More War Stories ...
Unsung Heroes ...
It might seem that posers, claiming to be hero soldiers, all served in Special Ops. Truth is ... ain't that many Special Ops troops in the world. Real heroes just do their jobs, with competence, in trying times. These guys are the engineers, mechanics and cooks who service every combat unit in the forces.
The ones who I remember best are the cooks ...
The mess sergeant who, of his own volition, hauled a silver-bullet of hot chocolate through the Ft. Devens Tactical Training Course on a very cold, wet day in May 1967. He found us in our bivouac area, in the snow, and saved my life ... I swear.
Then there were the cooks at the 8th RRFS, Phu Bai, Vietnam. During the 1968 Tet Offensive, while those not engaged in intercept and analysis were hunkered down in bunkers and trenchline, the cooks were at their stoves, upright and cooking ... making hundreds of bacon and egg sandwiches, which they delivered to the operations building in the midst of a barrage ... along with a silver-bullet of fresh hot coffee. A meal much appreciated by us, eaten with great relish.
Cold War Berlin ... Site 3, Teufelsberg Dining Facility.
A cook who, actually, loved his job and took great pride in what was served to his shift workers. A Friday Mids Meal ... deep fried red snapper the main course ... off-duty soldiers lining up at the door, having driven the 15 miles from the barracks, at 2 AM, to get there, just because it became known that this cook was working and was serving red snapper.
An FSB legend.
-Fini
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
03 APR 13
War Story ...
An ASA War Story
TINS
1967, the dry season.
So ... it was summer in Phu Bai, ...Vietnam ... Republic of .
Unpaved roads were all miniature dust bowls ...
red dust coated everything at the 8th RRFS.
The very occasional monsoon rains were heavy
but of short duration.
Inside the Operations Compound was
a Command Bunker.
If memory serves ... it was located to the right of
the main entrance, very near the fence line,
close to the gate. The bunker was constructed
of concrete and buried about four feet underground;
it's entrance camouflaged by a grassy berm.
The bunker contained a plethora of commo gear.
One piece was the encrypted radio we used to
talk to the ARDF birds aloft.
Encryption was by one-time-pad and had to be
re-set each day. Can't remember if it was changed
just daily or for each eight-hour duty period.
I suspect the latter, since I worked straight swing shifts
and setting the encryption keys was one of my jobs.
This one day ... a very hot, very dry day ...
I entered the bunker and noticed that the air
conditioner had a huge build-up of ice on the
vents. After setting the radio, I took my knife
and scraped the vents clear, ending up with a
sizable ice/snowball that began to melt ...
immediately.
Exited the bunker and looked around for a suitable target.
Walking down the road, in front of the compound,
was a Marine. He was wearing field gear with his
soft cover ... M-16 slung. He was dusted red.
Each footstep created a small cloud as he moved.
Don't know what he was doing on post but he made
a fine target. I lobbed the snowball up, over the fence,
and ducked down behind the berm.
Apparently my aim was good, for I heard a short,
shouted, "What th..." before I peeked over the berm
and watched the Marine trot off down the road,
cupping a palmful of melting snow ...
looking for a witness, no doubt.
If said Marine ever reads this ...
"Bazinga!" (As Sheldon Cooper is wont to say.)
"Semper Fi" and "Welcome Home, Brother."
-Fini
PS:
Here's where memory gets murky ...
there had to be two MPs in the Operations
guard shack ... but I don't remember them
at all. They're not part of my narrative.
An ASA War Story
TINS
1967, the dry season.
So ... it was summer in Phu Bai, ...Vietnam ... Republic of .
Unpaved roads were all miniature dust bowls ...
red dust coated everything at the 8th RRFS.
The very occasional monsoon rains were heavy
but of short duration.
Inside the Operations Compound was
a Command Bunker.
If memory serves ... it was located to the right of
the main entrance, very near the fence line,
close to the gate. The bunker was constructed
of concrete and buried about four feet underground;
it's entrance camouflaged by a grassy berm.
The bunker contained a plethora of commo gear.
One piece was the encrypted radio we used to
talk to the ARDF birds aloft.
Encryption was by one-time-pad and had to be
re-set each day. Can't remember if it was changed
just daily or for each eight-hour duty period.
I suspect the latter, since I worked straight swing shifts
and setting the encryption keys was one of my jobs.
This one day ... a very hot, very dry day ...
I entered the bunker and noticed that the air
conditioner had a huge build-up of ice on the
vents. After setting the radio, I took my knife
and scraped the vents clear, ending up with a
sizable ice/snowball that began to melt ...
immediately.
Exited the bunker and looked around for a suitable target.
Walking down the road, in front of the compound,
was a Marine. He was wearing field gear with his
soft cover ... M-16 slung. He was dusted red.
Each footstep created a small cloud as he moved.
Don't know what he was doing on post but he made
a fine target. I lobbed the snowball up, over the fence,
and ducked down behind the berm.
Apparently my aim was good, for I heard a short,
shouted, "What th..." before I peeked over the berm
and watched the Marine trot off down the road,
cupping a palmful of melting snow ...
looking for a witness, no doubt.
If said Marine ever reads this ...
"Bazinga!" (As Sheldon Cooper is wont to say.)
"Semper Fi" and "Welcome Home, Brother."
-Fini
PS:
Here's where memory gets murky ...
there had to be two MPs in the Operations
guard shack ... but I don't remember them
at all. They're not part of my narrative.
Monday, March 18, 2013
18 MAR 13
Habemus Papam ...
The news on TV is of the new pope
and his official investiture at a mass
to be held tomorrow.
Francis I.
The seventh pope in my lifetime.
Cannot get excited about it.
Just another old man in a white cassock,
who resides in Rome,
and mumbles beatitudes in Latin.
-Fini
PS: The date is 27 May 13.
This Pope may change my mind about the effectiveness
of his office. He's already reaching out to atheists and
informing them that Heaven may also accept them if they
are truly good people, though they be unbelievers.
Momentous!
The news on TV is of the new pope
and his official investiture at a mass
to be held tomorrow.
Francis I.
The seventh pope in my lifetime.
Cannot get excited about it.
Just another old man in a white cassock,
who resides in Rome,
and mumbles beatitudes in Latin.
-Fini
PS: The date is 27 May 13.
This Pope may change my mind about the effectiveness
of his office. He's already reaching out to atheists and
informing them that Heaven may also accept them if they
are truly good people, though they be unbelievers.
Momentous!
Friday, March 15, 2013
15 MAR 13
The Ides ...
The subject is rememberance.
I wrote this on the Tuesday just past ... the 12th:
A death in the family
Not unexpected but coming
Sooner than was thought
Looking out
Through the glass there is rain
Gray skies and rotting piles of snow
A fitting day to take one's leave
Of strife and wear and woe
Goodbye
The death written about was of one Richard Keane,
my son-in-law's father ... claimed by Alzheimer's
... a long and hard road to have walked.
Condolences to his surviving family ...
especially to his widow, Joan.
________________________
More ...
Today I came across a facebook page dedicated to
Barbara's niece, Amelia Geocos, who died three years ago.
Passing strange ... it was we two who were first informed of her death.
Apparently, Barbara's name was the first "Geocos" that the hospital found in the directory.
The call came in the very early hours of the morning ...
phone calls at that time are never a good thing.
Amelia Geocos
From the facebook page ... a poem:
"On Every Street Corner
(For Amelia)
Snow falls on your bicycle,
it must be ready to take off.
Fingernails and flecks
of skin, irises,
Your mix tapes.
Winter wine
and red doves,
So much belly laughter.
Your apartment filled
with the clothes you made-
Hand-sewn crosses
over long, draping dresses,
the blond wig
You wore in Lower East Side
theatres. Your heart-print
on every street corner.
It’s past Christmas now,
empty kitchen table
at your folk’s place.
We took the clothes from your closet
and threw them into bags.
Your name welled inside us-
graffiti lit in red and pink.
In the evening the sun dips
behind the buildings,
You call to me:
I am here, shining-
A sharp stone.
Suddenly cherries
are trinkets of sadness.
Sour drinks
and long nights,
City lights blur
with a blind glow
Perhaps knowing
you sang beneath them.
I see you on the corner
with your latest haircut.
Short again. Sheared close
to your face."
Poem by Leila Ortiz
-Fini
The subject is rememberance.
I wrote this on the Tuesday just past ... the 12th:
A death in the family
Not unexpected but coming
Sooner than was thought
Looking out
Through the glass there is rain
Gray skies and rotting piles of snow
A fitting day to take one's leave
Of strife and wear and woe
Goodbye
The death written about was of one Richard Keane,
my son-in-law's father ... claimed by Alzheimer's
... a long and hard road to have walked.
Condolences to his surviving family ...
especially to his widow, Joan.
________________________
More ...
Today I came across a facebook page dedicated to
Barbara's niece, Amelia Geocos, who died three years ago.
Passing strange ... it was we two who were first informed of her death.
Apparently, Barbara's name was the first "Geocos" that the hospital found in the directory.
The call came in the very early hours of the morning ...
phone calls at that time are never a good thing.
Amelia Geocos
From the facebook page ... a poem:
"On Every Street Corner
(For Amelia)
Snow falls on your bicycle,
it must be ready to take off.
Fingernails and flecks
of skin, irises,
Your mix tapes.
Winter wine
and red doves,
So much belly laughter.
Your apartment filled
with the clothes you made-
Hand-sewn crosses
over long, draping dresses,
the blond wig
You wore in Lower East Side
theatres. Your heart-print
on every street corner.
It’s past Christmas now,
empty kitchen table
at your folk’s place.
We took the clothes from your closet
and threw them into bags.
Your name welled inside us-
graffiti lit in red and pink.
In the evening the sun dips
behind the buildings,
You call to me:
I am here, shining-
A sharp stone.
Suddenly cherries
are trinkets of sadness.
Sour drinks
and long nights,
City lights blur
with a blind glow
Perhaps knowing
you sang beneath them.
I see you on the corner
with your latest haircut.
Short again. Sheared close
to your face."
Poem by Leila Ortiz
-Fini
Friday, February 15, 2013
15 FEB 13
Shedding Light ...
More and more, people are reporting on the number of returning
veterans committing suicide. I do not know if the same occurred
for Vietnam, Korea or WWII vets. I do know that I was touched
by it once and sought help from the VA.
Following is an excerpt from a reaction paper I wrote for my first
college class in psychology. It was written in March of 1995 and
concerns suicide.
" 'In creation there is not only a 'Yes' but also a 'No' ... not only value but also worthlessness ... ' ( Karl Barth)
I learned, today, of the death of Ed Flanders. The actor put a .30 caliber rifle to his right ear and pulled the trigger. He did this on February 22nd, the day after my 49th birthday. It made me, at first, enormously sad. This man of talent, financially secure and respected, had fallen into some hole seemingly too wide, too deep for escape ... and went quietly mad. I feel anger. How dare he! For I once too fell into that selfsame hole and with just a fraction of his resources at my disposable, managed to pull myself up and out. What was the difference between us? While I know that it's not my place to judge him, just the same I feel angry. I feel sad ... ... ...
There are crippling forms of depression which are known to be caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, and while medical science has come up with drugs as treatment for just this problem, not everyone trusts drug therapies. Some will opt to tough it out on their own; afraid of ingesting a chemical concoction designed to work specifically on the brain; afraid that some small part of the self, that which defines the individual, might be irretrievably lost. Perhaps this was the case with Mr. Flanders. After all, this is largely unexplored territory. Doctors are proceeding but use an incomplete map. In the age of the Renaissance, any cartographer of stature would have labeled such uncharted spaces with the legend, 'HERE THERE BE DRAGONS.' "
-Fini
More and more, people are reporting on the number of returning
veterans committing suicide. I do not know if the same occurred
for Vietnam, Korea or WWII vets. I do know that I was touched
by it once and sought help from the VA.
Following is an excerpt from a reaction paper I wrote for my first
college class in psychology. It was written in March of 1995 and
concerns suicide.
" 'In creation there is not only a 'Yes' but also a 'No' ... not only value but also worthlessness ... ' ( Karl Barth)
I learned, today, of the death of Ed Flanders. The actor put a .30 caliber rifle to his right ear and pulled the trigger. He did this on February 22nd, the day after my 49th birthday. It made me, at first, enormously sad. This man of talent, financially secure and respected, had fallen into some hole seemingly too wide, too deep for escape ... and went quietly mad. I feel anger. How dare he! For I once too fell into that selfsame hole and with just a fraction of his resources at my disposable, managed to pull myself up and out. What was the difference between us? While I know that it's not my place to judge him, just the same I feel angry. I feel sad ... ... ...
There are crippling forms of depression which are known to be caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, and while medical science has come up with drugs as treatment for just this problem, not everyone trusts drug therapies. Some will opt to tough it out on their own; afraid of ingesting a chemical concoction designed to work specifically on the brain; afraid that some small part of the self, that which defines the individual, might be irretrievably lost. Perhaps this was the case with Mr. Flanders. After all, this is largely unexplored territory. Doctors are proceeding but use an incomplete map. In the age of the Renaissance, any cartographer of stature would have labeled such uncharted spaces with the legend, 'HERE THERE BE DRAGONS.' "
-Fini
Monday, January 28, 2013
28 JAN 13
War Story ...
Not an ASA story ...
rather, an Army story.
It was 1969 and I was on my way to Japan.
Had taken the United "Red Eye" out of Philadelphia and arrived at the Oakland Army Terminal sometime in the AM. First thing I noticed was the number of soldiers there who were already wearing jungle fatigues ... all of whom were bound for Vietnam. Apparently, there were no more departures while wearing khakis, with issue of jungle-wear in-country, as had been the case back in '67. Me ... bound for Japan, I was stuck wearing my class-A's ... MACV patch on right shoulder.
Was assigned to a waiting area in a large hanger space. Bunks were stacked 3 high, The place was jammed, full of soldiers waiting to be called for boarding. It was like a scene from "The Longest Day." There were card games, smokers, coffee swilling, secret small airline bottles of booze ... noise, there was noise, the constant chatter and hum of voices echoing everywhere. As an SP4, amid a thousand privates, I pretty much had my pick of bunks and chose a bottom rack. Duffel bag locked to bed frame, class-A blouse draped over the duffel, I loosened my tie and lay down on the bare mattress, took a nap. It had
been a long trip. After a couple of hours, I awoke and went in search of coffee. Noticed that I'd picked up a tail ... a young PV2, dressed in jungle fatigues. When I settled down with coffee and a cigarette, he approached and started in with questions. He'd seen the MACV patch, knew I'd been there, wanted to know what to expect. He was 11B20, I'd been 98C20 ... two different worlds. What could I tell him, except that it's hot there and be sure to drink plenty of water. He was scared. He was a draftee. I felt for him. For that night, and into the next day, he dogged my every step, asking questions. He didn't seem to understand that different people, with different MOS's, fought different wars over there. To him, it all seemed one big jungle war, "Guadalcanal" again. I was finally called for a civilian flight to Japan. Left the young private behind. Through the intervening years, I've often wondered what became of him.
Did he survive his tour?
I certainly hope so.
-Fini
PS:
The civilian flight was a Pan Am 707, San Francisco to Tokyo, via Anchorage. The in-flight movie shown was "Hell In The Pacific," a WWII tale, starring Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune. There were maybe 12 of us U.S. Army types on board a plane carrying a couple hundred Japanese and we're watching WWII being fought all over again. We'd all had a few drinks by the time they started the movie. When the film reached the part where Lee Marvin's USMC character pisses on the Japanese naval officer, we Americans all clapped and cheered. Cabin was pretty much quiet after that.
Not an ASA story ...
rather, an Army story.
It was 1969 and I was on my way to Japan.
Had taken the United "Red Eye" out of Philadelphia and arrived at the Oakland Army Terminal sometime in the AM. First thing I noticed was the number of soldiers there who were already wearing jungle fatigues ... all of whom were bound for Vietnam. Apparently, there were no more departures while wearing khakis, with issue of jungle-wear in-country, as had been the case back in '67. Me ... bound for Japan, I was stuck wearing my class-A's ... MACV patch on right shoulder.
Was assigned to a waiting area in a large hanger space. Bunks were stacked 3 high, The place was jammed, full of soldiers waiting to be called for boarding. It was like a scene from "The Longest Day." There were card games, smokers, coffee swilling, secret small airline bottles of booze ... noise, there was noise, the constant chatter and hum of voices echoing everywhere. As an SP4, amid a thousand privates, I pretty much had my pick of bunks and chose a bottom rack. Duffel bag locked to bed frame, class-A blouse draped over the duffel, I loosened my tie and lay down on the bare mattress, took a nap. It had
been a long trip. After a couple of hours, I awoke and went in search of coffee. Noticed that I'd picked up a tail ... a young PV2, dressed in jungle fatigues. When I settled down with coffee and a cigarette, he approached and started in with questions. He'd seen the MACV patch, knew I'd been there, wanted to know what to expect. He was 11B20, I'd been 98C20 ... two different worlds. What could I tell him, except that it's hot there and be sure to drink plenty of water. He was scared. He was a draftee. I felt for him. For that night, and into the next day, he dogged my every step, asking questions. He didn't seem to understand that different people, with different MOS's, fought different wars over there. To him, it all seemed one big jungle war, "Guadalcanal" again. I was finally called for a civilian flight to Japan. Left the young private behind. Through the intervening years, I've often wondered what became of him.
Did he survive his tour?
I certainly hope so.
-Fini
PS:
The civilian flight was a Pan Am 707, San Francisco to Tokyo, via Anchorage. The in-flight movie shown was "Hell In The Pacific," a WWII tale, starring Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune. There were maybe 12 of us U.S. Army types on board a plane carrying a couple hundred Japanese and we're watching WWII being fought all over again. We'd all had a few drinks by the time they started the movie. When the film reached the part where Lee Marvin's USMC character pisses on the Japanese naval officer, we Americans all clapped and cheered. Cabin was pretty much quiet after that.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
20 JAN 13 (2)
Before I forget ...
another War Story.
This cartoon may be from the current conflict but back in Vietnam, at the 8th RRFS, Phu Bai, this actually happened.
It was the tail-end of the '68 Tet Offensive. The NVA was mostly beaten but there was a persistent VC mortar crew who would hit us with 5 - 6 rounds, maybe once or twice a week. It was ALWAYS 5 - 6 rounds, then they'd have to di-di because of counter-battery fire. This one afternoon they dropped rounds on us again. The siren sounded and the barracks quickly emptied out. There were guys in towels, having come straight from the shower, guys half dressed, dragging their field gear behind them, guys in full TA-50 and uniform. This was normal. After about 30 minutes, myself and another SP4 (Can't remember his name.) were standing in the trench line adjacent to Star Bunker #3, waiting for the all-clear to sound. Both of us were shirtless, wearing trousers, flip-flops, flak jackets and TA-50 gear. Our helmets rested on the trench edge, our weapons were slung. Around a bend in the trenchline came a frog-hopping Lieutenant Colonel. We'd never seen him before. He frog-walked to where we were standing, looked up at us through a pair of those black GI issue glasses, and demanded to know what it was we were doing, just standing there. Where was our duty station? Where were our proper uniforms?? Why weren't we paying attention to the perimeter wire??? ... and on and on. We looked at each other, then down at him (Trying hard not to laugh.), as he squatted there. I explained that the attack was over and we were waiting for the official "all clear" to sound. I further explained that we'd hurried to the bunker quickly, that there had been no time to get properly dressed, there never was and that this was the norm for daytime alerts. He nodded at us, saying, "Oh ... okay." He then allowed that he'd let our appearance pass but we were to be in the proper uniform next time the alert was sounded. He then frog-hopped away, down the trench line towards the bunker.
Turned out he was a nug, TDY from the 509th RRG, down in Saigon. I'd guess that it was his first time being shot at. He was gone, back to Saigon, within the week. Never did find out who he was or why he was there.
-Fini
another War Story.
This cartoon may be from the current conflict but back in Vietnam, at the 8th RRFS, Phu Bai, this actually happened.
It was the tail-end of the '68 Tet Offensive. The NVA was mostly beaten but there was a persistent VC mortar crew who would hit us with 5 - 6 rounds, maybe once or twice a week. It was ALWAYS 5 - 6 rounds, then they'd have to di-di because of counter-battery fire. This one afternoon they dropped rounds on us again. The siren sounded and the barracks quickly emptied out. There were guys in towels, having come straight from the shower, guys half dressed, dragging their field gear behind them, guys in full TA-50 and uniform. This was normal. After about 30 minutes, myself and another SP4 (Can't remember his name.) were standing in the trench line adjacent to Star Bunker #3, waiting for the all-clear to sound. Both of us were shirtless, wearing trousers, flip-flops, flak jackets and TA-50 gear. Our helmets rested on the trench edge, our weapons were slung. Around a bend in the trenchline came a frog-hopping Lieutenant Colonel. We'd never seen him before. He frog-walked to where we were standing, looked up at us through a pair of those black GI issue glasses, and demanded to know what it was we were doing, just standing there. Where was our duty station? Where were our proper uniforms?? Why weren't we paying attention to the perimeter wire??? ... and on and on. We looked at each other, then down at him (Trying hard not to laugh.), as he squatted there. I explained that the attack was over and we were waiting for the official "all clear" to sound. I further explained that we'd hurried to the bunker quickly, that there had been no time to get properly dressed, there never was and that this was the norm for daytime alerts. He nodded at us, saying, "Oh ... okay." He then allowed that he'd let our appearance pass but we were to be in the proper uniform next time the alert was sounded. He then frog-hopped away, down the trench line towards the bunker.
Turned out he was a nug, TDY from the 509th RRG, down in Saigon. I'd guess that it was his first time being shot at. He was gone, back to Saigon, within the week. Never did find out who he was or why he was there.
-Fini
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)