Hot ‘N Bothered

credit: The US Army

Monsey isn’t exactly the hottest place on earth, but put on a three-piece G&G suit, woolen tzitzis, a long-sleeved button-down shirt, and a beaver hat, and boy-oh-boy, it gets hot in a hurry. Growing up it didn’t bother me much, it was what we were used to. In Yeshiva in Israel, I endured a sweltering summer in the standard-issue Chasidish uniform. Looking back, that turned out to be a good thing.

As I stepped out of the St. Louis airport into a heat index I’d never thought possible, I was glad I wasn’t wearing that get-up anymore. Until that day, a Chol Hamoed trip to Washington D.C. was the farthest south I’d ever been. Now I was on my way to start army boot camp in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, in the middle of June.

“GET ON THE BUS!” “HURRY UP!”

It was hot as hell. With all the yelling and running, I thought it must be exactly what the Jews felt like when they rushed out of Egypt.

Our first order of business was to get a buzz-cut, which I was used to as a Chasid and which wasn’t unwelcome in the oppressive heat. Just when we thought we were somewhat comfortable, it was time to put on our new uniforms: knee-high woolen socks, combat boots, cargo pants, jacket and hat. As excited as we were to wear them, they instantly added ten degrees. In boot camp everything is an emergency, and everywhere you go, you run. If you choose not to, you do so at your own peril. The sight and smell of sweat-soaked boots and uniforms became very familiar to us.

Lucky for me though, I grew comfortable wearing all those layers sooner than everyone else. While most of my companions were used to wearing only shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops, I‘d been wearing the full Chassidish regalia until fairly recently. Eventually we all acclimated, growing accustomed to wearing not only our uniforms, but body-armor, helmets and the weapon we would carry around at all times. I got so sun-tanned that to this day I’m mistaken for Puerto Rican.

This was all several years ago. I’ve since had the pleasure of experiencing extreme heat in “full-battle-rattle” all over the world. Sure, we bitch and moan about having to wear all that gear, but given the choice, I wouldn’t want to go to the places we go, and do the things we do, wearing anything less.

January 2010, in the dead of a southern winter, I was in the field with my unit “playing army” when a call came over the radio for me to report to HQ. I rushed over, having no clue what to expect, and the first words out of my commander’s mouth were: “What languages to you speak, Getzel?”

The Army pays me extra money for being proficient in Yiddish and Hebrew, and my superiors are aware of this, but obviously they weren’t clear on the details.

“Uh, Yiddish, Hebrew. Why, sir?”

“What’s Yiddish?”

“Uh, it’s kind of like German, with a little Heb—”

“So it’s not French?”

“No, sir, it’s not French.”

“Forget it then.”

At all times there is one unit in the army that’s on the president’s speed dial. If anything pops up anywhere in the world, they have to be “boots on the ground” within eighteen hours of the president’s command. Eighteen hours may sound like a lot, but that means from the moment the president issues the order, it has to pass down the chain of command, down to the lowest private on the list. Everyone has to grab their gear, assemble in the designated area, get on a plane, and get there — wherever “there” might be — all in under eighteen hours. This includes holidays, weekends, leave, pass, drunk, or any other excuse you may have. You miss the plane, you’re a deserter, and you don’t want to be a deserter.

To my luck, it was my unit’s turn to be on standby, and Haiti had just been hit by the largest earthquake in its recorded history, and guess who just dialed 9-1-1. We had to pack our stuff and race back to base because we were going to Haiti, and they were desperately trying to identify anyone who spoke French or Creole.

By the time we packed up our junk and drove back to base, there was a gamut of shots, pills, crash-courses and briefings waiting for us. We were told not to eat or drink anything not provided by the Army, to expect tropical hot and wet weather. Oh, and by the way, the HIV rate is 95%, so go ahead and take your chances.

When we got on the plane it was snowing and cold. Only a few short hours later we landed in Port Au Prince in the middle of the night, in near 100 degree heat. When the cargo doors opened it felt like a blow dryer was turned on in our faces. And the humidity! Within moments we were drenched in sweat. But there was no time to dwell on it. We set to unloading planes full of food and water, loading them up onto choppers, and flying around to designated areas to empty them. We did that for days without stopping. It was by far the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life, but also the most gratifying. Meanwhile, I got so sun-burnt I was peeling skin for weeks, lost a lot of weight and got to hang out and work with Sean Penn. In addition, I became the impromptu interpreter between the American and Israeli military and medical teams, and got to meet the Israeli ambassador to Haiti.

All the while we had to stay in our uniforms, fight for access to cold showers and eat space shuttle food and water only. I “borrowed” some Israeli cookies out of the ambassador’s car (stale), had some rice and beans with the Israeli medical team (bland), and tasted French military rations (not bad). For the most part, though, we starved.

The one good thing about the Middle Eastern desert, compared to Haiti, is that as soon as the sun goes down, the temperature goes down with it. Not so in Haiti. It was hot and humid 24/7, and, unlike in other places we deploy to, in Haiti we were highly visible. Usually, the farther you get from garrison life and the big-wigs, the less stringent the uniform standards become. Head-gear and jackets come off, T-shirts come untucked, pants cease to be tucked into boots and faces go unshaven. But in Haiti we were on display for the world media, plus we were surrounded by high-ranking types everywhere we went. We had to look the part at all times, no matter how uncomfortable we were.

One of the valuable lessons I learned in Haiti (besides that we Americans are unbelievably spoiled) was that humans are incredibly adaptable. We didn’t have AC in our truck or tents, we had awful food (and not much of it), and worked like slaves at all hours of the day and night. But no one complained, one look at the suffering of the Haitian people, and we felt privileged.

Sure, wearing 18th century Polish clothes in 21st century America is silly. Peltzes, shtreimelech, strukess, and shteevel — or, on the other side of the mechitzah, head-to-toe dresses and shpitzels — have all outlived their usefulness, much like the buggy-whip. But before you shed a tear for those poor shlubs, remember that just like anything else in life, you get used to it. For the most part, Chasidim don’t walk around wishing they could do away with the penguin suits. Just like nuns’ habits, priestly frocks, cowboy hats and bell-bottoms, they’re style choices that may look out-dated and goofy but they don’t hurt anyone. And as in the military, the farther away from the “home base” you get, the less careful you are about wearing every article of clothing as prescribed. Go to Miami Beach or Four Corners in South Fallsburg on a summer Motzei Shabbos, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

The main reason Chasidim still wear their garb, isn’t very different from why we in the military wear our uniform: instant identification. In the army, we need to instantly identify friend or foe, and it’s the reason the Marine Corps patented their camo pattern, the army forbids rolling up jacket sleeves, and why the Air Force and Navy have uniforms that wouldn’t fool a blind person. Chasidim, too, can spot each other a mile away. You could be going 75 miles per hour on the New York Thruway, and out of the corner of your eye you see a Honda Odyssey filled to the brim with little Chasidels. Once your eyes grow accustomed to a certain pattern, you become very good at picking them up.

So grab your gartel, grab your shirtzel, grab your skinny jeans and grab your ascot, and let’s hug it out, and sweat it out, together.

Tags: Air Force, army, featured, frocks, garb, habits, Haiti, Marine, Navy, soldier, uniform, Yiddish