Happy Fourth of July

Just a quick post today to wish y'all a Happy Fourth of July.

The Missus and I are having a great time in Virginia Beach with the WSO, the Nuke, Little Bit and the Bear. Had a great flight down, weather was gorgeous, Flight Attendants were, well, attentive. All things were as they should be.

Woke up to Little Bit saying "No Poppa, no sleeping." Then to the forty pound Bear jumpin' up onto the bed waggin' her tail and being all happy.

Yup, it's gonna be a great day. Hope you all enjoy yours.

Spare a moment to remember those men at Lexington Green and all those who followed them.

I will.

Big Girl

I always like to lead off with a picture. Preferably something shiny. And Buck (out Portales way) got me thinking about automobiles that I have owned or driven. This is also the first time I've ever posted on a Sunday night. So this post will probably be all over the place, disorganized and haphazardly random. You know, business as usual for the Old AF Sarge.

Now the vehicle in the photo is a 2005 Honda Element. Same make, model and color as my current ride. Take it for what it's worth, but I love this car.

She started her career as the Nuke's first car which she purchased her senior year in college. Seems USAA has a special deal for kids within spittin' distance of being commissioned in the Armed Forces. Using said deal, the Nuke bought this baby.

Now I also like to name vehicles that are in the family. Usually the names stick. For whatever reason, I tagged this vehicle "Big Girl". And she retains that moniker to this day. It just fits. (I should also mention that I refer to the WSO's vehicle as "Mailbox Killer". Has to do with the WSO, her vehicle and a rather unfortunate mailbox in Pensacola. Someday I'll share that story.)

I have to admit up front, I've liked the Element since the moment I first saw one. Something about its blocky, no nonsense lines just appealed to me. When the Nuke actually bought one, I was pretty excited about it. I was even more excited when the Nuke rang me up from Norfolk just before her first deployment. Seems she wanted me to fly down to Norfolk, pick up her vehicle and drive it back to New England. You know, to babysit for it while she was at sea on her destroyer.

Of course, it wasn't "her" destroyer exactly. I'm sure her Captain would have an issue with that characterization, pretty sure he felt it was "his" destroyer. But in reality, the ship belongs to the US taxpayer, and, as I pointed out to the Nuke, she is a taxpayer. Therefore it is, in part, "her" destroyer. But it's also my destroyer, your destroyer, weird Cousin Jimmy up in Somerville's destroyer...

Well, I think you get my drift. The Nuke just asked me never to refer to the ship as "her" destroyer while the Captain was within earshot. Which command I obeyed to the letter. I was tempted to mention this little story to her Captain when I met him, but he is a very large individual. Though a friendly enough chap, I could envision him easily tearing Air Force sergeants limb from limb, should they annoy him. And this was in the wardroom on board the Ike, so I figured all that blood and those severed limbs flying about could've put the officers off their feed, so to speak. So I refrained and the Nuke was pleased.

So I accepted the task to fly down to Norfolk and drive the vehicle back to New England. As the WSO was still in college and wasn't slated to go on her annual Midshipman cruise until later in the summer, she came along. Both for something to do and for to entertain the old man. (That would be me.)

So off the WSO and I went to Norfolk. We figured taking a cab from the airport would be an okay idea. After all, no one else in the family was then in Norfolk (the Naviguesser had left the Navy earlier that year and was out in California). So taxi it was.

We were a little amazed that the cabby at Norfolk International had no idea where the address in Virginia Beach which we gave him was. Why I was amazed, I have no idea. I've had cabbies in New York City who had no idea where Park Avenue was. Looking back on it, I do think I always get cabbies who are not from there, wherever there may be. Of two cabbies in NYC, one was from Taiwan, the other from Venezuela I believe.

Now the fellow we had in Norfolk was from Nigeria. A very nice fellow he was. He actually made a few stops along the way to get directions (meter was off while he did so, a very honest fellow he was as well).

Eventually we arrived at Chateau Nuke and unloaded our stuff. We were hungry so we hopped in Big Girl and headed out to the nearest Micky D's. There for our first encounter with the Southern way of doing things.

Now I'll fess up right now. I'm a Yankee, Northern born, Northern raised. We tend to be in a bit of a hurry up here at times. No muss, no fuss, just get it done. Now.

At this Mickey D's in Virginia Beach, "fast food" was a relative term. We placed our order and 45 minutes later we had our food. Yes, you read correctly, 45 minutes. And I have to say, the place was not busy, not busy at all. They were just moving at a slow and easy pace. What's the hurry?

I've since come to appreciate the Southern way of doing things. When you really step back and look at things, then really "What's the hurry?"

I've learned much from the South. Particularly how to enjoy grits. I have Charleston to thank for that. But that too, is another story. For another time.

So the WSO and I eventually got fed and returned to Chateau Nuke. It was late, it was dark and 'lo and behold, there was a parking space right in front of the Nuke's apartment. Whoa, this never happens back home. So we parked Big Girl and sacked out to get some sleep prior to heading north the next day.

The next morning, we're taking stuff down to the car and I hear the WSO say, "Uh Dad. Did you move the car?"

"Uh no, I did not."

'Lo and behold, there was a big empty space where Big Girl had been parked the night before. My first thought was that she had been stolen. But the WSO pointed out to me that there was no broken glass or any other sign of thievery. Also the Big Girl, in theory, cannot be hot wired. No key, no engine start.

So the WSO and I schlepped up to the apartment complex office to make inquiries. There to discover that the apartment complex had had the car towed for not having the right sticker on it. Which, they informed us, everyone should have as they had sent a letter out two weeks prior to inform the tenants.

I asked the lady if they had any Navy personnel living there. She assured me that they did. I asked her if those Navy people ever went to sea for long periods of time. She assured me that they did.

That's when I asked the lady (in a voice which would've carried over the noise of roaring cannons) that "GUESS WHERE MY DAUGHTER WAS WHEN YOU SENT OUT THAT GODDAM LETTER????!!!"

She didn't even blink. She informed me that this was NOT her problem. But if I wished I could use the phone to call a cab to take us to the impound yard. Yes, thank you, "I WOULD LIKE TO USE YOUR GODDAM PHONE!!!"

Again she didn't even blink, just handed me the phone and a phone book. I'm guessing she had been married to a Chief Petty Officer or had been yelled at many times before by disgruntled Naval tenants. I kinda felt like Superman in the presence of kryptonite, all my powers were null and void.

So we got a cab. This cabbie, when told the story of where we were going and why, chuckled and informed us that the Norfolk area is famous for towing people's cars at the drop of a hat. Upon the slightest pretext. He also knew where the impound yard was. About $50 away from our pick up point (yes, I put the distance in cash, for that is what it cost to get there.)

After another $80, we retrieved Big Girl. So now we were $130 lighter than when we woke up and still had 550 miles to go. Fortunately fuel was much cheaper in those days and we had brought a bit of "just in case" money.

We left Norfolk on a gorgeous Saturday morning, excited about being on the road. For the WSO and I have always found it easy to amuse each other. We have pretty much the same idiotic sense of humor and act very much alike. In the WSO's case, the acorn did not fall very far from the tree at all. Much to the chagrin and constant annoyance of the Missus (aka mother of WSO).

We crossed the Delaware bridge into New Jersey and waved goodbye to the sunshine and fair weather. Within minutes we were in a torrential downpour. Which pretty much lasted all the way to Rhode Island. The road trip became something of a grind with the weather having gone straight to hell. But the WSO and I soldiered on and found much to laugh about. Mostly about the utter lack of driving skills of most of the other denizens of the interstate. But we managed and we arrived safely at Chez Sarge, about 8 hours later than planned. But we made it.

For six months I babysat Big Girl. The Nuke's orders were to drive her "occasionally" and keep her in fighting trim. Which I did, perhaps a bit over-zealously.

When the Nuke returned from deployment, the Missus and I drove Big Girl back to Norfolk (the WSO was back in school by then). Upon arrival, the conversation went something like this:

"So Dad, do you like my car?"

"Oh yes, I love that car!"

"How is she running?"

"Oh, she's running great!"

"Uh Dad, you put six thousand miles on my car. How did you drive to New England and back, through Guatemala?"

"Uh, you said to drive it around from time to time."

"Mom, did Dad drive my car everyday? To work and everything else?"

"Yes, he did."


I was busted. The Nuke was annoyed but she also appreciated how much I enjoyed her car. So I was let off with just a slap on the wrist. Needless to say though, the next time the Nuke deployed, I was not asked to babysit her car. Wonder why?

But a few years later, the Nuke was in the market for a new vehicle. Not because she needed one, but because she wanted one. As she could afford it, who was going to say no? (By the way, to my knowledge, no one has ever actually said "No" to the Nuke and gotten away with it. Just sayin'.)

So the Nuke turned to me and said, "Dad, you really like my car, don't you?"

"Indeed I do, I love this car."

"Alright, it's yours."

"Uh, mine?"

Yes, the Nuke gave me this car. Gratis, no charge, free, no strings attached. Gave me as in "Here's the keys, here's the title. Enjoy."

Which I have, to this very day, some two years after the Nuke gave me Big Girl. The Missus says I'm spoiled. Of course I'm spoiled. But really, is it my fault that I have awesome kids?

I totally have awesome kids.

Totally.

Road Trip!

The Old AF Sarge is a gonna be a travelin' this coming week. Headed down to Virginia Beach for the Fourth at the invitation of the WSO. I'll get to see my granddaughter (Little Bit) and apparently the Nuke and Bear are coming over as well from Memphis.

Initially the Nuke was going to fly over to visit, but then she realized that Bear's birthday was also on the Fourth. And there was no way she was going to leave her faithful canine behind. So she's driving. For fifteen hours. She really loves that dog.

In my younger days I would've made the drive as well. I used to enjoy the trip down and back. Not so much nowadays. The New Jersey Turnpike has taken it's toll on my aging nerves. Both literally and figuratively speaking. Not to mention the cost of fuel. Even though it's lower than it has been in a while, it's still too much for a 550 mile journey, one way.

Besides which, the WSO is springing for the plane tickets. Nice of her isn't it? (Have I mentioned lately how great my kids are? All three of them are generous to a fault. We musta done something right when we raised them. Hhhm, the Missus would probably say, at this point, "We? We raised them? Seems I did all the heavy lifting." And she's right. She did the bulk of the upbringing of the progeny. And all three are (or were) officers in the United States Navy. If they'd followed my example they'd probably turn out to be really salty CPOs. Not that that is a bad thing. But you gotta admit, the O's make more money.)

To prepare for this adventure I have to go into my training routine. This involves coming up with ways to annoy the heck out of the Nuke. She expects it. And who am I to disappoint the first daughter?

No doubt at this point you're wondering why the post leads off with a picture of George Clooney in the role of Ulysses Everett McGill in the celebrated film O Brother, Where Art Thou? Well, it has to do with one of the most effective ways I know to annoy both the Nuke and the Missus without getting into too much trouble. Besides which, the WSO loves to play along.

You see, since arriving home from the banks of the Merrimack River on Thursday afternoon, I think I've listened to the song Man of Constant Sorrow from the film's soundtrack about a billion times. For to get the tone "just right". (For those of you wondering what the song sounds like, here's a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08e9k-c91E8, believe me, it's old-timey! Also the link has scenes from the film, awesome!)

Now how does this annoy the Nuke? Well for instance, we'll be walking out of a store and there I go, "Ahhhh am a ma-an of constant sorrooowwww, Ah've seen trubble all ma days...". Whereupon the WSO will join in and there we are, two Yankees wailing away in pseudo-country nasalness, in public, for all too see. The Missus will shake her head and add a soft-spoken "shut up you two idiots" while the Nuke slowly tries to fade into the background, doing the old, "I'm not with THOSE people, really. But I am so embarrassed." No one buys it, they all know that she is with us. And she knows it too. Which irks her like you would not believe.

I remember the first time I watched the movie. I believe the WSO and I went to our local video rental place (now that is old-timey all by itself - the place is long defunct). There we saw this movie which neither of us had ever heard of, but which starred George Clooney. Also the box said it was "loosely based on the Odyssey". Hhhmm? What do hillbillies and an epic Greek poem have in common? Oh what the heck, we rented it and it was hysterical, entertaining and the music was unbelievable. And this coming from a guy who's very much into rock and roll! I've probably seen the movie a dozen times by now. If it comes on TV, the Missus will roll her eyes and either find something else to do or forbid viewing so she can watch another episode of House Hunters International (bogus) or perhaps something on Lifetime (gag).

But the WSO and I are big fans, really big fans. We consider ourselves to be bona fide!

So that's the deal. I probably will be blogging from Chez Big Time this week (though he's deployed, I consider it to be his house, man of the family, etc., etc.). After all, the WSO still owes me some Strike Det stories.

I'll end with a bit from the movie:

Ulysses Everett McGill: Why are you telling our gals that I was hit by a train?
Penny Wharvey McGill: Lots of respectable people have been hit by trains. Judge Hobbie over in Cookville was hit by a train. What was I gonna tell them, that you got sent to the penal farm and I divorced you from shame?
Ulysses Everett McGill: Uh, I take your point. But it does put me in a damn awkward position, vis-a-vis my progeny.

The Fort at Number 4

The Objective

From Wikipedia: The Fort at Number 4 was the northernmost British settlement along the Connecticut River in New Hampshire until after the French and Indian War. Now known as Charlestown, it was more than 30 miles (50 km) from the nearest other British settlement at Fort Dummer. Construction began in 1740 by brothers Stephen, Samuel and David Farnsworth. By 1743, there were 10 families settled in a square of interconnected houses, enclosed in a stockade with a guard tower.

In the early 1970's, not knowing that the War Between the States had been over for more than a hundred years, an intrepid band of Confederate infantry crossed the Connecticut River from Vermont into New Hampshire and seized the Fort at Number 4. These men were a detachment from the 10th Mississippi Volunteer Infantry who had been given the mission of raiding the North and causing maximum disruption to the Northern war effort. Obviously, they were too late and too few to have the desired effect.

Confederate scouts in mufti had been observing the bridge over the Connecticut River for a few days prior to the planned assault in order to determine the best time to strike. Finally it was decided that 3:00 AM would be the best time as traffic over the bridge generally ceased shortly after 1:00 AM and didn't pick up again until just before sunrise.

The raiders had been living undercover for a number of weeks in Springfield on the Vermont side of the river as it was felt that it would be easier to remain incognito in the larger town. Then, as now, Charlestown had a rather small number of inhabitants.

At 2:30 AM, the assault party met on the Vermont side of the river at a place just down river from the bridge. Gearing up, they moved out and began moving over the bridge towards the fort. The troops managed to move unobserved to the very walls of the fort. Dragging out their scaling ladders from where they had been concealed in an uncut wheat field, the party was quickly up and over the wall.

Discovering that the fort was unoccupied, the Confederate troops raised the Confederate banner over the tower and settled in to await the morning. The fort was theirs, but could they hold it?

The Real Story

The above actually happened. However, the "troops" were not actually Confederate infantry but a small group of reenactors who had had their sense of honor offended. I know, I was there and I shouldered my SN&WTC rifle with the other fellows when we seized the fort.

You see, in the days of my youth I was a Civil War reenactor. At the age of 13 I had joined up with a small group of reenactors who consisted of a few adults and multiple young lads like myself. We were horrible looking and about as authentic as those Italian admirals I mentioned in my Waterloo post.

For uniforms we wore dark blue "Big Yank" shirts and pants. Seriously. Not terribly realistic looking. For the very few reenactments we went to it was only through the chivalry of our fellow Northerners and the honor of our Southern foes that we were not laughed off the field.

As we got a little older we discovered that coming up with reasonably authentic looking Southern apparel was a lot easier than actually coming up with authentic looking Union uniforms. As many Southern troops wore their everyday clothes to the war, especially in the later years of the conflict, we found suitable woolen clothing of the appropriate period shades and went forth to war. The equipment and weapons we had were fairly authentic, so we didn't look too bad at all.

So we transformed ourselves from the 9th Vermont to the 10th Mississippi. The first reenactment we went to we were well-received by the other participants. But that is another story for another day.

During this period, which was after high school and before my enlistment in the Air Force, we had a buddy who had found a volunteer gig at the Fort at Number 4. Seems the folks who ran that place had a cannon and needed someone to fire that cannon on weekends for the joy and amazement of the tourists. Our buddy volunteered those of us who were willing to serve as the crew of this cannon.

Now if you will recall from that blurb above from Wikipedia, this fort was active around the time of the French and Indian wars. So we were all expecting a cannon from that era. Nope. What they had was a James six-pounder, from the Civil War (that's the War Between the States for my Southern readers). To add insult to injury, the uniforms they provided for the gun crew were completely inaccurate.

Now for a reenactor in those days, the worst insult which could be bestowed was to be called a "farb". This term was, I believe, derived from the German word for color, "Farbe". To be called a "farb" was to infer that one's uniforms and accouterments were inaccurate, or "colorful".

So the uniforms provided immediately placed us in the "farb" category. But we realized we were just there for the tourists and we all rather doubted that any of them had any real knowledge of the time period in question.

Our jackets were red. Which pleased the crowd, because we all knew growing up that the British wore red. Unfortunately, British artillerymen of the period wore blue uniforms. Most artillerymen of the day wore drab colored uniforms because serving the guns was a very dirty business. One got filthy very quickly.

But we adapted and over time we tweaked and modified our uniforms and equipment so we didn't look that bad. Management at the fort began to have certain, shall we say, misgivings about our behavior. After all, the folks who ran the place were supposedly experts on the period. Well, they were as far as what civilians looked like back then. About the military forces of the time period, they had no clue. They were insistent that we could not change our coats from red to blue, after all "everyone knows that the British Army wore red coats". Grrrr.

Another thing which irked the hell out of us was the powder charges they issued to us for the thrice daily firing of the gun. It came wrapped in tissue and was about enough black powder to make the gun go "poof". Okay, it was a little louder than that. But not much. To them it was enough to get the rather large amount of smoke which black powder produces.

We pleaded with the "colonial authorities" at the fort (for such they thought they were) for more powder. Just maybe a quarter pound charge, just enough to let our cannon bark, if not roar. But no. They were very safety conscious. We tried to explain that all of us were most experienced with black powder weapons and knew enough about the gun to take the proper precautions.

They thought they were being safety conscious but in reality they didn't know squat. For instance, when we brought out a wooden bucket, filled with water, they were curious as to what the bucket was for. They were kind of amazed when we pointed out that it was important to swab the barrel out after firing to extinguish any lingering embers. "Hmmm, we didn't know that", they murmured in amazement.

We put on quite a show at the fort. We actually staged a dual with flintlock pistols one day. The crowd on hand was most delighted. The authorities, not so much. We needed, they said, to stick to the script. Which to them was: march out, load the gun, fire it, then march back inside. Three times a day. Boring!

Well, we stuck to the script for the rest of the summer. But (unbeknownst to the Crown) we were squirreling away just a bit of powder out of our standard issue with each firing. By the last Sunday of the summer we had perhaps a half pound charge. Enough to make Mr James at least bark, if not roar. Then our gun captain figured out a way to make the show a bit more spectacular. The final Sunday we went out into the fields around the fort and cut some hay. Quite a bit of hay actually.

For the final shot, we loaded up Mr James with that half-pound of powder and tamped the charge down with rather a lot of well-soaked hay. The crowd was expectant, the authorities were a bit nervous as they were wondering what all the hay was for.

The gun was loaded. The crew stepped back and the gun captain brought his slow match down to the touch hole. The crowd sensed something was afoot.

When the cannon discharged, Mr James did not bark. No, Mr James ROARED! That wad of hay flew over the stockade wall and I swear the gun rolled back in recoil perhaps a foot.

The crowd was silent for a moment, then began to roar their approval. The authorities were furious but hid it well from the tourists. When the last group left the fort, the Crown informed us that we were NOT invited back for the next season. We were out of hand and out of control they claimed. Dorks.

So we did not return the next summer as a gun crew. But we did show up with a few friends in the garb of the Confederate States for to seize the fort in the still of the night. On the very first day of the tourist season.

When the staff showed up to unlock the gates, they were somewhat puzzled to see the Confederate flag flying over the fort. They were even more amazed to find a squad of 15 rebel soldiers drawn up at the present arms on the parade ground inside the fort. The younger guy on the staff thought it was a hoot, the more senior guy was NOT happy.

We were threatened with action by the local constabulary until the local newspaper showed up with a cameraman. We were interviewed and photographed, the local media thought it was pretty neat. (They had been forewarned of the impending action by a buddy of ours who worked at the local paper.)

We marched away from the fort, past a line of cars loaded with tourists who thought it was a great show. (I often wonder if any of them thought it odd that Confederate infantry had seized a French and Indian War era fort. But the ignorance of history has long been somewhat prevalent in the US. It has gotten worse over time,  sad to say.)

So we had avenged the insult to our reenactors' honor. We had taken over the fort from which we had been discharged as amateur artillerymen. We were, after all, unpaid volunteers and we did know our business with muzzle loading, black powder cannon. We actually studied prior to joining up!

But the fort did get a lot of visitors that summer. Seems that the article in the paper (along with pictures!) with our exploits had been picked up by a larger newspaper and this attracted a number of tourists to the fort.

We later heard that Mr James did not get exercised that summer (or the next), as the Crown could not find any volunteers to serve the gun...

A shame really, it was such a lovely cannon.

A Cousin of Mr James (foreground)

Statistics (or Why I'm Too Lazy for a Really Good Post Today)

Alright, alright. Everybody settle down and take your seats.

The Sarge has been rather lazy this weekend. A flurry of activity on the 19th (Ma Vie Militaire Part II) and then Part III yesterday. But no posts on Thursday or Friday. Usually those are the days I really feel like writing. This weekend? Not so much.

While the graph above is taken from my overall blog statistics as of today. It also kinda sorta is a pretty good chart of my relative energy levels this past week. Yes, I am like a diesel boat which has been submerged for far too long. Batteries are getting really low, most of the crew has been sent to their bunks to conserve the dwindling supply of oxygen and to prevent a greater build up of carbon dioxide in the boat's atmosphere.

And everything smells kinda moldy and funky. That has been my mental state the past few days. I'm running on fumes.

Normally I get that way during the week. It all starts with the Monday morning 0400 wake-up. Sea and anchor detail is at 0445 and I'm usually wheels up no later than 0515 for the long haul from the shores of Narragansett to the banks of the Merrimack River. (For those of you of a literary bent, yes, I like mixing my metaphors.)

Monday is a ten hour day. As are Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. So normally by Thursday afternoon I'm beat. Then it's time to fly a reciprocal course and return to Chez Sarge. Normally the morale boost of just being home is enough to get me pumped up enough to post on Thursday night. Not so this week.

Maybe I'm feeling my age, maybe I'm just not eating right. My number one theory right now is that the temperatures in the high-90's at the end of the just finished week were rather enervating. I'm sure Buck out in Portales is chuckling. These would be "cool" days out in his neck of the woods. But as I'm Northern-born and Northern-bred, very hot temperatures wear me out quickly. My preferred temperature range is mid-40's to low-60's. Oh well. All that being said, I think I'm just naturally lazy.

Why do something today when it can be put off 'til the morrow? Or something like that. In the Air Force I was a blur of activity while on duty. Sort of a cartoon Tasmanian devil. Off duty, more like a three-toed sloth. And as time rolls on its flight, the sloth side of my Yin and Yang seems to be pushing its way to the head of the queue. I really have to fight it. The Missus is a big help in that area. She pushes me constantly with a seemingly never-ending list of "this has to get done today" tasks.

Well, enough of that.

Talked to the WSO last night and had another example of how old I'm getting. We were discussing my grandson's bee sting. Yes, the Big "O" stepped on a bee out in sunny California and got stung for his troubles. Seems it was his first. Upside was that he's not allergic to the little buggers.

So the WSO begins to relate the story of her first bee sting.

Now I need to remind you that I was born and raised in the Green Mountain state, long before it became the liberal wasteland that it seems to be today. (I know that there are still small pockets of conservatives and libertarians here and there. But you have to admit, Vermont is a very liberal state these days. Good Lord they have a socialist congress critter!) Back on point, having played in the woods and glens of my home state as a child, I got stung more than I care to remember. The little critters are very particular about who's in their air space around the hive.

So the WSO is regaling me with her first encounter with a flying, stinging beastie.

The WSO: "Yup, I remember my first bee sting, (and here's what I heard), it was in Pre-School." (Which is perhaps a reasonable assumption, given my upbringing.)

The WSO: "We were doing a firemen's carry across this field..."

Me: "What? Why on earth were they making a bunch of pre-schoolers do a firemen's carry?"

Long pause. I could picture the WSO with an odd look on her face. Which I get a lot.

The WSO: "Dad. I said SERE school. Not Pre-School."

Me: "Ah, that makes a lot more sense."

So yes, they don't make pre-schoolers practice the firemen's carry. They do make aviation types practice that at Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape (SERE) school.

To the WSO it was Dad being his goofy old self. To me it was another case of "Is my hearing shot to hell or am I just not paying attention?" The Missus thinks it's probably a bit of both. And she's probably right.

But as regards blogging, I am approaching my 3,000th page view. Not really a lot but it's somewhat gratifying that I seem to have a core audience who like my stuff. Heck if I get 10 people to check out Chant du Départ a day, I feel good about it. As long as I remain entertaining I guess someone is willing to read my (sometimes) nonsensical ramblings.

So with that, time to bore you with some statistics. I get a kick out of seeing who my audience is. And I'm here to tell you, the Old AF Sarge seems to be a global phenomenon. On a very small scale granted. But still, I have a global audience. Here's the stats to support that.

All Time as of 24 June 2012
United States 2,493
United Kingdom 135
Russia 80
Canada 35
Germany 23
France 18
Mexico 14
Spain 11
Indonesia 10
Austria 9

Month as of 24 June 2012
United States 620
United Kingdom 79
Canada 11
Germany 10
Russia 10
Mexico 8
Netherlands 8
France 7
Indonesia 7
Costa Rica 6

Week as of 24 June 2012
United States 143
United Kingdom 26
Venezuela 5
Bahrain 4
Canada 3
Indonesia 3
Mexico 3
Austria 2
Germany 2
Russia 2

I kind of wonder if those four Bahrain hits came from Tuna while he was out that way.

Note that my audience seems primarily an English-speaking audience. the US and the UK show the most hits. Though in the "All Time" category, Russia is right up there at number 3. Apparently I have a few fans in the Rodina. (After all, I am a big fan of  Пётр Вели́кий. That's "Peter the Great" to you Anglophones.) I do have friends in both Canada and Germany, perhaps they're spreading the word.

The hits from France? I picture people doing a search on "Chant du Départ" and upon reaching my blog saying, "Zut alors! Again I try to find the words to this song and I keep getting this stupid website en Anglais. Nom du chien! Sacré bleu!" Or maybe they recognize a kindred spirit whose French blood will sometimes bubble to the surface. Doesn't matter, "Je vous remercie mes amis".

So that's it. Another rambling semi-organized post but it's all I've got.

Oh, one more thing. Apparently my readers' all time favorite post is "Uncle Smitty's Hamsters. The number of hits on that one surpasses all others. Now I admit, I liked it a lot. But really, that's the favorite?

The WSO's theory: "Hey Dad, maybe people are googling 'hamster reproduction' and that post comes up!"

Hhhmm, could be. Who am I to question the success of "Uncle Smitty's Hamsters"?

Ma Vie Militaire (Part III)

Through the magic of the internet I actually found this photo of my flight at Basic Training. I am in the front row, second from the left. Seems the Air Force is trying to build up a collection of photos of all of the Basic Training flights since the Air Force's inception/birth/creation in 1947.

Now I had heard about this project a number of years ago from a buddy of mine. So of course I went to the website to check it out. With great disappointment I discovered that my outfit, 3708 Squadron Flight 512, was not there. The project was in its early stages so I shouldn't have been surprised. However, to me that's like "What? No paintings of the Emperor when he was a child? What nonsense is this?" You see I hold myself in great esteem. (Yes, I have an over-inflated view of my own importance in the grand scheme of things.)

But as I sat down to put together Part III of "Ma Vie Militaire" I decided to search out this photo once more, and 'lo and behold there it was. So here it is.

For those who know me, they'll instantly note that I was a lot more "sleek" in those days. Not that you can really tell from those baggy fatigue uniforms but I was carrying a great deal less ballast in those days. Still had most of my own hair (I started going bald when I was 19, started going really bald when the progeny reached their teen years) and my hair had nary a speck of gray. Yes indeed, I was young.

My best friend in Basic, the "Boss" is the guy first from the left. He is also the second black person I had met in my entire life up to that point. Two other guys from whom I was inseparable were Mike K. (the tallest guy in the front row, standing next to the (ahem) "TI". And a couple of rows directly behind Mike is Manuel G. (the Hispanic guy with the big glasses and the even bigger grin).

Now Mike was one of "The Four" who made it all the way from Manchester to Lackland without getting lost in Houston. That is, Mike was most definitely not one of the knuckleheads. In fact Mike was an extraordinarily intelligent guy. I know this because we both went on to work Weapon Control Systems (WCS) on the F-4 Phantom. I on the C and D models, Mike on the E model. Manuel was also very smart, he too became a WCS troop, also on E models. You may note the distinction in my grading of these two guys' intelligence. Mike seems to get the higher grade. That's because when we got to Tech School (in Denver, yeah, I know "rough duty"), Manuel decided that he would have himself circumcised. Why anyone would choose to do that is beyond me. Prior to having the procedure done, we all thought he was out of his mind. After the procedure, even Manuel was questioning his own intelligence. Just sayin'.

So on with this epic tale of my Air Force career. (Epic! Are you insane, it's not like this is a tale of derring-do or anything! Really? Epic? Shaddup, it's my story and I'll call it epic if I wish!) Yes, I occasionally argue with myself. The Doc says not to worry, I'm essentially otherwise harmless.

My how one tends to drift in one's dotage.

Yes, back to the story.

The first week of Basic Training was something of a blur. We were in civilian clothes the first few days and we were referred to as a "Rainbow Flight". Due to the multi-colored civilian attire. Looked even worse once we got our first haircut. Well, actually once we had our heads shaved. Rainbow Flights were much looked down upon by those salty veterans who'd already been in Basic more than a week.

Finally we were issued our uniforms. And unlike all of those Hollywood movies, the guys issuing the uniforms actually tried to issue stuff that fit. More or less.

So the days were now a blur of PT, class room training and marching. Lots of marching. Fortunately I enjoy marching and am not too bad at it. There were many for whom marching was the most daunting experience of those early days. Until we were issued those aforementioned uniforms.

Now when I left for the Air Force I had a small gym bag (the old fashioned blue canvas type, not your fancy-dan modern gym bag) which contained two changes of underwear, shaving kit, toothpaste and toothbrush. I went to an Army-Navy Surplus store a few weeks prior to my departure to purchase some simple, yet rugged clothing for those first days in Basic. What I had was a pair of combat boots, some Navy jeans and the old Navy-style chambray shirt.

The clothing was simple, robust and designed for military use. That was my master plan and it worked out rather well. I was nowhere near as colorful as some of my flight mates during our Rainbow days. A couple of guys actually were wearing what we termed "hippie clothes" back in 1975. The training sergeants rode them most unmercifully. In effect, my intent was to camouflage myself and try not to gain the attention of the training instructors.

At some point in time during those early days, our TI assigned four of us as squad leaders and one guy was assigned to be the "Dorm Chief". (I know, I know but the Air Force liked to call the big buildings we lived in "dormitories", we always called it "the barracks".)

The process for determining who got to be one of these recruit leaders was one of the great mysteries of Basic Training. Primarily because of "McK". He was the individual who was initially assigned to be the leader of the 1st Squad, that is, my squad.

Shortly after being assigned the position, McK decided to begin acting like a raving lunatic. He actually came out of the sergeant's office and made a speech to us. You know the standard, "Men this is going to be a tough time, but if we all work together", blah, blah, blah. Kid had obviously seen too many war movies growing up.

But what really blew things up is that the kid would go through people's lockers and intentionally mess things up. And one day, my buddy Cookie, who had a great deal of trouble squaring away his locker and whom I gave a few tips to, (which helped a lot, so he said) came running to get me and said, "McK inspected your locker and found lots of stuff wrong."

Now I'm not perfect. I once had to hang my head in shame when our First Sergeant inspected the barracks and found my duffel bag improperly folded. All he did was shake his head and say, "I expected more from you Airman." And walked away.

One thing you've got to know, is that in the mid-'70s, AF Basic Training was essentially learning how to do things "the Air Force" way. As it was not practical to give us actual equipment to work on, our lockers and their contents became the end-all be-all of our Basic Training experience. Particularly our underwear. It had to be folded just so and placed just so. Any deviations and you were rewarded with unshirted hell.

So, there I was, headed to my locker to confront the Great Screwball, Airman McK. He was standing in front of my locker with his pimply-faced George Patton glare, asking me, "Can you explain this?"

Seems my overcoat was unbuttoned. Not just one button loose, that would have been clever. But ALL of the buttons were undone. McK had out-witted himself. Did I mention that he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He was definitely a couple nuggets short of a Happy Meal.

Seems at this point I went off on McK. Not physically, but I began to bellow at him in my very best command voice (something I'm inordinately proud of, but that's for a later installment). At this point, one of the other guys ran to get the sergeant because I think they thought I was going to physically dismantle McK.

The sergeant heard this, "Sir, sir come quick, I think the Sarge is going to kill McK!"

The training instructor, thinking that perhaps the guy was talking about the other member of our instructor team, ran ahead to see what the heck was going on. To find me in McK's face bellowing like a gored rhino. And about in the same mood. Once the TI had separated us, he turned to the guy who fetched him and said, "Who the hell is the Sarge? What sergeant are you talking about?"

Now, most of the flight pointed at me. The TI went (pardon the expression) ape-shit at this point. Now I was getting yelled at. "Why the hell do they call you Sarge? You're not a damned sergeant, you're just a little piss-ant airman!" All I could say is that he'd have to ask the other guys. They called me Sarge, 'twas not a name I gave myself.

Long story short. The guy who kept me from killing McK was our junior training instructor. He hauled me and the Dorm Chief into the senior instructor's office. (Note: whenever something goes wrong when the instructors aren't around, the Dorm Chief is responsible. Not a much sought after job.)

Well, both instructors were livid, there was much screaming and hollering and usage of less than genteel language. The Dorm Chief and I stood there silently, absorbing the abuse. Exactly as we'd been trained to do. Eventually the Dorm Chief had to explain why everyone (except McK of course) called me Sarge. I nearly burst out laughing when his answer was "Well, he acts like a Sarge. He knows his stuff and helps the rest of the flight learn how to do things."

The junior instructor at this point bellowed at me to "stop bouncing around". Seems I was bursting with the need to inform our instructors of something. The senior man then looked at me and said, "So Airman. What  do you have to say for yourself?" It seemed that my Air Force career was to die a flaming death at that very moment. My only thought was, "What the hell. If I'm screwed I may as well go out in a blaze of glory."

So I related the story of Screwloose McK. Indicated that most of the flight assumed that he was a raving lunatic planted in our flight for some sort of training objective. Said that he was a detriment to the flight's morale and ability to function as a team. Etc, etc.

Waiting for the boom to be lowered I ceased to speak.

The senior man just looked at me, the junior guy said, "So what the hell are we supposed to do?"

All I said was, "Fire McK. Get rid of him."

At this point the senior guy indicated that the solution was perhaps not that simple. Turns out it was.

A few moments later McK was led out of the squad bay and taken down to the administrative offices of the squadron by the senior instructor. McK was transferred to our "sister" flight (the guys across the hall from us). He did not do well there. I think there were members of our sister flight who actually wanted to kill him. Not sure whatever happened to McK. Rumor had it that he was tossed out of the AF. Probably with a psych-discharge. Guy was crazier than a bedbug.

After McK's abrupt departure, the junior instructor bellowed at me to get "my nasty ass into the office". I turned to my flight mates and bid them farewell, figuring I would be getting the old heave-ho. (And wondering if I could get my old job back!)

As I closed the door to the instructor's office I was almost immediately scrambling to catch the squad leader badge that the instructor threw at me. With the words, "Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up. Understood?"

I was a bit speechless as was the instructor a few moments later when I returned to the squad bay. When my flight mates saw the squad leader badge, they all burst into cheers. It was a fine moment for yours truly.

A few weeks later I graduated Basic Training as the Flight's Honor Graduate (#1 in the Flight) and went on to Air Force Technical Training at Lowry AFB, Colorado.

Needless to say. I had not fucked it up.

Ma Vie Militaire (Part II)

So I had enlisted in the Air Force, on the delayed entry plan. That was in January of '75. Now it was April of '75 and the time was rapidly approaching when I would have to depart for basic training at Lackland AFB, Texas. I was scheduled to report on the 13th of May.

Now as my reporting date approached I had a decision to make. Should I work at my current job up to the last minute, or should I take some time off to, shall we say, enjoy my last few days of freedom? Before entering the "big blue machine". I decided to take some time off. It's worth noting at this point that I was once again living at home with my parents.

Shortly after I had enlisted, delayed entry, my parents had suggested that I move back into the ancestral home in order to save some money. After much thought (approximately 2 minutes) I said, "Sure, why not?"

Now my Dad and I partitioned a spot in the basement of the manor to provide lodgings for myself. A bit of drywall, some paint and baseboards and voilà, I had my own pad. In the basement. Of my parents' house. How very "failure to launch".

Before I had set off on my own after my departure from a single year of college, I did have my own room. My two younger brothers shared a room. So at this point in time, both of the kid brothers had their own room. No sharing of sleeping facilities. Both brothers had panicked somewhat upon hearing that the heir was moving back onto the ancestral estate. Hence my Dad's idea to do that whole partitioning of the basement thing.

In a way it was very nice. I had my own room, apart from the rest of the clan. On the other hand, it was winter. In Vermont. One part of the scheme which had not been considered in the partitioning was heat. Or the lack thereof. In Vermont. In winter.

Dad's solution? He bought a portable electric heater. Egads what trouble we would be in now-a-days with all the bureaucratic nanny-types prevalent in modern society. Back then? Be careful. Don't put the heater next to anything flammable. And for Heaven's sake don't knock the bloody thing over. You know, apply common sense.

But back to the decision to take some time off prior to heading off to basic. I went and told my boss that I wished to depart the company approximately one month prior to going into the Air Force. First, as he was a veteran, he thought it was awesome that I was going into the service, second, he didn't want me to quit. I was rather surprised. After all, it's not as if I was the most valuable worker in my department. Biggest pain-in-the-ass? Yes. Most valuable? No.

Before I could protest, he said, "Don't quit. We'll lay you off. That way you can collect unemployment." Hhmm, thinks I, not have to work for a month and have a little spending money. So upon that note the company and I parted ways. Me to collect unemployment and party as much as possible for four weeks. The company to eventually go the way of many manufacturing concerns in the United States. To eventual closure. (Yes, why build things in this country when we can have them built cheaper and with lower quality somewhere else? I felt at the time that this was not a very smart thing to do. Subsequent events have proved me right.)

But the lazy days of late April and early May of '75 eventually ran out and I was off to see the world.

The first step in the trip was being transported to Manchester, NH the night before I was to travel to Lackland. Parents dropped me off at a hotel with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, though no rending of garments. Those cost money to replace. We always were a parsimonious bunch. Probably all that Scots blood in our background.

The next day a bus took me to the Armed Forces processing center, not sure what it was officially called back then. I do know that the places are called by a different name now. Didn't care what it was called back then, don't care now. Probably some boring name in bureaucratese which makes a silly acronym. We shall speak much of acronyms in this series. All I'll say now is that there are acronyms I like, there are those I don't. The latter generally out-number the former.

Eventually I was all processed and prepared for the flight to Texas. Myself and five other New Englanders. For some reason, a rather stern sergeant handed me all of the paperwork for the six of us and announced that it was my mission to ensure that these six packets of official paperwork, sealed in manila envelopes, arrived, seals-unbroken and intact, at Lackland AFB. There to be turned over to the duly constituted authorities. "How will I know who those authorities are?" I queried. "Trust me, you'll know." saith the sergeant of many stripes and no doubt very long service.

And off we went. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Well, not yet, but we would be fairly soon. (And no Shakespeare fans, it was not St Crispin's Day.)

Due to rather heavy storms in the vicinity of San Antonio, our flight was diverted to Houston. There to wait until the atmospheric disturbances had moved on. And there we lost two of our little band. Apparently they had decided to break away from the main body and go exploring on their own. And, of course, they missed the flight. Not an auspicious start to one's military career, I remember thinking at the time.

Later I learned that those two were true knuckleheads. They proved it again and again in basic training. I don't recall either actually graduating with the rest of our basic training flight. I still wonder if they ever made it out of basic training. Perhaps they are still there, two aging n'er-do-wells in ancient fatigue uniforms, with no stripes on their tattered sleeves, doomed to march about the base doing PT in the mornings and attending boring classes the rest of the day. Perhaps the Air Force isn't even aware of their existence? (Nah, they either graduated with a later flight or they got booted out. Not really important to the story. But they were knuckleheads of the highest order.)

Eventually we landed in San Antonio, literally in the middle of the night. There to be transported by a US Air Force bus to our basic training squadron. Now these buses, Back In The Day (BITD), were nothing more than your traditional school bus painted in "Air Force Blue". Which is a rather nice dark blue, not dark blue like "Navy Blue" (which to the untrained eye looks black) but an actual blue. And BITD, a bus of this type was uniformly referred to as a "blue goose". I have no idea why. They bear no resemblance what-so-ever to an aquatic water fowl. Perhaps one of my more enlightened readers can provide the provenance of the term "blue goose". (Note the introduction of the acronym for "back in the day". Spelled out upon first time usage with the acronym for the term in parentheses following its introduction. This is the correct military way to introduce an acronym. Just to whet your appetite for the acronyms to come.)

Upon arrival at the 3708 Basic Military Training Squadron (BMTS) we were greeted quite pleasantly by "the cadre". These are the chaps who are assigned to Lackland full-time and whose job in life is to take civilians and convert them to useful members of society, i.e. members of the Armed Forces. (By the way, I have always got a kick out of the term "Armed Forces". Does the USA maintain any "Unarmed Forces"? Food for thought.)

When I say "pleasantly" it's because I don't recall hearing the cadre use that fabled Anglo-Saxon epithet which begins with the letter "F". And rhymes with "truck". Though there was much screaming, bellowing and commenting on the ancestry and upbringing of us new recruits. I don't recall if there were yellow footprints painted on the cement for us to place our feet in but there may have been.

Or perhaps I have seen too many Marine Corps movies since that day which involved arrival at either the Parris Island or San Diego Marines Corps Recruit Depots (MCRD). (Tangent Alert: MCRD is pronounced M-Crud. Really good acronyms are readily pronounceable. A bad acronym is one which can neither be readily pronounced or which can be readily mis-pronounced, usually by a civilian. End Tangent)

Now, as you may recall, the Old AF Sarge was carrying all of that paperwork. (Back then I was neither "old" nor a "sarge", and as I had not yet completed basic training I was technically not in the Air Force. So BITD I probably would have blogged as "Young Civilian Civilian", if that makes any sense. But of course, back then, Al Gore had not yet "invented" the internet.)

Upon being allowed into the building for processing, having spent some long moments being yelled at and forced to stand in something of a line (all four of us, yes we were still only four in number) it was time for yours truly to hand over his paperwork burden to the duly constituted authorities and complete my first official mission for the US Government.

The individual seated behind the counter indicated that the "stupid, sloppy civilian idiot with the paperwork" step forward and present it (in a proper military manner) to him. That being me, I stepped up to the counter and rendered the paperwork to His Lordship. In a most correct military manner, I might add. Having had a year of ROTC, I was no stranger to that kind of thing.

Apparently my demeanor and bearing passed muster because I didn't get screamed at. At least until His Highness noted that there were six manila folders in his hands and only four bodies standing before him.

"Idiot! I have six folders and I see four idiots standing here! Where in Hell are the other two bodies?"

"They didn't make it." I replied honestly and succinctly.

"Didn't make it! What the Hell d'you mean they didn't make it?"

"The other two guys wandered off in Houston. I told them to stay with the group. They decided not to. So they missed the flight."

"You idiot! Didn't they tell you at the processing station that you were responsible for getting the paperwork and ALL of the bodies here?" The gentleman was, you may imagine, apoplectic at this point. I was sure the poor man was about to have a stroke.

"Sir," I said in my most humble, yet military, voice, "the sergeant at the processing station told me to bring all of this paperwork here. Nobody said anything about accounting for all six bodies. You have the paperwork. I'm sure that those two morons will show up eventually."

I was quite sure that this lofty individual was going to come down on me with great wrath at this point. But one of the cadre "rescued" me at this point by saying, "Dumb-ass. Go sit down with the other dumb-asses." Then proceeded to quietly read the riot act to the guy behind the counter. Turns out that this individual was not a sergeant, had nothing to do with recruit training and was simply a clerk-type whose job was to process the paperwork.

This was my first real learning experience in the Air Force. There are those who have rightful authority over you and there are those who will attempt to assert some form of authority over you. The former you must obey to the letter, the latter you can quite safely ignore. This lesson served me well throughout my career.

So four of the six had arrived. (The other two did arrive about four hours later, they experienced much ass-chewing and questioning of character and intelligence.) What was our first task as basic trainees? We were to stand at the foot of our bunks and memorize these little booklets we had been issued. And god-help-you-don't-even-think-about-talking-or-sitting-or-lying-on-my-racks. So our Training Instructor (TI) informed us.

Now as I recall, the Army and the Marine Corps have the "DI", the Drill Instructor. These individuals are much celebrated in military lore. The Air Force, on the other hand, has the "TI", or Training Instructor. I was sore disappointed. I don't get a "DI", I get a "TI". Both wear the Smokey Bear hat, but there is a wide gulf between the two. A very wide gulf. Probably why the Army and the Marines don't really consider the Air Force as being part of the military. I have many examples to prove that theory correct.

Now during my time in service, I always tried to carry myself as a warrior should, one of those whose mission in life is to "blow things up and kill people". (Not just any people mind you, only those people whom the US Government has directed to be killed.) Those who worked for me understood this. There was no wimpy behavior in my outfit!

But yeah, I understand what the soldiers and Marines are talking about. It's all those damn golf courses! The whole nine-to-five attitude which hovers about my service. But I will say this for those on the pointy end of the Air Force spear, that is, those who fly the bombers and fighters and those who maintain them, we knew we were warriors of a sort. We knew that the pretty camouflaged aircraft were meant to go out and "blow things up and kill people". It's all those personnel types and non-flyers that give the Air Force a bad name within the Armed Forces of the United States. But enough of that.

So there I was, standing at Parade Rest at the foot of my rack, reading my little booklet (which contained much information needed to begin my transition into the Air Force). After about thirty minutes, and quite comfortable that I had had enough of the little booklet and of standing at the foot of my rack. I carefully looked around. It was just the four of us. The TI had left to await the arrival of the remainder of our flight (36 more were due in at any moment). No one was watching us and I was dead tired. It was round about 3:00 in the morning at that point. So I sat down in the chair next to my locker. The other three guys looked at me as if I'd just committed some horrible crime. I gestured at them to remain silent and to look around. Do you see anyone watching?

The other guys did look around. No one was watching. So they too sat down.

Now much later in my career, the Senior Enlisted Advisor of the United States Air Forces in Europe (USAFE) had a little saying he liked to share with us on the Armed Forces Network (AFN - our own little English-language TV and radio station). Seems that, to him, integrity was "doing the right thing, even when no one is looking". Now I definitely agree with that concept. Seems like I violated that early on in my career, doesn't it? But, as I said, we were all exhausted and not quite ready to begin playing the Air Force game. I think bringing us in in the middle of the night was done intentionally to put us at a psychological disadvantage. That might work with 17 and 18 year olds. I was 22, didn't work with me. Probably why the military likes their recruits young and impressionable. Makes those recruits easier to train, fewer bad habits to break them of. But I digress.

Eventually the remainder of the herd arrived in the barracks. Names were shouted and answered to, bunks were assigned and we were allowed to lie down and get some sleep. I do believe said sleep lasted about one hour before the TIs (there were two) slammed the door open and began bellowing "get your asses out of those racks you lazy bastards!" This was before the days of political correctness. I long for those days.

So we were all present and accounted for. Our training was about to commence. We were excited and intimidated all at once. What would happen next?

We shall see that shortly.

In Part III of "Ma Vie Militaire".