The WSO

My youngest, the WSO has, again, been "up in my bidness".

Seems she had a night flight. The pre-flight briefing wasn't very long, so she had time to kill before she and her pilot had to go out to their aircraft. So there she was, bored.

Did I mention that the WSO has a "smart" phone? And time on her hands? And that she was bored?

Now for many years I have served as the family's Morale, Welfare and Recreation Officer. Apparently blogging has been added to my list of duties. Blogging so that my youngest will have something to do whilst stuck between briefing and pre-flighting the aircraft. Blogging so that she will be entertained.

Apparently I did not get that memo.

However, I have known for a long time that I am most definitely not in the chain of command around here. I serve sort of a ceremonial function. Sort of like the Queen of England. But without the interesting hats. Without the need for public appearances on important occasions. (Though I have practiced for many years the royal "wave".)

At any rate, late on Wednesday last. My phone "rang" (actually it doesn't actually "ring", it plays a rather jaunty little tune) and it was the WSO. I mentioned to her that it was rather late, and by the way, how did the flight go?

She pointed out, "Dad, it's not late, it's only 9:30." As I told her, as I advance slowly and inexorably into my dotage, 9:30 is late. Pour moi. That brief interlude concluded, she asked me why I had not posted lately.

"Why I posted just the other day", I protested. She chastised me by saying that my last post was nearly a week old. "And your point is?", I inquired. That's when I got the story of the boring time twixt briefing and flying and that she was looking forward to my next post. I told her that I had a couple of ideas floating around.

"Is the next post going to be about me?", she wanted to know. I said that I wasn't sure, the only two family members who have had a post dedicated to them so far had been TRex and Bear.

"No, your last post was about me."

"It was?"

"Sure, you talked about the penguins. That post was about me."

"Uh, the title of the post was "The Penguins". It was about the penguins, not you. Though, you did play a rather large role in that story."

"Yeah, it was about me."

"Yes, baby. It was all about you. And the penguins. And my hotel and various and sundry other tangents and sidebars."

"See it was about me. I like reading about me."

Okay. I know she's a WSO, but she has the attitude of a fighter pilot. Kinda self-centered, you know that cocky self-assured kind of attitude. (When the WSO reads this, no doubt I will catch hell.)

All that aside, she did relate to me a couple of interesting naval aviation tidbits about her adventures. Specifically her adventure of Wednesday last with, of all things, the ladder on the F/A-18. For your edification I present the following representation of the aforementioned F/A-18 ladder:

This ladder kinda-sorta slides up into its little compartment for flight and apparently can be deployed by the crew upon returning. (By the way, aircraft ladder technology has come a very long way since I worked on the Phantom. Of course, most technology has come a long way since then. And yes WSO, we did have color TV when I was a young airman.)

When the WSO and her driver had returned from their flight, they had taxied to their packing spot on the ramp and were going through their post-flight checks. The WSO was done first and as the left engine had already been shut down, her pilot told her that she could go ahead and deplane (dismount, disembark, not sure what the proper term is here, perhaps one of my readers can help me out here).

Now as she went to climb down the ladder, she and her pilot realized at the same instant that the ladder was still tucked neatly away in its little compartment. And my youngest, the WSO, nearly fell off the aircraft. Fortunately she caught herself in time and the only damage was to her pride. Not to mention the deep chagrin that, I'm sure, will spread through the NFO community upon hearing about this.

Oh, to be so embarrassed in the august presence of the front seater, the stick monkey, the driver. You know the guy who flies the thing. WSO's everywhere must feel horrified that my youngest has "let down the side".

There is another, amusing to me, probably not to the WSO, aspect of the F/A-18 ladder. Now I don't know if you've ever been next to an F/A-18, but they are not small beasts in relation to us puny humans. Now the WSO is not really short, but she's not really tall either. The ladder of which we speak has a latch for to let the crew deploy said ladder. Seems the WSO can't quite reach the latch.

When she explained this to me, I had an amusing image of the WSO, completely kitted out in full gear, hopping up into the air, trying to reach the latch which deploys the ladder. She was not so amused. Well, maybe a little. She does, after all, have the same goof ball sense of humor as yours truly.

So in future I will try and regale you all with more tales from and of the Rhino. Courtesy of the WSO.

So baby girl, this post is all about you.

I hope I didn't embarrass you too much.

Well, actually perhaps a little wouldn't be so bad. But not in front of the pilots. Their egos are rather large enough already.

Right, Big Time?

The Penguins

Uhh, what is this? Has the Old AF Sarge gone off his rocker? Has he gone completely "round the bend". In a word, no. (Or perhaps yes, but as I never studied the human mind I'm not really qualified to answer that question. So we'll go with "no" as to me being off my nut. Until some qualified person tells me otherwise, I'm sticking to my guns. And clinging to my Bible - for all you aghast liberals out there.)

I've been promising these lads their own post for quite some time now. And as the WSO called me today and was all over my substantial derriere for not having posted lately. She was telephonically "up in my grill". So here we go.

First of all, from left to right, there's: Skipper (he's a movie star), Schultzie, Jay and Red. The story of the penguins is tied very closely to my exile from my "home" place of work and to the death of my Dad. So the story is funny and sad all at the same time. (Well, not exactly at the same time but the two emotions are flying a tight formation throughout this tale.)

In November of 2009, my company was feeling the worsening effects of the economic down-turn. Work was drying up in our Ocean State location. However, business in one of our Bay State locations was good. Not great, but good. Good enough that they had a pressing need for worker bees. But not good enough to hire more people full time.

So I and a number of my colleagues were designated to "go mobile". We would still belong to our home location, but we would be on loan "for a year" to a company location somewhat north of there. We were given the option of commuting (100 miles, one way) every day, or staying in a hotel (on the company dime) for 4 nights a week. The idea is we would work four 10-hour days and be home for 3 days during the length of our exile from the home location.

With two exceptions, we all chose the hotel option. The two exceptions were a guy with a young son at home (can't fault him there) and the other? Well, there is speculation that he's crazy. My own theory is that he, being from Montana, is used to driving vast distances for every day things. Like, "Honey, could you run down to the store and pick up a gallon of milk?" My buddy (from Montana), "Sure honey, it's only 75 miles, I should be back in time for supper." I'm sure I exaggerate, if I have any readers in Montana (or who have visited that impressive state) feel free to berate me in the comments. But I digress.

So now it's January of 2010. I am far from home (not really that far) and living in a hotel. Some of my new colleagues were saying how bad that must be. As they're, for the most part, civilians, I did get some funny looks when I told them, "Hey, this is nothing. I get to go home on weekends and no one is shooting at me!" In response to their puzzled looks I said, "You know, Iraq, Afghanistan. Those folks are truly a long way from home. And they can't come home on weekends. And people shoot at them." "Ah", one of them said, "you must have been in the military." Civilians, I love them but sometimes they vex me, truly.

Again I see I have digressed. But before continuing with the saga of the penguins.

WARNING SHAMELESS PLUG!

Did I mention the hotel? Yes, I believe I did. The logo above is the place I have been staying for over two years. They treat me like family and the place is cozy. Not too fancy, but for the old Sarge it's just right. (I promised the staff there that they would be mentioned in one of my posts, someday. Today is that day. And no, I received no compensation. I'm plugging them for free. Because I like them. No, really, I do. They are like family, the kind of family you enjoy visiting. So this one's for you Diana, Sheila, Nancy, Laura, Simona and Joanie. With any luck I'll get more readers out of this. Yes, I'm shameless.)

Again I have broken lock and have drifted way off of the target. Let's get back to the penguin saga.

So it's the winter of 2010. In February I get a call from my Mom that my Dad is in the hospital, and it's serious. My youngest, the WSO, decided to fly up from Virginia to visit Grandpa. The two of us loaded up the vehicle and made the trek north to see my Dad. Things were not good, he was being kept sedated in order to relax him in the hopes that his body would heal.

So my daughter was able to see him, alive, sort of, one last time. The trip back to little Rhody was somewhat somber as you may well imagine. We stopped at a McDonald's for sustenance on the way home. For some reason, my then 25 year-old daughter, officer in the US Navy and a Weapons Systems Officer in the F/A-18F Super Hornet, decided to get a Happy Meal. She's like that, reverting to her inner child at times. (Me, I don't have to revert back to my inner child. I never really grew up.) WRITE THIS DOWN - the Happy Meal comes with a toy. Key element of the story here. Some very primitive foreshadowing if you will.

So I commenced to give her grief over her choice of meals, she gave it right back, and before long we were both giggling like a couple of yahoos. (Which we most certainly are. Drives the mother of my children completely crazy when the WSO and I get like that. Which is often.) We certainly felt better, considering the circumstances. The two of us are really irrepressible.

After the WSO flew back to Virginia, I got in the car to head north on a cold Monday morning. When I arrived at work, about the time the sun was coming up, what did I see sitting in the passenger side armrest? A toy from a Happy Meal. Mickey D's was plugging one of the Madagascar movies at the time, so of course, it was a penguin. Skipper, from the movie.

I thought that was cute. To make a long story short(er), my Dad passed away the following week. All of the kids except the Nuke came home for the funeral (she was at sea for a six month deployment). And there was that penguin, still sitting in the armrest of my car. My wife couldn't figure that out and wanted to know why I had a toy penguin in the car. The WSO explained. The Missus didn't get it, but the WSO did. It was one of our "little things", one of those bonds (however inane) you have with your kids, if you're lucky.

Now the other three penguins came on board a while later. Turns out that the hotel manager, a very lovely and intelligent young lady, saw the penguin in my hotel room and was thrilled. Seems she's a big penguin fan (the bird, not the hockey team). She loved my penguin story.

Jay was the next to arrive. The hotel manager gave that one to me, the hotel was doing some kind of promo for kids. Jay, the penguin, is a bath tub toy. She let me have this one to, as she said "Keep Skipper company."

Schultzie and Red were both abandoned at the hotel. They were found in a couple of different rooms. You see kids will drop their toys just about anywhere. And in the rush to pack, load the car and check out, sometimes toys get left behind. That's how Schultzie and Red joined our merry, goofy band.

And speaking of toys being left behind. When the kids were really young, we were travelling (as military families are wont to do) and we spent the night in a motel, I think it was in Arkansas, could've been Missouri. When we left the next morning, we had gone fifty miles when the Nuke and the WSO realized that they had left their teddy bears behind. At the motel.

At the next exit I got off the interstate, and headed back to the motel. CINCHOUSE assumed I was having some sort of "episode" and wanted me to explain what I was doing, immediately. Of course I told her we were heading back to the motel, to pick up the teddy bears. The girls were ecstatic, the wife was apoplectic, nevertheless, we were heading back.

So the penguins represent a sad time in my life but also a happy moment with my youngest. And if you're smart, you'll hang onto those moments, forever.

So you see, in my family, we leave no one behind. Ever. Not teddy bears and not penguins.

It's just the way we are.

That Time of Year

Posting is going to be sporadic to non-existent this week. It's tax time. Yes, I'm one of the 51% who actually pay taxes in the good old US of A.

In my case, due to a strange work situation, I get to pay Federal income tax and income tax in two separate states. (Work in one state, live in another. And for me it is most emphatically NOT voluntary.)

So I'll be going through all of those lovely instructions (it was easier to go through the Tech Orders for the F-4) and filling in forms, lots of forms.

While some of you count your refunds, I'll be writing checks.

Because that's what I do. I'm a giver.

Sigh...

He Has Risen!

Matthew 28

 ¹In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre.

 ²And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.

 ³His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:

 ⁴And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men.

 ⁵And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified.

 ⁶He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.

 ⁷And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him: lo, I have told you.

 ⁸And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy; and did run to bring his disciples word.

 ⁹And as they went to tell his disciples, behold, Jesus met them, saying, All hail. And they came and held him by the feet, and worshipped him.

 ¹⁰Then said Jesus unto them, Be not afraid: go tell my brethren that they go into Galilee, and there shall they see me.

May God bless you all this Easter Sunday.

Too Close to Home, Again

Had a phone call from the wife a bit after noon today. An F/A-18D had crashed in Virginia Beach. My daughter, the WSO wasn’t flying today. Both crew members ejected and are in the hospital. No idea of casualties on the ground. But it’s a heavily populated area.

Coming a month to the day after Lex’s crash, it can be frightening to be the father of someone wearing Wings of Gold.

Prayers for those involved.

Cross-posted at The Lexicans.

Back in the Cockpit

My daughter, the WSO, is back in the cockpit after being away for over two years. She had her third flight today and just had to call me about it. She knows my love of flying and my utter disdain for the cubicle-farm.

Seems the weather was rainy and crappy, but (as she put it) "once we got over 13,000 feet, it was beautiful". 13,000 feet above the earth in a high-performance fighter, yeah who wouldn't love that?

At any rate, I missed her first attempt to get a hold of me (I was in the computer lab, no cell phones allowed) which was fortunate in a way. Fortunate for my fragile morale anyway.

You see, on one of her deployments to Fallon, she had what anyone would consider "a great day". Weather was awesome, flying was great. So of course, she had to call and tell me all about it. There I was, sitting in my cubicle, looking outside at the crappy, drizzly weather and thinking that being anywhere had to be better than this. So my cell phone rings and I see that it's the WSO, knowing that she was out at Fallon and was flying that day I figured she had another story for dear old Dad.

Of course she did. She was pumped and began by saying "Guess what we did today?" As it was still early, I figured it wasn't another O-Club story (I get to hear about those, Mom most emphatically does not.) So, glutton for punishment that I am, I replied "Don't know sweetie, what did you do today?"

That's when she told me about flying low-level at rather high rates of speed, looking UP at the mountain tops. Some parents would freak, others would cringe, me, all I could say was "You suck! It's raining here, I'm stuck in a cubicle staring at a computer screen. And you have to tell me this? Really?" No, I'm not jealous, no, really.

But I digress. Seems she and her stick-actuator were "cloud surfing". Skimming along just above the cloud tops, in the sun, flying at high rates of speed in a high-performance fighter. She had to tell me about being chased by the shadow of her Rhino (F/A-18F Super Hornet for the uninitiated) as she and her pilot danced through the sky on silvered wings, yada, yada, yada.

Did I mention the aerobatics? Yeah, aerobatics and all, none of that straight and level stuff.

Yes, she has a great job. While my job pays the bills and is, in its own way, interesting, her job certainly beats the dog snot out of mine. Always. Hands down. No contest.

Sigh...

Care to Explain That?

So what’s the deal anyway with the title of this here blog, “Chant du Départ”? What kinda nonsense is this? Are you some kind of foreigner or what?

“Chant du Départ” (which is French, for those non-Francophones in the audience) means “Song of Departure” which was (according to Wikipedia) the official anthem of the First Empire.

For the historically-challenged amongst you, the First Empire was the France of Napoléon Bonaparte. The Emperor was quite a soldier, though there were many aspects of his reign which some find, ahem, distasteful. Well, not everyone’s perfect. Now I’m not saying that the Emperor was or was not a righteous dude, far from it. But the sumbitch was a hell of a general.

Given my long-term interest in the armies and wars of the First Empire (I did visit the battlefield of Waterloo on multiple occasions during my assignment to NATO, more on that someday), it was kind of natural that I would pick a Napoleonic theme for the title of my blog. Though how that came about makes for an interesting (maybe) story. Hence, today’s post.

I decided to get into blogging shortly after the departure from this veil of tears of CAPT Carroll “Lex” LeFon, USN (Ret). Needed something to fill the void as it were. I missed reading Lex’s stuff. And read it I did, every day. That man could write!

So there I was (the opening line of many an Air Force “war story”), first I had to figure out just how was I to get started doing this blogging thing? Well, I settled on using Blogger, probably because when I googled it, the first thing that caught my eye was “Free weblog publishing tool”.

Free, did I just see the word free? Yup, and the word “free” will get this Scotsman’s attention every time. So “free” it was and I jumped on it.

So I start to tinkering and one of the first things I see is that my blog needs a title. A title, WTF? Damn, now I have to think of something to call this blog-o-mine.

Didn’t want to call it “Old AF Sarge”, that’s my name. Hhhmm, what to do, what to do? Why not something Napoleonic? Okay, but what?

Immediately I tried to remember the title of an old Grande Armée song (which roughly translates to “I like onions fried in oil”). Harummph, try googling that! You’ll find lots of recipes, not much music.

Then I remembered “Chant du Départ”, the Song of Departure. The departure involved the French army going off to war. The song itself has verses for many different roles, soldiers departing, people staying behind, etc., etc., and of course it is very Republican French in nature. (Just look it up on Wikipedia, it has the lyrics in both French and English.)

Yes, I’m a conservative but the “Republican” mentioned above has nothing to do with modern US of A political parties. No, I do not consider myself a member or adherent of the Republican Party. Ditto for the Democratic Party. Both of which are busily destroying our country through greed and incompetence. As the lady I buy my gasoline from says, “they’re all crooks!” HAARRUMMPPHH! (End mini-political rant.)

After that rather long tangent, let’s get back to the point of this post. The point is - the song comes from the days of the First French Empire, it is military in nature and (most importantly) it is about departing. And, the very raison d'être for my deciding to become a blogger, was Lex. He had departed in a very final way and I felt some small need to somehow memorialize him in my blog for years to come. I wanted to do it in a subtle way, something with an “insider” feel to it. So my blog became “Chant du Départ”. And really, it’s for Lex, the “Song of Departure”.

Cue Twilight Zone music: One last thing, my first post was put up on a Thursday, round about 2030 local, which for me is EDT. (8:30 PM for you civvies, Mickie’s big hand on the 6, Mickie’s little hand on the 8 for you gravel-agitators). The next day, while admiring my handiwork, I noticed that the time of the post was given as 1728 (5:28 PM, etc.)

Hhhmm, I thinks to meself. I couldn’t have posted that at 1728, I was driving on I-495 at 1728. How can that be? So I popped the hood of my blog and noted that the time stamp for Chant du Départ was Pacific Daylight Time. Eerie. Just so happens, of course, that PDT was Lex’s “time zone of record”, so to speak. What the heck, I’m not changing that, ever. So the Chant du Départ has two little tributes to Lex, the title and of course, the time zone. For insiders only, natürlich.

Note: No Germans or French were harmed in the writing of this log. (Though I do tend to butcher their respective languages on occasion.)