On the final day of last week’s book fair at a local US Army hospital, I met and talked with a Black Hawk helicopter technician. The soldier had been working on the legendary transport aircraft for 19 years. Equipped with two machine guns and weighing more than 20,000 pounds, the agile helicopter didn’t intimidate this soldier, according to the story she told me about her career with the Army. She said she really enjoyed her work.
Read that again—I said “she.” Yes, the soldier who knew the ins-and-outs of this versatile flying machine was a woman. “Jenna” was youthful and energetic, auburn hair pulled up into a neat bun on top her head—not looking like the kind of woman one would expect maintains the magnificent Black Hawk. How could I not be interested in learning more about her, surely unique among women her age? I’d guessed her to be in her 30s, but she said she’d reached the 40-mark a couple of years before. (Jenna attributed her youthful look to Mary Kay cosmetics…the softer side of a helicopter mechanic in view!)
She is a single mom to two daughters who have traveled with her when Jenna’s assignments allowed it. They each see their father regularly and have benefited from living in other parts of the world, Jenna explained. After 19 years, she remains dedicated in her service to our country, and never thought of doing anything else. She’s served her time in Iraq.
Nineteen years is long enough to do any one job, though, and Jenna is in active pursuit to switch to another role in her Army career, that of scheduling movement of troops. The job change should take place in the near future. In the meantime, she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty, even when desert temperatures on a flight line reach into the hundreds. After all, Mary Kay sells great hand care products, too!
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Another Elvis sighting: My Elvis Presley celebrity life-size cut-out elicited a story from an elderly man who sauntered through the book fair at the end of the fourth and final day. I was packing up the assorted CDs from the nearby “impulse” table, tired but pleased with the week’s sales. Elvis stood nearby, as if to oversee my taking proper care of the music—frozen handsome and smiling in his gold lamé suit.
I glanced at the aged man as he approached, then focused on his deeply wrinkled face when he stopped directly in front of me. He pointed a cigarette-stained finger at the cardboard man and said, “I was his platoon sergeant in Germany.”
“Who? Elvis?” I thought perhaps he was making this up.
“I sure was. He was my scout squad leader. He could read a map like a son-of-a-gun. He was mean…” The odor of cigarette breath was strong, and I wanted to back away, but the story I was about to hear intrigued me too much to pass up. I inhaled carefully and listened to the man.
“Elvis and I were in a bar, and there were two soldiers there with their uniform sleeves rolled up,” he explained. “That was against the rules. I pointed it out to Elvis – ‘See those guys?’ I said. Elvis went over to ‘em, told ‘em to roll down their sleeves. They did. But as soon as he turned around, they rolled ‘em back up. He took those two guys and throwed ‘em down the stairs, out the door! Yeh—Elvis. He was a real nice fella…” The man smiled as he shuffled away, recalling the memory.
Did I believe him? I had no reason not to. It was a nice surprise ending to my busy day.
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