You’ll Want to Wear Your Earplugs
The air terminal at March ARB is a reminder that even the world’s mightiest armed forces are under civilian control. There are signs you’d see at LAX warning you against terroristic threats, whether you mean it or are simply trying out material for your next comedy gig at San Quentin. You go through a metal detector after emptying all your pockets into a big plastic bucket. But instead of a power drunk TSA employee giving you the evil eye, you get a courteous airman, like the always smiling Swanson, whose rank I do not know, because even after a decade of photographing the military, I still can’t figure out anything but a private or maybe even a sergeant on a good day. And are they supposed to be capitalized? Sometimes, I hear people talking about designations like E-5 or E-3 instead of an actual rank, and those are pay grades, I believe, but I’m just not sure. Now pick an acronym, any acronym, and ask the nearest airman what it stands for. If they know the answer, be very suspicious. The term “airman” is what you call somebody who’s in the Air Force, whether they’re male or female. This, according to LTC Jenn Covington, whose husband Perry is a PAO (Public Affairs Officer), is the accepted term, and no one’s going to bitch at you for misgendering them. She didn’t say it like that, I’m interpreting here. LTC Covington very graciously offered me a ride back to my car when I missed the bus after our flight to Catalina. Oh, did I tell you about that? Let me backtrack.
Today’s what you call a Boss Lift. I’ve written about them on these pages before. I’m a volunteer with the California ESGR, which is Employer Support of Guard and Reserve. We help keep good relations between employers and their Guard and Reserve members. The deployments are rough on everyone, obviously. When a Guardsman or Reservist comes home, their employer is supposed to have their job waiting for them to slide back into. These Boss Lifts are a way of recognizing the best employers, the ones who’ve got their people’s six (their back).
The bosses arrive at 0730 and gather at the Hap Arnold Club for a breakfast burrito and a briefing on ESGR, Reaper drones, and what the day is going to look like. Our emcee, COL Tom Lasser (ret.), is a Vietnam war vet, a helicopter pilot, and a warm, funny guy. He’s the one you’ll run into at all sorts of military events. He takes me aside and shares the news that July 4th will be celebrated on July 3rd at Los Al this year. Never mind why. July 4th over the last several years has typically been spent with my dad at the hospital. Now that he’s gone, I expect I’ll forever associate 4th of July with my dad being in the hospital. Or maybe I’ll associate 4th of July with being a day late to Los Al because I forgot July 4th is now being celebrated on the 3rd.
We’re watching a video of bad guys being located and tracked by a Reaper that’s been helping the good guys get to know the bad guys over time. Now, they run out the back door after the bang bang at the front door, and they think they’ve got it made. We can see them running across a field to safety, or so they think. Our guys know exactly where they are, and soon they’re caught. Very cool.
There’s an A group and a B group, with blue buses for each. They drive us off to see the Reapers, then to learn about how they’re used. We see the control room. Lots of computers and screens. A server room with racks and racks of servers, routers, switches. Conduits running all over the place. Another room where pilots sit in Recaro chairs, with joysticks, controlling aircraft anywhere in the world. The pilots can also be anywhere in the world, and the drones can be switched from pilot to pilot, midflight.
The main event is a C-130 flight. The “C” is for “Cargo.” That’s why we’re in the air terminal, hanging out till our flight. COL Amy Howard, who briefed us at breakfast, had to shear off from our event to attend to a group of Marines who are departing for the Philippines on a six-month deployment. They’re next door to the terminal in the USO center, waiting. The flight to the Philippines is thirteen hours. Our flight is under an hour, out to Catalina and back. One of the USO guys is with us today, and he leads a small group of us over to the center, where I make some photos and wish a few of the Marines a safe journey. I meet several volunteers, one of whom is in his eighties. He collects all the recyclables and loads them into his truck. Bags and bags of trash to turn into coin for the cause. Three Marines are racking up for another game of pool. I grab a quick set of shots before heading outside to capture the old timer with his fully loaded truck of recyclables. Then back to wait a bit more for our flight.
When the time comes for us to board, we receive another briefing, along with two-tone earplugs. Cargo planes are loud. Boisterous, even. They have propellors, not jet engines. The seats are reminiscent of lawn chairs. Some of the seatbelts are like something you’d expect in a ‘72 Galaxie. The ones where I’m sitting are like nothing I’ve ever seen, and it takes me a minute to decipher their secret. I’m following the letter rather than the spirit of the law, so my belt is loose and comfortable. When the crew chief makes the “stand up” gesture, I’m up in an instant. Everyone who’s not already airsick is wandering around, visiting the bubble windows or heading for the cockpit. I hit the bubbles first, then make my way to the front and find a spot at the base of the ladder leading to the cockpit. The crew chief indicates a yellow lever right behind where I was standing and warns me not to pull it. That yellow lever is what stands between me on the plane and me off the plane. I acknowledge his good advice and make sure not to pull the lever. I even let others in the vicinity know not to pull it.
Catalina is straight ahead, down below. I’m up in the cockpit getting shots of the crew, the instrument panel, Catalina. With mid-air refueling, these cargo planes can stay up in the air forever. The crew chief says it gets old. Bumpy and loud. For those of us who don’t get airsick, we won’t ever feel like this gets old. We’ll go up every chance we get, and dream of being rolled out the back when our moment comes.
When it’s time to take our seats again, I feel bad for the woman across from me. She’s suffering. Airsick, maybe, or some coincidental ailment, badly timed.
Back on the ground, the Marines are lined up outside for their thirteen hour flight. A six month deployment into the unknown. Routine? I don’t know. They’re not part of our event today, but they’re why we’re here. Well, they’re why I’m here. I’m a civilian, which, by the way, means I’ve ALWAYS been a civilian. My military friends, so gracious, always thank me for what I do, but there’s no comparison. I didn’t sign a blank check like they did. Shining a light into their world is the least I can do, so we remember their sacrifice and think of them and their families when they pick up and leave for somewhere halfway around the world. I’ve only had the briefest of conversations with these Marines today. Pretty much just “thank you” and a handshake, letting them know we appreciate them.
We wrap up the day with an exchange of challenge coins and the signing of Statements of Support. The bosses get a swag bag, and we regroup outside for pictures in front of the blue buses. I step off, backwards, from a curb, and it’s higher than I expected. I’m fine, but everyone’s worried. I shout out to throw me a line, but nobody hears. I get caught up in conversation and miss the blue buses back to our cars. LTC Covington offers me a ride, which I gladly accept. Most of her entire family is stationed here at March ARB. And there’s another family just like that, but she tells me they’re the exception. I’m thinking it’d be a great photo op. Her husband Perry is the PAO here, if you recall. He’s going to review my images to make sure I didn’t accidentally capture any tail numbers or other forbidden fruit.
Something on the sidelines is gripping me, like a strong handshake, or a hurricane. The Marines, who weren’t even part of our event, are in the Philippines now. I have no idea what their mission is. I do know that we’re pivoting away from the Middle East over to Asia. Way the fuck over there. Will anyone notice, back home? Certainly, the families and loved ones of these Marines will notice, every minute of every day for the next six months. But the rest of us? No. Our active duty forces are doing their jobs quietly, all over the place. We get to not notice. Disney was right. “It’s a small world, after all.” Godspeed, Marines. Semper Fi.
