Some Tales From the L.A. Front

There was the yoga instructor in North Hollywood. As the National Guardsman told it last week, this “yoga guy” would sit cross-legged and, working both hands in slow, rhythmic swipes, polish the troops’ black combat boots for free. He did this all day long. “Wax and shine, wax and shine,” the soldier recalled, repeating the mantra as he mimicked the hand movements.

At one of the tent cities-- Shakervilles?--two Guardsmen stood guard over a food cache. Actually, they were sitting guard. M-16s balanced on their knees, they perched on either end of a plastic chaise, catching a bit of sun, citizen-soldiers ruminating on their latest Los Angeles adventure.

“We were out last night at a gym on guard duty,” one said. “Some company was giving away shoes. It was pretty nice, I thought, to give away all those shoes.”

“Our mission,” the other sentry broke in, “basically was to maintain order and make sure nobody went through the line twice. Some of these people are just after freebies. You can tell the ones who are really in need. They stand quietly in line, take whatever they are given, and then they thank you for it.”

Another soldier. Another park. Another story: “We had a mother loan her kid to a stranger the other day. She just left him. This cute little 4-year-old boy. She and her friends wanted to go out looking for some crack. So they just looked around and saw this guy and figured he was the best guy around for the job. So she handed him the kid and left, and she didn’t come back.”

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What a strange way to see a city. In shifts of 2,000 or more, the weekend warriors of the National Guard have been called away from regular jobs and lives and, dressed for combat, thrown into duty in Los Angeles--just as they were last year for the Rodney G. King verdicts, as they were in the riots, and as some were last winter during the San Diego floods, and the big fires up north in 1990, and the Loma Prieta earthquake the year before, and Coalinga before that, and. . . . The California Guard’s top general, an aide said, likes to joke “there are four seasons in California: fire, flood, earthquake and, um, I can’t remember the fourth, but you get the idea.”

Most Guard members activated this time belong to units based in Southern California. So they come not as total strangers. Still, even among natives, their rounds take them to new neighborhoods and new situations. The extent of the damage, and its capriciousness, amazes them. “The city is hurting,” one said softly. “It hurts to see it hurting this bad.” For those who traveled from farther away, Los Angeles tends to surprise, both in scale and demeanor.

Said Sgt. David Ardilla, a 38-year-old San Diegan: ‘The good thing about the riots is that they helped me learn my way around the streets. After the riot I came back and saw ‘Phantom of the Opera.’ I took my wife all over town. Every time I come up here I run into a lot of friendly people. It has changed my San Diego versus L.A. attitude.”

The riots, said one officer who had seen sniper duty, was “interesting.” And that first night before the ammunition arrived, said another, equally laconic soldier, was “very interesting.” “We had a couple of drive-bys,” said Sgt. Carlos Cleland, a former Marine from the High Desert country, “but those guys can’t shoot very well.”

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In response to the earthquake, Guard members have pitched canvas tents, patrolled the camps and tried to keep peace at relief centers. “The first day,” one soldier recalled, “we broke up two fights, had two heart attacks and generally had a melee.” Almost every soldier has logged time on a soccer field with kids. A few have read bedtime stories. Early on there was some looting in the camps. “One lady was asleep on this cot,” Cleland said, “and they just picked her up and moved her and took the cot.”

For all the burning, breaking and bleeding they have seen, the soldiers interviewed remain ardent California boosters. “My brother is in Indiana now, freezing,” one cackled. “He never should have left California.” They roll with it all.

“Here’s our joke,” offered a young soldier named Jon Dixon. “Ninety-two was the year of the riot. Nine-three was the year of the trial. Ninety-four was the earthquake. Ninety-five will be the flood. And by ’99 it will be Armageddon.”

Now one of his mates ran up. “You about done, Dixon?” he asked. The convoy trucks were loaded and rumbling. This unit’s tour was done.

“See you,” Dixon said.

Yes, but on reflection, maybe not too soon, OK?