My friend over at the arc of time took notice of my new blog today. He also made a post regarding his continued commitment to public transportation despite the extreme (for Atlanta) cold. You are a dedicated man, James. Me? I’d be far less intrepid. But then I haven’t run any marathons either.
It was back to Atlanta tonight, this time on a special trip. Tomorrow I’ll pick up the Greatest Kid in the World from her mother’s house up in Dalton and fly her back to Dallas with me. She will get her first look at Texas and her dad’s new home. I’ll be writing more on that later.
On the flight to Atlanta tonight there were about a dozen US Army soldiers in battle dress uniform. I don’t know if first class was empty or if people gave their seats up for them, but before the plane took off they all got to go up front. Great to see. I’ve noticed that American Airlines seems to be particularly good with this. What really got my attention tonight was not the soldiers on the plane though. In my recent travels around the world I’ve grown accustomed to seeing our men and women in uniform just about everywhere.
What got my attention tonight was the sheer number of soldiers in the terminal and the sergeants with them. There were at least a couple of hundred enlisted men mustered there waiting in the hallways along the walls to board the several buses outside. I had to walk through their ranks to leave the terminal, and it seemed odd. I felt very conspicuous among them. I always have the compulsion to make some small expression of thanks to US Soldiers when I see them traveling, but tonight I somehow got the sense that the most respectful thing to do was to move along.
I think that the sergeants were actually drill sergeants. They had “the look” and the wide-brimmed hat you would expect. So I don’t know if that means the men and women I saw tonight were technically soldiers yet, or freshly shaved recruits in uniform headed to basic training. The last time I can recall being that close to a drill sergeant was as a kid at summer camp near Parris Island, SC. I can’t remember his name but some of the boys called him “Sergeant Skeet” because on the camp range he could shatter clay pigeons with a .22 rifle – consistently. For those of you that have never shot skeet at all, let me tell you – that is an impressive feat. It takes skill enough to hit them consistently with a 12 gauge shotgun. I remember Sergeant Skeet as a small, wiry guy. The drill sergeants I saw tonight were anything but. These men were huge. At least 6 foot 5 and brawny.
I don’t think they’re going to get a lot of sass from the new kids in town.
