The Good Old DPU

I hated my first assignment in the Army.

During my initial training as a Computer Operator, my instructor showed us an old mainframe system they used to train on – complete with 9-inch reel tape drives, a jukebox-sized line printer, and even a card punch and card reader! Fortunately, he told us, the Army didn’t use that antiquated equipment anymore. Imagine my surprise when I showed up at the 13^th Data Processing Unit to find that same system, cards and all, mounted in tractor-trailers and still in 24/7 operation.

I hated the location, too. “Deep in the heart of Texas” it was, halfway between Waco and Austin. A native once told me how great it was to be there – we were only two or three hours away from several completely different climates and terrain! Everything from forests to mountains to desert to seashore, and with several big cities to boot! I had to tell him…if you have to drive two to three hours to find something good, is that really a selling point?

I hated the unit. We were the “red-headed stepchildren,” a non-standard company of computer geeks and other misfits. Usually ignored by higher command, the only time they paid attention to us was when our 24/7 shift schedule interfered with their plans for training. Of course, the usual solution was to ignore our schedule, and bring everyone in on our sleep time to work in the motor pool or attend CTT classes. The only good thing was that we were behind a locked gate with a buzzer, so when the higher-ups came to check on us, we had enough warning to make sure everyone looked busy…or at least, awake when the Battalion Commander stopped by.

I wasn’t alone in my feelings, though. Complaining about the unit, the mission, the equipment, and everything else was the single most common topic of conversation – after all, such complaining is the ancient right of enlisted soldiers, and we all did our part to keep up tradition.

When we deployed to Saudi Arabia for Desert Shield, I started to realize that for all the problems, there were some good in the 13^th DPU. For starters, we were a team. We didn’t all like each other, but anyone from outside the gates was an intruder, and was treated as such. We also knew our stuff, and knew what we could do. Our sister unit from Ft. Bragg brought over the newer equipment that was slated to replace ours – we both did the same job, but their newer gear was supposed to do it faster and better. In less than a month, though, our workload started to increase…because their systems couldn’t keep up. Before we were done, we were processing about four times as much data as we did back on Ft. Hood, while our sister unit was struggling to manage a third of our workload.

Our team spirit showed up at home, too. We were tasked as the “OPFOR” for a Battalion exercise. Our little detachment of about 40 soldiers was supposed to attack the dug-in defenses of the main unit…over 150 defenders. We tore them up. Our CO brought in a helicopter from another unit to let us attack from the skies, while a tiny group with a loudspeaker practiced Psychological Warfare, shouting insults at the soldiers in foxholes. While their eyes were on the sky and their ears tuned to the speakers, the rest of us crept right in past their lines, blasting the defenders from behind, taking out their generators with flour or chalk “grenades,” and generally wreaking havoc. Our commander, armed only with her pistol (yes, that’s HER pistol) managed to storm their command post single-handedly – only to find that another of our soldiers had beaten her there and had already captured their CO and their guidon. (That’s “unit flag” for you civilian types.) We took so few casualties that during the after-action brief, the other unit accused us of taking the batteries out of our “laser-tag” gear, and tried to prove it by hitting us with their lasers while we stood in formation, knowing that our gear would be inactive…the loud beeps from our equipment drowning out the Exercise Judge’s speech were the final proof that they could only hit us when we were standing still.

As much as I hated it, it is only to be expected for me to be stuck in that unit for a solid eight years. I’ve been in three other units since then, and even went back to war with one of them. But I’ve never been anywhere else with such morale, such esprit de corps. It is only in retrospect that I can see just how good I had it there. And even today, there’s still more evidence of just how close we were back in the old DPU. I’ve been contacted by people from my other three units a few times, especially in my current job – and every time, it has been from someone looking for a favor. I’ve been contacted by several people from DPU, too – and the only one who was looking for something from me was the one who wanted me to come work for him. We’ve even got our own Yahoo group, with about a dozen members, still keeping in touch from time to time – almost ten years after the unit deactivated.

So thanks, Shane, Peter, Brent, Paul, Paul, Mike, Cap’n Ron, and the rest of the gang – it’s nice to have a reminder of the good old days!

Family Business

When I started this blog, I really intended it as a place to update my extended family on the life of my nuclear family. After all, I hate writing letters - I can't even keep up an e-mail correspondence over the long run. It’s even worse when I try to tell several different people the same things. The sheer repetition gets on my nerves, and I end up shortcutting it, or just not writing at all. With this blog, though, I can write everything once, and any of my family who has an interest can check it out at their convenience.

For some reason, though, it has turned into more of an editorial page. Well, that’s been a lot of fun, and I will no doubt continue the same sorts of entries…but I also want to carry out my original purpose from time to time. Even when there’s not all that much to say. For my new friends who have connected based on our blogs and comments, you may want to skip this one and tune in next time.

So anyway, Rita is doing much better. Her incision is pretty completely healed, and she’s walking a little bit farther every day. She’s been able to do more around the house, too. It takes a bit longer, as she has to do a little, then sit a little, but she manages to get it done. Best of all, she’s lost over 110 pounds. We’ll probably have to buy new clothes soon, as even her smallest stuff is looking pretty baggy.

Michael is now officially a theatre critic for WashingtonPost.com. Admittedly, he’s one of several dozen throughout the city, and his “beat” is restricted to high school plays, but it is still pretty cool. He is participating in the “Cappies” program, where a few students from each participating high school review and rate several productions at other participating schools. These reviews and scores provide each school an independent evaluation of what they’re doing well or badly. They also provide the reviewers a wider exposure to different theatrical ideas and experiences, as well as training them on what to look for when rating a show. That gives them a better way to judge their own work in the future. And at the end of the year, the best shows receive awards in several categories. Best of all, those awards are presented in a gala at the Kennedy Center.

Michael is very excited about it. He’s really looking forward to seeing all the different plays, especially since one school plans to put on Little Shop of Horrors. He also likes the opportunity to get a review published – the best reviews will appear in the Washington Post. I think what he’s most excited about, though, is the chance to express his opinions and affect the awards. He can’t rate his own school, of course, but he can certainly decide which play he thinks is the best, and root for his choice to come in second behind his school!

David is still enjoying his Creative Writing class. He’s got about two chapters done in a fantasy novel – he plans to complete the novel by the end of the year. They’re both gone a lot visiting friends, or monopolizing the phone for hours at a time. It’s hard for me to say anything, since I remember doing the same thing when I was their age…didn’t I, Dad? And stop laughing!

Me? Pretty much same old, same old. Under the Army Chief of Staff’s guidelines for public web sites, I can’t talk much about work, but nothing much has changed there anyway. It does seem to be wearing me down a bit, but in two more years, I should be able to quit and get a real job…and after 18 years, I’m pretty sure I can manage another two!

Anyway, that’s about it for news from here. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get upset about some other political issue…

Work, In a Manner of Speaking

Had a fascinating day at work today. The network room had no power. Since everything I do requires, at a minimum, access to the mainframe, that meant I spent the entire day just sitting at my desk, reading a book. Not a bad way to make a living, but I'll be paying for it tomorrow, when I have to try to catch up!

Maris D. Hall, 1919-2005

My grampa died last week. He was a difficult man in a lot of ways, but nonetheless, well-loved. It was slightly amazing to see just how many people showed up to pay their respects. Family, of course, but also people he worked with, people who shared his interest in antique tractors, and even people from his time as a Boy Scout Leader.

The three people who spoke at his service pretty well captured the real Maris Hall. He was a talented manager, able to run the power system for a small city for years. An even more skilled engineer, whether working on the electrical system for a Navy ship, restoring a rusted hulk to a showpiece of a tractor show, or hammering raw iron into a functional piece of camping gear. A very intelligent man, he always had an answer to any question. Usually, it was the right one. He didn't handle disagreement all that well, though, especially from his own loved ones. For the last year before his death, he and his one surviving son barely spoke, because Dad disagreed with his new plan to bring the grandchildren in to pick over his possessions prior to his death, then auction the rest. He asked Dad to visit him to discuss the change, but the decision had already been made - Dad was supposed to approve of it, not dare to point out the problems involved. I suspect Dad is going to have trouble dealing with that over the next few years...

It's probably a good thing Grampa didn't ask our opinion. I went because he told us it was important to him, and despite my own misgivings...and all OUR past disagreements...if it was important to him, it was important to me. It sort of made me feel like a vulture circling him, but it WAS his idea. I didn't discuss it with my cousins, but I did notice the sorts of things they selected - small things, things of sentimental importance, nothing of real value, just like me. In fact, one of them flew in, obviously with no intent to take anything that wouldn't fit in an already-full suitcase. I am pretty sure they were there for the same reason as me - the Old Man called, and we came. That's sort of important to me. It was good to see my cousins again, and even better to see that apparent understanding between us.

I still have a lot of unresolved feelings about my Grampa. He was a reactionary old conservative. We shared a bond through our military service, and I was proud beyond words to accept the flag symbolizing his service when it was removed from his coffin by fellow American Legionaires. But if he knew more details about my political views, he might very well have disowned me. He never really accepted my wife, even though she's made me a happy man for twenty years. But I've noticed over the last few years how many of my mannerisms and speech patterns are echoes of my father. This week it finally occurred to me to wonder how many of his traits are reflections of HIS father...and how many of mine I will pass down to my two boys. The Old Man is in me, and always will be, and it is somehow comforting to think that a little of him will continue to live on, even past my own death.

When I saw him in May, he seemed the same vital powerful man he had always been - maybe a little slower, and certainly a little more deaf, but still going strong. My dad tells me he was still that way practically up until two weeks ago, when he found he was sick. He lasted for a long time, then ended quickly and relatively painlessly. And I guess that's a good way to go. But I'll miss him. I love you, Grampa.