jennings rampage

But in a way, it’ll be the safest place in the world.

The mood aboard the USS Iwo Jima (Motto: “No, That’s Not A Picture Of Them Raising The Flag At The World Trade Center”) last night was a bit tense. It was about twelve hours before she was scheduled to set sail for Bahrain and the Fifth Fleet, and I was helping Jeff load the things he’d need to keep his sanity for eight months at sea.

Jeff’s as much a musician as I am an improviser, and he spent his tax refund on a very nice set of Pearl drums and Zildjian cymbals so that he’d have all the equipment necessary to start a rock band in the middle of the Persian Gulf. He doesn’t play the drums, mind you, but he knows a couple of drummers without an instrument, so he shelled out for the set just to make sure that the band could get together. Jeff is a born lead guitarist, he’s got a bassist lined up, and a rhythm guitarist, if deemed necessary, shouldn’t be hard to find. Vocals are TBD.

Jeff carried his seabag full of the hardware over one shoulder, his acoustic guitar over the other, and the bass drum in both arms. I carried the floor tom under one arm and the snare under the other. We were totally going to make this in two trips, which was good considering we were parked about a quarter mile from the gangway, had to set everything down to show ID and be inspected three times before setting foot on the quarterdeck, and had to climb two very long and very steep ramps and two very long and very steep ladders to get to the transceiver room, where the drums would be stored in a corner for the next week. (After that, they’ll find a permanent home in a storeroom owned by MWR. I forget what that stands for, but the way Jeff described it made it sound like the ship’s student council. Of course, Jeff’s a member.)

My back was screaming at me after the first trip, so Jeff got one of his shipmates to help him make the second. I waited for him on the quarterdeck, with a view of all the people coming and going. Three families came aboard in the ten minutes I waited — fathers showing their sons and daughters where dad was going to be for the next eight months, reassuring them that he was safe and that he would be back before they knew it. The chance to explore the inside of a Navy destroyer seemed to do the trick for these kids — all smiles, jumping and tugging at dad’s jacket until he reminded his children to behave. Off they went to take a close look at the heavy equipment and the hovercrafts and the friendly people in uniform, which, when taken together, can give even this jaded anti-everything misanthrope a sense of security.

Of course, no scene of an imminent military deployment would be complete without a healthy dose of young love. Plenty of boyfriends holding girlfriends with red eyes, pairs of people committing to write every day and send packages and be there tomorrow morning to wave goodbye and be there in eight months when the ship pulls back in. Can young love endure untold thousands of miles of oceans and strange lands for so very long? Let’s just assume so.

And there were countless men and women on this journey alone, their parents and their lovers far away, their shipmates their surrogate family. They brought bags and bags of candy and sporting goods and books and magazines and CDs and DVDs and laptop computers and board games and at least one full set of drums and cymbals through the quarterdeck tonight, doing their best to anticipate what they’d need to make it eight months without a chance to step foot off the ship.

Jeff’s return snapped me out of tableau mode, and I walked with him back to the transceiver room to tie down his drums in the dead space between two giant cabinets of equipment. Then we walked through the mess deck, where the band will be playing its concerts (this’ll be a human interest story on Good Morning America by August, at the latest), to the berthing, where Jeff unloaded some of his stuff to make room for the rest of his provisions. The berthing was cramped and smelly and weird, row after row of triple bunk beds with three feet of clearance with lockers that might be sixteen cubic feet (it’s not a lot) to store all one’s uniforms and shoes and personal belongings. Closet space nightmare! We were done for now, so we signed off the ship and headed to the Navy Exchange for a little shopping.

The mood at the Navy Exchange last night was one of organized panic. The store was closing in thirty minutes, and dozens of my brother’s shipmates were speedwalking the aisles and clearing the racks of all the same things that the shipmates before them had been hoarding. (If there hadn’t been so much bottled water available, I’d have been sure that a hurricane was on its way.) Jeff needed some padlocks for all the expensive instruments he had brought onboard, and some toiletries, since the ship’s store doesn’t carry his brands. Of course, the toiletries are right next to the candies, and before long, I was pushing about $100 worth of refined sugar to the register. (I also took full advantage of my last chance for tax-free shopping for awhile — hello, George Foreman Grill!) Jeff made the mistake of going candy shopping before dinner, so as the doors were being locked behind us at 9pm, we made our way across the street to Applebee’s.

The mood at the Applebee’s last night was like a subdued celebration. This deployment represents the end of a lot of hard work getting this ship ready for her maiden cruise, but it also marks the beginning of a lot of hard work and forced sobriety yet to come. And, of course, the best way to begin a long stretch of sobriety is to get so drunk the night before as to make teetotalism seem like not such a bad idea.

Jeff ran into his friends Dale and Dustin, and we joined them for dinner and binge drinking. The place was pretty hopping for 9pm on a Monday night out of football season, and the bar was pretty backed up. Eventually we did get our drinks, and we both ordered 20oz porterhouse steaks, which were devoured in an instant.

The three sailors ended up talking shop over riblets and beers, despite their best efforts to steer the conversation away from work. Dustin observed that they had been brainwashed, but it didn’t seem unusual to be preoccupied with the who-heard-what’s and the that-can’t-be-true’s about their mission. But the restaurant was already full of people forcing themselves to have a good time and set aside their worries and heartbreak for a couple hours, so a few guys swapping rumors didn’t do much to change the energy. I asked Dale and Dustin if they were ready to go; without hesitating, they said they were. This is what they had been preparing for since they joined the Navy. It wasn’t going to be fun and the Navy wasn’t quite as glamourous or high-tech as the recruiter made it sound, but it was their job, and they were going to do it well.

Jeff invited Dale and Dustin to have some drinks back at our place and spend the night, and they were quick to accept the chance to make the most of their last free hours. The three of them ran the rest of Jeff’s stuff back to the ship and the rest of Jason’s stuff to our place, then we headed over to the local dive bar around the corner.

The mood at Harry’s was total desolation. Of course, it was 12:30am on a Monday night, so it was just the four of us and a handful of local drunks, but there was still absolutely nothing shakin’. That didn’t deter the sailors, who ordered a pitcher of Yuengling and hit the pool table. (I stuck to the MegaTouch game at the bar, since I’m addicted to those things.) Last call came at the bottom of the second pitcher, and after telling the bar that they’d see them in eight months, the sailors piled into the Purpulator for the short ride home.

The mood back at our apartment at 2am was resigned acceptance. In six hours, these three sailors would be aboard their ship for eight months, and this reality was starting to set in. I asked them what they thought about this war that they’d likely be fighting, and Dustin nailed it in true military fashion: if it’s quick and painless and they get Saddam right away, he’s for it; if it turns into a quagmire, he’s against it. Dale seemed to have more reservations: this will be a war for oil, Bush is an idiot, North Korea is a far greater threat. (Enlisted men are allowed to say these things; commissioned officers aren’t allowed to criticize the President.) And my brother always makes me proud: he’s been in the military long enough to question every order he gets, even from his commander-in-chief. Not once did these three mention the liberation of the Iraqi people as a motivation for this war, none of their command’s speeches mentioned anything humanitarian. I couldn’t help but wonder if they considered themselves pawns in some distant game, and if they did, how that felt. Unable to think of a polite way to phrase that question and afraid to exacerbate any feelings they had on the subject, I kept it to myself.

Before long, the three sailors were on their phones, making calls and returning messages and telling people they’d be home in eight months. I had played secretary for my brother earlier that evening, and I gave him a long list of people who had reached out to wish him well. A few minutes later, the three were asleep, Jeff with a glass of Guinness in his hand. I turned everything off, set my alarm for 6:30am, and went to bed.

The mood at Pier 10 at Naval Station Norfolk this morning was hurried and emotional. The tableau was back, the Kleenex were out, and over three thousand sailors and Marines said goodbye while the local news reported live. Jeff warned me that he didn’t have time for a long teary goodbye, which was his way of telling me that he didn’t feel like crying this morning. So I gave my brother a big hug, shook hands with Dale and Dustin, wished them well and thanked them, and watched as they crossed the street and walked onto the pier. Then I got into the driver’s seat of the Purpulator and drove off the base for the next eight months.

That’s why I take this war very personally. These are good men who have dedicated the prime of their lives to the service of this country, and they deserve better. Be as full of as much bile as you’d like for the politicians and the generals, but show nothing but respect for the soliders and the sailors — they know more than you may think.