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August 16, 1969, I was graduated once again from Southern, I showed up at National Guard drill the next morning with a tassel dangling from my army cap and a master’s degree diploma tucked in my tunic. I was haranguing the mob about how I now ought to get more respect, since I was so smart and had the paper to prove it, when the word came down that we were to go immediately to the coast to save folks from the worst hurricane of the century. I had been so busy preparing for graduation and packing up to move Ole Miss that I had not even known one was brewing up. Speaking ao a veteran of the ’47 Hurricane and Betsy, I bragged that no storm called Camille scared me.
My driver and I moved out to ready our deuce-and-a-half (7Vi ton truck) for action. Do not misunderstand the phrase “my driver.” I was his assistant. He was a private E-3. I was an E-2.
Joe Bob Croley was a fine may to drive with because he was a truck driver in real life. He knew all about trucks. He knew I didn’t. He proved it the first cold morning we teamed up by sending me on a wild switch chase to turn on a nonexistent heater. On the other hand, 1 saw him try to make the truck backfire on the way to Red River Arsenal one time, and he wound up blowing the smoke stack clean off the truck at sixty miles per hour. I thought we had been hit by a Russian rocket.
Joe Bob was a good ole boy. Despite my ignorance, we got along ramously. He did his best to teach me how to chew tobacco, but I just couldn’t synchronize all the tooth, tongue, tonsils, and lip power necessary for such a complex operation. He forgave me and even let me put a broomstick on the bumper of our truck and fly my battle-flag - a chicken rampant on a field of yellow — until the lieutenant put the quietus on it.
Joe Bob loved to ride with the front windshields cocked open out over the hood. He said it made the truck look like those old telegraph operators in the cowboy movies with sun visors on their foreheads. Besides, bugs zipped in and went down my throat when I tried to sleep. Anyway, he was determined to open them on the morning of Camille, and when my latch stuck, he tried to kick it loose, missed, and put his boot slam through the glass. That meant that all the rain and whatever else the storm wanted to hurl was going to hit me between the eyes without warning.
The convoy formed up and moved out in good order bound for
Ocean Springs on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Joe Bob was a big Merle Haggard fan so we sang a few rousing choruses of “Mama Tried” and “Okie from Muskogee” en route.
At the Ocean Springs Armory several units were gathered, awaiting orders for dispersal to permanent locations along the coast. We circled the trucks and pulled motor stables on them. That’s cavalry parlance for checking the oil and water. As we milled about, all the old jokes went around.
The formation order rang out and we lined up at attention in front of chairs in the armory. An officer walked in and said:
Be seated! Men, I know you are as proud to be here as I am. We are going to make the Great and Sovereign State of Mississippi proud of all of us tonight. The worst storm ever to strike the Western Hemisphere is boiling up out of the Gulf on a bee-line for us. You may expect a frog-strangling, chunk-floating rain, winds in excess of 200 m.p. h., tides twenty feet above normal, and a ten-foot sea on top of that. In short, this is going to make the Noah's Ark story like a third grade fist fight on the playground.
Then he read out the battle stations. My platoon was to go to a place called the D’Iberville County Bam. I looked at my map and noted with great interest that the bam sat squarely on the 20 foot contour line. I nudged Joe Bob and whispered, “That means we are going to get ten foot of water right on top of our heads.” He grunted. The officer continued:
Each of you will be issued sixteen rounds of live ammunition to shoot looters with. Fire one as a warning and put the other fifteen where they will do the most good (Le., kill). We are here to evacuate citizens and shoot looters.
I punched Joe Bob and said, “I’m a citizen and I want to be evacuated.” He looked away, and then he looked back and allowed as how he didn’t think we were citizens when we had on uniforms. Someone thrust a full clip of ammo into my hand. Live ammunition was circulating all around the room. This was very impressive since they usually didn’t trust us even with blanks. As soon as the hubbub died down, the officer finished with a rousing pep talk. Men! With our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause, every position must be held to the last man. There can be no
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