Power and Control

02. May 2007 · Comments Off on Power and Control · Categories: Fun and Games, General, Military, My Head Hurts, Rant, Stupidity, World

Well, so much for active-duty Army mil-blogging, if the Army Powers-That-Be have their way. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot, public affairs-wise… but color me fairly unsurprised by this latest move to constrain active-duty Army bloggers. Frankly, if I am surprised at anything, it’s that milblogs by active-duty troops managed to escape the clammy clutches of the Public Affairs office for as long as they have. For a long while, I thought that someone up in the higher-echelons was actually being rather clever; in taking the hands-off approach. Milblogs got the word out, without being tainted by association with military propaganda; about the war, about the military, provided expert commentary and feedback, under no particular censorship other than that of good sense and op-sec as practiced by the individual.

For surely the military public affairs world must have known about military bloggers, fairly early on (say at least by 2002). I myself made a long slog up to the PA shop at BAMC about that time, offering to pass on any appeals they might have on behalf of injured troops. This was when Blondie was over in Kuwait, and our readers at the time were overwhelmingly generous to her unit… to the point where I wanted to see it shared with other troops. I talked to a civilian PA type, who at least had heard of military blogs, and promised to pass on my e-mail and URL to his superiors, and that was the last I ever heard. I’d have thought, based on my own experience, that as interested as the Public Affairs was in traditional media coverage of the military… I’d have seen a little more interest. Unless they were total boobs about this newfangled internet thingy. That wouldn’t have surprised me… much, but assuming some sort of hands-off policy at least gave credit for intelligence and creative thinking at the highest military PA level.

But… and that is the industrial-sized, multi-purpose, all-wool-and-a-yard-wide but (Hey, who let Rosie O’Donnell in here?). But… the military is an authoritarian institution. Top down and paved wall-to-wall with regulations for most things. As a rough rule of thumb, those in charge are supposed to have an idea about what the lower ranks are up to… yes, even you, General Karpinski. And those in charge prefer that those lower down the chain of command are doing what they have been told to do. Personal initiative is all very nice, and even lauded from those who have proved they can exercise it wisely and responsibly. For everyone else, there are rules. And it is one of those lamentable realities of the military world that almost the first reaction to a new situation or set of conditions is to make a rule or regulation about it. Leopard, spots, can’t change. Reaction, knee-jerk, officers for the use of.

I thought the Army was about the most extreme in this regard; the Air Force generally operated on the initial assumption that their personnel were intelligent and responsible, and only descended like a ton of bricks when an individual decisively proved the contrary. The Army seemed to operate from the opposite set of assumptions…possibly because it either saved time or was just easier. I saw a perfect example of this during my year in Korea, at Yongsan Garrison. Out of the clear blue, the Army Powers-That-Be suddenly forbade uniformed personnel to consume food from street-vendors, unless it was something like a sealed soft-drink can, or something in a package. Probably some poor troop got a tummy-ache from a bite of bad bulgogi at a street stand, but after a great deal of vociferous complaint and requests for clarification (what constituted the sort of food that was forbidden, what exactly was a street vender? Some of the open-air vendors were pretty permanent establishments!) the Powers-That-Be grudgingly clarified their purpose; which was that they didn’t want us to be eating food prepared by unlicensed vendors. Well, asked we at AFN… wouldn’t it be more logical just to tell people to not eat from unlicensed vendors… maybe, perhaps, maybe teach our audience what a Korean Department of Health food-vendor’s license looked like, and how to request it politely?
Certainly not, returned the Army Powers-That-Be, rather grumpily… that was not how the Army did things.

Ah, said we, in resignation… Of course; it was just the easy way. Not the most thoughtful way, or the way that encouraged people’s own sense of self-preservation, or the way that preserved the livelihood of those hard-working and licensed local national food vendors, or the way that might truly protect uniformed personnel from bad food. It was just the easy way. Make a rule.

Dump Sweet Dump

02. March 2007 · Comments Off on Dump Sweet Dump · Categories: Air Force, Domestic, General, Home Front, Military, Pajama Game

Some heartburn noted this week in some quarters about the Washington Post story about the treatment and the living conditions of outpatients at Walter Reed Army Hospital, and why the milblogosphere is not having a conniption-fit over that, with many dark hints about how we would be screeching like a cage of howler-monkeys if it had happened under another administration.

Not having a background in medical administration, or any particular knowledge of the set-up at Walter Reed, or even personal knowledge of anyone undergoing treatment there, I’d have to defer involvement in this fracas… except for a comment on the reported decrepitude of the building where many of the out-patients were living. From the description it sounds like, and most probably is, a dump.

All of these might come as a surprise to the dear little civilian writers of the WaPo and it’s ilk, who see the nice, shiny public side of the gold-plated bases, and assume that the rest of the base, post or fort is similarly bright and shiny and new. Au contraire, as they say in France, and ‘twas ever thus: George Washington lived in a house at Valley Forge, but everyone else lived in something considerably less commodious.

The reason that no one in the mil-blogosphere is hyperventilating over that aspect of the story is that most of us have lived in, or did business in worse, during our time in service. Peeling paint, leaking plumbing, sagging floors, corroding pipes, herds of rampant vermin wandering untrammeled in cheap and badly-maintained structures that are two or three decades (or more) past their best-if-used-by date? Been there, done that, got a raft of horror stories of my own.

Let’s see, there was the old high school on Misawa AB, back in the days when it was a sleepy little Security Service base; it was housed in three long sheds which had been stables when Misawa AB was a Japanese Army cavalry post in the late 1930ies. On a hot summer day the place still smelled distinctly of horses. It was slated to be replaced during the Carter Administration, except that Jimmeh passed on the defense spending bill which would have paid for it; another good reason to despise him even before bungling the Iran Embassy hostage crisis. Even the relatively newer facilities on MAB then were no prize: famously the hospital barracks was in such bad shape that a guy once walked into the upstairs shower room and crashed straight through the floor into the downstairs shower room. This was the place where I developed my life-to-date habit of storing all non-refrigerated foodstuffs in sealed jars, since the barracks I lived in then had roaches. Lots and lots of roaches.

The infrastructure on Zaragoza AB wasn’t too awful— this was an Air Force Base, where we do cling to some standards— but the water pipes were so corroded that tap-water on base came out colored orange, about the color and consistency of Tang. People living in base housing spent a lot of money on bottled water.

The infrastructure at the Yongsan Garrison, ROK was not that much better. A couple of decades of living with the expectation of relocating the mission elsewere had left the electrical grid in such shakey condition as to make power-outages a part of the expected routine. The water pipes were so corroded that I earned fame everlasting on the day I walked into the Air Force female dorm bathroom and noticed that the shower-heads emitted a bare trickle. I took out my trusty Swiss-Army knife, unscrewed the shower-head-plate and emptied about a quarter of a cup of crud out of each. This was also the place where some of the Army troops were domiciled in Korean War-era Quonset huts. In the fall, CE had to hold training classes for the dorm managers to teach them how to run the antique kerosene heaters that warmed them… the heaters were so old that the average soldier would never in his or her life laid eyes on artifacts of such antiquity.

The AFRTS station building in Greenland had mice so tame that one of the board operaters tried to train them to sit up and beg for food. A broadcaster friend of mine who was stationed at a Pacific Island Navy base was warming a pan of canned chili in a saucepan, when a huge rat jumped into the hot chili… and jumped out again, and skittered down the hallway of the dorm, leaving little rat-footprints of chili con carne.

Maintenance of facilities; it’s one of those dull, dull issues that hardly anyone ever pays attention to except those who have to deal directly with it on a daily basis. It’s not one of those sexy military spending issues; it is more of enduring headache, for there is never quite enough money approved for a tenth of local needs. What there is, winds up being spread as thin as a pat of butter on an acre of toast.

Overseas bases, and facilities that are on the verge of being closed generally get last call; and I’d note that politicians and investagative reporters are usually among the first to make a lot of hay when there is money spent on an aging military facility about to be closed.

So call me grimly amused, when they are making hay about money not being spent on an aging military facility.

Just for the heck of it though, the next time I have an appointment at BAMC, here in San Antonio, I’ll snoop around and take a look at what the outpatient troop quarters look like… but the last time I looked, six months ago, they all looked pretty good.

Any recollections of infamously awful troop billets are invited, of course. Misery loves company.

SLOW BLEED = SCREW THE MILITARY

18. February 2007 · Comments Off on SLOW BLEED = SCREW THE MILITARY · Categories: Iraq, Military, Politics, Rant

The lengths to which the far left will go to avenge the election and re-election of George Bush have amazed me since 2000, but their most recent behavior takes vulgarity, indecency and cynism to a new level. This business of the so-called slow bleed strategy has nothing to do with whether we should or should not have gone into Iraq, and everything to do with adding suspenders to the belt in insuring that defeat is certain. I for one believe that the notion of micromanaging military affairs to the extent that they have threatened is unconstitutional under Article II Section 2. While Jack Murtha and his supporters would have us believe that his convictions are especially valid on the basis of his military service, I submit that his pandering to the fanatic left wing base of his party is his sole motivation and completely negates any respect he may have earned in the service of his country. Actually, earning the disrespect of his fellow Americans has been a work in progress since at least 1980, when he was caught up in the Abscam scandal

If you want to hear what a true hero has to say about funding the troops, watch Texas congressman Sam Johnson here as he speaks at House hearings. Not only a true hero, but a gentleman to boot.

Memo: When at the Bottom of a Hole

07. February 2007 · Comments Off on Memo: When at the Bottom of a Hole · Categories: General, GWOT, Home Front, Media Matters Not, Military, Rant, sarcasm

To: Wm. Arkin, “Military Expert”*
From: Sgt Mom
Re: Stop Digging

1. I take pen in hand, metaphorically speaking after reading your latest apologetic non-apology, to offer some kindly advice: Put down the shovel, step away from the hole and for the love of mike, stop digging. Possibly your editor or kindly-intentioned friends have already told you this. I encourage you to listen to them, as they presumably have your better interests at heart.

2. It is not clear in my mind why you pull down a substantial paycheck and are bylined as a “military expert” *. A single term of enlistment in the early 1970ies is pretty thin qualification, unless there is something more substantial to account for this miracle, since to put it kindly, nothing you have written ever since would lead anyone to confuse you with Ernie Pyle. Or Austin Bay. Or David Hackworth.

3. Try and wrap your mind around this basic contradiction: ever since the war in Afghanistan and Iraq began, those who have generally thought it a good idea and said so have been slammed with the chicken-hawk argument by those who do not see it as a good idea. That is to say “You have no right to support the war unless you are wearing a uniform and/or stationed in the war zone”. So a couple of young troops who are unmistakably wearing a uniform and verifiably serving in Iraq speak up and support the war effort there and you are (as teenagers say) all about saying “Shut up! We pay your salary so we own you, and you don’t have any rights to speak out about the war!” The contradiction is, to say the least, rather amusing, since it suggests that you don’t wish to hear their opinions unless they happen to agree with yours. This can be somewhat of a handicap for a reporter, actually.

4. I am also amused by the air of hurt astonishment which you display upon being confronted by the anger and outrage of those who have taken offense at your deeply insulting terms used to disparage the serving military. A so-called “military expert”* should expect a certain amount of flack in response to using such words as “mercenary”, and telling members of the service that they are lucky they to not treated like war criminals by the public at large. Do you recollect the phrase “Suck it up, hard charger” from your time of service? Apparently not. How about the one about people who can dish it out, but can’t take it?

5. Finally, I think you should take up another by-line, other than “military expert”. You remind me at this point of a veterinarian who despises animals and can’t quite figure out why they keep chomping great chunks of flesh out of him.

6. As always, the * denotes viciously skeptical quote marks.

Sincerely
Sgt Mom

PS – Can I byline myself as a military expert? I’ve been retired for a bit, but at least I can write about the military without pissing them off, and I’ll work for less, also. Think about it. Have your people call my people, or something.

(Cross-posted at Blogger News Network)

Comancheria: Part 2

04. February 2007 · Comments Off on Comancheria: Part 2 · Categories: General, History, Military, Old West, Pajama Game

(Part 1 is here)

It was not as if the Texans were entirely defenseless against a surprise attack like the Great Linnville Raid. Poor in cash, poor in practically everything but land, the conditions of the frontier had attracted large numbers of the restless and adventurous, who were not inclined to accept any sort of insult lying down. With no meaningful standing army, defense of local communities depended on their militia… usually composed of every able-bodied male. The sheer size of Texas and the nature of war waged by the horse-lords of the Southern Plains made it imperative that at least a portion of the militia be mounted. Over the twenty years after the founding of Stephen Austin’s colony the practice evolved for a mounted militia, ready to ride in pursuit of raiders within fifteen minutes after an alarm being sounded. Sometimes they were able to catch up and retrieve captives, or stolen horses. More often, the raiding Indians split up and melted like smoke into the wilderness, leaving their pursuers frustrated and fuming, their horses exhausted. It became quite clear, as more Anglo settlers poured into Texas, that the best defense was in the offense, to field a mounted patrol out ranging the back-country, looking to forestall Indian raids.

Such a Corps of Rangers was formally established on the eve of Texan rebellion against Mexico. Distinct from the militia and the regular army, the mounted ranging companies continued to serve after the war, in various forms and degrees of effectiveness, most of them locally supported. The citizen-rangers of the local companies assembled for short periods of time in response to specific dangers, their numbers ever-flexible. They supplied their own arms, horses and equipment. By the time of the Linnville Raid, most of them were veterans of the War for Independence, and had years of experience in the field otherwise; men like Mathew “Old Paint” Caldwell of Gonzalez, and the McCullough brothers, who had handled Sam Houston’s two artillery pieces at the Battle of San Jacinto. Ben McCullough had even been trained in outdoor skills by no less than Davy Crockett himself. Companies from settlements along the Colorado assembled under Edward Burleson, including Chief Placido and twelve Tonkawa Indians, who had their own score with the Comanche to settle, and twenty-one volunteers from Port Lavaca. Other volunteers gathered from Bastrop, Cuero, Victoria and other towns scattered along the river valleys between the coast and the start of the limestone hills.

Barely a week after the burning of Linnville, companies of volunteer Texans were closing in inexorably on the withdrawing Comanche raiding party, at an open plain by Plum Creek, a tributary of the San Marcos River near present-day Lockhart. Burdened by loot, captives and a slow-moving herd of stolen horses and mules, the raiders, a huge party of Penateka Comanche, led by a war chief called Buffalo Hump, had not split up and scattered as was their usual custom. Unknowing, Buffalo Hump’s war party were closely pursued by part of McCullough’s Gonzales company, who began seeing exhausted pack animals shot and left by the wayside. Caldwell and the other leaders had deduced the route by which they were returning, and had arranged their forces accordingly. They let the Comanche column pass, under a great cloud of dust and ash, for the prairie had recently been burned over.

Not until the Texans rode out from cover in two parallel lines converging on them, did the Comanche warriors even know they had been followed. Some of their gaudily adorned chiefs rode out to put on a show, intending to cover the withdrawal, taunting the waiting Texans, riding back and forth. A Texan sharp-shooter brought down the most flamboyant of the chiefs, and when several warriors rode out to carry his body away, the order for a charge was given. The Texans smashed through the line of Comanche fighters from both sides, and into the loot-laden horse and mule herd. As the herd stampeded, the whole raid dissolved into a rout, a hundred bloody running fights, with the Comanche fighters penned in and ridden down. The battle ran for fifteen miles, with some of the survivors chased as far as Austin. It was later estimated that the tribe lost about a quarter of their effective fighters. They never raided so far into the settled regions of Texas again, in such numbers… and after the Plum Creek fight learned to give a wide berth to volunteer Ranger companies.

One such company was based in San Antonio, composed of local volunteers and funded by local businessmen, many of whom also participated in the patrols. The captain of that company was a surveyor by profession, born in Tennessee and raised in Mississippi, who would live to a ripe old age as a politician and lawman in California. Quiet, modest, self-effacing, Jack Hays became the very beau ideal of a captain of Rangers. He had been among the volunteers at Plum Creek, but made his name in the decade afterwards, astounding people who knew only his reputation upon meeting him for the first time. He was slight, short and refined in appearance, and looked about fourteen years old. But he was a also gifted leader of irregular fighters, possessed an iron constitution, and procured for his men an innovation which allowed them to carry the fight against the Comanche Indians on something like equal terms… the Colt Revolver.

(to be continued)

Memo: Going Around, Coming Around

30. January 2007 · Comments Off on Memo: Going Around, Coming Around · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Media Matters Not, Military, Politics, Rant, sarcasm

To: Various
From: Sgt Mom
Re: Response to Various Recent Events:

1. To: Major Legacy Media – Cease pussyfooting around and anoint the Chosen One… that is, the favored Democratic presidential nominee. Try to give the blogosphere a more substantial chew-toy than last time.

2. To Major Legacy Media – additional note. Keep in mind that anyone who has been in politics for longer than the last five minutes has “form”; that is, an established record of votes, speeches, interview, op-eds and appearances on the Sunday morning wank-fests. Contradictions, misstatements and mis-handled jokes will be noted by the blogosphere with every evidence of keen enjoyment. Take notes, try and keep up.

3. To Reuters and the AP news services: I already turn the page, as soon as I see that credit line at the top of the story. I am beginning to think a lot of other people are doing the same.

4. To President Ahmedinajad of Iran; So, punk, how lucky do you really feel?

5. To: Jewish residents of Western Europe, and those few Christian residents left in the Middle East; one word. Emigration

6. To: Those who feel moved by anti-war passions to expend bodily fluids in the general direction of uniformed military personnel; word to the wise. Our toleration of that s**t ran out approximately thirty years ago. The same goes also for businesses whose employees get snippy with military customers for the same reason.

7. To: The Council on Islamic American Relations; We have not noted Hollywood churning out vast quantities of anti-Islamic propaganda, in order to whip up the feelings of us ignorant proles. In fact, quite the reverse. But we have noted that whenever there is an uptick in car-bombs, beheadings, riots, mob violence, hostage-taking and assorted other anti-social activities in the news, the odds are very good that that a guy named Mohammed has been involved one way or another. Good luck with trying to erase this association in our minds.

8. To Ms. Jane Fonda – Please, if you are so damned keen to reprise the glory days of the 1960ies, confine yourself to doing a remake of Barbarella. Please.

Sincerely,
Sgt Mom

Strange Report – World War II Version

26. January 2007 · Comments Off on Strange Report – World War II Version · Categories: General, History, Military, War

(The following lifted from a message posted on a Yahoo group for military broadcasters: a collection of oddball factoids about World War II. I do know the one about the Koreans is true, as it was written up in one of Stephen Ambroses’ books about D-Day. All others, salt to taste and discuss amongst yourselves.)

1. The first German serviceman killed in WW2 was killed by the Japanese (China, 1937), the first American serviceman killed was killed by the Russians (Finland 1940), the highest ranking American killed was Lt. Gen. Lesley McNair, killed by the US Army Air Corps. . . . So much for allies.

2. The youngest US serviceman was 12 year old Calvin Graham, USN. He was wounded and given a Dishonorable Discharge for lying about his age. (His benefits were later restored by act of Congress.)

3. At the time of Pearl Harbor the top US Navy command was Called CINCUS (pronounced “sink us”), the shoulder patch of the US Army’s 45th Infantry division was the Swastika, and Hitler’s private train was named “Amerika.” All three were soon changed for PR purposes.

4. More US servicemen died in the Air Corps than the Marine Corps. While completing the required 30 missions your chance of being killed was 71%.

5. Generally speaking there was no such thing as an average fighter pilot.You were either an ace or a target. For instance Japanese ace Hiroyoshi Nishizawa shot down over 80 planes. He died while a passenger on a Cargo plane.

6. It was a common practice on fighter planes to load every 5th round with a tracer round to aid in aiming. This was a mistake. Tracers had different ballistics so (at long range) if your tracers were hitting the target 80% of your rounds were missing. Worse yet tracers instantly told your enemy he was under fire and from which direction. Worst of all was the practice of loading a string of tracers at the end of the belt to tell you that you were out of ammo. This was definitely not something you wanted to tell the enemy. Units that stopped using tracers saw their success rate nearly double and their loss rate go down.

YOU’VE GOT TO LOVE THIS ONE….

7. When allied armies reached the Rhine the first thing men did was pee in it. This was pretty universal from the lowest private to Winston Churchill (who made a big show of it) and Gen. Patton (who had himself photographed in the act), found the photo (hand tinted black and white).

8. German Me-264 bombers were capable of bombing New York City but it wasn’t worth the effort.

9. German submarine U-120 was sunk by a malfunctioning toilet.

10. Among the first “Germans” captured at Normandy were several Koreans. They had been forced to fight for the Japanese Army until they were captured by the Russians and forced to fight for the Russian Army until they were captured by the Germans and forced to fight for the German Army until they were captured by the US Army.

AND I SAVED THE BEST FOR LAST….

11. Following a massive naval bombardment 35,000 US and Canadian troops stormed ashore at Kiska, in the Aleutian Islands. 21 troops were killed in the firefight. It would have been worse if there had been any Japanese on the island.

Just a Wee Morsel

22. January 2007 · Comments Off on Just a Wee Morsel · Categories: General, Literary Good Stuff, Military, Pajama Game

(Just for fun, this is one of the stories that I bashed out just after I retired, a sort of update of Kiplings’ Sergeants Three, and a way of explaining what women in the military were really like. Enjoy!)

One very slow news day at the tail end of the buildup to the first Gulf War, I decided to hunt up my three friends: Sergeants Leroy and Maculhaney, who were attached to the mobile AFRTS station, and Orvis who was attached to Combat Camera, where she was stubbornly campaigning to adopt the motto “You Kill Them, We’ll Capture The Moment.”
“You lookin’ for Deege?” At the station, Ty Reese, Maculhaney’s friend and cohort on assorted broadcasting crimes waved to me from the studio trailer door. He had
kicked it open with his foot, and kept it in place by hooking his
toe around the edge of it. He also had a fistful of
plain CD jewelbox cases in one hand, a coffee mug in the other hand, and a three-day old copy of the “Stars & Stripes” tucked between his elbow and side,. Altogether it was an impressive display of organizational juggling.
” Just missed her… she’s off shift, probably heading back to her hooch. It’s two down, three over from here….Hey, that anything more current?” He eyed the newspaper I had brought out from my hotel downtown with positive hunger, and I answered regretfully,
“I bought it for Mackie, but I’ll ask her to pass it on to you when she’s done…its yesterdays’ Washington Post, though.”
“Ma’am, at this rate, I’m about to subscribe to the West Podunk Gazette Recorder, if’n they’d promise delivery to our hooch, and four pages of funnies on Sunday!”
“I can spare you a week-old copy of Time.” I fished it out of my bag, and Ty deftly snapped it under his elbow with the newspaper, saying
“Inquiring minds want to know… whaddy they say at the press briefings
that they don’t show on CNN?”
“That the doughnuts are stale, and the coffee is cold,” I said, wryly, and Ty grinned like the genial maniac that he was,
“Life is just full of these little tragedies, ain’t it?” and withdrew into the studio. I had met several more of the broadcasters, since I got to know Maculhaney and Leroy. While military radio broadcasters did not vary quite so much as the civilian variety, being more or less the same age, and displaying about the same amount of experience, education and physical fitness, they were a little outside the other military professionals I had met so far. The military broadcasters were intelligently verbal, aggressively impatient with the slow on the uptake, and needled each other on air and off with wit and creativity. Hanging out with them frequently sounded like an endless improvisational skit created by an off-the-wall comedy troop with a taste for lavatorial humor and an encyclopedic memory of twenty years of popular music.
I followed Ty’s vague directions. Although I had visited many times, the tent city lamentably looked all alike. Halfway there, I caught up to Maculhaney, just as a large tan vehicle rumbled past, missing her by inches.
“You ought to be more careful!” I said, “I’d hate to be deprived of one of my deep background sources.”
“Ehh, they wouldn’t dare run me over… the paperwork would never end,” Maculhaney was casually dismissive.
“So you like living dangerously?” I asked and she answered
“Well, statistically, the only things I have to worry about are an airplane crashing on top of me, and the Viet Cong overrunning the compound. Drunk drivers and colonels who hate rock and roll are a much more significant hazard… stick with us, and you’ll just have to worry about falling aircraft, and substance abuse.”
“Thanks. I think,” I said, as the door to the female NCO hooch fell closed behind us. I knew by then, others lived there besides Maculhaney, Leroy and Orvis, but those others came and went, as the military mission required. Since they had been there nearly the longest, they had done the most toward making it, if not precisely homelike, a little less bleakly comfortless. The latest innovation occupied the center of Maculhaney’s bed, nestled in her upturned helmet on what looked like an old terrycloth towel, a tiny piebald puddle of fur.
“Do you know there’s a cat in your hat?” I asked, and Maculhaney replied
“Yes, but I’ve always more favored green eggs and ham better…. I forgot, you hadn’t met the Wee Morsel.” She gently slid her fingers under the sleeping kitten, and lifted it out. It barely filled the palm of one hand. Sleep disturbed, the tiny thing mewed a nearly silent, feeble, protest, and I said,
“Good lord, its eyes aren’t even open! Where did you get it? Doesn’t it have a mother, someplace?”
“It did… she was a stray that some of the Army guys were feeding. They had her sort of tamed, but something went wrong, after she littered. The guys found her dead, and they went looking for the kittens. This one was the only one still alive. D’you know we have a veterinary detachment here, for the bomb dogs? Well, they took the kitten to the vet, and one of the Army guys is an old buddy of Leroy’s husband. He is such a softie for our dumb chums, he begged Lee and I to take over, and we’re such softies ourselves that we said we would.”
All the while, Maculhaney was cuddling the kitten in one hand, and taking out a bottle of
some thick, yellowish fluid out of the refrigerator with the other. Setting the bottle on the table, she took an eyedropper from some mysterious store in her battledress pockets, and began dribbling the fluid into the Wee Morsel’s tiny pink mouth. “He… I know it’s a he, got itsy, bitsy teensy balls…is about a week and a half old. We’ve been feeding him like this for about four days, and I think it’s working. This stuff is condensed milk and water, with an egg yolk and
some corn syrup mixed in.”
The Wee Morsel sucked avidly on the eyedropper, wrapping his paws, fringed with translucent little claws, around it. It’s ears lay close against the skull like delicate new leaves and the black and white fur was still so thin and short that the pink skin underneath could still be seen.
“Whatever are you going to do with it?” I asked, fascinated. I already had an idea for a
human-interest essay taking form.
“Don’t know,” Maculhaney refilled the dropper, deftly easing it into the tiny mouth, “Depends on if it lives… poor little thing! I’ve hand-raised kittens before, but they were older than this.”
I noticed, however, that she stroked the Wee Morsel’s head delicately, and as tiny as it was, it rose to meet the caress.

The events of the next week or so pretty well drove the existence of the Wee Morsel out of mind. Leroy told me later that she managed to buy a wicker travel basket on the local economy, when it became apparent that the Wee Morsel was going to live, and needed a more suitable home than Maculhaney’s helmet. I presume that he shared the subsequent hours and days in the shelter during Scud alerts, since Maculhaney and Leroy were conscientious mother-substitutes. I honestly did not become aware of his existence again until several weeks afterwards, during another one of my visits to what Orvis described as “Mi dump, su dump.”
The black and white kitten drifted silently across the floor, after I had poured myself another cup of Leroy’s ever-present herb tea, and regarded me solemnly.
“Good heavens, he has grown,” I said, and Leroy laughed, and picked him up by the scruff of his neck and dropped him in my lap.
“He sure has, he’s eating solid grown-up cat food now, and sleeping all through
the night!”
Orvis, scowling at the letter pad propped against her knees, remarked
“Amen fo’ that!”
“Wait till you have kids,” Leroy said knowingly, and Orvis replied
“They the trouble that lil’ thang has been, then I won’t ever… waking’ up all nights, all hours, jus’ cause that thang let out a peep!”
The “lil’ thang” regarded me with ancient yellow-green eyes, and licked my wrist with a raspy pink tongue, before swarming up to table-top level, and crouching down, brief tail wrapped around haunches, to watch Leroy cleaning and reassembling a videotape recorder.
“The Prophet Mohammed is reported to have cut the sleeve off his robe, “I
said seditiously, “Rather than disturb his pet cat, asleep on his arm,”
Orvis retorted unprintably, and Leroy scratched the Wee Morsel between his tiny ears,
“Aww, don’ say that, Sunny… you just mad ’cause he put a dead scorpion on your pillow. That means he likes you.”
“A mighty hunter before the Lord,” Maculhaney remarked from her cot, where she was reading the latest “Atlantic”, “He is looking for your affection and approval. Be a sport and play along, or we shall never be able to place him with a suitable human.”
“I thought one of you would be taking him,” I said, and Maculhaney said,
“I have two already, and they don’t either of them takes kindly to interlopers. They are both elderly and cranky… it just wouldn’t be fair.”
“Mitch is allergic to cat dander,” Leroy said, “He can’t even stand to be in a room where a cat has been. I’ll have to wash everything that this lil’ fellow has touched, else Mitch ‘l be sneezing an’ coughing ’til next Christmas.”

“But what are you going to do when him, when you rotate home?” I said, and
Maculhaney answered,
“Oh, don’t worry about it, we’ll sort out something,”
I let the matter rest, for the moment. I knew as sure as the sun rose in the morning, Leroy and Maculhaney between them would see the piebald kitten to a loving home, with a commodious litter box and tuna on demand.
Away in the desert towards Iraq, Desert Storm broke and fell, and in a matter of weeks, Kuwait was liberated. I threw in my lot with a couple of old reporter friends who had plotted a lighting trip in a rented Range Rover— another story I have told elsewhere. By the time I visited Leroy and Maculhaney again, the kitten was a gangly adolescent cat, wearing a bright red harness and leash, and riding Maculhaney’s shoulder, as she walked along the main road through
tent city. I had the driver let me off, and the first thing I said was,
“Wasn’t there a popular song about taking the cat for a walk?”
“Norma Tanega, “Maculhaney answered instantly. Of course, she would know that.
“‘Walking My Cat Named Dog’… 1967ish, I believe.”
She set the Wee Morsel down at her feet, and he scampered obediently at the end of his leash as we walked together. Nearly as many people stopped to pet him as spoke to Maculhaney. I had never seen a cat take very well to a leash before, and when I remarked on it she answered,
“I don’t think he knows he’s a cat. I’m not at all sure what he thinks he is, but he definitely thinks he’s something more than a cat. He doesn’t meow, for one. He tries, but all that comes out is a tiny squeak. And he’s very much an inside cat. He won’t go outside, unless one of us takes him. Since he has been handled constantly since birth, he has bonded very well to humans… we are pretty close to finding him a good home.”
Inside the female NCO hooch, she unsnapped the leash, and the Wee Morsel made a beeline for Orvis’ area,
“Long time, no see, Reporter Lady,” said Orvis, in pleased surprise, “Dammit, cat, get outta there!” She scooped Wee Morsel out of an opened portabrace bag, “Go catch a rat, ‘r somthin’! So where’ve you been keeping yourself? ”
“Here and there,” I said, “I got a ride into Kuwait, stopped on the way back to liberate a cup of Leroy’s Red Zinger.”
“How did you find it all?” Maculhaney asked, and looked at the canvas ceiling
when I said,
“Basically, by following the road signs… actually? Looted to a faretheewell. They even ripped the sinks and toilets out of restrooms. I talked to some guys on the road out of town, they insisted there was a wrecked Iraqi truck full of sanitary napkins further up the road… do you know why a group of guys would rip off a truckload of sanitary napkins?”
“I haven’t got an earthly idea,” answered Maculhaney
“It sounds like a setup to a joke,” Orvis said, and Leroy suggested.
“Maybe they were trying to corner the market… looking to be the kings of the sanitary napkin black market.” She capped that with a suggestion based on a crude slang expression and an ethnic slur, which was as apt as it was not repeatable in polite company. Maculhaney looked pained when the rest of us snickered guiltily, and I said,
“That’s a headline that will never see the light of day. I actually thought about doing a story about your furry friend, here. I talked to my editor last night, and he’s already drooling. Sort of human-interest thing. Resourceful American military women rescue and nurture a helpless little kitten, and seek good home for it. Played right, it would have people lined up to adopt the Wee Morsel, and get him a ride back to the States in royal comfort. It could put your names in the headlines,”
“And our asses in slings, “Orvis said, bluntly, “Cat, get yo’ furry butt outta that bag!” She lifted Wee Morsel out of the portabrace again, and plunked him on her cot, where he licked his paws and pretended it had never happened. I looked at Leroy and Maculhaney, and they looked equally unenthused.
“It’s a good idea, “Maculhaney finally allowed, with a diplomatic touch of polite enthusiasm. “It could work, too. But it only has about an eighty per-cent chance of working the way you wanted it to.”
“Not even that good. I say sixty to seventy-per cent, “Leroy said, “Which means a twenty to forty per-cent chance of rebounding on us. It’s a great idea… but I’d rather do this our way.”
“But why?” I said, “A story would make you all look great. It would make the military look great… it’s a win-win situation. Explain to me why it wouldn’t work, as you see it.”
“‘Cause you don’t know diddly ’bout how the military really works,” Orvis said bluntly, “Fo’ all you been hangin’ with us, you still ain’t got a clue.”
“Explain it to me,” I said, exasperated. “How could it make trouble for you?”
“Because this whole thing with the Wee Morsel has been… well, definitely against the rules,” Maculhaney explained with her usual air of cynical detachment. “We have been keeping a pet in the barracks. Diverting Air Force time, energy and resources towards a questionable end. What if someone living here in the last four months had been allergic? That Army veterinarian wasn’t over here to look after sick kittens. Those egg-yolks I got from the guys in the mess
certainly weren’t suppose to be fed to them, either.”
“We got away with it because no one here complained,” Leroy added, “But I guaran-damn-tee, if you write your story, someone would raise a stink, no matter how cute other people think it ‘ud be, no matter how many other people think it plays “abide with me” on the heartstrings! And it would just take one… some damnfool congressman, or some bastard of a retired colonel with his shorts in a twist about what women are doing in his military. Trust me, someone would see it their duty to see us nailed to the wall. And we’d be screwed, even if we weren’t just ordered to dump him back where we found him.”
“Which we wouldn’t do, to start with,” Maculhaney said, “‘Excuse us for caring, but
we’re rather fond of the Wee Morsel.”
“People over here now are pretty cool with it,” Orvis chimes in. I was interested to notice that she was ticking Wee Morsel’s whiskers, “Hey, nothing’s too good for our boys and girls in a war zone, we entitled to whatever keeps us outta the rubber room at Malcom Gow. But the war’s about over, and the regular rules are gonna apply here. An’ the biggest of the
rules is, “thou shalt not draw unfavorable attention”. ”
“Making a gesture might work, in the short term. It would get Wee Morsel back to the States and some cute pictures in the Sunday supplements, but when it all dies down, those that make the rules will be remembering that we rocked the boat. Like Leroy said, they’d see us nailed to the wall. Quiet honestly, I don’t think my career can stand it.” Maculhaney said, gravely and Leroy said,
“Mine for damn sure can’t!”
“But it’s a sure-fire story, “I protested, “Isn’t there some way I can write it… maybe without mentioning names?”
“Lose our names, change some of the details,” Maculhaney considered it soberly, “If you can wait a bit… once everyone rotates home, and starts to loose track of who was where, and did what with whom. It would still be a cute story…”
“And as cold as a plate of vichyssoise, “I conceded, “Well, if that’s the only way it will fly… at least get me a picture of the Morsel to go with it.”

“Deal,” Leroy said, “As soon as you get a picture of him, then you can publish your story.”
We shook hands on it, and I passed the rest of the afternoon in the manner of most of my other visits. I had intended to visit sooner, and have no one to blame but myself that several more weeks passed, and by that time, the tent city was in the process of being struck. The tents were empty, and half of them were down: I only recognized my friend’s hooch because of the shelves that Leroy and Orvis had built, forlorn and abandoned outside, with a pile of some other trash
and a stack of Maculhaney’s old magazines. With a pang of disappointment, I walked toward the radio trailer, dreading to find that gone as well, but it was still there, although the contents were rapidly being disassembled and packed into a series of bulky square anvil cases, under Leroy’s stern eye.
“At least you’re still here,” I said, and she looked at her watch, and answered
“For another forty-six hours, and approximately twenty-two minutes… but who’s counting?”
“I didn’t know you were so short,” I said, and Leroy cackled with laughter,
“Sugar, I am so short, I can’t even carry on a long conversation! Maculhaney left yesterday, matter of fact. Sunny’s been gone for, oh, nearly three weeks now. She sent me this…” Leroy fished out a scrap of paper from her breast pocket. “It’s her parent’s address, an’ that picture we promised you.”
I looked at the Polaroid, and recognized Orvis, skimpily and unfamiliarly clad in shorts and a tube top, sitting on the edge of a verandah, somewhere in the South by the look of the lush garden just visible beyond. The Wee Morsel himself lay adoringly in her lap, and I could think of nothing to say but
“I didn’t even think she liked cats… Orvis is the person you were trying to place him with? I can’t even think of a time she wasn’t shooing him out of her area, or complaining about him leaving dead scorpions on her pillow! Whatever made you think she would take him?”
“Well, the way he kept making up to her! Sunny, now, she never had a pet, growing up, with her father in the Army and all, so she had to get used to the idea…. There was this night when she was all upset about not hearing from her husband, and that cat just crawled up on her bunk, and began licking the tears off her face, and purring and pushing his face into hers. I never seen a cat get so upset because someone was upset, before. Maculhaney didn’t, neither. That
baby cat just decided it was Sunny that he wanted for his human.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, then?”
“We couldn’t, “Leroy answered, “She hadn’t really said yes, at that point and we was still trying to work out the logistics. It was her Daddy helped the most, though. He was flying home commercial, and took him along as live cargo on his flight. It all went as easy as pie… you didn’t need to write no sob-story stuff about him. We got it all scoped out.”
“It certainly sounds like it,” I said, “Since I have the picture, can I
write my story, now?”
“Be our guest,” Leroy laughed, and added, “You ain’t gonna use our real names, though? I’d hate people to know what a softie I am…jeeze!” her attention snapped to one of her sweating young troops, two of whom had just contrived to drop a large square case onto the ground, and she snarled “Be careful with that amp Airman, it cost more than you’ll make in your next two
promotions!”
“They’ll never guess,” I said. “Never in the world.”

Why I joined the Air Force

21. January 2007 · Comments Off on Why I joined the Air Force · Categories: Air Force, Memoir, Military, Pajama Game

I originally posted this on DragonLady’s World, but have updated it some for readability, and a thing or two I just left out of the original.

I can’t write about why I got out without first talking about why I joined. There were many reasons for both. During my last undergrad course (the internship), I was looking for a post graduation job. The box factory was fine for summer work, but I didn’t spend 6 ½ years getting a 4 year degree to stack and pack boxes. My professor put me in touch with a former student who worked at the Frigidaire factory. The company was looking to fill a position working with her, as she was a single point of failure type of job. By that, I mean she was the only one who could do what she did, and if something were to happen to her, they would be hosed. I was called back for a second interview as they had narrowed the applicants down to me and one other person. Then the company decided not to fill the position.

I was bummed. I started hitting the temporary agencies to get something while I started a new search. By this time, I had my B.S., and was not looking forward to more factory work. (My degree is in Industrial Technology with a Manufacturing concentration.) This was the point that every recruiting commercial I had ever seen flashed through my head. I decided to join the Guard. I talked to Army vet hubby first. He told me that I would be happier with active duty than Guard, and to join the Air Force, not the Army because “the Air Force will take care of you.” So, I called the recruiter, and he processed me both as enlisted and officer. I was joining no matter what, and as it turned out, OTS board results would not come out until after I was scheduled for basic training. My enlisted job was guaranteed, and rather than risk losing my guaranteed job (which I methodically picked primarily because it looked fun and easy and “combat” wasn’t in the title or description), I chose to enlist rather than wait for OTS board results.

I had thought about joining the Guard in high school. My parents always spoke about the military with great respect, and built up this honorable entity for me regarding the US military. Now, of my mom’s six brothers, five were in the military: two Marines, one regular Army (he was drafted during Vietnam), and two National Guard. Of my dad and his three brothers, only two were in the military that I know of. Uncle Lawrence tried to enlist in the Army, but they didn’t want him because he didn’t finish high school. He was drafted after Pearl Harbor, and volunteered for the Army Air Corps, mainly because he thought the LT who told them about it was full of it. He said by the end of the day, he was on a train headed for FL for Air Corps training. My dad volunteered after Pearl Harbor, but the Army wouldn’t take him because he was missing two fingers on his left hand, and they considered him handicapped. Then they tried drafting him four or 5 times. He said he almost made it through the physical exam once without anyone noticing his hand. He was at the last station, and was a signature away from making it when the doc noticed. He finally moved to Alabama and joined the state militia there (which eventually became the National Guard) for the rest of the war. I also had several cousins on both sides of the family who served in the military. Anyway, I mentioned joining the Guard in front of a friend’s dad back in high school. By the time he got finished describing his experience at Ft Polk, I had changed my mind, which was his intention.

Now, that all makes it sound like I joined just to have a job, but with patriotic or family history leanings. Both are true, but not the only reasons. The hubby and I were not in a very good place in our lives, and really needed to get away. Also, neither of us had any kind of health insurance, and I knew we would eventually want to have kids. Both kids were born during my first assignment. I got to “see the world,” though Kuwait was not on my list of places I wanted to see. I got the GI Bill that is helping pay for graduate school. Most importantly, I finally got some much needed self-discipline.

Un-Civil War

28. December 2006 · Comments Off on Un-Civil War · Categories: General, History, Military, Old West, Pajama Game, War

“…From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean…”

In hot pursuit of my next “book”, I continue to plough through a great stack of readings, all about the German migration into Texas in the mid-19th century. Yes there is a great story there, of which practically no one outside Texas has ever heard, and given any sort of encouragement I will bore you rigid with all sorts of trivia. Like, for instance, the aristocratic patrons of the Society for the Protection of German Emigrants to Texas fell, hook, line, sinker and obscene amounts of cash to two of the biggest land swindles ever known. Three words “Fisher-Miller Grant”. That little fiasco was right on par with the sale of Manhattan Island, by a tribe that didn’t even own it. Ah, but it came out all right in the end… if the aristocratic members of the Society had possessed business acumen on par with their ambitions… well, let’s just say if that had been so, the second language of the state of Texas would not be Spanish. And it might not have joined the Union at all, but continued as an independent entity or quasi-German colony, which would have pleased a whole constellation of German princes and nobles, but really have annoyed the Confederate States, and deprived a great many Southern generals in the “late unpleasantness” circa 1861-65 of a great portion of their fire-eating, romping-stomping cavalry.

Texas joined the secession, to the heartbreak of Sam Houston, and enthusiastically entered into the whole spirit of the Confederacy… to be expected, since the Anglo (read American) settlers were mostly from southern states, and of that Scots-Irish breed of whom it has been oft-acknowledged that they were “born fighting”; Indians, British, the French or each other, whichever were most convenient at the moment. To read of the enthusiasm with which Texans volunteered to fight for the Confederacy is to wonder if it was just that they were spoiling for a fight, and the issues which impelled the secession were a minor bagatelle.

But this was not true of the considerable district around the German-settled areas around Fredericksburg and New Braunfels, all through the rolling lime-stone hills between San Antonio and Austin. This was the high country, the less-good land of hard-working farmers and small cattle ranches, solidly opposed to chattel slavery and who had opposed secession from the very beginning. They may have settled in Texas relatively recently, but they were a cohesive block, had put down deep roots, knew their rights and were prepared as stubborn and stiff-necked Americans to insist on them. If the Hill Country had been geographically contiguous with the Union at any point, doing a “West Virginia” and seceeding from the Secession would have met with solid approval.

As it was, the Hill Country Germans pretty much stood apart from the fray until a year into the war, in the spring of 1862, when the tide began to subtly shift against the Confederacy, to those who had the strategic sense to see the long picture. New Orleans was taken by the Union, whose forces began a slow progression up the Mississippi, slicing the Confederacy into two portions. Those who had been opposed to the whole secession thing were confirmed in their judgment, and those who had wavered began to wobble in the direction of loosing confidence… while the die-hard Confederates began to see the skull-grimace of death and defeat grinning at them from the corners.

Texas was put under martial law, and the supreme military commander was a foppish and overbearing little martinet named Hebert, who did much to make himself detestable to even supporters of the Confederacy. But what ignited resistance in the Hill Country, and farther north, around present-day Dallas, was the institution of conscription. Texas had poured 25,000 volunteers into the Confederate Army during the first year of the war. But volunteers were not enough, and in the spring of 1862 legislation passed which authorized the drafting of every Anglo (white) male between the age of 18 and 34… shortly thereafter, it was changed to 17 through 50. Resistance was instant and furious among Unionists. A party of 65 Unionist men from the Hill Country attempted to flee across the Rio Grande; they were ridden down by Confederate troops along the Nueces River, and half were killed outright or executed out of hand. In following weeks, another fifty men in Gillespie County, around Fredericksburg, were executed… many of them by Confederate vigilante gangs. It was said bitterly for decades afterwards, that more were killed in the Hill Country by such gangs during the Civil War than were ever killed by Indians, during the war or after it. A footnote in the history books, if even noted to begin with.

The experience of the Civil War had, I think, the effect of drawing the Texas German colonies into themselves, and emphasizing their distinct character, rather than diffusing amongst their neighbors as similar German enclaves did in the northern states. For they were long in forgetting what had been done to them, by their neighbors, and fellow Texans.

More about the German settlers, here and here, from the archives.

Goliad

03. December 2006 · Comments Off on Goliad · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, History, Military, Old West, Pajama Game

The Texas Revolution in 1835 initially rather resembled the American Revolution, some sixty years before— a resemblance not lost on the American settlers in Texas. At the very beginning, both the Colonies and the Anglo-Texans were far-distant communities with a self-sufficient tradition, who had been accustomed to manage their own affairs with a bare minimum of interference from the central governing authority. Colonists and Anglo-Texans started off by standing on their rights as citizens, but a heavy-handed response by the central government provoked a response that spiraled into open revolt. “Since they’re trying to squash us like bugs for being rebellious, we might as give them a real rebellion and put up a fight,” summed up the attitude. The Mexican government, beset with factionalism and seeing revolt against it’s authority everywhere, sent an army to remind the Anglo-Texan settlers of who was really in charge. The rumor that among the baggage carried along in General Martin Cos’ train was 800 pairs of iron hobbles, with which to march selected Texas rebels back to Mexico did not win any friends, nor did the generals’ widely reported remarks that it was time to break up the foreign settlements in Texas. Cos’ army, which was supposed to re-establish and ensure Mexican authority was ignominiously beaten and sent packing.

Over the winter of 1835-36 a scratch Texan army of volunteers held two presidios guarding the southern approaches from another attack, while representatives of the various communities met to sort out what to do next. First, they formed a shaky provisional government, and appointed Sam Houston to command the Army. Then, in scattershot fashion, they appointed three more officers to high command; it would have been farcical, if the consequences hadn’t been so dire. With no clear command, with military companies and commanders pursuing their own various plans and strategies, the Texas settlers and companies of volunteers were not much fitted to face the terrible wrath of the Napoleon of the West and President of Mexico, strongman, caudillo and professional soldier, General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. He did not wait for spring, or the grass to grow tall enough, or the deep mud to dry out: he intended to punish this rebellious province with the utmost severity. Under his personal command, his army reached the Rio Grande at Laredo in mid-February, and laid siege to a tumbledown former mission garrisoned by a scratch force of volunteers… San Antonio de Valero, called simply the Alamo. But this story is about the other presidio, and another garrison of Texans and volunteers; Bahia del Espiritu Santo, or Goliad.
More »

Austin Bay Lookin’ for Lingo

20. November 2006 · Comments Off on Austin Bay Lookin’ for Lingo · Categories: Military

Austin Bay is looking for Current Military Lingo.

Dear Congressman Rangel

20. November 2006 · Comments Off on Dear Congressman Rangel · Categories: Military

No, thank you, really. It might give some lawmakers pause before starting the next round of crap, but the consequences of a bunch of draftees in any branch of the service are simply too frightening. Those of us in uniform may bitch and complain but at the end of the day, we’re here because we want to be here and then we go home when it’s time. Having a new generation of coworkers and team members who DON’T want to be here? We’re talking nightmare.

If it was easy, everyone would do it. Some folks just aren’t cut out for it. Forcing Americans to do something they don’t want to do? Ummm, I think we’ve got laws against that, don’t we?

For The Veterans of This Day

11. November 2006 · Comments Off on For The Veterans of This Day · Categories: General, GWOT, Home Front, Military, War

Arizona Flag

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep,
Its own appointed limits keep.

Oh hear us when we cry to Thee,
For those in peril on the sea!

Eternal Father, lend Thy grace To
those with wings who fly thro’ space,
Thro wind and storm, thro’ sun and rain,
Oh bring them safely home again.

Oh Father, hear an humble prayer,
For those in peril in the air!

Oh Trinity of love and pow’r,
Our brethren shield in danger’s hour,
From rock and tempest, fire and foe,
Protect them where so e’er they go.

Thus evermore shall rise to Thee
Glad hymns of praise from land and sea!

The Birthday Message

10. November 2006 · Comments Off on The Birthday Message · Categories: Eat, Drink and be Merry, General, History, Military

No matter where you are, what your doing or how you feel about the Marine Corps: Happy Birthday nonetheless

The following will be read to the command on the 10th of November, 1921, and hereafter on the 10th of November of every year. Should the order not be received by the 10th of November, 1921, it will be read upon receipt.

(1) On November 10, 1775, a Corps of Marines was created by a resolution of Continental Congress. Since that date many thousand men have borne the name “Marine”. In memory of them it is fitting that we who are Marines should commemorate the birthday of our corps by calling to mind the glories of its long and illustrious history.

(2) The record of our corps is one which will bear comparison with that of the most famous military organizations in the world’s history. During 90 of the 146 years of its existence the Marine Corps has been in action against the Nation’s foes. From the Battle of Trenton to the Argonne, Marines have won foremost honors in war, and is the long eras of tranquility at home, generation after generation of Marines have grown gray in war in both hemispheres and in every corner of the seven seas, that our country and its citizens might enjoy peace and security.

(3) In every battle and skirmish since the birth of our corps, Marines have acquitted themselves with the greatest distinction, winning new honors on each occasion until the term “Marine” has come to signify all that is highest in military efficiency and soldierly virtue.

(4) This high name of distinction and soldierly repute we who are Marines today have received from those who preceded us in the corps. With it we have also received from them the eternal spirit which has animated our corps from generation to generation and has been the distinguishing mark of the Marines in every age. So long as that spirit continues to flourish Marines will be found equal to every emergency in the future as they have been in the past, and the men of our Nation will regard us as worthy successors to the long line of illustrious men who have served as “Soldiers of the Sea” since the founding of the Corps.

John A. Lejeune,
Major General Commandant

231! Hoooorah!

05. November 2006 · Comments Off on 231! Hoooorah! · Categories: Eat, Drink and be Merry, General, History, Military

Reader and fellow mil-blog webmaster Will Donaldson reminded me this week… as of Sgt/Cpl Blondie wouldn’t have done so already… that the USMC ball and anniversary celebrations are this week. More information on all matters USMC at this link!

A USMC ring-tone? Mmmm. OK.

It’s Not Like the Republicans Have our Backs Either

02. November 2006 · Comments Off on It’s Not Like the Republicans Have our Backs Either · Categories: Military, Politics, Stupidity

How the hell did WE get dragged into this political season?

WASHINGTON (CNN) — House Majority Leader John Boehner’s call for critics to lay off Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld because the generals are responsible for the conduct of the war in Iraq has sparked outrage among Democrats.

In an interview Wednesday on CNN, Boehner said, “Let’s not blame what’s happening in Iraq on Rumsfeld.”

CNN’s Wolf Blitzer replied, “But he’s in charge of the military.”

“The fact is, the generals on the ground are in charge, and he works closely with them and the president,” Boehner, an Ohio Republican, said.

Read it all.

The more I watch politicians, the more I love my dogs.

Why he wants it

06. October 2006 · Comments Off on Why he wants it · Categories: General, GWOT, Home Front, Military, War

There is a program in the Army called the 09L Translator Aide Program. The point of 09L is to address a critical shortage of people who can speak Middle Eastern languages in the Army. If an applicant can speak one of about two dozen Middle Eastern languages they’re able to enlist for 09L regardless of their qualifications in several other areas such as education level and aptitude. It’s a wonderful program for the Army since it attracts people who posses a critical skill and who would otherwise be unable to serve in the military. And it’s also a valuable program for the first generation immigrants from the Middle East in that it allows them to serve their new home, possibly earn their citizenship while serving, and basically allowing those who pursue the program to become a bit more integrated into the nation. In a time when many immigrants from that part of the world refuse to assimilate into their new homes such integration may prove important years down the road. Or it may not.

This year I managed to find myself a member of the Afghan refugee community here in Phoenix who was interested in serving as a translator. He actually wanted to be a clerk but he didn’t qualify for that job so we went with the program for which he qualified. Because of my occasionally useful recruiting skills I was able to use my original applicant as a source for several of his friend who would later join. I’m currently working with one such indiviual.

This applicant is actually from Iraq, he knew my Afghan enlistee through school, and he bears some scars of his time in Iraq. I’ve been working with him for a while now, he’s a big guy and has been making slow progress in losing the excess weight. I enjoy working with him because, well, he’s someone who’s history makes me in getting him into the service. One day after having him run some stairs at the local stadium we talked and what he said was the sort of thing gets a recruiter’s heart motivated.

I’ll admit to cross posting this from my normal stomping grounds, but it was the sort of thing that never gets mention in the stories about people joining the military. I edited what he wrote for me to remove identifying info. Where I editted is marked with (DR:).

You asked me why I wanted to join the Army. It is simple. I want to join because it is the right thing to do. This country (DR: America) has taken my family in and did everything it could for us. We live in a nice house in a safe neighborhood. We have jobs and money and cars and we don’t worry about what we do. Me joining the Army is not a popular choice for some people in the refugees. They tell me I’m going to be harming my own country (DR: Iraq). They are wrong. I’ll be a translator. Americans are very smart, but they don’t understand our language like they do Spanish. They (DR: Soldiers in Iraq) are getting attacked and attacking because they don’t know who to talk to or how to talk to them. I can do that. I will be helping America and helping Iraq.

My father was a wanted man in Iraq. It’s why we left. He said things about Saddam and he was wanted. We came here with nothing and we were taken care of. My father has gone back to Iraq and has said things are 100% better. (DR: The town they’re from) is very safe and the people are happy now. Things work. There is electricity and markets and my father even bought a house for us for when we can go back. The only people who made this happen were America. Saddam was taken out by America when no one else would do it.

People in my community tell me I should not be in the Army because I will get killed. I tell them “So what?” (DR: Punctuation added) if I do. I will have died doing something good and my family will understand and they will thank me and know I was doing something I wanted to do. But I don’t think I will be killed. I will be with the Army and not just someone who isn’t in the Army. I don’t know if I will want to go back to Iraq if my family does. I like it in America. I want to get my citizenship and go to school. But I think I should be in the Army because if I don’t I will get all this without earning it.

This applicant is someone who I very much want to have in uniform. Not just because it’s my job as a recruiter to do so, but because he’s one of that percentage of recruits who really wants it. With luck he’ll be swearing in shortly and serving as a Soldier soon. Sooner the better.

An Obit

25. September 2006 · Comments Off on An Obit · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, GWOT, History, Military, War

One of the original military female “old breed”. Wish I had known her, but I didn’t. A Reservist. Exactly my age. A “first” in a lot of respects, according to this.

Link courtesy of “Rantburg“.

Stolen Kisses at the Skylark

13. July 2006 · Comments Off on Stolen Kisses at the Skylark · Categories: Air Force, General, Memoir, Military, Pajama Game

There has always been this stereotype of the women’s services as a stronghold of lesbians; and there might, I say just might sometime in the distant past, have had some validity to this stereotype, depending on the times and in some places. There was a gay activist I recollect reading some years ago, who insisted that 100% of the women in the WWII services were lesbian, a dubious factoid that may come as a considerable surprise to male veterans of that era, especially those who romanced and/or married a pretty nurse, typist or vehicle driver whom they met whilst both were in uniform. I would tend to agree that during the long decades after WWII when female service members were forbidden to marry or have children, those women who decided to devote themselves to a military career may possibly have contained a slightly higher proportion of those whose amours were of the Sapphic variety… or possibly just unenthusiastically heterosexual.

In my own service, I was acquainted with a bare handful of women who I would not have been surprised to learn that they were gay… frankly, I preferred not to know, and refrained from speculating, lest I ever be hauled up before the local AFOSI and asked point-blank and asked to choose between either lying outright, or narking out a friend. And the services did embark on those lesbian hunts, vigorously, thoroughly and with every evidence of keen enjoyment. A number of my female mid-rank and senior NCO friends all thoughtfully agreed during the early days of the Clinton administration, that “don’t ask-don’t tell” banished that particular nightmare for us. Frankly, I was surprised as hell that I was never accused of being a lesbian— there certainly were people that hated my guts and took note of my conspicuously unmarried state. I can only suppose I was saved by my notorious disinterest and demonstrated incompetence at any sort of organized team sports.

It would be my personal, scientific wild-ass-guess that the lesbian proportion among women serving in the US Armed Forces these days is no more than the representation in the general population— and that would be the 3% that is the small “c” conservative estimation. It may even be less than that, actually. I’d be basing this on the admittedly anecdotal experience of basic training, and a good few years of living in the barracks, where there are no secrets. Let me reiterate: thanks to thin walls, shared rooms and gang latrines, there are damn few secrets in a military barracks, least of all about ones’ sex life.

And for Air Force basic military training, about the only thing the women in my training flight had in common aside from XX chromosomes and a taste for adventure, was some kind of interest in the male of our species, ranging from the intense to the mildly intellectually curious. (Or as my daughter would put it; “strictly dickly”.) Guys, guys and only guys; and watching the other girls put on full-date makeup, carefully arranged hairstyles, and most perfectly arranged Class-A uniforms on the occasion we were allowed to go down to the training-side BX annex… on liberty… by ourselves (or in pairs, anyway) for the period of one hour to purchase such small personal items as toothpaste and deodorant was sufficient to convince me of that. Other girls in the flight became ostentatiously and suddenly religious… because we could go to services on Sunday, and at least sit in adjacent pews. As we advanced in training, we were permitted certain periods of base liberty, to frolic chastely and pursue and be pursued in such venues as the bowling alley, the library, the BX annex and snack bar, and the Skylark Recreation Center.

Prior to being allowed such dizzying freedoms, we were given a stern lecture about the guys… well, those that we would be encountering. Not the usual common or garden American guys, though. There would be foreigners… with strange and potentially alluring ways. Or maybe not, since there were some very, very different cultural differences involved.

Lackland AFB was, and still is a major military training center for more than just Air Force basic. The AF security police tech school, and the basic officer training course were there…. And there was some kind of tech school training course for foreign military enlistees, distinctive by their somewhat colorful uniforms and occasionally very crude behavior in formation and out of it. Our TI, Sgt. Petre, kept an admirable poker face when she gave us the lecture; no, some of the strange stories we would hear about the Saudi Arabian and Iranian students were absolutely not true. They were strangers in a strange land, and we should be polite, of course, but we should keep in mind that as far as cultural mores went, as military women we would be even stranger to them. And we should be careful about giving any encouragement, because the gentlemen trainees from Saudi and Iran had a tendency to assume a great deal from it. Sgt Petre told us about a female trainee who collected such a single-minded and persistent admirer that he was camped out on the sidewalk in front of the squadron training building waiting for her every time her flight had base liberty, which so rattled the poor girl that she stopped leaving the building at all.

(to be continued)

Pax Romana

25. June 2006 · Comments Off on Pax Romana · Categories: General, History, Military, Pajama Game, War

The stone ruins of Imperial Rome underlie Western Europe and the Mediterranean like the bones of a body, partially buried, yet here and there still visible and grandly manifest above ground, all but complete. From Leptis Magna in North Africa, to Hadrian’s Wall in the contentious border between Scotland and England proper, from Split in the Former Yugoslavia, to the 81 perfectly preserved arches of the ancient bridge over the Guadiana River, in Merida – that part of the empire called Hispania –and in thousands of lesser or greater remnants, the presence of Rome is everywhere and inescapable. The same sort of cast- concrete walls, faced with pebbles, or stone or tile, the same sort of curved roof-tiles, the same temples to Vesta, and Jupiter, to Claudius, Mars and Mithras; the same baths and fora, market-places, villas and apartment buildings, all tied together by a network of commerce and administration. Goods both luxury and otherwise, adventurous tourists, soldiers and civil administrators— the very blood of an empire, all moved along the veins and arteries of well-maintained roads and way-stations, of which the very beating heart was Rome itself. Carrying that image a little farther than absolutely necessary, I can visualize that heart as being a human, four-chambered one; of which two— the political/imperial establishment, and the flamboyantly military Rome of battles and conquest— have always rather overshadowed the other two in popular imagination. Commerce and civil administration just do not fire the blood and imagination – unless one is wonkishly fascinated by these things, and it would take a gifted writer to make them as interesting as imperial intrigues and soldiering adventures.

But close to the Palatine Hill, where the sprawling palace of the emperors looked out over the linked fora, law courts and temples in one direction, and the Circus Maximus in another— Trajan’s concrete and brick central market rambled over three or four levels, from the great hall of the Corn Exchange down to the open plaza of the meat market at the level of the forum below . Here was the embodiment of the great hearts’ economic chamber. Every sort of imaginable commodity moved from one end of the empire to another and from parts outside the Roman hegemony: corn from the Egyptian breadbasket, silk from faraway China, spices from India, African ivory and gold, olive oil, oranges and wine from the Mediterranean to everywhere else. And that trade was enabled by law and technology. Roman roads, waterworks, and civic infrastructure like harbors, lighthouses and bridges would in some cases, not be equaled or bettered until the 19th century. While emperors and soldiers came and went, sometimes with messy and protracted splatters of blood, the unspectacular and dull work of the empire went tirelessly on and on, little changing from day to day, decade to decade, until Rome itself seemed eternal, fixed forever, immutable like the stars in the sky.
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Memo: Reciprocity

22. June 2006 · Comments Off on Memo: Reciprocity · Categories: General, GWOT, History, Iraq, Military, War

To: Amnesty International, the IRC, Human Rights Watch and other professional international worry-warts
From: Sgt Mom
Re: The Treatment of POWS:

1. So, once the oozing layers of condescension and spurious moral equivalence are wiped off, this guardian of the imprisoned and mal-treated is on the record as condemning the treatment of Privates Menchaca and Tucker. Ummm. Yeah. Thanks. Heaps. I am sure their families will be really appreciative of your concern. You probably will want to remove them from your mailing lists for the immediate future, though. Don’t thank me for this bit of advice, I live to serve.

2. I am sure the above-named parties would have been assiduous, tireless, noisy, and above all, effective in protecting the basic rights of all Americans, military and otherwise, who were taken captive by insurgents, free-lance Jihadists, Talibanis, Baathists… or whatever we call the gentlemen with the mad enthusiasm for the “Religion of Peace”, depending on the week, and the location. Oops— they would have been, should those various captives have… you know… lived long enough, after having been taken captive.

3. Tortured, decapitated, eviscerated, mutilated to the point of having to resort to DNA analysis to make a positive ID… sort of puts that whole panties on the head, dog-leash, kinky humiliation games, locked up in Guantanamo and having your Koran flushed in the crapper into a whole ‘nother perspective, doesn’t it? Reminds you of what you were all about, once upon a time? Maybe? Just a teensy bit?

4. Frankly, I rather think your dilemma as regards this matter may be rather short-term: it’s pretty well acknowledged among military circles that there is no surrender in this war. There just is not. There is a Marine axiom to the effect that an enemy may kill you with your own weapon, but they’d have to beat you to death with it, because it had better be empty. One way or another, there will be no American POWs. No retreat, no surrender.

5. And after this episode, there may not be many of the insurgents taken prisoner, either. Think on that, gentlemen; think on WWII in the Pacific theater, once it got around what kind of treatment the Japanese accorded to prisoners. Surrender was neither offered, nor accepted. You might be able to work up some sort of retroactive campaign about this brutal disregard of human rights, but you might want to hurry, since most of the participants are well into their third quarter-century.

6. Thanks for your expressed concern, though. We shall take it into active consideration. (Which is military code for thrown into the recycle bin, wadded up, and with great force.)

Sincerely
Sgt. Mom

PS—a note to the usual commenters, you know who you are. Please consider very carefully, any response you may make to this post. This is a matter I feel deeply and personally about, ever since my daughter told me about the conference she and the other female Marines had at their base in Kuwait, after the capture of the Army convoy which contained Pvt. Jessica Lynch, and other female Army personnel. Please do not try to provoke me on this issue, I will delete the comment without a backwards look, and if I am sufficiently offended, I will blacklist the commenter. Word to the wise, chaps, word to the wise.

Later: Additional words from New Sisyphus, via Rantburg and Daily Pundit.

Famous Military Statements

31. May 2006 · Comments Off on Famous Military Statements · Categories: General, General Nonsense, History, Military, The Funny

This collection was sent to me by a blog-fan, it’s one of those things that go the rounds, but funny and apt, nonetheless.

A slipping gear could let your M203 grenade launcher fire when you least expect it. That would make you quite unpopular in what’s left of your unit.”
– Army’s magazine of preventive maintenance ..
———————————————————–
“Aim toward the Enemy.”
– Instruction printed on US Rocket Launcher
———————————————————–
“When the pin is pulled, Mr. Grenade is not our friend.
– U.S. Marine Corps
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“Cluster bombing from B-52s is very, very accurate. The bombs are absolutely guaranteed to hit the ground.”
– USAF Ammo Troop
——————————————————-
“If the enemy is in range, so are you.”
– Infantry Journal
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“It is generally inadvisable to eject directly over the area you just bombed.”
– U.S. Air Force Manual
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“Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword obviously never encountered automatic weapons.”
– General MacArthur
———————————————————–
“Try to look unimportant; they may be low on ammo.”
– Infantry Journal
————————————————! ——–
“You, you, and you … Panic. The rest of you, come with me.”
– U.S. Marine Corp Gunnery Sgt.
——————————————————–
“Tracers work both ways.”
– U.S. Army Ordnance
——————————————————–
“Five second fuses only last three seconds.”
– Infantry Journal
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“Don’t ever be the first, don’t ever be the last, and don’t ever volunteer to do anything.”
– U.S. Navy Swabbie
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“Bravery is being the only one who knows you’re afraid.”
– David Hackworth
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“If your attack is going too well, you’re walking into an ambush.”
– Infantry Journal
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“No combat-ready unit has ever passed inspection.”
– Joe Gay
———————————————————-
“Any ship can be a minesweeper … once.”
– Anonymous
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“Never tell the Platoon Sergeant you have nothing to do.”
– Unknown Marine Recruit
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“Don’t draw fire; it irritates the people around you.”
– Your Buddies
——————————————————-
“If you see a bomb technician running, follow him.”
– USAF Ammo Troop
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“Though I Fly Through the Valley of Death , I Shall Fear No Evil. For I am at 80,000 Feet and Climbing.”
– At the entrance to the old SR-71 operating base Kadena , Japan
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“You’ve never been lost until you’ve been lost at Mach 3.”
– Paul F. Crickmore (test pilot)
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“The only time you have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.”
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“Blue water Navy truism: There are more planes in the ocean than submarines in the sky.”
– From an old carrier sailor
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“If the wings are traveling faster than the fuselage, it’s probably a helicopter — and therefore, unsafe.”
——————————————————
“When one engine fails on a twin-engine airplane you always have enough power left to get you to the scene of the crash.”
——————————————————
“Without ammunition, the USAF would be just another expensive flying club.”
——————————————————
“What is the similarity between air traffic controllers and pilots? If a pilot screws up, the pilot dies; If ATC screws up, …. the pilot dies.”
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“Never trade luck for skill.”
——————————————————
“Weather forecasts are horoscopes with numbers.”
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Airspeed, altitude and brains. Two are always needed to successfully complete the flight.”
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“A smooth carrier landing is mostly luck; two in a row is all luck; three in a row is prevarication.”
—————————————————–
“Mankind has a perfect record in aviation; we never left one up there!”
——————————————————
“Flashlights are tubular metal containers kept in a flight bag for the purpose of storing dead batteries.”
——————————————————–
“Flying the airplane is more important than radioing your plight to a person on the ground incapable of understanding or doing anything about it.”
——————————————————–
“When a flight is proceeding incredibly well, something was forgotten.”
——————————————————-
“Just remember, if you crash because of weather, your funeral will be held on a sunny day.”
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Advice given to RAF pilots during WWII: “When a prang (crash) seems inevitable, endeavor to strike the softest, cheapest object in the vicinity as slow and gently as possible.”
——————————————————-
“The Piper Cub is the safest airplane in the world; it can just barely kill you.”
– Attributed to Max Stanley (Northrop test pilot)
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“A pilot who doesn’t have any fear probably isn’t flying his plane to its maximum.”
– Jon McBride, astronaut
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“If you’re faced with a forced landing, fly the thing as far into the crash as possible.”
– Bob Hoover (renowned aerobatic and test pilot)
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Never fly in the same cockpit with someone braver than you.”
——————————————————-
“There is no reason to fly through a thunderstorm in peacetime.”
– Sign over squadron ops desk at Davis-Monthan AFB, AZ, 1970
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“If something hasn’t broken on your helicopter, it’s about to.”
——————————————————-
Basic Flying Rules: “Try to stay in the middle of the air. Do not go near the edges of it. The edges of the air can be recognized by the appearance of ground, buildings, sea, trees and interstellar space. It is much more difficult to fly there.”
——————————————————–
“You know that your landing gear is up and locked when it takes full power to taxi to the terminal.”
———————————————————
As the test pilot climbs out of the experimental aircraft, having torn off the wings and tail in the crash landing, the crash truck arrives, the rescuer sees a bloodied pilot and asks “What happened?”.
The pilot’s reply: “I don’t know, I just got here myself!”
– Attributed to Ray Crandell (Lockheed test pilot )

Add your own personal favorites in the comments…

I just love this tee-shirt

13. May 2006 · Comments Off on I just love this tee-shirt · Categories: Cry Wolf, General, Military

The United States Marine:

Over two centuries of romping, stomping, hell, death and destruction. The finest fighting machine the world has ever seen. We were born in a bomb crater, my mother was an M-16 and my father was the devil. Each moment I live is an additional threat upon your life.

I’m roughish looking, roving soldier of the sea. I’m cocky , self-centered, overbearing and I do not know the meaning of fear for I am fear itself. I am a green amphibious monster made of blood and guts who arose from the sea. Whose sole purpose in life is to perpetuate death and destruction upon the festering anti-Americans throughout the globe, whenever it may arise, and when my time comes, I’ll die a glorious death on the battlefield, giving my life to mom, apple pie, and the American flag.

We stole the eagle from the Air Force, the anchor from the Navy, and the rope from the Army. On the 7th day when God rested we overran his perimeter and stole the globe, and we’ve been running the show ever since. We live like soldiers, talk like sailors, and slap the hell out of both of then at the same time. Fighter by day, lover by night, drunkard by choice, and a United States Marine by an act of God.

Semper Fi.

Rites, Rituals and Legends #18: The Club

03. May 2006 · Comments Off on Rites, Rituals and Legends #18: The Club · Categories: Air Force, Fun and Games, General, History, Military, Pajama Game

A well-established military base, being that it has to be all things to all residents therein, contains all or most of the elements contained in any well-run established community, over and above the bare requirements of troop housing and mission fulfillment. Some of these I have written about before— the post or base exchange retail stores, the commissary or grocery store, dependents’ schools, family housing. Others I have not: things like base troop clinics and hospitals, and recreation venues like gyms and swimming pools, bowling alleys, riding stables and swimming pools, movie theaters, snack bars, package (or liqueur stores), and the economic engine that drives many of a bases’ recreational venues— the clubs. A long-established location like the Yongsan Garrison, the major American Army garrison in Seoul, ROK, will have all of these, plus refinements like thrift stores, a little theatre venue, odd little gift concessions and snack bars, being accumulated by accretion like one of those odd shellfish, adding a little bit of this or that to it’s shell. (Yongsan had a couple of bespoke tailor concessions and a bicycle-repair shop, to my great interest and mystification.)

The Clubs are official and traditional: classically broken down (with variations according to service, location and era) into Officer, NCO and EM (enlisted men) Clubs. Once upon a military time, (probably during the century before the last) one would be safe in assuming that the officer’s club would be the plushest, not to mention the liveliest, but actually that would all depend— depend upon sufficient numbers of officers to keep the O’Club in the style to which it was once and would like again to become accustomed. In practice, at most Air Force bases of my experience, the NCO and lower ranks clubs were where the numbers and the free-spenders were, not to mention the women.

Lately, the trend in the Air Force seems to have been toward just one large consolidated club facility, with a central kitchen and various lounges, dining rooms and bars designated for officers, enlisted, or both. The Air Force, it would appear, has dealt with the potential indignity of a colonel’s lady, an NCO’s wife, and an airman’s girlfriend, all dealing with separate but similar over-indulgences and barfing up in adjacent lavatory stalls by deciding that everyone is an adult (well, mostly) and can just suck it up and move on. It’s not likely that anyone will remember on Monday morning anyway.

Again, in my experience— which was predominantly overseas— the clubs were a very mixed bag. The clubs in Greenland, for example were lively places, and the food was great. They packed them in, all the nights of the week that they were open… because, of course, there was absolutely bloody nothing out there beyond the base gates (not even any base gate, come to think on it, only the billboard outside the MAC terminal that said “Welcome to Sondrestrom, the Miami of the North!!), just thousands of square miles of rocky, ice-glazed tundra. What little competition there was came in the form of the SAS hotel cafeteria, and private and unofficial bar clubs focused around the lounges in the barracks buildings… very popular on those occasions when one wanted to party hearty and not run the risk of having to crawl outside on your way back to your barracks room.

Conversely, the Air Force NCO club at Zaragoza AB— what with all that lovely downtown competition— was lackluster and the food there thoroughly explored the narrow range of territory between the totally vile and the completely disgusting. I postulated the existence of a warehouse on base, completely filled with #10 cans of sludgy, salty brown gravy, as nearly every dish on the menu arrived from the NCO and O’Club kitchen swimming in a puddle of the disgusting stuff. The only time the Zaragoza clubs made any sort of profit at all was during the run-up to Gulf War I. All the troops passing through on their way to Saudi Arabia (otherwise referred to as “down-range”) were confined to base while laid-over… and the clubs had the best damn two or three months they ever had.

In Japan, the NCO/Enlisted Club was a lively and happening venue, the O’Club a gloomy and over-decorated establishment with wallpaper that would have disgraced a Tunisian cat-house, and appalling dining-room service: some friends of my friend Cheryl (who had a thing for guys in flight-suits) regaled us with an account of how they had gone in for dinner, one evening, placed an order… and then ordered take-out from the NCO club’s delivery service, to be delivered to room so and so, building so and such. Everyone was enormously amused at their description of the delivery-service driver, walking into the O’s dining room, laden with paper bags. The Club in Greece eventually was located in a rented tourist hotel high-rise in Glyphada, all of it and the swimming pool, transient quarters and barber shop, under one roof, guarded by armed, and flack-vest wearing Security Police. I was never able to decide if the sight of the SPS passing in front of the plate-glass dining room window was an unsettling or a reassuring sight.

It gets interesting when there are different services located close by, which affords an opportunity to comparison-shop, as it were, and for the Army and Marines to turn green-eyed envious at the comparative luxury of the Air Force enlisted clubs, and for the Air Force enlisted to appreciate the appallingly Spartan lifestyle lived by those who just couldn’t connect with an Air Force recruiter. The Marines on Okinawa took out their resentments by starting fights in the Air Force NCO club at Kadena AB and trashing the place, from which they were frequently banned. Sgt. Blondie tells me that the Marines do still have a go at the Air Force club now and again, but it’s become more of token bow to tradition, an occasional ritual for old-times sake. And rumor had it around Lackland AB, just before I retired, that the EM club at Ft. Sam was on the verge of being declared off-limits to Air Force personnel, due to the number of unsavory characters that congregated there… most of said unsavories being civilians, not Army troops, since Ft. Sam was an open post, pre 9/11. Only the thought of how this would look to civilians — imagine the horselaughs, an Army club being off-limits!— kept the command from actually doing it. (Or so the rumor had it.)

Your own recollections of clubs, fond or otherwise are invited in the comments.

Always Remember

24. April 2006 · Comments Off on Always Remember · Categories: A Href, General, Military

Americans are often accused of thinking we are the only warriors in a battle – we know we’re not, but sometimes we forget to say that out loud.

If you’re on the other side of the international date line, it’s ANZAC Day. So thank you to the Aussies and Kiwis who fought (and died) for freedom. The battle for freedom didn’t end in 1918 – it’s on-going and never-ending, and the Aussies and Kiwis didn’t hang up their rifles then, but have continued to join the rest of Freedom’s allies around the globe.

If you’re not sure what ANZAC Day is, or why it matters, you can read more about it here. And I’m sure that we have readers who could enlighten us further, as well. For now, here’s a brief quote from the linked page:

What is ANZAC Day?
ANZAC Day – 25 April – is probably Australia’s most important national occasion. It marks the anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War. ANZAC stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. The soldiers in those forces quickly became known as ANZACs, and the pride they soon took in that name endures to this day.

As you take a moment to remember the brave souls from Australia and New Zealand, pop over to Rude1’s RamPage and read his take on why it is our duty to remember our combat veterans.

Update: I was just re-reading Rude1’s post, and thought I would share a portion.

It is not the job of the combat vet to remind society of what they did, it is the responsibility of society to remember the sacrifices of the combat vets and to honor them. The combat vet doesn’t want sympathy. All he wants is acceptance and possibly a thank you.

Reading that reminded me that I had the privilege and the honor last week to say “Welcome Home” to 2 VietNam vets who were attending the class I was teaching. I love it when I get the chance to do that.

h/t Shayna (from the comments to this post about her friend Eugene)

Host Nation Sensitivities

17. April 2006 · Comments Off on Host Nation Sensitivities · Categories: Ain't That America?, Fun and Games, General, Military, sarcasm, World

So, it seems from this article, there is a push to get Americans to behave more… well, to blend in more, when traveling overseas. Sounds like more of the same that the military audience used to get, and no doubt is still getting; speak softly, don’t get into discussing politics, avoid certain places and situations. It was all very good advice, especially since there were places where it might save your life, never mind the social embarassment of being— oh, the horror!— snubbed.

After a couple of years of being lectured about host nation sensitivities, and how to play down your service status and nationality, and all that, some of us used to try and work out the most offensively possible one-liners; a line absolutely guaranteed to get straight to the point of pissing off any member of our various host countries to whom they might be said.

So, without further ado, here are the top three…. More »

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