Open thread

War Eagle!

Staff Sergeant Ball was a drill instructor at Fort Jackson in 1972. He was a true teacher and seemed to be much too nice for his role. Like all of the drill sergeants back then, he was a combat Veteran. He told stories. They were always war stories and never about himself. Once, he told of a soldier in Vietnam who had survived his tour and was going home. As he climbed aboard the freedom bird to take him back to the world, the airfield was hit by mortar fire. The soldier got home, but he was carried home in a box. According to those who keep such statistics, 1,448 died on what was to have been their last day of their tour in Vietnam. Why do I mention this? Why do such things stick with me after 40 years? I have no idea. It was just a two-minute story, told long ago.

Here’s my story, I am about the only person I know that had to break OUT of a bar. I was at Camp Schwab from 97-98 on a 6 month udp. I can’t remember the little town right outside the gate,( I think it was Heneko. Anyway when the Yen took off the vast majority of the service related businesses and areas in Okinawa dried up, because the economy was way out of reach of the dollar. It was much better to simply stay on base, get some chow and a beer for under 5 bucks then go out and spend 40 for the same shit in town. Anyway I really hadn’t went out much, so I decided to suck it up, take ample cash and check out the town. It wasn’t much to see. Most the bars and restaurants that had thrived in the 70’s were long shut down. I paid 25 bucks for a chicken dinner that was worth about three, Then I went to one of the few bars there were still open and commenced to drinking 8 dollar beers with some 60 year old bar girl flirting with me. The place was practically empty, maybe 4 other people there. About 0100 the beer or 10 I had started to hit me so I bid my farewell and started to hit the hatch. I stopped by the head and took a wizz, then on the way out I saw my shoe was untied. I looked for a place to sit and tie it when I spotted a little couch behind a huge plant over in the corner by the door, I sit down tied my shoe, then decided to sit for a bit before I walked back,,,, I ended up lying down, then drifting off to sleep,I woke up about 0415. The place was closed and black as the inside of Psul wickre’s soul. I stmbled around to the bathrooms,,, both had windows,,, with bars,,,,, The doors were padlocked from the out side. I ended up climbing up behind the bar and knocking off a piece of… Read more »

My wife just bought me Corduroy pants so it is just a matter of time until I get a leisure suit. 🙂

@4&5………When people ask me about Vietnam and being in harms way. I usually tell them it’s just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Case in point, flying out of Phu Loi 1971 had just cleared the flight strip when the base came under rocket attack. The MARS radio station was hit. Turns out, a guy was there calling home at the time. Direct hit and he was gone. Strange how it stays with me after all these years.

@11….Simular experience, flying into Ton Son Nhut in 1971. Saw 20-30 of those stainless caskets stacked under a wall less shed waiting for transport. Sobering sight stuck with me then, sticks with me now.

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It was a warm summer evening in Munich in 1943 as Eduardo and Sofia walked down a path which ran along side the Isar River. They guessed that the allied bombing raid, if it came at all today, would come at night. The air raid siren rudely announced their error. As the two walked quickly towards shelter, the first series of 500 pounders stopped them in their tracks. Eduardo screamed and ran away blindly as Sophia shouted for him to stop. “Dumb shit. Get down!” she shouted, but it was too late. Eduardo was vapor. Sophia later took up with half the allied forces of occupation and Eduardo was forgotten.

Where’s the link to your works on Amazon, PH? I’ll go graze your literary works, if you don’t mind. 🙂

Update: Dylan and I have a treacherous ride home in a top down 1980 MGB LE … It is snowing now in Warwick, NY as we enjoy this PBR and Pennings Hard Cider. My lovely wife is driving the TAV … Tac Assault Vehicle. We always beat her home.

You kidding me? It’s probably a damned heat wave down in NYC compared to what we’re dealing with this weekend up in Cow Hampshire.

Granted, it ain’t the -10 of northern Minnesota, but it’s still what some of the more genteel might refer to as, “balls shrinking cold.”

And in other news, about to make a change in the job market. Little more money, but lots of time out on the road–mostly home on weekends, that sort of thing. Hoping it’s the opportunity I’ve been looking for. Certainly looks promising.

@25–Thanks, OS. It wasn’t made without a LOT of soul-searching and a few sleepless nights, along with several discussions with the family as to the positives and negatives.

But where I am at work now, and where I’d be at there in five years wasn’t a whole lot different. Some people are cool with that, but I looked at where I COULD be, even in this economy, and the decision became a little easier.

The move isn’t solely about the money–were that the case, I’d probably stay where I am now.

And in an unrelated but stomach-churning story, I’ve got the TV on in the background and there’s an ad on for “Nickelback’s Greatest Hits–Volume I” on? AYFKM? How the hell do you sell a blank CD?

@31–There’s that one scene from Kindergarten Cop where he goes, “We’re going to play a wonderful game and it’s called, who is my daddy and what does he do?”

I always laugh my ass off when I imagine one of the kids in an Austrian accent going, “My daddy is da guvernator of Kal-EE-For-Nia!”

And here’s a little something I found not long ago:

The Trade–Kipling

They bear, in place of classic names,
Letters and numbers on their skin.
They play their grisly blindfold games
In little boxes made of tin.
Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin,
Sometimes they learn where mines are laid
Or where the Baltic ice is thin.
That is the custom of ‘The Trade’.

Few prize courts sit upon their claims.
They seldom tow their targets in.
They follow certain secret aims
Down under, Far from strife or din.
When they are ready to begin
No flag is flown, no fuss is made
No more than the shearing of a pin.
That is the custom of ‘The Trade’.

The scout’s quadruple funnel flames
A mark from Sweden to the Swim,
The Cruiser’s thund’rous screw proclaims
Her coming out and going in:
But only whiffs of parafin
Or creamy rings that fizz and fade
Show where the one-eyed Death has been.
That is the custom of ‘The Trade’.

Their feats, their fortunes and their fames
Are hidden from their nearest Kin;
No eager public backs or blames,
No journal prints the yarn they spin,
(The censor would not let it in!)
When they return from run or raid.
Unheard they work, unseen they win.
That is the custom of ‘The Trade’.