“It’s sixty-five feet to the ground” Said my trainer Sergeant Marx, as I peered over the edge of the top of the C-5’s mighty T-tail, breathing the cold winter air and exhaling a warm fog.
“How old is this harness?” I asked him, wrapping my frozen finger tips around the thin strap coming from the back of my harness that was connected to the plane by a single bolt.
“Don’t worry about it Hart” Said Sergeant Marx, reaching under his beanie cap to rub his bald head. “If you fall you won’t die. You might break your back, but you’ll live.”
Easy for him to say. He was merely poking his head through an access hatch at the top of the tail. I was crouched down six stories high, in fifteen degree weather, taking the screws out of a panel at the highest point of the plane.
“What time is it?” I asked, taking the last screw off the panel.
“One a.m., shifts half over.”
“Six hours down, six to go.” I replied, handing him the panel and a bag full of screws.
Grave shift was tough. I had been out of my training class and back on the flightline for a few months and was in the middle of experiencing my first real winter working on the planes. Smitty, Kevin, and I all requested to be on grave shift because it meant there would be less management around to tell us to clean the break room, stock the snack bar, or mop the bathroom floors.
“Can you pass me a flashlight?”
Sergeant Marx reached into a tool bag and handed me a small flashlight. I shined the light into the hole where the panel used to be and saw a broken wire coming from the back of one of the components.
“I see the problem. It’s a broken wire. We’re gonna have to order a new one then run it up through the tail when it gets here.”
“Ok, let’s call it in.”
Sergeant Marx and I left the plane and went into the break room of our main building to get warm and to order the new wire. After placing the order, we sat down at one of the break room tables.
“How long have you been out here on the flightline again?” I asked, watching Sergeant Marx make quick work of the bag of chips he had just purchased from the snack bar.
“Fifteen years.” He said in his raspy voice.
It might as well have been fifty years. He looked tired. Not tired like he needed a good night’s sleep, but the kind of tired that only years of twelve hour shifts in maintenance could put on a man.
“This place can wear you down.” He said, seemingly reading my mind. “When we have this conversation five years from now you’ll have a better idea of what I’m talking about.”
Don’t get me wrong, Sergeant Marx was a great maintainer. He knew the plane inside and out and could fix any problem that was thrown at him. He was highly respected and the “go-to” person for last minute problems. He was the best of the best at his job and everybody knew it. But, as I sat across from him that day, I didn’t see myself fifteen years down the road. I was good at my job and getting better by the day (or night), but I always thought I’d be doing so much more. I had pictured myself giving presentations in front of people or meeting with commanders; not tucked away on night shift ducking under the radar. I wanted to be inspiring people to do better or leading them through a problem. It was this conversation with Sergeant Marx that reminded me that part of the reason why I joined the military was to finish my two remaining years of college and get the degree I had started back in California. I’d have to look into that next semester.
There were two sides to the night shift. On the one hand, the work environment was as advertised. It was an excellent opportunity to learn my job with little demand of me to do other menial tasks. On the other hand, my personal life was upside down. Most people woke up at 7:00 am. I woke up at 4:00 pm. Most people were enjoying breakfast and coffee before work. I was having dinner and an energy drink. While working, it wasn’t that big of a deal. A twelve hour shift quickly became a fourteen hour shift. By the time I finally got home and had something to eat there was just enough time to take a shower, go to bed, wake up and start all over again. My personal life, however; was a different story.
We were mid-week partiers. A guy named Bobby who worked on my shift would throw get-togethers at his house in the middle of the week for all of us who were stuck having days off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I found myself invited to one such party the day before I was set to take a trip to California for two weeks. I had woken up at 4:00 pm and had a voicemail from Bobby that went something like this:
“Hey Steve, it’s Bobby. We’re all getting together at my house tonight. A buddy of mine invited some girls over from the casino. Should be a good time.”
Ordinarily I don’t like to go anywhere the day before I’m going to be on a plane for six hours. I like to stay at home, double check my packing, set two alarms, call my Mom, stuff like that. Also, after breaking down the message, the only real draw were the girls from the casino. It sounded intriguing and almost instantly I began visualizing the Vegas casinos I’d been watching on CSI. There would probably be a burlesque girl splashing around inside a giant martini glass and a bikini model standing on each side of the stem…and…visual gone. Reality check. I lived in Dover, Delaware. Not Atlantic City and certainly not Las Vegas. There were definitely beautiful women in Delaware, but I had been to the casinos before and most of the “girls” there weren’t college seniors they were senior citizens. They didn’t have martini glasses, they had bifocals and a scowl that would freeze your soul if you got too close to their cup of pennies. Still, I was curious. I’d be staying up until 6:00 am any way. Hanging out with Bobby and the crew sure beat late night infomercials and turkey hot dogs. I left my house ready for anything, but never expected to meet my next girlfriend.
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