Subject: FW: Interesting Command
story during Katrina
Awesome play by play action during Hurricane Katrina... Eilene
Subject: Interesting Command story during Katrina
Command: Category 4
Lt Col Randy Coats, 333d Training Squadron/CC
Command. There's no better job in the world. After seven years in jobs
with
"command authority" and two squadron commands, I figured I had a good
idea what command was all about. I was wrong. What changed my mind?
Four words--"Shelter Commander" and "Hurricane Katrina."
From 28 Aug - 2 Sep, I lived with 730 of my "closest friends" in 50-year
old
Bryan Hall at Keesler AFB, MS. It was my third stint as a shelter
commander, but it was unlike anything I had experienced before. As life
slowly returns to normal on the Gulf Coast and I reflect on the experience,
I've come to appreciate the unpredictability of command and how much an
event like Katrina can change people and communities.
First, you have to understand some basics. My shelter is a unique animal
on
Keesler. Most shelters here are dedicated primarily to one unit. Mine is
not. I have all the active duty and family members from a wide variety of
units--two training squadrons, CE and Security Forces (and prisoners), 100+
Marines, communications students (NCOs and roughly 60 Lt's), 150 NCO
Academy
students and their faculty, and 50 international officers and their
families. The building is an old nuclear fallout shelter, with no windows
and no shower facilities. With that setting in mind, I offer the following
memories and thoughts on Hurricane Katrina.
25 Aug (Thu): One of my sharpest young MSgt points out Katrina "may grow
into something over the weekend" and suggests we update our
shelter/evacuation data sheets. I admire his enthusiasm, tell him "that's
not a bad idea", then promptly forget to do anything because Katrina's not
headed our way at all and I've got other things to do besides worry about a
piddly Category 1 storm.
27 Aug (Sat): Two CAT meetings. Katrina has strengthened and is headed our
way, due to arrive Monday afternoon. Tentatively plan to open shelters
Monday morning. I remember the MSgt's words and begin repeating every
officer's golden rule--"Never ignore a SNCO...Never ignore a SNCO."
28 Aug (Sun): Turn on CNN before heading to 0800 CAT. Radar picture shows
Katrina is Category 5, taking up the whole Gulf of Mexico and headed
straight for us, due to arrive before dawn Monday. "Never ignore a
SNCO...Never ignore a SNCO."
- 1000: Initiate full recall and order all personnel to evacuate or shelter
NLT 2100. Many people out of town for the weekend. Accountability is a
nightmare.
- 1700: Open the shelter. People/families begin arriving. Have to stop
two
refrigerators, one 21" TV set, and three mattresses at the door. Students
(of all ranks) drafted to help carry bags into the shelter. People told to
bring food and water for three days. Most bring food for two days; smokers
bring cigarettes for twenty days. Have to break the news--no smoking
inside
the shelter and once you're checked in you can't go outside (Hotel
California rules).
- 2200: Doors locked and boarded up from the outside by CE (one door in an
alcove left uncovered).
29 Aug (Mon):
0500: Winds howling; can hear them best through vents in bathrooms at the
end of the hallway (It didn't sound like this during Hurricane Ivan)
0800: Shelterees (hereafter referred to as "the Natives") start moving
around 0800. Smokers looking for nicotine fix, but remain calm.
1000: Local news reports indicate rising waters, violent winds. Plywood
ripped from external doorways (I start getting uneasy; plywood has never
moved in previous storms, much less flown away).
1200: News reports 20+ feet of water in local mall. Natives getting
anxious. Smokers getting jittery.
Afternoon:
- Power goes out; generators kick in. Not good. CE told us power can only
go out if high-tension cables that survived 200-mph winds during Hurricane
Camille go down. A/C stops working; ventilation fans stop working. No
windows, no open doors, 731 nervous people...in Mississippi...in August.
Ask
for generator fuel status and burn rate. Have enough fuel for two days.
- Natives who smoke starting to visibly shake; many look physically ill.
- Cable TV goes out. Natives get creative with antennas. Spotted the
bottom half of an NCO sticking out from ceiling tiles. Apparently
reception
is better if you connect a stripped copper comm cable from the TV to pipes
in the ceiling. I appoint a safety observer and hope for the best.
- CE reports primary generator has flames coming out of it, so shut it off.
Lost internet connectivity. Down to one generator; power only in hallways
and a few rooms.
- Water stops running. Toilets overflowing. With medical advice, I brief
the Natives on how to use plastic bags for toilet facilities (someone used
this method within 10 minutes). Disposal of plastic bags in a sealed
building is a concern. Adventurous major goes into the basement and finds
1961-vintage Civil Defense Survival Sanitation Kits. Basically, a 3-foot
tall cardboard porta-potty with a hole cut in the top. This does not look
fun. However, 44-year old toilet paper (it was dated) is surprisingly
soft.
- One hour later: Water comes back thanks to CE heroes going out in the
storm to repair pumping station. I hug the first CE troop I can find.
Sanitation Kits thankfully not used, but kept on standby.
- CE troops coming off shift report half of flight-line underwater; BX and
Comissary 6 feet deep and rising; trees down all over base; CE building
collapsed. Natives begin to get the picture--this is worse than Hurricanes
Ivan or Dennis.
Evening:
1800: Winds still dangerous so cannot open doors. It's hot...it's
humid...Natives are getting cranky. Smokers showing signs of extreme
duress. One is carrying two unlit cigarettes around. I suggest he tear
one
open and put it behind his lip for a nicotine fix. He informs me he's
already eaten an entire pack and it didn't help. Can't think of anything
to
say in response, so I pat him on the back and wish him luck.
- Babies and young kids getting grumpy; too hot to nap.
- Barely-visible news reports (on very fuzzy TV picture) report massive
devastation in the area. Dead silence in hallway as Natives crowd around
the lone TV with a discernible picture. Tension rising.
2000: Too hot to breathe. 731 nervous people generate a lot of sweat and a
variety of smells. Command Post says stay locked down, don't open doors.
Natives make strange noises when I walk by. Not sure the "Shelter
Commander" badge is a good thing to be wearing right now. First Sergeant
reports Natives consider me the embodiment of evil.
- Cops go on shift. The best NCO in the AF is assigned to patrol base
housing; he offers to try to check on my cat during his shift (we left her
in the hallway of my house).
2100: Even hotter. Poked my head outside--it's ugly but winds have died
down. Command Post says stay buttoned up. Natives mumbling in small
groups
about how to eliminate a commander. Survival instincts tell me to get some
air in here. Posted Marines at every exit and opened all the doors. I'm a
hero; Natives love me. Haven't heard "thank you" this much since I put my
shirt back on at the squadron pool party.
2200: Smokers running out of cigarettes to eat. Open a side door and rope
off a 10' x 10' smoking area. No more than five people at a time; no more
than five minutes. Sucking cigarettes look like blow-torches in reverse.
Everyone loves me.
- Nobody sleeps much. Tough to sleep in pools of sweat.
30 August (Tuesday):
0145: One of my NCOs wakes me up because "Cops want to talk to you, Sir".
SFS NCO is direct. "The good news is your cat is fine." Next question
obvious. As he hands back my house key he adds, "The bad news is I didn't
need this to get into your house." Doesn't quite register..."How'd you get
in?" He looked me straight in the eye and said, "I walked through your
back
wall." That can't be good at all. Looks like a total loss. My wife was
on
a cot in the hallway. I woke her up to give her the news. Her response?
"I guess it'll be easy to pack when we move next year." (She's getting
anything she wants for Christmas, forever). Spend the rest of the night
thinking of how to stay focused and project a positive attitude given that
all my worldly possessions will probably fit in a gym bag. (note: we were
eventually able to save most things above 4 feet)
0700: Bad news spreads like wildfire. Entire shelter knows about my house.
Lots of supportive comments as I wander the halls but I see the struggle
behind the words--they're sorry for my loss but worry about their own.
Their
concern for my family despite fears for their own touches me deeply. First
time in 19 years I've really had to fight back tears, but I've got to do
the
commander thing and project a positive attitude. As I walk the hallways I
truly feel "the burden of command." My family is safe; I have to push my
losses aside for now. These 730 people have no access to information other
than what I tell them. I am their link to the outside world. I see them
watching me, watching how I react and looking for cues as they try to
figure
out how they should feel--is the commander scared? Depressed? Worried?
Confident? I realize that their mood over the next few days will be a
direct reflection of what they perceive as my mood. I've been tested in
command before, but never like this.
0800: Drive to CAT meeting across base. Devastation is shocking. Trees
down everywhere. Cars trashed everywhere. Windows out. Walls out.
Buildings collapsed. Roofs ripped apart.
0930: Mass briefing to the Natives. Most uncomfortable briefing I've ever
given. Reports indicate widespread devastation. Death toll probably in
the
hundreds. Power out for at least three weeks. Must begin water
conservation. Minimum three months to resume base mission. Will not leave
shelter for at least three days. 730 stunned and scared faces focused on
me. All are easy to read. (1) realization of how bad it is, (2) fear of
what it did to their homes. Worst possible situation for a
commander--troops need reassurance I can't give. Struggle to keep my voice
steady. Not sure how well I did.
Afternoon:
- Natives' supplies running out. Most critical shortfalls: food, diapers,
baby food, and feminine hygiene products. Issue MREs for adults. Assign
"Baby POC" to track baby supplies. Develop new metric for morning/evening
briefings--diaper burn rate. 17 infants in shelter x 5 diapers/day & 4
jars
of baby food/day. Have one day supply of diapers, two days of baby food,
but at least three more days in the shelter. Submit urgent supply request
to Command Post. Luckily, Sanitation Kits include 44-year old feminine
products.
- Still no cable TV and no internet. Information is life. I average (I
counted) no more than 10 steps before someone stops me to ask what's going
on outside.
- Lieutenant students offer to take over operation of the Children's
Recreation Room. One has been to Clown College; several brought coloring
books. First Sergeant asks me later (a) "How come the officers have
coloring books?" and (b) "How come some of the pictures were colored in
before the children started using them?" Honor of the officer corps is at
stake; I quickly assign the Shirt to a meaningless task to distract her.
Hope it worked. Best not to ask. (Note: to be perfectly honest, that
actually happened during Hurricane Dennis in July, but it's 100% true and
was too good a story not to include here)
- Pregnant Native goes into premature labor. Ambulance evacuates her to
hospital.
- Another uncomfortable night. All Natives (and myself) report profuse
sweating in lieu of sleep. Set up special room with lots of fans for
children to sleep in. Authorized Chaplain to take a small raiding party to
Chapel next door to get rocking chairs for parents with small children.
31 August (Wed):
- 731 people, 36+ hours with no a/c and no showers. Natives stink.
Shelter
stinks. Natives convinced everyone stinks but themselves. Shirt reports
Natives blame it all on me. Wife asks if I can boost SGLI from here.
Tasked
my most creative NCO to come up with some way to hose people off. Result:
water hose connected to sink in bathroom supply closet, with sandbag walls
leading to drain in center of bathroom. No hot water, but showers are a
success. Still rationing water--3 minute shower every other day.
Nonetheless, Natives can wash away the stink for at least 10 minutes till
they start sweating again. I'm a hero.
- Still hot. Two cases of dehydration evacuated to hospital. I'm
dehydrated, nauseous, and weak despite drinking constantly. Can't believe
I
let this happen. Check with medics, but saline solution is in short supply
and if I'm still walking I don't need it bad enough. They give me some
good
drugs to control symptoms. Eight hours, 240 ounces of water (I had to keep
track), and 9,000 bathroom breaks later I feel much better.
- Lots of debris around the building. Still dangerous for people to go
outside, but Natives are getting stir-crazy. Assigned a team to clear and
rope off an area near the building. Post guards to ensure nobody wanders
off, then allow small groups outside for fresh air for short periods of
time. They love me again.
- Wing/CC reads off list of inbound aid at CAT meeting. Not the same as
hearing it on TV. I never imagined that it would mean so much to know that
so many people are focused on helping you.
- Baby supplies critical. Wing/CC orders a raid on what's left of
Commissary and BX. Deliveries to shelters save the day.
- Another bad briefing to the Natives. Only one way to explain why they
can't leave the shelter--tell them the truth as I know it. Looting rampant
off-base. Looters in base housing. AF member car-jacked right outside the
gate. No gas in local area; $5/gallon three hours away. Chaos in New
Orleans is moving our way. Extra Security Forces with .50 cals on HMMWVs
en
route to help secure the base.
- Natives frantic about their homes. They fear anything that survived the
storm won't survive the looters. Try to focus them on aid headed our way.
Emotions running high. One woman goes into shock; evacuated to hospital.
- Another sweaty, sleepless night. Natives apparently locate world's
largest stock of extension cords. Conservative estimates indicate we're
running 500 fans off 5 power outlets and 2,000 extension cords.
Confiscated
the most impressive daisy chains as a safety hazard. Briefed Shelter
Management Team to increase fire checks of the building.
01 Sep (Thu):
- Cannot release people to return to homes overnight due to security
concerns. However, must let Natives assess their homes or risk bodily harm
trying to keep them here. Strict guidelines for home assessments--provide
written route of travel; must have a wingman; no dependents can go; max of
one hour to save what you can and return to shelter; must be decontaminated
before reentering shelter because many houses (mine included) have
sludge/sewage inches deep. Lieutenants do great job controlling departure
and decon lines.
- Natives return to shelter. Many are homeless. Commander School never
taught me how to respond to "I have nothing left," or how to comfort women
and men crying uncontrollably in my arms. Some cried for what they lost,
some for what they saw. News reports didn't prepare them for seeing not
just their home but their entire neighborhood destroyed, or for the cops
telling them the bad smell they noticed was probably neighbors who tried to
ride out the storm and were buried in the rubble. My only consolation is
that I know how they feel. The stink in the house made me gag; the mud was
gooey, sticky, and got on everything. My wife spent years building a
beautiful collection of Amish figurines. Seeing the trail of broken
figures
across two yards (I never found the curio cabinet) was painful to endure.
Crabs running across my feet in the bedroom (which scared the bee-geezus
out
of me) was a comical twist to a non-comical situation.
- In an attempt to improve morale, the chow hall (excuse me, "Dining
Facility") next to the shelter opens for one hot meal of whatever was
available. Natives happily wait in line 2+ hours for rice with spaghetti
sauce and a piece of bread. After the week we've had, it's like Grandma's
Thanksgiving dinner.
- Third straight day of gorgeous weather. Security still a big concern.
My
DO reports her neighbors shot a looter (it may not be politically correct,
but I applaud their initiative). Natives don't care, they just want out.
Shelter Commanders compare notes at CAT-we're all seriously concerned about
tempers rising in the shelters. Believe the Natives are just about at the
breaking point.
- Still no a/c. Lots of sweat and little sleep.
02 Sep (Fri):
- Security situation better. Natives' are about worn out. Wing/CC
authorizes release from shelters. Six days and five nights we will never
forget, and the recovery efforts have only just begun.
To say that Hurricane Katrina has been a "life event" would be an
understatement. During my time running the Bryan Hall shelter I saw the
best and the worst of people first-hand. Some sat in their little piece of
floor space and watched others work to make the situation better. Most
looked for every opportunity to help others and to make our little slice of
hell a little more comfortable. I was amazed at how easy it was to read
their faces. I could see clearly as fear changed to shock, disbelief, then
anger. I watched in amazement as the anger was replaced with a calm sense
of resolve and focus to simply move forward and do what needed to be done.
>From the little boy I found wandering the halls at midnight (obviously
looking for a bathroom) to the lieutenants who stepped up, took charge when
I asked, and showed all of us what "officership" is all about, every person
in that shelter taught me their own unique and valuable lesson about
command.
The Civil Engineer (CE) troops and the Cops in my shelter taught me the
meaning of
dedication. I watched them tramp in and out on shift work throughout the
storm and its aftermath. They were wet, muddy, sweaty, and tired. But
every time they came through those doors they took time to find someone
whose house they checked on and they always stopped by to give me an update
on what they saw. To quote a favorite TV show of mine, "They
were...magnificent." My Wing/CC described it perfectly a few days after
the
storm. Some puffed-up colonel called him up in the CAT and said "General
so-and-so is coming down there. I want to know who the most important
person on that base is and I want their name right now." The boss'
response
was classic. "Well, colonel, the most important person on this base is a
Staff Sergeant with a chainsaw and if you'll give me ten minutes I'll get
that name for you." CE and Cops. If you're looking for the heroes of
Keesler, I'll be happy to escort you to their buildings.
As for the rest of the folks in the shelter, they were just as amazing in a
different way. For all but the first 16 hours of our 6-day adventure they
lived in a hot, poorly-ventilated building with virtually no amenities but
running water. Most slept on tile floors. All slept in puddles of their
own sweat. All spent 5 days not knowing whether or not they had a home to
go home to. Yet through all of it, they kept a sense of humor and worked
together to make the best of a bad situation. Even in the darkest moments
I
never walked down the hall without hearing a constant stream of "Morning,
Colonel!" "How's it going, Sir?" or "Hey, Sir! When's the beer truck
getting here?" I was only chewed out once by a shelteree. I would argue
that in a "typical" group of 731 people, I would've been chewed out several
times a day at least.
In my 19 years of service I have never seen a better demonstration of the
military "family", or a better demonstration of true professionalism. I
have to add, though, that what I've seen in the 12 days since has been just
as impressive. The base and its leadership have been amazing. In addition
to bringing our mission back on-line in less than 3 weeks, we've provided
critical support to local communities. At last count, we'd sent nearly 50
missions out the gates to deliver food, water, and medical support. I was
the CAT Director when a local cop showed up and said the shelter down the
street had an outbreak of diarrhea and vomiting. The boss had medical
teams, food, and water on site within 30 minutes. The list goes on and on.
The same is true for my own unit. With more than one-third of my squadron
homeless, my troops (military and civilian) have done things that will
bring
a tear to anyone's eye. Not one single person in my unit has cleaned out a
storm-damaged home alone. We've had teams out every day helping squadron
members and retirees (and sometimes people we didn't even know) cut trees
and clean out flooded homes. They have made me proud to be part of their
team and proud to be part of the US military. They have taught me when it
comes right down to it they don't need leadership. They are, each and
every
one of them, leaders in their own right. Leaders with the willingness, the
desire, and the compassion to do the right thing without being told. In
truth, they don't need a commander, they only need a cheerleader who will
give them the support and the freedom they need to do what needs to be
done.
When I look back in years to come and ponder what Hurricane Katrina taught
me about command that may just be the most important lesson of all.
story during Katrina
Awesome play by play action during Hurricane Katrina... Eilene
Subject: Interesting Command story during Katrina
Command: Category 4
Lt Col Randy Coats, 333d Training Squadron/CC
Command. There's no better job in the world. After seven years in jobs
with
"command authority" and two squadron commands, I figured I had a good
idea what command was all about. I was wrong. What changed my mind?
Four words--"Shelter Commander" and "Hurricane Katrina."
From 28 Aug - 2 Sep, I lived with 730 of my "closest friends" in 50-year
old
Bryan Hall at Keesler AFB, MS. It was my third stint as a shelter
commander, but it was unlike anything I had experienced before. As life
slowly returns to normal on the Gulf Coast and I reflect on the experience,
I've come to appreciate the unpredictability of command and how much an
event like Katrina can change people and communities.
First, you have to understand some basics. My shelter is a unique animal
on
Keesler. Most shelters here are dedicated primarily to one unit. Mine is
not. I have all the active duty and family members from a wide variety of
units--two training squadrons, CE and Security Forces (and prisoners), 100+
Marines, communications students (NCOs and roughly 60 Lt's), 150 NCO
Academy
students and their faculty, and 50 international officers and their
families. The building is an old nuclear fallout shelter, with no windows
and no shower facilities. With that setting in mind, I offer the following
memories and thoughts on Hurricane Katrina.
25 Aug (Thu): One of my sharpest young MSgt points out Katrina "may grow
into something over the weekend" and suggests we update our
shelter/evacuation data sheets. I admire his enthusiasm, tell him "that's
not a bad idea", then promptly forget to do anything because Katrina's not
headed our way at all and I've got other things to do besides worry about a
piddly Category 1 storm.
27 Aug (Sat): Two CAT meetings. Katrina has strengthened and is headed our
way, due to arrive Monday afternoon. Tentatively plan to open shelters
Monday morning. I remember the MSgt's words and begin repeating every
officer's golden rule--"Never ignore a SNCO...Never ignore a SNCO."
28 Aug (Sun): Turn on CNN before heading to 0800 CAT. Radar picture shows
Katrina is Category 5, taking up the whole Gulf of Mexico and headed
straight for us, due to arrive before dawn Monday. "Never ignore a
SNCO...Never ignore a SNCO."
- 1000: Initiate full recall and order all personnel to evacuate or shelter
NLT 2100. Many people out of town for the weekend. Accountability is a
nightmare.
- 1700: Open the shelter. People/families begin arriving. Have to stop
two
refrigerators, one 21" TV set, and three mattresses at the door. Students
(of all ranks) drafted to help carry bags into the shelter. People told to
bring food and water for three days. Most bring food for two days; smokers
bring cigarettes for twenty days. Have to break the news--no smoking
inside
the shelter and once you're checked in you can't go outside (Hotel
California rules).
- 2200: Doors locked and boarded up from the outside by CE (one door in an
alcove left uncovered).
29 Aug (Mon):
0500: Winds howling; can hear them best through vents in bathrooms at the
end of the hallway (It didn't sound like this during Hurricane Ivan)
0800: Shelterees (hereafter referred to as "the Natives") start moving
around 0800. Smokers looking for nicotine fix, but remain calm.
1000: Local news reports indicate rising waters, violent winds. Plywood
ripped from external doorways (I start getting uneasy; plywood has never
moved in previous storms, much less flown away).
1200: News reports 20+ feet of water in local mall. Natives getting
anxious. Smokers getting jittery.
Afternoon:
- Power goes out; generators kick in. Not good. CE told us power can only
go out if high-tension cables that survived 200-mph winds during Hurricane
Camille go down. A/C stops working; ventilation fans stop working. No
windows, no open doors, 731 nervous people...in Mississippi...in August.
Ask
for generator fuel status and burn rate. Have enough fuel for two days.
- Natives who smoke starting to visibly shake; many look physically ill.
- Cable TV goes out. Natives get creative with antennas. Spotted the
bottom half of an NCO sticking out from ceiling tiles. Apparently
reception
is better if you connect a stripped copper comm cable from the TV to pipes
in the ceiling. I appoint a safety observer and hope for the best.
- CE reports primary generator has flames coming out of it, so shut it off.
Lost internet connectivity. Down to one generator; power only in hallways
and a few rooms.
- Water stops running. Toilets overflowing. With medical advice, I brief
the Natives on how to use plastic bags for toilet facilities (someone used
this method within 10 minutes). Disposal of plastic bags in a sealed
building is a concern. Adventurous major goes into the basement and finds
1961-vintage Civil Defense Survival Sanitation Kits. Basically, a 3-foot
tall cardboard porta-potty with a hole cut in the top. This does not look
fun. However, 44-year old toilet paper (it was dated) is surprisingly
soft.
- One hour later: Water comes back thanks to CE heroes going out in the
storm to repair pumping station. I hug the first CE troop I can find.
Sanitation Kits thankfully not used, but kept on standby.
- CE troops coming off shift report half of flight-line underwater; BX and
Comissary 6 feet deep and rising; trees down all over base; CE building
collapsed. Natives begin to get the picture--this is worse than Hurricanes
Ivan or Dennis.
Evening:
1800: Winds still dangerous so cannot open doors. It's hot...it's
humid...Natives are getting cranky. Smokers showing signs of extreme
duress. One is carrying two unlit cigarettes around. I suggest he tear
one
open and put it behind his lip for a nicotine fix. He informs me he's
already eaten an entire pack and it didn't help. Can't think of anything
to
say in response, so I pat him on the back and wish him luck.
- Babies and young kids getting grumpy; too hot to nap.
- Barely-visible news reports (on very fuzzy TV picture) report massive
devastation in the area. Dead silence in hallway as Natives crowd around
the lone TV with a discernible picture. Tension rising.
2000: Too hot to breathe. 731 nervous people generate a lot of sweat and a
variety of smells. Command Post says stay locked down, don't open doors.
Natives make strange noises when I walk by. Not sure the "Shelter
Commander" badge is a good thing to be wearing right now. First Sergeant
reports Natives consider me the embodiment of evil.
- Cops go on shift. The best NCO in the AF is assigned to patrol base
housing; he offers to try to check on my cat during his shift (we left her
in the hallway of my house).
2100: Even hotter. Poked my head outside--it's ugly but winds have died
down. Command Post says stay buttoned up. Natives mumbling in small
groups
about how to eliminate a commander. Survival instincts tell me to get some
air in here. Posted Marines at every exit and opened all the doors. I'm a
hero; Natives love me. Haven't heard "thank you" this much since I put my
shirt back on at the squadron pool party.
2200: Smokers running out of cigarettes to eat. Open a side door and rope
off a 10' x 10' smoking area. No more than five people at a time; no more
than five minutes. Sucking cigarettes look like blow-torches in reverse.
Everyone loves me.
- Nobody sleeps much. Tough to sleep in pools of sweat.
30 August (Tuesday):
0145: One of my NCOs wakes me up because "Cops want to talk to you, Sir".
SFS NCO is direct. "The good news is your cat is fine." Next question
obvious. As he hands back my house key he adds, "The bad news is I didn't
need this to get into your house." Doesn't quite register..."How'd you get
in?" He looked me straight in the eye and said, "I walked through your
back
wall." That can't be good at all. Looks like a total loss. My wife was
on
a cot in the hallway. I woke her up to give her the news. Her response?
"I guess it'll be easy to pack when we move next year." (She's getting
anything she wants for Christmas, forever). Spend the rest of the night
thinking of how to stay focused and project a positive attitude given that
all my worldly possessions will probably fit in a gym bag. (note: we were
eventually able to save most things above 4 feet)
0700: Bad news spreads like wildfire. Entire shelter knows about my house.
Lots of supportive comments as I wander the halls but I see the struggle
behind the words--they're sorry for my loss but worry about their own.
Their
concern for my family despite fears for their own touches me deeply. First
time in 19 years I've really had to fight back tears, but I've got to do
the
commander thing and project a positive attitude. As I walk the hallways I
truly feel "the burden of command." My family is safe; I have to push my
losses aside for now. These 730 people have no access to information other
than what I tell them. I am their link to the outside world. I see them
watching me, watching how I react and looking for cues as they try to
figure
out how they should feel--is the commander scared? Depressed? Worried?
Confident? I realize that their mood over the next few days will be a
direct reflection of what they perceive as my mood. I've been tested in
command before, but never like this.
0800: Drive to CAT meeting across base. Devastation is shocking. Trees
down everywhere. Cars trashed everywhere. Windows out. Walls out.
Buildings collapsed. Roofs ripped apart.
0930: Mass briefing to the Natives. Most uncomfortable briefing I've ever
given. Reports indicate widespread devastation. Death toll probably in
the
hundreds. Power out for at least three weeks. Must begin water
conservation. Minimum three months to resume base mission. Will not leave
shelter for at least three days. 730 stunned and scared faces focused on
me. All are easy to read. (1) realization of how bad it is, (2) fear of
what it did to their homes. Worst possible situation for a
commander--troops need reassurance I can't give. Struggle to keep my voice
steady. Not sure how well I did.
Afternoon:
- Natives' supplies running out. Most critical shortfalls: food, diapers,
baby food, and feminine hygiene products. Issue MREs for adults. Assign
"Baby POC" to track baby supplies. Develop new metric for morning/evening
briefings--diaper burn rate. 17 infants in shelter x 5 diapers/day & 4
jars
of baby food/day. Have one day supply of diapers, two days of baby food,
but at least three more days in the shelter. Submit urgent supply request
to Command Post. Luckily, Sanitation Kits include 44-year old feminine
products.
- Still no cable TV and no internet. Information is life. I average (I
counted) no more than 10 steps before someone stops me to ask what's going
on outside.
- Lieutenant students offer to take over operation of the Children's
Recreation Room. One has been to Clown College; several brought coloring
books. First Sergeant asks me later (a) "How come the officers have
coloring books?" and (b) "How come some of the pictures were colored in
before the children started using them?" Honor of the officer corps is at
stake; I quickly assign the Shirt to a meaningless task to distract her.
Hope it worked. Best not to ask. (Note: to be perfectly honest, that
actually happened during Hurricane Dennis in July, but it's 100% true and
was too good a story not to include here)
- Pregnant Native goes into premature labor. Ambulance evacuates her to
hospital.
- Another uncomfortable night. All Natives (and myself) report profuse
sweating in lieu of sleep. Set up special room with lots of fans for
children to sleep in. Authorized Chaplain to take a small raiding party to
Chapel next door to get rocking chairs for parents with small children.
31 August (Wed):
- 731 people, 36+ hours with no a/c and no showers. Natives stink.
Shelter
stinks. Natives convinced everyone stinks but themselves. Shirt reports
Natives blame it all on me. Wife asks if I can boost SGLI from here.
Tasked
my most creative NCO to come up with some way to hose people off. Result:
water hose connected to sink in bathroom supply closet, with sandbag walls
leading to drain in center of bathroom. No hot water, but showers are a
success. Still rationing water--3 minute shower every other day.
Nonetheless, Natives can wash away the stink for at least 10 minutes till
they start sweating again. I'm a hero.
- Still hot. Two cases of dehydration evacuated to hospital. I'm
dehydrated, nauseous, and weak despite drinking constantly. Can't believe
I
let this happen. Check with medics, but saline solution is in short supply
and if I'm still walking I don't need it bad enough. They give me some
good
drugs to control symptoms. Eight hours, 240 ounces of water (I had to keep
track), and 9,000 bathroom breaks later I feel much better.
- Lots of debris around the building. Still dangerous for people to go
outside, but Natives are getting stir-crazy. Assigned a team to clear and
rope off an area near the building. Post guards to ensure nobody wanders
off, then allow small groups outside for fresh air for short periods of
time. They love me again.
- Wing/CC reads off list of inbound aid at CAT meeting. Not the same as
hearing it on TV. I never imagined that it would mean so much to know that
so many people are focused on helping you.
- Baby supplies critical. Wing/CC orders a raid on what's left of
Commissary and BX. Deliveries to shelters save the day.
- Another bad briefing to the Natives. Only one way to explain why they
can't leave the shelter--tell them the truth as I know it. Looting rampant
off-base. Looters in base housing. AF member car-jacked right outside the
gate. No gas in local area; $5/gallon three hours away. Chaos in New
Orleans is moving our way. Extra Security Forces with .50 cals on HMMWVs
en
route to help secure the base.
- Natives frantic about their homes. They fear anything that survived the
storm won't survive the looters. Try to focus them on aid headed our way.
Emotions running high. One woman goes into shock; evacuated to hospital.
- Another sweaty, sleepless night. Natives apparently locate world's
largest stock of extension cords. Conservative estimates indicate we're
running 500 fans off 5 power outlets and 2,000 extension cords.
Confiscated
the most impressive daisy chains as a safety hazard. Briefed Shelter
Management Team to increase fire checks of the building.
01 Sep (Thu):
- Cannot release people to return to homes overnight due to security
concerns. However, must let Natives assess their homes or risk bodily harm
trying to keep them here. Strict guidelines for home assessments--provide
written route of travel; must have a wingman; no dependents can go; max of
one hour to save what you can and return to shelter; must be decontaminated
before reentering shelter because many houses (mine included) have
sludge/sewage inches deep. Lieutenants do great job controlling departure
and decon lines.
- Natives return to shelter. Many are homeless. Commander School never
taught me how to respond to "I have nothing left," or how to comfort women
and men crying uncontrollably in my arms. Some cried for what they lost,
some for what they saw. News reports didn't prepare them for seeing not
just their home but their entire neighborhood destroyed, or for the cops
telling them the bad smell they noticed was probably neighbors who tried to
ride out the storm and were buried in the rubble. My only consolation is
that I know how they feel. The stink in the house made me gag; the mud was
gooey, sticky, and got on everything. My wife spent years building a
beautiful collection of Amish figurines. Seeing the trail of broken
figures
across two yards (I never found the curio cabinet) was painful to endure.
Crabs running across my feet in the bedroom (which scared the bee-geezus
out
of me) was a comical twist to a non-comical situation.
- In an attempt to improve morale, the chow hall (excuse me, "Dining
Facility") next to the shelter opens for one hot meal of whatever was
available. Natives happily wait in line 2+ hours for rice with spaghetti
sauce and a piece of bread. After the week we've had, it's like Grandma's
Thanksgiving dinner.
- Third straight day of gorgeous weather. Security still a big concern.
My
DO reports her neighbors shot a looter (it may not be politically correct,
but I applaud their initiative). Natives don't care, they just want out.
Shelter Commanders compare notes at CAT-we're all seriously concerned about
tempers rising in the shelters. Believe the Natives are just about at the
breaking point.
- Still no a/c. Lots of sweat and little sleep.
02 Sep (Fri):
- Security situation better. Natives' are about worn out. Wing/CC
authorizes release from shelters. Six days and five nights we will never
forget, and the recovery efforts have only just begun.
To say that Hurricane Katrina has been a "life event" would be an
understatement. During my time running the Bryan Hall shelter I saw the
best and the worst of people first-hand. Some sat in their little piece of
floor space and watched others work to make the situation better. Most
looked for every opportunity to help others and to make our little slice of
hell a little more comfortable. I was amazed at how easy it was to read
their faces. I could see clearly as fear changed to shock, disbelief, then
anger. I watched in amazement as the anger was replaced with a calm sense
of resolve and focus to simply move forward and do what needed to be done.
>From the little boy I found wandering the halls at midnight (obviously
looking for a bathroom) to the lieutenants who stepped up, took charge when
I asked, and showed all of us what "officership" is all about, every person
in that shelter taught me their own unique and valuable lesson about
command.
The Civil Engineer (CE) troops and the Cops in my shelter taught me the
meaning of
dedication. I watched them tramp in and out on shift work throughout the
storm and its aftermath. They were wet, muddy, sweaty, and tired. But
every time they came through those doors they took time to find someone
whose house they checked on and they always stopped by to give me an update
on what they saw. To quote a favorite TV show of mine, "They
were...magnificent." My Wing/CC described it perfectly a few days after
the
storm. Some puffed-up colonel called him up in the CAT and said "General
so-and-so is coming down there. I want to know who the most important
person on that base is and I want their name right now." The boss'
response
was classic. "Well, colonel, the most important person on this base is a
Staff Sergeant with a chainsaw and if you'll give me ten minutes I'll get
that name for you." CE and Cops. If you're looking for the heroes of
Keesler, I'll be happy to escort you to their buildings.
As for the rest of the folks in the shelter, they were just as amazing in a
different way. For all but the first 16 hours of our 6-day adventure they
lived in a hot, poorly-ventilated building with virtually no amenities but
running water. Most slept on tile floors. All slept in puddles of their
own sweat. All spent 5 days not knowing whether or not they had a home to
go home to. Yet through all of it, they kept a sense of humor and worked
together to make the best of a bad situation. Even in the darkest moments
I
never walked down the hall without hearing a constant stream of "Morning,
Colonel!" "How's it going, Sir?" or "Hey, Sir! When's the beer truck
getting here?" I was only chewed out once by a shelteree. I would argue
that in a "typical" group of 731 people, I would've been chewed out several
times a day at least.
In my 19 years of service I have never seen a better demonstration of the
military "family", or a better demonstration of true professionalism. I
have to add, though, that what I've seen in the 12 days since has been just
as impressive. The base and its leadership have been amazing. In addition
to bringing our mission back on-line in less than 3 weeks, we've provided
critical support to local communities. At last count, we'd sent nearly 50
missions out the gates to deliver food, water, and medical support. I was
the CAT Director when a local cop showed up and said the shelter down the
street had an outbreak of diarrhea and vomiting. The boss had medical
teams, food, and water on site within 30 minutes. The list goes on and on.
The same is true for my own unit. With more than one-third of my squadron
homeless, my troops (military and civilian) have done things that will
bring
a tear to anyone's eye. Not one single person in my unit has cleaned out a
storm-damaged home alone. We've had teams out every day helping squadron
members and retirees (and sometimes people we didn't even know) cut trees
and clean out flooded homes. They have made me proud to be part of their
team and proud to be part of the US military. They have taught me when it
comes right down to it they don't need leadership. They are, each and
every
one of them, leaders in their own right. Leaders with the willingness, the
desire, and the compassion to do the right thing without being told. In
truth, they don't need a commander, they only need a cheerleader who will
give them the support and the freedom they need to do what needs to be
done.
When I look back in years to come and ponder what Hurricane Katrina taught
me about command that may just be the most important lesson of all.
