Besides being squadron supply officer, I had other additional, though temporary, duties now and then. I had to accompany a section of a missile containing the top secret data and targeting equipment for the whole system back to Ohio aboard a government-contracted cargo flight, an old converted Lockheed Electra. Along the route, stopping at northern tier bases such as Duluth, Kincheloe, and K.I. Sawyer, I and an enlisted man sat in separate passenger seats by the front door. We'd have to ensure that no one messed with our cargo during the unloading and loading at those bases. We finally arrived at Columbus, Ohio, and turned the "can" over. We took a civilian TWA flight back in uniform, but we had to make sure that they knew we were carrying 45's in our checked luggage. (I am sure these days this would not be allowed.)
Another time, I had to go out to an actual launch facility (one of the 150 LF's throughout the state of North Dakota) where each separate missile is housed within a fenced area and under a massive, heavy blast door. This was the missile silo where maintenance crews worked on a missile in place. I wasn't much older than my mid-20's, but these maintenance men looked even younger. Much too young to be responsible for nuclear weapons and the complex launch systems for a Minuteman III missile. But then, I guess, we were all too young for such significant responsibilities.
In the Silo
I recall the surgeons, bent by their work
across the patient: tall,
rough in metal skins--
multicolored, yet all dull tones.
Beheaded of its triple threat.
Never anticipating eventual re-mating,
but held unarmed,
awaiting passive signals or potent birth.
Mindless, but no monster.
All seeming about some harmless device--
wired,
lost in all those minor techniques of surgery.
Wise of their youth:
two stripes and three, trained above this potential.
Men mined for connecting these gaps.
Wiring with the confident skills
of all who doctor life.
Tools,
never so terrible as what they tighten
or unleash.
Never smeared of the blood
they might heat.
Another time, I had to go out to an actual launch facility (one of the 150 LF's throughout the state of North Dakota) where each separate missile is housed within a fenced area and under a massive, heavy blast door. This was the missile silo where maintenance crews worked on a missile in place. I wasn't much older than my mid-20's, but these maintenance men looked even younger. Much too young to be responsible for nuclear weapons and the complex launch systems for a Minuteman III missile. But then, I guess, we were all too young for such significant responsibilities.
In the Silo
I recall the surgeons, bent by their work
across the patient: tall,
rough in metal skins--
multicolored, yet all dull tones.
Beheaded of its triple threat.
Never anticipating eventual re-mating,
but held unarmed,
awaiting passive signals or potent birth.
Mindless, but no monster.
All seeming about some harmless device--
wired,
lost in all those minor techniques of surgery.
Wise of their youth:
two stripes and three, trained above this potential.
Men mined for connecting these gaps.
Wiring with the confident skills
of all who doctor life.
Tools,
never so terrible as what they tighten
or unleash.
Never smeared of the blood
they might heat.
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