Reminiscing

 Well, Campers, it's Monday (when you first can read this), but it's Sunday in Juvat land as I write this.  Sarge, being the hard taskmaster he is, has set Monday as juvat post day.  This means I write on Sunday.  After Church of course, during which I am furiously praying, "Please Lord, give me something I can write about." He comes through pretty often.

For which I'm relieved.  By which I don't mean removed from the task, just happy to have an idea. So, as the song goes, "Off we go..."

 

 

Just thought I'd add that to the Melange.  (BTW the uniforms are awful!)

Anyhow!

I got to pondering my flying career.  Yes, I've got several stories about it in Sarge's vast library.  Some were about the Leadership I worked under and learned from. Others were about the fun and games of being a fighter pilot on TDY's away from home without much supervision. Yes, I learned a lot from them.  Usually the hard way.

A little historic chronology might help understand how I got where I am. I was commissioned in '77, came on AD in '78.  Got my wings in '79, went to my first assignment, Kunsan ROK, in the F-4D in '80, second assignment in the F-4E at Moody AFB GA in 81.  

 

My Phantom! (Source)

Went to Holloman AFB in '84 flying the AT-38B as an IP. 

 

Source

 Finally got an Eagle in '87 through '90. 

Yeah, I'm in there!

 That was my last flying assignment.

More's the pity.  Do I miss it?  Silly Question!

Now, the reason for that chronology is that up through my AT-38 assignment Air to Air Basic Fighter Maneuvering was pretty much the same in all the airplanes I had flown/fought in.  The jet on the offense would be about a mile back and about 30 degrees off the tail of the jet on defense.  This was just outside of weapons parameters.  The defender's sole advantage was he got to call "Fight's on".  Typically, because the radio transmit button was on the throttles, he would make the call, just after he had slammed the throttles to the stop and the afterburners had lit.  

Hey, it ain't cheatin' if you win.

The guy on offense would pull the nose up (lighting the AB's also) and turn a bit towards the defender.  

Source

This was called a High Yo-Yo, if he'd gone below the defender's plane of motion, it would be a Low Yo-Yo. He would use these maneuvers to get within the launch envelope for a missile as well as close the distance to use guns if needed.  Once he had altitude separations, he would roll the aircraft to put the lift vector of the jet out in front of the defender and below the horizon.  

That would give him an extra G more than the defender would have as the defender wants to keep the offensive guy as close as possible.  Turning room is everything for the guy on offense.

Without going to much more details, this had been the way air to air was fought since the Korean War.  Probably all the way back to WWI in the mechanics of it.  I don't know, ask Sarge, he was there in that one.

Now, Now, Sarge, just kiddin'

When I got to F-15 RTU (F-15 school), I thought I was pretty good at air to air.  My primary mission in my previous 3 assignments had been air to mud, but we did a bit of air to air just in case.  

My first F-15 ride taught me a lot.  First, an afterburner takeoff in the Eagle can put you behind the aircraft in a heartbeat if you're not ready.  If you are ready, it's a blast!  You just got to remember that the instant you're airborne, put the gear up or the gear doors might be left behind.  Right after that, pull the stick back until you're pointed just about straight up.  Otherwise, well, the people on the ground might not like that sonic boom thing you got going on behind you.

Second, when my IP/Flight Lead got us out to the area and set us up for the first BFM engagement, he went out front on defense.  He called "fight's on" and I started my tried and true tactic.  Slight turn into him, AB lit, climb a bit above him, just like a thousand times before.

Except, he pulled to the G limit with AB lit and I was above him and basically even with him fore and aft.  Very shortly thereafter, I was looking over my shoulder at somebody pointed at me.

We had a short air to air debrief as we got set up for the second engagement.  I did better, I wasn't out front, however I was looking out the side of the canopy at him.  He then demonstrated the slow speed scissors  capability of the Eagle.

Source

 

Something I also didn't know.  Pretty soon I was looking over my shoulder again.

Another short air to air debrief, set up again and...well, I'm learning.  We do end up in a slow speed scissors but we were neutral.  Betty* hollered at me, so I glanced at my fuel gauge and called knock it off, I was at Bingo Fuel.  Meaning I had to go home as I was low on fuel.

Debrief was long, but educational.  I had a rematch scheduled for the next day.  I did better.

I did well enough thereafter to graduate and get to my F-15 Base at Kadena AB Okinawa.  This was in the Reagan years, flight time was abundant.  There were a lot of very experienced Eagle Drivers in the squadron.  I learned to listen to them.  (To be sure, there were some F-15 Pilots there also.  Good at instrument flying, not much else.)

 The place/operation I really learned to fly the Eagle was Cope Thunder.  This was the Pacific's version of Red Flag.  It was an full scale aerial war game.  By full scale, I mean, there could be about a hundred airplanes in the airspace during any one mission.  The airspace wasn't all that big, so it got crowded quick.

But, it was very instructive and I learned a lot.  After a few exercises, I was fairly confident that if the NORK's wanted to vacation in the south, their Air Force would be non-existent very quickly.

All good things must come to an end.  I got orders to Army Command and Staff.  Shortly after arrival, I got called into the Commander's office and notified that one of the members of the Flight I commanded had been killed in a mid-air collision at Cope Thunder.

That took a lot of air out of me.

Unfortunately, Kadena was the last time I flew as a pilot.  Dream about it often, miss it a lot. If I got to do it over, I wouldn't do anything different.  Well...Except warn Rocket about keeping his head on a swivel so he wouldn't hit anything.

Peace out, Y'all! 

*Betty is the somewhat affectionate name for a verbal warning of various serious conditions i.e low fuel, engine fire, over stressing the aircraft etc.

 

A Quickie ...

Un jour de revue sous l’Empire
Hippolyte Bellangé (PD)

Popular myth often sings the praises of the drummer boy, but in reality, though there were some, no doubt, the military drummer tended to be a grown man. As can be seen below in a detail from Bellangé's excellent painting, the drummers of the Imperial Guard are men, as are most of the bandsmen.

Detail of the above

Fifers however, another important component of military music, were often boys. A military drum is no wee sma' thing, stamina was required to lug that around and to play it on the battlefield.

Military drummers have played a crucial role in warfare throughout history. Soldiers marched to battle to the sound of the drums and used the beat to regulate the loading and reloading of their weapons during the battle. Drummers were also used to raise morale during the fight. (Source)

I have marched to the beat of the drum, both in reenactments and in real military life. The sound of a military drum inspires and really helps one keep the pace.

John Blackshoe gave me the idea to write about the military aspect of the drums and I plan to expand more upon that in the future. But for now I'll leave you with just this brief taste.

Enjoy the remainder of your weekend ...

Tired

That Two-Thousand Yard Stare
Thomas Lea, 1944, WWII.
Part of The Army Art Collection, U.S. Army Center for Military History

I spent a lot of time reading on Friday, well, after my CT Scan appointment anyway. Potential heart issues, oh boy, just checking, but take these meds in the meantime.

Anyhoo.

I'm awaiting the arrival tomorrow of yet another book (even though the waiting to be read pile has yet to be diminished), Keep the last bullet for yourself: The true story of Custer's last stand by Thomas Bailey Marquis. The research looks interesting, the book sounds like it might be worthwhile. So I ordered it ...

Sigh. So many books, so little time.

But ordering that made me think of the frontier, specifically the Indian Wars. I read up on the Hayfield Fight, the Fetterman Fight, the Wagon Box Fight, all stories of people fighting the encroachment of the government.

Our government.

Least-ways that's how I think of it these days. The government trying to expand its hold on us.

I'm tired, boss. Tired of this political crap every-damn-where you look. Tired of politicians tearing down their opponents instead of giving us a plan for what they wish to do. Tired of politicians pandering to the lowest damned denominator because they think that will get them into office. Tired, just tired of all the bullshit.

My earnest prayer is that a month from now we'll still have a country worth fighting for.

Though I have my doubts.

But I'll leave it up to God, His Will, not mine.

Pray people, it's all we've got in the end.

Save the Last Round ...

The Last Stand of the 44th Regiment at Gundamuck, 1842.
William Barnes Wollen
Source

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,

And the women come out to cut up what remains,

Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains 

       An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

              Go, go, go like a soldier,

              Go, go, go like a soldier,

              Go, go, go like a soldier,

                  So-oldier of the Queen!

Excerpt from "The Young British Soldier" by Rudyard Kipling (Source)

As the Allies advanced into Germany during the final days of World War II, they found many instances where Nazi officials, dressed in their full regalia, had killed themselves. Their wives had also killed themselves. Often their children were killed as well, the younger ones by their parents. These Nazis did not wish to live, apparently, in a world without Hitler. (Or perhaps they didn't wish to face the punishment awaiting them for crimes against humanity.)

In Japan's warrior culture, defeat was not something to countenance. Ritual suicide was accepted as an honorable way to atone for defeat or disgrace. It was also commonly understood as a way to avoid capture and possible torture at the hands of an enemy.

In World War II it was not uncommon for the entire garrison of a Japanese-held island to die rather than surrender. At Tarawa, of a garrison of 4,836 (2,200 of whom were construction laborers - 1,200 Korean and 1,000 Japanese), 4,690 perished. Of the soldiers only 17 were captured, of the construction laborers only 129 Koreans were captured. (It is worth noting that Korea was considered part of Japan during WWII and had been so since 1910.)

The fear of falling into the hands of a particularly brutal enemy has probably been a factor in warfare since its earliest days. Early wars, I surmise, were fought to take things from others, whether it be land, captives, or property, having survivors from the defeated people hanging around after the dust settled was not a great idea. Revenge ya know.

Useful survivors could be sold off, or kept, as slaves, to be disposed of when they were no longer useful. Everyone else was probably killed on the spot. In some of the more brutal cultures, torture often preceded the death of a captive.

In researching yesterday's post, I came across an interesting video (here, it's long - roughly 30 minutes - so I won't reproduce it in this post, you can go there and watch it) which asked the question, "Did Custer commit suicide at the Battle of the Little Bighorn?"

The video also recounts a few other instances of cavalry troopers killing themselves rather than fall into the hands of their enemy. There was good reason for that, many of those who were captured were killed in particularly brutal fashion. The troopers were aware of this and wanted to avoid such a fate, if they could.

I've often wondered what would drive a man to end his own life. In the past many have chosen that way, when they felt that there was no hope, no chance of anything getting better. In wartime it often goes down that way. Surrounded, no hope of relief, the possibility of a slow and painful death at the ends of a brutal and vengeful enemy, why not save that last round for yourself?

Did George Armstrong Custer put his own pistol to his head and pull the trigger as his men died around him on that day in 1876? I don't know, I wasn't there, but it seems plausible.

We may never know.

Last Stands

Waterloo
Alexander Yurievich Averyanov
Source

The sun is setting, it can be seen poking through the clouds of powder smoke which cloak the blood-soaked field. Everything is dulled - hearing, senses, emotions, many of the men have been on their feet for hours. Most have marched long distances to arrive at this place.

Deafness must have been a blessing, unable to hear the screams of the dying (men and horses), the pleas of the wounded not to be abandoned, one fought on. But why?

Most of the men around you are comrades you have known for years. Men you've campaigned with, broken bread with, searched for loot with, men who are more than family.

And what is family? A father and mother in some far off village who you perhaps haven't seen for years? A brother or sister? If the brother is of a certain age, he might be somewhere on that very field, or perhaps buried in some foreign land. Died for King and Country as it were. (Or Emperor, or Czar, or some other potentate of whatever name.)

In the Imperial Guard of the Emperor Napoléon at Waterloo, the men would perhaps be of long service (though some recent research seems to indicate that a great portion of the Guard was "slapped together" from anyone who could march, carry a musket, and had seen at least one campaign), men who had served with each other for years.

After the first abdication, many Guardsmen were reluctant to return to their small villages in the French countryside, they preferred the company of their own. Fellow soldiers who yearned for the return of the Emperor, many who would congregate in the cities, particularly Paris, and mutter darkly whenever the King was mentioned.

But a select group of men had followed Napoléon into exile on Elba, less than a thousand, amounting to scarcely a battalion, they went with le Tondu¹ into exile. Duty on the small island was boring in the extreme, many yearned to return to France, but for most that meant with the Emperor, to place him back on the Imperial throne.

Their time did come, they returned and formed the core of an army that grew from maybe a thousand men all told, to an army of 150,000. An army which marched into Belgium and from there into legend.

Their last stand was on the road to Genappe. They withdrew in good order as the rest of the army collapsed around them. They held their ground until the Emperor made his escape. They did not die to the last man, their commander did not shout at the pursuing Allied army, "The Guard dies, it does not surrender."² But die many did, before the last remnants of the Imperial Guard broke up and fled with the rest of the army.

Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument, Montana.
Source

The United States Army went in to the Dakota Territory, the natives were restless and the army was tasked with driving them back to the reservation. After all, though the gubmint had promised the Black Hills to those who held it to be sacred, gold had been found there.

Gold? Did you say gold?

Well yes, gold.

So tear up that treaty, suppress the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho. People want that gold!

We call it the Battle of the Little Bighorn, the winners called it the Battle of the Greasy Grass.

Custer attacked, the natives counterattacked, by the end of the day, the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne and Arapaho suffered at least 31 killed, maybe as many as 100, at least 160 wounded, and 10 non-combatants killed. The U.S. Cavalry suffered 268 killed and 55 wounded (6 of whom later died of wounds). Of the 12 companies of the 7th Cavalry, five were completely wiped out. (Custer's battalion.)

The Native Americans won that fight, but they would lose the war.

I see the Guard's last stand as an honorable fight, but still, it was fought for the aspirations and ambitions of a single man. The Greasy Grass? For the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho it was an honorable fight, a necessary fight, they were defending their homes, their way of life.

For the men of the 7th Cavalry? I see no honor here, no glory. A dirty little fight on the frontier as the Federal government put Manifest Destiny into practice. The troopers rode to their deaths for an ignoble cause.

But for many (if not most) of the dead in the wars our species has fought over the centuries, there was no glory, no honor. Just death, painful, agonizing death. Crippling wounds and indifferent governments their only reward.

The Greasy Grass ...

My God, it seems like such a lonely place to die.

They obeyed their leaders, they went to the fight, and they died.

Sad, but for all that, there are things worth fighting for.

But not on the 18th of June 1815 for the French nor on the 25th of June 1876 for the 7th Cavalry.

¹ One of the Imperial Guard's odd nicknames for Napoléon. Translates roughly to "the shaved one." (I've also seen it as "the shorn one.") Due to the Emperor's short hair, the Guard wore theirs long, in a queue at the back, and his lack of facial hair. Guardsmen had moustaches, big ones.

² Their commander was captured attempting to flee on foot. He is alleged to have shouted out "Merde!" (shit), which has ever since been called "le mot de Cambronne." (Cambronne's word.)

12 October 1492

The Last of the Clan
Thomas Faed
Source

Uh Sarge, what does 12 October 1492 (the date Christopher Columbus landed in the Bahamas) have to do with a painting of Scottish Highlanders sometime after the lost battle of Culloden and the failure of the 1745 rebellion against King George II?

Well, your Old AF Sarge always gets a little wrapped around the axle around this time of year. Especially since a group of guilt-ridden white people in some places decided to change the name to Indigenous Peoples Day, or something to that effect.

Those folks in the painting? Yup, indigenous, to Scotland. If I still lived in Scotland, I'd be indigenous. But I don't, so I'm not.

White people guilt also got the name of where I lived changed, from Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, to just Rhode Island. Plantation, according to Merriam Webster, means ...

Source

Note the delicate wording in definition 3b, "resident labor." I suppose they mean "slaves" which is no longer politically correct to use or say, the preferred term now being "enslaved peoples." Kinda like calling a woman a "birthing person." Odd innit? Or maybe that's just me.

No doubt the same folks who were up in arms about the word "plantation" were also the ones who gave us the Washington Commanders and the Cleveland Guardians. I do know a couple of First Peoples type people who preferred the old names for those teams. (First Peoples is a Canadian thing, far more accurate really, what some call "indigenous" didn't actually evolve here, but they did get here first, so First Peoples makes sense on some levels.)

Don't get me started on the word "Indian." Yes, Columbus thought he'd found India, hence that word (indiano or indiana in Italian, indio or india in Spanish, not sure what it would be in Hebrew or Yiddish, if Columbus was actually Jewish. Just kidding, you can look that up, Google Translate has the word in both Hebrew and Yiddish, but I think it means Indian from the subcontinent, not from the New World. Google was not all that clear on that).

All that aside, I remember AIM, the American Indian Movement, native peoples up in arms over the screwing they received from the European settlers of these lands. Well okay, the descendants of the people who got screwed over by the ancestors of modern day settler/colonists.

So here's something to keep in mind, ever since Cain slew Abel, people have been f**king over other people. It seems to be something in our blood, in our DNA if you will. If we don't have something, and can take it easily from someone else, we do. The Americas were not a bunch of peaceful, nature-loving, groovy people just chilling before the Europeans arrived. No, they were like people everywhere, fighting wars, taking stuff from their neighbors and despising the "different from us." (That being one tribe hating another, like the Sioux versus the Crow, or the English against the French. That goes way back.)

Imagine what might happen if we make contact with an intelligent, space-faring species someday. They might wait until we're space-faring, or they might not. Who knows what (if anything) is going on "out there."

Maybe some species from another place is driving others off their worlds and onto other worlds. If they're technologically more advanced and are anything like us, be worried, they're going to take our shit, man, trust me.

Besides which, after the Bering Land Bridge people arrived, the Norsemen were next. Columbus was third, at best.

Why should he get a holiday at all?

Just curious.

As always, YMMV.

/rant

Author's Note: One of my nephews did some digging around in Ancestry.com, seemed to have discovered an "Indian Princess" in the family tree. I wrote about that here. I rather have my doubts about that "finding" as his research completely missed an actual person in the family tree, the one for whom my father was named. This fellow. So I won't be claiming any indigenous cred for this continent any time soon. I'll leave that to the Elizabeth Warrens of the world.

As Time Goes By ...

Source

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there. - Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon (I used this quote here as well.)

The last couple of weeks has been interesting in some ways, weird in others, and downright stressful at times. Let me start by reminding those who visit here often that The Missus Herself was out California way for two weeks. She was busy most of her stay there and that stay involved helping LUSH get rid of some stuff that needed getting rid of, we've all been there, done that. Stuff accumulates, am I right?

Anyhoo, last week, Tuesday afternoon, it was time for her to return to Little Rhody. About the time I figured she'd be at the airport, my phone rang. It was The Missus Herself. Unexpected, she usually texts me while traveling. She calls when "oh shit, oh dear" something is wrong.

Damn.

I answered, something was indeed wrong. As she was lifting her suitcase onto the scale she heard a "pop" from her lower back. The pain followed quickly. I asked her what she wanted to do, perhaps head back to LUSH's domicile for a couple of days to let things relax and/or to seek medical treatment. She said, no, I think I'll get some Tylenol and tough it out.

Minutes passed, I talked with LUSH in the interim, both of us felt that The Missus Herself should postpone her trip for a couple of days. For one thing, it was a red-eye, there were two stops along the way (Phoenix and Charlotte) and we were both worried about her schlepping about the terminals in the aforementioned cities with a bad back.

Well, my phone rang once more, it was The Missus Herself with one of those "good news, bad news" reports. Good news? The airline had agreed to move her around with a wheel chair. The bad news? Her flight out of Fresno was delayed by a bit more than an hour. Dropping her time in Phoenix from two hours to less than one.

No problem, says she, the gate in Phoenix is just two away from my connecting flight. I have time to spare.

LUSH and I, both being rather disgruntled by now, still begged her to reconsider. Nope, she indicated her determination to press on.

Sigh ...

She did arrive home safely, though in a bit of discomfort and outright pain, and is now in the care of a "health professional." Hopefully that situation resolves itself for the better soon.

Warning - Digression Ahead

I have flown in and out of Fresno many times. Getting in is no problem, no problem at all.

Getting out?

It is my experience that with one particular airline, the gate agents will show up ten minutes into the boarding time. That is, ten minutes late. It is also my experience that flights leaving Fresno, on one particular airline, never, I repeat, never leave on time.

End Digression, we now return you to the rest of the post ...

So The Missus Herself has returned, however, she is, as we used to say "back in the day," not mission capable, NMC we called it. (Back in the day.) As the plan had been for her to accompany me up to New Hampshire to celebrate my mother's impending 94th birthday (which was Monday) we had to change the plan. I would be going up by myself.

Argh.

Now as my Mom is now rather unable to stay by herself, and my kid brother having retired from his old job was available (and willing), my kid brother now lives with my mother. Which necessitated some rearranging of the furniture at Mom's house.

The guest bedroom is no more, for one thing, so I would need to make alternate sleeping arrangements. Or make it a day trip, 155 miles up, 155 miles back. All in one day. Doable but a right pain in the arse.

But as The Missus Herself would not be traveling, avec moi, I felt that I could just sleep on the couch in the living room. That way I could stay more than just a few hours.

Well, good news, bad news ...

The good news, no need to travel back to Little Rhody on the same day. Said day, mind you, in which it seemed that everyone, and I do mean everyone, had decided that Saturday would be a great time to go look at the lovely foliage in northern New England. (File this under "bad news," by the way.)

Mind you, Saturday was indeed a beautiful day, Sunny, mild, and with roads loaded with gawkers looking at foliage that I myself (a New England native) felt was sub-par, at best. Oh sure, there were a couple of trees here and there which were magnificent to someone who didn't know better. But really?

I have been traveling to my Mom's for her birthday for 25 years now. I had never seen traffic as bad as that which I experienced Saturday, a trip which normally takes three hours, took almost five.

To say that I was a bit hot under the collar for most of the journey was, shall we say, an understatement.

But I got over it.

The trip back Sunday was uneventful (even if my night on the couch had left my back really angry with me), it rained which kept the "leaf peepers" off the roads. Personally I prefer to see foliage on gray, overcast days. The colors (to me at any rate) seem to stand out more than when viewed in bright sunlight. Might just be me. (The Missus Herself stated, somewhat emphatically, that it is, "just me." Sigh ...)

It was a nice trip but I'm noticing more and more that my mother isn't quite "all there" any more. She forgets easily, even things which just happened, and her long term memory is pretty much gone. It's tough on her because she knows she can't remember things.

It's one thing to not remember and not know it, it's quite another to know that you're forgetting vital parts of your life. She can't remember whether or not I have kids, late on Saturday she asked me if I'd ever married. As she gets tired, more and more of her ability to remember things just slips away. Sunday morning she was better, but it's sad to see her decline.

Well, she is 94.

Time passes, it's not always kind in its passing.

I suppose I'll get back to the fiction, eventually. Might be on a different topic entirely, lately my brain has been very much in "SQUIRREL!" mode. I guess you might say I'm too interested in too many things. Kid brother also gave me a book on Germany in 1923, that's going to be a time sink, I can tell you that. A favorite period of mine. And (bonus) it's by a German author.

Much to do, much to read. In the meantime, remember, the ice cream is free.

Before I forget, many thanks to John Blackshoe for filling the entire weekend for me. I needed the break and the story of the Garthsnaid and the photo taken by Alexander Turner (and his story) was a good one. Thanks, JB!

Now, where was I?

Family and Friends

 Not much going on around Rancho Juvat, lately.  

 So my posting material might be getting close to Rock Bottom.

Source

However, this past weekend made up for some of that. We had a semi-Family Reunion.  Obviously, Little J, LJW and Miss B couldn't make it from Jolly Old, but MBD, The Rev, MG and Leon' made it from East Texas.   In addition, some friends of there's from College joined up with them after escaping the Houston Jungle.  They stayed in our two guest cabins, did a little out and back to a few wineries and joined us for dinner where war stories were swapped. Yes, Beans, the red BS Flag was thrown a few times.

At the start of the festivities, we met the gang on their arrival at our favorite restaurant in the 'Burg, El Milagro.  For those of you who don't speak Spanish, that would be "The Miracle".  For the first several years we lived here, our go to restaurant was "Rather Sweet".  Primarily this was because it was about 5 doorways down from our wine store.  Which was about the max distance we had energy to travel after a busy day.  The  business was actually a restaurant and a bakery and was owned by Rebecca Rather, a somewhat well known baker. The food was good, the baked goods outstanding.

But, she got a bit tired of it and sold it at a deep discount to a group of Hispanic ladies.  Ms Rather also included all her baked goods recipes in the deal.  So the new restaurant has excellent Mexican dishes, great sandwiches and fabulous pastries.  I heartily recommend it although my Cardiologist has a few comments about the relationship between it and I.

Anyhow, that's where we met the gang Friday.  Did I mention that El Milagro has a very nice patio and a band that plays on weekends.  

MBD and MG fooling around

What the heck are those two goofs doin' Gramma?

 

Just Goofin' Round

Not a lot of mind enhancing conversations, but a lot of good smiles and laughter, so well worth it.

Finally on the woodworking side, I'm working on a couple of projects for the two eldest grandchildren.  Mrs J came up with the idea.  Basically it's a book box.

 She bought 25 Christmas related books for each of them which she'll individually wrap.  She took the measurements of each to figure out the dimensions for the box and ensure the books all fit.  The grand kids will be authorized to unwrap one book for each day in Advent to have read to them.  That should keep them occupied and hopefully focused on Christmas The above model was my "Practice" one, but turned out good enough to use it.

Why Maroon, you may ask.  Well...Since both sets of parents are from a small university in College Station TX, they are encouraging them early to go there.  

Yes, Beans, Texas A&M.  I didn't go there, but I'm very happy with the way my Kids turned out and think it likely my Grand Kids will turn out well there also.

As I said, been busy and not many earth shattering events happened this week, so you get what you get.  Hope to do better next week.

Cheers and Peace Out Y'all!

 

 

John Blackshoe Sends: Serendipity History –

Sailors and Ships in the Age of Sail (Part 3 of 3)

Source

History of the man who photographed the Sailing Vessel Garthsnaid, in a storm in part I

ALEXANDER HARPER TURNER (12 July 1900- 8 February 1963)*

* 12 July 1900 birth date is from family sources, but his maritime documents show date of birth as 31 August 1900

Ancestry.com has a wealth of information on millions of people, and once you find a full name and birth date you can usually chase many threads pertaining to birth, death, census, military and civil records. If there are family trees you can access, there are often family photos. Most of the following was gleaned from material on Ancestry.

Our intrepid photographer Alexander and his twin brother “Jock” were born in Sunderland, Durham, England in 1900. Their father was a tailor and outfitter, who employed others. His family was well off, and had a servant girl living with them at 9 The Oaks, East, Sunderland, which was the family home for several decades. It is a charming brick row house in a neighborhood of prosperous merchants and the like.

There are numerous interior and exterior views of the family home here, on a site similar to Zillow for American house sales. 

Even at a young age, it was clear that he was destined for a life at sea with Alex (left) and Jock (right) in their sailor suits, and another unidentified child, probably circa 1905.

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Alexander Harper Turner went to sea by way of an indenture signed at age 15 in Aberdeen to be an “Apprentice” aboard the Milne owned steel Barque “Inveresk” a near sister ship of his later voyages aboard Inversnaid/Garthsnaid. The Royal Museums Greenwich have the original crew list for that voyage. 

His shipmates on that first voyage, included two other apprentices signed up the previous year, the 57 year old Captain; a Mate (age not stated); 22 year old Boatswain; 50 year old cook and steward; a 65 year old sailmaker; 53 year old carpenter; a 17 year old cabin boy, and 15 sailors ranked as sailor, ordinary seaman or able seaman ranging from 18 to 53 years old. Birthplaces included the British Isles, Norway, Finland, Russia, Italy, two Australians and three Americans.

His first voyage was brief, only from 1 November 1915 to 19 December 1915, at a time when Britain was already engaged in WW1. Turner’s father later served as a 1st Lieutenant in the Tank Corps.

He did not remain ashore for long, and reported aboard Inversnaid on 2 January 1916 where he served until 19 May 1919 (per his 2nd Mate Certificate), but his service continued after that.

Ancestry.com member trees provided a photo of Alexander Harper Turner in his uniform, probably circa 1917-1920, perhaps at the time he qualified as Second Mate.

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On June 12, 1919 Turner was issued his “Certificate of Competency as Second Mate of a Foreign Going Ship” at age 18. 

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He qualified as 1st Mate on 3 April 1922, with his prior service listed as aboard Garthsnaid from 10 July 1919 to 17 December 1921. (reflecting the sale and renaming of Inversnaid to Garthsnaid as a Canadian flagged vessel.)

In August 1922 he left the steadily diminishing sailing fleet and began voyages aboard the Steam Ship Rhode Island out of Liverpool. This was another Clyde built ship, a steel screw steamer 420 feet long, 54.2 foot beam and 29 foot depth of hold for 5655 gross tons, launched in 1918. Unlike the long and wind driven voyages of sailing ships, this ship engaged in regularly scheduled runs between Liverpool and the United States. Although he had a First Mate certificate for sailing ships, he served mostly as Second Mate. (No photos found of this SS Rhode Island.)

Master Certificate (Square rigged) 25 June 1925
Source
 (The source listed has several certificates for Turner)

In 1925, Turner began sailing on SS Bay State as Second Mate, prior to his getting his Master license. In July 1926 Turner married Marjorie Towns in Tynemouth, Northumberland. She was four years younger, and had been born in Turner’s home town of Sunderland. They lived the rest of their lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, about 20 miles from Sunderland. It is unclear if he continued to go to sea after marriage, or worked ashore in some boring office job.

 

In the late 1930s the Royal Navy began to recruit officers and enlisted for service in the Royal Naval Reserve (RNR), and the more amateurish Royal Naval Volunteer Supplementary Reserve (RNVSR). The RNVR became the route by which virtually all new-entry commissioned officers joined the naval service during the war – the exception being professional mariners who already held master's tickets, who would join the RNR. Most of the officers in landing craft, Coastal Forces and the Atlantic Convoys were RNVR and many regular officers were astonished how well they coped. A significant number achieved command of corvettes and even frigates. By 1945 there were over 43,000 officers in the RNR/RNVR/RNVSR. (Source)

Turner enrolled in the Royal Naval Volunteer Supplemental Reserve on 5 July 1937, according to the Navy List for 1937, presumably as a Temporary Lieutenant.

By 1940, Turner was assigned to command of the ”Brit,” a 90 foot steel craft with 20 foot beam and 4.6 foot draft, for 75 tons, propelled by a single diesel engine. 

“[Brit] was requisitioned by the Admiralty on 16 September 1939 for service as a tender. Renamed [HM Tender] WATCHFUL, she became the base ship for the fleet and was repainted in battleship grey. She carried stores and torpedoes to the destroyers lying in Yarmouth roads.”

On 29 May 1940, she was deployed to assist in the Dunkirk evacuation and reportedly rescued 900 troops. On 12 December 1945, she was returned to her owners, the Longfield brothers and was refitted and restored to her original name, BRIT, to operate once more as a pleasure cruiser for the start of the 1946 season.” (Source)

 

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HM Tender WATCHFUL was one of the “Little Ships” which rescued the British Army from Dunkirk, carrying 900 soldiers home on four trips. Above she is shown pre-war as the “Brit” operating as a day tripper for whale watching type cruises out of Yarmouth.

Turner was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions aboard HMS WATCHFUL in the Dunkirk evacuation, as announced in London Gazette 27 Aug 1940.

Subsequently, Turner commanded three minesweepers as a Temporary Lieutenant: (Source)

• HMS Cypress (T 09) a minesweeping trawler- 5 March 1941-mid 1941 -

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• HMS MMS 5 (J 505) a motor minesweeper- August 1941- 20 August 1942

• HMS MMS 7 (j 507) a motor minesweeper- 20 August 1942-30 December 1942

 

This is the first of the 294 ships of the MMS-1 class (J501-J794), often called “Mickey Mouse Sweepers” virtually identical to the two commanded by Turner. These swept for magnetic influence mines by having two of the sweepers dragging an electrical cable between them which would be periodically energized to create a magnetic pulse to detonate mines. Later they added a large noisemaker to also activate acoustic mines. (Source)

Turner was promoted to Temporary Commander effective 31 July 1944. (Source)

Commander Alexander Harper Turner

in 1944 or 1945 in his “wavy navy” uniform

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Nothing more was found about Turner except that he died 8 February 1963.

So, at life’s end, if asked what he did with his life, I am sure Commander Turner would have proudly told anyone willing to listen:

“I was a sailor, and you should have seen us on the Garthsnaid. And this is no shit¹. Coming out of Chile, bound for Mozambique in 1920. It was blowing Beaufort force 9 or 10, and we sent men aloft to gasket the fores’l. And, I like a damn fool, decided to take my new camera out to the tip of the bowsprit to take a photo. I got the photo, and luckily lived to tell about it. Here’s the proof:”

Sailing Vessel Garthsnaid, 1920, outbound from Chile to Mozambique.

Source State Library of Victoria [Australia]

A sharper, larger version is available here and makes a great screen saver.

¹ The obligatory prelude to any sailor’s sea story.