Meanderings ~ Not all who wander are lost: Rock-tober 08, 2024

In the mid-'70s, Mom and Dad were visiting with some friends they'd known for years. This couple and their two kids were also a Navy Seabee family and we'd followed each other around, going from one base housing complex to another as our dads were posted around the country. I've actually known their son, Louie, longer than I've known Noel, my de facto big brother. These days, Louie and I are both well into our fifties and sporting just a touch of distinguished grey, but on this sunny summer afternoon in south Mississippi we were no more than six or seven.

Louie's parents had just helped another couple in the neighborhood pack for a move, and as a parting "thank you", the outbound couple bequeathed them the sizeable entirety of their home bar. The particular day Mom, Dad, and I were there, I walked into a mission given to Louie and me by his dad, "Hey, c'mere, you two. Go over to the Pike's old place and bring back the boxed bottles on their patio."

With the mission brief acknowledged, Louie and I trekked across the shallow drainage canal separating the back sides of properties. Half a dozen houses down, we arrived at the objective, the Pike's back porch stacked with at least half a dozen large boxes ready for transport.

We stooped down to pick up one of the containers and almost immediately set it down. Louie shook his head, "Man, this thing's heavy! What's in it?"

Due to operational compartmentalization, that bit of intel was not included in our briefing. We were not on the "need to know" list. Looking around to ascertain we weren't being surveilled, we opened the box to find it was filled with dark, fancy bottles with fancy labels full of frilly writing. I could read them, but they appeared to be in some nonsensical code. It was definitely a cool bottle - I understood why Louie's folks would want them. Not sure why they'd want so many, but I was just a grunt following orders.

"What is this stuff?" Always the curious one, I opened a bottle and took a deep whiff. My head jerked back involuntarily, and I felt like I'd been punched in the nose. I shoved the bottle to Louie, who luckily grabbed it before I dropped it in the midst of my unexpected stupor. My eyes were watering, and I started an unrelenting cough. Seeing my reaction, Louie carefully placed the bottle some distance away, like an explosive ordinance tech handling live, touchy munitions.

I was still wiping away the tears induced by that close order chemical attack and shook my head gravely at Louie, "Whoa. I'm not sure what that stuff is, but I think it's spoiled!"

After I recovered, we sat down to consider our situation. At some point in their career, every field operative has questioned the wisdom of HQ, the value of an active mission, and how to circumvent unexpected roadblocks. It was going to take forever to transport these heavy boxes filled with noxious liquid back to base. Scanning our surroundings we saw a large garbage can in a corner left behind by the Pikes.

"Yeah!!", we exclaimed in unison as the same idea hit us both.

Mission failure is not an option, and good operatives adapt and overcome. We dragged that can to the porch, opened those bottles, and dumped their foul slop into the can. Relieved of their noxious contents, those fancy bottles were much lighter. We reboxed them and rucked one box each back to Louie's.

We presented the packages to the adults and briefed them on our mission action, being sure to properly expound on the "adapting and overcoming" portion to engender if not a citation, at least tickets to the latest movie playing.

Louie and I were understandably confused by the looks on the faces of the parental units. The dads looked liked we'd sustained casualties, and both moms appeared to be stifling laughs. It was at this moment, Louie and I realized we may have misinterpreted certain mission parameters. All I know is we were sent on no further patrols that day.