Sunday, February 16, 2014
16 FEB 14 (MILSPEC)
001.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/11/09-nov-13.html
D01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/08-apr-13.html
V01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/08/14-aug-11-2.html
V02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/21-apr-11.html
V03.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/12/13-dec-11.html
V04.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/16-jan-13.html
V05.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/19-jan-13_19.html
V06.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/03-apr-13.html
V07.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/10/22-oct-11.html
V08.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/03-apr-13.html
V09.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/05/lest-we-forget.html
V10.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/05-apr-13.html
V11.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/20-jan-13-2.html
V12.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/03/29-mar-12.html
V13.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2014/02/13-feb-14.html
J01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/28-jan-13.html
J02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/10/28-oct-11.html
B01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/16-apr-13-2.html
B02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/25-jul-11.html
M01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/15-sep-09.html
M02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/04-apr-13_4.html
M03.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/01/13-jan-12.html
M04.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/05/22-may-12.html
M05.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/23-jul-11.html
M06.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/12/30-dec-11.html
M07.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/03/18-mar-12.html
M08.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/04/21-apr-12.html
M09.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/06/29-jun-12.html
M10.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/06/24-jun-13.html
M11.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/08/20-aug-11.html
M12.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/08/23-aug-12.html
M13.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/09/07-sep-12.html
N01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/16-apr-13.html
-Fini
Thursday, February 13, 2014
13 FEB 14
ASA War Story -
1967
8th Radio Research Field Station,
Phu Bai, Thua Thien Province, Vietnam (Republic of)
Late summer:
Had been there a short while . . . perhaps 2 months. Was beginning to feel confined. We weren't allowed off the combat base. A ration convoy was being put together. I volunteered . . . wanted off post, badly. We had to be fully armed, but nobody said with what. I decided to forego taking the -14 and borrowed a .45 pistol from a machine-gunner friend. (Note: I had no idea how to operate said pistol. How fucking stupid was I??) We rolled out the main gate early one morning and turned north, towards the city of Hue. After traveling for about 30 minutes the truck I was riding in began back-firing and jerking and then stopped. The convoy kept going, per SOP, and we three found ourselves stuck on Highway 1, in an area away from any villages or U.S. forces. Me, armed with a pistol that I'd never even held before and two other nervous ASA'ers armed with their M-14s and 80 rounds each. After an eternity of time, along came the maintenance trail. They fiddled with our engine and after a time we were rolling again. We wended our way through paddys, villages and farm country until we reached the shore of a large body of brackish water. On the shore was a small village and our trucks were all parked there, on the beach. Out on the water, about a quarter mile, was a US Navy self-propelled reefer barge. A "Mike Boat" (landing craft) was ferrying the trucks, one at a time, out to the barge, where they were loaded then returned to shore.
Since my truck was now last in line, I had a goodly bit of time to explore. I wandered through the village, taking in all the strangeness and tranquility and poverty. A little girl caught my eye. My guess is that she was about 10 - 12 years old. She waved me over, then offered me a slice of watermelon. It was a brutal hot day. I accepted. I was struck near dumb. Here was this child who had nothing, offering me something . . . for nothing . . . out of compassion. The melon went down smooth. Tried to talk with her but she spoke no English and I was mono-linguistic. I was then called over and ordered to go out with the next Mike Boat to facilitate the transfer of foodstuff. It was getting late. Once aboard the barge we labored long and hard, shifting crates of vegetables (To include a deck cargo of heat-rotted potatoes that the navy insisted we take because they were ours and "sorry, there was no room in the cooler for them, and we know we're three weeks overdue but regs are regs . . . and there's a fuckin' war going on!") The hardest part was moving the frozen meats up from out of the freezer compartment. I stood on a crate and passed each piece up, through the open hatch, to someone there, waiting for it. This went on for about three-quarters of an hour. It would have been a good workout for a weight lifter in a gym. I was whipped afterwards. Went up on deck and lit a cigarette. Local kids, in round caracle boats, had swarmed the barge and were yelling (begging) to the GIs on board. Somebody had opened a crate of oranges and had begun tossing them into the water to watch the kids fight over the fruit. Some of the fights were downright vicious. Guys were taking bets on which kid would get to the orange first. I found this to be repugnant behavior on the part of well-fed Americans.
Soon, the transfer of foodstuff was complete. We formed convoy on the beach and prepared to drive off. I was, once again, in the back of a truck. This one happened to have a couple crates of oranges on board. As we passed through the village, I spied the little girl who'd offered me the melon slice. I waved at her, then heaved a crate of oranges out towards her and yelled "Thanks." She waved back . . . that's the last I saw of her.
I've remembered that little girl through the intervening years. Wondered if she survived, grew up, got married, raised a family.
I dearly hope so . . . hope her life was peaceful and uncomplicated.
-Fini
1967
8th Radio Research Field Station,
Phu Bai, Thua Thien Province, Vietnam (Republic of)
Late summer:
Had been there a short while . . . perhaps 2 months. Was beginning to feel confined. We weren't allowed off the combat base. A ration convoy was being put together. I volunteered . . . wanted off post, badly. We had to be fully armed, but nobody said with what. I decided to forego taking the -14 and borrowed a .45 pistol from a machine-gunner friend. (Note: I had no idea how to operate said pistol. How fucking stupid was I??) We rolled out the main gate early one morning and turned north, towards the city of Hue. After traveling for about 30 minutes the truck I was riding in began back-firing and jerking and then stopped. The convoy kept going, per SOP, and we three found ourselves stuck on Highway 1, in an area away from any villages or U.S. forces. Me, armed with a pistol that I'd never even held before and two other nervous ASA'ers armed with their M-14s and 80 rounds each. After an eternity of time, along came the maintenance trail. They fiddled with our engine and after a time we were rolling again. We wended our way through paddys, villages and farm country until we reached the shore of a large body of brackish water. On the shore was a small village and our trucks were all parked there, on the beach. Out on the water, about a quarter mile, was a US Navy self-propelled reefer barge. A "Mike Boat" (landing craft) was ferrying the trucks, one at a time, out to the barge, where they were loaded then returned to shore.
Since my truck was now last in line, I had a goodly bit of time to explore. I wandered through the village, taking in all the strangeness and tranquility and poverty. A little girl caught my eye. My guess is that she was about 10 - 12 years old. She waved me over, then offered me a slice of watermelon. It was a brutal hot day. I accepted. I was struck near dumb. Here was this child who had nothing, offering me something . . . for nothing . . . out of compassion. The melon went down smooth. Tried to talk with her but she spoke no English and I was mono-linguistic. I was then called over and ordered to go out with the next Mike Boat to facilitate the transfer of foodstuff. It was getting late. Once aboard the barge we labored long and hard, shifting crates of vegetables (To include a deck cargo of heat-rotted potatoes that the navy insisted we take because they were ours and "sorry, there was no room in the cooler for them, and we know we're three weeks overdue but regs are regs . . . and there's a fuckin' war going on!") The hardest part was moving the frozen meats up from out of the freezer compartment. I stood on a crate and passed each piece up, through the open hatch, to someone there, waiting for it. This went on for about three-quarters of an hour. It would have been a good workout for a weight lifter in a gym. I was whipped afterwards. Went up on deck and lit a cigarette. Local kids, in round caracle boats, had swarmed the barge and were yelling (begging) to the GIs on board. Somebody had opened a crate of oranges and had begun tossing them into the water to watch the kids fight over the fruit. Some of the fights were downright vicious. Guys were taking bets on which kid would get to the orange first. I found this to be repugnant behavior on the part of well-fed Americans.
Soon, the transfer of foodstuff was complete. We formed convoy on the beach and prepared to drive off. I was, once again, in the back of a truck. This one happened to have a couple crates of oranges on board. As we passed through the village, I spied the little girl who'd offered me the melon slice. I waved at her, then heaved a crate of oranges out towards her and yelled "Thanks." She waved back . . . that's the last I saw of her.
I've remembered that little girl through the intervening years. Wondered if she survived, grew up, got married, raised a family.
I dearly hope so . . . hope her life was peaceful and uncomplicated.
-Fini
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
29 JAN 14
Random thoughts:
Having a pet while growing up leads to fond memories that can be revisited as we age. My family kept a dog and two cats (Plus, for a short time, two parakeets). Our house sported an enclosed front porch which connected to the living room via a door with multiple glass panes. (15, I think, in rows of three.) Someone accidentally kicked out the bottom left pane. My dad was slow to replace it. Over time, all three pets began using the, now-empty, space as a portal to the front porch. This gave our dog, Copper, access to the mail slot and allowed him to vent his distrust for the mailman and protect us from whatever it was that was being pushed through that little hole in the front door. Lost a bunch of government-issue refund checks to the dog's vigilence. (Do Not Fold, Spindle Or Mutilate) The front door, itself, was one large pane of glass and the cats used to enjoy sitting there and watching the outside world pass by . . . especially in winter.
Anyway, all three became used to passing through that open space on the door. Finally, my dad replaced the glass pane. (Am thinking it was over a year after it was broken.) On a day . . . both cats were feeling restless. They began wrestling and racing through the house. The older cat, a Siamese named Kismit, charged straight for the front porch . . . and ran, BANG!, right into the new glass pane. She sat, stunned, shaking her head. She, then, found a place on an easy chair and settled down to ponder life for awhile. I laughed. Kismit had always been a clown cat and was forever entertaining to live with. I told my dad what I'd seen. He immediately thought of the dog . . . said that a 25 pound dog was a whole lot different than a 7 pound cat. Told me to get a bar of soap and to mark up the new pane of glass so that Copper could see that it was no longer a passageway. Took about four weeks before they all stopped trying to pass through that space onto the front porch.
There are other memories . . .
one, in particular, of the younger cat, Teddy Bear, and a 34 pound
Thanksgiving turkey that was left, overnight, on the cold front porch
because there was no room in the fridge for it.
Stories for another day.
The two cat culprits, Teddy Bear and Kismit
-Fini
Having a pet while growing up leads to fond memories that can be revisited as we age. My family kept a dog and two cats (Plus, for a short time, two parakeets). Our house sported an enclosed front porch which connected to the living room via a door with multiple glass panes. (15, I think, in rows of three.) Someone accidentally kicked out the bottom left pane. My dad was slow to replace it. Over time, all three pets began using the, now-empty, space as a portal to the front porch. This gave our dog, Copper, access to the mail slot and allowed him to vent his distrust for the mailman and protect us from whatever it was that was being pushed through that little hole in the front door. Lost a bunch of government-issue refund checks to the dog's vigilence. (Do Not Fold, Spindle Or Mutilate) The front door, itself, was one large pane of glass and the cats used to enjoy sitting there and watching the outside world pass by . . . especially in winter.
Anyway, all three became used to passing through that open space on the door. Finally, my dad replaced the glass pane. (Am thinking it was over a year after it was broken.) On a day . . . both cats were feeling restless. They began wrestling and racing through the house. The older cat, a Siamese named Kismit, charged straight for the front porch . . . and ran, BANG!, right into the new glass pane. She sat, stunned, shaking her head. She, then, found a place on an easy chair and settled down to ponder life for awhile. I laughed. Kismit had always been a clown cat and was forever entertaining to live with. I told my dad what I'd seen. He immediately thought of the dog . . . said that a 25 pound dog was a whole lot different than a 7 pound cat. Told me to get a bar of soap and to mark up the new pane of glass so that Copper could see that it was no longer a passageway. Took about four weeks before they all stopped trying to pass through that space onto the front porch.
There are other memories . . .
one, in particular, of the younger cat, Teddy Bear, and a 34 pound
Thanksgiving turkey that was left, overnight, on the cold front porch
because there was no room in the fridge for it.
Stories for another day.
The two cat culprits, Teddy Bear and Kismit
My mother and I, with our dog, Copper, and the two ill-fated parakeets
-Fini
Friday, November 22, 2013
22 NOV 13
One day in Dallas . . .
Got to remembering today.
I'm 67 years old.
Now nearer to the end than to the beginning of all things "Me."
Been thinking about politics and presidents.
Had these thoughts on things presidential:
The first president I can remember is Eisenhower.
I liked him because he reminded me of my grandfather.
I was 10.
Then came Kennedy . . .
He became a sorta teen-idol figure.
I loved his look and sense of style.
Plus, he drove PT Boats in the war.
Cool.
Lyndon Johnson . . .
I alternately hated or pitied him.
Hated his micro-management of the war in Vietnam.
Pitied his obvious pain at the American troop losses
that ensued.
Nixon . . .
Couldn't get a read on him.
He wasn't called, "Tricky Dick" for naught.
(Although I did write a college paper in 1974, defending
him, for a Political Science class I took via USAFI.)
Gerald Ford . . .
A caretaker ...
a nice guy who was just "there."
Carter . . .
An embarrassment to all of us ex-patriots living in Berlin.
Thought his handling of the Iranian Hostage Crisis abysmal.
Ronald Reagan . . .
Loved how he rebuilt the military to counter Soviet threats.
(But then, I'm a bit biased on the subject.)
Don't really know how his "Trickle Down" theory of economics
worked ... whether it did what he claimed or not. All I know
is that the country seemed to thrive, economically.
George the First . . .
A solid bureaucrat.
Well versed in the world of international derring do.
Plus, he was another WWII vet, one who'd flown combat
missions and had once been shot down.
Clinton . . .
A flim-flam man who made good.
The first president of my own generation
and he managed to avoid military service
by staying in college. (At least he was smart.)
George the Second . . .
A good man, trying hard
but not always getting it right.
Another one who avoided service in Vietnam
but at least he flew jets for the Air Guard.
(And how many thousands of my fellow citizens
joined the Guard for the exact same reason?)
Barack Obama . . .
An empty suit, not near as smart as
he thinks himself to be.
Still ... duly elected ... twice!
As for 2016 ...
dunno for sure.
It could very well be Clinton v Christie.
All I know for sure is that after 67 of my years,
The Republic still stands.
Being career military ... both in and out of uniform,
I learned to keep my presidential political thoughts to myself.
(Plus, I once worked with a soldier who's last prior duty station had been
the White House. Part of his duties required him to sweep the briefing
room for bugs prior to the president's morning briefing. At the front
of the room was a large flip-chart, with a black cover stenciled with
"PRESIDENT'S EYES ONLY." On his last duty day, he peeked under the
cover at the top briefing sheet. He told us that after reading what the
man has to deal with before breakfast, daily, he'd never criticize another
sitting president again.)
I've always tried to emulate him in that.
-Fini
Got to remembering today.
I'm 67 years old.
Now nearer to the end than to the beginning of all things "Me."
Been thinking about politics and presidents.
Had these thoughts on things presidential:
The first president I can remember is Eisenhower.
I liked him because he reminded me of my grandfather.
I was 10.
Then came Kennedy . . .
He became a sorta teen-idol figure.
I loved his look and sense of style.
Plus, he drove PT Boats in the war.
Cool.
Lyndon Johnson . . .
I alternately hated or pitied him.
Hated his micro-management of the war in Vietnam.
Pitied his obvious pain at the American troop losses
that ensued.
Nixon . . .
Couldn't get a read on him.
He wasn't called, "Tricky Dick" for naught.
(Although I did write a college paper in 1974, defending
him, for a Political Science class I took via USAFI.)
Gerald Ford . . .
A caretaker ...
a nice guy who was just "there."
Carter . . .
An embarrassment to all of us ex-patriots living in Berlin.
Thought his handling of the Iranian Hostage Crisis abysmal.
Ronald Reagan . . .
Loved how he rebuilt the military to counter Soviet threats.
(But then, I'm a bit biased on the subject.)
Don't really know how his "Trickle Down" theory of economics
worked ... whether it did what he claimed or not. All I know
is that the country seemed to thrive, economically.
George the First . . .
A solid bureaucrat.
Well versed in the world of international derring do.
Plus, he was another WWII vet, one who'd flown combat
missions and had once been shot down.
Clinton . . .
A flim-flam man who made good.
The first president of my own generation
and he managed to avoid military service
by staying in college. (At least he was smart.)
George the Second . . .
A good man, trying hard
but not always getting it right.
Another one who avoided service in Vietnam
but at least he flew jets for the Air Guard.
(And how many thousands of my fellow citizens
joined the Guard for the exact same reason?)
Barack Obama . . .
An empty suit, not near as smart as
he thinks himself to be.
Still ... duly elected ... twice!
As for 2016 ...
dunno for sure.
It could very well be Clinton v Christie.
All I know for sure is that after 67 of my years,
The Republic still stands.
Being career military ... both in and out of uniform,
I learned to keep my presidential political thoughts to myself.
(Plus, I once worked with a soldier who's last prior duty station had been
the White House. Part of his duties required him to sweep the briefing
room for bugs prior to the president's morning briefing. At the front
of the room was a large flip-chart, with a black cover stenciled with
"PRESIDENT'S EYES ONLY." On his last duty day, he peeked under the
cover at the top briefing sheet. He told us that after reading what the
man has to deal with before breakfast, daily, he'd never criticize another
sitting president again.)
I've always tried to emulate him in that.
-Fini
Saturday, November 9, 2013
09 NOV 13
Veterans Day Approaches . . .
Played around in Photoshop and came up with this
for a holiday facebook Timeline Cover photo:
Touched up another photo from Vietnam also:
-Fini
Played around in Photoshop and came up with this
for a holiday facebook Timeline Cover photo:
Touched up another photo from Vietnam also:
-Fini
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
06 NOV 13
Words . . .
We communicate with words.
The written word may have a lasting impression because of it's very nature but the spoken word, too, has a very strong impact ...
especially when delivered by a master orator.
Witness this video: "Remember How We Forgot"
Poet, Shane Koyczan and Violinist, Hannah Epperson
We communicate with words.
The written word may have a lasting impression because of it's very nature but the spoken word, too, has a very strong impact ...
especially when delivered by a master orator.
Witness this video: "Remember How We Forgot"
Poet, Shane Koyczan and Violinist, Hannah Epperson
-Fini
Friday, November 1, 2013
01 NOV 13
A War Story ...
8th RRFS, Phu Bai, RVN
In 1967, we acquired a new room mate,
one Al Gray. He was from Alaska ... more
to the point, he was from the Aleutian Island
of Unalaska, a crabbing center. His father
worked in a cannery there and began sending
cases of premium crab meat to Al every month.
What to do? Make crab salad of course!
Al wrote and asked his father to include jars of mayo
with the crab ... soon, we were making up batches of
crab salad. Bread! We needed bread. Not just any
bread but a sub-sandwich type of bread.
In my travels to and from the airport, I'd spied a local
kiosk that sold bake goods.
I visited there ... became, immediately, entranced by the
kiosk owner ... a beautiful French/Vietnamese woman
named Mai (?). She was older than me by 20 years
but still jaw-dropping beautiful (Think Nancy Kwan).
She spoke four or five languages, English being one, and was
happy for the business. I made an arrangement to buy a dozen
baguettes of bread from her once a month.
Once a month, we'd have a crab salad party in the room and invite
anybody who'd supply the beer. My boss, CWO Slusser, attended
a couple of times. As for Mai ... I had a big crush on her and we had
many a chat together. She told me that she was married to a French
soldier and was waiting for him to return and take her back to France.
Came Tet '68.
Lost track of most all of our LN's for about a month or so.
Was restricted to the confines of the 8th for the same amount of time.
Our LN's began drifting back ... telling tales of terror and death in the
surrounding villages. A mass grave, containing 3000 bodies, was
uncovered on the outskirts of Hue City.
Finally, local kiosks began reopening.
Business slowly began returning to normal.
Mai's kiosk remained closed. She never reappeared.
I heard rumors ... stories told by the locals, that she was executed for
being too friendly with the Americans.
Could never confirm this.
Have always felt guilt at the thought that our friendship may have been
a cause of her death.
-Fini
8th RRFS, Phu Bai, RVN
In 1967, we acquired a new room mate,
one Al Gray. He was from Alaska ... more
to the point, he was from the Aleutian Island
of Unalaska, a crabbing center. His father
worked in a cannery there and began sending
cases of premium crab meat to Al every month.
What to do? Make crab salad of course!
Al wrote and asked his father to include jars of mayo
with the crab ... soon, we were making up batches of
crab salad. Bread! We needed bread. Not just any
bread but a sub-sandwich type of bread.
In my travels to and from the airport, I'd spied a local
kiosk that sold bake goods.
I visited there ... became, immediately, entranced by the
kiosk owner ... a beautiful French/Vietnamese woman
named Mai (?). She was older than me by 20 years
but still jaw-dropping beautiful (Think Nancy Kwan).
She spoke four or five languages, English being one, and was
happy for the business. I made an arrangement to buy a dozen
baguettes of bread from her once a month.
Once a month, we'd have a crab salad party in the room and invite
anybody who'd supply the beer. My boss, CWO Slusser, attended
a couple of times. As for Mai ... I had a big crush on her and we had
many a chat together. She told me that she was married to a French
soldier and was waiting for him to return and take her back to France.
Came Tet '68.
Lost track of most all of our LN's for about a month or so.
Was restricted to the confines of the 8th for the same amount of time.
Our LN's began drifting back ... telling tales of terror and death in the
surrounding villages. A mass grave, containing 3000 bodies, was
uncovered on the outskirts of Hue City.
Finally, local kiosks began reopening.
Business slowly began returning to normal.
Mai's kiosk remained closed. She never reappeared.
I heard rumors ... stories told by the locals, that she was executed for
being too friendly with the Americans.
Could never confirm this.
Have always felt guilt at the thought that our friendship may have been
a cause of her death.
-Fini
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