Wednesday, July 04, 2018

The Year the State of Florida Tried to Burn Down

The series of fires that ravaged Florida in 1998 began in mid-May and continued through the early part of July. During this period approximately 500,000 acres were burned in approximately 2,200 separate fires. (U.S. Fire Administration/Technical Report Series Wildland Fires, Florida – 1998)

I’ve spent at least a year’s worth of days in a State Emergency Operations Center (EOC), working a variety of disasters, but July 3, 1998 ranks as one of the most serious and dramatic episodes in my career.

In 1998, I was to spend six months in the Florida State Emergency Operations Center in Tallahassee responding to a seemingly unending series of disasters. The tornadoes were in February, and the flooding in north Florida persisted through March and April. The wildfires started in May but didn’t draw us into the State Emergency Operations Center until June. And then, of course, in October, there was a hurricane.

The President signed a disaster declaration on June 18th, authorizing federal assistance to help Florida fight the fires. On June 21st the Florida Division of Emergency Management, the Florida Division of Forestry, the U.S. Forest Service and FEMA created a Unified Area Command at the State EOC in Tallahassee.

I was in the State EOC when FEMA and all these state and federal firefighters moved in. As one of many cogs in Emergency Support Function #11, Food, Water and Ice at the State EOC, I was occupied with acquiring food, water and ice for the brave firefighters in the field. Fires were raging throughout the state, but they were threatening homes on the East Coast around Volusia and Flagler counties.

The State ESF #11 crew at the State EOC in 1998; from left Pam Hughes (then with the Salvation Army), myself (seated), Gloria Van Treese (Lead for State ESF 11 and my boss), George Kolias and Jim Guerry.
On July 1st and 2nd the fires jumped across I-95 and other natural firebreaks in several locations as they moved toward the east. The fires threatened to sweep into several urban areas and residential subdivisions. An intense battle raged for three days, as the flames consumed dozens of structures. In Volusia County the fires reached built-up areas of Daytona Beach and Ormond Beach. On the afternoon and evening of July 2nd flames consumed 51 dwellings in Palm Coast in Flagler County. In northern Brevard County 36 homes were destroyed during the same period. (U.S. Fire Administration/Technical Report Series Wildland Fires, Florida – 1998).

Fire damage in Volusia County in 1998.
As the July 4th holiday approached they canceled the big race at the Daytona Speedway and the state of Florida ran out of bagged ice. I know for a fact that there was no ice because I spent the better part of a morning calling every single ice vendor in the state, without success. This is when I rediscovered the awesome power of the federal government during a disaster. I reported this problem to FEMA and, after some magic beans, rather magic pieces of paper were signed, two truckloads of bagged ice were dispatched from Michigan to Florida.

Why Michigan? I have no idea. Lowest bidder, or something.

When I walked into the State EOC the morning of July 3rd, I knew something big was going on. Governor Lawton Chiles was there, but that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that the Cabinet was there, a Senator and several Florida Representatives in the U.S. Congress. I don’t recall (I’m trying to be factual where I can) which of our two Senators were there, Republican Connie Mack or Democrat Bob Graham, but Graham was running for reelection (which he won) so I think it was him. Never before, or since, had I seen so many high level elected officials in a State EOC.

Their presence was driven by the events of the previous 2 days:
To the north of Daytona Beach, another group of major fires was burning in Flagler County. Approximately 50 structures were lost in the large unincorporated community of Palm Coast on the afternoon and evening of July 2nd when the wind pushed the flames and burning embers into populated areas. The following morning reconnaissance reports indicated that these fires had the potential to join together and create a giant firestorm. If this had occurred, it could have wiped out Palm Coast, the town of Bunnell and several similar communities. (U.S. Fire Administration/Technical Report Series Wildland Fires, Florida – 1998).

Florida Division of Forestry workers doing the hard, dirty work in the Florida heat and humidity.
The Bigwigs had all arrived for the 0830 morning brief and some of the State worker rabble who work at the front of the EOC were cleared out to make room for the guests. The State Meteorologist started off with the weather brief and immediately made clear the seriousness of the situation.

The high temperatures, relatively low humidity (for Florida) and “sea breezes” expected from the Atlantic had the potential to create a firestorm in Flagler County. For that reason the Governor was ordering an evacuation of the entire civilian population of Flagler County, about 45,000 people. The order was to be announced that morning, within minutes, and we were told we would be responsible for coordinating the evacuation.

I turned to a comrade in the EOC and said, “Now I understand why all the politicians are here.”

I don’t remember the co-worker, a seasoned veteran, but I do remember his comment, “The good citizens of the State understand how a hurricane of a tornado might damage their property. But if their house burns down, they get pissed and wonder why somebody didn’t do something to stop it.”

So how did the State Emergency Response Team plan to handle this evacuation? We didn’t have a binder on the bookshelf with “Evacuate Entire County for a Wildfire” printed on the seam. I was wondering what-the-hell-we-were-going-to-do (one of many times in my emergency management career that I was to have that feeling).

The evacuation plan that had been worked out, probably on a conference call with the Counties, was to treat it just like an evacuation for a hurricane. When they announced that in the EOC I immediately felt better. Hurricane evacuation. Good. We know how to do that.

The major roads through Flagler County, Interstate 95, US1 and Florida A1A, all run north and south, parallel to the coast and within a few miles of the Atlantic Ocean. The evacuation required all of the residents to use these roads to travel either north, into St. Johns County, or south into Volusia and Brevard counties, all of which were also at a high risk. The evacuees were directed through these counties to either Jacksonville to the north or the Orlando area to the southwest to get them out of the endangered area. These residents were unable to return to their homes for four days. (U.S. Fire Administration/Technical Report Series Wildland Fires, Florida – 1998).

At lot happened to me the rest of that day but I don’t remember much - probably because the evacuation went smoothly. There were, of course, a few glitches. I do remember hearing that the population of a retirement home was evacuated to a shelter in Gainesville, where they were given sack lunches consisting of peanut butter sandwiches and an apple.

In the next few days I once again witnessed the awesome power of the federal government in action during a disaster. At the request of the State of Florida FEMA procured from the U.S. Air Force 12 Lockheed C-5A Galaxy sorties that flew 78 pieces of firefighting apparatus from California to Jacksonville Naval Air Station, where they were off loaded and made available to fight the fires.

FEMA workers in the Florida State EOC during the 1998 response.
But by then the crisis was over. The weather changed, and it started to rain. The exhausted firefighters were finally able to rest.

The events that occurred in Florida during June and July resulted in the nation’s largest deployment of wildland and structural firefighting resources. More than 10,000 fire fighters were involved in the operations, which utilized almost all of the deployable wildland fire firefighting resources in the United States. The air operation was the largest ever conducted. It is also believed to be the largest commitment of structural fire fighters to a wildland interface situation. (U.S. Fire Administration/Technical Report Series Wildland Fires, Florida – 1998).

And I and the rest of the State EOC crew were also able to rest. We didn’t return to the State EOC until October, when Hurricane Georges visited the Panhandle.

During the 1998 response: I had my foot propped up while I was talking on the phone when I felt someone pinch my toe. I looked up and it was Governor Chiles. A newspaper photographer captured the moment and let me have the image.
The elections in November saw Bob Graham re-elected for Senator. Jeb Bush defeated Buddy McKay to become our new Governor. Governor Chiles, “Walking Lawton,” died of a heart attack at the Governor’s Mansion in December. Buddy McKay, who lost the Governor’s race, was to serve as Governor the final 23 days of Chiles’ term.


Sunday, February 25, 2018

The 20 year anniversary of the epic 1998 Florida disaster year


This month marks the 20th year anniversary of the epic series of disasters that afflicted the State of Florida in 1998. That year we were activated in the State EOC for 202 days (almost 7 months), a record that wasn’t to be broken until the Deepwater Horizon activation in 2010. The Deepwater Horizon activation was continuous, and I didn’t work every day in that activation, but in the series of disasters that hit Florida in 1998 I think that I worked almost every one of them.

The front sign to the Florida State Emergency Operations Center in 1998. FEMA vehicles are parked on the street in front of the EOC. In 1998 the State EOC was activated a record 202 days.
My disaster epic started in February 1998 while I was driving my daughter to Rickards High School in Tallahassee, as I did most weekday mornings. As always, the car radio was tuned to WFSU, the local public radio station. The radio announced that five tornadoes had hit Central Florida overnight with an undetermined number of deaths (The final death toll from the tornadoes was 42).

“That’s strange,” I commented to my daughter. “You’d think that they would have activated the State EOC.”

Before she could respond, my pager (remember those?) went off. Went a practiced motion, I pulled the pager off my belt and handed it to her, keeping my eyes on the road and my other hand on the car wheel.

“What’s it say?” I asked.

“Report to State EOC,” she read off the device.

At that time, I worked for the Florida Department of Agriculture and did my disaster duties with the State Emergency Support 11, Food & Water. I didn’t start working with Emergency Support Function 6, Mass Care until November 1999, when I switched State agencies.

Although I didn’t work in Mass Care my main job was to support the mass care agencies in the field, primarily with truckloads of bottled water and/or ice. Our Agency also controlled the U.S. Department of Agriculture School Lunch Program commodities.

I have a vivid memory from this time of talking on the phone to my friend Kevin Smith, from the Salvation Army. I was at the State EOC and he was on the ground in the middle of the tornado affected area in Central Florida. I remember that he ordered a truck of water and a truck of USDA commodities for a Salvation Army Staging Area. Once these resources arrived, the Salvation Army would distribute the food and water in the affected area using their Canteens.

My friend Kevin Smith of the Salvation Army (2nd from R) holding a cell phone that looks like one of today's satellite phones. Kevin is on scene at one of the locations where destructive tornadoes killed 42 in February 1998.
After we responded to the tornadoes, North Florida started flooding, which was at least a month and a half of boredom waiting for the water to rise and then the water to fall so that the citizenry could go home. And then the wildfires started.

And then in the Fall Hurricane Georges arrived. And yes, Craig Fugate was there the entire time.


Sunday, January 28, 2018

Working the Bugaboo Fire

The biggest wildfire season in Florida for headline-inducing drama was the 1998 season, when the whole state almost burned down, and we had every other disaster except volcanoes and locusts. The Bugaboo fire didn’t hit the headlines like the others but was personally the most dramatic fire that I ever worked from the State EOC.
Florida Division of Forestry firefighters working a wildfire in Florida in 1998.

The Bugaboo fire reached out and touched me at about 9 PM the evening of May 10, 2007. I was sipping on a Scotch at the bar of the American Legion in Tallahassee when the state issued cell phone on my hip started ringing. We had just finished the monthly members meeting and I was having a drink with my friends before heading home.
I put the phone to my ear and gave my standard greeting. “Mike Whitehead.”
I recognized the voice on the other end of the phone as Amy Godsey, the State Meteorologist. The background noise indicated that she was calling from the State Emergency Operations Center.
“Dave Halstead wants you to come to the State EOC,” Amy said. Dave Halstead was the State Emergency Response Team Chief, or the man who ran the EOC during a disaster.
“What’s going on?”
“The Bugaboo fire is blowing up.”
“OK,” I said. “Tell him I’ll be there in about 20 minutes.”
The Bugaboo fire was born on Bugaboo Island, deep in the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia. The fire crept south, following the National Forest, and moved into Florida. Much of what I knew about wildfires and the combating of such conflagrations I had learned from Jim Karels. Jim worked for the Division of Forestry in the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services and by 2007 had risen to be Director of the Division. Later on Jim became the Team Lead of the Yarnell Hill Fire Serious Accident Investigation. The Yarnell Hill Fire was a wildfire near Yarnell, Arizona, ignited by lightning on June 28, 2013. On June 30, it overran and killed 19 City of Prescott firefighters, members of the Granite Mountain Hotshots.
In one of many conversations that I had with Jim he explained the arcane art and science of “fire behavior.”  And how there was a difference between fighting wildfires in the Western United States and in Florida. The pine trees and scrub palmetto in the Florida forests, he explained, provided considerably more fuel per acre than the grasslands out West.
I parked my car in front of the Sadowski Building, swiped my badge at the reader, heard the audible click and then entered the State EOC through the door under the archway connecting the two buildings. On the drive over I wondered why, for the first time in my career, I’d been summoned to the State EOC to work a wildfire at night. I’d worked fires during the day. And I’m not an expert on fire behavior but seem to remember Jim telling me that, at least in Florida, the wildfires would rage during the day but “lie down” at night.
I’d also been known to say, if not in presentations then in private conversations, that we didn’t do mass care at night. And I mean by “we” I mean those of us working mass care from the State EOC. Obviously, the Red Cross worked shelters and multi-family fires at night but there wasn’t a lot of mass care coordination that happened at night. People went to bed, got up the next morning and worked out the problems.
And another thing: at the State EOC we never did anything that had to do with mass care immediately. Most of the time when somebody wanted something (a truck of water or ice) that was sitting on hand at the Logistics Staging Area then we would enter the request and they got it the next day. If we didn’t have it already we had to get it from FEMA or, as a last resort, try and get the State to buy it. In any event, that would take days to make the request and then more days to get the product trucked in and delivered to whoever needed it. And whoever needed it would be most unhappy, because when they made the request their expectation on delivery was in minutes, not days.
The Big Room at the other end of the building contained about 30 men and women in various stages of activity. Most of the people I knew well. Jim Karels was there. Carla Boyce, who later went on to work for FEMA was there. Roy Dunn, who had worked the 2004 and 2005 hurricane season with me, and who also went on to work for FEMA, was also there.
A low-pressure system off Jacksonville had intensified and generated a steady wind out of the northeast. That meant that during the evening of May 10 the fire didn’t “lie down.” The wind from the low-pressure system disrupted this pattern, stoking the fire with oxygen and driving it toward the southwest. As I walked into the room several people verbally transmitted the situation to me.
“… there’s a wall of fire twenty miles wide and 200 feet high heading for Lake City…”
“… all the fire fighters can do in this situation is get out of the way…”
“… the State Fire Marshall is rounding up all structural fire fighters they can and sending them to the North edge of the city to make a last stand…”
I can’t remember if it was Dave Halstead, or Amy Godsey, or Carla Boyce, or Roy Dunn,  who told me the reason that I had been summoned to the State EOC at 9 AM on a Thursday night: “We think that we’re going to have to evacuate Lake City. We need you to open up some shelters.”
 A picture of me briefing the State EOC in 2006. Dave Halstead (r) is walking behind me.
Lake City is the Seat for Colombia County and sits astride the intersection of Interstates 75 & 10 about an hour West of Jacksonville. I had visited the county and city many times, mostly gazing at the scenery through a car window on trips from Tallahassee to Gainesville, Winter Park or Jacksonville. Sometimes we would stop there for a rest break or to grab a sandwich.
Now they were telling me that they were afraid that Lake City was going to burn down. And they wanted me to help them do something about it.
I had now been the State Mass Care Coordinator for over 7 years. As I liked to say in presentations, I had worked 8 hurricanes in 16 months and 4 in six weeks, and I’d have to be pretty damn stupid not to figure out what I was supposed to be doing by the 3rd or 4th hurricane.
But did they just say that Lake City is going to burn down? Lake City?
I have a vivid memory of this moment. I was standing in the middle of the EOC. They hadn’t even let me get to my workstation. As I was digesting this message I looked up and saw 6 or 8 people in a semi-circle around me, all with an air of expectation.
I realized that they’ve been waiting for me to arrive and solve this problem. And their expectations were not of days, or hours or even minutes, but right then. Lake City was fixing to burn down, and Mike Whitehead needed to deliver a shelter plan for the inhabitants. Immediately.
My problem was that not only did I not have a plan, I had never envisioned the possibility of this event ever occurring.
I needed a map. The EOC had large (8 feet tall by 6 feet wide) maps positioned on the walls so that one was always nearby. I walked over to the nearest map, my entourage following me. In 2004, during the response to Hurricane Ivan, a picture flashed up on one of the 5 giant screens in the EOC showing that a portion of the Interstate 10 bridge had dropped into Pensacola Bay, and I had walked over to the same map, wondering how we were going to get supplies into Pensacola.
Someone asked me, ”Should we call the Red Cross?”
“No,” I replied immediately. “We’re the State. We can’t call the Red Cross to open a shelter. A County has to call them and request them to open a shelter.”
I stared at the map. Which County? I followed Interstate 75 on the map south from Lake City to the next big city: Gainesville. Alachua County.
I turned to Roy Dunn, standing beside me. “Call Alachua County and ask them to open up a shelter.”
Then I called Karen Hagan, our Red Cross State Liaison, told her what was happening, and asked her to come into the EOC.
The Red Cross got the shelter open. The State Fire Marshall staged every available structural firefighter they could contact on the north side of Lake City. And about 1 AM we got word in the State EOC that the wind had stopped, and the Bugaboo fire had decided to go to bed after all. And so did we.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

What I learned in Puerto Rico

There’s an old saying in emergency management, “There are no new lessons learned in emergency management, just new people learning the same old lessons.” Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico was the 21st hurricane response in which I had participated, the first being Hurricane Opal striking Florida in 1995.

A much younger Michael Whitehead at the State Emergency Operations Center in Tallahassee during the Hurricane Opal response in 1995.
I traveled to Puerto Rico as a part of a Red Cross contingent mixed in on a charter flight with a Disaster Medical Assistance Team from Arizona. We landed at a darkened San Juan Airport at 2 AM on September 23, a few days after the storm struck the island. I was the second Red Cross person to arrive at the federal and state operations center in the San Juan Convention Center.


September 22, 2017: Red Cross volunteers and staff in Atlanta boarding a FEMA chartered flight for San Juan, Puerto Rico.
Many people asked me what I learned as a result of my participation in the initial response. On the spur of the moment I made a quick list of takeaways from my time in Puerto Rico. And I'm not speaking here about the Red Cross response in Puerto Rico, but about the overall response by the federal, state, local, and nongovernmental organizations that were involved.

This response was so unique and different from the others that I learned some new lessons while re-learning some of the old ones:
  •        There was no power, no communications, no water and no sewage almost anywhere on the Island when I arrived. In a situation where resources are in such short supply and distribution is a challenge the mass care Priority #1 is to resource the shelters. The shelters then become a Point of Distribution and the local community comes to that location to get food and water.
  •          “We were stuck on Day 2 of the response.” By days 3-4 in most responses power starts coming back on and the influx of outside resources catches up with demand. In PR we couldn’t get past Day 2 – the power didn’t come on and the terrible logistics of an island response kept FEMA from getting enough food and water on the island. In fact, in much of PR we are still in Day 2 of the response.
  •          The lack of communication was unprecedented in my experience. We had difficulty emailing or even making a cell call in the San Juan Convention Center where the Joint Field Office was established. At times, we couldn’t email or call someone on another floor or even across the room! We took pictures of each other’s pieces of paper, or their computer screen or their iPhone to capture the information that we needed.
A picture that I took of a piece of paper in order to capture the addresses because our email was limited.
  •          Large earthquakes like the New Madrid and San Andreas will create islands like PR, filled with millions of people unable to get power, communication, food or water. And with the bridges down, they will be unable to leave. Ironically, the many lessons learned from this response will apply to large earthquake responses.
  •          With populations this large (there are over 3.5 million people on the Island), we cannot bring enough shelf stable meals and bottled water on the island fast enough to meet demand, much less get it distributed in an equitable manner. We needed water purification tablets, straws and large Units capable of producing water in bulk, which is what they started bringing on the Island. Then they brought in containers for the populace to carry the water. And propane cooking stoves so that they can distribute food boxes with food that can be cooked.
  •          And finally, more of the responders got traumatized than in other disasters. I was.

Traumatized? Me? Yes.

I've traveled and been and seen things like this before. I was in a war zone for a year. I arrived in southern Mississippi 3 days after Hurricane Katrina slammed into Bay St. Louis and Waveland and Biloxi and all the other towns that were devastated. I spent 2 weeks in Manhattan after Hurricane Sandy. I've seen acres of carbonized homes with solitary chimneys left standing in mournful protest after wildfires.

But Puerto Rico was different.

I didn’t travel about the Island. Like during Katrina, I was working long hours so I missed all the terrible television images that many of you saw. For 3 weeks, I sat at a table that was one of many identical tables on the 3rd floor of the Convention Center. In the first weeks that I was there a parade of people with problems and questions for the Red Cross came to see me and my partner. Sometimes they were lining up to see us. Some of these problems and questions we were able to resolve. For most of the problems and questions we had no ready solutions nor answers.

The Joint Field Office on the 3rd floor of the San Juan Convention Center where I worked for 3 weeks responding to Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico.
What follows is a brief but representative collection of the information that came to me by message, phone or in-person:
  • Search and Rescue reported finding dead bodies and live people in the same house.
  • A request for assistance from a nursing home, saying that they had no food or water for 2 days.
  • The Puerto Rican Red Cross volunteer who burst into tears mid-sentence as she was talking to me and sobbed, “I have been trying to bring food and water to my family, but I can’t.”
  • The man from Dominica who saw my Red Cross hat and stopped me as I left the Convention Center. He said that he had been living at the airport for 3 weeks trying to get home. I could see the desperation in his eyes.
  • A family of tourists in a hotel who needed food for their children because they had run out of cash and no store could take a credit card.
  • A family who needed a generator because their child would not survive without electricity.
  • Hospitals that couldn’t get diesel for their generators because the tanker drivers were afraid of being hijacked.
  • A message: “I have not heard from my elderly parents for a week. Can you tell me if they are okay?”
  • A message: “My father lives alone and needs insulin. Can you help me get him a resupply?”
  • An overheard conversation:
“These two elderly women live near my house. How can they get some food and water?”
“They need to go to the point of distribution for the municipality.”
“That’s a 30-minute walk from their house and we live on top of a hill.”
“You need to talk to the Mayor of the municipality.”
“We never know when the distribution site will be open. And by the time we get there everything is gone.”
“You need to talk to the Mayor of the municipality.”
“Isn’t there any other way to help these people?”
“This is the system that the Puerto Rican government has established. Go talk to the Mayor.”

We had lots of electronic communications devices but very little communications.
  • There was the young guy in the nice, blue U.S. Public Health Service uniform: 
He was on the Disaster Mortuary Team. “Red Cross workers in the field discovered some dead bodies,” he said. He wanted to make sure that if we discovered any more that we recorded the precise location and passed the information on to him. “We need to pick up the bodies,” he explained, almost apologetic. “It’s our job.”

There were more stories. Many more. I can’t remember them all, but I can’t seem to forget enough. The daily onslaught of messages from desperate people who I knew would die or suffer greatly if we could not help them, and we could not help all of them, took an emotional toll. I didn't need to travel to the cities or the shelters to know what was going on. I had enough disaster experience to know what the conditions were like on the island based on the reports I was seeing.

I think that I was traumatized by the fact that I traveled to the Island to help but I found out when I got there that I was unable to help everyone. In the other disasters I felt like we were behind but we were catching up and eventually we would get to everyone. In Puerto Rico, standing on the 3rd floor of the San Juan Convention Center, I didn't feel that way. I felt like I was in an alternate disaster universe, or in the disaster version of Groundhog Day, where we performed the same tasks with the same unsatisfying results.

I was deeply saddened by this knowledge, and still am to this day. I did the best I could. In fact, I think that I did one of the best jobs that I've ever done in any disaster. And I'm so very sorry that it wasn't enough.



Saturday, June 17, 2017

"Reflections" on student life from 1981

I was reminded of when I was a columnist for the Independent Florida Alligator, the student newspaper, during my long ago graduate student days in 1981. One of my columns, which I have excerpted below, will give you younger folks some perspective on the great issues of the day that we have discussed, are discussing and will discuss.

Mike Whitehead in 1981  with his graduate student "look"

Excerpt from my "Reflections" column in the Independent Florida Alligator in 1981:

UF has changed from 1975, when I left on a six year sabbatical, and last August, when I returned to enter the wasteland of higher education. The debate over Vietnam has been replaced by the debate over El Salvador. But, whereas the argument over El Salvador has just recently reached the stage where rhetoric overwhelms all fact, by 1971 the debate over Vietnam had passed that stage by about three years. Of course, like everyone else, we had our riots. In spring of 1972, Nixon decided to coax the enemy to the bargaining table by mining the harbors of Hanoi and Haiphong and bombing the hell out of whatever was left of North Vietnam. The UF campus, which had slumbered peacefully through the Tet offensive and the invasion of Cambodia, suddenly sprang into life. The local anti-war leadership, defeated and dejected after beating a dead horse for six years, was overjoyed that they could finally break out their microphones and chant their slogans to a crowd of more than 10 people.

The brave students seized 13th street in front of Tigert Hall and waiting gamely for the enemy to arrive, which they shortly did. A weak attack by a fire truck spraying water and then a tear gas grenade was easily repulsed by the students (they threw the grenade on top of the fire truck). The enemy retreated, the students cheered, and then settled down to a game of Frisbee. Meanwhile dark clouds were gathering as, unbeknownst to our heroes, every red-neck sheriff and policeman for five counties was called to Gainesville for the counterattack, which took place just after dark.

Guerrilla war ensued when the students realized that the policemen were prevented from entering the campus. The students began to launch forays into enemy lines as the policemen, like Marines on a firebase, waited doggedly for the next assault. The students would drag a bench onto University Avenue in front of Murphree Hall, wait for a squad car to respond, and then pelt the officers with rocks when they arrived. Reinforcements were called, tear gas was fired, and the students would retreat into Murphree Hall until the next round. All this came to an abrupt halt when a tear gas grenade (accidentally?) landed in a first floor stairwell and smoked everyone out.

I watched all these proceedings, quite safely, from the roof of what is now Goering's Book Center. This not only looked like the movies, it bore a remarkable resemblance to the evening news of the last few years. So this is college life, I thought.

So this is college life. Unfortunately for these students, the war ended in a year and they had to return to more mundane things like studying. Today's freshman has no such mission or sense of purpose to guide his life. Oh, he has the environmental movement and the anti-nukes, and El Salvador is beginning to have possibilities, but nothing to offer him full commitment. Maybe Reagan will send the Marines into El Salvador. Wouldn't that be great? Then the old megaphones could be dusted off and the never ending battle for truth, compassion and justice could be continued against the Gainesville police, just like in the days of old. Who wants to study anyway?

Monday, May 29, 2017

My memories on Memorial Day


I first met Bob Zangas in Kuwait at the start of the war. He was a Marine Corp Lieutenant Colonel, a Reservist, and part of the civil affairs contingent for the First Marine Division. He and I were waiting in Kuwait while the invading army sliced through the hapless Iraqi Army on the way to Baghdad. We worked on a project together and I got to know him. After I moved to Camp Babylon Bob moved to the provincial capital of Al Kut. I was able to see him a few more times before he rotated home in September 2003 with the rest of the Marines.

I first met Fern Holland at the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) South Central Office at the Hotel Babylon in Hilla in the fall of 2003. Fern, a lawyer from Oklahoma, was assigned to the office to promote women's rights in the south central region of Iraq. Fern came across to me as a very attractive, very intense young woman. We were going in different directions during the day so I rarely spoke more than a few words to her, and that was mostly in passing, in places like the dining facility. Such a woman, assigned to perform such a mission, caused some eye rolling among some of the men at the Office. But, since the promotion of women's rights in Iraq was a priority for Ambassador Bremer and the CPA, such editorial comments were limited.

Salwa Oumashi was an Iraqi translator who worked for Fern. According to a 
New York Times article on these two women, Salwa had lived in the United States. One evening, during a social function on the third floor of the Hotel Babylon, I was able to have a nice, long discussion with Salwa. I took away the impression that she was very committed to her job.

In December 2003 I was standing in the CPA compound when I saw Bob Zangas, dressed in civilian clothes. After Bob completed his initial tour and the Marine Corp Reserve returned him to civilian life, Bob volunteered to return to Iraq as a civilian employee of the CPA. He was assigned to our South Central Office with the task of building the capacity of the Iraqi media. Although I could not imagine volunteering to return to Iraq the act seemed to go along with the boundless enthusiasm Bob had for his new job and the unlimited optimism he had for the future of the Iraqi people.

The CPA South Central compound where I worked from October 2003 to February 2004 was comprised of primarily civilian employees of CPA or Kellogg, Brown & Root (KBR), the contractor responsible for providing our logistical support. Most of the cooks and servers in our dining facility were Pakistanis who lived right there in the compound. The men who protected our perimeter and guarded us while we slept were contracted Nepalese, former Gurkhas in the British Army.

Other than a small contingent of Military Police, my Team of five civil affairs soldiers were the only other soldiers on the compound. This became important because we were armed, and could provide our own protection, and we traveled frequently to the five provincial capitals in our area. KBR would often check our schedule and ask if we would escort truckloads of supplies to one of the outlying CPA offices. I didn't want my job to be escorting supply convoys, but I saw no reason that we couldn't occasionally lend a hand.

So it was that one day in January 2004 Bob Zangas came to me and asked if he could accompany us to Ad Diwaniyah and would we stop by a dairy in the area? The dairy was a beneficiary of a CPA project, and Bob wanted do a media story on the project. I thought the task supported the war effort and I agreed to help. In February 2004 Fern asked if she and Salwa could ride 
.along with me on a trip to check on the progress of the construction at the Karbala Women's Rights Center. Later that month Ambassador Bremer came to Karbala to the inauguration of this center.

On February 28, 2004 I left CPA South Central to return to Kuwait and eventually an airplane ride home. With our departure Fern, Salwa and Bob were forced to decide whether they could do their jobs inside the compound or be forced to travel outside, unprotected. I had already observed by their actions that Fern and Bob were prepared to take more risks than I was. Any risks that I took, of course, subjected my soldiers to the same risk. Bob was responsible only to himself. Where ever Fern went she was accompanied by Salwa. I was not privy to any conversations that these women had about the risks that they were taking.

Some could argue that they were braver than I was, or more foolish. Others would say that both sides of the argument are correct. The net result was that on March 9, 2004, ten days after I left Iraq, while returning from a visit to the Karabala Women's Rights Center, Fern Holland, Salwa Oumashi and Robert Zangas were ambushed and killed in their vehicle by a hail of AK - 47 bullets.

February 2004. The Women's Rights Center in Karbala. I am showing the ladies a picture of my family. Fern Holland, far right and Salwa Oumashi, second from right, pointing to the picture, were killed in Iraq in March 2004.

In a commentary in last week's Wall Street Journal  entitled "They also serve who contract out," Peter J. Woolley said that an estimated 3,200 individuals, most of who were American nationals, have died in either Iraq or Afghanistan since these wars began. I know that Memorial Day is to honor fallen American soldiers, but whenever I think of someone who was killed in Iraq Fern, Salwa and Bob come to mind. They and their families sacrificed for this war. 
January 2004. I am translating the Spanish spoken by the Iraqi policeman to my right into English for Bob Zangas, seated to my left. Bob was killed in Iraq in March 2004.



Not a Memorial Day has gone by that I don't think of them.