Come Monday

 Well, Campers, had a pretty different week than usual here at Rancho Juvat.  The Rev was asked if he could officiate a wedding down in Houston.  The Bride and Groom were friends of MBD and he, so he said sure.  The personnel and logistics aspects of the project (AKA Grandkids) required a bit of tweeking. 

So, Mrs J, being the caring person she is, told them that she'd drive over and take care of the grandkids for the rehearsal day, the wedding day and the RTB day.  Unfortunately, since we have 9 animals on the property, I was going to stay and handle their needs.  

It was interesting,  I don't know the last time Mrs J and I have been away from each other for more than a couple of hours.  I gotta admit it was a bit lonely round these parts.  

Spent a lot of time on the computer searching the internet and in so doing learned a thing or two.  Now, I may have told you that I'm a big Jimmy Buffett fan, may he rest in peace.  One of my favorites is also his first hit, Come Monday.  

Did a little research on the background of the song (also known as clicking links on DuckDuckGo).  Seems Mr. Buffett was having a bout with depression.  He hadn't made it big yet but was traveling to various gigs.  His Wife was staying at home.  He had just finished one performance and gone back to his hotel.  According to this article, he was seriously thinking of calling it quits, in the bad way,  But, the lyrics came to him and in the course of the night the song was finished.  And was an overnight hit.  It was released when I finished HS and has been one of my favorites ever since.  Glad things worked out and he changed his mind.  As I said, I like his music.

Unfortunately, he has passed from Merkel Cell Carcinoma, a deadly form of skin cancer.

Damn!

My next most favorite musician is Toby Keith.  I kinda think of him as a Country and Western version of Jimmy Buffett.  His songs are lively and a lot of them are downright funny.

I can't think of one of his songs I don't like, but there is one that is my favorite.

 Unfortunately he also died from Cancer. RIP both of you.

My own personal "Come Monday" with Mrs J in College Station wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped.  Not having any adult supervision within a couple hundred miles seems like it would be a thrill.  Not so much.  

Played quite a few games of "Bloons TD6" on my new iPad. Surfed virtually all the links on Sarge's site (Well those who have posted in the last month or so anyhow).  Had a Steak and Baked Potato dinner the first night, and a Pork Chop and potato salad the next night.  Tried to finish up the Book Box Christmas Gifts, but couldn't get the rubber edge trim to look right.  

 

That's one of Mrs J's talents, so I waited until she got back.  

My big requirement was caring for the animals.  The two horses, Cabernet and Merlot are my usual routine so no big deal, hay and grain morning and evening.  The two cats, Schmedley and MouseKa are also no big deal,  Kibble in the bowl and water in the gravity waterer.  

The five dogs however...

As mentioned here, 80% of them are generally calm, quiet and well behaved.  Gryndll, however, seems to be changing the rules and attempting to seize power over, initially, the other dogs.  But I can see it in his eyes.  He wants to rule Rancho Juvat and all it's occupants.

First indication of this is any food in sight is his, at least, in his mind.  The cat's food is safe for now as they're behind closed doors in the master suite.  The horse's are also safe being in the barn/paddock.  The other dog's food as well as the human food however...

We've achieved a temporary victory in the battle of the dog food.  Each of the dogs is put into a separate room with the door closed.  Other than scratch marks on the doors (Beans, on the inside, they want out, on the outside, Gryndyll want's in) this seems to be working. So we'll see how this ends.

The human food is another issue.  As mentioned elsewhere, I am the cook.  I like to try new dishes and I enjoy the cooking process.  Mrs J seems to like the results so...so be it.  However, I am notorious for turning my back on a plate of something as I'm doing  a different preparation.

Yep, the first clue that I screwed up is a munching sound behind me.  Son of a Bitch! (Literally, so not cussing.)

Just got to have more situational awareness of the location of the canine foe in the battle space.  Probably need to invite Sarge down here to install some Radar and RHAW gear.

Or something.

Finally, we've been putting the GP's outside at night.  Gryndlyll barks which irritates Atticus who barks.  Usually this occurs right outside our bedroom window.  While Mrs J was away, this happened both nights.  Little to no sleep.  This morning, I logged on to Amazon and took the advice of several commenters from the aforementioned post.

The Bark Collar is supposed to be delivered tomorrow.

We'll see how Gryndyll likes it.

And...Since yesterday (Sunday) was Mrs. J's Birthday and another decade in the record books, we opened one of my Dad's Pinot Noirs.  I'd inherited them when he passed.  Never could bring myself to open one.  Got past that hurdle, finally.

 Man, was it good! Even for a Monday!

Peace out y'all

Still Among the Living ...

OAFS Photo

Feeling better now, not great but way better than Thursday afternoon. I had gone to work and felt okay. One of the new meds I'm on tends to plug one up, I'll leave the details to your fertile imaginations. Wednesday evening, though I'd managed to "clear for action," it felt like something inside had strained a bit more than was wanted. (Or healthy!)

 A good night's sleep and off I went.

By noon I felt the old familiar pain in the lower left of my abdomen and knew that a doctor's visit was required. Diverticulitis is not something one rolls the dice with. Had a hospital roommate back in '15 who was in for much the same reason I was. But his problem was far worse, perforated bowels ain't no fun, as he could attest to. (I told that story here.)

OAFS Photo

Off to the doctor's office I went, got poked and prodded ...

"If I press here, does it hurt?"

"No, no, just a bit of pressure ..."

"How about here?"

"Um, yes, I felt that." (To say the least.)

So I was scheduled for a CT scan, with contrast, that would be the third of those in under a month. I'm getting so I can predict the "breathe in" ... "hold your breath" intervals very nicely.

It was a "stat" procedure, the meaning of which I'd understood as "right f**king now," to put it in old school military terms. (I think these days you have to ask "pretty please.") But as none were available until the morning of Friday instant, that would have to do.

OAFS Photo

So it was off to the medical facility again (The Missus Herself was driving me around as I felt so crappy that driving was off the table) where I was injected with the magic contrast, got all warm and tingly and did the "breathe in" ... "hold your breath" thing thrice.

Had the results by noon, acute diverticulitis, had my first dose of antibiotics shortly thereafter and am now officially (and practically), on the mend.

OAFS Photo

Funny thing though, I usually don't sleep all that well when the left side of my belly feels like I've been stuck with a lance, this time I slept just fine. In fact, that's mostly what I did Friday after returning from the CT scan. Hit the sack around 1400 local, got up at 2300 to take my meds and read for a bit.

Went back to bed at 0230-ish and got up at 0900 on Saturday. I'm feeling a lot better, not 100% mind you, that takes about three to six days for me.

Hey, at least I was able to get a post out! Much thanks to John Blackshoe who covered for me on Saturday and our man Tuna for actually transferring JB's material to blogger.

Thanks guys. Also thanks for the well wishes and prayers alike. It helps

Fair Use

The first few pictures were all taken in September and October, I like them, so I share them. The last picture is USS Zumwalt (DDG 1000) passing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge - Annapolis, MD lies to starboard. Been over that bridge a few times, it's not far from The Nuke and her tribe. Always a thrill to head down that way.

Even if my grandsons do enjoy beating me like a rented mule. (Confession - I kinda started that, so I'm reaping what I've sown.)

John Blackshoe Sends: Serendipity History – Cat fight!

This is a special edition of Serendipity History to cover up Sarge’s temporary incapacitation.

“Serendipity” is defined by the Cambridge Dictionary as “the fact of finding interesting or valuable things by chance.” I make no claim that the stuff I find and share are valuable, but hope that most are at least interesting.

Very soon, the Chant will have several posts on “Halloween 1898- Who Stole the Beer?” This required extensive research in various sources, including reading copies of the Lexington, Kentucky Morning Herald from October 1898. Next to a story related to my main topic was the story below.

Women criticizing the appearance of other women, has apparently been going on for a long time, but I was not aware that it reached the level of legally actionable complaints with actual charges filed and juries awarding monetary damages for such catty remarks. There is a lot I don’t know. To wit:

Source: Lexington Herald, October 19, 1898, page2.

Naturally, this aroused curiosity to exactly how hot was this chick looked (with or without alleged enhancements), hopefully to be verified by a photo, perhaps in someone’s Ancestry tree gallery.  Alas, the search was futile, but it did find evidence that the news media is quite incestuous, and kind of like the “Telephone” game, where what is initially said ends up being subtly changed as it is passed along.

In this case, the court case above was also reported in an Iowa paper, both probably based on what we would now call wire service reporting. Haphazardly placed between a story about a suicidal wife beset by domestic troubles whose body was found in a well with $310 in gold and $95 in currency secreted upon her person, and an ad for “Pabst Malt Extract- the best tonic” we read:

Source: Waterloo, Iowa Courier, October 18, 1898, page 2.

In this version, we are told that the accused’s name is “Anna” instead of “Ana” and damages sought were $3,000 instead of $300, and that she was the wife of a leading merchant in Milford.

But, sadly, Milford was the name of three towns in Indiana, and the 1900 census did not provide any promising leads on either the beautiful Mrs. Dietrich, or the jealous Mrs. Menzel, or their husbands. So, our voyeuristic inquiries ceased.

This excursion could have been justified if, serendipitously, either of these families were related to members of the 160th Indiana Volunteer Infantry which were part of the beer theft. But, apparently not.

Such is the life of an historian, often chasing dead ends, but sometimes finding valuable or interesting things.

Hope Sarge feels better soon.

Hello There Diverticulitis, My Old Adversary ...

 

Source

I am down for the count. Massive belly ache, I'll be getting a CAT Scan with Contrast by the time you read this.

I have no energy to do anything.

Might be a few days, might be sooner, but for now, Sarge is AWOL.

Gomen Nasai.

Someone Had Blundered ...

Charge of the Light Brigade
Richard Caton Woodville Jr.
Source

Throughout the history of warfare there are recorded instances of events taking place for which no good reason can be offered. At the Battle of Balaclava, on the 25th of October 1854, during the Crimean War, such an incident took place. An incident which inspired a great poem by Britain's poet laureate, Sir Alfred Lord Tennyson, a number of films (some good, some not so good) and one book in the Flashman series written by George MacDonald Fraser.

The poem (well, part of it) -

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

Source

The field of battle (this is on the Crimea Peninsula, southeast of Sevastopol) -

Source

The incident has come down to us as "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

Now who, or what, was the Light Brigade? Well, they were part of the Cavalry Division deployed with the British Army under Lord Raglan (a rather stuffy man who had lost an arm at Waterloo serving on Wellington's staff, some 49 years earlier). The division was composed of two brigades, the Light and, wait for it, the Heavy.

The Cavalry Division was commanded by Lieutenant-General George Bingham, 3rd Earl of Lucan. Whose own men had nicknamed him "Lord Look On" for his infamous inactivity at the Battle of the Alma. It's also worth noting that Lucan and Cardigan hated each other. 

The Heavy Brigade was made up of three regiments of dragoons and two regiments of dragoon guards (a fancier version of dragoons, but operationally used the same). The Light Brigade, commanded by  Major-General James Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan (yes, the sweater is named after him) was made up of five regiments of light cavalry: two hussar regiments, two light dragoon regiments (pretty much the same as hussars but their uniforms weren't as fancy), and one regiment of lancers.

Yes, chaps on horseback carrying a lance, those are the fellows in the foreground of Woodville's painting above.

Now the battle itself was rather a confused affair, the Heavy Brigade won eternal glory (well, they would have had the light bobs not gotten shot to hell) for attacking a Russian cavalry force a lot larger than them. Which they drove off.

The 93rd Highlanders (see the map above) gained fame as the Thin Red Line, in case you've never heard that expression before, it started at Balaclava. Here's why the phrase was coined -

The Thin Red Line
Robert Gibb
Source

The commander of the 93rd, Sir Colin Campbell, felt that his men were too ill-trained and inexperienced to form a square as a mass of Russian cavalry advanced upon them. So he had them form up in two-deep line.

Two volleys saw the Russians turn around and go back from whence they came.

So two heroic incidents.

Meanwhile, on the Causeway Heights, the Russians were overrunning artillery positions manned by Turkish troops. Someone on Raglan's staff saw the Russians removing the guns after overrunning the Turks. Some wags say that the remark was heard mentioning that the Duke of Wellington had never lost a gun and perhaps someone should prevent this.

A Captain Nolan, superb horseman and a big-time cavalry theorist, was dispatched to order Lord Cardigan's brigade forward to prevent the loss of the artillery on the Causeway Heights.

Now from what I've read, Lord Cardigan was an intensely stupid and vain man, he also despised Captain Nolan. So when said Captain gallops up and gives Cardigan his orders, Cardigan, down in the valley, can't see the guns on the Causeway Heights.

"Guns, Sir? I see no guns." Cardigan allegedly said.

Nolan (whose opinion of Cardigan's intellect was very low) responded by sweeping his arm out across the scene and barked, "There my Lord, there are your guns!"

Rather than seek clarification Cardigan decided to advance down the valley towards the only guns he could see. Perhaps he would have asked Nolan for more details, but that man was struck by a shell fragment and his mount went careening across the front of the brigade.

Not realizing that Nolan was already dead, Cardigan assumed that the man, the effrontery of such a thing, had usurped control of the Light Brigade and intended to lead them down the valley.

He ordered the brigade to advance.

Sometimes soldiers will see a thing, an order, an objective, and know that it likely means their deaths. But they also know that sometimes a unit will be ordered into the fight by a general who knows what he's doing and sees an opportunity for victory, though that unit will pay a dear price.

Cardigan probably should have known better, he viewed Raglan as a fussy old man (which he was) but "orders are orders." Cardigan also had a reputation for being one of the most obstinate (and stupid) men in the British Army.

So that day, the Light Brigade went forward.

Out of a strength of roughly 660 men, 110 were killed and 161 were wounded.

They had run a gauntlet of Russian fire coming from both sides of the valley they were in. They had suffered volley after volley from the Russian guns to their front. And they had the audacity to actually reach the Russian gun line and start sabering the Russian gunners before being driven off by more Russians coming to support their guns.

Back down the valley they went, Cardigan in the lead both ways, untouched by shot and shell, unmoved by the destruction of his brigade before his eyes. He was of no more use to the Brigade than the meanest trooper.

Go forward, fall back. Result? You no longer have a Light Brigade.

While there was no lack of brave men that day, the British Army could have used a few more with tactical smarts.

Balaclava
Elizabeth Thompson, Lady Butler
Source

Theirs not to wonder why ...

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

   All the world wondered.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

   Noble six hundred!

Ibid

Lakota Ambush

The Advance-Guard, or The Military Sacrifice (The Ambush)
Frederic Remington
Source

The arroyo was just starting to open up onto a large grassland by a small lake. A small stand of lodgepole pine crested a small ridge to the left. Herbert Jones, Jonesy to his buddies, saw all that as he urged his horse forward, she was a bit skittish in the tight confines of the arroyo. He was hoping for the chance to water his mount, she was laboring in the heat.

He was looking towards the pines when he saw a puff of smoke, "Odd," he muttered to himself.

He heard a soft grunt and looked towards Peters, the man at the head of the party. His carbine was in the dirt and his head was starting to slump forward onto his chest. It was then that Jonesy realized they'd ridden into an ambush.

More rifle fire issued from the stand of pines as Jonesy turned his mount, fleeing back down the arroyo. They stood more of a chance under the cover of the walls of the arroyo than out in the open. He glanced back over his shoulder, at least fifty mounted hostiles had burst from the pines and were galloping towards the cavalryman.

"Cover! Get to cover!" He screamed, the young lieutenant had a puzzled look on his face, he looked like he wanted to ask questions, then gruff old Sergeant Major Wilcox pushed him out of the way and started barking orders.

Gray Bear looked up in disgust as the young men charged out of cover at the bluecoats. If they'd just stayed in the trees they could have cut the whites to shreds with aimed fire. Beaver Tail was in the lead of the young men, hot-blooded and excitable, Gray Bear realized that he should have kept the youth nearby.

Walks With A Limp looked over with a question on his face, Gray Bear said, "Mount up, while the young men keep the bluecoats' attention in this direction, we'll go around, hit them on their long flank."

The older warriors, personally picked by Gray Bear, mounted their ponies. When everyone was up, he led them silently to his right. A slight rise would cover their advance until they were where Gray Bear wanted his party. With luck, they could cut the white soldier column in half and destroy them piecemeal.

Jonesy was in pain, shot in the lower leg, he couldn't walk, his calf muscle was nearly severed. Jackson, one of his messmates, was in a similar pickle. He'd taken a slug to the hip, it was nearly expended but it had cracked the top of his femur.

The two men now sat back to back, taking aim, firing and trying to whittle down the rush of warriors coming into the arroyo. There were already a number of dead and badly wounded hostiles piled up at the opening he'd just made it through. Some of the troopers were using the dead bodies as cover.

"Goddamnit, Lieutenant! Get down!"

Jackson and Jonesy had both turned as they heard the Sergeant Major's voice bellowing above the rifle fire and the screams of the combatants. They clearly saw Wilcox aiming and firing, shaking his head as he did so. They couldn't see Lieutenant Marshall. Neither man knew that the young West Point graduate was lying at the Sergeant Major's feet, coughing up blood and moaning quietly.

The young man would die soon.

"Carlson, look to your left, party of mounted Injuns coming in around the rise!"

Even as he shouted the order, Wilcox had a sinking feeling in his gut. They'd used up a lot of ammunition shooting down the hostiles attacking the mouth of the arroyo. Now here were at least fifty more warriors advancing towards them, oddly enough, many of them were on foot, advancing in what he swore was a skirmish line.

Gray Bear sat on his pony, watching the whites' reaction to his advancing party. He'd had the younger men of his group, grizzled warriors all, but mostly in their early thirties, dismount and spread out. They would walk forward, firing their rifles as they advanced. He'd heard that the whites had done this during their "War to Kill Each Other" as he called it.

He'd talked to a Cherokee who had been in that fight who had told him that and other stories. He had been glad for that fight, it kept the white soldiers in the east. But when that had ended, they had spread to the west. Overrunning the land and ruining the hunting.

"Walks With A Limp, when Little Raven's party gets within a short bow shot of the whites, lead your men to the right, harass their rear." Gray Bear wondered if this was how the white chiefs did things, he supposed they must. It made sense.

"Teddy, you got any spare rounds?" Jonesy asked his partner, nudging him as he paused to shoot at the advancing Indians to his front.

"Teddy?"

Jonesy turned and was startled when Jackson pitched face first into the dirt. He looked for a long moment at his friend and shuddered. He noticed that the fire from his own side was lessening, desultory shots here and there.

The pressure at the mouth of the arroyo was gone, those hostiles had fallen back to lick their wounds. But these fellows coming in along the side of the arroyo were worrying Jackson.

Sergeant Major Wilcox fed his last few rounds into his carbine, a lot of his men were down, he could count maybe fifteen still on their feet. Most of the horses, those which yet lived, had run off. They were on foot, low on ammunition, and running out of options.

If it had been later in the day, they might have stood a better chance, but nightfall was still hours away.

As he watched, the hostiles advancing on foot had stopped and were now taking their time and firing at the soldiers with patience. He could hear some of them calling to each other and laughing.

His face burned with embarrassment.

Jackson had been hit again, high in the chest, he was having trouble catching his breath. He was down to his last few rifle rounds, he was thinking of getting his pistol out. Maybe the hostiles would tire of their sport and go away. If not, well, he'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

He turned to his left and his heart sank, more hostiles, mounted and coming up the arroyo from the other direction. He fired in that direction, couldn't see if he'd hit anyone, then levered in another round. It didn't feed, the constant firing and the dust of the arroyo had clogged his carbine. Without thinking he began to draw his knife, that's when he heard Wilcox's voice again.

"Last round, boys! Keep it for ..."

Wilcox was silenced as a Lakota bullet took off the top of his head.

Jonesy tried gamely to stand, using his jammed carbine as a crutch. When he was upright, barely, he drew his pistol. A Lakota warrior was close by, he hadn't noticed Jonesy in the swirling dust.

Jonesy fired, hitting the Indian just below the armpit. The man dropped to his knees and turned to look at Jonesy in dismay.

As Jonesy began to turn his pistol on himself, he saw the warriors stop. Those who had dismounted, hurriedly remounted and galloped up and out of the arroyo.

Walks With A Limp rode up to Gray Bear, "The soldiers from the fort by the bluff are here. Many of them!"

Gray Bear nodded, "Another time then, let's go home and count our losses."

Jonesy couldn't believe his eyes, the hostiles were leaving, in some haste. Why? What is causing this? As he stood there, wondering, he heard it.

The clear, pure notes of the bugle.

They were rescued!

Uniforms

Fair Use

In juvat's Monday post, the topic of uniforms came up, in a roundabout way, mostly in the comments. It all arose from a Tube o' You video featuring various USAF bandsmen performing various renditions of "The Air Force Song," ya know, "off we go into the wild blue yonder, etc." Oddly enough, it's a song I don't much care for, mostly for "reasons" which I may or may not have discussed in the past. (As a morale building thing it was sung nightly at Air Force Officer Training School, a non-voluntary thing I might add. I suppose it was to improve morale ...)

Anyhoo, Suz, the Chant's reigning Medical Officer, left the following (avec juvat's answer below that.)

Now, as you all should know, I was a sergeant in the Air Force, a Master Sergeant towards the end, but a non-commissioned officer for twenty of my twenty-four years. What's one thing that drives a good sergeant batshit crazy?

Well, uniform violations immediately springs to mind. Wearing it wrong, wearing it dirty, missing pieces of it, adding unauthorized pieces to it, it's a "sergeant thing." Some officers liked to play the game as well. (But not fighter pilots, egads, them and their flight suits, it's like a license to look cool without being sharply dressed. There oughta be a law ...)

But I digress.

Contrary to what our M.O. says above, to wit - "Uniforms are articles of clothing whose mission is to keep a multitude of bodies decent in mixed company." Well, yes and no. While common decency is a thing ...

"Who told you that you were naked?" Genesis 3:11

It ain't the only thing.

Way back in the day, fighting units didn't really have any uniforms (and some still don't, more on that in a bit). It must have been rather confusing to have a few hundred (or thousand) guys all slashing and bashing each other when they were all dressed pretty much the same.

"Oops, sorry Achilles, thought you were one of them."

So some uniformity, to tell who is who, was needed. At first it might have been a strip of cloth tied around one arm, everyone on one side having the same color. Also sprigs of the local flora might be sported in one's cap.

"No, no, no, Carl, hit the guys who DON'T have a sprig of Douglas fir in their caps." 

That, not being sufficient to the day, led to armies all wearing the same color uniform. Which was more or less the case up to a certain point. Sometimes the style of one's headgear and/or the cut of one's uniform would let you gauge who was who.

The Duke of Wellington rather liked the British light cavalries' distinctive headgear in Spain. A crested helmet (the Tarleton helmet) which was very different from the shako the French lights wore.

Tarleton Helmet
Source

So of course some higher up decided to change that and give the British light cavalry a shako which looked remarkably like the French one.

D'oh.

So, uniforms help you tell the good guys from the bad guys, more or less. (Imagine the confusion during the early months of our own Civil War where some Confederates wore blue and some Federals wore gray and the Zouaves dressed in various (and very much alike) ways ...

The Brierwood Pipe
Winslow Homer
(5th New York Zouaves - PD)

Maybe they're actually Louisiana Zouaves?

Source

Hell, in the heat of combat, who can tell?

Eventually both sides calmed down and went to more, ahem, uniform uniforms. (See what I did there?)

Then we get to Ukraine, where the Ukrainians wear basically the same uniforms as the Russians ...

So we're back to using colored arm bands to tell everyone apart.

Uniforms then, and somewhat now, served a morale purpose as well. If your uniform looked good, you'd look good (or at least feel you looked good).

White crossbelts made you look broader in the chest, tall caps (some of bear skin) made you look taller. It was meant to make you feel like a warrior and to make the enemy a little bit scared of you.

Then again, those were parade ground uniforms ...

In battle you'd be wearing coveralls instead of fancy trousers, a greatcoat to cover up the fancy jacket, you'd put all the fancy plumes in your knapsack, and wrap your fancy hat in an oilskin. All that finery costs money you know!

On Parade
(PD)

On Campaign
Source

There are military units which still don't wear uniforms, think guerillas and the like. They need to blend in with the populace, so, no uniforms. Which is why a lot of them get shot when captured. Geneva Convention, as I recall, mandates that combatants wear something which marks them out as combatants. Sucks to be them, I suppose. Just don't get caught, right?

Now don't get me started on the Space Force uniforms. I Googled those after dinner, what I saw almost made me lose my dinner. Argh.

As to bandsmen being "senior" in rank, I say go back to the old days where they were simply bandsmen, non-combatants. Good pay but they couldn't be schlepping about the PX ordering the actual line doggies around.

Yes, I've seen it happen.

Who has the best looking uniforms? Duh, the United States Marine Corps. Second best, the Army's new "pinks and greens." Based on a WWII uniform, looks good and has tradition behind it. The Navy comes in third, ya gotta like those "choker whites."

Pinks and Greens
Source

A fine example of a naval officer in choker whites.
Our own Captain Carroll F. LeFon Jr.
(And his Gorram sword.)

I do believe the Air Force spawned the Space Force just so our uniforms weren't the worst of all. No, the "Guardians" have that covered. (Same name as a baseball team? Geez.)

That's enough for now, I could go on and talk about General McPeak and his idiotic uniform changes in my Air Force, but my stomach already hurts from looking at those Space Force uniforms.

I bid thee, adieu.

Author's Note: Yup, The Muse is still absent. I'm thinking she's not going to be back for a while, but ya never know.