“All hands, general quarters, general quarters. Routes to battle stations are as follows: Up and forward
on starboard, down and aft on port. All hands general quarters, general quarters.”
Shit! I look around to make sure I have my flash gear and gas mask. I’ve been carrying my CBR
(Chemical/Biological/Radiological) gear for several days now, since we entered the “Gulf.” I know it
might save my life and everyone on board has their gear closer than if it were a child. I pull my socks
over my pant legs, close the top button on my shirt, pull my flash hood over my head and head out.
People are moving quickly and in to their respective parts of the ship. I am assigned to repair 33, one of
the larger lockers, and I am an investigator. When I get to my station, I suit up, which is something like a
clown suit. It’s hot, heavy, and makes it hard as hell to move around in. As I begin putting on my suit,
the doors begin to shut and lock with an eerie thud.
“All hands, all hands, missiles inbound port side, port side. All hands brace for shock.”
I hope I don’t die like this; in a metal box floating on the ocean half way around the world. I can only
imagine my mother getting a knock at the door and seeing two well-dressed sailors holding an American
flag with reverence.
“Ms. Landfield?”
“Yes.”
“Can we come inside?”
There is no answer. She knows, and begins crying hysterically.
“All hands brace for shock, brace for shock. Missiles inbound port side, port side. Brace for shock.”
Several more seconds go by, and there is no explosion. There is nothing, just silence. Everyone has
stopped breathing. We are all thinking the same thing. Where’s the explosion.
“Investigators out, investigators out! Report conditions to your repair locker.”
That’s go time. I release my brace and head to the scuttle with my partner. We unscrew the hatch and
head down, and down and down. Petty Officer Bignell and I move as fast and we can to ensure the part
of the ship in our care is safe from fire, flooding, or any other danger. We still don’t know what is going
on and whether we were hit or not, so our investigation is handled as if our fellow sailor’s lives depend
on it. We don’t find anything out of place and head back in to report.
We are only given a few minutes to examine a large amount of ship, and while in full gear, our lunges
feel like they are going to burst. Sweat fills the inside of my mask, my breathing is labored, it is hard to
communicate with my partner, and we quickly get back to the locker.
Getting to the locker, I take off the mask filled with sweat and the air fills my lungs with deep relief. I
walk over to the person holding the Sound-Powered Telephone and give the report.
“Investigators report all spaces—conditions normal.”
Petty Officer Weinstein looks back at us, while she relays our report to Damage Control Central.
This is one of the memorable days onboard the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN-69), amid continuing
operations of the “No-Fly Zones” over Iraq, as we narrowly avoided being struck by missiles fired at us
by a hostile nation.
The story is true, and the memories remind me of that day working hand-in-hand with both a
Homosexual and a Woman. Clinton had allowed for a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy for homosexuals,
but even that being the case, many gay men would not divulge their sexual preferences to most the
men. The worry was always the case that the “Higher-Ups” would have a cleansing of those who had
same-sex interests. I didn’t ask Andrew much, and I really didn’t care. He was my fellow investigator,
my shipmate, and the guy I know who would put his life at risk to help me out.
Women weren’t allowed “In Combat” at this time, but from the memories I have, the definition of
“Combat” seems a little hazy. The constant threat of warfare wasn’t the same as it was for Marines in
Vietnam, but the threat was still there. At any moment, a missile could be fired and people could die.
Rebekah wasn’t technically allowed to serve in combat, but she was there when I took my mask off and
reported the situation. I don’t think she would have made any distinction had that missile actually hit
our ship as to whether she was allowed to perform combat operations or not. She was just like anyone
else at that moment.
The distinction of Women and Homosexuals serving in the Armed Forces has been a heated debate for
many years now and even well into the 21st century. For some reason, there is the belief by some that
some people are not as qualified as others because of Sexual Orientation or Genitalia. This belief quickly
fades when your life is at stake and the person standing next to you is your only help.
I realize that there are differences between genders, and all I advocate is that everyone performs the
same level of work and performance. Just as the physical requirements change according to age, the
requirements could possibly be adjusted to physical build. My desire is that everyone works for the
same cause regardless of physical differences, beliefs, or backgrounds.
“All humans are created equal it's just that some are created more equal than others” - George Orwell