Though our conflicts were separated by nearly 40 years time,
we were comrades in arms . . .
both of us holding the 98C MOS designation.
-Fini
Monday, June 24, 2013
24 JUN 13
Kindred Spirits ...
Though our conflicts were separated by nearly 40 years time,
we were comrades in arms . . .
both of us holding the 98C MOS designation.
-Fini
Though our conflicts were separated by nearly 40 years time,
we were comrades in arms . . .
both of us holding the 98C MOS designation.
-Fini
Saturday, June 22, 2013
22 JUN 13
TV
My television lied to me ...
that is, while I was growing up in the '60s.
And ... I'm sure it lies to me today too.
What got me thinking was an episode
of "The Rifleman" I just watched on ME-TV.
In it, the bad guy (Lee Van Cleef) rides
into town and takes up residence in the
town saloon.
He's there to kill the marshal
but he wants to spook him first.
His character spends two days and nights
sitting in the saloon drinking whiskey and
staring at the marshal's office.
That's a big lie!
Two days of ingesting nothing but whiskey
would addle the brain and make any kind
of a confrontation a sure failure.
He'd be stumbling-down drunk.
This was typical for depicting tough-guy drinking
habits back in the day.
Fooled all us kids growing up into thinking that
TV actions were how real life was.
-Fini
PS: Never had seen Lee Van Cleef as a blonde before.
Liked him better with dark hair.
Another lie told ... If this character, who's come to kill the
marshal, just got out of prison ... where did he get the money
to buy two pistols, a rifle, a saddle, tack, a horse ...
and then have money left over to buy whiskey.
All those things cost a big bit of change back then.
My television lied to me ...
that is, while I was growing up in the '60s.
And ... I'm sure it lies to me today too.
What got me thinking was an episode
of "The Rifleman" I just watched on ME-TV.
In it, the bad guy (Lee Van Cleef) rides
into town and takes up residence in the
town saloon.
He's there to kill the marshal
but he wants to spook him first.
His character spends two days and nights
sitting in the saloon drinking whiskey and
staring at the marshal's office.
That's a big lie!
Two days of ingesting nothing but whiskey
would addle the brain and make any kind
of a confrontation a sure failure.
He'd be stumbling-down drunk.
This was typical for depicting tough-guy drinking
habits back in the day.
Fooled all us kids growing up into thinking that
TV actions were how real life was.
-Fini
PS: Never had seen Lee Van Cleef as a blonde before.
Liked him better with dark hair.
Another lie told ... If this character, who's come to kill the
marshal, just got out of prison ... where did he get the money
to buy two pistols, a rifle, a saddle, tack, a horse ...
and then have money left over to buy whiskey.
All those things cost a big bit of change back then.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
28 MAY 13
A Feminine Hand ...
Came upon this posting on facebook.
It's an elegy to a fallen air force officer,
a woman.
A nice piece of writing ...
definitely a feminine hand.
________________
GROW
And whose hands first painted
this pool blue,
before a walled camp sprouted stacks
of metal shipping-container barracks
among the porches and grape vines
of Kabul's well-to-do,
And who imagined here
was where you would feed the
oblivious goldfish one
final time
with a smile as you walked past
flak-vested,
calm.
And is this the very same bottle of add zest
Heinz 57 sauce
you seasoned your grilled chicken with
under this sudden-colored umbrella,
and where now are the leaves
that floated in the pool then,
having lived their short lives
to fall from the branches and dance
with the suds and shadows till
they were scooped out to curl
into the forgottenness of feeding
other growing things,
pulling them to life from the soil where
their delicate veins became running trails
for the ants until disintegration?
Your going was less gentle than theirs -
but who knows
what the seed of your gift
will grow?
For Roslyn Schulte (1984-2009)
(This was posted by one Farzana Marie on facebook.
Don't know if she was the author.)
R.I.P. Lieutenant Schulte
-Fini
Came upon this posting on facebook.
It's an elegy to a fallen air force officer,
a woman.
A nice piece of writing ...
definitely a feminine hand.
________________
GROW
And whose hands first painted
this pool blue,
before a walled camp sprouted stacks
of metal shipping-container barracks
among the porches and grape vines
of Kabul's well-to-do,
And who imagined here
was where you would feed the
oblivious goldfish one
final time
with a smile as you walked past
flak-vested,
calm.
And is this the very same bottle of add zest
Heinz 57 sauce
you seasoned your grilled chicken with
under this sudden-colored umbrella,
and where now are the leaves
that floated in the pool then,
having lived their short lives
to fall from the branches and dance
with the suds and shadows till
they were scooped out to curl
into the forgottenness of feeding
other growing things,
pulling them to life from the soil where
their delicate veins became running trails
for the ants until disintegration?
Your going was less gentle than theirs -
but who knows
what the seed of your gift
will grow?
For Roslyn Schulte (1984-2009)
(This was posted by one Farzana Marie on facebook.
Don't know if she was the author.)
R.I.P. Lieutenant Schulte
-Fini
Monday, May 27, 2013
27 MAY 13
Memorial Day Again ...
An Unknown Soldier
Back when I was a boy, a favorite game to play
was "Army." We'd all gather our personal armory
of cap guns and "dirt bombs," then we'd toss
a coin to see which side we'd be on ...
Heads - Allies, Tails - Axis.
Everyone wanted to be an Ally ... cause the Axis
not only lost the real war but were evil personified.
(The "real war," being WWII.)
We wore whatever bits of child uniforms that were sold
in the toy stores ... cheap cotton replicas of pistol belts,
pouches, packs ... plastic helmets. We'd even go so far
as burning cork to use to blacken our faces ...
just as the commandos in the movies did.
One day, when I was 11 or 12, my Dad took me with him to
Philadelphia on a Saturday afternoon. Walking to a business
appointment, we passed an Amy/Navy Surplus store. The first
I'd ever seen. After the appointment we stopped in the store.
I was amazed! Never had I seen such an abundance of military
uniforms and hardware. Dad wandered around while I was focused
on the helmet liner bin. My thinking was that if I could get
my hands on a real U.S. Army helmet liner (They just looked so
keen!) I'd never have to be a German or a Jap again. I mean,
the helmet liner looked just like the distinctive American
helmet. No way could I ever be forced to play at being the
enemy again. My father came up behind me just as I picked out
a liner with two holes punched through it ... front to rear.
I held it out to him and said, "Hey Dad, look at this. Somebody
got shot in the head, neat! He took the liner from me, stared
at it for a moment, then placed it on a shelf high up, out of
the way. His face wore a mask of sadness ... almost grim.
He picked out an undamaged helmet liner, took my arm and we went
to the register to pay. It took me a good many years to figure
out why he reacted the way he did that afternoon. Now I know.
Enjoy the holiday but ...
don't forget the reason for it.
Welcome Home All
-Fini
An Unknown Soldier
Back when I was a boy, a favorite game to play
was "Army." We'd all gather our personal armory
of cap guns and "dirt bombs," then we'd toss
a coin to see which side we'd be on ...
Heads - Allies, Tails - Axis.
Everyone wanted to be an Ally ... cause the Axis
not only lost the real war but were evil personified.
(The "real war," being WWII.)
We wore whatever bits of child uniforms that were sold
in the toy stores ... cheap cotton replicas of pistol belts,
pouches, packs ... plastic helmets. We'd even go so far
as burning cork to use to blacken our faces ...
just as the commandos in the movies did.
One day, when I was 11 or 12, my Dad took me with him to
Philadelphia on a Saturday afternoon. Walking to a business
appointment, we passed an Amy/Navy Surplus store. The first
I'd ever seen. After the appointment we stopped in the store.
I was amazed! Never had I seen such an abundance of military
uniforms and hardware. Dad wandered around while I was focused
on the helmet liner bin. My thinking was that if I could get
my hands on a real U.S. Army helmet liner (They just looked so
keen!) I'd never have to be a German or a Jap again. I mean,
the helmet liner looked just like the distinctive American
helmet. No way could I ever be forced to play at being the
enemy again. My father came up behind me just as I picked out
a liner with two holes punched through it ... front to rear.
I held it out to him and said, "Hey Dad, look at this. Somebody
got shot in the head, neat! He took the liner from me, stared
at it for a moment, then placed it on a shelf high up, out of
the way. His face wore a mask of sadness ... almost grim.
He picked out an undamaged helmet liner, took my arm and we went
to the register to pay. It took me a good many years to figure
out why he reacted the way he did that afternoon. Now I know.
Enjoy the holiday but ...
don't forget the reason for it.
Welcome Home All
-Fini
Friday, April 19, 2013
19 APR 13
Quotes ...
On a very early morning, sitting in my kitchen ... yawning, yet wide awake.
Thought to record some of my favorite quotes from years past.
1.) "The opposite of resonance is amplification.
A choir is the unified expression of voices
resonating with each other; a loudspeaker
is the amplification of a single voice, excluding
all others. A bell resonates, a cannon amplifies.
We listen to the bell, we are silenced by the
cannon."
(James P. Carse - from Finite and Infinite Games)
2.)
_____________________________
Beginning at 0300:
The other side of the day ...
Of a sudden, the Boston bombers have been identified,
confronted and violence has ensued.
The pair are brothers. One is 26, the other 19.
They came here from the Chechnya region of Russia.
They've been in the country for the past 12 years.
They are Muslim.
They seemed to have fit right in to their neighborhood.
As of right now, the older brother is dead, a police officer
is dead, a police officer is in the hospital, the younger brother
is on the run and being hunted by most of the police in New England.
On a very early morning, sitting in my kitchen ... yawning, yet wide awake.
Thought to record some of my favorite quotes from years past.
1.) "The opposite of resonance is amplification.
A choir is the unified expression of voices
resonating with each other; a loudspeaker
is the amplification of a single voice, excluding
all others. A bell resonates, a cannon amplifies.
We listen to the bell, we are silenced by the
cannon."
(James P. Carse - from Finite and Infinite Games)
2.)
_____________________________
Beginning at 0300:
The other side of the day ...
Of a sudden, the Boston bombers have been identified,
confronted and violence has ensued.
The pair are brothers. One is 26, the other 19.
They came here from the Chechnya region of Russia.
They've been in the country for the past 12 years.
They are Muslim.
They seemed to have fit right in to their neighborhood.
As of right now, the older brother is dead, a police officer
is dead, a police officer is in the hospital, the younger brother
is on the run and being hunted by most of the police in New England.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
16 APR 13 (2)
War Story ...
Of another kind.
Berlin in my memory ...
Boston on my mind ...
Years back, the mid '80s, we were at odds with Libya and the Red Army Faction. (That would be The Baader-Meinhoff Gang to the uninitiated.)
There were others too. It was the Cold War and the Soviets had a great deal of influence with societies who had no reason to love us.
After several bombings, in Berlin and elsewhere, we developed a strong sense of mistrust for all things unusual, out of place.
On this one normal weekday morning, my wife is leaving for work. I'm in the kitchen finishing my coffee. She leaves by the front door, then returns and informs me that there's a trash can on the sidewalk, directly in front of our front gate. I tell her to go on ... but to be sure not to touch the trash can ... that I'll be out shortly.
I walk outside, with my coffee in hand, inspect the can ... walk all around it. Our cars, with the distinctive American plates, had both been parked at the curb. My Beetle is still there. I form the opinion that if I were to build a bomb meant to kill a specific person, or persons, THIS is what I might come up with. It's a near perfect delivery vehicle. It's the official Berlin residential trash can, ubiquitous, made of a dark gray plastic, about 30 gal. in size, with a locking handle mechanism on it's top. The thing could be filled with C-4, then wired with a spring-activated contact switch set to go off if it were in any way disturbed ... then set directly in front of the local American's front garten gate ... begging to be picked up and moved.
A VC wet dream.
First, I called the Provost Marshall's Office. Reported on what I'd found. I was told that since it was so near to Tempelhof Central Airport, it was a problem for the USAF Security Police.
Called the TCA Security Police ... was informed that since it was off base, it was a problem for the German Polizei.
Since my wife spoke excellent German, and mine was rudimentary, I telephoned her and had her call the local police to explain what we were dealing with.
I waited an hour and a half, guarding the trash can.
Finally! ... a green and white Volkswagen police van shows up, with two officers inside. They stop in the middle of the street, get out, walk over and asked me "Was ist los?" (What's going on?) I try explaining, with my basic German, until one cop gives me a disgusted look and walks over, picks up the can, sets it down on the curb. My heart about stops ... I fall flat onto the street behind the cops' van and stopped breathing. When nothing happens, I stand back up and give the cops a sheepish look. They seemed pissed ... but I don't much care. I KNEW what could have been ... knew that we would all be dead right now if I had been right. They seemed to have no concept of what it was that I'd been concerned about.
Bombs scared the crap out of me back then.
They still do today.
-Fini
PS:
Of another kind.
Berlin in my memory ...
Boston on my mind ...
Years back, the mid '80s, we were at odds with Libya and the Red Army Faction. (That would be The Baader-Meinhoff Gang to the uninitiated.)
There were others too. It was the Cold War and the Soviets had a great deal of influence with societies who had no reason to love us.
After several bombings, in Berlin and elsewhere, we developed a strong sense of mistrust for all things unusual, out of place.
On this one normal weekday morning, my wife is leaving for work. I'm in the kitchen finishing my coffee. She leaves by the front door, then returns and informs me that there's a trash can on the sidewalk, directly in front of our front gate. I tell her to go on ... but to be sure not to touch the trash can ... that I'll be out shortly.
I walk outside, with my coffee in hand, inspect the can ... walk all around it. Our cars, with the distinctive American plates, had both been parked at the curb. My Beetle is still there. I form the opinion that if I were to build a bomb meant to kill a specific person, or persons, THIS is what I might come up with. It's a near perfect delivery vehicle. It's the official Berlin residential trash can, ubiquitous, made of a dark gray plastic, about 30 gal. in size, with a locking handle mechanism on it's top. The thing could be filled with C-4, then wired with a spring-activated contact switch set to go off if it were in any way disturbed ... then set directly in front of the local American's front garten gate ... begging to be picked up and moved.
A VC wet dream.
First, I called the Provost Marshall's Office. Reported on what I'd found. I was told that since it was so near to Tempelhof Central Airport, it was a problem for the USAF Security Police.
Called the TCA Security Police ... was informed that since it was off base, it was a problem for the German Polizei.
Since my wife spoke excellent German, and mine was rudimentary, I telephoned her and had her call the local police to explain what we were dealing with.
I waited an hour and a half, guarding the trash can.
Finally! ... a green and white Volkswagen police van shows up, with two officers inside. They stop in the middle of the street, get out, walk over and asked me "Was ist los?" (What's going on?) I try explaining, with my basic German, until one cop gives me a disgusted look and walks over, picks up the can, sets it down on the curb. My heart about stops ... I fall flat onto the street behind the cops' van and stopped breathing. When nothing happens, I stand back up and give the cops a sheepish look. They seemed pissed ... but I don't much care. I KNEW what could have been ... knew that we would all be dead right now if I had been right. They seemed to have no concept of what it was that I'd been concerned about.
Bombs scared the crap out of me back then.
They still do today.
-Fini
PS:
16 APR 13
War Story ...
Split personalities ...
people in the National Guard seemed
to all be afflicted with this malady.
I joined the Guard in 1990.
I chose the local battery of the
192nd Field Artillery ...
became an OJT 13B, cannon-cocker.
My very first drill week-end,
I stood on the drill floor in my brand new,
unfaded, BDU uniform looking about me.
What I saw was a very mixed bag of men,
some of whom I had to wonder at.
They seemed to be trying to provoke an
"Unfit For Military Duty" discharge.
What ran through my mind, actually,
was something a former First Sergeant
might have said:
"You!!"
"You're fucking up my formation!"
"Fall out!"
"Now!!"
"Blizen birksen blusaflock"
Anyway ... that was my thinking for the first few
months of my enlistment.
Slackers.
Came my first trip to Annual Training and in the
field, my thoughts were changed.
One such "slacker" was our assist. gunner.
He was a walking laundry-bag ... always wrinkled.
On the gun ... he was Wyatt Earp.
He was fast and smooth, knew exactly what he was doing
and ... did I mention that he was fast. During one
FFE exercise, with the guns all firing as fast as they
could, I watched him, mesmerized by his repetitive
actions.
We were heavy artillery, firing the M-114,
155mm gun. The A/Gunner removed the firing lock,
opened the breech block, inspected the breech (for
burning residue), swapped primers in the firing lock,
inspected the breech again after the projectile and
propellant have been loaded, closed the breech block,
inserted the firing lock, attached the lanyard,
waited for the order to fire, pulled the lanyard ...
BOOM! ... a sudden, soft punch to the gut ...
then started the process all over again ... at top
speed. It was something to see ... and it changed
my opinion of all the rag-bag soldiers in the unit.
They didn't do this for the spit & polish army ...
they were in it for the "dirty-shirt soldier" army.
Indeed ... so was I. Loved field duty with the Guard.
Wet and cold, hot and dry ... crappy chow or MRE's ...
all was worth it when you recieved a "Go" rating at the
end of a field exercise.
Breech end of the M-114 Howitzer
-Fini
Split personalities ...
people in the National Guard seemed
to all be afflicted with this malady.
I joined the Guard in 1990.
I chose the local battery of the
192nd Field Artillery ...
became an OJT 13B, cannon-cocker.
My very first drill week-end,
I stood on the drill floor in my brand new,
unfaded, BDU uniform looking about me.
What I saw was a very mixed bag of men,
some of whom I had to wonder at.
They seemed to be trying to provoke an
"Unfit For Military Duty" discharge.
What ran through my mind, actually,
was something a former First Sergeant
might have said:
"You!!"
"You're fucking up my formation!"
"Fall out!"
"Now!!"
"Blizen birksen blusaflock"
Anyway ... that was my thinking for the first few
months of my enlistment.
Slackers.
Came my first trip to Annual Training and in the
field, my thoughts were changed.
One such "slacker" was our assist. gunner.
He was a walking laundry-bag ... always wrinkled.
On the gun ... he was Wyatt Earp.
He was fast and smooth, knew exactly what he was doing
and ... did I mention that he was fast. During one
FFE exercise, with the guns all firing as fast as they
could, I watched him, mesmerized by his repetitive
actions.
We were heavy artillery, firing the M-114,
155mm gun. The A/Gunner removed the firing lock,
opened the breech block, inspected the breech (for
burning residue), swapped primers in the firing lock,
inspected the breech again after the projectile and
propellant have been loaded, closed the breech block,
inserted the firing lock, attached the lanyard,
waited for the order to fire, pulled the lanyard ...
BOOM! ... a sudden, soft punch to the gut ...
then started the process all over again ... at top
speed. It was something to see ... and it changed
my opinion of all the rag-bag soldiers in the unit.
They didn't do this for the spit & polish army ...
they were in it for the "dirty-shirt soldier" army.
Indeed ... so was I. Loved field duty with the Guard.
Wet and cold, hot and dry ... crappy chow or MRE's ...
all was worth it when you recieved a "Go" rating at the
end of a field exercise.
Breech end of the M-114 Howitzer
-Fini
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