Is The Dream Over?

A dream died here...
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Family legend has it that one of ours died at Culloden, fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Or perhaps he marched with Johnny Cope? Legends aren't always that clear. But the dream of the Stuarts died on that field. Perhaps better for Scotland in the long run, perhaps not.

Dreams often die in blood.

Current events have me holding my breath. What's happening in the streets of some of our cities is nothing more than insurrection, sedition, and treason. I didn't care for the last occupant of the White House, I'm not a big fan of the current one. I am heartily sick of having to choose between the lesser of two evils.

Unless things change and change quickly, I fear that there will be blood.

Will there be nothing here but war?

Sorry, but it's depressed about the whole mess I am. Perhaps I'll go have a wee dram and think happy thoughts.

But I'll keep my musket handy.

Off We Go...

F-4D Phantom  66-8709 of the 80th* Tactical Fighter Squadron (USAF Photo)

There are days when I look at today's Air Force and tell myself that if I were to do things over again, in this day and age, I'd probably join the Navy. Then again, I'm not sure. I know at least one guy in the Air Force who went to high school with The Nuke and The WSO. Good kid, he likes what he's doing, then again, the guy always had a fighter pilot's mentality, even as a kid. So there's that.

Though I read John Q. Public whenever he's got something new, some of what he writes about is hard to believe. This story I found particularly concerning. While I had knew of a couple of very senior generals who really abused their power back in the day, it didn't seem as endemic as it does now.

One of the things we used to joke about was it seemed we'd get a new set of uniforms every time the Air Force got a new Chief of Staff. Some of them really sucked in my estimation. (We Are The Mighty has a good take on that. Kinda funny, kinda not. I still want to heave every time I hear Tony McPeak's name!)

Some of the bad stuff I hear always seems to emanate from the good old Continental U. S. of A. Overseas we seldom had time for the sort of crap which seems to occupy the shoe clerks who tend to camp out in the U.S. and avoid overseas tours like the plague. Well, at least they did in my day. Probably still do.

Two of the best assignments I ever had were both in PACAF, Pacific Air Forces, Japan and Korea. PACAF being headquartered at Hickam AFB in Hawaii, a place Juvat is very familiar with, as he was with Kadena and Korea. Those guys in PACAF, for the most part, took care of their people.

When I first got to Kadena, in Japan, on the island of Okinawa, I didn't really care for it all that much. Most of our senior sergeants thought we were still in Vietnam. So we were on 12-hour shifts. While they did seem to realize that it was actually peace time so we had two days off every week, much of what we did could have been accomplished on eight-hour shifts. But "that's not the way we did it during the war" was their hue and cry. They didn't appreciate this young airman (moi)  telling them "dude, the war's over, chill."

Eventually all the old Vietnam and Thailand guys rotated back to the States. Mind you, most of the younger sergeants were awesome (yeah, Russ, I'm looking at you) and I learned a lot from them. After my first chief departed for the "Big BX" (which is what we called the US of A, BX = Base Exchange, think military department store) we got a new chief, a guy I will never forget, Chief Colona. (Though the correct spelling of his last name escapes me, be in reality I always just called him Chief.)

Guy was amazing. Though I knew a number of E-9s when I was active duty, Chief Colona was the first one I worked for and probably the only one I ever respected. (Now there were guys I worked with who went on to make chief and might have been good ones, two spring to mind right off the top of my head who were probably outstanding chiefs.)

One thing I need to mention. The rank of Chief Master Sergeant in the Air Force is in the pay-grade of E-9. Referring to someone as an "E-9" is most definitely not a mark of respect. Referring to someone as "Chief" is. Just thought I'd mention that.

Now you might imagine that I may have been something of a "handful" as an airman. I never been good with dealing with BS, nor have I ever been reticent in throwing the "BS flag" when I thought it was called for. Now on Okinawa I was an unhappy camper at first. I had had an assignment to Thailand (Udorn RTAFB to be specific) and had taken some getting used to the fact that I wasn't going to Europe. Which is what I wanted. One of the sergeant's at my training squadron took me aside and convinced me that I would absolutely love Thailand. (Yes, I would have, knowing what I know now.)

But Udorn was going to be closed and Big Air Force knew it, why assign people there only to have to re-route them elsewhere. Well, short story is that's what bureaucracies do, and outside of the flying bits of the Air Force, there is a crap ton of bureaucracy. So my orders to Udorn were cancelled and because I had orders to Udorn, I was going to go to Okinawa, where the guys who hadn't finished their tours in Thailand were being sent.

Long story short, I was a pain in the butt until Chief Colona and I had a "come to Jesus meeting." He showed me the errors of my ways and I became a pretty decent troop after that. But I see that I have digressed with this bit about the Chief and Okinawa.

Main point I was trying to stress is that being in PACAF was heaven, being Stateside sucked (so I was told) and mother Air Force kept trying to suck me back to the States. I wanted to go to Korea. (For many reasons, okay, one reason.) So I kept extending my tour at Kadena, six months at a time. The Chief asked me when I would stop extending, I told him that when Big Air Force gave me an assignment to Korea or when I retired, whichever came first. (I should note that Chief served a LONG time on Okinawa, I want to say 20+ years.)

Chief understood and hooked me up with a guy he knew from PACAF HQ. No sweat the guy from HQ said, when do you want to go? How about right freaking now and how did you do that? Randolph AFB (where Air Force assignments was home based) couldn't do squat for me and told me constantly, "there are no slots available". As the guy from HQ told me, "You belong to PACAF, as long as we want to keep you, you can stay. Big Air Force has no say past the coast line of California. Because...

Or something like that.

Now I spent six years and four months in PACAF. Loved it most of the time. We were there to fly and to fight. (Well, I was there to maintain the jets. Guys like Juvat and Tuna actually flew them. Wasn't much fighting at the time either, but with North Korea only a short flight away, we had to be ready.)

Eventually all good things must end, but whereas most of my compatriots were sent to Florida to work in the hot sun repairing our dwindling numbers of Phantoms of the "C" and "D" model variety, I received the Stateside dream assignment for my career field. Denver, as in Colorado, as in no jets, we maintained the weapon control system trainers used by the trainees and instructors. As a training base we were last in line for spare parts. So we had a lot of spare time.

Now for a Stateside base Lowry (which used to be the base there in Denver) wasn't all that bad. It's where I went through training and, much unlike other training bases, they didn't feel the need to treat the young airmen going through the schools there like subhuman slime. Like some other bases, yes Keesler and Shepperd, I'm looking at you. Now I have never been to Shepperd (near Wichita Falls, Texas), but guys who went through training there didn't care for it, not at all. I have been to Keesler, in Biloxi, Mississippi but that was as a Staff Sergeant. In the mornings we would watch the new airmen being herded marched to school where we sergeants were lounging about at our ease (as sergeants often do when there is nothing better to do). Talking to a couple of those airmen, who were in the same school as I, they mentioned that it wasn't much better than basic training.

Okay, so it was the Air Force so it couldn't have been that bad, neh? I mean what's the worse that could happen, having to eat lobster twice a week? Having one's tee time moved? (I kid, I only had lobster once in the Air Force on Uncle Sam's dime, it was during basic training. Rough I tell you, really rough.)

I did have another overseas assignment, in Germany, as I may have mentioned 26 or 27 times over the years. But it wasn't in USAFE (US Air Forces in Europe), no I had the privilege and honor of being a NATO asset. No USAFE games for this troop. No sir. I had heard that USAFE was just like being in the States, only the natives spoke German, rather than English.

Another great thing is that where I was stationed in NATO had been in the British Zone of Occupation after the war. Most of the US presence in Germany was down south around Kaiserslautern, which invariably was Americanized to "K-Town." Very Americanized it was down there. My base, outside Geilenkirchen, was much more rural. While the party life for a young airman was very lacking, we had very few young airmen there. The assignment was intended for the more mature types. I loved it. Of course, it also helped that I spoke a bit of German and got along famously with the Germans.

That was a great assignment, did seven years and five months there. When the Air Force asked me to stay another couple of years (as a Master Sergeant I had to get out at 24 years, which, like most things in the Air Force could be waived) I asked if I could stay in Germany. They said no, I said stuff it, I'm retiring. Which I'm really glad I did. I retired when housing was cheap and jobs were somewhat plentiful. Not so much the case later on.

For the most part I had a great time in the Air Force, I just wonder if it's just getting really bad press lately (the last Air Force Chief of Staff was a complete ass, even worse than McPeak in my estimation). One reason I chose the Air Force over the other services was the caliber of the people and the stability. (Air Force bases, unlike aircraft carriers, tend to stay in one place.) I knew I did not have what it took to be a Marine (I'm too damned lazy) and the Army jerked me around at a time I really wanted to enlist. So if they couldn't play fair with me when I wanted to join, I could only imagine what it would have been like once I was wearing the green. So to speak.

But to do it all over again in today's Air Force? I don't know. This picture kind of summarizes my feelings about the modern Air Force. Some cool stuff, but some WTF stuff as well...

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So the photo was taken back in 2009. At an "undisclosed location" in Southwest Asia (which I read as somewhere in the Middle East) and was meant to showcase the various uniforms worn by airmen over the years. At first I thought it was pretty cool, then I noticed the footwear. Really? You can find all those vintage uniforms but in only one case can you find the right footwear (the young lady third from the left, front row). As to the rest of you, okay the combat boots I'll let go, but running shoes and, dear Lord no, just no, Crocs??!! Of which I see at least two pair.

That sums up the modern Air Force to me, lack of attention to detail and wasting time and resources (in a freaking war zone no less) "showcasing uniforms." This, mind you, is the same bunch who wants to retire the A-10 Warthog. Damn.

Child please... (US Air Force Phot0)

Damn, I'd almost join the Navy if I had to pick one today, absolutely, maybe.

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After all, the old girl looks pretty good in gray.

(What? They don't fly the Phantom anymore?!?!?!)

But in reality, what would Buck say at these semi-anti-Air Force mutterings? No doubt he's somewhere shaking his head saying "this just won't do..."

So, if I had to do it right now? Well, like the song says...

Yup, off we'd go into the wild blue yonder once again.

Damn, but I do get teary eyed when I hear that song.

Aim high my brothers and sisters in Air Force blue, fix the stuff that's broken and drive on.

I'm with you in spirit.

So is Buck.





* The original photo had this IDed as a 35th TFS bird. As Juvat so correctly pointed out, the 35th didn't have a yellow fin flash, their's was blue. So this is an 80th TFS jet, in other words, this jet belonged to the Juvats! (And Juvat would know, where d'ya think he got his nom de blog?

Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions!*

Herbst im Teutoburger Wald** (Source)

In October, Germany is a cold, wet place. The incessant rain drips from the trees, the ground is sodden, where it is trod upon it quickly turns into a glutinous mess.

In October of 9 A.D., in that cold, wet place, three Roman legions were moving to their winter quarters. The Germans were restless, they yearned to throw off the Roman yoke. Rumors abounded of rebellion.

Deep in the Teutoburg Forest, Publius Quinctilius Varus, general of Rome, led his troops forward. Three legions (Legio XVII, Legio XVIII, and Legio XIX), six cohorts of auxiliary troops, and three squadrons of cavalry trudged through the rain, some 20,000 troops, heads down, tired. Their column was interspersed with upwards of 10,000 camp followers and as the march continued, the column stretched out further and further.

Suddenly, a large thunderstorm broke over their heads, heavy rains, flashes of lightning, the booming of thunder increased the misery of the troops. Then, out of the forest, spears began to fly out and strike the column.

Only to be followed by screaming Germanic tribesmen with but one thing on their minds - kill the Romans. Drive them back over the Rhine.

When it was over, after two, some say three, days of fighting, some 25,000 Roman troops, auxiliaries, and civilians lay dead upon the forest floor. Germanic casualties were light. Though the rebellion was eventually crushed, Rome fell back across the Rhine, leaving the dark forests of Germania forever.

The utter destruction of three legions haunted Augustus Caesar for the rest of his days. At times he would remember and, according to Suetonius, would cry out "Quintili Vare, legiones redde!" - Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions!

The Germans remember to this day the man the Romans called Arminius, but to the Germans, he is Hermann - victor over the Romans.

And yes, that is Walter Cronkite narrating the video. He calls the Germanic tribesmen barbarians, is it barbaric to defend one's homeland against a ruthless invader?

I think not...

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* For more information, see here and here.
** Autumn in the Teutoburg Forest.

History and the Destruction Thereof

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So there is this. My buddy Murph, who is down there in the Big Easy had this to say about that. If you haven't chased those links yet, well let me summarize the issue: some folks don't like statues of Confederate States leaders. Hell, they probably don't like statues of United States leaders either, but I have no immediate proof of that. Anyhoo, that's not what I'm angry about at the moment.

First off,  I'll tell you that I am no son of the South, I am a Yankee from Vermont, born and bred, but this tearing down of statues bothers me no end. I have a deep respect for the men who fought for the Confederacy. As did my ancestors who actually fought them in the field!

In this I see the hand of those self-same leftists and fellow travelers who want to tear this Nation down. I don't think they realize the end game of that particular course of action. Revolutions often eat their young. Ask this fellow -

Portrait of Maximilien de Robespierre - Artist unknown

Or perhaps this guy -

Leon Trotsky

Do you think that the money men (and they are overwhelmingly men) give a rat's ass about this bunch?

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Nope. They are simply pawns to be discarded when the moment is right. They'll go the way of Robespierre and Trotsky.

Where does it end?

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Sure, let's tear down the statues of Lee, Beauregard, Jackson, and Hampton. Let's go after all those Southerners. Wait, what?

How about George Washington and Thomas Jefferson? Both Southerners, both slave owners. Do you think I'm kidding. Check this out.

I say this to all you history denying bastards:

...He that is without sin among you,

let him first cast a stone... John 8:7 KJV

I'm against this inane removal of historical monuments. I could point to the Taliban and ISIS destroying historical monuments, is there a parallel to what the left is doing in this country?

You betcha.

What say you?

Alrighty Then...

Rather a whirlwind of a weekend. Up to western New Hampshire to celebrate Mother's Day with Madame Mère, met up with both brothers and had a fine time. That beverage in the opening photo was quaffed along with its twin. The meal was topped off with a scoop of gelato (if I closed my eyes I imagined myself in Italy - the gelato was that good) and a cup of joe which had been enhanced with Bailey's Irish Cream and Kahlua. A fine meal, though a bit pricey. If you've got the swag and are in Walpole, eat here. The food was superb and the service was excellent.

Madame Mère didn't really care for it as the prices rather shocked her, four people, price tag north of 200 American Yankee dollars. There was a rather large tip as our waitress (I know, I know, if you expect PC here, you're in the wrong place) was efficient, attentive, and attractive. Yes, I am a sucker for a pretty face, especially when she's that good at her job. (My brothers are as well.)

My other dining experience that same day was far less pleasant.

A many of you know, I am a huge fan of Dunkin Donuts. Yuge. Now it was around the lunch hour on Saturday and Mom and I were off to the big city to purchase cat food. (Long story there, I shan't bore you with it.) On our return I was feeling a bit peckish. So I suggested we stop at Dunkin Donuts, so we did. The one pictured above.

Once inside I asked for a sandwich on a wheat bagel and was told that they only carried four types of bagels, for to speed up the ordering process for the customers, so claimed the young lass behind the counter. While I was quite ready to  throw the BS flag, after all, why not just one type of sandwich, remove all choice you socialist bastards, I was a stranger in this strange land so I played nice.

When our sandwiches arrived and we sat down to partake of them, I immediately noticed that our sandwiches had been liberally (pun intended) coated with rather a lot of oil, or grease (I didn't do a chemical analysis). Also that my bagel had rather a lot of sesame seeds attached, embedded, and encrusted upon what was supposed to be a plain bagel. Sesame seeds are to me what kryptonite is to Superman. Might not kill me but will cause intense pain in the digestive tract.

Heading back to the counter, I restrained myself from bellowing "What the fire truck are sesame seeds doing on my plain bagel?!?!?!" and dropped the "fire truck" portion and any number of exclamation points from my interrogation of the young lady behind the counter. I pointed out that sesame seeds and I did not get along (I may have said that they were a deadly poison to me) and "please, ma'am, might I have another?"

It was pointed out to me that I should have warned them that I had an "allergy" and then the lady preparing the food would have "changed her gloves between orders."

It was flabbergasted I was. I thought that that was a fire trucking law or something to change gloves between orders. Now I had an explanation for the extremely oily bagel (handle sausage, rub gloves on bagel), and was quite ready to nuke the entire place from orbit.

Instead I said...

...and drove on. No sense pointing out to the employees that their boss was a cheap sumbitch and was probably in violation of several laws and perhaps Dunkin Donuts has lower standards in the Granite State, but I doubt it.

Now limiting the number of types of bagels one has in stock probably causes fewer of those bagels to be thrown out at closing time (yes, Virginia, they are supposed to throw them out). So Scrooge McDuck is no doubt saving a few bucks on having to throw away food at the end of the day and on gloves. I wonder how many people they've poisoned along the way?

Anyhoo...

Now you may have noticed that I made mention of me being "a stranger in this strange land" and perhaps have found that odd, if you've any knowledge of geography and have remembered my tales of growing up in the Green Mountain State.

My parents both hail(ed) from New Hampshire, just across the river from Vermont, where I was born and raised. So I grew up in the area to which I occasionally venture north to visit. But it has changed a great deal since the days of my youth. What once was a thriving town with four-plus factories churning out equipment and machines for the machine-tool industry is now a rustic backwater populated by a few hardy souls and a great number of ne'er-do-wells and druggies visiting those incarcerated at the local correctional facility.

Said correctional facility (which I prefer to call "prison") was not there when I joined the United States Air Force some 42 years ago. (Which would have coincided with my original planned graduation date from college, which did not occur until some years later and through simple math and a careful reading of Juvat's Monday post might lead you to believe that Juvat is, indeed, younger than I. Though not by much I'll wager.) In fact, the prison was opened in 2003, four years after I had retired from the Air Force.

"Vote for the prison," they said.

"There will be jobs," they said.

"The streets will be crawling with heroin addicts and petty thieves," they neglected to mention.

So my old home town is now pretty much a wasteland compared to its halcyon days.

Yes, I grew up in those parts but they are now strange and foreign to me. There are still good folk left in that town, my brother and his tribe among them, but I don't know how they stand it. Perhaps you really can't go home again. Especially if they've totally changed the place. Then again, it also depends on what you define as home.

Alrighty then...

42

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On Friday the last, which would have been May the 12th in the year 20 and 17, I was sitting with Madame Mère at the old homestead when it struck me that 42 years before that very day, did she remember that it was then, back in 19 and 75, that she and dad had taken me over to Manchester, in the state of New Hampshire, for to drop me off for the start of my Air Force career?

It was at a hotel they dropped me, where I would spend my last night as a civilian. It wasn't a very nice hotel, but it wasn't a bad hotel either. It was just a hotel in a middling small New England city. In those days many Air Force enlistees from New England were processed through Manchester. It was so long ago I don't recall what they called it (the processing center, not the city), don't know if it still exists, don't really care. It's not a key element of the story.

Now Mom was rather taken aback that it had been 42 years since her oldest child had gone off into the world to make his mark. (My one year of college in upper Vermont doesn't really count, I was at home most weekends.) Now my mom and I both marvel at just how old we've become. Perhaps marvel isn't exactly the right word. "Holy crap, how did I get this freaking old?" would be how I might put it. Mom would no doubt invoke "Jesum Crow" and drop the "freaking."

But I digress. (Of course.)

'Tis odd that Juvat was commissioned into the Air Force 40 years ago at about this time of year. I joined up a couple of years before him but in reality we were near contemporaries throughout our careers and our paths actually crossed once upon a time in the Republic of Korea, when we were both still young and handsome with full heads of hair. Well, Juvat anyway. My hair started falling out when I was 18, I was 27 about the time he and I were in Korea. So Juvat had hair. As to the handsome part? I leave that for you to judge.

At any rate, back there in 19 and 75, we were processed (there were six of us) and put on a plane to Texas. Which is where all Air Force enlisted recruits go, to Lackland AFB to be precise, in the fair city of San Antonio where, as I recall, much Spanish is spoken.

At the start of this adventure I was handed six thick, sealed, manila envelopes and was told that it was my mission to get those envelopes to San Antonio. There to hand them over to the nice fella who would welcome us to Uncle Sam's Aerial Follies.  Seems these envelopes held our "official records" and were essential to national security, mom, and apple pie.

Along the way we had to put down in Houston as the weather in San Antonio was not conducive to landing a commercial airliner in such a way as to reuse it later. Blustery, stormy, lots of lightning (and thunder no doubt) in the area and we'd just have to cool our heels until the weather cleared.

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 (Like you didn't see that coming...)

While in Houston, two of our number decided to go exploring. I suggested, rather abruptly, that that was perhaps not such a great idea. We should stick together, all for one, one for all, dontcha know? But these two knew better (couple of frigging squirrels as I recall) and wandered off. Why yes, they did miss the plane to San Antonio. Where we arrived in the dark of night. After some perfunctory yelling and pointing, the four survivors of our merry band were herded in to be greeted by the aforementioned nice fella who was to welcome us to the Air Force.

"There are six envelopes here, I only see four bodies. Where are the other two?" asked the nice fella.

"They didn't make it." I answered.

"What do you mean, they didn't make it?" the nice fella mentioned in a tone which was perhaps less than nice.

"Didn't make it as in they are not here, they missed the flight in Houston." I answered, somewhat concerned that the nice fella seemed to not understand English all that well.

"Damn it! You will call me Sir and you will answer my questions without the attitude, AIRMAN!" said the not-so-nice-now fella.

Without batting an eye, I said, "Begging the Airman First Class's (A1C) pardon, but you are not a Sir. Also, I was told to deliver the envelopes, not the  bodies. If you count the envelopes you will note that there are six. I was given six, I gave you six. Mission accomplished. Tout est fini!" (No, I didn't actually say the French bit, but that would have been cool, wouldn't it?)

Before the now-apoplectic-not-so-nice fella could reply, the chap who yelled at us to get off the bus and pointed to our current location with much animation told the A1C behind the counter to "shut it" and suggested that I plant my "ass" in the chairs with "the other scum" while they went through the six, yes good job on the envelopes he said, envelopes in the possession A1C Nice Fella.

Now all that occurred 42 years ago from the Saturday before Mother's Day, the 13th instant as it were. Yes, dear ones, Yours Truly entered the United States Air Force on the 13th of May when he was nobbut a callow youth of 22 years. Back in 19 of 75. Oddly enough I remember quite a bit from those days as a brand new airman.

For one thing I showed up wearing a chambray shirt, Navy jeans, and combat boots. ("What are you lost? The Navy is that way." Mentioned one of my sergeants, flinging his arm in a seaward direction.) Why, you might ask? Why not, I might answer? It's pretty much the clothes I was accustomed to wearing at the factory where I worked pre-Air Force so why buy new clothes? After all, my dear Uncle Sam would be giving me spiffy new clothes at some point. Right?

Why yes, yes he did. And surprise, surprise, most of them fit and fit rather well I might add. (Yeah, surprised me too. I was expecting the kind of things you see in movies.) But I see that I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to my first night (day?) in the Air Force.

As I mentioned, it was the middle of the night when we arrived at Lackland. The other 34 chaps were inexplicably delayed and were not expected until around 0300, yes, that's right, three in the AM and the four of us would, no doubt, not mind waiting up for those fellows. Oh yes, and the two knuckleheads lost in Houston. So we were four out of a party of forty.

Our Training Instructor (or T.I. as the Air Force calls 'em) brought us to our barracks, two large squad bays with a rack, a locker, and a chair for each of us. We were handed our little blue books of "required Air Force knowledge" (think which fork to use and what is the proper club when you're 60 yards short of the pin, no, not really) and told to stand at parade rest (which the other three had to be shown, with a year of Army ROTC under my belt, I already knew that) and study those books until you know them by heart. No fooling around, he yelled, as he would know it if we did.

After his departure, I carefully scanned the vicinity and sat down in my chair. The fellow across from me damned near collapsed of heart failure when he saw that. I indicated that they could not see us, but they could hear us. After a while we all sat down and read our little blue books at our leisure.

The T.I. did come up to check on us but as the door was around the corner, we could hear him in plenty of time to resume parade rest and pretend to give a crap, er, I mean study our books.

Eventually the rest of the flight (except the two knuckleheads adrift in Houston) arrived and we were allowed to go to bed, that must have been around 0400. Now round about 0600, with much yelling and bellowing and colorful language, we were awakened for breakfast and given a tour of the local area. Oddly enough they actually expected us to be in step and march in a nice column during this tour. Which didn't happen until we had been there another day or so. I mean this was the Air Force and not the Grenadier Guards dontcha know?

Oh yeah, the Lost Boys from Houston eventually showed up in the afternoon of the first day. Much talk was made as to sending them home as being unfit to wear the uniform, etc., etc. While they did let them stay, they didn't last very long. Both were a few fries short of a Happy Meal and eventually were "set back." That is, they were transferred to another flight not quite as far along in their training as we were. Sort of a Mulligan, a do-over. I lost track of them after that, but I later heard that they were eventually set back to being civilians.

Like I said, squirrels.

But that was 42 years ago and, who knows? I might have forgotten some of the details. But I do remember one of the Lost Boys standing on his head in the barracks, in the middle of the night, and being threatened with great bodily harm by a couple of his flight mates as his antics were, indeed, cutting into our beauty sleep. The fire guard called down to the Charge of Quarters (CQ) who sent someone up to take the head stander away for a psych consult. Like they needed proof the guy was a loon.

Ah well, memories. I have them, no doubt I will share more as I march down memory lane in the days of my youth...

Good times.

The Animals

No, No, not The Animals as in "Eric Burdon and The Animals".  Although, I did get quite a bit of play of one of their hits while stationed at the Pentagon, also known as the "Five Sided Puzzle Palace" or to which I referred as "The Northern Virginia Penitentiary for Wayward Fighter Pilots".  Yes, very shortly after I arrived to serve my sentence tour of duty, this song came on the radio as I inched my way down I-95 to my home in Springfield.  A little over a minute at 600K, about an hour and a half in my Mazda RX-7.  

Where was I?

Oh, yeah!  Inching my way down I-95 listening to the radio.  This song came on and I immediately adopted it as my Pentagon Tour Anthem.

And on July 27th 1998, I did. The career that began 40 years ago this week with this.

Ended with this.

Not my picture, but I couldn't find mine.

Source

And I was finally "Outta that place!"

But every time I hear that song, I think about it.

Nah, the post isn't about Eric Burdon.  

It's a short story about living in the country and how wonderful it is, provided you're ready for it.

So,  There I was.....*

I've gotten off work, been to the grocery store as well as Tractor Supply and picked up food for Mrs Juvat and I as well as horse feed, cat food, kitten food, dog food and Kidney Care Dog food for Canine 3.

My Truck was fairly well loaded, and I drove up to the Barn to drop off the Horse feed. (No, I'm not going to carry 200 Lbs of Horse Feed from our house to the barn, call me picky.)

The Paint's see me comin' and realize I'm bringing dinner.  They're off charging across the pasture like Always Dreaming at the Derby.  

Not wanting to run in to them, I slow down at which time, they pull in front and slow down to a slow walk.  I guess, they were being thoughtful to Grace, our 30 year old Palomino who ONLY moves at a slow walk.

So, we mosey our way across the property to the barn at which point, I dismount and start carrying the feed to the barn under the watchful eyes of the Paint's.

Once the feed is put away, (into sealed bins, we've got a field mouse problem lately), I prep the horse's evening meal.  On tonight's menu will be some feed, with a touch of vitamin and a dash of dewormer.  Delish!

Dinner ready to serve, I enter the stall area of the barn.  

None of the horses are in their stable which is HIGHLY unusual.  They know which side of the bread is buttered,  I mean, they know which stall they're fed in.  

I write it off to some form of Equine stubbornness and proceed to serve dinner.

I've poured the feed into the first horse's trough and turn to my left and see a smiling face staring down at me from the top of the bars separating the two stalls.

Now, from this view, it's hard to determine, what this is other than a really big Snake!

To be frank, the next couple of seconds is a blank, because my next thought occurred about 60' away.  I think I may actually have teleported myself there.  

So, I'm standing there with a heart rate in the high hundreds when I feel a nudge from behind me.  Cabernet, one of the Paints, is nudging me towards the barn with her nose.

Pretty sure, she's thinking, "You're the fighter pilot, go in there and do some of that fighter pilot stuff, juvat"

Now, I don't like snakes.  Not even a little bit.

But, if it is a Rattlesnake, I've got to do something. So, I walk around the barn to the Tack room and open the door you can see in the lower left.

As you can see, this is a very big snake.  but, as I can now see, it is NOT a rattlesnake, but a bull snake.

For more on Bull Snakes, also called Gopher Snakes, formally called Pituophis catenifer, visit our good friend Shaun at Prairie Adventure who wrote a post yesterday on this very subject.  Great minds think alike, I guess

As I said earlier in the posting, we had a problem with field mice in the barn.

Emphasis on the past tense.  Haven't seen a mouse since I saw my friend here.

Hey, juvat! Is it safe to go in the barn now?

*SJC