2.14

"Man is the only animal that deals in that atrocity of atrocities War. He is the only one that gathers his brethren about him and goes forth in cold blood and calm pulse to exterminate his kind. He is the only animal that for sordid wages will march out... and help to slaughter strangers of his own species who have done him no harm and with whom he has no quarrel.... And in the intervals between campaigns he washes the blood off his hands and works for the universal brotherhood of man with his mouth."

-Mark Twain

This year St. Valentine's Day and Ash Wednesday fall together. Two memories bob to the top.

It's February 14, 1991. I've just been interviewed live on the Today Show by Joe Garagiola, after chatting with Harry Smith from CBS This Morning, who was perched on the adjacent soundstage beside the pool at the airport hotel in Dhahran. The hotel is crammed with journalists, many looking a little scared and bored at the same time, which is pretty much war in a nutshell.

On this Valentine's night I would fly my last no-kidding combat mission of the Persian Gulf War. There would be a couple others as the ground war kicked off a week or two later, but all were milk runs without much shooting. This evening our four-ship would fly escort for a dozen B-52s tasked with bombing the "baby milk factory" just south of Baghdad.

You remember the baby milk factory--it was actually, according to our intel, a chemical weapons plant, although the Iraqis insisted otherwise to the press. Tonight six B-52s from England (I think), and six from our busy airbase at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, would arrive over the target ninety degrees off-axis, at ten second intervals, each carrying 107 conventional bombs.

This wasn't a true escort mission like you've seen in the movies. We took off from Dhahran, refueled, and joined up with a four ship of F-4G Wild Weasels, who'd slam any antiaircraft radars with HARM missiles, while two EF-111 Spark 'Varks would jam the early warning radars. We were there to deal with any Iraqi MiGs or F-1s who were dumb enough to come up and play, and would be on station over the target when the bombers arrived.

We arrived right on top of the Weasels, and a couple flashes on the ground indicated they'd started their bit of housekeeping. Our four Eagles split into two elements, with me leading one to set up a counterrotating CAP west of the target, with radars facing basically north-northwest, while Ollie took his element east and set up facing to the northeast. Both of us were careful to stay outside the SAM rings guarding the facility--no use taking an unnecessary risk.

We watched our clocks, awaiting the arrival of the BUFFs. A few seconds after the first one was scheduled to arrive, the first flashes lit up the sky below us as a stick of over a hundred bombs rained down on the unfortunates below us.

Every ten seconds thereafter, like clockwork, another series of flashes would light up like flashbulbs at the Oscars. Secondary explosions mushroomed up as the bombs found highly flammable substances stored there--maybe baby formula blows up when it's bombed. I don't really know.

Blinded by the Weasels, the Iraqi antiaircraft batteries started wildly firing into the air, tracers arcing back and forth below us like a garden hose shooting a stream of fire.

It really was pretty spectacular, setting aside the death and destruction happening there in the midst of the light show.

Can't set it aside? Then best that you weren't there.

At some point Ollie's voice popped up on the back radio, which we used to talk among ourselves. "A fireworks show like that deserves a little music", he observed, before breaking into his hummed version of "The Stars and Stripes Forever".

Finally, two minutes and 1300 bombs later, the last B-52 had dropped its load, and those poor guys began the long, long flight home. We started back ourselves, the only light in the pitch blackness coming from the fires among the wreckage below us. An hour later we were back on the deck at Dhahran, having a smoke and a laugh at what we'd just done and seen. War is just a weird, weird experience.

Fast forward to Ash Wednesday, 2009. I was living in Charleston, and my faith walk at that stage of my life led me to seek early morning ashes before I arrived at the CSOL campus to teach. I walked the historic district on a chilly morning and found the Cathedral Church of St. Luke and St. Paul, a beautiful old 18th century sanctuary with a wraparound balcony. They advertised the imposition of ashes, promptly at 8 a.m.

I came through the doors to that welcome aroma of candle wax and a little incense, and found myself alone in an empty nave. Finally, a couple minutes after eight the priest emerged and looked around. Seeing only me, we collectively decided we'd complete a truncated version of the ritual, sans sermon or eucharist or any other liturgical bell or whistle. It was over in just a few minutes, this service comprised only of this earnest looking young priest and me, his voice echoing in that lovely, empty space.

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

That church appears no longer to be in the Episcopal fold, a victim of the schism that shattered my denomination in South Carolina. Of course, the "Anglicans" who now attend there likely wouldn't see their church as a victim, insofar as it appears online that they're employing probably a half-dozen staff and have quite a busy ministry. Still, it's sad to me, but I guess predictable based on what I saw that morning, and in the years since.

Maybe no post tomorrow because I'm flying to the north Georgia mountains with Peg in a few minutes, headed to my favorite lodge on the planet, a place I've long wanted to share with her. We'll hike a little, share a gourmet dinner, and make it a special Ash Wednesday/Valentine's Day.