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?