Are Politicians "better" than Others????

politicians (Photo credit: the|G|™)

Politicians.  I abhor most of them.  There are a few - like Gene Pinson and Lindsay Graham who are nice people and actually serve the public.  The rest are rapscallions and should be bundled up and sent on a Mars terraform project.

One of the things that I hate most about them is that they are "above the law".  Regular stuff doesn't count for them.  The give themselves big fat raises, have the best retirement system in the world and generally "feather their nests" at the expense of others.  I don't know why they think that they must be better than others.  I'd rather have a bank robber for a friend!

Tonight during dinner, I received a recorded call from John McCravy of Greenwood, SC.  I'm on the National Do Not Call list, but I guess John just thought he was better than me and it would be OK to give me an unsolicited call.  Shame on him.  Shame on all of them (except the two mentioned above.)

Elections, politicians, Do Not Call, John McCravy, David Stumbo,
Hang the Politicians, Hang the Lawyers,

JP Colson

Image via WikipediaI mentioned John Colson in my last post. John is a real, larger than life cowboy slash mountain man type of guy. We met at Chanute AFB and then traveled on to Vandenberg and Malmstrom where we were assigned to 564th Strategic Missile Squadron. JP's crew did alerts at Papa-0 near the town of Conrad and I was assigned to Romeo-0 near the really small town of Dutton. Frequently we did alerts at the same time and we spent a lot of time on the phone. John also befriended me by taking me hunting and fishing with him.

JP's father was lost in the raid on Ploesti in August of 1943 before John was born. We never did know for sure which squadron JP's Dad was in, but the 564th Bomb Squadron (renamed later to the 564th Strategic Missile Squadron ) was a part of the raid and suffered heavy casualties. Our guidon had a ribbon for that doomed bombing mission. When John was born, he was named John Pershing Colson. Later, the Air Corps awarded Colson senior a posthumous medal (I think it was the Silver Star.) The awarding officer pinned the medal to JP's diaper.

John hails from Indiana and attended school in Johnson City Tennesee. He got his commission in the Air Force "the hard way" by attending OTS at Lackland AFB in beautiful San Antonio Texas. From there he went to the Undergraduate Pilot Course in Laredo or one of the other Texas bases where piloting was being taught to a lot of lieutenants. As happened to a lot of us, instead of getting wings, he was given the choice of becoming a Security Policeman or a "Missile Jockey." It was my good luck that he chose missiles. We met at Chanute and were good friends the whole four years we spent at Malmstrom together. I can't remember if we ever had an alert together but I think he was promoted to Launch Commander at about the same time that I was.

There are hundreds of JP stories and I remember dozens of them, but the most painful for JP was being crewed with someone we will call "Don Braedenbach" Don was a real piece of work and should never have been an officer in my Air Force. He was forever browbeating, giving "orders", demanding this or that. Remember the military myth of the officer who wheedled a general into endorsing his Officer Efficiency Report? Supposedly the general wrote on the form, "Capt. Braedenbach is one of those officers who will go through life pushing on doors that are plainly marked pull!" In the mid 1970's Braedenbach was "riffed" and a great wrong was thereby undone.

Anyway, JP finally escaped the frightening comical Nazi guy and was crewed with one of our heroes named Joe Amlong. Later he was crewed with Bruce Rodie, a top-notch officer and a heck of a cook. Bruce is the one who introduced the Standing Rib Roast to the Launch Control Center. When they went on alert JP would carry the tech manuals and Bruce would carry a duffel filled with food and an electric frying pan.

One story that still chills my blood occurred in 1973 when a mix-up at Cheyenne Mountain made it look like the Russians were launching a preemptive attack on us. My phone rang at 3:00 in the morning and it was John telling me to "keep my head down. That was our pre-arranged code for "its about to happen" - meaning that WWIII was about to land in our laps. Fortunately sanity prevailed at some level in the decision chain and the world was spared a thermonuclear holocaust. What did I do after JP called? I kissed my wife and went back to sleep

JP, I owe a lot of my ideas and ideals to my conversations with you. I have always considered you to be a great man and a true friend. If I die first, you can have my guns.

Image via WikipediaOfficers Training School seemed horrible, but looking at it 40 years later I feel like it wasn't that difficult. It was the worst of times - it was the worst of times at that point. There in San Antonio, at Lackland AFB I first learned about "No Pain, No Pain!!" They whittled at my pea sized brain and I resisted. They whittled some more and I fought hard. They fought harder and I caved in and began learning to be a machine.

It took more than Captain Fox and Lieutenant Alfred Truman Parmalee the Fourth to break my spirit. They -and five or six days of "I really, really hate it here", were enough to change my whole way of life. I began to base my existence on fear. I reacted to imperfection with a hellish will. Life was mainly about showing the Air Force that I was made of tougher stuff and that I would show them who would quit. I always felt that this was the beginning of my PTSD. There was no blood and no trauma, but there was a terror of others finding out how scared you were. Bravado started slipping in where mild mannered country boy used to rule. It was at OTS that I was introduced to the military bar. Mixed drinks on Saturday night cost forty-five cents and draft beer was a dime. Booze came in very handy for getting through another week so that we could return to the bar.

Failing at my next step in life at UNT (u something navigator training) added to the misery. I started to come unraveled. Apparently the Air Force was giving me one more chance to become an asset by allowing me to attend missile training. I promised myself that I would pass it with flying colors.

The first part of training was at Chanute AFB; right outside of Rantoul Illinois. Chanute was interesting. It looked like it may have been left over from WWII or Korea. Older buildings, lots of landscaping, etc.,etc. My class of 4 young lieutenants drew the early morning shift - arriving at 6:00 a.m. each weekday and finishing up at noon. I have to say that the curriculum was not the toughest in the world. The real objective of the course seemed to be aimed at informing us that "the pointy end of the missile comes out of the hole first." Four weeks passed quickly and soon I was back in Sacramento packing up to move to Vandenberg AFB for seven more weeks of orientation.

At VAFB, we learned about codes security, basic launch control center operations and some about responding to an Emergency War Order. Mostly we just heard war stories about what it "REALLY" was going to be like. We also learned about the SAC policy that in order to pass a test you had to have everything 100% correct. I was paired up with Captain Walter Hinck who had just finished a year at Osan AFB in Korea as a Security Policeman. He seemed to be OK and very smart. The group was rounded out by John P. Colson and Rich Bender. John and I still converse once in a while.

More Kansas Wind

Image by lwa519 via FlickrActually, when I entitled the last entry as "A Kansas Wind" I was going to talk about something that happened later that night. This was the day the main body came in and occupied the tent. There was so much confusion and settling in that I decided to sleep next to our trucks in the parking lot of our corner of the "Dust Bowl."

Accordingly, I took my cot, duffel bag and a poncho liner down into the area, set everything up and lay down to get some well deserved sleep. I had removed my BDU blouse (BDU's were the old green, tan and brown camouflage uniforms named "Battle Dress Uniforms") and then I noticed the wind. The temperature that day had been over 100 degrees and what I felt was a cool, 72 degree wind blowing over me. It felt great. I draped the poncho liner over my boots and drifted off to sleep.

I awoke several hours later to a noise that I couldn't identify. The 10 mph cool wind had become a 30 mph arctic blast and the temperature seemed to be below freezing. I felt around and couldn't find my cover - it had been picked up by the wind and blown to parts unknown. I could still hear the noise and as I rounded up my belongings I suddenly realized that it was my teeth chattering. Using the keys from my "fag bag", I unlocked the Node Center Door and jumped inside out of the wind. I emptied my duffel bag, put on a long sleeved shirt and stuffed my feet into the bag. Later when I had shivered myself warm the noise stopped. Next morning it was in the 80's at sunrise and the heat of the day was "on."

Kansas was like that - tempting you with something attractive and then attempting to make you miserable. A prairie sunflower approached too closely was embedded in a skin shredding tumbleweed. Cooler weather was quickly followed by high winds, thunderstorms and tornadoes. Nice green grass harbored the Kansas variety of "chiggers" that infested your lower legs leaving itchy, weeping sores. Three weeks later we climbed on the chartered 727 to fly home; and I realized that this would be the happiest day of my life in 2002.

My poncho liner was found tangled in the trees, halfway across the camp.

A Kansas Wind

Image via Wikipedia You may have heard me say that the best thing about Kansas is crossing the state line into Colorado, Texas or Missouri. My experiences with the "Sunflower State" go back to us coming home from California to live in South Carolina, extend through the harrowing ride that Susie and I had from state border to state border in a blizzard and into a couple of trips to Fort Riley. You might say that Kansas is very cold in winter, very warm in summer and pretty ragged in between. However I have one memory of the place that I'd like to relate.

We (an advance team) arrived at Fort Riley in July and started work in the dust bowl immediately. The Dust Bowl was an area near the railroad tracks where the Cav troops used to marshal for troop movements to war. It was really a grassy area surrounded by Elm trees and looked fairly nice at that point. Our team was assigned to quarters in a "circus tent" pitched in the middle of the field. The tent was large enough to house us plus the main body of 150+ troops when they arrived the next week. We got our cots out of the Milvan and set up our sleeping area and then reported for work in extremely hot temperatures.

The day the main body arrived, I had been working inside armored vehicles all day - setting up their radio telephones and showing them how to use them to talk and/or send data bursts to the maintenance teams in the rear. I probably drank 10 liters of water that day and still hadn't gone to the porta potty when dusk arrived. At about that time, things started cooling off and I suddenly had the urge "to go." There were two portapotties nearby and I walked over, tried one door and then the next to find out both were occupied. Meanwhile several other soldiers had started forming a line outside the little blue houses and most of us were dancing from foot to foot. A couple of medics came up with an ambulatory soldier who had needles in both arms and "juice bags" or bags of Ringer's Solution dripping into his bloodstream - obviously a heat casualty. Having been in a similar state at one time, I knew he HAD to go, so I announced to the occupants of the privies that we had a needy heat casualty outside and one of them should open up and let the man in. The portalet on the left shook back and forth and the door opened and out walked a Two Star General - the commander of the North Carolina Heavy Support Brigade. I looked him in the eye and said, "General, I'm your man. I apologize for being disrespectful."

He looked back and me, smiled and said, "That's OK, Sarge. But now you have a hell of a war story to tell for the rest of your life!"

Ten Day Time-Out

Image by Clare H-P via Flickr

Just a note to say that Pat and I were gone for 10 days on a cruise in the Caribbean. We hit the high spots in Aruba, Curacao, Panama and Costa Rica. It was an excellent vacation but I'm glad to be back here to get my garden going.

Panama has changed a great deal. The Bridge of the Americas is still there, but the traffic now goes by a huge concrete and wire bridge that crosses the canal on the Atlantic side of Pedro Miguel Locks. The new one, called the Puente Centenario Bridge is fairly close to where Engineer's Point used to be. I say "used to be" because they have blown a good 200 feet off the bluff making room for the great expansion which is to take place in 2014. They are really working. I couldn't find out if the Chinese were the money behind the expansion.

A lot of the forts/bases that were turned over are private property now. The Panamanians are doing a fair job of keeping the canal trimmed (using "grass ninjas" and at least one John Deere tractor with a bush-hog. ) It doesn't look like it did when the US was in charge.

I guess that at some point in the not to distant future, we are going to have to suffer some casualties in order to keep it open. Damn Jimmy Carter! And the horse he rode in on!

Image by gravitywave via Flickr

When the Faculty Board said "you're out!" I was left with the dilemma of what to do next. There were numerous specialties available to young, non-flying lieutenants - Security, Missile Launch, Intelligence, Maintenance, Supply, etc. None of them sounded like what I wanted to do so I asked my flight captain what he thought. He said that no matter what I put down, the Air Force was going to make a missile weenie out of me. So, I volunteered to be a Sky Cop, a Supply Officer or an Intel type. I was almost immediately assigned to the Minuteman System as a launch officer. One good thing did happen in all this. Months earlier we had filled out our Air Force Form 392 (named the "Dream Sheet") and I had of course put down Shaw Air Force Base as my first choice. For my second choice I had circled "Pacific Northwest" and I forget what my third choice was. Anyway, instead of being sent to Minot North Dakota, or Grand Forks South Dakota I was assigned as close to the Pacific Northwest as possible. I was one of the lucky ones who drew Malmstrom AFB in Great Falls Montana. I didn't know it at the time, but I had also lucked out by being assigned to the WS-133B weapon system.

But first, I had to be trained. I left Sacramento for Chanute AFB in beautiful Rantoul Illinois with a rather large hangover from the "hail and farewell" the evening before. I seem to remember drinking a LOT of "Cold Duck" and being kicked out of the swimming pool around One a.m. Anyway Chanute provided an Air Training Command school for missile-iers and in four short weeks I learned that the pointy end of the missile comes out of the hole first and that when the missile gets where its going there is a rather large BOOM at the end of flight. Chanute was where I met JP Colson. (It is also where I met an F-100 pilot and four Marine Maintenance Officers and barely escaped arrest when we decided to burn the Officers Club one evening.)

Upon returning to Sacramento, Pat and I packed up our household goods, sent them on to Great Falls and we jumped in our 1966 Plymouth Valiant and headed to a three month school at Vandenberg AFB in Lompoc California. Thank goodness the Strategic Air Command had its own school for teaching us how to fly missiles!

Navigator Training

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I graduated from OTS on 29-Sep-69. Before that though, on the 13th of the month my father died. I had called him "Daddy" all my life but his name was Henry Napoleon McKinney. He didn't care much for the Napoleon thing but he lived with it. He sometimes related the story of his First Sergeant asking him what the "N" was for. My Dad had replied, "Samson" and the Shirt wasn't amused.

Daddy had been in a Coma for over a year when he passed away. It was on a Saturday and my roommates and I were at the Club having supper when the FTO came to tell me. They put me on a plane that night and gave me three days leave. It was all a blur to me. By that time I had been in sleep deprivation for almost three months and was pretty stupid and docile. We buried my Dad and I came back to San Antonio in time for more of the same.

On graduation day my roommate, Alfred "Panda" Peacock and I left Texas and drove home. I arrived in time to go to bed and stay there for a while. Pat was seven months pregnant with Travis and was really glad to see me. I took 20 days leave and then drove to Sacramento California, home of Mather Air Force Base. Mather was really located in an outlying town by the name of Rancho Cordova. Pat stayed behind while I got my feet onthe ground and found us a place to stay.

I started Undergraduate Navigator Training right away and was flying in no time at all. The next seven months were interesting to say the least but flying turned out to not be my cup of tea at all. After completing 75% of the training I was "FAC Boarded" and told to turn in my flying gear. It appeared that though my motives were pure, my eyesight was not sufficient to allow me to sit in the back seat of an F-4 Phantom and drop napalm on the little yellow people. Bummer - I had really wanted to do that!

While we were still at Mather, a wonderful thing happened to us. Our son, Michael Travis McKinney was born on Christmas Day, 1969.

Con Thien

Image by jcolman via Flickr

The climax of OTS in those days was a three day field exercise known as "Con Thien." Con Thien was actually a little known Marine base located near the DMZ in Quang Tri Province in South Viet Nam. It was known as the "Meat Grinder" and the DMZ in that area was called the "Dead Marine Zone." I'm sure there was a reason for our exercise to be called Con Thien, but I don't know what it was. I really don't think that any of the things we did there were classified - since none of us had clearances and I did not have a "briefing in" or "briefing out" at any time; but rumor was that we were not supposed to discuss it with anyone outside our group. Apparently the reason was that we would ruin the surprise for any trainees in the future.

I do know that I spent over 24 hours with a laundry bag over my head - tied around my neck - and I was subjected to what seemed like hours of interrogation, mild beatings and periods of standing in a hole where I was periodically doused with buckets of cold water. Apparently this was a "mini-SERE" to let us know what was coming and to bind us more closely together by letting us enjoy pain and misery together.

On the morning of the fourth day, when we began to "see" sunlight through our laundry bags, we were quietly herded together and found ourselves standing together in a barbed wire compound. People moved among us untying our laundry bags and whispering "keep it over your head until we tell you to remove it." Suddenly, someone gave the order to remove the bags, we were called to attention, given the order to "Present Arms" and the flag of the United States of America was raised to a recording of the Star Spangled Banner. I do not ever remember feeling chills or having tears come to my eyes during a flag raising before that; but I remember that I did then - and I have had the same reaction during every flag ceremony in the forty years since.

We were then marched away from the Con Thien camp and returned to where our tents had been located. The tents and cots were gone and there were only concrete block stepping stones left in the area. They told us to wait for trucks to move us back to the barracks and we settled down. I stretched out on the ground with my head on a concrete block and went to sleep - only to be awakened several hours later by rain falling in my face. The trucks never came and we finally formed up into flights and squadrons and started the ten mile march home in the pouring rain. We all still felt the awesome change that had taken place within us and we were ready to be commissioned and let loose upon the world. The Air Force had graduated another 800 steely-eyed killers, many of whom would take their last breath in Viet Nam before their 25th birthday.

Hanoi Jane Sucks.

Fire Drill!

Cover of Space Cadet

You’ve heard of a Chinese Fire Drill? The fire drills at OTS were even more fun. The only time we were allowed out of bed between Midnight and 0500 was for a fire drill (and probably for an actual fire as well, though we never heard.) The fire drills we had occurred at about 0130 and were started by someone in the upper class yelling “FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL” as loud as possible. We were then required to begin screaming, “FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL” at the top of our lungs and continue doing so for as long as the drill lasted. The first thing we did upon getting out of our bunks was assemble outside our room doors – still yelling “FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL, FIRE DRILL” as loudly as humanly possible. Once we were accounted for, we then ran (yes, still screaming) through the front door of the building and formed up outside in the parking lot. Then for about an hour we were berated for our inability to scream loud enough to wake up everyone in the building. Usually, at least 50 trainees would have burned to death from our inability to project our voices.

Our night thus being wrecked, we were required to return to our beds for the other hour and a half of our three hours sleep for that night. Unfortunately, sometimes there was another fire drill.
As long as I’m on the “group reaction” subject we also were required to interrupt our polishing, shining, cleaning, studying and etc. to play “Ball in the Hall.” This action consisted of some upperclassman tossing a rubber ball into the hall and us rushing outside our door screaming “Ball in the Hall” for as long as they wanted us to. Usually during this “play” someone was required to recite exactly how many minutes before the upper class graduated. You always had to be on your toes and keep the number calculated so that you wouldn’t get gigs for screwing up.
Air Force OTS – what a wonderful place. I haven’t talked about pushups (at least 100 per night) nor being on “wooly watch” or any of the other wonderful tortures designed to keep you awake and away from your studies. Maybe later.

Walking the Blocks

Image by Collin Key via Flickr

The first six weeks of OTS was pretty stressful. Almost anything you did was punishable by being awarded "gigs". You could have 10 gigs per week during the first half of the school and more than that were paid for by marching 25 minutes each on Saturday morning. Keep in mind this was San Antonio in July and August and by the time the punishment started it was already over 100 degrees. (Remember the Purple/Red/Yellow Flag deal? It was always yellow when punishment started!) You not only got hot, but you ruined a uniform and the shine on your boots. Added to that, the Flight Training Officers usually appeared on the drill pad and handed out MORE gigs. The first time that I "walked" I was awarded a gig for needing a haircut by Lt. Algrin (keep this Dodo in mind, there's more of him coming.) That same morning I met the "Silver Fox."

The Silver Fox was a Captain from 1st Squadron (members of which were called "Medina Marines" - we in the 2nd Squadron were known as "Grapes" - obviously to be stomped upon. ) Anyway this Captain was so bad that he would drive down the street in his MG Roadster with the top down and look for infractions. He gigged my room mates and I for being naked in our rooms with the blinds open. According to him he saw us from the street. He gigged me constantly for "needs a shave" even when I was bloody from the razor. I actually hated the man. One thing about him, he always led the run and always finished first. I ran into him after I made Captain. He was still a Captain and I told him what I thought of him. He smiled and said, "You were lucky! I'm pinning on Major's leaves next week!"

Well, anyway "walking the blocks" had nothing to do with any of this. It had to do with where lower classmen (called "chicken scratch") were allowed to walk in the hall. The hall was 8 tile squares wide and we had to walk on the rightmost tile anytime we were in the hall - thus walking the blocks.

The Upper Flight

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When we arrived in San Antonio and were moved to Medina AFS to our barracks the upper flight was there to meet us. Most of them were six to ten inches taller than us and seemed to be more mature than us by years. We were in awe of all of them and learned to know fear whenever they were present. One of them was assigned to our three man room as our advisor. He was an OT Second Lieutenant - a one-striper. That is the lowest rank possible in the upper flight but to us he was a demi-god. It never occurred to us until later that the "upper flight" had been there just six weeks more than we had!

Our class was called 69-03. There were normally four classes per year but in 1969 the federal government decided to change its fiscal year end from 30 June to 1 August. We arrived in July and were to be the last class under the old FY system. I remember on July 4th as were were walking into our new barracks an upper classman asked our advisor if we were "03's" When he answered "Yes" the other guy stated "If I were an 03, I'd SIE!" Another down the hall echoed, "If I were an 03 I'd kill myself!!"

We knew nothing and had no idea what was happening. None of us had been in ROTC and I only had the war stories my Dad and Brother had told from the 40's and 50's. I did know that you should never volunteer for anything and when they started handing out the detail assignments the first five that volunteered were assigned to latrine duty. Their job was to make the latrine clean enough for the virgin Mary to eat off the floor. Boy was I happy. I continued not volunteering until there was only one detail left and was assigned to the laundry room. I was also "counseled" about not volunteering. It seems that though I was rewarded I had still screwed up!

The Real Deal

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OTS was the "real deal." We were being prepared for war and for a future in the big picture of the Air Force. The idea was to tear our little egos into shreds, wash them away in perspiration (remember officers don't sweat - they perspire!) and rebuild them from scratch as steely-eyed killers. Newly arrived future officers were given the haircut, issued the uniform, run ragged from dawn to dusk (actually from 0530 until 2359) and expected to excel in academics, marching, sports, physical exercise, wear of the uniform,personal hygeine and to never make any mistakes at all. Everyone that went into the military, regardless of branch of service or expected rank pretty much had the same treatment; but our trainers were not allowed to yell at or swear at us. We were to be "young gentlemen." If you think for one moment that you cannot be mentally abused by someone who doesn't swear or yell, you have some thinking to do. OTS was mental abuse starting with the first day and never ending. I still get the "horrors" when I think I'm being late for something or if I'm not sure what I'm wearing is the correct "uniform."

Apparently, the best way to get a youngster to stay and play at OTS was to not only make it easy for him to quit, but to invite him to do so as many times as possible per day. Quitting was referred to as "SIEing" or Self Initiated Elimination. The way to SIE was to find an officer and tell him that you wanted to quit. He would provide you with a form letter that all you had to do was sign and the Air Force would "dissapear you." People who left OTS had their bags packed by someone else when the other trainees were not around. They left the area without ever being seen again. Supposedly, they were put on the next plane home and their names given to the draft board for super-quick selection. In truth, most of the SIE folks were moved to the other side of the base where they were placed on casual status and never allowed to get near Officer Trainees again. Later they were allowed to go to Air Force Basic Training and become enlisted personnel. They even had a name for them - they were called OT General's!

The Cossack (and Others) - Continued

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I was really close to the members of my "flight." We had 18 people in one group that ate, slept, worked, went to class, ran and generally did everything together for three months. I can remember a few of them if I try. Mr. Utley was the upper flight Captain. We had little to do with each other, but when we did it was mostly bad. His assistant was Mr. Tabor from Oklahoma. He was the "nice cop" of the two.

The most flamboyant was the Cossack. His name was Sulik and his claim to fame was that every man in his family had fought in a war. His grandfather was a fighter pilot for the Germans in WWI, his father was an American fighter pilot in WWII and he was going to be a fighter pilot for the Americans in Viet Nam. Paul could do the kazatskis dance and shout "HEY" when doing the squat-kicks. We all liked him. I've searched for him on-line and also on the Wall, but I've never found him...

Another upperclassman was named George McIlhenny and was from Avery Island Louisiana. He claimed no connection to the Tabasco McIlhennys, but I've always wondered if he was the heir to the Tabasco fortune.

One of the upperclassmen from the room across the hall (I can't remember his name) was very painstaking in the appearance of his uniform. He not only spit-shined shoes and boots, he spit-shined his high top Converse All-Stars too! He would use a Q-tip to polish the red stripe on the welt. He became famous during his final WEDGE inspection for not wearing his name-tag. He was inebriated that morning and all of us had to help get him dressed and standing at attention for the big day. When he was asked where his name-tag was, he came to attention and said, "SIR, I memorized it and threw it away!! SIR! We all got gigs because of our laughter.

A member of our flight was known as "Soapy" because we waited until he had completely soaped up in the shower and then cut the water off. He raged around yelling in his fully sudsed skin until we later provided water for his shower. I saw his name on the Wall...

The Cossack (and Others)

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I remember some of the folks from that Summer. My first room mates were Steven D. Acuff from Nashville and some little tough guy with red hair whose name I do not recall. They were pretty good mates. We quickly analyzed the requirements and set about to meet them. Here are some examples of the "musts":

1. Beds had to be made with "dust cover" six days a week and with "white collar" on Saturdays and Sundays
2. The floor, blinds, desks, beds and lockers had to be clean and free of dust. (This in Texas in Summer with the windows open all the time.)
3. Socks and underwear folded "just so" and with a smile
4. Books and other vertical items "taller tapped" from tallest to shortest
5. Shoes shined (dust removed from soles)
6. Beds 18 inches from the locker and 6 7/8 inches from the wall
7. Uniforms hanging "looking left" and all horizontals perfectly even
8. Two towels hanging with bottoms "exactly" even (these were taped and never used)

Each weekday morning we had to accomplish the above, shave, bathe and whatever in the 3o minutes between "Greenies" and "Details."

Greenies took place at 0600 on the grass in the quad between buildings. Lower classmen were allowed on the quad only during the 15 minutes each morning when we were required to remove everything but growing grass from our personal 10 foot by 10 foot area of lawn.

Details were assigned to each OT early in the program and we had 15 minutes a day to keep our areas spotless. My assigned area was the laundry room. You wouldn't believe the care required in keeping a washer,dryer, floor, walls, ceilings, pipes and drains clinically clean and polished.

A Rain Check, Please!

Image via Wikipedia

Anyone that has followed this ride for long has realized that the High School years were not my favorite and that I scarcely wish to think about them. They were there and they were formative and I'm stuck at that. Anyway, in order to carry on with what I started, I've decided to take a "Rain Check" on those years and start out with college graduation so that the story can go forward. I owe this idea to a good friend who encourages me to continue - Thanks Mike!

I graduated Lander (a college at that time) in 1969. I had already enlisted in the Air Force earlier that year and had undergone the poking and prodding, the testing and the waiting associated with induction - all except the swearing in. I was sworn in on July 3rd in Charlotte and boarded an aircraft for my first flight ever. It ended in San Antonio and we were met at sometime after 11:00 pm by an enlisted man whose job it was to herd us to the first holding point. I've stated earlier what that night was like; so let's fast forward to the memories of the next few weeks.

The first week was designed to level us to a common denominator of frightened, exhausted, sleepy, brain-dead individuals. It wasn't "Hell Week" by any standard, but it did rate as "Heck Week" for sure. At every meal we had three minutes to eat and then we had to move on. I learned to eat quickly, but like a "gentleman" so that I didn't get written up for some violation. I remember double-timing a lot and I remember being "counseled" quite a bit for things like being late for formation (at least 5 seconds, but late), having salt stains on my blue web belt, needing a shave (true) and needing a haircut (not true) and on and on. We were allowed 50 demerits the first week and I got a bunch of them.

Just being scolded and given a demerit was one thing; but the real pain involved was learning how to "write gigs". We had to use the Air Force OTS "Gig Slip" and it had to look like the one in the manual. The one in the manual was typewritten. We only had black Skilcraft pens (made by blind people) but we had to make the form look typewritten. I was in a state of despair after the first night. I couldn't make the writing look like it was typed, so I got more demerits for being late with my writing.

We had PT every morning and of course there were certain weather conditions which governed our outside activities. There was a "green flag" which said activities were OK for everyone, a "Yellow Flag" which allowed some outside physical exertion, a "Red Flag" which indicated that those not acclimated (at least three weeks living in Texas) could not exercise and the "Purple Flag" indicating all outdoor activities were banned for everyone.

Here's how it worked. The "underclass" (those with less than six weeks in the school) exercised all at one time. At the time indicated on the schedule if there was a red flag then it was lowered and the yellow was flown until we completed our activities - then it was replaced by the red again. Six weeks later, after we were acclimated, PT was done later in the day and inevitably a purple was replaced with a red while we exercised. The show did go on!

The Missing Years

Image by Kim Smith via Flickr

I would say that from sixth grade until High School graduation were my "missing years." For a very long time I didn't like me, I didn't like school, I didn't like being at home and I pretty much didn't like anything except band classes and being with my friends in the band.

Things got better when I was introduced into the 601st Militia. The "601" was where, by playing, I began to grow up. There's nothing like a bullet whizzing past you that wakes you up and makes the world a sweeter place to live in. It makes a whirring-buzzing-zinging that isn't fairly represented by the background noise in movies. A bullet in the air near you has a real presence and once you hear one you'll know what I'm talking about. Going on raids with my group was a lot like "playing war" with a good dose of reality wrapped up in it. It is really a good thing that we did not have access to stable explosives.

Things got really better when I met Patricia Anne Langley. How we could have existed for so many years, living 3 miles from each other, being in the same grade level at school and sometimes riding the same bus is almost astonishing. But, in my senior year at Greenwood High I went to a Christmas party and there she was! We dated and by March we were "going steady."

Pat has always been the rock that I could depend upon to steady me and keep me going when I would rather not. She is a jewel of great value and anything that I have accomplished in life tracks back to my love for her. Pat is a quiet, loving wife, mother and grand-mother whose very presence nourishes our lives.

We went steady for over three years and married on June 2, 1968. Pat taught school while I worked in the mill and continued my education. While I was working over 56 hours a week on varied shifts in the mill, trying to run a farm with 135 head of cattle and taking 18 hours of classes at Lander we managed to see one another once in a while.

Remember that in 1968 the war in Viet Nam was already hot and getting hotter. If you didn't have a real good reason; your draft classification was 1-A and within a month a letter came in the mail indicating that your friends and neighbors had chosen you to be inducted into the military for two years of involuntary service. Everybody dreaded that letter and did what they could to avoid being drafted.

Instead of going into the draft, you could join the National Guard or the Reserves. So I drove down to the National Guard armory and noted that the line for volunteers was several blocks long. There were only 10 openings... Going back to the Canteen at Lander to participate in my morning game of poker; I ran into the friendly Air Force recruiter. He said, "How would you like to be up in the air dropping bombs on the Viet Cong instead of in the jungle smelling them?" I said OK and the first thing I knew, I was sworn in to the United States Air Force with a reporting date of July 3, 1969. The missing years were then over. I remember everything from that day forward.

Hunting - With Apologies to Sandy

Image by cj berry 2009 via Flickr

We hunted more for sport than for food, but we didn't waste the food either. Mac and I would go hunting some Saturdays and we would tramp through the woods with Flip the squirrel dog and let the dog do most of the work. Flip would spot a squirrel, run it up a tree and then spot where it was hiding on a limb and point it out for one of us to shoot. We used a .22 rifle to save the meat and always tried for a "head shot." Some days we would come home with 3 or 4 squirrels. We would then clean them and give them to Mamma who would put them in a dishpan in salty water and soak them overnight before either frying for breakfast or stewing for dinner. I remember the squirrel and dumplings was a family favorite, but I don't remember eating a whole lot of it. I did eat fried squirrel and fried rabbit whenever we had it.

I seldom hunted with Daddy. He didn't like to roam around hunting - he preferred to sit silently in one place and wait for the game to come to him. It must have been effective, because he always came home with game. He only hunted with a .22 rifle. I never saw him with a shotgun unless he was trying to get blackbirds out of his planted fields. One time he killed over a hundred starlings with two shots from a 16 guage. Daddy told us that when he was very young - and when everyone was very hungry, the whole family would go out at night and surround bushes and drop a blanket over each bush and collect the birds that were under it for eating. It didn't matter what kind of birds they were either. I remember him saying that Crow tastes a lot like chicken!

As I've probably mentioned earlier, there were no deer in our area then. Deer had been hunted out of the area well before the War Between the States. The only SC deer were in the "low country." Someone brought us some deer meat from a hunt in the low country and Mamma fried it and covered it with gravy. I really liked it.

Sometimes we would catch a turtle or two and make a stew. The story that was most often told was that "there are 7 kinds of meat on a turtle!" I never knew because I wouldn't touch it.

I remember that sometime in 1957 a "flu bug" made its rounds in our area. It was called the "Asian Flu" and the connotations were that it came from China and might be a biological attack on our country. I remember it like this: Tommy Cothran and I were building a rabbit box. Think of a wooden box 3 feet long, 12 inches high and 9 inches wide. The door to the box slid up and was attached to a trigger device. You simply had to find a place to put the box - preferably near a rabbit trail and bait it with fruit. Then you went home and waited for the rabbit to go in, trip the trigger and be caught. You usually made rounds of your rabbit boxes early in the morning and brought the rabbits back to Mamma before breakfast.

Anyway, we were making a rabbit box and around 4 o'clock that afternoon I started feeling bad. Kind of droopy and achy. I kept building the box and when it was complete I walked in and told Mamma that I had to go to bed. Just like that it was on. Everybody in the family caught the flu and everybody was the sickest that any of us remember. We couldn't even go to the doctor and he couldn't come to our house because there were so many cases. He just told Mamma that everyone should take Bufferin every two hours until the fever broke. I had never heard of Bufferin until that day and we all thought is was a wonder drug. It sure helped the fever and the aches.

At one point we were all so sick we just stayed in bed and helped Mamma remember when it was time for Bufferin. Eventually, we all made it through and recovered.
Now we know that the "Asian Flu" was an Avian strain called H2N2 and it eventually mutated into H3N2 which caused the 1969 outbreak, or "mini-pandemic." I'll chat about H3N2 when I'm talking about the Air Force later on.

What did we do with the rabbits? We ate them!!

Wood Heating

To me, there is no better heating system than one fired by wood. The smell of wood smoke is definitely better than that of coal - even though coal makes a hotter fire. I've never tried burning cow chips or charcoal to heat a house, but I'll bet that wood smells better.

Wood warms you two times. You get warm when you're cutting, splitting and hauling; and you get warm when you burn the wood. I remember wood gathering parties that started early on a saturday morning when the temperature was in the low 20's that made you want to get a tree on the ground fast so that you could start working on it and stop freezing! On those mornings the chain saw would balk and sputter and finally crank. Sometimes we had to mix kerosene with the chain oil to make it flow down the blade.

When I was between 6 and 12 we only cut wood with manual saws and axes. Two people on a cross cut saw can fell a tree fairly quickly - perhaps in 10 or 15 minutes. But then you have to cut it into useable lengths. We had a cutoff saw near the house that would run off the PTO of the Cub tractor, but you had to get the wood to the saw and that was work.

Later, after Daddy died, Mac bought a Homelite chainsaw, and then a Poulan and then another Poulan. With one of those we could cut and split a truckload in an hour or so. We still had to split the wood with axes and mauls, but it was good wood and a lot easier to get. Then Ben bought a Husqvarna and a motorized splitter and we could really cut and split woodl. We have burned a lot of firewood in this family in the past half-century.