Chapter 11: ... Just Another Brick In The Wall

[Read Chapter 10: The Pot Of Gold]



Fred has informed me of another mission, and asked if I would like to participate. The "Moving Wall", a half scale replica of the Vietnam Memorial that travels the country, will be coming to Clearwater. A motorcycle escort has been arranged to see the wall in through Tampa, across the causeway, and into its venue... Brighthouse Field .


I do not have a motorcycle, but I may be able to come up with a viable alternative. A quick call to Face Man, he is on board also, and our sister unit "Heavy Metal" can equip us with two deuces for the escort.


Face and I both had to work that morning, our window of opportunity was narrow. Unable to link up with the main element by the designated time for "kickstands up", we devise a plan to wait at the boat launch on the Tampa side of the causeway and join the escort as it passes us. I call Fred to inform him of our plan, which, as we soon learn, turns out to be a good one.


Sunny, azure skies, and some of the first cool weather of the season contribute to the pleasure of this mission. I am proud and at the same time, humbled to be included in this tribute to my brothers and sisters in arms from an era "gone by"(? ).
I , merely a zygote at the time of the conflict, have always had a tremendous amount of respect for our Vietnam veterans, who suffered, labored, and some gave all, at the behest of their country. Escorting this memorial will be a seemingly small contribution, but the feeling that it gives me is anything but small.


A "six by" (Marine jargon for a deuce) tops out at around 50 - 55 mph (55 downhill with a good tail wind, and a little luck). The traffic on the causeway blows past us, despite the firm application of accelerator pedal to floorboard, a small group of bikers included. One of the bikers gives us a thumbs up, his colors displayed on a digi-desert camo jacket.


As we pull into our hasty RP (rally point), we see the bikers who had just passed us, along with a police and fire truck chaperon awaiting the incoming parade. The S.W.A.T. officer in charge of this element of the escort takes immediate command of the situation, and assigns us a slot behind the bikes, and in front of the fire truck. Our plan, indeed, was a good plan, for we knew not of this organized staging point. Dumb luck?... or just good kharma?


The "suit up" command is given. The escort approaches. The S.W.A.T. officer allows the motorcade to pass, then stops traffic to allow our convoy to join in. The bikes lead, the deuces are to follow. As I have said time and again, the people in Florida are easily confused. A motorcyclist unaffiliated with, and obviously unaware of the doins' a transpirin', cuts me off in the lineup and stops to ponder his options as the S.W.A.T. cop frantically urges him to move on. We'll have to nail the gear pattern just right if we have any hope of catching up to the main element. The accelerator pedal is once again introduced to the floor board, and a scant 2 miles later, we catch the convoy... fire truck close on our tails, urging us along.


Successful in joining the unit, we proceed in formation. It's pretty cool having a police escort. Blowing through red lights and stop signs with impunity, this will be the fastest trip through town that I have ever made, and We're doing it in a duo of six-by's!


We approach Bright house field. The police officer directing the line up mistakes our deuces as a part of the actual "wall" unit. I was in the midst of turning the wheel to follow the bikes to the final destination, when the traffic cop suddenly flags me to proceed forward with the trailer carrying the wall. The local taxpayers nearly lost a traffic cone, as the deuce is not quite as agile as a sports car. We are herded like cattle to a service road behind the stadium. (I refuse to make any remarks about the fact that this location is where the "Phillies" train. Look up the world series, if you don't get it. Go Rays!) We find a spot to park, then proceed to recon a way to join the bikes, and our friends from the "Italian Angels".


It appears that we have been trapped in a dead end in the back forty of the stadium. This sticky situation is compounded by the fact that a line of RV's, all towing cars, is pulling in behind us. If we don't get out now, we'll be buried. It takes a while to get the line of RV's to back up just enough to allow us to escape this predicament. Weaving through the disarray of diesel dwellings is a mission in its own right.


We proceed back to the main entrance, we can see the bikes lined up in the parking lot, kickstands down. Only one thing stands in our way now, the curbed walkway of the now defunct strip mall. A curbed walkway is not even a slight concern for one driving a two and a half ton, six wheel drive vehicle. Steady the wheel and damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!


A slight bounce or two later, rendezvous successful. We find Fred, a couple of the "Angels", and some new friends. While chatting, we learn that we missed out on an atrocity. Apparently, some hippie dirt bag wanted to protest the arrival of this memorial in the worst way. The protester was weaving his car in and out of the line of bikes, and actually hit a bike, knocking the rider to the ground. Yeah, you're all about "peace", aren't you... @$$#ole! To disagree with any war in particular, or even war in general, is your Constitutional right. But to protest (with violence) a solemn tribute to the fallen, is unfathomable. Not surprising, none of this was reported by the media.


We link up with more comrades at the nearby watering hole, then move on to HQOPOY to assemble our weapons for the OPOY mission later that day. See our main page for the 29 Oct. update...


I cannot help but feel a sense of honor to be a part of this mission, and I know that it was merely a brief showing, but it gave me a feeling of being a part of something larger. I am a brick. Not just any brick, but a brick in the wall. The wall will stand. I dare you to try to knock it down!


Thank you to all of our Vietnam veterans. Thank you for your patriotism. Thank you for your service. Thank you for doing what lesser men and women ran away from, and continue to decry. I returned from Desert Storm, to be greeted as a "hero". I do not think that I am a hero. I do, however feel that you are heroes, and deserve much more from your country than the spite relinquished upon you on your return from the theater. Here's to you, you've earned it!

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