tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76845319767782479602024-03-18T19:46:00.188-07:00Chant du DépartThe musings & rants of 3 retired military (2 USAF, 1 USN), 1 former WSO, and 1 AF brat. Old AF Sarge, Juvat, Tuna, LUSH, and Beans.OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.comBlogger4692125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-45095688680272961912024-03-18T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-18T06:29:20.683-07:00Tough Week<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Well folks, as the title says, it's been a tough week here at Rancho Juvat. Lots of balls in the air and lots of interference with keeping them <strike>their</strike> there (for Joe) by folks who should know better. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The last two weeks have been Spring Break for most Texas schools. That causes "The Burg" to get lots of tourists (and by lots, I mean lots and lots and lots, it can take ten minutes to cross Main Street in a vehicle. *)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But, it also means that money is coming into the town, which is a good thing. In our little neck of the woods, our two B and B's were reserved the entire period. Which is nice to see in the checking account balance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">However, just because this seems to be a small little town, it doesn't mean the rules of our society don't still apply. Jaywalking being one of them. Check out and Check in times are another. As I mentioned , our BnB's were reserved the entire period, with someone checking in about 4 hours after the prior guest checked out. The turn around requires some fairly precise timing and preparation. We had two incidents where without warning the prior guest was two hours late in leaving. Our cleaning crew got there on time and had to wait til the guests left. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Folks, they have other additional places to reset on their schedule. The world doesn't rotate around your anus. Play by the rules.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Did you know that not only do you get to rate a given BnB, but the BnB owners get to rate you? That data is available on both AirBnB and VRBO owner websites. Suffice it to say, those folks didn't get a good review. Those reviews might change places available to stay by you in the future. You're not the only person in the world, do better!<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Ok, got that off my chest. I feel much better now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On to other topics.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As some of you may remember LJW asked me to construct a Pikler Triangle for LJD a week or two ago. I have made some progress on that project. Not complete mind you, but getting there.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">First step was to get all my fecal matter together.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNcay5Jdlby65D1a2jz1V7JGep86gb9htP8HplGnTUIxf20BaU3hM0nHC3ozE36gQqCYORen1KSbj7K65VmMAPdwUdRZMqIyRbYf8Nkp82RTyu_JQHhLURRtjZ-YWpGVERp56NO2f7LKtuQsv0CdC2nd-1icEpNBrCUSUos6mOE8O5PWocfUpZsD8ZDJT/s768/IMG_6499.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwNcay5Jdlby65D1a2jz1V7JGep86gb9htP8HplGnTUIxf20BaU3hM0nHC3ozE36gQqCYORen1KSbj7K65VmMAPdwUdRZMqIyRbYf8Nkp82RTyu_JQHhLURRtjZ-YWpGVERp56NO2f7LKtuQsv0CdC2nd-1icEpNBrCUSUos6mOE8O5PWocfUpZsD8ZDJT/w480-h640/IMG_6499.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then temporarily put the pieces together so they'd have the same shape after sawing and sanding.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzOdxBGMLbY566fVaPf0jcruxGqErdP6S5ur3M69MwW3KmAxVF8gnDzW86Mi_mn-EdpfMIJFA5Ut-BHqz-Qz3xpLW9zrISlKO23sIJGgWAe_UJaKD8m-I2l7QR6jQs_BEbNQyfmDhAlsRbHbrJbhJE61pt56l7Y31BU__1nCvTEYwUmC6yQ9LGCKk5HVK/s1024/IMG_6502.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhzOdxBGMLbY566fVaPf0jcruxGqErdP6S5ur3M69MwW3KmAxVF8gnDzW86Mi_mn-EdpfMIJFA5Ut-BHqz-Qz3xpLW9zrISlKO23sIJGgWAe_UJaKD8m-I2l7QR6jQs_BEbNQyfmDhAlsRbHbrJbhJE61pt56l7Y31BU__1nCvTEYwUmC6yQ9LGCKk5HVK/w640-h480/IMG_6502.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Got the holes for the crosspieces (steps) drilled. Hardest part was getting the Drill Press set up for the precise depth to drill. Went through quite a few scrap pieces of 2 x 4 before getting it right.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzitWjqp-hDLOtpvnpzmoEMo6lGlcUpO4M-hV9RttlaeewKKAtlzlY_AcPl-LHRKBli_2On3X6ytfM98-5VKUYk65qMMRErmITyLobnQLas5bnf6BNOsyNN1mlqP1LJ6XsQcJXZ7wsXh4PzaHaHRczHNd6kjXJedXcSwLAACLg6GtwFkkpzGjzblbUtKI/s1024/IMG_6512.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzitWjqp-hDLOtpvnpzmoEMo6lGlcUpO4M-hV9RttlaeewKKAtlzlY_AcPl-LHRKBli_2On3X6ytfM98-5VKUYk65qMMRErmITyLobnQLas5bnf6BNOsyNN1mlqP1LJ6XsQcJXZ7wsXh4PzaHaHRczHNd6kjXJedXcSwLAACLg6GtwFkkpzGjzblbUtKI/w640-h480/IMG_6512.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Because I didn't want accidentally get different color paint transferred from one to another connected (it's going to be Maroon and White, all my offspring, their spouses and almost certainly their kids did or will attend Texas A&M-Whoop!.), so I painted the parts separately.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqvbNdVDDTjkzxvV8yRdOcSzWurTayelOaaGiGDicECsWPIq21WMbpOJkDizFydR8A9KKCiyTnt_h1WW2zhJ1ZPIOJi1SPuBDpQ2Xaq6HdGA1dZd93O6TsMZ6PnkSh-dIzezOuULNSAA8tF_APcl-lKAxTCs4i3j6hm3nJ7oUTgBU48RKmmqwmpEoX7Ka/s1024/IMG_6517.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqvbNdVDDTjkzxvV8yRdOcSzWurTayelOaaGiGDicECsWPIq21WMbpOJkDizFydR8A9KKCiyTnt_h1WW2zhJ1ZPIOJi1SPuBDpQ2Xaq6HdGA1dZd93O6TsMZ6PnkSh-dIzezOuULNSAA8tF_APcl-lKAxTCs4i3j6hm3nJ7oUTgBU48RKmmqwmpEoX7Ka/w640-h480/IMG_6517.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That's about where I ran out of time. But, I am ready for final assembly however.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thankfully, the ultimate recipient does seem rather enthused.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_3_0JyTnSYyF75DyKQUyIHjHDzXhaDn-Jn0f3pQEgtxKZkdBmkCewOovl3cOPSWrGwUcur1413Ncp6B02LB2ZnrLH5nZa8pj9AhtlpFosg6C1qKMncDpDtCuRhbRzykcGuymp7775lBwvrZGqoyBSRBG5yC4TZyF3ChBTXy1CPDMAg_Nf0OXnCu_bBoJ/s768/IMG_6520.JPG" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj_3_0JyTnSYyF75DyKQUyIHjHDzXhaDn-Jn0f3pQEgtxKZkdBmkCewOovl3cOPSWrGwUcur1413Ncp6B02LB2ZnrLH5nZa8pj9AhtlpFosg6C1qKMncDpDtCuRhbRzykcGuymp7775lBwvrZGqoyBSRBG5yC4TZyF3ChBTXy1CPDMAg_Nf0OXnCu_bBoJ/w480-h640/IMG_6520.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hey! Being cool is not a part time job!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On the other major item in my life, we had a bit of a scare yesterday. Mrs. J woke up saying her hand hurt really bad. We took a look and it was badly swollen. She had just completed her last round of Chemo infusion (she still has two weeks of chemo pills) this past week. She thought it was because she'd slept on it wrong. Not being a Doctor nor having played one on TV, and not knowing if it was or was not cancer related, I convinced her to visit the ER. So off we go. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The staff was very supportive and knew their jobs, it took a couple of hours, but none of the tests came back cancer related (Thank You Lord!). They gave her some anti-inflammatory and pain killer prescriptions which we filled and headed home. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For some reason, she took a long nap this afternoon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I sincerely hope next week isn't quite as rocky as this one was. I don't have enough hair to let any of it go gray!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Peace out, y'all.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">* Main Street is part of US87/US290, both are important trucking routes. Jaywalking is not encouraged as the trucks have places to be and can't really stop on a dime. Just sayin'<br /></span></p>juvathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09096708575138552532noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-8257986679958230012024-03-17T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-17T02:00:00.128-07:00It's Sunday, Relax ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KD4vEkQuGBW4QZ357Fs8d9Edga6YbeiFd15ie6TR8USa6cLcnmcOQur8sUBq1FpWXoY8zmmuo7zoyHuN3NrfcE-68hyphenhyphenyOlDwEoeOUxQ5Gub_KxNh35cLWNe2dxNVKBl1BtDbBceAdXD5HBhBtNfB47HkDhOy_F9il-irPIUU9uK-vFzVzIdfJp3cpFYb/s954/CaptJoseSarduy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KD4vEkQuGBW4QZ357Fs8d9Edga6YbeiFd15ie6TR8USa6cLcnmcOQur8sUBq1FpWXoY8zmmuo7zoyHuN3NrfcE-68hyphenhyphenyOlDwEoeOUxQ5Gub_KxNh35cLWNe2dxNVKBl1BtDbBceAdXD5HBhBtNfB47HkDhOy_F9il-irPIUU9uK-vFzVzIdfJp3cpFYb/s16000/CaptJoseSarduy.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=10157122310404670&set=a.10157097933214670"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a> - Official <a href="https://josesarduy.com/Jose_Sarduy_Bio.html"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Website</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>A friend of mine posted this bit over on the Book of Faces, this guy is hysterically funny, at least I think so. Air Force Academy grad, cargo/transport pilot and one of the funniest guys I've ever heard.<div><br /></div><div>Sit back, relax, and enjoy. <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="712" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/q5fcapxVOnw" width="1100"></iframe><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Check out his other stuff over on the Tube of You, guy is funny. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">See you on Tuesday, not sure if I'm continuing the von Lüttwitz Cold War story right away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Being creative is hard.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At least I think so.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Tip of the hat to Fuzzybear Lioness!</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-70078845439549979542024-03-16T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-16T02:00:00.132-07:00The Border<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4kTYRYmb4I_3RZdaUI_-swlDXtP5XAjg2NDzv1Cbl4WPhj58jnJ37gDGT_H_rMbJA7uOpLJy-EyOyINK6gZ4H_1UG-w-1k98f3GRyGKzaGgcJjJ8zQvjJNYaaFG1q2qA3zv05UZHd7IyBBPjvudiNJmC7qVaS0E8kXns3U49XiIaLuXxzqUNZfgEcSox/s1098/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-S88411,_Marienborn,_Illegale_Grenzg%C3%A4nger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4kTYRYmb4I_3RZdaUI_-swlDXtP5XAjg2NDzv1Cbl4WPhj58jnJ37gDGT_H_rMbJA7uOpLJy-EyOyINK6gZ4H_1UG-w-1k98f3GRyGKzaGgcJjJ8zQvjJNYaaFG1q2qA3zv05UZHd7IyBBPjvudiNJmC7qVaS0E8kXns3U49XiIaLuXxzqUNZfgEcSox/s16000/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-S88411,_Marienborn,_Illegale_Grenzg%C3%A4nger.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bundesarchiv</i><br />(<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Development_of_the_inner_German_border#/media/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-S88411,_Marienborn,_Illegale_Grenzg%C3%A4nger.jpg"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>The two men ate quickly, Herbert making the excuse that they had to get back to the farm before sundown.<div><br /></div><div>"Ah, afraid of the patrols, are you?" Rudel scoffed.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, <i>Herr </i>Rudel, afraid of stumbling in the dark and breaking my only leg. Now, if you will excuse us? <i>Danke</i>,<i> Frau</i> Rudel, the food was excellent. My cousin and I must be off." Herbert stood up, getting his crutches under him, he made for the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rudel grabbed von Lüttwitz's arm, "Remember <i>Junge</i>, I can help."</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz shook himself free of Rudel's grasp, "I am no man of influence, but I can pass your name along."</div><div><br /></div><div>At that, Rudel's face went pale, "Not really necessary, just, well, if you know someone."</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz turned to look at Rudel, with a look that froze Rudel's blood, "Like I said, I shall make inquiries, if you might prove useful, someone may, or may not, contact you. But we were never here, and you never saw me. Is that clear?"</div><div><br /></div><div>He had barked that in a voice he hadn't used since he'd commanded a battalion. Rudel snapped his heels together and gave a short bow, "<i>Jawohl, Herr Major! Zu befehl!</i>"</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s659/__divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s320/__divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>When they were out of earshot, Jürgen turned to his cousin, "Well, for all his bluster and self-importance the man was, at some time, a soldier. Did you see him snap to?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Herbert chuckled, "From what I understand, <i>Herr </i>Rudel was a supply sergeant, a good one mind you, but not a fighting soldier. Do you really think he knew <span lang="de" style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Hauptwachtmeister der VP</i></span></span><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"> Keller's father?"</span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">"I'm sure he did, dropping the names of senior police officials is not a healthy practice here in the East."</span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">"What is this <i>Gehlen Organization </i>he mentioned?"</span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">"An organization one does not mention, here or in the West. Very secretive they are, and they wish to remain that way. If you have further conversation with <i>Herr </i>Rudel, tell him to mind his manners when he speaks of things the <i>Stasi</i>¹ would be very interested in."</span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">Herbert visibly shuddered at the mention of the <i>Stasi</i>, 'Real bastards that lot, they'd inform on their own parents. Rumor has it that some of them have."</span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">Jürgen shook his head, "Enough of that, it's too nice a day to trouble our thoughts with such things. We're almost to your farm."</span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s659/__divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s320/__divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you sure you won't stay the night, Jürgen?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm afraid I cannot, <i>Tante</i>² Elsbeth. I've spent too much time here already."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, you're in luck then, <i>Junge</i>. That train you boys saw in Dresden? It's been delayed, some big shot from Berlin wants to see them set up the checkpoint. Of course, <i>die Bonzen</i>³ can't be bothered to be on time. So the train, and the troops, sit at the siding and wait. So you can go back via <i>Bayern,</i>" the elder Lüttwitz explained.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Still a long haul, must be 150 kilometers." Jürgen said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Closer to 170 if you go with my friend Wittelsbach."</div><div><br /></div><div>Jürgen looked closely at his uncle, "There are already far too many people who know I'm here, <i>Onkel</i>⁴ Kurt."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nonsense<i> Junge</i>, Wittelsbach has a trucking company, he runs goods down to the border every day. I have already arranged it, he should be here any minute."</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz would have to report all of this upon his return, if he returned. The country people tended to believe that politics was for the city and that the authorities would leave them alone. They all seemed rather lackadaisical concerning the new regime in the DDR.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before he could say another word, everyone turned as a heavy vehicle pulled up outside near the gate. Von Lüttwitz half-expected to hear the crash of a tailgate followed by the crunch of hobnail boots and the shouting of sergeants. He was relieved to hear instead ...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Lüttwitz, you old bastard! Why aren't you in the fields where you belong?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The elder Lüttwitz got to his feet, laughing, "That would be Wittelsbach. Wait here Jürgen."</div><div><i></i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s659/__divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s320/__divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Some hours later the truck carrying von Lüttwitz and a load of potatoes for the Red Army pulled over at a wide spot in the road deep in the forest.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm afraid you'll have to walk from here, Jürgen. The village of Föhrig is roughly two and a half kilometers from here, due west. If you pay attention, you might see the old stone border markers which marked the boundary between the Kingdoms of <i>Sachsen</i> and <i>Bayern</i>. Not a word of this to anyone, <i>ja</i>? My job is hauling produce, not spies."</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz did a double take at the word "spies."</div><div><br /></div><div>Wittelsbach grinned, "Who else would go traipsing through the forest to cross the border. If you're not a spy, then you must be a smuggler. If that's the case, look me up next time you're in <i>Sachsen</i>, I'm not averse to making a few extra marks!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Wittelsbach then thrust his hand out, which von Lüttwitz took.</div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>Geh mit Gott</i>, <i>Hals und Beinbruch</i>!⁵"</div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>Danke, Herr Wittelsbach, gleichfalls</i>⁶!</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s659/__divider.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41mK4bgjfPSncTf_Om2YZjQDluFZ7i4QWuEslgBJCvHavWJ8jCITBvcQTerfpZFxO8rHl1HFzJcZRbHHwFVpslQxY1E3o0lpx4pgpJma6rJhd-EHMPJYWGKeebCSzY2TFc15qwsjUQehyphenhyphen_M-79FrpVFBvOYeqs1KHVnIj0GSmhAkJeUJyeTOuCXjW1TKY/s320/__divider.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Föhrig was small, but it had a post office, which had a phone. After calling his superiors, von Lüttwitz repaired to the local pub. The proprietor, used to seeing all sorts of odd things near the inter-German border didn't blink an eye at Von Lüttwitz's torn trousers and badly scuffed shoes.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Beer?" he asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz nodded, "<i>Danke.</i>"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Next time maybe dress like a laborer, you'll blend in better over there."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," von Lüttwitz protested.</div><div><br /></div><div>Laughing, the proprietor walked to the other end of the bar to serve one of the locals, "I was born in the morning, <i>Junge</i>, but it wasn't this morning!"</div><div><br /></div><div>As he drank his beer and waited for his ride, von Lüttwitz realized that the man had a point. He'd put that in his report as well!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stasi"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Stasi</span></b></a> = Staatsicherheit, the Ministry for State Security. A very dangerous east German organization.</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>² Aunt</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>³ Big shots</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>⁴ Uncle</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>⁵ Go with God, break a leg</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>⁶ The same to you!</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-36984965377224666692024-03-15T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-15T02:00:00.140-07:00The Businessman<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdzqHXHMe8eobY_64IMELV0_WFkLdg30p_ip-ilX372WQi2mVb4wF5rYmUUaeHRzJXP_DrPBsvH0vgbN1GDvtaYTTavu_Lg33lEFFJgV1tiZduh0uPy6Qv56ynMbqPn8JFyHvkG_ylQ-3LaxGgCtqnDsttHM70BN4hxWQTBU-AgL3EoEc4DC9YVAemPIc/s1098/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-N0415-365,_Grenze_zwischen_Th%C3%BCringen_und_Bayern_bei_Asbach.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdzqHXHMe8eobY_64IMELV0_WFkLdg30p_ip-ilX372WQi2mVb4wF5rYmUUaeHRzJXP_DrPBsvH0vgbN1GDvtaYTTavu_Lg33lEFFJgV1tiZduh0uPy6Qv56ynMbqPn8JFyHvkG_ylQ-3LaxGgCtqnDsttHM70BN4hxWQTBU-AgL3EoEc4DC9YVAemPIc/s16000/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-N0415-365,_Grenze_zwischen_Th%C3%BCringen_und_Bayern_bei_Asbach.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The border before fortification: inter-zonal barrier near Asbach in Thuringia, 1950.</span><br /><i>Bundesarchiv</i><br />(<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Development_of_the_inner_German_border#/media/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-N0415-365,_Grenze_zwischen_Th%C3%BCringen_und_Bayern_bei_Asbach.jpg"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>As they got off the train, von Lüttwitz noticed another train on a siding. It was familiar to him as he had ridden a number of troop trains during the war. This one was carrying soldiers, German and Soviet, and had a number of flat cars loaded with materials. The sort of materials combat engineers used to put up fortifications and barriers.<div><br /></div><div>He said nothing to his cousin, but he noticed that the train had not gone unnoticed by Herbert. In town they discovered that the buses weren't running that day, so they would be walking the five kilometers out to the farm.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jürgen was concerned for his one-legged cousin, but he'd noticed over the past few days that the man had almost no problems with mobility.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Any problems, Herbert?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Heh, I lost my leg almost ten years ago. I've gotten pretty good at getting around with these crutches. Great upper body workout, you know?" Herbert winked at Jürgen when he said that.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">When they were well on the road and clear of the town, Jürgen brought up the topic of the troop train.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I saw it," Herbert shook his head, "I'm afraid it confirms the rumors we've been hearing. People are not happy under the Soviets and their German lackeys. Thousands are fleeing and it's causing lots of problems with the Soviet drive to get us up and running again."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"How does a troop train confirm those rumors?" Jürgen asked, knowing the answer.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"That siding is off the main line for <i>Bayern</i>,¹ no one is fleeing to Czechoslovakia, people want to get away from the <i>verdammte Russen</i>.² Where would you block the routes west from <i>Sachsen</i>³?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jürgen nodded, then said, "And that presents a problem for me."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"How so?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I took the long way in, through <i>Thüringen</i>⁴, I had hoped to get out over the border into <i>Bayern</i>. But if those troops are heading that way, I'll need to go back out through <i>Thüringen</i>, which might take a few days to set up."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"You can stay with us, that's not a problem."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I need access to a telephone, one that I can be sure isn't being monitored too closely. You don't have one, I noticed."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Old man Rudel has a phone, he's a man my Father has done business with for years. Any excess crops we produce, he buys. He's trustworthy, he hates the Russians, lost two sons in Russia."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Well then, when we get back to ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"His house is on the way, we can stop ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jürgen interrupted his cousin, "Let's play this by ear, Herbert. We'll see when we get there."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIMEorcdkJxs_LaOjMz2QsmAp7D7E8_hq0AfFQjJ27vrRiStXFfDRz5pex_1BXL56iT86j7k4p4dqIpJIcvrgy2nbi35IKqR1p9_XI38AbQeCjl88_dySMOwPue0skU0_XcGuSUATdbPvQ6IzcXPvgJrTXPeEf749HutU0gyfGnoZKePp9pRoCoiNCFGi/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIMEorcdkJxs_LaOjMz2QsmAp7D7E8_hq0AfFQjJ27vrRiStXFfDRz5pex_1BXL56iT86j7k4p4dqIpJIcvrgy2nbi35IKqR1p9_XI38AbQeCjl88_dySMOwPue0skU0_XcGuSUATdbPvQ6IzcXPvgJrTXPeEf749HutU0gyfGnoZKePp9pRoCoiNCFGi/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz was concerned, to say the least. He had agreed to this mission thinking that if he could keep the people who knew he was in the East to the bare minimum, there would be less risk. He trusted his uncle and his family, he trusted Klaus-Peter Keller. But this Rudel fellow was a different thing altogether.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"That's Rudel's place, just ahead." Herbert said, pointing at a neat set of buildings alongside the road.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jürgen took his cousin's arm and said, "Hold up. What unit were his son's in?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Herbert looked puzzled, "The 223rd, same as us. Different regiment, I think they were in the same regiment and battalion, different companies though."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Both of his sons were killed in action?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"No, both went missing in the Third Battle of Kharkov, presumed captured or dead."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"So they might still be alive?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Anything's possible, but how many men have come back from the East?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I met one the other day, he ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Was he an official of some sort?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yeah, for the bus line but ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I'm betting he was a Red before the war. The Russians let their own go home first. From what I understand, they're still holding thousands of our boys in Siberia."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jürgen simply nodded, his cousin had a point. Being somewhat well-dressed, it's possible that the bus official had determined that Jürgen might be a Red. He could use that, if he had to. Something to look into when he returned to the West.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Nodding at his cousin, Jürgen said, "Let's stop in and say hello to <i>Herr </i>Rudel."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIMEorcdkJxs_LaOjMz2QsmAp7D7E8_hq0AfFQjJ27vrRiStXFfDRz5pex_1BXL56iT86j7k4p4dqIpJIcvrgy2nbi35IKqR1p9_XI38AbQeCjl88_dySMOwPue0skU0_XcGuSUATdbPvQ6IzcXPvgJrTXPeEf749HutU0gyfGnoZKePp9pRoCoiNCFGi/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIMEorcdkJxs_LaOjMz2QsmAp7D7E8_hq0AfFQjJ27vrRiStXFfDRz5pex_1BXL56iT86j7k4p4dqIpJIcvrgy2nbi35IKqR1p9_XI38AbQeCjl88_dySMOwPue0skU0_XcGuSUATdbPvQ6IzcXPvgJrTXPeEf749HutU0gyfGnoZKePp9pRoCoiNCFGi/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<i>Herr </i>Rudel!" Herbert shouted as they walked through the gate, "Are you home?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">From one of the outbuildings a graying older man stepped into the sunshine, "Young von Lüttwitz, is that you?" He was wiping oil from his hands with an old rag as he spoke.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes Sir, and this is my cousin, Jürgen. You know we're not supposed to use the 'von' anymore, right?" Herbert said as Rudel grasped Jürgen's hand.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Bah! Pleasure to meet you Jürgen, you have the look of a soldier about you. You're not 'the' Jürgen von Lüttwitz are you? Knight's Cross, <i>Landser</i> to <i>Major</i>, the tiger of Saxony, that von Lüttwitz?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jürgen was blushing, his face felt like it was on fire. "I don't know about all that Sir, but yes, I guess I am that von Lüttwitz."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Come in, come in. Wilhelmina! Break out the schnapps, we have a war hero visiting us!"<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<i>Herr </i>Rudel, you shouldn't shout so ..." Herbert began.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Nonsense boy, any man who served with my boys is a hero!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I was in a different regiment, Sir, I ..." Jürgen began, only to be cut off.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Were you at Third Kharkov?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes Sir, but ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"That's enough, that's where those Red bastards killed my boys."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Frau</i> Rudel rescued von Lüttwitz, "Now, now, Papa, hush and go inside. These boys look hungry."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Turning to von Lüttwitz she said, "You look like your father."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"You knew him?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes, before the war."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That gave von Lüttwitz pause, she noticed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"The first war, the Kaiser's war, not that filthy man Hitler's war. Are you boys hungry? I have a pot of <span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leipziger_Allerlei"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Leipziger Allerlei</span></b></a></i> ready, Papa and I were just going to eat, there's plenty."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">"Does it have crab?" Herbert asked.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">"Of course it does. Come inside."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><i>Herr </i>Rudel said, "In a moment Mama, you and Herbert go ahead, I need to talk with <i>Herr </i>von Lüttwitz, won't be but a moment."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">After the two went inside, Rudel turned to von Lüttwitz and said, "We have a mutual acquaintance in Dresden."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">Seeing </span><span style="background-color: white;">von Lüttwitz's raised eyebrow, Rudel continued, "Klaus-Peter Keller, I served with his father in the first war, the Kaiser's War as Mama calls it."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">"I see ..."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">"I'm sure you don't, but as a businessman, I have many contacts throughout <i>Sachsen</i> and <i>Thüringen</i>. </span><span lang="de" style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Hauptwachtmeister der VP</i></span></span>⁵<span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"> Keller said to give you this, should you pass this way. He was sure you would."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="de" style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="de" style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rudel removed a small packet of documents from his coat pocket and handed it to von Lüttwitz.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; text-align: center;">Von Lüttwitz gave them a quick glance and then put them away.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: #f7f8ff; color: #202122; text-align: center;">"Where did you get these? These are worth a fortune."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The documents now in von Lüttwitz's pocket were blank identity papers, East German identity papers.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Rudel looked von Lüttwitz in the eye, "Klaus-Peter has contacts in Berlin, former soldiers and the like who found work with the Soviets and the new government. For certain considerations they can provide other things. Things of value that I'm sure the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gehlen_Organization"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Gehlen Organization</span></b></a> could make good use of, for certain considerations I can get such things to the west."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"For money," von Lüttwitz stated flatly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I'm a businessman, but I'm also a patriot. I can get things to the West, for a price, I can bring things into the East for my Fatherland."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I can't promise anything."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I know, now come on, let's eat."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ Bavaria</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>² Damned Russians.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>³ Saxony</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>⁴ Thuringia</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>⁵ Chief Constable of the People's Police (Volkspolizei)</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-74723185115631189702024-03-14T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-14T02:00:00.145-07:00The City<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87RG-uM6QoPKHaXsTPxfnKqsde2J_DUuow6i9oWxu8jyGen2OvilBH4zXpzlYOXtTcsetzFAImJ31KwusBAp5ZCFl3_DaIODgiHgUwd-KFy5QgipZmXujR8WLugEVjbDAie2sguKiHyrtgfXu3L_R8Au1cg25HdCwX-fje_KJXjLaBk0BgkYCH8LsWtdS/s1080/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-60015-0002,_Dresden,_Denkmal_Martin_Luther,_Frauenkirche,_Ruine.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87RG-uM6QoPKHaXsTPxfnKqsde2J_DUuow6i9oWxu8jyGen2OvilBH4zXpzlYOXtTcsetzFAImJ31KwusBAp5ZCFl3_DaIODgiHgUwd-KFy5QgipZmXujR8WLugEVjbDAie2sguKiHyrtgfXu3L_R8Au1cg25HdCwX-fje_KJXjLaBk0BgkYCH8LsWtdS/s16000/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-60015-0002,_Dresden,_Denkmal_Martin_Luther,_Frauenkirche,_Ruine.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The re-erected Luther monument and the ruins of the Frauenkirche, 1958</span><br /><i>Bundesarchiv</i><br />(<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-60015-0002,_Dresden,_Denkmal_Martin_Luther,_Frauenkirche,_Ruine.jpg#/media/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-60015-0002,_Dresden,_Denkmal_Martin_Luther,_Frauenkirche,_Ruine.jpg"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>Von Lüttwitz and his cousin Herbert caught the train to Dresden, though it was only 20 kilometers from the family farm, his uncle had said that the trains were more reliable than the buses.<div><br /></div><div>"You could go days without seeing a bus, whereas the trains are running fairly regularly. There's talk of requiring travel papers in the near future, but so far we can come and go as we please." The elder Lüttwitz had explained all this the evening before.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the train entered the outskirts of Dresden, von Lüttwitz was surprised at the amount of destruction remaining from the war. He turned to his cousin with a quizzical look.</div><div><br /></div><div>"The State is concentrating their efforts on rebuilding factories, the cleanup is taking longer than expected because of that. But we can talk about that later."</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz noticed how Herbert kept shifting his eyes around to make sure no one was overhearing them. He decided that he should be a bit more circumspect about the questions he asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>After they left the train, it was a short walk to the small café which von Lüttwitz had been tasked with visiting. He mentioned nothing of this to Herbert though, he just said he knew of the place and was it still around.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, they just reopened in January. I'm not sure what happened to the old owner but the place seems much like it was before the war."</div><div><br /></div><div>After they ordered coffee, the two men sat at a small table all the way in the back.</div><div><br /></div><div>"There are better tables ..." Herbert had begun, but Jürgen shook his head and nodded towards the rear. Herbert followed without another word.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGyco99ukX1NAkTvDywuOhxAPREt02gDWo4nJkNjzZmuCNfAnAvw9KaMjtRHeiyZUHeZPc8IFAhFtafmZxpU2VvywUToOJ4t7AhqZjWYA8KENJDyrkHoakSh3Tm6Qh_Y87zHQtNVr29ZS69IdkmthLKBiGnt6ySLW5cZHXuBfZS4-XQedCHgeJVXsI_q5/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGyco99ukX1NAkTvDywuOhxAPREt02gDWo4nJkNjzZmuCNfAnAvw9KaMjtRHeiyZUHeZPc8IFAhFtafmZxpU2VvywUToOJ4t7AhqZjWYA8KENJDyrkHoakSh3Tm6Qh_Y87zHQtNVr29ZS69IdkmthLKBiGnt6ySLW5cZHXuBfZS4-XQedCHgeJVXsI_q5/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>After they had seated themselves, the man working in the café, turns out it was the proprietor, came to their table and asked if they'd like to see a menu.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, thank you. Just coffee. With cream, if you don't mind?" Jürgen said to the man.</div><div><br /></div><div>Herbert thought it odd that Jürgen would ask the man if it was all right to have cream with his coffee, that seemed like a normal request.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Cousin, we're in farm country, of course there is cream ..."</div><div><br /></div><div>Jürgen shook his head and pointed, two policemen had just entered the café. They immediately came to the rear of the café, straight to where the two cousins were sitting.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Your papers, please." said the older of the two men. Jürgen was shocked, he knew the man, knew him well.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Klaus-Peter? Is it really you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Klaus-Peter Keller, who had been Jürgen's first sergeant during the war, smiled.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I didn't think you'd recognize me, <i>Herr Major</i>."</div><div><br /></div><div>"The police uniform doesn't suit you."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I have a family to feed." Keller chuckled then turned to the other policeman, "Hans, why don't you go down the street and check that Ackermann isn't watering down his schnapps,. I need to talk with this fellow, we were in the army together."</div><div><br /></div><div>Hans Winkelmann nodded and turned to go. Jürgen raised an eyebrow as if to ask Keller if the man could be trusted.</div><div><br /></div><div>"He's all of 18 years old. I knew his father in France, 1940. He's a good kid, I got him this job."</div><div><br /></div><div>"But you're a cop, in the East?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"The Russians are a pain in the arse, yes, but they're people. Just avoid their stinking commissars and some of the junior officers. Did you bring something for me?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Herbert Lüttwitz was a bit disconcerted that the two army comrades were ignoring him. Jürgen noticed and said to him, "Herbert, this was my <i>Spieß</i> from when I had my company and on to having my own battalion. I'd trust him with my life."</div><div><br /></div><div>Keller looked at the younger Lüttwitz, "If you ever need anything <i>Junge</i>, contact me." Then handed him a small printed calling card.</div><div><br /></div><div>Herbert nodded, "I will. <i>Danke</i>."</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, <i>Herr Major</i>, I believe you have something for me?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz pulled a pencil and a scrap of paper out of his coat pocket, then scribbled something on the paper. "Call that number, at any time of day or night. Someone will answer and give you another number. Call that number. Whoever answers can help you get what you need and will take any information you might be able to provide. Are you sure you're willing to take this risk, <i>Spieß</i>?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"How long do I need to do this?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"As long as you want, if you want out, we can get you over into the West in a week or so, any family included, up to five people."</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's that easy?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"It is now. Our informants in Berlin tell us that the Soviets are talking about tightening up the border. Barbed wire, mines, sentries with dogs, everything, getting over the border will get much harder and soon from what we're hearing."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'll keep that in mind, thank you Sir. I owe you for this."</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, you don't Hans-Peter, you earned this during the war. Just be careful."</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGyco99ukX1NAkTvDywuOhxAPREt02gDWo4nJkNjzZmuCNfAnAvw9KaMjtRHeiyZUHeZPc8IFAhFtafmZxpU2VvywUToOJ4t7AhqZjWYA8KENJDyrkHoakSh3Tm6Qh_Y87zHQtNVr29ZS69IdkmthLKBiGnt6ySLW5cZHXuBfZS4-XQedCHgeJVXsI_q5/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGyco99ukX1NAkTvDywuOhxAPREt02gDWo4nJkNjzZmuCNfAnAvw9KaMjtRHeiyZUHeZPc8IFAhFtafmZxpU2VvywUToOJ4t7AhqZjWYA8KENJDyrkHoakSh3Tm6Qh_Y87zHQtNVr29ZS69IdkmthLKBiGnt6ySLW5cZHXuBfZS4-XQedCHgeJVXsI_q5/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>As the two cousins headed back to the train station, Herbert was still flabbergasted at what had happened. "How, what ... I don't know where to begin."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Best you say nothing, Herbert. That was government business.'</div><div><br /></div><div>"You're with the government in the West? You work for Bonn?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Not exactly, I'm back in the army."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Really, the army? Are you a <i>Major</i> again?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No lad, I got promoted. But don't tell your father, or anyone else for that matter. The fewer who know, the better."</div><div><br /></div><div>"But why tell me?" Herbert protested.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We may not have served together, but we wore the same uniform and we share the same blood. How could I not tell you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Herbert thought about this moment a lot in the months to come. He understood now why his cousin was such an effective leader. For now he simply looked at his elder cousin and said, "<i>Danke</i>, that means a lot to me, Jürgen."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><p><br /></p></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-18457632901297178772024-03-13T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-13T02:00:00.135-07:00A Pause in the Action ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFS8eZpfe1OnV4C6EEkJkSKscNcGhzdZMRj6muNAQLS_5ymCt02f41RpEEAHdzzKiTWdNqt0JO2sPFjhSm9-cJc_QBeJLo30xM-n-Mpybea_T3nYA_YaFAv3TtsCt8_ESOGVjyece7TdgdIKwOWb9yqFek7h4cpbpnOVA8tOsmUcXx0uPsYp8JoBcr8t2g/s1098/Succulents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFS8eZpfe1OnV4C6EEkJkSKscNcGhzdZMRj6muNAQLS_5ymCt02f41RpEEAHdzzKiTWdNqt0JO2sPFjhSm9-cJc_QBeJLo30xM-n-Mpybea_T3nYA_YaFAv3TtsCt8_ESOGVjyece7TdgdIKwOWb9yqFek7h4cpbpnOVA8tOsmUcXx0uPsYp8JoBcr8t2g/s16000/Succulents.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OAFS Photo</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Okay, once again Daylight Saving Time has left me tired and crabby (almost said "cranky," don't wanna set <a href="https://joeh-crankyoldman.blogspot.com/"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Joe</span></b></a> off, you know how, well, cranky he gets). But yeah, we sprang ahead Sunday in the wee hours. (Not me, I reset my analog watch at 22:00, suddenly it's 23:00, time travel is exhausting.)<div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo, it takes longer for me to adjust to this crap every year, but once I'm retired, who needs a clock? Then Uncle Sam can fuss with the clocks all he wants. I'll just roll over and go back to sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>So yeah, Jürgen is stuck in the East with his one-legged cousin Herbert, sitting at a back table in a small café in Dresden waiting for ...</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know yet. Might be cloak and dagger stuff, might be something completely innocent. The Muse has yet to reveal her plan as of yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>So in the meantime, check out those plants above (<i>The Missus Herself </i>cultivates them, I just admire then). I really like them, good thing, the manse is inundated with 'em!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalDDxy5qogvoiwxB_Ni9MEKmihO1OLlEwLno6DeYyqRVgYhYqD0_5IxtBmEXixWw15lLDDfRqp7QockN9l0q1G6Md3o7tjZFMkuH_fwW0HMqw6XM767BgnHcsECpkDNeSfeElDquQMUMiI7xq0B1BvrA6Jtk59Y2aEoE-49_xvsFRuEjOxOnG-CvEbozT/s750/TheArmageddonFile_SCoonts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalDDxy5qogvoiwxB_Ni9MEKmihO1OLlEwLno6DeYyqRVgYhYqD0_5IxtBmEXixWw15lLDDfRqp7QockN9l0q1G6Md3o7tjZFMkuH_fwW0HMqw6XM767BgnHcsECpkDNeSfeElDquQMUMiI7xq0B1BvrA6Jtk59Y2aEoE-49_xvsFRuEjOxOnG-CvEbozT/s16000/TheArmageddonFile_SCoonts.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1621576590?psc=1&ref=ppx_yo2ov_dt_b_product_details"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>That book above is my current read, hard to put down. It's contributing to my tiredness as I keep glancing at my watch in the night hours and saying, "Just one more chapter, I can still get ..."</div><div><br /></div><div>8 ...</div><div><br /></div><div>7 ...</div><div><br /></div><div>6 ...</div><div><br /></div><div>5 hours of sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, time to put it down and go to bed. The next morning I ask myself. "Why?"</div><div><br /></div><div>And the answer is always, "Why not?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Be seeing you, gotta book to finish reading!<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-26564965365904842032024-03-12T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-12T06:02:41.685-07:00The Farm<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipdiMvcLU8nUUrvGPm30hTAx3YnQog3Sg2i9wmlzm0H0kdlxntfRp0s9hr5IkPv0Gm8MR_roevWLALxESemlwvQQriyjXF53sKmgP4-yrZFs96quGS7JTy0B0Nw0ZSHAbf4woUf-S2QWNQCHN3elIxIT2dJwmgOYH9L1YxKQolX62kePEnh3LTL_rxojj/s1040/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-18231-0002,_LPG_Trinwillershagen,_Besuch_durch_Walter_Ulbricht.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="759" data-original-width="1040" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipdiMvcLU8nUUrvGPm30hTAx3YnQog3Sg2i9wmlzm0H0kdlxntfRp0s9hr5IkPv0Gm8MR_roevWLALxESemlwvQQriyjXF53sKmgP4-yrZFs96quGS7JTy0B0Nw0ZSHAbf4woUf-S2QWNQCHN3elIxIT2dJwmgOYH9L1YxKQolX62kePEnh3LTL_rxojj/s16000/Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-18231-0002,_LPG_Trinwillershagen,_Besuch_durch_Walter_Ulbricht.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Walter Ulbricht visits the "Red Banner" production cooperative in Trinwillershagen.</span><br /><i>Bundesarchiv</i><br />(<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-18231-0002,_LPG_Trinwillershagen,_Besuch_durch_Walter_Ulbricht.jpg#/media/File:Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-18231-0002,_LPG_Trinwillershagen,_Besuch_durch_Walter_Ulbricht.jpg"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>Von Lüttwitz stretched as the bus drove off. He watched as it rolled down the road, he figured that the shock absorbers on that bus had last been serviced in the '30s. His back had felt every mile on the road from Leipzig.<div><br /></div><div>"You there!"</div><div><br /></div><div>He turned, the voice had been in barely understandable German. Of course, here he was, in the land of his birth being accosted by a Soviet soldier. But the man seemed furtive, looking around as if were doing something he shouldn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What?" was all von Lüttwitz said.</div><div><br /></div><div>The soldier looked around again, then at von Lüttwitz, "Sigareta?¹"<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz was about to shake his head and tell the man he didn't smoke, then he remembered. Someone, he couldn't remember who, had advised him to buy some cigarettes in the first East German town he visited. While he didn't smoke, one could often bargain with the lower ranking Russians with cigarettes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz grinned and reached into his coat, he pulled out a pack which he had purposely removed a few cigarettes from to make the pack look used. He pulled one out and handed it to the soldier.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The soldier smiled and shook his head, then he held up three fingers. Von Lüttwitz noticed that the man's mouth was full of metal, classic Soviet dental work.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">After handing over the cigarettes, the soldier thanked him, again in really bad German, then walked back to a small sentry box that Von Lüttwitz hadn't noticed before.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Were the bastards everywhere?" he muttered under his breath.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQH3eGRb_CHRX6qfIxJc8dWdBZJDR47AYnY4rcvmHb2Kv0nphi5Nte1mL9E0l7H_W1e_x-vvLw5qzhhD2lcPqzXZV-Bvdj0M57ohwQnMqvxLKDzyIhCCgsiUFw48lOO9R93TZnmho1hvhonfCEtJG7zV5bNv4_FNMWSiXXQMwoYJ1upP-v2fypiNlkB12/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQH3eGRb_CHRX6qfIxJc8dWdBZJDR47AYnY4rcvmHb2Kv0nphi5Nte1mL9E0l7H_W1e_x-vvLw5qzhhD2lcPqzXZV-Bvdj0M57ohwQnMqvxLKDzyIhCCgsiUFw48lOO9R93TZnmho1hvhonfCEtJG7zV5bNv4_FNMWSiXXQMwoYJ1upP-v2fypiNlkB12/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">There were two roads leading off of the main highway, the one the sentry box sat next to, which was cobbled, and another, dirt, which he knew led to his uncle's farm. As he started walking, the smell of manure was heavy in the air. The farmers were prepping their fields for the spring planting.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As he walked he wondered if his uncle was even still alive. The last he had heard from him was in the early winter of 1945. He knew that his cousins were home from the war, one minus a leg, the other minus his sanity. The letter had been unclear on that, perhaps his uncle was talking about shell shock and was trying to avoid anything which the Gestapo² might take umbrage with.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He turned a bend in the dirt road and saw his uncle's farm house. He could discern a man harnessing a horse to what appeared to be a plow. He could see someone else, sitting on a chair near the front door, a man with one leg?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQH3eGRb_CHRX6qfIxJc8dWdBZJDR47AYnY4rcvmHb2Kv0nphi5Nte1mL9E0l7H_W1e_x-vvLw5qzhhD2lcPqzXZV-Bvdj0M57ohwQnMqvxLKDzyIhCCgsiUFw48lOO9R93TZnmho1hvhonfCEtJG7zV5bNv4_FNMWSiXXQMwoYJ1upP-v2fypiNlkB12/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQH3eGRb_CHRX6qfIxJc8dWdBZJDR47AYnY4rcvmHb2Kv0nphi5Nte1mL9E0l7H_W1e_x-vvLw5qzhhD2lcPqzXZV-Bvdj0M57ohwQnMqvxLKDzyIhCCgsiUFw48lOO9R93TZnmho1hvhonfCEtJG7zV5bNv4_FNMWSiXXQMwoYJ1upP-v2fypiNlkB12/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"People are saying that we'll be forced to join the collective when it's mandated across the country." Herbert Lüttwitz said as he shifted himself in the chair. His missing leg still ached at times.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<i>Das sind ungelegte Eier.</i>³" Kurt Lüttwitz said to his eldest son.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<i>Vati</i>, someone's coming down the road." Herbert shaded his eyes as he looked. Then he grabbed his crutches and began to move towards the figure on the road.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"It's Jürgen, <i>Vati.</i> I'd know that walk if I saw it from a thousand meters!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The elder of the Lüttwitz's stopped what he was doing and stared. When he saw his son hugging the man on the road, and being hugged in return, he knew it had to be his younger brother's son.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div><br /></div><div><i>"Mutti</i>! We have company for dinner!" Herbert shouted as he ran to greet his nephew.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQH3eGRb_CHRX6qfIxJc8dWdBZJDR47AYnY4rcvmHb2Kv0nphi5Nte1mL9E0l7H_W1e_x-vvLw5qzhhD2lcPqzXZV-Bvdj0M57ohwQnMqvxLKDzyIhCCgsiUFw48lOO9R93TZnmho1hvhonfCEtJG7zV5bNv4_FNMWSiXXQMwoYJ1upP-v2fypiNlkB12/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQH3eGRb_CHRX6qfIxJc8dWdBZJDR47AYnY4rcvmHb2Kv0nphi5Nte1mL9E0l7H_W1e_x-vvLw5qzhhD2lcPqzXZV-Bvdj0M57ohwQnMqvxLKDzyIhCCgsiUFw48lOO9R93TZnmho1hvhonfCEtJG7zV5bNv4_FNMWSiXXQMwoYJ1upP-v2fypiNlkB12/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>As the family sat down to eat, Jürgen couldn't help but notice that the interior of the farmhouse was missing many of the precious knickknacks that his aunt loved to collect. He didn't want to ask what had happened to them, afraid it might upset her.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She noticed anyway, "Don't fret my nephew. We sold or traded many of the little things we kept around the house when the Russians came. We were lucky, the men who came here were more interested in getting a crop in so that they could feed their soldiers. Terrible things happened in the cities but not here."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Annaliese Krupinski was raped over in Reinsberg, <i>Mutti</i>. How can you say nothing happened?" Herbert protested.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes, and they shot the soldier who did it. We're farmers, we work the land, we feed the people, even the bloody Bolsheviks understand that. Cause unrest and crops don't get sown and people don't eat. The local commander understands these things." Kurt Lüttwitz barked at his son.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Herbert shrugged, he was tired of arguing with his father. He turned to Jürgen, "We thought you were dead, <i>Junge</i>. A telegram from the Army said that you were missing in action. What happened?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz wasn't sure if he should tell that story, how he had surrendered his battalion in the late stages of the war rather than see more of his men die.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"We were surrounded in the ruins of Köln, most of my men were dead, or missing, all of my vehicles had been destroyed. There was no hope, the <i>Amis</i> mopped us up and into the cage we went."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I read about those," Herbert said, "the Russians made a big deal out of it. Inhumane treatment, caged like animals, that's what they said at any rate."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"They were bad, make no mistake, but the western Allies had no idea of the number of prisoners they would have on their hands when resistance collapsed."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz shrugged, "The war is over, I've put that behind me."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Do you plan on staying here, in Saxony?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I don't know, there is nothing left for me here. But there is nothing in the West either."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Stay with us, work the farm with me," Kurt suggested, "Herbert can't manage it, not with one leg, and Heinz ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The older man paused and looked out a window before continuing, "Heinz is in an institution, in Dresden. The war, I don't know, unhinged him. He sits all day, staring at nothing. He awakens in the night, screaming. In his mind, the war hasn't ended. It never will end."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Herbert chimed in, "I visited him last month. The doctors keep him sedated, he sits and stares ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"And shits himself." Kurt added, deeply angry.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">His wife snapped, "Enough of that in my house, <i>Vati</i>."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<i>Ja, ja</i>, sorry <i>Mutti</i>. But it is true. Ah, forgive us Jürgen, we are bad hosts. Can you stay?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Certainly, but only for a couple of days. I have business in Dresden, then I must return to the West. The <i>Amis</i> have a hold on me, they want this little thing taken care of. If I refuse, they report me to the Soviets. No doubt I would then be transported to Siberia, or shot."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Kurt looked alarmed, "But why, you were captured by the <i>Amis </i>..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Herbert interrupted his father, "Jürgen invaded the Soviet Union, yes, with millions of others, but the Soviets don't care. To them he is a war criminal. The only reason I was released was ..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Herbert's mother spoke again, "That's enough, Herbert."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"No, it isn't <i>Mutti</i>, it will never be enough. You see Jürgen, after I was wounded, I joined the Reds. I hated Hitler and his ilk, and not just because of the loss of my leg, I saw what they, what WE did in the East. I thought the Reds would be different."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz shrugged, "They are but two sides of the same coin."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Exactly. But it helped my parents keep their farm. Do you know that Ulbricht and his gang of thugs plan to collectivize the farms in the DDR? Ours is small enough that we will be in charge of it still, but the Party will decide what we grow, and how."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"We do what we must to survive." von Lüttwitz answered his cousin. "We can do no more."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">To be continued ...</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ The Russian word for cigarette.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>² The German acronym for the Secret State Police, Geheime Staatspolizei.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>³ Those are unlaid eggs = We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-59588622705334019182024-03-11T02:00:00.000-07:002024-03-11T02:00:00.134-07:00SNAFU*<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> Well...Let's start with the good news. LJW got a video call from Little J this past week. . (Ain't life great? A video phone call from the other side of the world. For Free? What a world we live in!)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They speak regularly, so when LJW mentioned at dinner Wednesday that she had spoken to Little J, I asked how's everything going. And...<br /></span></p><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Miss B has been medically cleared to go to England!!!!</span></b><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thank You, Lord!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There's a lot more smiling going on around here lately.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Speaking about Hong Kong, Our last guests at one of the Cassetas (our name for our BnB's) mentioned that they couldn't get a signal on the TV. I went down to take a look at it after they had left.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Using the Top Secret methodology I learned as a </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Fighter Pilot </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">for fixing anything, I gave it a try, (Yes, Beans, I turned it off then back on.) Unfortunately that did not solve the problem. Since Little J had set the system up when he was last in town, I would've liked to telephone him, but it's a 14 hour difference in time between CST and HK time. So one must be careful not to call at say 1PM Texas Time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Fortunately, I realized that before I actually hit send. Instead I went home and sulked until 5PM CST. He was in a much more helpful mood.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">To shorten this longish story a bit, he could not see the TV via the network, so there's a problem somewhere between the Network radio antenna and the TV. I could see the network on my phone (Ain't modern technology grand? Internet in the middle of a field in Texas. Imagine!) so it wasn't a problem with the network.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Futzed around with the TV for a couple of hours but never could see the network. Mrs J then authorized the purchase of a new TV. So, we head to Wally World and purchase a new TV, a Vizio. On RTB, Mrs J decides on a nap, so I go down to the Cassetas and set up the TV.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHNJpOgIZlnyTCSTG3RKGMDytxG0S7ZUcl2rN-xd4huiEsqtvT4yj_dc3lBNWee9ytIQhPNMdrZioE34WqUAiRzbxa4wfqc1VeQEKUYPBF9MT9cW9U_0Hj_tH43NSy65Vql80irfhE4BErL0CBVRdxAMZfxdUceRDmvFh753PsmPHhyphenhyphenq3mPAFVSNo33dj/s768/IMG_6454.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHNJpOgIZlnyTCSTG3RKGMDytxG0S7ZUcl2rN-xd4huiEsqtvT4yj_dc3lBNWee9ytIQhPNMdrZioE34WqUAiRzbxa4wfqc1VeQEKUYPBF9MT9cW9U_0Hj_tH43NSy65Vql80irfhE4BErL0CBVRdxAMZfxdUceRDmvFh753PsmPHhyphenhyphenq3mPAFVSNo33dj/w480-h640/IMG_6454.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Three hours later, I finally get the directions (written in the Swahili dialect of Chinese) and got it set up. Yes, I did call Little J a couple of times with questions. It's a wonderful thing to have an experienced computer professional at the touch of a button. Still...setup was a PITA!<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Again on the Miss B front, she's making great progress on the standing and walking stage. LJW reports that she's able to stand and only needs one finger to hold on to. While holding hands she's able to take a couple three steps. You go girl!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">She also likes to pull herself up on things, chairs mostly. Which brought about a request from LJW. She asked if I could build Miss B a Pikler Triangle. What's a Pikler Triangle, you ask?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Well, it looks like this.<br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0knXtJf4zqyvUFOv1Qx4TBKrJoFa3ZuAXXGFArD2hVoCt8HRIQ9S1faLzcEbz9WPHWRlV4ZaFGcTWm9CBCik50htz7QES-xcu-LRcXT4yj507vBoWTzl3e2jqPiapD2jdoSdL1qRGS2sbvFbF-JNbpmMwZ_WgFdh2Zo-z3W-NTO5pFVTAdQev5tT1DxbU/s750/3.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0knXtJf4zqyvUFOv1Qx4TBKrJoFa3ZuAXXGFArD2hVoCt8HRIQ9S1faLzcEbz9WPHWRlV4ZaFGcTWm9CBCik50htz7QES-xcu-LRcXT4yj507vBoWTzl3e2jqPiapD2jdoSdL1qRGS2sbvFbF-JNbpmMwZ_WgFdh2Zo-z3W-NTO5pFVTAdQev5tT1DxbU/w426-h640/3.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://abutterflyhouse.com/diy-pikler-triangle/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Source</a> This was also where I got the plans<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Kids climb on it, gaining strength in arms and legs while learning balance and other motor skills. <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So, how near am I to completion? Well...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-QZkNTQBgUd-N2URc7z2SQudimVwFn6RCcp91Doez1GrAfI1xQGyu5pu1vYfVGyDtEx5XGAbPlcrEQkZUeqWa8fwJaxaZO4rtTbEK4BsifQSMQQNkCLM191L5o03O-TIeEkh9bks7VS9TcKljWE7byNMqnpn6SjOe5X9uXG8RIeaJnIUFxq2oQ6ielkp/s768/IMG_6499.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-QZkNTQBgUd-N2URc7z2SQudimVwFn6RCcp91Doez1GrAfI1xQGyu5pu1vYfVGyDtEx5XGAbPlcrEQkZUeqWa8fwJaxaZO4rtTbEK4BsifQSMQQNkCLM191L5o03O-TIeEkh9bks7VS9TcKljWE7byNMqnpn6SjOe5X9uXG8RIeaJnIUFxq2oQ6ielkp/w480-h640/IMG_6499.jpg" width="480" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I've
cut the wood to rough length, done a bit of sanding (but as every
woodworker is well aware, there's always more sanding needed.) and only
have 15 more steps </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">left</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">in the directions </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">. So...</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">small steps still count as</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> progress right?</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvi5-snNGFH4arzHvcGxiNnEuITicEjl9vM9nMSNAFiecRxfkDoqq2mYTEgwq8NpqGYy15gsePZPcyZbETP17Cie9u_avVh27SFOJXtIl1Ttdj07u4PpDP_VYHmT73gna209B37JBXwEbjk16m_tXnobqalATwfFcDG3kv6fa0xKwsm72jWIQ0BJ6uiSSK/s1024/IMG_6502.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvi5-snNGFH4arzHvcGxiNnEuITicEjl9vM9nMSNAFiecRxfkDoqq2mYTEgwq8NpqGYy15gsePZPcyZbETP17Cie9u_avVh27SFOJXtIl1Ttdj07u4PpDP_VYHmT73gna209B37JBXwEbjk16m_tXnobqalATwfFcDG3kv6fa0xKwsm72jWIQ0BJ6uiSSK/w640-h480/IMG_6502.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Four legs cut on the bandsaw then sanded into shape. Lot of sawdust on the floor. Took a couple of hours sanding also.</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hey, it keeps me off the streets at night.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikodUINSn-qq_Cc-SNgFvzqCszuMdrbXsG2A3XsK06Bi4otPvGDHmq_j0rQNxyjxuGoMloGZrRmq4_wgOpw9N8G0WI3ssA7v40Jk3yLHCSAWJaOZgACHbFzKz00RseGoNAFGjppUvB4je12A2M5r6Q7L4j4hbkjtRHycJ9D9f4YQ5C5Z5ADQ6sN5mcLkJt/s768/IMG_6479.JPG" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikodUINSn-qq_Cc-SNgFvzqCszuMdrbXsG2A3XsK06Bi4otPvGDHmq_j0rQNxyjxuGoMloGZrRmq4_wgOpw9N8G0WI3ssA7v40Jk3yLHCSAWJaOZgACHbFzKz00RseGoNAFGjppUvB4je12A2M5r6Q7L4j4hbkjtRHycJ9D9f4YQ5C5Z5ADQ6sN5mcLkJt/w480-h640/IMG_6479.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The other project, <a href="https://oldafsarge.blogspot.com/2024/03/un-peu-de-ci-un-peu-de-cela.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">the doll house</a>,</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> is also nearing completion. Mrs. J will play a significant role in the completion. MG is going to like it I'm pretty sure.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On one of the nicer days this past week (High for the week was 92, but lows were in the 30's and windy. Frankly, I like warm better) Mrs J and I sat out on the front porch enjoying a bit of Zinfandel. Life is good. We're chatting a bit and I happen to glance down to my Left.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">What to my wondering eyes do I see?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Well...</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqsO3vfRCWuCI26HfL5Xwjxb_VY4VzhQRr_NBP-PXRCl0s7ABdKjBiU9w0cL7PaMz0wsXqzPMd0VYYKqBeIdNPT62eI1Vg1oZ1mKtTol5iVvG16eoySQMTJqkPPmu-WdrZLd92gLdPoGXGyaH0CQ4U1AgegbrWDRStZvP5rc-yVAp35KMP7KMKko4PVTE/s1024/IMG_6485.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqsO3vfRCWuCI26HfL5Xwjxb_VY4VzhQRr_NBP-PXRCl0s7ABdKjBiU9w0cL7PaMz0wsXqzPMd0VYYKqBeIdNPT62eI1Vg1oZ1mKtTol5iVvG16eoySQMTJqkPPmu-WdrZLd92gLdPoGXGyaH0CQ4U1AgegbrWDRStZvP5rc-yVAp35KMP7KMKko4PVTE/w640-h480/IMG_6485.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One of the Great Pyrenees is taking a nap with his nose shoved into a rain downspout! Now THAT's funny, I don't care who you are!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">No, Beans, I didn't spew wine through my nose. Mrs J however....</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There was some discussion in the comments here a few days ago about what retirement was like. While I'm still in single digit years in that category, I have something that might answer some folk's questions. I had to laugh as there's a bit of truth there.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1tl8D1Imvr6Tl5yeEpNIDMhtDsYpRQUh42U464IxGsip-OzqaJIofmoE4CkGblmlyu85VrBR39fQ2PPVbtg0HWimP99zUfWh4W7HPSfWMkob_-AnuIs0xIyQsv3qdvr0JosGqAWrnbQyqxq5XsumUngy0tjOFTxNuz_Gni3a1ZV15WCwLJrqOyErHrHe/s768/IMG_6331.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1tl8D1Imvr6Tl5yeEpNIDMhtDsYpRQUh42U464IxGsip-OzqaJIofmoE4CkGblmlyu85VrBR39fQ2PPVbtg0HWimP99zUfWh4W7HPSfWMkob_-AnuIs0xIyQsv3qdvr0JosGqAWrnbQyqxq5XsumUngy0tjOFTxNuz_Gni3a1ZV15WCwLJrqOyErHrHe/w480-h640/IMG_6331.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Finally, given that Tuna had a lot of good "Fiery" (if I may use the word even as bastardized as it has been by the Press recently) pictures in his post last week, I thought I'd end with this one.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU4GE8WaBKwTALKuIM3Ob6oekjxSDD4TVRC5rl7tlYi8SlrRvKYLZ3_BuUmwwS5g6U5aORbCKDiUncbuPtv3PblXsRF1CFppGKtlSSFQyF5CMzs8sx55TgjJnbxE7kCnFRqSNqtwV8ZGg40EDFRcvhB1gCLijog7ATTvPPBD8XUuCoEooDIQCpB7D2UTNi/s768/IMG_6386.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU4GE8WaBKwTALKuIM3Ob6oekjxSDD4TVRC5rl7tlYi8SlrRvKYLZ3_BuUmwwS5g6U5aORbCKDiUncbuPtv3PblXsRF1CFppGKtlSSFQyF5CMzs8sx55TgjJnbxE7kCnFRqSNqtwV8ZGg40EDFRcvhB1gCLijog7ATTvPPBD8XUuCoEooDIQCpB7D2UTNi/w480-h640/IMG_6386.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Peace out, y'all!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">*I'm using the original wording for the acronym i.e. "Situation Normal, all fouled up!" instead of a more recent version that uses another word with an "F". Just sayin'.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>juvathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09096708575138552532noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-17878972300532295842024-03-10T01:00:00.000-08:002024-03-11T11:49:58.953-07:00The Bus<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMAAzW6nYI-wshZqpdT4ilbEMWexOeQO1MH1Ck3qflE3ur7XOboEq_R7sQaNyYTzC7QIvlip4GNg5iYASE0ybBW3LJjyqHwEXW1QKNYqlcBd2pgx6B6_Fo6WYJYhiVAe36XYId39TImblb0rGwhTOATYInnJhpMb1ngqqkv0eqZNX5-BXaTqUJQQA1Ylpa/s1098/Fotothek_df_roe-neg_0006436_010_Demonstrationszug_-_Pioniere,_Fanfarenbl%C3%A4ser,_Tr.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMAAzW6nYI-wshZqpdT4ilbEMWexOeQO1MH1Ck3qflE3ur7XOboEq_R7sQaNyYTzC7QIvlip4GNg5iYASE0ybBW3LJjyqHwEXW1QKNYqlcBd2pgx6B6_Fo6WYJYhiVAe36XYId39TImblb0rGwhTOATYInnJhpMb1ngqqkv0eqZNX5-BXaTqUJQQA1Ylpa/s16000/Fotothek_df_roe-neg_0006436_010_Demonstrationszug_-_Pioniere,_Fanfarenbl%C3%A4ser,_Tr.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">Ernst Thälmann Pioneer Organisation Parade</span><br /><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">Leipzig, Deutsche </span><span style="color: #202122;">Demokratische </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">Republik, 1953</span><br /><span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; color: #202122;">(</span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_Germany#/media/File:Fotothek_df_roe-neg_0006436_010_Demonstrationszug_-_Pioniere,_Fanfarenbl%C3%A4ser,_Tr.jpg" style="background-color: #f8f9fa;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a><span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; color: #202122;">)</span></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table>If von Lüttwitz hadn't have known better, he could have sworn that he had gone back in time to the 1930s. The only difference between the youth parade marching down the street before him now, and what he remembered from his youth, was the absence of the swastika. The cult of personality in East Germany was still strong, Communist leaders had replaced the Nazi leaders, but the similarities were striking. It made him sick.<div><br /></div><div>He had grown up near Leipzig, he'd gone to university here before the war started, things were somehow the same, yet different at the same time. Most of the rubble and destruction had been cleaned up, no doubt by Germans employed the same way he had been after release from the American POW cage. Not exactly volunteers but driven to return order and cleanliness to their cities and towns.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Americans found it amusing, the Soviets used it as a tool to get the people to accept the transition to Communism. Most Germans were glad the war was over, some, like the East German leadership, were happy to help the Soviets construct what they just knew would be a worker's paradise.</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz scoffed and shook his head at the thought. He better get moving, he had a bus to catch.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Something bothering you, Comrade?" said a man nearby.</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz turned abruptly and gave the man what his troops used to call his "officer's look."<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes, today is a work day, I'm surprised these youths have the time to parade up and down the city streets. It's frivolous." Looking at the man with disgust, he added, "Comrade."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The man lowered his gaze and muttered, "My thoughts exactly, Comrade."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Without waiting for any further interaction with the man, von Lüttwitz walked to the corner where the bus for Dresden was loading. The officials at the bus depot had assured him that the bus made a stop at <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Reinsberg.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"What is in Reinsberg, Lüttwitz?" The official had glanced at his identity papers when he handed von Lüttwitz his bus ticket and his papers.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"My uncle has a farm near there. I haven't seen them since before the war."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Just how long were you in the American camps, Lüttwitz?" The man had seemed genuinely interested, he looked around cautiously to make sure no one was in earshot. "I was held in the East until '50, after Stalingrad."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I was captured near the end of the war, damned <i>Amis</i> kept me in a cage until '48. Then it was clearing rubble. When the West went capitalist, I decided to come home, to Saxony."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He had learned well the lessons they'd taught him about how to get along in the DDR. Thing is, they weren't that different than when they had been under Hitler and the Nazis. The only thing he had trouble getting used to was the loss of the "von" in front of his name. No nobles under Communism they'd pointed out to him when they had given him his papers.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Have a safe trip, comrade." The way the bus official put it made it sound like what they'd called each other in the Army, not the "Comrade" of the Soviets and Communists.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Von Lüttwitz tucked his papers away in an inside pocket and gave a brusque nod and a quick smile to the bus official, "<i>Danke, Kamerad</i>."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As he boarded the bus he saw a Soviet patrol just down the street, two men and an officer. It took all of his self-control to keep from staring in hatred at the three men. He knew, deep down inside, that the two men were probably conscripts, just doing as they were told. But the officer, it was him, and bastards like him, that had subjugated the eastern provinces of Germany and were diligently molding them into a Communist state.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Is this seat taken, Comrade?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A young man gestured at the seat next to von Lüttwitz, he had a look that von Lüttwitz was familiar with, that of the young fanatic. Youths like this had help drag his Germany down into the sewer that was Nazism, now they were intent on replacing that fanatical regime with one imported from the Soviet Union.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"No, it is not, Comrade."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The youth obviously wanted to engage von Lüttwitz in conversation, something he'd rather avoid.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Look, sorry Comrade, but I've had a long day and I'm off to our field headquarters near Dresden. I'd rather sleep than chat. Is that going to be a problem?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The light went out of the youth's eyes, thinking that he was dealing with a Party official or, worse yet, a member of the police, he immediately apologized. For the rest of the trip, he kept to himself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz was starting to doubt the wisdom of this trip.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-88500700325938960352024-03-09T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-09T02:00:00.129-08:00Carl Parlatore's Story ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2jVTJPAjYkNqpxsohMy_7Jw_cMcAXCKZ-dpTCe5HQbqMStG1aWgwBfgD6m79B7PoXRtIDrJQXgZfVxAYZhomBKLhRjffcaylXXHgASuSr2paq4hBzqcFMTg2lxpJ4jaVUhKXRd2Io7bambqFZ5f4OHVJbLB24I9xfklU4h0CUBwb3zNbrg5JKa31XPmB/s1098/PhantomsOverVietnamWarThunder.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2jVTJPAjYkNqpxsohMy_7Jw_cMcAXCKZ-dpTCe5HQbqMStG1aWgwBfgD6m79B7PoXRtIDrJQXgZfVxAYZhomBKLhRjffcaylXXHgASuSr2paq4hBzqcFMTg2lxpJ4jaVUhKXRd2Io7bambqFZ5f4OHVJbLB24I9xfklU4h0CUBwb3zNbrg5JKa31XPmB/s16000/PhantomsOverVietnamWarThunder.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1FiS5LhFjM"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>For reasons various and sundry, I won't be continuing the "Jürgen Goes East" vignette for a day or so. My morale is in the toilet regarding the direction the country seems to be going in, and I don't feel like writing. But ...<div><br /></div><div>On the way home from work Thursday I had the chance to chat with juvat on the phone and he clued me in to the video I'm about to present to you. It's long-ish (about 28 minutes) but well-worth your time.</div><div><br /></div><div>If we don't remember the men and women who served in Vietnam, who will?</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="712" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/I1FiS5LhFjM" width="1100"></iframe><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">On another, aviation-related note, I'm also immersed in <i>Masters of the Air</i>. It's good, real good, I highly recommend it. I'll report more on that later.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Enjoy your weekend.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sarge, out.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-44647403163954305562024-03-08T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-08T02:00:00.153-08:00Burning Out or Fading Away<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUj6bCEENtOufx366wuRWJF8fheOx58mtARHOpmg2ZRe1I6THXvm6B9RxArqOoKbDf2-t00IJt2etZ2UtphfA8kl1uYDO_QLGTe54iCDtKELIqnkiRiNGrzSd2NsAbo0AfpJULjxYQ6A4o-7qTkZlq2az64y2F8hossbYapU1hppdjZQlb_ahKLL-YfE/s1024/FB_IMG_1701321111875.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="685" height="761" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUj6bCEENtOufx366wuRWJF8fheOx58mtARHOpmg2ZRe1I6THXvm6B9RxArqOoKbDf2-t00IJt2etZ2UtphfA8kl1uYDO_QLGTe54iCDtKELIqnkiRiNGrzSd2NsAbo0AfpJULjxYQ6A4o-7qTkZlq2az64y2F8hossbYapU1hppdjZQlb_ahKLL-YfE/w509-h761/FB_IMG_1701321111875.jpg" width="509" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A nice photo that has nothing to do with this post!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>First off, I should apologize to Sarge and Juvat for being a bit distant over the past week or so, as I haven't been commenting on their posts like I normally do, if only to show that I care about their efforts in documenting daily life, or sharing their opinions on current events. However, in my defense it has been a hell of a couple weeks. There's a big conference at work that I've been helping plan, and while I am no longer in the Mine Warfare business running an annual conference to help develop our requirements, I'm now on the Undersea Warfare side of things, <i>helping run a conference to develop our Undersea Warfighting requirements.</i> I'm not the lead, which is nice, but there has been some busy work for me and my team. </span><p></p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiye3VOwFXRgGCRHNY1fINh7enrguTR2Y163O0_OFCKRCEMmofP_wtgIh4ukUzZVyMFW_-xp3S_9yUVy2DTGOa0EXNFKPSw5TZ9sITuK2wNm7xqsN1X004x62WHy4QSNienyPAEQ9Nmv3WUsM2S3zAtANIBjI26BegyQBOWVn6oLy5xhEoN6Pr38AKqAow/s4000/IMG_20240201_064753906.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiye3VOwFXRgGCRHNY1fINh7enrguTR2Y163O0_OFCKRCEMmofP_wtgIh4ukUzZVyMFW_-xp3S_9yUVy2DTGOa0EXNFKPSw5TZ9sITuK2wNm7xqsN1X004x62WHy4QSNienyPAEQ9Nmv3WUsM2S3zAtANIBjI26BegyQBOWVn6oLy5xhEoN6Pr38AKqAow/w514-h386/IMG_20240201_064753906.jpg" width="514" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">San Diego Sunrise from work</div></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On the personal front, it's my busy time of year for all sorts of things with the KofC. I was asked to help judge dozens of essays that the students from my parish school wrote for a contest, and we also conducted a basketball free throw competition which is fun for them. And this past Friday I also cooked 30 pounds of fish at our annual parish Lenten fish fry, which was not as successful as we had hoped- <i>30 lbs cooked, 15 lbs sold.</i> And since we had a lot of leftover fish, the parish did not get much in the way of donations from the event. The very next day I helped run the bar for the annual school gala. And I'll tell you what- those parents and teachers can sure throw back some drinks in the name of charity! I was busy the entire evening, from 4:30 to 10:00 p.m. with an endless stream of drinkers. Nobody was sloppy drunk, but they were quite happy, and it was all for charity, helping benefit the school's modest foundation for needy students.</span></p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-f1zHQu_FDmXIPngvXz2yqwEYuupGrmjyKAvgKSCOpDjki4kvlN6tFTk-2Fnmw_fzZf-4excfwM6nIMItM7JlCueEhzn1focLZoKJIq5ogiJViejx2aY3ol-FktcYogNLv6y9inesmHffWdrOd_kBFaUbs6wWSTRqID7F-tE5Pt4aBLKaip8QSYYZajM/s1180/dIDACUS.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1180" height="503" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-f1zHQu_FDmXIPngvXz2yqwEYuupGrmjyKAvgKSCOpDjki4kvlN6tFTk-2Fnmw_fzZf-4excfwM6nIMItM7JlCueEhzn1focLZoKJIq5ogiJViejx2aY3ol-FktcYogNLv6y9inesmHffWdrOd_kBFaUbs6wWSTRqID7F-tE5Pt4aBLKaip8QSYYZajM/w766-h503/dIDACUS.PNG" width="766" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">The parish school</span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So like I said, it was a busy week-to-10 days and I'm glad it's over. I can easily handle the <i>at work</i> workload, being unable to bring any of that work home and stress about it, which is good. But the KofC stuff? Wow- busy busy. It's fulfilling, meaningful, and good for my soul, but it is also starting to burn me out a little. There always seems to be something going on- one more program, one more event, more demands for my time. And I am either unable to say no when asked, or really we just don't have enough men to do all that we try to do. It has been very difficult to recruit men into the Knights- people just aren't joiners these days, Yet the reason I joined was because I needed that catalyst to help me be a more charitable person. I went to a Catholic college yet spent four years ignoring all the opportunities to do good works. So I'm glad the Knights found me after mass one Sunday, just two weeks after getting married. She encouraged me to join too. We actually have over 100 men in the council, but not very many step up to help. </span></p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nSkbMT0T1yTDIffQGpe8zi6NnuYl9rg01Ctkx1bAK49JuL_l_aJopNG-ddxAxjjx4UVWXYYQsQmiNqK3BulFgMUqQ2i17hcoPIglAL_iRAmICWbCJy9FpvZBcEShtAt4EpLSB9Hi-EfGEzi1uIIfTEd-zhQzQTjM49sb812feo6jEl_KwRL7iTplJUw/s1169/Sunrise.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="1169" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3nSkbMT0T1yTDIffQGpe8zi6NnuYl9rg01Ctkx1bAK49JuL_l_aJopNG-ddxAxjjx4UVWXYYQsQmiNqK3BulFgMUqQ2i17hcoPIglAL_iRAmICWbCJy9FpvZBcEShtAt4EpLSB9Hi-EfGEzi1uIIfTEd-zhQzQTjM49sb812feo6jEl_KwRL7iTplJUw/w640-h296/Sunrise.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">Another sunrise from work</div></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I know I'm whining a bit, but it's the same old guys in my council<!--EndFragment--> doing the same old stuff every year. That fish fry? We only had three men step up, until the end when two more arrived to help clean up. And each year the number of meals sold seems less and less. So, I'm not sure it's even worth it. I'm exhausted afterwards and we don't make much money. I would almost prefer to just donate money and save myself the headache. The kids programs? Almost all me. But I do it because the kids always show up with enthusiasm. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I'm not sure what the answer is. I can't just quit- too many people relying on me. Someone in the Knights told me to "recruit your relief" meaning- bring in a guy because you don't want to do it forever. We do bring in a handful every year, but they don't want to be active for some reason. At some point, I will have to just stop saying yes. We're the oldest council in town, been around since 1908, and the only one until after WWII, so I pray it won't fade away, but I will have to step back eventually.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And to add fuel to the flames, I was just elected President of the San Diego Mustang Club. That one is more of a joy than a burden though- fun stuff with little responsibility. All I have to do is create an agenda and preside over a monthly meeting, <i>which I can do in my sleep</i>, letting the various directors speak about upcoming activities, be it parades, car shows, Cars & Coffee events, etc. Going for a club drive or doing some parade is just fun for me so no stress there.</span></p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDh8djNti8HWeIH7JU0PvpC3pJCHi8KUj12aRjZu88HBEzAu4EBWorppvEGK3HZ96zsbEN_Y6ZgpEE4g3QRPePTY_dNYb3jyVQUyjiuIfDUE1qD0v75SfoiltlLf9YedIQ-20y1cds4Jv-vLhtQ1zSoxOtNLvtKdTkQY-Ouwv1EsfdJpcKo2nNTWzhWko/s1280/image-cancun-westin-lagunamar-ocean-resort-4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="435" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDh8djNti8HWeIH7JU0PvpC3pJCHi8KUj12aRjZu88HBEzAu4EBWorppvEGK3HZ96zsbEN_Y6ZgpEE4g3QRPePTY_dNYb3jyVQUyjiuIfDUE1qD0v75SfoiltlLf9YedIQ-20y1cds4Jv-vLhtQ1zSoxOtNLvtKdTkQY-Ouwv1EsfdJpcKo2nNTWzhWko/w654-h435/image-cancun-westin-lagunamar-ocean-resort-4.jpg" width="654" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">The Westin Lagunamar <a href="https://westin-lagunamar-ocean-resort.cancun-hotels.org/en/#main" target="_blank">Source</a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">However, I will have some respite next week when my wife and I travel to Cancun for vacation, via Tampa Bay. There's no easy way, or at least no easy schedule, to get from the west coast down to that part of Mexico, so we're stopping off for a few days in Tampa to visit friends. We have several there from the time I was stationed at USCENTCOM, and several former squadron-mates from Japan have settled there in retirement. So we'll have a nice little squadron reunion we're looking forward to. Afterwards, TPA to CUN is a quick and easy one-stop flight so we've got that going for us.</span></p><p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWqs1EvLC9MJJunOMEqCIR5WlhqJOnG97aad_JH8OgnBmJf5mMm7hJ_g-u9RexwFlRLuObbIxn5u41d4utMLBzzYEECSV-et2PSXSObyuN3F8_aWJiF74fgTO0MbYsdXh1qeEuehBZ8RJ9VyPlnXZdnqE9_1fyOYp5U7FexYP6Ih83u61KNBhrKP4VIcg/s2048/Rainbow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1042" data-original-width="2048" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWqs1EvLC9MJJunOMEqCIR5WlhqJOnG97aad_JH8OgnBmJf5mMm7hJ_g-u9RexwFlRLuObbIxn5u41d4utMLBzzYEECSV-et2PSXSObyuN3F8_aWJiF74fgTO0MbYsdXh1qeEuehBZ8RJ9VyPlnXZdnqE9_1fyOYp5U7FexYP6Ih83u61KNBhrKP4VIcg/w640-h326/Rainbow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">After some San Diego rain last week</span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This will be our first time to the Mexican Caribbean, but if it's not our last, we'll travel there differently next time. Flights there from San Diego all head to the east coast, then down to Mexico, with either red-eye flights, or long layovers that </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">essentially </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">make it a red-eye anyway. However, after booking the trip I realized that we could have </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">booked a direct flight for far less than we paid by </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">walking from the US side of the Tijuana airport right to our gate. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Cancun has on one of those State Department warnings attached to it, recommending caution when traveling there, but it's a heavily policed area due to all the tourism dollars. And the Facebook group for that particular timeshare resort we're visiting reports it as safe, with no issues. I am always cautious when traveling though, no matter where we go.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Anyway, I think that trip (and two more planned this year) will help keep me from getting too burned out with my schedule so you won't have to listen to me whine anymore. Thanks for letting me complain a bit. It's all self-induced so I just need to relax a bit, and say no a bit more. Have a great weekend.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p>Tunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930237104692982421noreply@blogger.com54tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-61480974025243084752024-03-07T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-07T02:00:00.140-08:00Homecoming ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhuwuAWi8i-zeujzktlSbRcXVKwkyCeW_OdgMfO6Wm6vDpQhHnEpvWatrjNcbtPOp8CdnO0zlKotl_McEHE57VJdj661vqSA-4U3a_-JAb-el5E-xb1jbHn-BcI6gvN4GYyBMfcWh7tKo_C8qqPazw9kyUHh5HN3KTasrxkLQnBF1DXJ8LrIyijoRzCV2/s1000/Volkspolizei.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="759" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhuwuAWi8i-zeujzktlSbRcXVKwkyCeW_OdgMfO6Wm6vDpQhHnEpvWatrjNcbtPOp8CdnO0zlKotl_McEHE57VJdj661vqSA-4U3a_-JAb-el5E-xb1jbHn-BcI6gvN4GYyBMfcWh7tKo_C8qqPazw9kyUHh5HN3KTasrxkLQnBF1DXJ8LrIyijoRzCV2/s16000/Volkspolizei.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<i>Bundesarchiv </i><a href="https://propagandaworldarchive.org/tag/volkspolizei/"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>Jürgen von Lüttwitz was understandably nervous as they approached the Soviet sector of occupied Germany. The war had been over for seven years, he'd been released from the POW cage after two and a half years in captivity.<div><br /></div><div>As an officer he had been de-Nazified but in a very perfunctory manner. The Soviets were throwing their considerable weight around and the <i>Amis</i> were more interested in opposing them than their old enemies, the Germans. He had been asked if he still admired Hitler by a very young American officer.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I never admired Hitler," he answered, far more abruptly than he meant to.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Not even when you were winning the war?" the young officer had persisted.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Lieutenant, I was an enlisted man during the early years of the war. The Nazis stole from my family, I have no love for them. As to Hitler, he was, to me, just another damned politician. Later on, as an officer in the German Army, I learned to eschew politics. We were too busy trying to stay alive anyway to concern ourselves with what was happening in Berlin."</div><div><br /></div><div>The young American lieutenant nodded, made a few notes then looked up at von Lüttwitz, "Okay then, you're free to go." Then handed the bewildered German a piece of paper.</div><div><br /></div><div>As von Lüttwitz took the proffered document, he nodded and muttered a thank you. Somehow he had been expecting more from this session. It all seemed so anticlimactic. As he turned to go out the way he had come in, the American spoke.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Not that door, you're a free man. The door to your right exits out of the camp. Was there something you needed from the barracks? I can have my sergeant fetch that for you."</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz thought for a moment, his Knight's Cross wasn't there, it was hidden elsewhere in the camp. But as he thought about it, what need did he have of that? A decoration from a now extinct government. He paused, then spoke.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I have everything I need on me. There is nothing left in this camp I need to live. At least not that I care about."</div><div><br /></div><div>That had been seven years ago, he remembered it as if had been yesterday. Now he was riding in a beat up Volkswagen <i>Käfer</i>¹<i> </i>headed east. The man driving had been invalided out of the army in 1944, he had lost part of his foot in the East, now he ran an illicit transport service into the Soviet Zone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz had worked as a laborer, clearing the rubble from Germany's ruined cities. He even had a brief stint working for the U.S. Army in a supply depot. He had been saving his money, which took time, his wages weren't much, barely enough to rent a small room and feed himself.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day, he had run into an old comrade from the East. The man had been startled to see von Lüttwitz.</div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>Herr Major!</i>" the man had exclaimed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Von Lüttwitz blushed, "Those days are over Heinz, just call me Jürgen."</div><div><br /></div><div>The former <i>Gefreiter</i> looked ashamed, "Sorry, er, Jürgen, it's been some years and the East was horrible, but some of the best times of my life were in your unit."<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">"It's alright, I know how you feel. Have you been back to Saxony, since the war ended?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"I was living there in '45, we fled to the west when the Russians were advancing in the spring. It was horrible, but I'm still alive. Many others are not."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Von Lüttwitz glanced at the man's empty sleeve, he had lost an arm in the Hürtgenwald. "How is, that?" He nodded where the man's missing arm had been.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The former <i>Gefreiter</i> looked at his empty sleeve, "<i>Ja</i>, I miss the arm, but had I not been wounded, I'd probably still be in that damned forest. That <i>Ami</i> mortar round probably saved my life." He grinned as he said that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Have you heard anything from our old homeland?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yes, Jürgen, things are pretty rough. The Russians are being, well, Russians. I can't say I blame them, we acted badly in the East. If I was you, I'd stay away. The Bolsheviks have long memories."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The two men had parted and oddly enough it was that encounter which made von Lüttwitz determined to go home. He was a Saxon, and proud of that fact.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He looked up from his reveries as the small car began to slow down.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"We're nearly at the border, my friend. You still want to go on? A few people change their minds at this point." his driver asked him.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"No, I've come this far. Let's drive on."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>To be continued ...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ German for beetle, the German nickname for the VW Beetle.</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-23075659107706414662024-03-06T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-06T02:00:00.254-08:00Twelve Years ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0zvQEThyOowC7bfjW58-U0AatKCu8_ZNtm5V0LA7B6z5kvK2-nTGrCAQDiC5zHSaqhXrPCU67y4YECUDEfUKVWqdhkYe8PmVupXu7DmG6ULQ7CaGio8fMpuEgJTmPo4nmSL9VdZ5blj_zc1K-1eq_TXfBcBNSbErgZT53RSJvjHpW3csBJ39RxLoh3Uk/s1024/lex%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="764" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0zvQEThyOowC7bfjW58-U0AatKCu8_ZNtm5V0LA7B6z5kvK2-nTGrCAQDiC5zHSaqhXrPCU67y4YECUDEfUKVWqdhkYe8PmVupXu7DmG6ULQ7CaGio8fMpuEgJTmPo4nmSL9VdZ5blj_zc1K-1eq_TXfBcBNSbErgZT53RSJvjHpW3csBJ39RxLoh3Uk/s16000/lex%20(1).jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Twelve years ago plus one day I sat down to take my morning stroll through the blogs. There were only two back then - Neptunus Lex and the US Naval Institute blog.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Opening Lex's site, I sat there, muttering, "Oh no, what is this ..?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What I saw was an Open Thread, written by Whisper. This ...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial";">Whisper: Open Thread</span></b></span><br /><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">By Whisper, on March 7th, 2012</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">When Lex “left the keys in it” for me to be a guest blogger here about a year ago, we didn’t discuss what to do in this occasion. I am at a loss. I did feel the need to provide one place for your tributes and condolences to collect. So here it is.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxYOva6AqvecxXVJ_9Pzc-Iid5Y7mOiN1r_XJv4zqppxoAJyjEcvcQyZcetek4D0zIZ-cBiCIgF9cjGc-o8KZwYPSyEuFCTJG53Bg1gNavqX8Z2gZ3ss7mZVibumDq2bIeDQjCYV3S7xK/s1600/mmf.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUxYOva6AqvecxXVJ_9Pzc-Iid5Y7mOiN1r_XJv4zqppxoAJyjEcvcQyZcetek4D0zIZ-cBiCIgF9cjGc-o8KZwYPSyEuFCTJG53Bg1gNavqX8Z2gZ3ss7mZVibumDq2bIeDQjCYV3S7xK/s1600/mmf.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">As Lex would say, talk amongst yourselves.<br /><br /><br />Very Respectfully,<br /><br />Whisper</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7lWMXzgRIIxTMi8OrTq0LC7ac5Nwpsj0bBF3VEUDWDc_no_rutys-xtnumTRctP0-pLm1ZrJYyJUBeayOzOz5CRns9Wjijs0yam2aFmDdg_aQgIsFyGSUNTN5UZHBUJidFzZpug1N-IoiV_SiJvg3trG1v3tqOL9TUQ2FAvqV1k93aDgqxW9tweMqvGU/s659/___divider-2154993_640.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="39" data-original-width="659" height="19" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7lWMXzgRIIxTMi8OrTq0LC7ac5Nwpsj0bBF3VEUDWDc_no_rutys-xtnumTRctP0-pLm1ZrJYyJUBeayOzOz5CRns9Wjijs0yam2aFmDdg_aQgIsFyGSUNTN5UZHBUJidFzZpug1N-IoiV_SiJvg3trG1v3tqOL9TUQ2FAvqV1k93aDgqxW9tweMqvGU/s320/___divider-2154993_640.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">That post from </span><i style="font-family: Georgia;">Neptunus Lex</i><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> was twelve years ago, you can read the archived version again </span><b style="font-family: Georgia;"><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20120310210237/http://www.neptunuslex.com/2012/03/07/whisper-open-thread/"><span style="color: blue;">here</span></a></b><span style="font-family: Georgia;">. Thousands of comments were left on his blog that woeful day.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, but it still hurts.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">From December to early March can be a rather dark time for me, if I dwell on things. So I don't. But there are days when too m</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">any memories flood in and I have to sit down, stare into the distance, and take a deep breath. Then I can get up and drive on.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Outside of the Air Force, four men had a pretty deep influence on me ...</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJojivU9H_UDZ3Eu1H26e9k0eRvC7QTXbjOI_rpHLJQYx6ZscOx2_W46DiRSbfJ-eJKppUKCTjPiop7gBSROHR_974BT2BybjKrY8Y6FrLYq9WXREIAI4Nfofio-LayvC9CJwJQ7_c7fUhOq41c8XGjlxLZ2_Lt7CDgvs97eMwrL2otc4bk8HF-rVu4bqu/s1098/Fred,%20Dad,%20Lex%20and%20Buck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJojivU9H_UDZ3Eu1H26e9k0eRvC7QTXbjOI_rpHLJQYx6ZscOx2_W46DiRSbfJ-eJKppUKCTjPiop7gBSROHR_974BT2BybjKrY8Y6FrLYq9WXREIAI4Nfofio-LayvC9CJwJQ7_c7fUhOq41c8XGjlxLZ2_Lt7CDgvs97eMwrL2otc4bk8HF-rVu4bqu/s16000/Fred,%20Dad,%20Lex%20and%20Buck.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fred was my pastor, he made going back to church easy. (<i>The Missus Herself</i> dragged me there, kicking and screaming the entire way. Fred made me stop kicking and screaming and start listening.)</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad, well, he was my Dad. A good one at that.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lex inspired me to write.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buck made me a better writer.<br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I miss them all.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Georgia;">A lot.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Buck died in December, 2014.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>Lex died in March, 2012.</div><div><span style="font-size: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Dad died in February, 2010.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Fred died in January, 2008.</div><div><br /></div><div>Their memories live on, in me, and in others.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Be well, tell your loved ones that you love them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You may not get another chance.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And to those four gentlemen above, thanks. For everything.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Peace.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-27992239992191820662024-03-05T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-05T02:00:00.128-08:00Adventures in Bavaria or ... The Oil Pump<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbe8xq4wFCuMUROeEzqB0vamw2l6ZRFzJ9aZTx6zqTWyOPII3Z_zlyt0cTsmVQsN1ay9fHYsO1M7OinWqK6GtNHjeRo3SDun7oYwhb4JyWFzbK7ft0AmaHkXAvMSB-pP7mXFa5Squ_Sq9PXj9zcHeHO-JnHCYacAYogYQaeA0W47DukGcUOfHyTp8xvAR/s1098/tree-nature-forest-wilderness-mountain-snow-649605-pxhere.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKbe8xq4wFCuMUROeEzqB0vamw2l6ZRFzJ9aZTx6zqTWyOPII3Z_zlyt0cTsmVQsN1ay9fHYsO1M7OinWqK6GtNHjeRo3SDun7oYwhb4JyWFzbK7ft0AmaHkXAvMSB-pP7mXFa5Squ_Sq9PXj9zcHeHO-JnHCYacAYogYQaeA0W47DukGcUOfHyTp8xvAR/s16000/tree-nature-forest-wilderness-mountain-snow-649605-pxhere.com.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bolder;"><a href="https://pxhere.com/en/photo/649605" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;">PxHere</span></a></span></td></tr></tbody></table>A long, long time ago, in a country far away, I was a newly minted Master Sergeant in the United States Air Force assigned to NATO at Geilenkirchen AB in the <i>Bundesrepublik Deutschland</i>. Upon my ascension to this lofty station I was no longer fated to carry a rifle during NATO exercises, I had graduated to the Nuclear-Biological-Chemical Decontamination Team, or NBC team for short.<div><br /></div><div>My job henceforth, during exercises and real world contingencies (i.e. all out war, nuclear combat toe to toe with the Rooskies), it would be my job, along with select other individuals, to decontaminate individuals and vehicles which had been exposed (or suspected to be exposed) to NBC contamination.</div><div><br /></div><div>In order to perform said tasks, I would be required to go to a NATO school. So I was told.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Where is the school?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's in Oberammergau which is in ..."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ah, I know where Oberammergau is, Bavaria. It's the home of the Passion Play which is put on every ten years and has been since 1634."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay, you know more about Oberammergau than I do," said Senior Master Sergeant Hayes. (A damned fine man, retired as a Chief Master Sergeant. One of the very few really good senior NCOs I met in my 24 year career.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So after doing all of the necessary planning and paperwork, I loaded <i>The Missus Herself</i> and our kids into the Volkswagen Jetta and we set out for Bavaria.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now you might be wondering at taking the family on a school assignment which was only a week long. Well, it was NATO. I'd be staying in a very nice apartment anyway, so why not bring the family? We found lodging for our cats Pat and Tiger, as I was told, "Sorry, no pets." I doubt they would have tolerated the trip anyway. Cats and automobiles not getting along all that well, especially for eight hours. One way.</div><div><br /></div><div>The kids received scholastic dispensation for missing school for a week, "They will have to write a report about their trip," we were told, which for our scholarly inclined progeny wasn't a big deal. As <i>The Nuke </i>said (I think it was her), "Beats sitting in class all day."</div><div><br /></div><div>Off we went. Discovered that the oil pump in my Jetta was on the cusp of dying, such fun, but we made it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now what sparked this reminiscence?</div><div><br /></div><div>Whilst casting about for a topic to post about, usually I do this by looking at pictures, sometimes starting at PxHere (which has a lot of great photos free for use in a non-commercial setting, as the blog makes zero dollars, this qualifies). I entered the search term "weather" as it's been wet and cool here as of late and the photo above was presented.</div><div><br /></div><div>I immediately remembered when we pulled up to our apartment building (which may or may not have been a <i>Wehrmacht</i>¹ barracks in the mid 1940s). As we were unloading the car I heard cow bells (no, it wasn't <i>Don't Fear the Reaper</i> by Blue <span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; text-wrap: nowrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ö</span></span>yster Cult) in the distance. Looking up I saw a scene very similar to that in the picture.</div><div><br /></div><div>Though it was a fairly clear day, there was mist in the hills and the wind was pushing it up the hillside. Much like in the photo.</div><div><br /></div><div>The shining sun, the mist in the hills, and the cow bells ringing as some farmer was moving his herd, all combined to take my breath away. The area around Oberammergau is very beautiful as we discovered during our week there. <i>The Missus Herself</i> and the kids had more fun than I as NATO arranged bus trips for the families when the active duty types were in school. She took full advantage of those, even getting down to Austria. I did get a Thursday off where we took my ailing Jetta to see <a href="https://www.neuschwanstein.de/englisch/tourist/"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Neuschwanstein</span></b></a>. That too was breathtaking, just because of the castle itself but because we also walked up the hill upon which the castle sits. They had horse carriages which would take you up, but <i>The Missus Herself</i> felt sorry for the horses. (She lost that feeling when we got to the top, "Damn it, we should've taken the horse cart!")<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">See that hill in the background of the next picture? The NATO school was near the base of that hill. Like I said, a beautiful place.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYujUDYRgLNikCcBGcj-RgsaHkqW29MrOI8tFMHx2q0VYRtJ9qEg1NhwmmUBZuxNK9ZmjHjMzno30Im1V_TPrG7HLTqY-Z4fRv5_A5OLj3z7auBvUOTVh_ZTxQIT6odOg3t958I-y88s_OvOseaCFqyXLudoDHVaRAJBNQAgI00E-HmbWyo-OutCEWabA/s1098/Oberammergau.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYujUDYRgLNikCcBGcj-RgsaHkqW29MrOI8tFMHx2q0VYRtJ9qEg1NhwmmUBZuxNK9ZmjHjMzno30Im1V_TPrG7HLTqY-Z4fRv5_A5OLj3z7auBvUOTVh_ZTxQIT6odOg3t958I-y88s_OvOseaCFqyXLudoDHVaRAJBNQAgI00E-HmbWyo-OutCEWabA/s16000/Oberammergau.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Leupoldstraße, Oberammergau, Germany<br />Looking in the direction of the NATO school</span><br />(<b><a href="https://www.google.com/maps/@47.5932014,11.0714444,3a,75y,103.59h,82.39t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sL9J8xpqejAjnb9nK9D3ayw!2e0!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></a></b>)</td></tr></tbody></table>Eventually, as all good things do, our trip ended and we had to return home. Along the way we had to call <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ADAC"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">ADAC</span></b></a>, the German equivalent of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Automobile_Association"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">AAA</span></b></a> (no, juvat, not anti-aircraft artillery) as my oil pump died. I had attempted to convince a number of German mechanics that my oil pump was failing, to no avail.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ah, you have not enough oil in your car!" said one.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ah, you have too much oil in your car!" cried another.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I finally broke down (figuratively, the car would still run okay at slow speeds) and called ADAC, they sent a little old dude in an Audi to help. He was actually dressed in <i>Lederhosen</i>, which I thought cool. He listened to my plaintive tale and promptly said "<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Ölpumpe</i>!"²</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He directed us to the nearest Volkswagen garage (next town) which was getting ready to close and had absolutely no desire to help us. After demanding to use his phone, and being as ugly an American as I could be, the manager relented and let me call ADAC. Again. He acted like he wanted me to pay for the use of his phone. I just shook my head and berated him in front of his minions. My German was good enough in those days to do that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now I thought the guy was an <i>Arschloch</i>, apparently some of his employees agreed as I spotted a couple of grins during my lecture to him on the need to assist travelers in need and "where oh where" was that well-known and celebrated Bavarian <i>Gemütlichkeit</i>?³</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I think he actually blushed when I said that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo, after a wait of several hours, during which we sat in our car in front of the garage, something I asked if it was okay to do and to which the manager almost said no, then thought better of it, a big van towing a trailer showed up to haul us back to Waldfeucht, our little town in <i>Nordrhein-Westfalen</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now on the trip back the German driver and his minion refused to listen to my directions on how to get to my house. We went on an hour long detour before the guy relented and turned to me, asking, "Now where is it do you live?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now home, safe and sound, the next day I went to the local Volkswagen place where they didn't believe me that my oil pump was bad. They had to take it out and test it. After about thirty minutes the mechanic returned, looking somewhat chagrined.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">With an evil grin, I asked him, in German of course, what was wrong with my car.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<i>Ölpumpe</i>." he said, rather sheepishly.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He didn't speak much English, I gathered, because he didn't even blink when I offered calmly and succinctly, "No shit, Sherlock."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Really, I should have been a diplomat, I am so good with people.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ The </i>Wehrmacht <i>was the German armed forces during WWII.</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>² Oil pump.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">³ <span style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156;">Gemütlichkeit is a German word used to convey the idea of a state or feeling of warmth, friendliness, and good cheer.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156;"> </span></span></i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-14558187985484477212024-03-04T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-04T07:09:37.191-08:00 Un peu de ci, un peu de cela*<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> So, a bit of good news this past week. Mrs J has completed her last Chemo infusion in a series of 1 a month for the last <strike>4</strike>, oops I stand corrected, 6 months. As part of that procedure, the medicos draw blood and do a few tests on it. One of those is to count the number of cancer cells in it. So in addition to her last infusion, which knocks her on her butt for a day or two afterword, she's had 4 in a row with that number going down. As I said, good news. She has three weeks of Chemo pill taking which she tolerates pretty well, a week off then 5 weeks of being zapped with radiation. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5WLwRzK5GApwP7Oi2gQPOztbuWqvbZrK4RjKeUHmAhCUq1R-KnkHTuru-SKU7_K-mDB3QPN4pO-edxYGCTS8G1SST8usSLEQVEOvwV9gfer9KSowioMPmeIaLGQ4eVMgs0YxT5XxHgigHrNYtq9SSqLAwZKAEX0vsV2_ythL_kM5oz1Sx39ZeaN-Oz2y/s768/IMG_6459.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5WLwRzK5GApwP7Oi2gQPOztbuWqvbZrK4RjKeUHmAhCUq1R-KnkHTuru-SKU7_K-mDB3QPN4pO-edxYGCTS8G1SST8usSLEQVEOvwV9gfer9KSowioMPmeIaLGQ4eVMgs0YxT5XxHgigHrNYtq9SSqLAwZKAEX0vsV2_ythL_kM5oz1Sx39ZeaN-Oz2y/w480-h640/IMG_6459.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My two miracle ladies, the one on the left, Miss B, - 6 months in NICU, the one on the right, Mrs J,- 6 months of Chemo. Both are doing well. Thank You, Lord!<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> Again, I thank all y'all saying prayers for her, they're obviously working.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As some of you might remember, a few weeks ago, I had an exciting experience in my wood shop. I had seen a youtube video about <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIZoX1XjuYQ" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">"Inside Out" wood turning </a>and thought I'd give it a try. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj9FmsD_BXJ0OxBUhGQpYMwwS0HNgENSL0acw7TgFPnLwY5ViNTXIwpjfWaUsfECognslUfiUY0H6nvFv9-ksPEc4uG1P5qrVgaIZ-4DzkYiRgWRdCfoR24ciFKdTNi9HYcNWYw6dHtZrRKzTKnh1VyhJ9AAqnUpsHDUcr8LN5MWnJvHxSJniI6xgTB7Va/s1024/IMG_6427.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj9FmsD_BXJ0OxBUhGQpYMwwS0HNgENSL0acw7TgFPnLwY5ViNTXIwpjfWaUsfECognslUfiUY0H6nvFv9-ksPEc4uG1P5qrVgaIZ-4DzkYiRgWRdCfoR24ciFKdTNi9HYcNWYw6dHtZrRKzTKnh1VyhJ9AAqnUpsHDUcr8LN5MWnJvHxSJniI6xgTB7Va/w640-h480/IMG_6427.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> Those two pieces, a couple of minutes before this picture was taken, was one piece. They split in half and went sailing across the shop. Fortunately, they missed me. I resolved I would learn a bit more about how to do this before trying again.</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlCCOf-Ib6bsKepB12P-0V_n-AD7LgSR8QxMFUffqunElpaOe454Y0TNyRMbF4jV1iKQS2X1fB2mTqeP55GXT8v3SF6RI67oA5aQy04zuew8mQktwROcptafflXhW993tyY3b_qg5Zo6LkYXDJAT_uktxN9hkj_UjAgmcVp5bIayugbE49O3gwKiKcGBug/s768/IMG_6475.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlCCOf-Ib6bsKepB12P-0V_n-AD7LgSR8QxMFUffqunElpaOe454Y0TNyRMbF4jV1iKQS2X1fB2mTqeP55GXT8v3SF6RI67oA5aQy04zuew8mQktwROcptafflXhW993tyY3b_qg5Zo6LkYXDJAT_uktxN9hkj_UjAgmcVp5bIayugbE49O3gwKiKcGBug/w480-h640/IMG_6475.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This one turned out much better. Still made a couple of procedural mistakes, but it'll be hanging from our tree this Christmas. More, and better, to follow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Also wood shop related, Mrs. J has gently persuaded me to undergo a project for our oldest granddaughter. MG is about 2 and 1/2 and has taken to playing with dolls. Mrs. J told me she thought MG needed a doll house. I was a bit reticent until she presented her plan. We are on the mailing list of <a href="https://www.wsjwine.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Wall Street Journal Wines</a> (I have no idea if they're a subset of WSJ, but they do have pretty good wine offerings) and last Christmas bought a sampling of wines. It came packaged in a Christmas themed box shaped like a house..</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So my task is to modify it into a doll house, sturdy enough to withstand a 2+YO girl.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5Cf1H_DX4nh0AdR68nIepYfG5DIW0dU3WHPXz__kc6GoL77yP0MZVu2PYNHHtJBHNKvsXHrBIytP_a34HdzbY7OD3PPXLhgRAaFaRvJfOkK_001yLtqvSZN1EQN-H8AFRw673q7Z2GtZk482RtVBhixHBjow7JXOhCTj1UcQw_3H-Z1apt_PnxuovVAt/s768/IMG_6476.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5Cf1H_DX4nh0AdR68nIepYfG5DIW0dU3WHPXz__kc6GoL77yP0MZVu2PYNHHtJBHNKvsXHrBIytP_a34HdzbY7OD3PPXLhgRAaFaRvJfOkK_001yLtqvSZN1EQN-H8AFRw673q7Z2GtZk482RtVBhixHBjow7JXOhCTj1UcQw_3H-Z1apt_PnxuovVAt/w480-h640/IMG_6476.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Structures are going in, it will be two stories with an "Attic" for storage of stuff not being played with at any given time. We'll see how it turns out.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We also solved a different problem. As our regular readers are aware, Mrs J and I inherited my Sister's 3 Dogs on her passing, a Golden Retriever and 2 Great Pyrenees. Yes, Beans, they are very LARGE dogs. With our blind Transylvanian Wolf Hound, our very old Dachsund and a cranky Chihuahua, the GP's became outside dogs. However, our original outside fencing had a major problem. The driveway gate could be pushed open. The GP's very quickly learned this and "The Great Escape" became a reality. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The solution originally was to put a chain around the gate and the fence post. That worked fine, but it's less than fun to try and open a metal chain when it's raining or cold or if the GP's are standing there in their sprinter starting block waiting for the thing to open. Tolerated it for about 6 months and finally said enough.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I called a fencing dude. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUMScFixn9gQ4gaR8JAOiNOchgkcDQNsfNT7JlGQz1yPwJfjbVIEfWSGMcrH61xfGxb_HAQy0q3Pu3vqhWK47ptndYoYq7eNsgWZx-5MdEQEegOD4ZkTvP_lUGOLFomUtTm9Ze83CzE1PSCrlbnJRMx33xEGnchhTwAoLuuJg1-5vEB_JdUXt_UAVtIWD/s440/Final_Trophee_Monal_2012_n08.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="440" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUMScFixn9gQ4gaR8JAOiNOchgkcDQNsfNT7JlGQz1yPwJfjbVIEfWSGMcrH61xfGxb_HAQy0q3Pu3vqhWK47ptndYoYq7eNsgWZx-5MdEQEegOD4ZkTvP_lUGOLFomUtTm9Ze83CzE1PSCrlbnJRMx33xEGnchhTwAoLuuJg1-5vEB_JdUXt_UAVtIWD/w640-h424/Final_Trophee_Monal_2012_n08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89p%C3%A9e" rel="nofollow" style="font-family: helvetica;" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">(No Beans, Epee's were not involved.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">He showed up, on time, which given the construction going on around here was not expected, but deeply appreciated. I explained what I wanted. He said he'd put together a quote and get back to me. He did, the next day, and after looking at the quote and discussing it with my financial officer (You Guys know who I'm talking about) told him OK. He asked if starting the next day would be feasible. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">"Why, as a matter of fact it is!" said I.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPJ_Tef9DoNpL8-yvh0PqYat17Te2g-m5Ev8-F0UQ6uc99ANN93Bysxi6ZTfTqOyRff8sIOSqtaqh30AhnyG9Qwrr5hQAv6Vj1vbGJxYvb1yOIVswz21yJjn2eBWdk0bTqxSFXn9JC4NkL19_UF_8cF1Ll461iHjbyQBnBliEBzoy6zLt-Uk0qIegbmkF/s1024/IMG_6450.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPJ_Tef9DoNpL8-yvh0PqYat17Te2g-m5Ev8-F0UQ6uc99ANN93Bysxi6ZTfTqOyRff8sIOSqtaqh30AhnyG9Qwrr5hQAv6Vj1vbGJxYvb1yOIVswz21yJjn2eBWdk0bTqxSFXn9JC4NkL19_UF_8cF1Ll461iHjbyQBnBliEBzoy6zLt-Uk0qIegbmkF/w640-h480/IMG_6450.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The gate is the original, the addition is along either side of the driveway. On the right side, you can see the two GP's looking forlorn. Instead of 40 acres to roam in, they're confined to a little less than two. Poor Dogs! Bwahhh-Ha-Ha, I say as I twist my mustache. It's so much easier to get in and out I should have done it long ago.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Finally, Mrs. J and I are sitting out front last evening when my phone dings. It's MBD and she's sent me a photo. I had given her a box of family photos and told her to take any she wanted. She had sent the photo to get the back story.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphgEVOVdpT1xEX_XIu6z-ho0dEk8cX6zacdZp9Zq8ihlY0kGjOBiw5XMl6TyWGCJk0K_Nb46_XIB8xXyRbL0oKKZ9pIEfO4oThGtrtvMfn3uspwETXk2S5ABMIW69q_tL1GCGL12ybr8R92Y72y8hwt7jqXcLrg6HDAjiHcA7rTuGc7mxf-VECkzhNYbd/s799/Meat10.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="799" height="616" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphgEVOVdpT1xEX_XIu6z-ho0dEk8cX6zacdZp9Zq8ihlY0kGjOBiw5XMl6TyWGCJk0K_Nb46_XIB8xXyRbL0oKKZ9pIEfO4oThGtrtvMfn3uspwETXk2S5ABMIW69q_tL1GCGL12ybr8R92Y72y8hwt7jqXcLrg6HDAjiHcA7rTuGc7mxf-VECkzhNYbd/w640-h616/Meat10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Well...This was taken on my 12th Birthday. My folks had given me a pair of binoculars as a present. Our house</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> was one of the original base housing when Webb AFB was built for WWII. It wasn't very nice when we lived in it and isn't any better now. (448 Armstrong St, Big Spring TX if you want to google earth it and take a look at it now.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But you could see the runways and flight line from the top of the fence. It was even better with binoculars. Yes, I knew what I wanted to do when I "grew up", so I spent a lot of time there watching those flying thingies.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The picture brought back a lot of memories. Not the least of which is "Wish I was that thin and had that much hair again."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Peace out, y'all! <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> * The Chant's French Professor, a <a href="https://oldafsarge.blogspot.com/2024/02/comme-ci-comme-ca.html#comment-form" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">couple of weeks ago</a>, taught me that phrase translates to "a little of this, a little of that". Thanks, Sarge!<br /></span></p>juvathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09096708575138552532noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-27691660478787938982024-03-03T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-03T02:00:00.144-08:00Playing in Traffic, In the Rain ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTr3Y_owBpdc0KhN2TMdbwgOwzghNotKgbTcVhyEOoxUYTjSRjORVAen4zXSACoYLOCTPmYLTZ5-deamd_NsbIZ93tuKUe9ZMfVvcn2ElvPWRRkq25fJFn8e4ZoSQVYDp3zrRMqRKHW52i_yyoJrqiqpyTh9MvTp2kCzqewszFebX1hv0H-kd5NXV75S9/s1066/195WestBound.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1066" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTr3Y_owBpdc0KhN2TMdbwgOwzghNotKgbTcVhyEOoxUYTjSRjORVAen4zXSACoYLOCTPmYLTZ5-deamd_NsbIZ93tuKUe9ZMfVvcn2ElvPWRRkq25fJFn8e4ZoSQVYDp3zrRMqRKHW52i_yyoJrqiqpyTh9MvTp2kCzqewszFebX1hv0H-kd5NXV75S9/s16000/195WestBound.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I-195 heading west into Providence</span><br />(<a href="https://www.dot.ri.gov/travel/cameras_metro.php#"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>Saturday, a wet, chilly day here in Little Rhody. Of course the day before was beautiful, but that was not the day I had to take <i>The Missus Herself</i> over to T.F. Green (PVD) to catch a flight to BWI down Maryland way. She's off to assist <i>The Nuke's </i>tribe as the adults down there are doing a lot of traveling in the next couple of weeks. As the kids can't really take care of themselves, she's off to do the helpful grandma thing.<div><br /></div><div>Now d'ya see that opening photo? That's looking towards Providence, which lies between <i>Chez Sarge</i> and the <i>aeroporto</i>. Not usually a problem, up until late last year when someone discovered that the westbound portion of the Washington Bridge was, shall we say, not up to snuff, in fact it was absolutely unsafe. Here are photos of parts of the underside of that bridge -</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSPcn5YD_N7pwLCeY0Oj2OD2N542aX4Bs9kJ9U8TOUYvoA19BaRMklIBnsYvb8CEoFHd9uH6faILTKC5HtRj9f3gM3uM0Ktl1Tfyj_QNQVlYYhK9EJIsKKZI_4W2UQS0_qrd8BGGkuLdmKWMr1OepjHdpRo2Eh5WUFaULnoBlowaCGUuIHH03xhKCZflk/s1098/TheDamage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSPcn5YD_N7pwLCeY0Oj2OD2N542aX4Bs9kJ9U8TOUYvoA19BaRMklIBnsYvb8CEoFHd9uH6faILTKC5HtRj9f3gM3uM0Ktl1Tfyj_QNQVlYYhK9EJIsKKZI_4W2UQS0_qrd8BGGkuLdmKWMr1OepjHdpRo2Eh5WUFaULnoBlowaCGUuIHH03xhKCZflk/s16000/TheDamage.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.wpri.com/news/local-news/providence/heres-a-look-at-the-damage-that-caused-the-i-195-bridge-closure/"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>You can read all about it at the source under the photo.<div><br /></div><div>This bridge being out of service has caused major traffic issues here in Little Rhody. The photo below shows traffic starting to pile up at the state line, some two and a half miles from the bridge. Want to go anywhere west of my AO¹, better add 30 minutes to an hour for that. I have friends who have to go that way everyday. They are pretty sick of it, I can tell you.<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgrz_C4NHKDkNtY33vQlfRZL3geVd5x5uD7xOhncG9m2C50zXaBjUuhCrpZ8_C1LPMDskgF9_dvF_ojY37qwxg0290PE8X5nrDgul116FgI17gFb8LTBYCYWHU36evDy_JKmUlyvkk95C-O5tQi_ycO5Ctha7r7Bjhf8NRmPzXIx2HixZ2BMRRTMySkl7/s1065/StateLineWestBound.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1065" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgrz_C4NHKDkNtY33vQlfRZL3geVd5x5uD7xOhncG9m2C50zXaBjUuhCrpZ8_C1LPMDskgF9_dvF_ojY37qwxg0290PE8X5nrDgul116FgI17gFb8LTBYCYWHU36evDy_JKmUlyvkk95C-O5tQi_ycO5Ctha7r7Bjhf8NRmPzXIx2HixZ2BMRRTMySkl7/s16000/StateLineWestBound.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking west from the state line on I-195.</span><br />(<a href="https://www.dot.ri.gov/travel/cameras_metro.php#"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>Now here's the bridge itself, a screen capture from an RI DOT traffic cam, as are all the traffic photos above. Note that the right side is devoid of traffic and the left has traffic going both ways. Now the bridge has four lanes going both ways, right now that's down to two each way. You might well imagine what a PITA² that is during rush hour.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RzAGuHi1hYGnURYM1AnRkWkUMDaK-bdkdOCrrMyOKdbKNWLucDlJFdsBMRYr4Yx_hyphenhyphenepZ4HRJNki0I0djwSG4lOZbQXXVGMIOqcRUyZ7iYfhZz3r-NjghkOad699QTrv45v9NWNggdElVpd10xBYOgGNlDF6ac4LzmA6tAp1n6TEOq5hyGyLM4Ln-mqS/s1065/WashingtonStBridge.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1065" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RzAGuHi1hYGnURYM1AnRkWkUMDaK-bdkdOCrrMyOKdbKNWLucDlJFdsBMRYr4Yx_hyphenhyphenepZ4HRJNki0I0djwSG4lOZbQXXVGMIOqcRUyZ7iYfhZz3r-NjghkOad699QTrv45v9NWNggdElVpd10xBYOgGNlDF6ac4LzmA6tAp1n6TEOq5hyGyLM4Ln-mqS/s16000/WashingtonStBridge.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Washington St. Bridge looking west.</span><br />(<a href="https://www.dot.ri.gov/travel/cameras_metro.php#"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>Here's a map of the area I had to traverse Saturday in the afternoon to deliver my better half to the airfield.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iK-RZkWQk8ZiRrMrhBV1d-2V798SV62DRRpRsEZLnugFJFGl7qgfFZHdDBbUenUyzApPYNPDhrTXViAnqfFEr40MOBrA3JaBMHb7HM6dxh1YsB3aarmJdg93MNfUvnmCBemAFE3CSFecmeoVCNCQgu0veC_yxkCCK9OoWngB26L2QO_qh_TE8dhAoYIx/s1018/MapOfTheArea.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iK-RZkWQk8ZiRrMrhBV1d-2V798SV62DRRpRsEZLnugFJFGl7qgfFZHdDBbUenUyzApPYNPDhrTXViAnqfFEr40MOBrA3JaBMHb7HM6dxh1YsB3aarmJdg93MNfUvnmCBemAFE3CSFecmeoVCNCQgu0veC_yxkCCK9OoWngB26L2QO_qh_TE8dhAoYIx/s16000/MapOfTheArea.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Map of the area.</span><br />(<a href="https://www.google.com/maps/@41.7272662,-71.3387939,11.75z?authuser=0&entry=ttu"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>The black is the path I typically travel to get to PVD, the blue circle is the approximate location of <i>Chez Sarge</i>, well the outer defenses anyway. (😉) The red circle is the Washington Bridge, the green circle is the airport. As the crow flies it's roughly eight miles to the airport, via road it's about 25. Yup, that big blue body of water is the thing everyone in Little Rhody has to go around when traveling.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unless you head south to Newport and use the Claiborne Pell Newport Bridge and then the Jamestown Verrazano Bridge to cross the Bay. Which, as fate would have it, is also experiencing "construction delays." Ah, the joys of living in a small state ...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh, Sarge, you didn't mention the orange circle on the map."</div><div><br /></div><div>"What, the orange ... Oh yes, the orange circle!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Returning home from the airport, I was looking forward to an uneventful drive in the rain when what did I see upon getting close to the town of Warren. Why yes, traffic, backed up for a couple of miles. Absolutely wonderful.</div><div><br /></div><div>Waze showed a police car on the road, but nothing else. What could possibly be going on?</div><div><br /></div><div>In the photo below, which I captured to show you the extent of the traffic, I didn't notice something. If you look very, very close, you might see something out of place.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7f10s2PORytBR3FRYUZ-wcUuTrw5ip2RTC9jkUbEMZoTvh-4-DlMAMcND_HIOZP8i7b8OnUYEs1h156Dsf5Jw05jYsUJEbcUgysLQD9gmyR7tRV7LpFpR6VNb1n-uKSBSiVyYZ-YBrJbMDnqgkMJfXiJPYPnwcvcY_rK39QNaazRzlSbDSJu9EiGvT7ku/s1098/20240302_151327.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7f10s2PORytBR3FRYUZ-wcUuTrw5ip2RTC9jkUbEMZoTvh-4-DlMAMcND_HIOZP8i7b8OnUYEs1h156Dsf5Jw05jYsUJEbcUgysLQD9gmyR7tRV7LpFpR6VNb1n-uKSBSiVyYZ-YBrJbMDnqgkMJfXiJPYPnwcvcY_rK39QNaazRzlSbDSJu9EiGvT7ku/s16000/20240302_151327.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OAFS Photo</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Now in this next photo, which is a little closer, the thing I couldn't quite perceive above is now pretty obvious. Smoke, and lots of it!</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I had noticed some sort of weird looking crane or light pole with flashing lights before I saw the smoke. Instinct told me, "That ain't right."</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNU_RIT5ZG9dc3vAFs0vDMlDC7bLPnNZrVUKsEqGxdjIF3LmdKrxNS08gaB4uwqqpqB5ehBok1LHu4kkfxLg9-JxU2mq8Hb6PkMlVpbqXQyC06i_QSW9J9T_MkI3KveBHZsB1WVlZ1vQZeRnLRzRBMuyjEatIERGp-UcyOnfA2QWfzmK1gqaWV4jXo8X_/s1098/20240302_151628sm.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNU_RIT5ZG9dc3vAFs0vDMlDC7bLPnNZrVUKsEqGxdjIF3LmdKrxNS08gaB4uwqqpqB5ehBok1LHu4kkfxLg9-JxU2mq8Hb6PkMlVpbqXQyC06i_QSW9J9T_MkI3KveBHZsB1WVlZ1vQZeRnLRzRBMuyjEatIERGp-UcyOnfA2QWfzmK1gqaWV4jXo8X_/s16000/20240302_151628sm.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OAFS Photo</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Let's zoom in, shall we?</div><div><br /></div><div>There's the thing with the flashing lights and the smoke is much clearer.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjtFWY7W5L3Pq3AFn9lXQRDDWIKeWfgb1AKsP_X96SndMnj-bOyFWuVJgK0-Mj5fCOkK58qzAkrtQnpNcFUAOq-J5gJqL6dq8_Z2JoXWCqlqYI0v6N9h-TpkyYv1B1Vcll6o9AHKTHq2HPpg_6lDLFRIsp8uiQJbds-RuzOA9zBjlIRSnBhQQN189UMCF/s1084/TheFire.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1084" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjtFWY7W5L3Pq3AFn9lXQRDDWIKeWfgb1AKsP_X96SndMnj-bOyFWuVJgK0-Mj5fCOkK58qzAkrtQnpNcFUAOq-J5gJqL6dq8_Z2JoXWCqlqYI0v6N9h-TpkyYv1B1Vcll6o9AHKTHq2HPpg_6lDLFRIsp8uiQJbds-RuzOA9zBjlIRSnBhQQN189UMCF/s16000/TheFire.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OAFS Photo</i></td></tr></tbody></table>As I drove past, I saw that the flashing light thingee was some sort of fire department apparatus and that it was poised over a middling-sized industrial structure from which a great amount of smoke was billowing. Also some nasty looking flames were coming from an opening in the roof.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would have taken a photo, but traffic was moving, single file, through a cordon of police and firemen, would have been a ticket at least to have attempted a photo.</div><div><br /></div><div>What could have been a nice quiet afternoon turned out to be not so quiet after all. I'm sure the folks who own that building had a far worse day than I.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hope no one got hurt.</div><div><br /></div><div>As of 1715 local, some two hours after I went through the area, traffic is still backed up and I can hear police and fire department sirens constantly going off in the distance. Another traffic cam view -</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JVNEcNJQ4quIAx-BiWkw-8zZXCXgjw4iNoe5G9BQn33G-IfG-JTDlhC0a0Zan2IqslY8UTx9RLdftGYi02sEqspVnYthlOA3AUDWP3zD_vRkHG4vHPG7LT5CllvWERlZf37AR1vmJv9nIHMnNfdxtWomBj_L6Me0r_5UF_2anRTelzvLq00MI6jnHhlT/s1098/WarrenLookingNorth.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JVNEcNJQ4quIAx-BiWkw-8zZXCXgjw4iNoe5G9BQn33G-IfG-JTDlhC0a0Zan2IqslY8UTx9RLdftGYi02sEqspVnYthlOA3AUDWP3zD_vRkHG4vHPG7LT5CllvWERlZf37AR1vmJv9nIHMnNfdxtWomBj_L6Me0r_5UF_2anRTelzvLq00MI6jnHhlT/s16000/WarrenLookingNorth.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Warren, RI looking north along Route 136, the fire is south of here. (Behind the camera.)</span><br />(<a href="https://www.dot.ri.gov/travel/cameras_eastbay.php#"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table><div>What a day, glad that's over.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's all from Little Rhody.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sarge, out.</div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ Area of Operations</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>² Pain in the arse</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-1314195649526220482024-03-02T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-02T02:00:00.137-08:00Yeah, It's a Bit Cramped<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8JQvF6B3BlWFx7TRsf0oL54Si4uT9yXwRxrXef1OrZaWm1x_2k1RNmdCEmYSfkOz4kEQj5r1bGcKi9FTEGl3hoD0i7c_7Ymnkyb6GOMTsqHN4l-gtIvnE6CLjXW1sWzr1HCnK9XMypFosWZMNAz04E9tEvMz3SFH4446uHRkaVffgw4QDjgLjLUYx86N/s1098/20240301_180950.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8JQvF6B3BlWFx7TRsf0oL54Si4uT9yXwRxrXef1OrZaWm1x_2k1RNmdCEmYSfkOz4kEQj5r1bGcKi9FTEGl3hoD0i7c_7Ymnkyb6GOMTsqHN4l-gtIvnE6CLjXW1sWzr1HCnK9XMypFosWZMNAz04E9tEvMz3SFH4446uHRkaVffgw4QDjgLjLUYx86N/s16000/20240301_180950.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OAFS Photo</i></td></tr></tbody></table>I am enjoying the new laptop, though it is still in the process of being setup. As you can see above, it sits atop its cooling pad, which sits atop my TV tray. That latter thing was a Christmas gift from <i>The Missus Herself</i> some years back. The tray served well for dining while watching television.<div><br /></div><div>As most program watching is now done via the desktop, we use the TV downstairs (big one it is) only when the kids and their kids visit. Amazon Fire Stick serves as the source for programming on the big TV. </div><div><br /></div><div>The tray graduated to laptop stand about two years ago when <i>The Naviguesser</i> bought me the Razer as a combination birthday/Christmas gift. That laptop served me well until one day it said, "This is as far as I go, no more."¹<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">After a delay of some weeks, I purchased the new machine, which I cleverly named The Machine, which now sits atop the tray. Alongside the old ASUS desktop which has a few more years (I hope) of life in her. I shall use the laptop for gaming and the desktop for writing. And watching movies and selected TV series.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But my area is rapidly filling with stuff (things <i>The Missus Herself</i> refers to as "junk," <i>shudder</i>). Behind my chair is a large pile of old Naval Institute <i>Proceedings</i> magazines, games, and ball caps. I have lots of those (ball caps), mostly Navy because hey, all three kids and both sons-in-law were in the Navy (<i>Big Time</i> SIL#1, still is). Not to mention that I have worked naval combat systems (primarily, one foray into Patriot missiles during my exile) for nearly 25 years, I've already worked at my current place longer than I was in the Air Force. So I feel kinda Navy most days.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo, I'm starting to shop for a newer (bigger, as in longer) computer desk so the TV tray can go back to doing what it was designed for, though indeed, it's been a fine laptop stand. When I retire I plan on "cleaning my room." It pains me to say that, no doubt my better half will convince me to (<i>shudder</i>) throw things away to make more room.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But for now, I'll take my cramped workspace and live with it. (Note that to the right of the chair, off camera, is my electric drum kit. See the pic below, it's very cozy in my <strike>command center</strike> man cave, but I like it.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfn_yrR_AT5rtQ4rI3sw_SeT2EKumBspnEhTLD-QWX344kqypGFDu4AT3dQpu7ggZUL7eAF8b2K7Wwz8Ayj0t5eqqeskp_P4y9TwDkAETVP5qRmIp_QB9Tclf0YOgqtJUcFQ0hAlq4ViskARECeZIXsOspvaOzPhYsOX6Uy03IetRR1fNmLa-vWTqFp-c/s1098/20240301_183118.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfn_yrR_AT5rtQ4rI3sw_SeT2EKumBspnEhTLD-QWX344kqypGFDu4AT3dQpu7ggZUL7eAF8b2K7Wwz8Ayj0t5eqqeskp_P4y9TwDkAETVP5qRmIp_QB9Tclf0YOgqtJUcFQ0hAlq4ViskARECeZIXsOspvaOzPhYsOX6Uy03IetRR1fNmLa-vWTqFp-c/s16000/20240301_183118.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>OAFS Photo</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Oh yes, in the background are more games, more books, my childhood panda and his buddies, and yeah, more hats.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Okay, my room isn't this cramped ...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt5aJ9rhqXa_xNPgrBB6_ph8-pR-UQzqiDWer3Q65rXGMXaQEBlcBoVQ5ApKO5IpglVdHdke4SOZVCf8-txlzYE0HObvttgGOrYVnTeGR8Ue6uenwSals9nFhfPtvhhrmUBPjEuCXuIKjEeImFoK8sp6LWrWzINIqOvhPxHNBT4zV9D7r2LPNjeHN7PKX/s934/TigerITurretInterior.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="934" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt5aJ9rhqXa_xNPgrBB6_ph8-pR-UQzqiDWer3Q65rXGMXaQEBlcBoVQ5ApKO5IpglVdHdke4SOZVCf8-txlzYE0HObvttgGOrYVnTeGR8Ue6uenwSals9nFhfPtvhhrmUBPjEuCXuIKjEeImFoK8sp6LWrWzINIqOvhPxHNBT4zV9D7r2LPNjeHN7PKX/s16000/TigerITurretInterior.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tiger I turret interior, loader's position</span><br />(<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/rikdom/2671753707"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>... but it's getting there. At least I don't have the breech of an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/8.8_cm_KwK_36"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">8.8 cm KwK 36</span></b></a> cannon running through it. (Hhmm, I wonder how I'd traverse that, ya know, just in theory.)<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm sure <i>The Missus Herself</i> (not to mention the neighbors) might have a problem with that ...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Okay, enough of that, I must get back to work, filling that laptop with all the games I had on the desktop and the old laptop. Through the magic of <i>Steam</i>, they're all out there, just waiting to be downloaded again, I mean the stuff's paid for, innit?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Editor's Note: </b><i>Speaking of things which were lost but weren't really. My Microsoft Word, knowing what a disorganized putz I can be, actually saved the final edit of </i>Almost a Lifetime<i> on OneDrive, didn't know I'd set that up. After I activated Microsoft 365 </i><i>on the new box (</i><i>it came free for a year with the machine), there was my book. It said, "Hi, miss me?" And I answered, "Well, yeah, saved me having to redo all that work. Hallelujah!"</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ A line from the most excellent film <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prey_(2022_film)"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Prey</span></b></a>.</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-89706769166036898612024-03-01T02:00:00.000-08:002024-03-01T07:54:17.253-08:00I'm All Ranted Out<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJlWjMI8szE8CKekR5LeZk9i8s7GWtp1qRh4PrM6vytPpYByL-j-Mhp-gUjkwO_oWp9-spp7Faemxuguz-C7pRMlJzfS9JRxWNgJ5v1Tl5G3j36VGcOsWvkcXoRo-rpawYJJiDDThdeEL99cEXJnU8UvCvrfEVxAvbx8I4Uzgh1Zr0byK_5ZyZY4uhmpu/s1098/%E2%80%98Shogun-Red-Band-Trailer-War-is-Inevitable-In-Bloody-New-FX-Series.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJlWjMI8szE8CKekR5LeZk9i8s7GWtp1qRh4PrM6vytPpYByL-j-Mhp-gUjkwO_oWp9-spp7Faemxuguz-C7pRMlJzfS9JRxWNgJ5v1Tl5G3j36VGcOsWvkcXoRo-rpawYJJiDDThdeEL99cEXJnU8UvCvrfEVxAvbx8I4Uzgh1Zr0byK_5ZyZY4uhmpu/s16000/%E2%80%98Shogun-Red-Band-Trailer-War-is-Inevitable-In-Bloody-New-FX-Series.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://theplaylist.net/shogun-red-band-trailer-war-is-inevitable-in-bloody-new-fx-series-20240123/"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>New laptop is set up, for the most part, have lots of games I need to establish on the new machine which will take some time. Steam is odd when downloading over WiFi, your speed will go from 200 Mbps to 70 Kbps on occasion with no apparent explanation. But as I was watching a program on the old computer (wired directly to the modem) while downloading, well, let's just say part of that might have been my fault.<div><br /></div><div>Might have ...</div><div><br /></div><div>But, I finally got to start watching the remake of <i>Sh<span style="font-family: inherit;">ō</span>gun</i>,<i> </i>a book by James Clavell that I've probably read ten times over the years, and which was a mini-series all the way back in 1980, which I've seen twice, maybe three times, I don't remember right off the bat.</div><div><br /></div><div>The new one started Tuesday night, I knew that but I missed it and watched it Wednesday night. However, there were TWO episodes I could watch.</div><div><br /></div><div>Loved every minute of it, I felt like I was in Japan ...</div><div><br /></div><div>Four hundred years ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mind you, I loved the first one, it had one of my favorite actors in it - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toshiro_Mifune"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Mifune Toshirō</span></b></a> in the role of Toranaga Yoshi (who's meant to be <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tokugawa_Ieyasu"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Tokugawa Ieyasu</span></b></a>, the real life Sh<span style="font-family: inherit;">ō</span>gun). In the 2024 version, Toranaga is played by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiroyuki_Sanada"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Sanada Hiroyuki</span></b></a>, the samurai who got to beat on Tom Cruise in <i>The Last Samurai</i> (an extraordinarily ahistorical film which had the saving grace of being entertaining) while teaching him how to use the sword. I really like this guy's acting.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the original series I didn't feel like I was in Japan, felt like being on a movie set, in this one they use a lot of tricks of the trade to put you there.</div><div><br /></div><div>The city of <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Ō</span>saka is sprawling and looks very much like a Japanese city of that time. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ō</span></span>saka castle was impressive in the first series, it is freaking magnificent in this one. An overhead shot (maybe a model, maybe CGI, I couldn't really tell, it just looked really, really good) gives one the impression that as a fortification, <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Ō</span>saka castle would have been a damned tough nut to crack.</div><div><br /></div><div>I also read a review that said the clothing was far more accurate to the period in this remake, even the way the samurai carried their sword was better. INot something I noticed in the first one.)</div><div><br /></div><div>If you've got the time, go watch it.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you don't have the time, make the time. It's that good.</div><div><br /></div><div>I give it four out of four Super Hornets¹ ...</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgY70oMqRBU37TGgPOrpFhGsxJ4CBMvfAbtl1ArF93bKQg3Ctnl_waiotw0EGLUb2quBjyfFNgcnYtmUA0rRHe5paEtfLSGfMgXZ-l9qlkSPGoMux2WRQS6vKcW5afCi6fCvTSV7n6cDE2VQaQB0j9O50BHqJXo9X5nNPZJXK9iqkKFKV8jHMcQmQndGoMW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgY70oMqRBU37TGgPOrpFhGsxJ4CBMvfAbtl1ArF93bKQg3Ctnl_waiotw0EGLUb2quBjyfFNgcnYtmUA0rRHe5paEtfLSGfMgXZ-l9qlkSPGoMux2WRQS6vKcW5afCi6fCvTSV7n6cDE2VQaQB0j9O50BHqJXo9X5nNPZJXK9iqkKFKV8jHMcQmQndGoMW=s16000" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>¹ No, I couldn't find my Phantom graphic.</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-73998347615691446902024-02-29T02:00:00.000-08:002024-02-29T02:00:00.245-08:00Thought for the Day ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEHkylHyWTfi2nokah5XG2pfnYvDrZzgg2zmhr6eEsViPlD6q_GSXuY85mKAZrn7FKHvv2jtUxsLjAk9GPaxHPfBjIezulfqdlk4aYxhU5rD4QBDaS7hVJAXFbR3aSd6aO7ozea_9Pw2HKOWFjpiBBEQ2G_Ujiv_B7lcahPfnQhXxrQDOo0ykZaaL2v-b/s414/Aleksandr_Solzhenitsyn_1974crop.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEHkylHyWTfi2nokah5XG2pfnYvDrZzgg2zmhr6eEsViPlD6q_GSXuY85mKAZrn7FKHvv2jtUxsLjAk9GPaxHPfBjIezulfqdlk4aYxhU5rD4QBDaS7hVJAXFbR3aSd6aO7ozea_9Pw2HKOWFjpiBBEQ2G_Ujiv_B7lcahPfnQhXxrQDOo0ykZaaL2v-b/s16000/Aleksandr_Solzhenitsyn_1974crop.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn</span><br />(<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Aleksandr_Solzhenitsyn_1974crop.jpg"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table><blockquote><div>“And how we burned in the camps later, thinking: What would things have been like if every Security operative, when he went out at night to make an arrest, had been uncertain whether he would return alive and had to say good-bye to his family? Or if, during periods of mass arrests, as for example in Leningrad, when they arrested a quarter of the entire city, people had not simply sat there in their lairs, paling with terror at every bang of the downstairs door and at every step on the staircase, but had understood they had nothing left to lose and had boldly set up in the downstairs hall an ambush of half a dozen people with axes, hammers, pokers, or whatever else was at hand?... The Organs would very quickly have suffered a shortage of officers and transport and, notwithstanding all of Stalin's thirst, the cursed machine would have ground to a halt! If...if...We didn't love freedom enough. And even more – we had no awareness of the real situation.... We purely and simply deserved everything that happened afterward.”<br /></div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote><div><div style="text-align: left;">― Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn , The Gulag Archipelago 1918–1956 <span style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/34738-and-how-we-burned-in-the-camps-later-thinking-what"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</span></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><div>Think about it.<div><br /></div><div>Also, go read <a href="https://ncrenegade.com/matthew-bracken-dear-mr-security-agent/"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">this</span></b></a>. We must not give away that which the Founders left for us and for which so many have fought, and died, over the decades which followed 1775.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last rant for the week¹, new laptop is in the house, need to set it up and (ahem) check it out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will endeavor to write about something else on Thursday ...</div><div><br /></div>Maybe.<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>¹ Maybe I'll do a thought for the day only on Leap Day. Yes, 'tis the 29th of February.</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-31364330659039235232024-02-28T02:00:00.000-08:002024-02-28T02:00:00.234-08:00The Tree of Liberty<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5SJgPblcpHaILBJGATpiOwLsOG5tZfU-vExd-FQuD1jquwSnO3ajK9MxInYMrEjalYPUnbqE3eo5xYwN5JFTa2rfFWdJN242e2QDTgl6vcS_IWSnMiyCQDGqs4zRMlmBh9K3k3AnWy8WwgG2FD3Q_G9ptxKHGZX79nE0tjteP9ybkLlpdeO-Q2Tfuy9P/s741/Minute_Man_Statue_Lexington_Massachusetts_cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="513" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5SJgPblcpHaILBJGATpiOwLsOG5tZfU-vExd-FQuD1jquwSnO3ajK9MxInYMrEjalYPUnbqE3eo5xYwN5JFTa2rfFWdJN242e2QDTgl6vcS_IWSnMiyCQDGqs4zRMlmBh9K3k3AnWy8WwgG2FD3Q_G9ptxKHGZX79nE0tjteP9ybkLlpdeO-Q2Tfuy9P/s16000/Minute_Man_Statue_Lexington_Massachusetts_cropped.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Lexington Minuteman</i></span><br />Sculpted by Henry Hudson Kitson<br />(<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minutemen"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://oldafsarge.blogspot.com/2024/02/wtf-over.html"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Yesterday</span></b></a> the Tree of Liberty came up in the comments, I had mentioned that it needed watering from time to time with the blood of tyrants (preferably). Boat Guy, good and learned man that he is, reminded me that the original quote also included the blood of Patriots. I knew that, but, as is my wont, I went further afield.<div><br /></div><div>Now Thomas Jefferson, learned man himself and much maligned for his ownership of "enslaved persons"¹ coined the phrase we're talking about in a 1787 letter to William Stephens Smith, the son-in-law of John Adams. (Not to drop names, but there you go ...) The letter, in its historical fullness (with spelling from the original), is as follows:</div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><i>I do not know whether it is to yourself or Mr. Adams I am to give my thanks for the copy of the new constitution. I beg leave through you to place them where due. It will be yet three weeks before I shall receive them from America. There are very good articles in it: and very bad. I do not know which preponderate. What we have lately read in the history of Holland, in the chapter on the Stadtholder, would have sufficed to set me against a Chief magistrate eligible for a long duration, if I had ever been disposed towards one: and what we have always read of the elections of Polish kings should have forever excluded the idea of one continuable for life. Wonderful is the effect of impudent and persevering lying. The British ministry have so long hired their gazetteers to repeat and model into every form lies about our being in anarchy, that the world has at length believed them, the English nation has believed them, the ministers themselves have come to believe them, and what is more wonderful, we have believed them ourselves. Yet where does this anarchy exist? Where did it ever exist, except in the single instance of Massachusets? And can history produce an instance of a rebellion so honourably conducted? I say nothing of it’s motives. They were founded in ignorance, not wickedness. God forbid we should ever be 20. years without such a rebellion. The people can not be all, and always, well informed. The part which is wrong will be discontented in proportion to the importance of the facts they misconceive. If they remain quiet under such misconceptions it is a lethargy, the forerunner of death to the public liberty. We have had 13. states independant 11. years. There has been one rebellion. That comes to one rebellion in a century and a half for each state. What country before ever existed a century and half without a rebellion? And what country can preserve it’s liberties if their rulers are not warned from time to time that their people preserve the spirit of resistance? Let them take arms. The remedy is to set them right as to facts, pardon and pacify them. What signify a few lives lost in a century or two? The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is it’s natural manure. Our Convention has been too much impressed by the insurrection of Massachusets: and in the spur of the moment they are setting up a kite to keep the hen yard in order. I hope in god this article will be rectified before the new constitution is accepted.</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (</span><a href="https://www.monticello.org/research-education/thomas-jefferson-encyclopedia/tree-liberty-quotation/" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-small;">Source</span></b></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">)</span></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">There is a lot of good stuff in the letter but this bit really jumped out at me -</div><div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote><i>The people can not be all, and always, well informed. The part which is wrong will be discontented in proportion to the importance of the facts they misconceive. If they remain quiet under such misconceptions it is a lethargy, the forerunner of death to the public liberty.</i> (Ibid)</blockquote></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sound familiar?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I often wonder if Mr. Jefferson would have been willing to shoulder his own musket to water the tree if such a thing had proven necessary. I like to think that he would have, however I seem to recall one of the Founders protesting that he was too fragile to go to war (not Jefferson, one of the Adamses as I recall). Can't find the quote or who said it, maybe I misremember, which is getting all too frequent at my age.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Something else I found in my research for this post was over at heritage.org -</div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><div><i>Armed revolution can be a <b>political community’s use of lethal force to collectively defend its members from an oppressive government</b>. Like acts of individual self-defense against criminals, acts of collective defense against tyranny must be guided by certain universally applicable principles, including necessity and proportionality. <b>Armed revolution is a last resort warranted only under dire circumstances, where a government’s egregious and widespread abuses threaten to inflict serious harm on the natural rights of its citizens</b> and the normal democratic processes for addressing these threats reasonably appear to be foreclosed.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>It is just as unwise and reckless to view armed revolution as a solution to every perceived injustice as it is to take a “shoot first, ask questions later” approach to individual self-defense. And, just as those who use lethal force against criminals must be capable of justifying their actions in criminal or civil court, those who would use guns against their government should remember that <b>their actions will be judged by both their contemporaries and by posterity—if not also in a court of law</b>. </i>(<a href="https://www.heritage.org/the-essential-second-amendment/armed-revolution"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-small;">Source</span></b></a>)</div></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">Something to keep in mind for those keyboard commandos out there who constantly cry for armed rebellion at the drop of a hat. Pick up thy musket and lead the way sonny boy. Or sit the f**k down and be quiet. But that's just me. I know war, I've seen war, and believe me, I want no part in it if I can avoid it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But if push comes to shove, who is willing to die?</div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">"<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;"><i>Face down in a pile of warm brass surrounded by the bodies of my enemies sounds a lot better than cancer in the old folks home.</i>"</span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;">Like Boat Guy said, you gotta die of something, right?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;">One of those things which gets closer as one ages, death that is. While I'd like to hold off on that for a bit yet, if push comes to shove, I might hazard all.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; text-align: justify;"><i><b>Author's Note:</b> Why yes, I am in a bit of a funk this week. Hopefully things will get better soon. Perhaps this day being the 14th anniversary of my father's passing has something to do with it.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ Apparently it is now considered rude to refer to such people as "slaves." If someone would care to enlighten me as to the difference, I would be obliged. I am, you must know by now, not "woke." (Though I am very much wide awake as to what's happening in the world.)</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com76tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-51117903503532946642024-02-27T02:00:00.000-08:002024-02-27T02:00:00.250-08:00WTF, Over ...<div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinhMYYHOgE7Wk0YMdDT0lS8Pd0Z8j7zh_bhoE-f8QHF-lQZ5MHRsIlQqh50hN7ZuLL3487MrhlKbgaCHKMyzNy7aJ3PtpyVQYK3RPwFvUHtRwVYNea4c4EaQnfibW3O7_aRQkfFln203wkaqrnqXFqcL2719SfuqduBV3q_jB8lbreMNWxsWmWLjJDOxGY" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinhMYYHOgE7Wk0YMdDT0lS8Pd0Z8j7zh_bhoE-f8QHF-lQZ5MHRsIlQqh50hN7ZuLL3487MrhlKbgaCHKMyzNy7aJ3PtpyVQYK3RPwFvUHtRwVYNea4c4EaQnfibW3O7_aRQkfFln203wkaqrnqXFqcL2719SfuqduBV3q_jB8lbreMNWxsWmWLjJDOxGY=s16000" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.defensenews.com/air/2023/12/07/defense-bill-would-let-air-force-retire-a-10s-f-15s-but-not-f-22s/"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>So Davis Monthan AFB is getting ready to replace it's A-10s with F-35s. Replacing a combat proven aircraft with one which, to my knowledge, has yet to prove itself to be anything other than an expensive Pentagon boondoggle. (See the source under the photo.)</div><div style="text-align: left;">We don't have enough ships in the Navy to stand up to a peer opponent.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We wasted how many billions on the Littoral "Combat" Ships?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The services are allowing retirees under 60 to return to the fold, though with nearly no benefit to doing so. (See juvat's <a href="https://oldafsarge.blogspot.com/2024/02/ygbsm.html"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">post</span></b></a> from yesterday.) (When will that become non-voluntary, I wonder?)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The services can't make their quotas for new accessions (officer and enlisted).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">War rages in Ukraine and Gaza.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">People are setting themselves on fire outside Israeli embassies in this <a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/us-air-force-member-set-fire-israeli-embassy-dc-died-rcna140455"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">country</span></b></a>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The world has gone insane and we have a doddering old man at the helm of the ship of state.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The former President who wants to replace him has had the Deep State trying to send him to prison since the day he took office. And is still trying.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What lies ahead for this nation?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish I knew.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But the current crop of "leaders" simply ain't cutting it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">YMMV.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Makes me sick it does. Makes me sick ...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What say you?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com80tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-52971185921234598242024-02-26T02:00:00.000-08:002024-02-26T02:00:00.132-08:00YGBSM!<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;">So, before I get to the explanation of the title of this post, an update on THE important facet of my life lately.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mrs J is doing pretty well. (Bottom Line Up Front first rule in effective writing). Her last infusion, the icky/sticky portion of Chemo, is this Friday. Then the usual 21 day follow up cycle of daily pills. Once that is over, she'll start a 5 days per week for </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">5 weeks of Radiation treatments. She'll follow that up with surgery to remove the dead little bastiges (I hope and pray they're dead because the only good bastige is a dead one). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">She's been handling this pretty well both mentally and physically. Me? As the Brit's might say I'm "keepin a stiff upper lip"...somewhat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We'll see what's what sometime in April. Anyhoo, on with the show!<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So...There I was...* kinda bored, so found myself mindlessly searching through <strike>the Tube of You </strike>( that's sounds borderline disgusting, so...) youtube and came across this video. One of the hosts on the video, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C.W._Lemoine" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">C.W. Lemoine's</a> name rang a bell for me. (I figured out later at that link that I had read a few of his books. Pretty good AF and USN fighter pilot stories. He'd been both.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In any case, the title of the video caught my attention. It described a program to reduce the current and very large USAF Pilot Shortage by returning retired pilots to Active Duty. One of my first thoughts therefore was, "I wonder if I..."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So I watched it. </span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="712" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/xRRn9u8hEM0" width="1100"></iframe> </div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">
</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then I got to this Slide.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKh5rQn3ftwKbP-WpFojLkr0UdrDZRHD4VhRkv-gIQMZjrV6qfsG5flNuA2Q41brw2xLqxJeQOnHvQPTehm7buqqMuF_Et-0HD7fRr63txJRwMHZfiT6T0F703_IlaZoLSSvaQwQlodjR5OiJRRJz-tG6yxv6SjKU9mDfFfKqAzXC-ixpMSdwQpHwjq5e/s4032/IMG_6448.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKh5rQn3ftwKbP-WpFojLkr0UdrDZRHD4VhRkv-gIQMZjrV6qfsG5flNuA2Q41brw2xLqxJeQOnHvQPTehm7buqqMuF_Et-0HD7fRr63txJRwMHZfiT6T0F703_IlaZoLSSvaQwQlodjR5OiJRRJz-tG6yxv6SjKU9mDfFfKqAzXC-ixpMSdwQpHwjq5e/w640-h480/IMG_6448.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> That started the YGBSM thought pathway. It received another jolt when the panel also discussed that all Retired Pay to include VA Pay would be discontinued.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Oh...And...There would be absolutely No flying.<br /></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> That thought
changed to "YGBFKM"! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">(As that's a new Acronym, I will spell it out... You Gotta be F'in Kidding Me! I know Beans, it's not completely spelled out. It's still a family friendly blog doncha know.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> There's some additional talking points that blindingly point out the utter stupidity of the program and while I'm sure they're planning on the "Best and Brightest" to volunteer, I'm almost positive they're going to get the bottom of the barrel folks that were likely thrown out for cause.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Just the type we need more of in the Air Force. Thought you might find that idea kinda interesting in a deeply depressing, yet very illustrative, view of the state of things today kinda' way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So.... If something sounds too good to be true, It is.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">To end on a gentler/kinder/happier note.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71f0j1YzakzoTGA3JbjZrzyMDjIpCyJd2vKSP9z6f0flnEn1cVn4Fy1zPyj81U7JQk3o1kQBYoKdx4thXp0ZrWoQm2rkQcV40Lc-JP5uWKc2t4sGHPOfAq1nR7-rc0CANMjBSvh0dyfKPf4KGzjGDuPPuIAsLo2-pCnxqJNj0qEVvEsqEYCFoi8e-b4kp/s4032/IMG_6441.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71f0j1YzakzoTGA3JbjZrzyMDjIpCyJd2vKSP9z6f0flnEn1cVn4Fy1zPyj81U7JQk3o1kQBYoKdx4thXp0ZrWoQm2rkQcV40Lc-JP5uWKc2t4sGHPOfAq1nR7-rc0CANMjBSvh0dyfKPf4KGzjGDuPPuIAsLo2-pCnxqJNj0qEVvEsqEYCFoi8e-b4kp/w480-h640/IMG_6441.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Moon rise from our front door Saturday Evening with a Jet on takeoff from the County Airport.</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Oh! And winter seems to be waning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyjMKVGSKQ7DsqxrOGNc7qeKP9_wayit8ZlFyy3IcD0lj7zUypHouiosiXwxQf1wwPcb2oRHiJtiyIEbYg-tY9mg2JsoKa3RBJh_jT9d_D4aYDvEB_x7g3zY3fagSrlezu1DWnsAhvDNhNpMzV7W0pg1UGsuzyDpinLARkoV3OpwlOZM4XuBacDt6fRnM/s4032/IMG_6437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyjMKVGSKQ7DsqxrOGNc7qeKP9_wayit8ZlFyy3IcD0lj7zUypHouiosiXwxQf1wwPcb2oRHiJtiyIEbYg-tY9mg2JsoKa3RBJh_jT9d_D4aYDvEB_x7g3zY3fagSrlezu1DWnsAhvDNhNpMzV7W0pg1UGsuzyDpinLARkoV3OpwlOZM4XuBacDt6fRnM/w480-h640/IMG_6437.JPG" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> The Mesquite trees are budding, spring is rapidly arriving. Unless you live up North!<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Peace out y'all!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">* Standard juvat start but it's been awhile, It's also the beginning of a "War Story" where the truth contained therein may or may not be entirely truthful. </span><br /></p>juvathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09096708575138552532noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-26186736770786253662024-02-25T02:00:00.000-08:002024-02-25T02:00:00.128-08:00A Rerun From Ten Years Ago<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAZXBNBO_tDNG1FGB4TI8CFmmbBbOeKFanHX6BafEYwx62QdK-loyqsAcR0mbpzqm2XSjUjYdbYBNf4VEaLJ9-yf2gnBqpKk8xucZb-ucq_sUSw5UXKiZMwAoz8fhv_qI2c9Vr5ygdPW0GVLgnYp4SCmHKICxTaZqnZByyTpHp3Pl1OYVoLVCB3e8EYAE/s309/24Feb14.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="84" data-original-width="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAZXBNBO_tDNG1FGB4TI8CFmmbBbOeKFanHX6BafEYwx62QdK-loyqsAcR0mbpzqm2XSjUjYdbYBNf4VEaLJ9-yf2gnBqpKk8xucZb-ucq_sUSw5UXKiZMwAoz8fhv_qI2c9Vr5ygdPW0GVLgnYp4SCmHKICxTaZqnZByyTpHp3Pl1OYVoLVCB3e8EYAE/s16000/24Feb14.png" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhZQak0Wbp8FaxOUYrHIH6j0V3EvCqXr3_GNCOymR1bL1NHzatA2kI2UkfbwNil4Tr90kvtGxgX3C1TwwgJGuf3VODOrV38-H4aV2XFtC_Hc0Ph1dw56XYuly88a6OuPLzBPXsEEDJsRB/s1600/GuardDuty.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhZQak0Wbp8FaxOUYrHIH6j0V3EvCqXr3_GNCOymR1bL1NHzatA2kI2UkfbwNil4Tr90kvtGxgX3C1TwwgJGuf3VODOrV38-H4aV2XFtC_Hc0Ph1dw56XYuly88a6OuPLzBPXsEEDJsRB/s1600/GuardDuty.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">OSAN AIR BASE, South Korea -- Senior Airman Ben Vincent guards the flightline during a chemical exercise here.<br />He is assigned to the 51st Security Forces Squadron. (U.S. Air Force photo by Staff Sgt. Bradley C. Church)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I mentioned the other day (<a href="http://oldafsarge.blogspot.com/2014/02/my-air-force.html"><b><span style="color: blue;">here</span></b></a>), I once was given the opportunity, no, the <b>sacred trust</b>, of guarding stuff at NATO Air Base Geilenkirchen in Germany. While I didn't have the awesome ride nor the magnificent M-2 .50 caliber machine gun which SrA Vincent has above, I did have an amazingly heavy German rifle to lug around for 12 hours at a time. Oh yeah, I had the MOPP* gear too. Which also had to be lugged around. Though sometimes I got to wear the MOPP gear. I'm still of two minds as to which was harder, lugging it, or wearing it. But we'll get to that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzZ1XORnPhoN-yKy36Dnb9Z2yHT0Wq_tY20-QhgFyCMOn5to0VdhaBbs4q5B0n2FDk6xZ4DNfcu_cxn7eMlDskyuuRZoYtR_8XntN86yCUR92yB7iO8_Nq0OwjGf9nhgmIpX6ZY8VY82O/s1600/G3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzZ1XORnPhoN-yKy36Dnb9Z2yHT0Wq_tY20-QhgFyCMOn5to0VdhaBbs4q5B0n2FDk6xZ4DNfcu_cxn7eMlDskyuuRZoYtR_8XntN86yCUR92yB7iO8_Nq0OwjGf9nhgmIpX6ZY8VY82O/s1600/G3.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">German G3 Rifle (7.62x51mm NATO)</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the Security Augmentation Force (SAF), most of us carried the German G3. In the picture above, it's the one in the foreground, with the wooden stock. This rifle weighs in the neighborhood of 10 pounds. However, the longer you have to carry one, the heavier it gets. By the end of the standard SAF 12-hour shift, your rifle weighs (and this is an approximation) roughly 350 metric tonnes. Or thereabouts.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now when guarding stuff during a NATO exercise, it is absolutely essential to carry your MOPP gear with you. Because if you have the sheer bad luck to be assigned to the day shift, you know that they are going to sound the chemical attack siren, at least once. You also know that they won't sound the "All Clear" for at least 2 hours after the initial "attack".</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So odds are, you're going to need that stuff. And there will be exercise evaluators (or a$$holes as we called them) wandering about hoping (praying) to catch someone who is not fully "playing the game". Those types get to be declared "casualties" and sent off to a central holding point. Perhaps you're thinking "Sweet. Sent off. Don't have to play anymore."<br /><br />Well, yes, that's true. But you need to factor in the a$$-chewing and the assignment to guard the perimeter fence on the opposite side of the base in the middle of the night on the next shift. Yup, immediately after the shift you just pulled as a "casualty". It pays to play the game according to the rules.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As a member of the SAF, I had the opportunity to guard three different places. During two separate exercises. The first exercise I had the day shift. Guarding a supply building. I was told to "stay out of the way" and "look busy".</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Cool.<br /><br />During that stint, all I did was pace back and forth near the building. Grimacing at all and sundry and making potentially menacing gestures with my rifle. That was fun for a while. Then the attack siren sounded. Yes, the chemical one. Crap!</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rifle gets propped against a tree as I squirm into my MOPP gear. Once the mask is on I am now, to all intents and purposes, an armed Mister Magoo. Yes, the fellow below. Myopic star of stage and screen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDSpyuGpuBo1AJ8ddJmR0p5SoQ_skfghDpk2EckY0l8DBkVZCx-Gv73mISZXD897PLLONMg01NZ-EQxVKeEebKo41VpPEi5TKrTgjcq8IEKM-Z3ywjMjpCYbHUDhPcU3Vtw5givmImAwQ/s1600/Magoo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDSpyuGpuBo1AJ8ddJmR0p5SoQ_skfghDpk2EckY0l8DBkVZCx-Gv73mISZXD897PLLONMg01NZ-EQxVKeEebKo41VpPEi5TKrTgjcq8IEKM-Z3ywjMjpCYbHUDhPcU3Vtw5givmImAwQ/s1600/Magoo.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">Mr. Magoo</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For you see, I had the old style gas mask -</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmf_QOWiDdjd6UU4xi2xH4DuzI8NzVXlpK-4nAA28pv6clmdvtJmH1N_AHNJNLSOfGv_6zDHlWeEDaiE39fmRsSPou_3MKaJj7tVAS5AN7ukgU8VUJ9aJvxvue9UHy8CxaPLHsMB2ISshI/s1600/GasMask.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmf_QOWiDdjd6UU4xi2xH4DuzI8NzVXlpK-4nAA28pv6clmdvtJmH1N_AHNJNLSOfGv_6zDHlWeEDaiE39fmRsSPou_3MKaJj7tVAS5AN7ukgU8VUJ9aJvxvue9UHy8CxaPLHsMB2ISshI/s1600/GasMask.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For which I did have eyeglass inserts (which would typically fog up and stay fogged up right after donning said mask) but didn't bother with. With them I was effectively blind due to the fogging issues and they would occasionally fall off, inside the mask. (The way they were mounted was rather awkward.)<br /><br />Without them I could at least see somewhat clearly out to about ten yards. I could see shapes beyond that range. If I had ever been near a "real" war I would have been screwed. To put it bluntly, our chem gear (while allegedly effective) was cumbersome, uncomfortable and made one essentially 50% effective after a couple of hours. It was most certainly made by the lowest bidder. (Oddly enough, when I joined the NBC team, we used German-issue chem gear which was far better than the US variety. Though the mask wasn't as good, everything else fit better and was more comfortable. Unless we were on the vehicle decontamination team. Where we wore all-rubber suits. It's like having your own personal sauna. Which you can neither turn off nor leave!)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fortunately I didn't have to menace anyone while I was wearing my MOPP gear. Primarily because most people stay inside (if they can) during these drills. So the a$$holes, I mean evaluators, can't spot them not wearing their chem gear. Not that I would ever do that. Ever. (There's no evidence and all participants were sworn to secrecy. Besides which, that was in the old days, on the flight line. Generally they left us alone during exercises as the jets still needed to get fixed, regardless of the games being played. Hhmm, there's another blog post right there. <i>Again, I need to write that down somewhere...</i>)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So that was my one time on day shift.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For the second exercise in which I got to simulate standing firm against the Soviet hordes (which had ceased to exist when I was doing all this) I was assigned to the night shift. Guarding the USAF clinic. For this I was instructed, "No one goes near the clinic without you challenging them and checking their ID cards." Awesome. I get to mess with medical types. They are of a semi-military nature, these medical types. We're not talking corpsmen attached to Marine battalions or your "out in the field with the grunts" Army medics. Nope, these are partially militarized doctors and nurses and their attendant <strike>flunkies</strike> staff.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While the "staff" (Air Force enlisted types) are as military as the rest of the Air Force (i.e. not that much), the doctors and nurses are simply medical types who received direct commissions due to their medical skills. I think they go to a two week school where they learn how to wear a uniform (training which was wasted IMHO) and learn about who had to salute them and who they had to salute. And how to salute, many of them never mastered that skill. (But that's okay, I've never, ever seen a fighter pilot who knew how to salute. Or cared for that matter.) So yeah, doctors and nurses were essentially civilians wearing uniforms.<br /><br />So I started my shift to keep the clinic safe from the simulated (non-existent) Soviet hordes. Shortly after night had fallen, I saw my first two victims approaching. What appeared to be an Airman First Class and a captain, probably a doctor.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now bear in mind, I'm semi-concealed in the shadows, trying to be stealthy and all. The doc and the airman had no idea I was there until I stepped from the shadows and barked "HALT! Who goes there?" In my best martial voice mind you.<br /><br />I think the airmen may have wet himself, the doctor went from startled to indignant...</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"What the hell are you playing at? You scared the sh!t out of us!"<br /><br />"ID! NOW!" Said while racking the bolt back to chamber a round. (While all I had was blank ammunition, they didn't know that. Though the blank adapter would have been a dead giveaway to an actual military type.)<br /><br />Now the airman is scrambling to get his wallet out. The doctor (bless his soul) is still trying to be all rough and tough.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Now look here Sarge, we need to get into the clinic..."<br /><br />"ID! NOW!" Rifle is now swinging to a rather menacing position.<br /><br />The light finally comes on for the good doc and he produces his ID card.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"So what would you have done if I didn't show you my ID?" The doctor asked, politely this time.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Well Sir. First move would be to put you on the ground with your hands behind your head. Had you refused or if the airman tried to jump me, I would have shot you both."<br /><br />"You're kidding, right?"</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"No Sir. I'm not kidding."</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"So can we go in now?"</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Of course, Sir. Have a nice night, Sir."<br /><br />The word got out. Everybody else coming to the clinic that night had their IDs out and ready as they approached the entrance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-SENkcPwI_pm_rLFje8WFtsp7y5CTkErWP14MXsYWaBgmURRshRvPCvdH6hkq_APt79jxEWE7HKxPtX75o5fRtalq-OqXzSQCpVYBE4-1YEWnLRCK7a1lXAwlmt-rAzucsvJv-evqC-n/s1600/GK-StuffIGuarded.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-SENkcPwI_pm_rLFje8WFtsp7y5CTkErWP14MXsYWaBgmURRshRvPCvdH6hkq_APt79jxEWE7HKxPtX75o5fRtalq-OqXzSQCpVYBE4-1YEWnLRCK7a1lXAwlmt-rAzucsvJv-evqC-n/s1600/GK-StuffIGuarded.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">NATO Air Base Geilenkirchen (Part)</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now that yellow delimited area to the left is the USAF Clinic at Geilenkirchen. That area to the right is the base headquarters (HQ). That wooded area in between is behind the NATO Clinic and is fenced in with a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. Sort of an invitation to stay out of said area.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So of course, while making my rounds around the clinic, while in the lower right part of the yellow bordered area, at (or around) 0300 local, I saw approximately 6 armed individuals climbing over the chain link fence.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I jumped into a convenient ditch (which provided cover and concealment) and brought my weapon to bear on those 6 individuals. (Who were making very slow time over the fence. Remember, it was topped with barbed wire.)</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My first instinct was to bellow "HALT OR I'LL SHOOT" and then commence firing if they did not halt. My second thought was to call this event into the command post. Perhaps those were good guys doing something.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Command post responded with "don't shoot, we got this".</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I watched, the guys trying to go over the fence stopped their efforts and schlepped back the way they came. Seems they were pretending to be "Soviet hordes" and I (and my trusty G3) had stopped them in their tracks.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When it was all said and done, the <i>Luftwaffe</i> guy guarding the building across the street asked me, "What was that all about?"</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Apparently his idea was to stand blithely in the middle of the road and watch the proceedings. I guess he didn't feel the need to get involved.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His sergeant disagreed. This worthy showed up as I was explaining to my German colleague what had just happened. The sergeant (<i>Hauptfeldwebel</i> if you must know) replaced the guy with an American and could be heard chewing the lowly <i>flieger's</i> butt all the way down the road. Yes, they were in a vehicle. The sergeant did not sound happy.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, you may wonder, what was my reward for this brilliance in guarding stuff? Why, the second (and last) night of the exercise, I actually got to guard the command post itself. Wonder of wonders that I was entrusted with that responsibility.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But in retrospect I shouldn't be that surprised. After all, I had stopped the rampaging, simulated (non-existent) Soviet hordes on the first night. Who better to protect the command post?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But that was a long, long time ago. In a land far away. But it was somewhat fun. Though nowhere near as fun as Skip's adventures in the <a href="http://lionskip.blogspot.com/2014/02/this-may-take-awhile-but-it-is-sfw.html"><span style="color: blue;"><b>Shore Patrol</b></span></a>. Not even close. Though Skip didn't mention any firearms in his story, at least I got to carry a rifle. (A big heavy rifle mind you...)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">*MOPP = Mission Oriented Protective Posture. Think chemical warfare protective clothing. Think wearing this for hours at a time. Think hot, sweaty and absolutely cumbersome.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>From 24 Feb 24, that is, Saturday - As </i></b></span><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>I'm having fun at a wedding reception, so ...</i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>You get a rerun!</i></b></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-91166256495111686462024-02-24T02:00:00.000-08:002024-02-24T02:00:00.131-08:00'Tis Done ...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3-p14mnb8WqJcimhQYj62QDEccX5chIS48tuvZV_H5hImWLiESwub0iiNzN9MILS6EASk-tlC3Y-kjfb95VEtvgs4AL-eXvYECmZoaA_5XxRJuVHdOPxYPwbVOWnFkWNLejRPH12NfkfP0nf8BawVush4V8qoDxG4ZEMfjdd-U_Lt4wSxDS_UkELBxTh/s1080/7120XT7RTTL._AC_SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3-p14mnb8WqJcimhQYj62QDEccX5chIS48tuvZV_H5hImWLiESwub0iiNzN9MILS6EASk-tlC3Y-kjfb95VEtvgs4AL-eXvYECmZoaA_5XxRJuVHdOPxYPwbVOWnFkWNLejRPH12NfkfP0nf8BawVush4V8qoDxG4ZEMfjdd-U_Lt4wSxDS_UkELBxTh/s16000/7120XT7RTTL._AC_SL1500_.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0C3QDD35J/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_image_o03_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>So Friday was a bit of a busy day. Car repairs (<i>The Missus Herself-mobile</i> needed new brakes, tires rotated, oil change, nope, didn't do it myself, I'm handy but I ain't that handy<i>)</i>, my hair, such as it is, was chopped back to make me more presentable for the wedding we're attending on Saturday, and I pulled the trigger on a new laptop.<div><br /></div><div>I went with the beast in the opening photo, I pinged <i>The Naviguesser</i> (our family computer genius) and he pronounced it a "nice machine." I think he wanted me to go more expensive, but the machine above has the gear I want (the picture pretty much tells you what's under the hood), a decent HD¹, lots of RAM², and a nice graphics card.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did spring for a new backpack to lug it around in, that 17-inch screen makes it too large for the laptop bag I have. I also spent some bucks on a cooling pad. The laptop sits on top of it, the beast has a speed adjustable fan to help the built-in fans in the computer to keep everything from melting, I hope. Heat is what killed my last laptop, I think.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Lh__IDYbbJrop04dktvGIfduFQwxxNjOHnE4NJA5ekCzMrSCPQ8Ga969AoNUH6wcnDNL0DQNhGelxoL68QYlTlt9_P_FrQu0jsM7tZzxeRV46uX-QNl8WLDlWRmJpmIKprgj0cs7KhePJxTz98pukmhs3rV6J-7er1sr_chXT1RqTK5PwlyqLHPaEnG5/s1024/Corolla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Lh__IDYbbJrop04dktvGIfduFQwxxNjOHnE4NJA5ekCzMrSCPQ8Ga969AoNUH6wcnDNL0DQNhGelxoL68QYlTlt9_P_FrQu0jsM7tZzxeRV46uX-QNl8WLDlWRmJpmIKprgj0cs7KhePJxTz98pukmhs3rV6J-7er1sr_chXT1RqTK5PwlyqLHPaEnG5/s16000/Corolla.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">2011 Toyota Corolla S in Black Sand Pearl</span><br />(<a href="http://gtcarlot.com/colors/car/46869632.html"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Source</span></b></a>)</td></tr></tbody></table>That's the ride of <i>The Missus Herself</i>, it's a sweet little car, but it's starting to get a bit long in the tooth. Still runs well, oil change. new brakes, and the like will keep her on the road for a while longer. I will say this though, the thing eats batteries. Not literally mind you, but everything seems fine until it's not. There have been a couple of times when <i>The Missus Herself</i> has been out and about, making stops here and there, then boom, bloody thing won't start. While I make a big deal about it, three new batteries in thirteen years ain't that bad. It's just that they seem to die with no warning.<div><br /></div><div>Oh well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo, busy, busy, busy, no time for a long post. No doubt things will get worse when the new laptop comes in ...</div><div><br /></div><div>We'll see.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Ciao!</i><br /><div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ HD = Hard drive, where the computer stores long term stuff</i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>² RAM = Random Access Memory, where the computer runs the stuff you need to use the computer. Operating system, games, etc. Note that the graphics card has its own onboard memory as well.</i></div></div></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684531976778247960.post-75147555974259856332024-02-23T02:00:00.000-08:002024-02-23T02:00:00.133-08:00Comme Ci, Comme Ça¹<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxG_txc1Ctt7_coOo-FD06wywJqCQ8sn5T8rvGzvjt-3V8EiPmf2M6QuQ7RglWqcdIqYcFjFarMpDFNqazhtaCvomoAboAooAmg7JW0Q-3mrHfjxQVcLAQibtBkQ1QvdQWfZbWeubqhcSkESd9r3wIzOClqu6oNQ8NXammnni8Z-7lhJJg64Zd9uPgTAg/s1098/person-music-group-people-band-carnival-948915-pxhere.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxG_txc1Ctt7_coOo-FD06wywJqCQ8sn5T8rvGzvjt-3V8EiPmf2M6QuQ7RglWqcdIqYcFjFarMpDFNqazhtaCvomoAboAooAmg7JW0Q-3mrHfjxQVcLAQibtBkQ1QvdQWfZbWeubqhcSkESd9r3wIzOClqu6oNQ8NXammnni8Z-7lhJJg64Zd9uPgTAg/s16000/person-music-group-people-band-carnival-948915-pxhere.com.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bolder;"><a href="https://pxhere.com/en/photo/948915" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;">PxHere</span></a></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table>So I was wandering the Internet, looking for blog fodder, stumbled over that picture above, absolutely love it. The name leads me to believe that the photo was taken at Carnival time in Europe, probably Italy based on the uniforms. They are very Napoleonic-looking, especially the fatigue cap on the drummer in the middle which is pretty much an exact copy (except the color, see below) of the early French fatigue cap.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then there are the drummers' uniforms (the guys in the bicorne hats), they are red and green, Italian colors. How many of you knew that the Emperor Napoléon was also the King of Italy? Well, he was.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Italian army of Napoléon's era wore uniforms identical in cut to French uniforms, green replaced the blue of the French. The Italian tricolor of today was essentially the same as the French tricolor of the later Napoleonic era. Again, green replacing the blue.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Italians fought well for the Emperor, his stepson, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eug%C3%A8ne_de_Beauharnais"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="background-color: white; text-wrap: nowrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eugène </span></span>de Beauharnais</span></b></a>, son of Joséphine, was titled the Viceroy of Italy, meaning he ruled there in Napoléon's stead. Kid was a pretty competent general in his own right.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo, that's the why of the photo, I found it interesting.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The search for a laptop continues, but the field is narrowing. I must pick one soon or I'll have to wait a few weeks. <i>The Missus Herself</i> is forward deployed for the first two weeks in March so there'll be no one home to sign for any high value packages. <i>C'est dommage</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">One thing I have noticed is that <i>sans </i>laptop, I am catching up on a lot of shows and movies across the various streaming venues I have access to. The latest <i>True Detective </i>series on Max (what used to be called HBO) was quite good, stars Jodie Foster and is set in Alaska during their very long night. Very freaky, very entertaining murder mystery.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A show I've watched clips of on YouTube is my latest addiction, <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr_Inbetween"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Mr. Inbetween</span></b></a></i>. Which has me watching two to three (okay, sometimes four) episodes a night. I have to admit though that I have to keep searching for some of the things said in the show, my Australian slang is seriously lacking. That being said, I like the accent they have Down Under. (<i>The Nuke</i> travels there for work a cuppla times a year, she's starting to pick up some of the lingo.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">One last thing before I take my leave, what's up with the seeming lack of visitors to the blog on Thursday? Have I worn out my welcome with the historical fiction? Bad title? Anyhoo, comments are welcome, help me improve my game.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Hooroo, mates.²</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>¹ Literally, "like this, like that," hand extended out, palm down, tipping the hand from side to side at a shallow angle. A very French thing to say when asked "How's it going?" The figurative meaning is "so so," neither good, nor bad. And to me, a lot of the world is so so right now.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>² How they say "goodbye" Down Under.</i></div>OldAFSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15935839956936191547noreply@blogger.com52