoping to intercept some of our troops as they came off the ridge and moved back toward our lines. This date with "Jane" was turning out to be really ugly.
As I crawled I remember thinking about my fiancee, my parents, and would I ever see them again. After what seemed like a marathon, but was probably only a quarter to a half mile, I saw some figures coming out of the darkness toward me. Were they Americans or Chinese? Not only were they Americans, but, unbelievably, one was the platoon sergeant of the machine gun platoon. I'd only met him a few days earlier as I took over the platoon, but I don't think I've ever been happier to see anyone. Using my one good leg, and the sergeant as a crutch, we headed back toward our lines about a half mile away. After going part way I became so weak, from loss of blood and shock, I couldn't continue. As I was too heavy for him to carry, he said he'd hide me in some bushes and go to the battalion aid station, get a stretcher and some help. As I lay there semiconscious, many thoughts went through my mind such as, had I done anything during my few days with the platoon that would have made the sergeant mad? Would he really return? In what actually was a very short time he did return with another man and a stretcher. We were quite close to our lines and they carried me the short distance back to the battalion aid station which was right behind our lines. There were many men lying on stretchers around the aid station waiting to be treated. The battalion surgeon took off the flak jacket all wore and proceeded to rebandage my knee to stop the bleeding. The back of my head was bleeding slightly, probably from falling, there was a small wound on my left arm, and I said my back hurt. Looking at my back he found a large reddish welt, and then picked up my flak jacket and showed me the piece of shrapnel stuck in the back. I loved that jacket! We had used flak jackets when we went on patrols but there were only a few available in each battalion. However this attack was the first time all troops were wearing the jackets. The jackets would not stop a bullet but would stop shrapnel.
They started me on the first of a few pints of blood I was to receive and put me in an ambulance headed toward a MASH unit. At the MASH unit I continued to receive more blood amid a large room full of other soldiers waiting for an operation. Finally I was taken into the operating room, which was quite faithfully depicted on the later TV show. Doctors, probably not Hawkeye or B.J., operated on someone else right next to me. A nurse, it wasn't Hot Lips, was getting me ready and I remember asking her if I would lose my leg. She said she didn't think so and told me to start counting backwards from one hundred. The next thing I knew I was coming to in the recovery room, again faithfully depicted on the TV program. I was delighted to see the toes of my left leg peeking out of the blanket.
After a couple days at the MASH unit I was sent to an Evacuation Hospital where I had another operation on the knee. After several days there I was flown to Osaka Army Hospital hi Japan. While being carried onto the plane, with many other wounded, we had the ceremony awarding us the Purple Heart. The ceremony consisted of a bored looking GI sitting at the entrance of the plane with a large box of medals, one of which he plopped on our chests as we were carried into the plane. After three weeks hi Osaka I was flown, with a full leg cast, on a stretcher plane to Travis Air Base. Not many people get to cross the Pacific Ocean in their pajamas. Three days later I was taken by ambulance to Lettermen Hospital in the Presidio of San Francisco, which incidentally was about a ten minute drive from my home. My wounds healed, therapy was given, and after a total of seven and a half months hi hospitals I was retired from the army. Three weeks later I was married and walked down the aisle with my bride. My date with "Jane Russell" was finally over, but I'll never forget it.
Forty years later, when I had some free time for reading, I found out why I had had the date. In Far East Commander-in-Chief General Mark dark's book, "From the Danube to the Yalu", he stated, about the three hills, that "these objectives gave the enemy excellent observation to our rear in the Kumwha Valley and permitted him to pepper our main supply route with artillery, with resultant UN casualties." He also tells how for the next two weeks both sides poured men into the battle for these hills until the United Nations had "suffered more than eight thousand casualties", at which time he called off the attacks. "Operation Showdown" had been a complete failure.
Another interesting sidelight occurred hi April 1995 when my wife and daughter accompanied me on a trip to Korea. Near Panmunjom, where the truce talks were held, there is an army base. A large map there shows Korea with the truce line and colorful names of many of the hills and ridges, including "Jane Russell." My wife took a picture of me pointing to "Jane" on the map. A young sergeant, probably in his early thirties, was watching. My wife told him I had been wounded there and he then asked to take my picture pointing to "Jane Russell." I asked him if he knew why it was called "Jane Russell." He said "no I don't." I told him it was because of the shape of the hill and that today the hill would probably be called Dolly Parton. He smiled and said "now I understand."