LA_MERC_Drifter
November 4th, 2005, 07:45 AM
It's long but well worth the read.
SOUNDS A LITTLE DIFFERENT FROM THE SUPER DOME EXPERIENCE DOESN'T IT.
You've all heard about what happened in the Superdome during
Katrina--now
read about what happened in a shelter at Keesler Air Force Base,
Mississippi. Compare the difference when someone is in control as to
when
the situation had
gotten completely out of control as it did in New Orleans....
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 (Civil Engineer) 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 (Crisis Action Team) 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
(Senior Non-Commissioned Officer)...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 hrs: Initiate full recall and order all personnel to evacuate or
shelter NLT (not later than) 2100. Many people out of town for the
weekend.
Accountability is a nightmare.
- 1700 hrs: 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 hrs: 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
Commissary 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 (aka "First Shirt" 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
the
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.
SOUNDS A LITTLE DIFFERENT FROM THE SUPER DOME EXPERIENCE DOESN'T IT.
You've all heard about what happened in the Superdome during
Katrina--now
read about what happened in a shelter at Keesler Air Force Base,
Mississippi. Compare the difference when someone is in control as to
when
the situation had
gotten completely out of control as it did in New Orleans....
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 (Civil Engineer) 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 (Crisis Action Team) 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
(Senior Non-Commissioned Officer)...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 hrs: Initiate full recall and order all personnel to evacuate or
shelter NLT (not later than) 2100. Many people out of town for the
weekend.
Accountability is a nightmare.
- 1700 hrs: 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 hrs: 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
Commissary 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 (aka "First Shirt" 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
the
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.