Jono's Journey Home Ch. 01

Chapter 1 - The Journey Begins

My name is Jono Banks this is my story of discovery on my journey home. First I should tell you a bit about myself. I try to live life by a short list of rules that yes, I frequently violate, often to my detriment:

1. There is a God.

2. I am not God.

3. Answer all questions in brevity. Don't babble, or offer extra information.

4. Do not volunteer for anything. It will more often than not bite you in the ass.

5. Treat people like you want to be treated. Don't be an ass.

At 4' 11" and 94-98 pounds (occasionally with the assistance of another person's foot on the scale), I am one of the two smallest people in the squadron. The other is my best friend and supervisor E-4 Sergeant Vanessa Gilmore. Nessa has been looking out for me since I signed into the unit, back when she was a Senior Airman. We were thick as thieves since the minute I signed into the unit. I was from Florida's panhandle; she was from Opp, Alabama, sixty-six miles from my home town. She is the one person in the squadron who knows my story. Back home, I was something of a local tragic celebrity. She also knew everything that was going on in the squadron about a half a day before it happened. Anytime there was a "no notice" weigh-in she would take me to the chow hall and load up my tray. There have been many occasions when I would weigh in green in the face, only to turn around and head to the bathroom and let it all loose again. I didn't have an eating disorder; I just couldn't keep weight on. It didn't matter how much I ate. That caused a few people in the squadron to really resent me.

I am a melting pot kid. My Father was Arabian. His family gave me the two features that endear me to many women, and as I would discover later more than a few men. My rounded face, and my long, thick full eyelashes that frame my pale blue eyes came from his gene pool. The eyes were Mom's contribution, in addition to my Danish and French porcelain skin, which was topped with a crown of "uber Nordic" corn silk colored blonde hair. I wear my hair as close to the maximum length that regulations allow, to hide a few "imperfections." Even though I spoke many languages due to the family business, my native tongue was "LA" English. For those not familiar with living in the Florida Panhandle "LA" means Lower Alabama. I have a knack when it comes to picking up languages. I was bilingual before I even started preschool. Mama said the gift was a result of me being a musician. My conductors often called me a double threat, because I played concert piano and cello.

That, which has led me to this point in my life, was a series of tragic events. I have leaned life's most difficult lesson, life happens. Stuff both good and the bad happen to us all, some choose to let it control us, I don't. Military service was my brother's dream, not mine. In my case it is just an end to a means a way to make things happen. It's also a way that I can recover, and get on with my life. I have completed my first year in this northern German hell hole known as Basdahl. I love the people, the architecture, and the culture. The mission on the other hand sucks. Our Squadron had the worst equipment in all of Northern Europe and the highest deployment rate. Our system was constantly on the verge of falling apart. Simply put, the mobile TACS systems sucked. They were obsolete when they were designed during Vietnam. And it had two decades of rust on it. We have pilots who refused to take ground control instructions from us because they knew how antiquated our equipment was. The 407L was laughably called a computer. A Commodore 128 had more processing power. The computers operating system was so small that it could be loaded the magnetic tape, punch cards, paper tape, or manual keyboard entry. That's right the average user could program the machine in less than 30 minutes. For the past year I've been the youngest and lowest ranking person in our unit. Because I jumped three grades in school, being the youngest and smallest was always my condition growing up.

Just after the grunts ran by the barracks in formation singing their famous Jody, "Wake up Air Force, wake up!" we began boarding the buses for the long ride from Bremerhaven to Basdahl.

In 1986, I had survived my first year of a two year assignment to Basdahl. What I had discovered was, while I loved the German people, I hated Germany in the winter. I had just gotten off the bus and was starting to walk towards the operations building when Vanessa pulled me aside. "Jono, the Major is going to ask for volunteers for a short notice Temporary Duty Assignment. You need to volunteer, it's a good one."

In typical smartass fashion I replied, "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my Momma Bear. You know the person who told me every day for the last year, never volunteer for shit."

After about twenty minutes we grabbed our cups of coffee and reported for morning crew stand up. We popped to attention as the Director of Operations (DO) Major Doug Cawfield came in. He shouted his traditional, "Good morning my little mud puppies!" He went through the mission briefings for the day and ended with, "I only have two pieces of business left. First, I need three volunteers for a short notice TDY with no questions asked."

Two hands went up. Yup, I broke the cardinal military rule, and my fourth personal rule, never volunteer for anything. In hindsight, it is amazing how often I broke that one. Still, I figured if Sergeant Gilmore told me to volunteer, it couldn't be all that bad. Vanessa was connected; she knew everything that happened in the squadron often before the command staff. I had been seriously crushing on my supervisor but I was not comfortable acting on it. Vanessa and I were good friends, and made a great team in air surveillance. I wasn't gonna screw either of those up. She was the Air Surveillance Technician (AST); I was a lowly Search Scope Operator (SSO). If something went wrong with the computer (and it often did) she would jump back to my console and say, "go." She taught me the procedures to activate the ball tab so the air weapons cell could continue to control aircraft, and reload the box of wires that we laughingly called a computer. It should be noted that the 407L system was called a semi-automated computer. The program was so small and primitive it could be loaded via magnetic tape, paper tape, punch cards, or the average person could manually type the entire program in 20-30 minutes. We were the Dynamic Duo of the air surveillance cell. Several assholes in the squadron called us the Wonder Twins.

The DO said, "Okay we have our first two volunteers I need one more."

Staff Sergeant Sasquamo reluctantly put up his hand, "I'll go! Clearly 'The Wonder Twins' will need ADULT supervision." The room erupted in laughter. Nessa and I both flipped him off.

Even the DO smiled, "Alright then that's better. Gilmore, Banks, and Sasquamo, be in my office in 5 minutes for departure and mission briefings." With that he turned and walked towards the door. He paused and turned back to the room, "Oh, and one more thing. Those of you, who did not volunteer, start deployment prep. The word just came in we are deploying to Stade for three glorious weeks. Start with corrosion control on your vehicles. Someone's going to have to make a few new plotting boards now that Jono is deploying elsewhere. Make sure your two man shelter halves are waterproofed. We are looking at a lot of cold temps, wind, rain, and mud." A mass groan was heard as he left the room.

Sergeant Gilmore came over to me and said, "Jono, you are going to looooove this. We're going to Saudi! Everything; food, lodging, and laundry are paid for by the King. You will be able to bank your entire salary for 6 months." My mouth gaped open; it was more than this Florida boy could hope for. Heat for almost 6 months, and a way out of a not so little financial problem. We then looked at our former supervisor, Staff Sergeant Terrell Sasquamo aka Sasquatch. He was originally from Maine and the poor guy broke a sweat waking up in the morning. I felt immediately sorry for him. Vanessa and I were swamp kids; we were used to the heat. Sas hated anything above 70 degrees.

We all met in the DO's office and he began, "First off let me say I'm grateful we're sending our A-Team. Jono, I almost had to flush your volunteer status. Just noticed the posting is for E-3s and above. Congratulations on your promotion. I was a little surprised that your hand went up. Glad to see you're finally showing some initiative again." Ouch that stung.

I had to admit he was right. I had been coasting lately. My career started off well enough. I was Honor Grad out of Lackland. Distinguished graduate, at technical school. As a candidate for AWACS school, I was sent to SERE (Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape) training which I passed with high marks. Because of my diminutive stature, just about all of my instructors expected me to wash out. Sadly during SERE school the Air Force pulled AWACS from my career field, and sent me on to my first duty station. I am a mighty 27650"c." For the record it should be known the "C" shred-out (aka crap shred-out) of my career field it sucks swamp water, and this Florida boy knows a thing or two about swamp water. Our career field had it all: ancient equipment, crappy assignments, and almost no recognition. If that wasn't bad enough we were deploying every month and a half. My goal had been to complete my last year in this German hell hole, then next year I would rotate back to the States for my last year and a half. After that I hadn't thought much about my future, I just wanted the hell out of the Air Force. When the major finished his briefing he asked Sasquatch and Nessa to leave the room and close the door behind them. "Jono, I almost said no to your going. Your attitude as of late has sucked. The fact that you volunteered told me something. Little guy I wish I had a squadron of Airmen like you. You got screwed by the system. There are times Jono when that happens, it sucks, but it happens. What you have to do is take advantage of those opportunities that do present themselves. You have a bright future and I am grateful that you're stepping up to the plate again. I am going to ask that you leave the attitude behind in your dorm room. With that we have to have a new conversation."

"You're part of the base Intel staff and I have to give you an additional briefing. Bring your teammates up to speed at Rhein-Main. Tensions between Saudi Arabia and Yemen are escalating again. The Soviets are giving Yemen additional weapons systems, rumor has it they will be selling them the MI-25 helicopter. NATO and the United States are now doing the same for Saudi Arabia. I'll be sending a mission brief to the team leader letting them know about your linguistic intrepidity and your strong ties to the region. I hope they can put your skills to good use, the last thing we need is another brush fire." I asked the major what type of systems the US was sending. "Jono, we're selling the Saudis fighters, radar systems, and AWACS aircraft." My head dropped. The major put his hand on my shoulder and continued, "I know little buddy, hang in there. Who knows maybe they'll cross certify you while you're in country. Don't count on that, it is not likely to occur." I nodded as he continued, "What we are selling them is a lot of TPS-43E radar mobile TAC systems. There's a very good likelihood that we will also be selling them a Message Processing Center (MPC.) You're my chameleon, if the Saudi's buy one, how fast do you think you could get certified on the MPC with factory rep assistance?" I told him likely less than five days because of the shared common systems. "I kind of figured that would be the case. Jono, you're going to love this posting. Hell son, I wish I could go with you guys. Look out after your teammates especially Nessa. HQ USAFE has sent a mission brief on the Intel available for this deployment. Read the contents of this file and be ready to brief all those deploying. You can use my office to prepare, remember not everyone has your security clearance be ready to brief only to the secret level. I'll try to find out who has higher clearances and leave that information for you at base operations. Now, I have to go motivate the rest of the troops for their deployment. You lucky bastard the weather looks like shit for the Stade deployment. When you're done secure the file in my safe."

We got our orders cut by 1700 (five p.m.) and we were on the road to Rhein-Main Air Base fifteen minute later. Whoever needed us in Saudi Arabia sure was in a hurry. When we arrived at base operations and I was presented with my security documents on the troops who were going with us. Only four on the team could receive the full brief. Crap, I had to give two briefings. Who the fuck needs sleep anyway. Nessa, and Sas offered to stay up with me I told them to just grab some rack time. They couldn't help me with the briefing anyway because I was the only one with the TS clearance. It made no sense having them stay awake for moral support I'll sleep on the plane. Due to our departure time, I scheduled the first for 04:30 in the morning and the second for 05:30. After I verified his security clearance level (and need to know), the base commander used his executive privilege to sit in on the top secret level briefing. Damn he was an arrogant prick; he insisted that the top-secret briefing happen at 5:30 because he didn't want to have to wake up at 0330. The final briefing let out at 6:30. The General thanked me for my time, and my brevity limiting the briefing to just the essentials. When he gave me his commander's coin he said he hoped I would consider a follow-on overseas assignment to Rhein-Main, he could use a good Intel NCO on his staff. I was polite but I knew I could never work for him. At 0700 we were in the passenger module of a C-5 Galaxy and airborne. Vanessa sat next to me for the long flight to Riyadh. We chatted about stupid things, unit gossip, and such. Then she became very serious and said she hoped we get assigned to the unit at Riyadh or Dhahran. I didn't bother to ask why, she knew everything. Several members of the flight crew noticed my jump wings, during the flight they stopped by and chatted about where I went to school and stuff. Jump wings were rare as gold on ground pounder mobile TACS grunts. As usual I was the novelty. I was invited up to the flight deck to watch the in flight refueling operation. It was kind of unusual seeing an intercept from this direction. I thanked the pilot, co-pilot, and engineer for the opportunity.

With my tour of the aircraft completed, I return to my seat Poor Sasquatch was filling his third, nope fourth, air sickness bag. How could someone in the Air Force be that airsick? Then again they had to stop the van twice on the autobahn for me the night before. Even the most unstable fixed or rotary winged aircraft or boats no problem, put me in a fast moving car, it became a one way trip to vomit central. What a picture the three of us made. Sasquatch the mountain of hair and muscle, dripping sweat all the way through his service jacket. Vanessa the short brunette, with a body that would not stop. Then there is me, the sign post with the runners butt, dressed in blue. Yep, not only short I was lean (what others called skinny.) I don't know why Vanessa always hung out with me. But she became something like an occasionally over-protective older sister/mamma stand in. She said I was one of the only "safe" guys in our squadron. Ouch, friend-zoned again. The story of my life, the hot girls always go for the jocks, not the nerds.

After almost 36 hours of consciousness, I finally nodded off thinking of how I got here... When I was 10 my folks were taking my brother Michael and I on vacation to the family campgrounds in Tishomingo, Mississippi. Mike was eighteen and about to ship out to Paris Island. This was to be our final family trip. We managed to make it fifteen minutes down the road to Niceville when a drunken college jackass crossed the center line taking out our station wagon. The drunk and I were the only ones to survive. I was thrown from the vehicle as it rolled and caught fire, he climbed out of his with only a bump on his head and passed out. I had a lot of people using the term miracle to describe my survival. Laying in the mud unable to move due to the cord shock, watching and hearing my family burn. It didn't feel like a miracle.

I died twice that day; first for a minute and a half in the ER. I died again for almost five minutes on the operating table. The trauma surgeon, Doctor Edmond Fitzgerald (Doc Fitz) wouldn't give up on me; even after the neurosurgeon told him to call it. I think he was afraid to face my Uncle. He said our family had too much loss for one day. The neurosurgeon told Doc Fitz he was being a fool. "You just condemned his family to care for a vegetable for the rest of their lives." Thankfully, I beat the odds again, the neurosurgeon was wrong. Something remarkable happened that day. Instead of losing my memory, I now remembered every moment of my life with absolute clarity from the crash forward. The painful memories that I really wanted gone, would walk with me the rest of my life. In fact, the neurologist who was assigned to the medical review board voiced concern about the possibility of future PTSD based on my "gift." Then he added if I could survive and function well after what had already happened to me it should not be an issue.

The paramedics and firefighters who worked on me at the scene became regular features at my bedside they even helped the nurses with my range of motion exercises. As the cord shock faded, they went through physical therapy with me. It was Chief Duma who touched me the most. It was he who returned my Daddy's wedding ring to me. It was all I had left of my family. I hugged the stuffing out of him. I finally got out of the hospital 8 months later, I had completed both the 5th and 6th grades from my bed (what can I say; being in the hospital was very boring). The nursing staff, and doctors, lined the halls and applauded as Doc Fitz wheeled me to the front door. My firefighters, and the officers who were first on the scene, completed the cordon of honor. Chief Duma helped me out of the chair to my walker and walked behind me as I hobbled to Uncle Jack's old Dodge.

We went home; my Uncle Jack cared for me as if I were the son he and his wife couldn't have. When I was a baby his wife died in child birth. He was so heartbroken he never remarried. He counted on Mike and I to take over the family's ranch. Eventually he adopted me and gave me the Banks name. I knew it was wrong under Muslim law for him to take my father's name from me. He told me I was now Baptist and the laws of tribal goat herders did not apply. As happy as we were, even that was not to be. We were only together for just over 2 years when Jack was diagnosed with stage four cancer of the lung and pancreas. A couple months later he too was gone.

The local news ran my story. "My" hero firefighters came and loaded his casket onto their ladder truck for the ride to be buried, between his wife and daughter, and my parents and brother.

After just two years and six months of hospital and outpatient therapy, I was able to walk without assistance, just in time to bury him. Chief Duma and Doc Fitz were standing beside me when he was lowered into the ground. I was alone in the world at the ripe old age of thirteen. The Chief and the Doc tried to tell me how fortunate I was just to be alive, and something good had to come from this pain. I had been the recipient of many miracles since the crash. I couldn't see any miracle. I was standing in the middle of the graves belonging to the people I loved the most. All I knew was I had to live for them.