What comes to mind when you hear the term “military
contractor?” Years ago, I would have thought first about Blackwater in the waning
years of the second Iraq war. Heavily armed civilian bully-boys who were making
the big bucks after completing their enlistments in the real military. Then a
young relative of mine became a civilian military contractor in Afghanistan
after his second tour in the Air Force (both in Afghanistan). He was far from
being a gunman. He was doing his old Air Force job, which was warehousing
aviation fuel and getting trucks full of it where they needed to be. He did
that for years, and he made very good money. He left that job for another one
that offered about the same money, more travel, and less gut-crunching terror. When
I thought about it, I realized that skills of shipping, computerized record
keeping, and communications, were involved. “Military logistics” would be a
good description.
That’s the way that I found out that a large number of
ex-military Americans are employed at civilian jobs that support our military
efforts around the world. They do a little bit of everything. Many of them
still carry guns that they may someday have to use, but most seem to do more
mundane things, like install and de-bug computer systems; drive trucks; install
plumbing; construct barracks; or instruct locals in how to best serve the needs of the American military bases in their countries.
I traveled to California last year, and I spent a few
hours sitting in a large “lounge” area at the airport in Taipei waiting for my
flight to LAX. I usually get some reading done in those situations, getting up
for a walk every now and again to stretch my legs a bit. On this occasion I was
sitting very close to a few men who had obviously known each other for a very
long time. Listening to their conversation was fascinating.
There were three of them, and they had all retired from
the U.S. Navy. Two were white, and both of them had been Chief Petty Officers of
some kind, I never caught the rating. The third man was a Filipino. He had been
a Petty Officer himself. His rating in the Navy was commissaryman (cook), but I
got no indication that that was still his trade. That last bit is very typical
for the Navy of my period. I was only a couple of years older than these guys,
and I had been in the Navy myself while we were all young. Even then, in the
mid- to late-1960s, most black or Filipino sailors were directed to ratings having
to do with food service.
The Flip always heartily agreed with the other men,
fairer to say that they all always agreed. Judging by his accent, he might have
been born in California. Either way, he was definitely on the team. He was, in
fact, wearing an American flag t-shirt.
The two white guys were both sixty-six years old. The
subject of age had come up while they were discussing their heart attacks and
the various procedures that they had endured to keep them alive. They seemed to
think that it had all been very funny, so much so that I wondered if they were
really so cavalier about those near-death experiences or if they were “whistling
past the graveyard,” laughing to forget the horror of it. They were both rather
overweight; the Flip was not. The Flip had no history of medical trouble at all
to report. There is a lesson there.
One of the white guys was nicknamed, “Guppy.”
All of them were returning home to America after a twenty-four-day
assignment at the old Subic Bay Naval Base. It sounded like they were
frequently sent to Subic Bay. Their employer kept them busy alternating
assignments ranging from a few weeks to a month or so with a similar amount of
time to hang out at home.
Their conversation had the same kind of high-energy
jocularity that is common to much younger men in the armed forces. They
appeared to be having great fun talking about whatever subject came before
them. Second and third wives were an entertaining subject, and they all seemed
to know each of the multiple wives for each other. There was talk of who had
been “trading-up,” and a bit of who had been lucky to get rid of a certain
woman. I found it odd that no children were ever mentioned, adult or otherwise.
They also joked somewhat ruefully about the nature of
their assignments. Living quarters were not always luxurious, being on many
occasions simple tents. Same for the food. The locals were a fit subject for
complaining. They were often a bunch of thieves whose favorite thing in the
world was, “taking advantage of Americans.”
The locals could be trusted to steal any tools that were not carefully
secured, and nothing was safe from their predations. “Remember that time somebody
got into your tent while you were sleeping and stole your shoes?” They then
marveled at how good a thief the guy was. “He even got the tent-zipper back up without
waking me.”
These three were hale fellows, well met, in spite of
being a bit rough around the edges. I’m sure that they had no trouble at all
getting along with anyone that they worked with at their various destinations.
They were fairly typical American men, and there’s still a lot that’s appealing
about that. I’m pretty sure that these guys worked hard, knew what they were
doing, and had long since given up starting fights just for the fun of it. (I
would be amazed if they had not engaged in that behavior when they were young
men. Like I say, I was in the Navy myself, and I was their contemporary.) I’m
sure that they had been hard drinkers at one time too, although now they are
almost certainly being more careful on doctors’ orders. Smile, get along, treat
people fairly, take your work seriously, these are all traits that the world
still associates with Americans.
Not a bad trio of cultural ambassadors, all things
considered.
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