This is the essay that nearly got me kicked out of the Air Force. As I neared the end of my 6 year enlistment, I wanted to get a head start on my freelance writing career. I scribbled this up and sent it to Sandra Thompson, the editor for the weekly Private Lives column at the St. Petersburg Times.
During the transit time between Reading UK and Florida, I thought “Huh. Maybe I should have checked with the Public Affairs office here at the base.” I did and they told me in no uncertain terms that I better withdraw that essay tout suite, or I might be unceremoniously brought up on whatever charges they could think of. A panicked long distance phone call was made, the essay was withdrawn, and my Honorable Discharge was safe again.
Of course, about ten minutes after I’d been officially given that document several years later, I submitted the essay again, and it appeared in the Wednesday, August 19, 1987 edition of the Times, which also happened to announce that David Bowie was going to be coming to Tampa Stadium that next month.
Bonus points if you can tell me how the two are related.
Enjoy!
As I approach the barbed wire, the cold wind brings the singing to my ears. A cloudless British night and a full moon evoke memories of black-and-white horror films and Dr. Paul Bearer. In my mind a lone wolf cries out.
They’re singing hymns, I realize. The voices of the protestors on the other side of the gate blend together to caress my conscience, to soothe my beating heart. They also serve to remind me that I’m on the side of the fence with the nuclear weapons, and they do not want me or my fellow soldiers here in their country.
It’s four days after my 25th birthday, December 14th. Nothing special to me, but to those outside the gate, on the safe side, it marks the yearly anniversary of my base’s mission: to house the first Ground Launched Cruise Missile Wing in the world here at RAF Greenham Common. They have all come together to celebrate it in their own special way, and we have all gathered here to make sure they don’t overdo it.
The bright fluorescent lights that surround the perimeter of the base snap everything into focus as I get closer.
The British Ministry of Defense police are huddled in groups along the length of the closed gate. Dressed in somber black, they stand and wait. They talk among themselves, and occasionally I hear laughter. The steam from their coffee or tea rises from the styrofoam cup to mix with their visible breath.
Being the only one out of uniform, I feel like an unwanted guest. I got off work hours ago; I’m just here to watch. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Like a tourist on vacation, I hold my camera up to my face to focus. The small circle in the lens moves at my touch. Left, the right as the blur sharpens.
Through the viewfinder, a MOD policeman steps out of the group. His face is pale and his cheeks red from the cold. Sensing that he is in my field of vision, he stops and spreads his arms wide, performing a move that only Al Jolson could do and not get laughed at. His long overcoat opens up before me like a dark flower, like a bat’s wings.
In a second he’s gone. Composure regained, he continues his walk toward the tan building that is the MOD/USAF Security Police headquarters. I lower the camera and smile nervously. He smiles back and speaks.
“Showtime,” he says.
“Yeah,” I smile. “Showtime.” After all, this is one big joke, isn’t it? How could anyone not like Ronald Regan or nuclear deterrence?
I push my glasses back up onto my nose and look down at my camera. I’ve got the aperture open all the way to let in the little to non-existent light, and I’ve pushed the film to twice its normal speed. That’s what Dave said to do. Dave, who graduated from Dixie Hollins High School in St. Petersburg, lives next door to me in the barracks.
I didn’t want to use a flash because that would only attract attention. I feel bad enough as is. I feel like a date who’s had the front door slammed in his face by the girl next door. Full of ideals and perceptions ingrained by years of military training and propaganda, I now realize that being the world’s policeman is a thankless job unless you’re stationed in the United States.
The shutter speed is set at 1/15th of a second, so it makes an audible click when the release is pressed. No one can hear it but me, but it reminds me of thunder in the distance, of a cell door slamming.
I go unnoticed as I maneuver around the cement slabs and iron pipes they’ve embedded into the asphalt as anti-terrorist measures. One other contraption drags an accordion of spikes across the road when the proper button is pushed.
The jaws of the dragon protect the treasure within.
I walk as close as I can get up to the fence. You can only get so close due to the roll of barbed wire next to it. As I look down, a thousand flames greet me.
They’re candles. Placed inches apart on the other side of the fence, they seem to flicker in unison. This is known as a symbolic gesture. As far as I can see on both sides of the gate they continue. Down, down, down into the burning ring of fire.
I kneel on the ground to take a picture.
Click.
The wind picks up another sound, a chant.
We are the dead.
A chill runs up my spine. Being a Florida boy stationed in England, you’d expect that, but it’s not that kind of chill. I rub my hands together but it does no good.
We are the dead.
My last cigarette is fumbled out of the pack and I light it with great difficulty. The wind keeps blowing and my hand keeps shaking. I inhale too deeply, and it burns my lungs and makes my eyes water. I take off my glasses and everything blurs before me. The hundreds of solitary candles become a single flame.
A shaman’s magic circle to scare off the evil spirits within.
I wipe my eyes, replace my glasses and get ready to take more pictures. It seems like that chant’s been going on forever.
Click.
A solitary Air Force policeman cups his hands to his mouth to warm them. The M-16 slips from his shoulder as he does this, he adjusts it quickly. His eyes are red and worn and have that far away look in them. Perhaps he’s thinking of home, some place warm. I know I am. St. Pete’s got to be warmer than this. The emblem on his beret telegraphs the light from above.
Click.
Outside the gate an older woman bends to light a child’s candle. Their hands work in unison to shield the fragile flame. Old and young, they preserve an ideal through a simple act. The child’s eyes never leave the flame, his smudged face cast in shades of orange and gray. The woman whispers to him as they are viewed through a criss-cross of wire.
Click.
A fence littered with white. Small paper doves struggle against the yarn and string that bind them. Placed by the protestors and animated by the wind, they, too, yearn to be free.
I push the release again, but nothing happens. The little window says 24, my last shot. I rewind the film and replace the lens cap. To my right, someone approaches me.
“Can I help you?” the Security Policeman asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Well,” he says with self-importance, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“No,” I agree. “I shouldn’t.”
The thud-thud-thud of the disco music coming from the NCO club gradually covers the hymns and chants I’ve left behind me. Inside, everyone is drinking and dancing, oblivious to the actions outside the gate.
Two countries separated by one language, that’s how the joke goes. I see two viewpoints separated by guns, candles and wire. I smile to myself and agree again that I do not belong here. I belong out there with them, the real protectors of our future.
The lone, imaginary wolf howls again and I continue the long walk back to my dormitory. Somehow it seems much longer than before.