A Guardsman Wonders: ‘Will I Do the Right Thing?’
Jonathan Lucas and Mike Castro, National Guardsmen
They always knew they’d be called one day, when America went to war. Maybe they wouldn’t man a foxhole in the desert, but an assignment on a military base seemed likely--backfilling for some active-duty GIs shipped overseas.
Instead, Staff Sgt. Mike Castro and Airman 1st Class Jonathan Lucas of the California Air National Guard are serving six months in a fluorescent-lighted corridor at Los Angeles International Airport. Toting automatic weapons. And taking razors from businessmen. Providing a sobering, martial presence. And entertaining questions from grandmothers. Wondering how they will respond if the unpredictable should happen.
It’s a curious soldier’s life, and not just at their duty post. Along with about 180 other members of the Guard’s 146th Airlift Wing out of Pt. Mugu, Castro and Lucas are billeted through March like a couple of college roommates in an extended-stay hotel near the airport.
At the end of a 12-hour shift, they ride a shuttle from LAX to a nearby National Guard base, where they turn in their M-16 rifles. Then it’s on to the hotel, where they sleep. They wake up about 7 a.m., usually thinking of food.
Castro, 43, has the full waist of one who has packed his wife’s meals from home in the San Fernando Valley. Lucas, a slim and graceful 19, tends toward fast food. They often pull their meals in front of the TV to watch something like “The Drew Carey Show.”
As routinely as sentry duty, the phone rings every night. It’s Castro’s wife, Edith, calling from West Hills. Then his kids come on the line. “Hi, pretty girl,” he says one night to daughter Robin, 9. Then son Michael, 15: “Hey Little Big Man, how you doing?” Castro asks him. “You finished all your homework early? Even your math?”
Lucas goes into his room, where a surfboard leans in a corner. He pulls an ironing board and an iron from the closet. He works over his battle dress uniform until it’s perfect. Holding a cigarette lighter to the toes of his combat boots, he opens the pores in the leather. He rubs in polish and then dips a rag in water to get an ultra shine.
“People in the airport are walking up and checking you out,” Lucas explains. “I just feel better when my uniform looks great.”
After 24 years in the Guard, Castro sends his uniform to the cleaners. His boots get a few quick brush strokes.
With any spare time, Castro retires to his room to work on model airplanes. He is the manager of a model distributor’s warehouse in the Valley.
He has about 300 of his own at home. Since the call-up, he’s added two more: an F-86 and a P-38 Lightning with the markings of World War II ace Dick Bong. Castro once dreamed of being a pilot, but now expresses his love of airplanes through models.
On his days off, Lucas is likely to head for Santa Monica and a few hours at the beach. When he’s surfing, he’s less likely to worry about the semester he’s missing at Antelope Valley College or the time away from his job as an ice cream merchandiser.
When they’re off--for two or three days at a time--Castro returns to the Valley and his family and Lucas rejoins his parents in the Antelope Valley.
Both are searching for the personal meaning in a mission that has been criticized as window dressing.
“It’s an awkward feeling,” Lucas says. “I never pictured myself moving around an airport with an M-16.”
Once, he says, a woman approached and asked his age. “You’re just a kid, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re cute. Can I take you home?”
But other passengers tell him they feel safer seeing troops at the airport.
“That’s when I know I’m doing the right thing,” Lucas says.
“It’s not bad duty,” Castro tells himself and a visitor. “We’re still on the front line here.”
He says some of the younger Guard members are hoping they’ll be tested in action. He isn’t. He pictures the horror of rifle fire ricocheting off the hardened airport corridors. He worries that he will have to raise his weapon.
“Will I be ready for anything that comes up?” he asks. “Will I do the right thing?”
