Growing Up Southern: September 12, 2018

I’ve never been in a hurricane. Can’t imagine the horror. I experienced what they termed a “tropical storm” once. Close enough for me. I have no stomach for the real thing.

For someone from the rural hinterlands, the terrifying thing about winds connected with the sea is that they just don’t stop. On and on and on they go. We are used to a few minutes of violence, and then, like in a Beethoven symphony, the sun breaks through. None of this blowing for three days crap.

The storm I experienced originated in the South China Sea and poured over the little compound where I was stationed about three-quarters the way up Monkey Mountain outside Da Nang. We had two towers and an entry shack to guard. We were doing a fair job of it until the storm hit.

One tower stood across the road from us and some 50 feet above our compound. It provided a good view of the compound and the lands beyond the mountain. It was isolated and a bit scary around midnight, but provided a magnificent view during the day.

When the storm hit its peak, a man from Oklahoma we called “Preacher” Hargraves was on duty in the tower. Of course we couldn’t see it for the driving, sometimes horizontal, rain. The wind had blown some of the roof away on our barracks so we were huddled up anywhere we could find a dry spot. Someone said, “Look yonder.”

Oh, by the way, we called him “Preacher” because he spent every spare moment reading his Bible or delivering his testimony while he cut our hair or expounded upon our wicked ways. He tended to get on people’s nerves.

Anyway, we looked and saw Preacher Hargraves running full-tilt down the hill, his M-16 slung over his back and his Bible flapping in one hand, all getting soaked. We fully expected to see a full company of NVA regulars descend the hill behind him.

When he reached where we were, he stopped to catch his breath. Our leader, a First-Class Machinist Mate named Webb asked him why he left his post. “You’re supposed to be in Tower One.”

“The storm blew the damned roof off,” Preacher explained in a manner totally inconsistent with his normal comportment.

Tower One got off easy. Tower Two was up the road a piece. We manned it with an M-60 machinegun, but only at night, and not anymore. When we went up after the storm subsided, there was no more Tower Two. It was gone completely and we never found a scrap of it.

We lived on snacks and hoarded gifts from home for three days when downed trees prevented supply trucks from reaching us. I don’t remember how long we wore rain-soaked clothes and boots. Later, we found that the storm had moved the base supports of our rather large elevated water tank a couple of inches. I suppose they rebuilt the towers, but I don’t know. I left the country soon after that.

Since then, as I say, I never wanted any part of a real hurricane and my heart goes out to those who have seen the worst of them.

Here’s an uplifting bit from Ludwig Van. Starting a 22:40, it is a masterful bit of work where, in a few seconds, he takes us from dark and brooding to a magnificent outburst of hope. It’s for our friends in Texas and Florida.

Modern view from near where our compound stood