The mission. Tinian to the Osaka shipyard. 1944. (my final exam when I was about 14.)

(Or how I was a victim of child abuse by current standards.)

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This took place almost 60 years ago and the details may be off and the times mistaken but it is the best I recall.

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I begin.

I've mentioned before that I was doing poorly in math early on and my genius father clear out of the blue asked me if I wanted to learn to navigate a B-29.

What kid could refuse such an offer? I jumped on it only to find myself at the kitchen table anywhere between about 3 to 7 nights a week for about 8 months. Maybe it was longer than that. by the time it was over I had a stack of Big Chief writing tablets about three feet tall full of calculations of various types.

Dad had a box of stuff in the upstairs closet left over from WW2 and most of it was books. Books that were full of tables and formulas. I had snooped through them a few years back but they didn't look too interesting so I had simply put them back and never asked.

The night after I told him I wanted to learn what he had offered he told me to get the box and he started shuffling through it. Most of the stuff was dated 1944, but not all. Some was dated earlier, some as late as 1945.

Anyway, my father taught me celestial navigation at the kitchen table along with a lot more than that. Sun shots, star shots, wind vectors, plotting, you name it. During the clear, cold winter nights he taught me the stars of the Northern hemisphere. I can remember laying on my back in a nearby field freezing my a$$ off while he pointed them out to me.

Looking back on it, I wish I had a shot or two of cognac to keep me warm but that was LONG before I knew of its warming qualities. 

After months and months Dad asked me what kind of final I wanted. 

"Just want to do the work on actual flying or want to fly the whole mission?" he asked. "From getting up to hitting the rack. You call it."

"I want the whole mission," I said. I didn't know what I was in for.

"I was afraid of that," he said. "Actually I expected that. You asked for it."

We spent a couple more nights at the kitchen table and one (IIRC) Friday night dad said I needed a break and to sack out early because he had an idea we needed to get up early for. I had heard him talking to my mother about taking me fishing.

0100 Saturday. "Wake up, Kiddo. You're flying lead navigator today. Breakfast is in 20 minutes. Synchronize your watch, dress and get to the mess hall. Eat a lot. You've got a big day ahead of you."

I was a shortwave listener at the time and simply reached over to the power supply for the surplus receiver and clicked the toggle switch. 

Thunk.

I waited for it to warm up and grabbed my watch. It was mechanical and lost 2 seconds a day. Then I spun the dial to 3.33 MHz, CHU Canada, Eastern Standard time. I added 4 or 5 (I forgot which) hours to the CHU reading to get UTC (Then IIRC GMT) and got the watch synchronized. Accurate time is essential to a navigator.

Then I hopped out of bed and climbed into jeans and a shirt and headed upstairs where the bacon was sizzling. There was a large glass of OJ on the table and Dad crammed the chow into me. I was stuffed. "God bless your appetite," he said with a big grin. "You'll need every bite of it before this is over. Briefing is at 0230."

After I hogged down I went over my 'navigators bag' and checked its contents according to my check list and threw in a couple of extra pencils. (remember them?) Dad handed me an unused chart of the Pacific between the Marianas and Japan. We had several and I found out that Dad had gotten them from the National Geographic Society. My mother had offered to type his request but Dad refused the offer. He had written them a letter asking them for a few charts with a pencil on a Big Chief tablet, explaining what he wanted them for, to teach his son navigation. The society had sent him a stack of them.  

Back in the day home spun letters from a kitchen table commanded respect and the Society sent us a bunch of them, free. They were pretty generous in those days, especially if it was for learning.

The briefing took about an hour and took place in the living room. He has an improvised easel and had a chart and some improvised things set up and took a whole hour explaining all the details. We were to bomb an imaginary shipyard in Osaka, Japan. Some of the pictures were just hand drawn and Dad was no real artist.

"OK, this is this, this is that and here's the fleet we gotta paste."

He wasn't just briefing me, a navigator. He was briefing a bunch of imaginary pilots, co-pilots, navigators and bombardiers. I got a bunch of superfluous information and listened to everything because you never know what can effect you.

Almost 60 years later I realize this is probably historically incorrect but looking back on it Dad had just pulled this entire thing out of his hat which coincides with my entire life because I have pulled MY entire life out of a hat. I guess it runs in the family and I got it from him.

Anyway, the briefing included expected fighter activity, flak, the IP for the bomb run and dad carried on in great detail. The briefing ended about an hour later. It was now about 0330 and we went through gear issue. We walked to the imaginary gear issue facility (a walk down the street and back) and I was issued an imaginary Mae West, parachute and some other stuff. Dad took great delight with handing me several pieces of paper and making me sign them. They were blank sheets and he made me sign my name a bunch of times. "The Army," he said triumphantly. "Floats on a sea of paperwork! He was busting my chops and I knew it but I played along.  

At about 0430 I climbed aboard which meant I was now sitting at the kitchen table, my 'navigator's station' while the pilot and co-pilot did a preflight inspection. The whole thing dragged on. We were slated to go gear up at 0500. 

I laid out all my gear and on the virgin map plotted a course for Osaka, adding a dogleg to go west of the Bonins. There were radar installations on Chichi Jima and Iwo Jima and I was trying to do what I could to avoid them. They were a warning station. I also took out a larger scale chart of the Osaka area, found the initial point (I forgot what it was, maybe a  small town) and plotted the bomb run. 

At 0450 Dad said "Stand down."

"What?" I  was shocked.

"Someone said that one of the guys on guard duty rounded up a starving Japanese soldier last night and Curtis LeMay wants him interviewed to make sure he wasn't spying on us and letting the Japs know we're  coming." I rolled my eyes. "Hey, Kid. You wanted the full mission!" Then Dad walked out. I think he sneaked into the living room and I think he took a nap while I sat there.

I turned on the radio at the kitchen table. If I recall it was WNAC (I Googled this and it is no longer on the air) It was Dad's favorite station. Mine was WBZ, a rock station.

"What's with the radio?" asked Dad as he returned from his nap. Glenn Miller was playing.

"I told the radio operator to see if he could get anything from the States. He got us a skip from Hawaii," I replied. I spoke in the same sarcastic tome he gave me when he said Curtis LeMay had put things on hold.

Dad snickered. "I see you've figured out how to play the game."

"Curtis LeMay personally interviewed the poor starving Jap the guard picked up and says it's OK to take off," he said. His tone of voice just oozed sarcasm. 

"Being a guard all night must be boring duty," I said.

"If I had washed out of flying I would have prayed for a job like that! I joined the Air Corps because I knew I didn't have the balls to be an infantryman and shoot some poor bastard in the face. You forget my mother came from Austria!"

"And the Japanese?" I asked.

"Same difference. They're people, too. They have mothers, fathers, wives and kids, too." he shot back. "Now let's get this show on the road! We're gear up at 0630.  

I didn't know it then but that became a valuable lesson. I learned how to play 'hurry up and wait' and not get pi$$ed off too much.

I know Tinian is UTC (Then GMT) +10 and this is all a blur to me now but we took off in daylight according to memory. I had to get us to the target in daylight. That meant sun shots all the way to Osaka. No stars. 

Sun shots are one LOP (line of position). Star shots are several, usually 3 to 5. Ideally they should all intersect at the same point. Star shots are like taking more than one sun lines at once.

I spent the next six hours pretty busy with plotting sheets, maps, air tables, a nautical almanac and constantly converting my true course corrections to the airplane's magnetic compass. 

Dad had given me a big break. I could use the tables. Early on I had to do all the calculations by hand. Only after I had mastered that I could use the Air Tables. 

Early on I said to Dad, "I gotta take a dump."

Dad grinned and handed me a shoe box and a couple paper towels. (He had figured on that one coming.)

"We used ice cream containers, but this is close enough."

When Dad saw me put the box on the floor and unbuckle my pants he snapped, "Jesus Christ! You signed up for the whole mile, didn't you? Just go use the Goddamned toilet like a human being!" He shook his head. 

The way I looked at it, if I had to crap in a box, I'd crap in a box. I wanted to pass this test in the world's worst way and I would do what I had to do. I wanted to graduate. Period.

It was sun shots to west of the Bonin Islands and when we passed them I changed course directly to Osaka.

Immediately after I course changed after the Bonin Islands I found something dreadfully wrong had happened. We were going 100 knots over the ground in an airship with a cruising speed of 220. We were in the jet stream! I instantly ordered Dad (the hotshot pilot) to drop 5000 feet and Dad grinned. "You figured that one out fast!" he said.

I also made a note of that on the chart. The jet stream could cost an airplane a LOT of fuel and if one dropped to near stall speed you could actually be flying backwards! In fact, although rare the jet stream winds can well exceed the cruising speed of a B-29 and you can fly backwards at full power!

Back to sun lines, advancing them and applying the running fix. The angles were acute and that meant not nearly as accurate as a 5 star wheel. I thought that hopefully we could get some star shots on the way back.

We got to the IP and I gave the course of the bomb run. The bombardier would fine tune it on the bomb run and do his job. I also gave the pilot the course back to Tinian, straight line this time. We were headed home.

Dad made a break in the action and declared a lunch break and handed me about 4 soggy baloney sandwiches and about a quart of tepid coffee and kept me busy shooting the bull for about an hour. 

Then he suddenly said to me, "OK, Mister hotshot navigator. The pilot's been following the course you gave him and hour ago. Now where are you?"

Mom came in and pointed out I'd been up most of the night.

Dad snapped back. "He's not going to know what he's capable of until he's been pushed! Please! Leave us alone! Six hundred men and 60 machines are depending on him!"

I vaguely remember a fading sunshot as a running fix and twilight coming on. I based it on the sun line intersecting the plotted course and knew it was all I had to go on until twilight. The position made sense even though I knew it was probably off because of wind drift. I had no way to gauge wind speed so I couldn't plot a vector.

Then Dad handed me a wheel of stars to plot and I adjusted my course from that. 

I plotted a few wheels of stars and Dad said fuel was getting a bit iffy. I looked at the note on my chart and remembered the jet stream and ordered climbing 5000 feet. We were near the Bonin Islands. We could fly over them. We were on the way home and the anti-aircraft fire couldn't reach us.  

The next star shot told me we were going about 350 knots over the ground! Great fuel mileage! We'd overcome the fuel problem. In two hours we had gained 260 miles of flying time.

A couple of hours later the jet stream dropped off and we were just slightly above the cruising speed of 220, maybe 230, course over ground.

I plotted several wheels of stars and we neared the Marianas and I plotted a course for Tinian. Most of the Marianas were in darkness but Dad (acting as pilot) said, "I see the lights. I got it from here."

Dad was pretty funny when he 'landed' the 'plane'. He feigned a really rough landing and bounced up and down in his seat for several seconds. He turned to me with a big grin and said, "I never landed one of these before! Now we gotta turn in our gear and get debriefed." It was just past 2000 local time. I had been up over 19 hours.

We went through a bunch of paperwork and I noticed that all of the blank papers I had signed had a rubber stamp on them of some sort. I don't remember what it was. Maybe it was the never used 'For deposit only' stamp that was in the family desk somewhere. He handed the paperwork back to me and told me "Don't lose this. Some idiot of a supply sergeant is going to come up short a parachute and if you have this he can't pin it on you!"

It was yet another lesson imparted on me that didn't go to waste. I learned to keep various receipts to cover my ass. It actually saved me a couple of times over hand receipts in the Army and another couple of things later on. It was a good lesson.

After that Dad handed me a glass containing about 3 ounces of Seagram's 7 Crown and told me to choke it down before the debrief. Thank God Mom wasn't around. She'd have flipped her lid.

I poured it down in one hard, burning gulp and fought to keep it down and in a few short minutes it went straight to my head.

Dad grilled me about all sorts of stuff for about an entire hour. I was as high as a kite.  Fighter activity, cloud cover, flak, he even asked me what color tie Harry Truman had on when he was sworn in! I remember that one because I stopped to think a second and realized this was 1944 and Truman was still vice president at the time. When I gave that as an answer dad sheepishly said, "I must have lost track of the time. Good answer, Kiddo!"

He asked me a bunch more questions about various things regarding the airplane itself and I commented the pilot made a lousy landing.

He laughed and said, "You aced it! Now hit the rack!"

I'd been running for about 21 hours.

I went into the bedroom kicked off my shoes and sprawled out and slept like a corpse for almost 11 hours. I woke up to an empty house because the family was at St. Christine's for the 0830 mass.

Years later I asked Dad why he had given me the Seagram's.

He told me it was a last minute decision because I was starting to get punchy and he figured when I found out I'd aced it I'd be too keyed up to get and sleep so he just decided to simply knock me out. Besides, I had opted to go the whole mile and that was actually a part of it. Aircrews were often given a shot or two to settle them down before debrief.

I've never had a drop of Seagrams 7 since then. I swear that if I had a shot now it would trigger me and come up immediately.

This post is a memory of almost 60 years ago. I'm sure some nitpicker can come along and pick it to death citing time differences and a million other details. I realized that while I was writing it. It is what it is. I know I missed a lot.

One other thing. This is something to think of. We didn't have a real airplane and I didn't have a sextant because we couldn't afford to buy a B-29 from the scrapyard and make it flyable. Poverty sucks. Dad gave me sextant readings and times to work up my sunlines and star shots with.  

Years later when I bought my sailboat I picked up a pair of Marine sextants and figure them out in about 10 minutes. I'm pretty sure aircraft sextants are fairly simple so I wasn't cheated by having Dad give me the readings and times.

Twenty years later just after Dad passed I realized what a genius he was. He had to have figured things out well in advance and on top of that figured things out backwards to give me the problems to solve.

Couple that with the fact that he had not done anything like that in about 20 years and it's nothing less than astonishing.

How he found the time and energy to do that and still work a long day and have fair time for my other four siblings is beyond me. Looking back on this, while he did spend a lot of time with me at the table, most of my time was spend at the table alone with an old textbook and Dad would answer questions. Sometimes he'd spend quite some time there teaching me things that were not in the book. He'd generally do other things but oversee. 

I learned a lot more than navigation that day. Later on I became an artillery surveyor, a carpenter and a sailor. All of them are geometry based. 

I also learned about 'hurry up and wait', that there's more to a job that meets the eye. A navigator was part of a crew and there was more to the job than navigation. The 'more to the job than meets the eye' part helped me later bidding carpentry jobs.  

Another Important thing I learned is that people don't know what they are capable of until you push them and let them find out.

Still, it's a memory of mine.

I never did learn textbook math. I got Cs in school. I learned practical math and learned it well.

Practical math was one of the things that gave me three successful careers.

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Posted on Nextdoor.

OK, who lost the 3.5 foot rocket? It landed in my side yard and the 'chute didn't deploy so it augered in. You overwadded it and packed the 'chute too tight and it didn't come out. The nose cone did separate, though. Either that or the ejection charge was too weak. Anyway I have it and if you can tell me what color the nose cone and fuselage is you can have it. BUT You gotta promise to let me know when you're going to launch it again so I can watch. I took the time to rewad it, mend the parachute, repack it and install it. All you need is another engine and you're ready for your next flight. For those of you that are going into a dither that I may have found a piece of lethal military hardware and didn't call the EOD team, it will astonish you to find out that at one time I was actually 14 years old and know a model rocket when I see one.

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Update. Rocket and youthful owner reunited.

I just love a happy ending.

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Aftermath. Astonishing!

Only ONE "Why encourage his actions? What if somebody got hurt?"

My reply

There's always THAT PERSON that pops up in these threads . Don't be THAT PERSON. People like that stifle creativity. Why stifle his actions and creativity? A kid that gets into model rocketry has a curiosity that should be encouraged. Model rockets are launched electrically from a safe distance and are constructed out of paper and balsa wood. The likelihood of getting hurt is slim to none and Slim's not in town today.

After I answered her she got rat-packed which surprised me.

One thing about this is that kids that get into stuff like model rockets seldom get into any real trouble. For those of you with a stick up your a$$, a model rocket or a kite in your tree is NOT real trouble. It's basic issue kid stuff.

In fact over the past umpteen years I have helped more than one kid get a kite or a Frisbee or whatever out of a tree.

As kids they are supposed to get things caught in trees and as an older guy I am supposed to help and teach them how to get it out of the tree.

It's in the Suburban Dweller's Guide.

Of course I have quite an advantage over most so-called adults because when I was a kid I wanted to grow up and be a sailor. I found out you can't do both so I became a sailor. That meant I would not lose my ability to do kid stuff and was a pretty good deal.

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What's interesting is that

It's interesting to note how stupid people really are with Trump Derangement Syndrome.                                                             

                                                 

Yet people will still vote for her and wonder what happened when they get handed a bill for $50,000 or more. Enter the second mortgage, people.

The middle class has traditionally made much of their wealth through home ownership. Besides being a place to live, it's a solid, tangible investment. For some it's their only major investment.

I hear Harris babble about how she doesn't just want the middle class to get by, she wants it to get ahead. What a crock THAT is. If she wants the middle class to get ahead then why is she trying to steal money out of what to many people is their biggest and most important investment?

Another thing that's interesting are the couple of youngsters that are working their first jobs at the local convenience store. They have looked at their paycheck stubs and found out they are now taxpayers.

Now that they are on the working end of things some of them are beginning to realize a few things. I like explaining that a lot of the money the government takes from them is given to someone else that's too lazy and stupid to earn their own.

One thing I have pointed out to youngsters is that most likely if things keep going this way they will never be able to own their own homes.

I've also pointed out that corporations don't pay taxes. All they do is write checks for taxes. The money comes from the consumer in the form of raised prices.

Both of the convenience store youngsters told me that this will be their first time to vote and they intend to cast their vote for Trump. I was mildly surprised to hear that.

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I just read where Oregon students will no longer be required to be proficient in

reading, writing and math to graduate because it disproportionately effects students of color.

Whoever came up with that one has insulted every person of color out there. They have just in so many words said that people of color are not capable enough to learn how to read, write and count numbers.

When in doubt, lower the standard and we can ALL suffer.

I have ranted and raved about ONE standard for everyone for decades and making programs open to EVERYONE.

One sets standards to create a result. Prior to this it was set so that if one looks are a basic high school diploma that the bearer had at least the rudimentary skills of being able to read, write and do basic math.

As of now the diplomas from Oregon schools mean little if anything. They state that the bearer went through 12 years of free baby sitting provided by the Oregon school systems.

I just got up and looked at my old diploma and if they are still using halfway decent card stock (They most likely are) to print the diplomas on you can't even wipe your a$$ with them.

When we lower the standard EVERYONE suffers. We get a dumber population.

Ahh, yes. We must pick up White Man's Burden and stoop down the help out our poor brown brothers. What horse$hit!

For the record two of my doctors have brown skin. 

While I suppose neither of them are 'TOP MEN" in their field, I did do some serious digging on them and found out that both of them are extremely competent doctors.

You also have to remember that the 'Top Men' are the medicos that the rich and powerful go to to get their flu shot unlike the rest of us that get them from someone with maybe a community college class or two under their belt. (Any poverty stricken half-wit of good peasant stock (like most of us) knows that doctors can't give shots for sour apples. They don't do it often enough to get good at it. The most painless shots are given by LPNs and Army Sp/4s)

Both of my doctors went through their various schools and met the standards everyone else did. I feel safe with them.

The key end result is now I am simply going to question the validity of a high school diploma that was issued my any public school in the State of Oregon, regardless of whatever race, creed or color they are. 

Sometime in 2020 during the various period of uneasiness in the country where our cities were Burned, Looted and Murdered one of the colleges in the Seattle area announced that people of color didn't have to take finals because they were too busy defending their rights (or some such crap)

I think I made a post (I'm not 100% sure) here saying that if I were a corporate head I would instruct personnel not to hire anyone with a degree from that school unless they could produce their final exam grades. 

That's fair.

I'm getting sick and tired of the double standard that seems to have come into the vogue and I fear it's working its way into medicine. I just read where Elon Mush has challenged an Ivy League school over having a double standard for POC in the medical profession.

Musk generally knows what he's talking about so I tend to believe him. It also galls a lot of people when I point out that Musk is an African-American.

A few years back I went to one of the outpatient departments  of the local hospital for and appointment. The department had more than one doctor there at the time. When I told the receptionist I was there for a doctor's appointment she asked me "Which doctor?"

With my usual deadpan straight face I replied, "No. I want a regular one." 

She chuckled and looked my file up and squared me away. It was somewhat funny then and it would probably be funny today but the way we're headed it may not become so funny because I can picture medicine headed that way down the road. 

At this rate it won't be long before one goes to the local clinic to see the attending physician wearing a grass skirt, a bone in his nose and carrying a spear. Say what you will, but it's starting to look like we're headed in that direction.

This sort of crap has worked its way into aviation, too. In early 2022 United Airlines opened a DEI program to recruit people of color and also a new school to train pilots.

Over the years I have only given minority aircrew people a passing glance because I naturally assumed they were held to the same standards as everyone else. Now I am starting to wonder.

I suppose that IF the United program holds ALL students to the same standard of excellence it shouldn't be bad. OTOH there will probably be a lot of pressure to graduate students based on color and the standards of excellence will possibly quietly be skipped over and they tail will start wagging the dog.

Look up Kara Hultgreen to see what I mean. Of course her Wikipedia page has been edited several times over the past few years but the bottom line is that before she got sent to carrier duty 

I read that Kara apparently got stuck in the middle of an inter-service rivalry between the Navy and the Air Force and that Navy may or may not have released her when she should have either gotten remedial training or just plain been washed out. Anyway it cost her her life. 

With airline pilots it's not just one pilot's life. Few people survive an aircraft accident.

Early on I wrote that standards are set to achieve a desired result. 

The results should lead to excellence in the prescribed field.

It should also be noted that in reality we are not equal. Some people have more brains and/or drive than others. It is what it is.

People, regardless of any of the usual factors should should be permitted to go as far as their brains and drive can take them with no interference. It's not a collective group thing, it's an individual thing.

As for me? I'm not a white male, I'm an individual. I'm Piccolo, member of the human race.

  

 

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It's been over two years since the fire

and it's been over a year since I have even caught the faintest whiff of fire anywhere in the house.

I attribute that to a number of things. 

My wife kept the windows open when I was at sea, closing only the windows on the weather side of the house as needed.

The bulk of the odor was removed by the soda blasters that blasted all of the charring off of the joisting and flooring. They knocked it down from a serious fire smell to something that was a whiff.

Two thick coats of white shellac took the most of the remainder out and because I kept the windows open that went down to practically zero.

I say practically zero but every now and then a whiff of fire odor would appear. That's when the hydroxyl machine got lit off at the 'scene of the smell' for a day or two.

These days the hydroxyl generator is parked next to Kitty's litter box and I turn it on when I scoop to knock down the cat urine smell. 

I discovered an insert for the warm/cold air ductwork on the furnace/AC that produces hydroxyls and at one time I was seriously thinking of having it installed but have not done it yet. It's still under consideration.

Hydroxyl is NOT ozone. Ozone should not be used in places inhabited by people or pets.

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Those damned 1911A1s were a nuisance.

I was in a headquarters battery. I had seven of the damned things in my arms room. Had I been in a firing battery I would have had one and that would be the battery commander's and that would have ended it.

Out of my seven, one was for the BnCO, another was for the battery commander, four were for the medics and one was for the Redeye gunner.

Everyone wanted one. Read the James Jones novelette 'The Pistol' and you'll understand. Of course, we had no sword swinging Japanese officers to worry about but the principle was the same. Everyone wanted them so they didn't have to lug around a rifle on field problems.

It got to be a royal pain in the a$$.

One day I suggested to the S-2, a captain, that he score one in a pawn shop and grab a holster at the local surplus store. He asked me to keep my eyes open for one and about a week later told him I had found two at a pawn shop. I also seriously suggested he did NOT buy one marked 'United States property'.

While there were any number of legitimate pistols on the streets marked this way because after WW2 the government wrote a large number of them off, I realized that being near an army base it was entirely possible that a stolen pistol could easily appear.

The last thing anyone needed was to have to answer a bunch of questions over a stolen pistol. The CID took that pretty seriously.

Anyway, in passing I met an NCO in the maintenance battalion that was in small arms repair and he told me about putting together 1911A1s with Essex Frames. He even offered to show me how to do it. I forgot what I gave him in return but probably a big can of coffee.

Anyway, when he staked the plunger tube in place I realized what the previously unknown tool in my armorer's toolbox was for. The plunger tube is the only hard part of assembling a .45. You need the tool.

I had purchased the frame off post and I do not remember filling out a 4473 for it although I very well might have. 

The S-2 scored the pawn shop pistol and thanked me. He also mentioned this to another officer and I told him to check the local surplus place for a parts kit and told him where to buy a frame. If he got the parts I'd assemble it for him. 

It started a minor deluge and over the next few months I assembled about a dozen from Essex frames and USGI parts that either came from the local surplus store or from Shotgun News ads. This included three or four for NCOs which promised never to bring them on post. 

Shortly after I built a couple two of the armorer's from the firing batteries swing by and asked me how to build the pistols. Apparently the officed in Headquarters couldn't keep quiet about what I was doing. I showed them.

I had been smart enough to build all of mine in my apartment off post and receive the parts off post and deliver them to my 'customers' off post. I had also told them to keep their receipts for the frames and part kits.

Unknown to my 'customers' I kept a log of who I had built what for by serial number. When I was discharged I mailed it along with a bunch of other paperwork to my parents for safekeeping as I was heading into the woods to live in a tipi for a while. I never had to use it and when I dug into it a few years later I pitched it and chuckled.

My battery commander was aware of what I was doing and I had explained to him that I was doing everything off post and no government parts were being used. He was good with it so long as everything was on the up and up.

The other armorers were charging money and building them in their arms room on duty. I was doing it at home off post for free. I just wanted to make life a little easier for myself. 

Shortly after we had a field problem and I only issued a few rifles to officers. My battery commander took his pistol and 2 platoon leaders took their rifles as did a couple of others in battalion. There was no complaining as all who wanted pistols had them.

Toward the end of the field problem my battery commander summoned me and quietly told me to stop building pistols. He took me aside and told me the BnCO had noticed what appeared to be too many pistols being worn and asked some of the officers where they came from. He was simply told they were privately purchased.

He ordered that no privately owned weapons were authorized and that ended that.

I never heard a word about it other than what my BC had said when he ordered me to stop building pistols. A few days later he quietly told me what had happened and to lay low.

One of the armorers in one of the firing batteries kept it up and got greedy. He used government parts, got caught and got off DAMNED lightly with a serious Article 15 and lost his clearance and was relieved from the arms room. Back to humping projectiles for him.

The next field problem every single officer quietly fell in and took his assigned weapon with a poker face.

88888888888888888888888888888

Aftermath.

About fifteen years ago I saw a familiar (but odd) name on line and Googled around a bit and determined that he was one of the officers I served with. When I saw his name online it struck a chord. It was an unusual name and I figured he was probably the same guy. 

He was the Bn commo officer and I recall he was one of the very down to earth officers I had the privilege to serve with. I dug up his phone number and called him out of the blue. He remembered me and I found out he had made captain, gone into the reserves and retired as a lieutenant colonel. He remembered me and told me he still had the pistol I had built for him. 

He said he has never fired it.

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Lately I have had my memory jogged and I remember the day I stood my ground in high school.

Since the fire, my yearbook has shown up missing and I wish I had it to jog my memory because I don't recall the teacher that started this stupidity. All I can remember is a greyish nondescript suit.

Anyway, someone threw a penny (It sounded like one) during class and he went off like a skyrocket and demanded the culprit confess. Nothing happened. Then he demanded someone rat the culprit out. I doubt anyone knew. I wish I did. I would have kept quiet.

Then he announced that the following afternoon the entire class had detention. I was pi$$ed.

I went home and told Dad about it and said, "I'm not going to be treated that way. They talk about fair and so on but it's not fair punishing people that don't even know who did what."

"Let me sleep on this," Dad said.

The next morning before school Dad said, "I slept on it. You're right. It's patently wrong and you should not let them treat you like that. Be polite, keep your temper and don't let him bait you into getting mad. Just stand your ground. Keep me posted. I've got you covered on this one, Kiddo."

He turned to Mom and said, "Get the typewriter out of the closet. We might have to write a letter to the Mirror." The Mirror was our small town paper. "I'll call Franklin from work."

When he said he'd call Franklin I knew the balloon had gone up. Franklin was an old classmate of his that had gone into law. He was not our family attorney. He was an encyclopedia of who was who in law and would recommend someone to Dad.

Anyway, I went to school knowing that this lone soldier had some serious artillery backup.

Right after lunch I went into the vice principal's office. I didn't knock, the door was open and I walked in. I was as nervous as a whore in church.

"I got a blanket detention from (I wish I remember from who) and I'm not guilty as charged and I'm not going to go to it. For one thing it's probably unconstitutional."

"You believe that?" he asked.

"If you don't than why is passing 'Problems in Democracy' required for graduation?"

His eyes popped wide open. I was challenging him.

I guess he was unaware of what the teacher did and asked me for details which I furnished. He snapped that if I didn't show up I'd get five detentions.

"I wont go to those either," I replied.  

"Then I'll suspend you and you'll have ten to serve when you get off of suspension." he said.

"And I refuse to stay for those, either," I answered. "I'm going to go the whole mile on this one."

He not only doubled down, he tripled down.

"What are you going to tell your parents when you are expelled?" he asked, in a VERY pointed way, totally exuding confidence. He thought he had won then and there. The threat I will expel you was implied. 

"They fully expect me to get expelled," I replied. "Now what are YOU going to tell the school committee after my mother writes a letter to the editor of the Mirror and how are you going to explain the ensuing lawsuit?" I looked at my watch. "My father's probably already called an old friend for legal advice."

He deflated and gave me some mealy-mouthed bull$hit about how since he knew I was uninvolved I could skip the detention and go home.

I quit while I was ahead and simply walked out. I didn't gloat. I simply took my victory and took my leave. I knew better than  to corner him. 

After classes I simply went home quietly.

I went home and told my mother I had won. I saw her relax. She said "Thank God!"

When Dad got home I met him in the driveway. "I won!" 

He grinned and said, "I figured you would. You had a good cause."

"What did Franklin recommend?" I asked.

"I never bothered to call him," he replied. "I figured that if you didn't lose your temper you'd come out smelling like a rose. After you left for school I told your mother to leave the typewriter in the closet. All you needed was confidence!"

After supper my dad walked out and drove off. I was curious and said nothing.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Six years later. Ft Carson, Colorado. I was battery armorer and had run things past the he Battery Commander over the issuance of weapons. I had told him I was going strictly by the TO&E. There was a problem with 7 each 1911A1 pistols. I had seven. One was supposed to be issued to the BnCO, the other to the BC. Four were for medics and one for the redeye gunner. I explained the battalion officers tried to cheat the proper people out of the pistols because they didn't want to lug around a rifle. The BC told me to stand by and a couple days later said, "Go by the book."

I think he had run it by the BnCo but I don't know for sure.

A newly assigned major came up and demanded a .45. I handed him and M-16 and he got pissed and tried to throw his authority at me and get one of my 1911A1s. When I refused he threatened to 'give me an Article 15 for disobeying a lawful order."

"First of all, Major, You can't give me an Article 15. You don't have the authority. You have to go to my BC (a captain)to file charges. If he likes you he will politely throw you out of his office. If he doesn't like you he will give me an Article 15 to sign. I will demand my right to trial by courts-martial and request Captain Davis, the S-1 to defend me. I don't even like Captain Davis because he is a nit picking son of a bitch but I know I want him to defend me for that very reason.  He's a picky by the rules attack dog. You will lose and look very stupid and never get promoted."  

He quietly took an M-16 like everyone else.

=================================

More aftermath. About 20 years later. Vancouver, BC. on board my sailboat.

"Do you remember the time I battled the vice principal in high school?" I asked my mother. She rolled her eyes.

"I certainly do," she replied. "I was afraid you'd get kicked out of school!"

"Where did Dad go after supper?" I asked.

She laughed. "Probably straight to St. Christine's to make another Novena. He made a lot of them when you were growing up! Either that or to the Grog Shop. I didn't ask." 

An hour later she had thought about it and said after he made a Novena he probably went straight to the Grog Shop for a double.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

I made my career by playing by the rules. 

Once you learn the rules you start walking on very solid ground.

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Whoops! Sorry Sir!

Was the standard apology given to officers that had been mistaken for enlisted people.

I've heard it said and said it myself while I was in.

I remember one buck sergeant that made that mistake with a lieutenant that had pitched in to help empty a deuce 'n half. 

When the lieutenant turned to face the sergeant the sergeant looked up at him and said, "That's not fair, Sir. You're working with the guys. That's hunting over bait!"

 

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This is serious, men. We have to do a good job.

I said to the men on the detail I was assigned to lead on a stupid cleanup detail. Top had said, "Do a good job."

I was a new E-5 and assigned to a new unit and the people E-4 and below were wondering about me.

We were supposed to pick up trash downrange, a square klick's worth. We had been told it was a day's work and when we were done, we were done for the day.

I had a Jeep, a trailer and three guys.

I sat in the Official NCOIC seat (Shotgun) and we went through the area. Occasionally we'd stop and grab C-ration cardboard and a few discarded cans. It took a couple of hours. 

Then I told my driver to take us in and pull into out sister units motor pool and to next to their dumpster. 

" Unload out trash next to the dumpster and fill the trailer half full of the trash in the dumpster and cover it with what we picked up." I said.

Done. 

Now go to the chow hall and eat. The Army has provided nutritious meals for you. After you eat report to me at the motor pool. 

I drove the Jeep over to the motor pool and emptied the trailer into our motor pool's dumpster, turned the Jeep and trailer in and the guys reported to me. 

"Put an egg in your shoe and beat it. DON'T go to the barracks and hang out. Get the f**k out of here until at least 1700. Whatever you do, don't be seen!"

That worked out good for me in the long run. They figured out I had a good eye for bull$hit and knew how to deal with it.

 

 

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Protip.

When you take your wife to the doctors office put your phone on vibrate.

A telemarketer called and a loud Tarzan yell was heard.

That was not a good thing.

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BAM! Looney Tunes!

This is what I wake up to (first half) because someone reset my cell phone alarm on me.

At first I hated it but now I really like it.

It's a fitting way of waking up because a lot of life IS Looney Tunes.

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This should be on the air regularly.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Esw_4g1efZY

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Besides travel and airfares getting stupid expensive, take a look at groceries.

Right now the Ds are babbling about corporate greed driving prices up and how they are going to tax corporations to make it right.

Expect higher prices because corporations NEVER pay corporate taxes. WE DO in the form of raised prices.

Typical AOC logic. 

When Amazon wanted to move to her district and bring a TON of high paying jobs if they'd give them tax relief for the first several years there AOC said that the tax money on schools and yada yada yada. Apparently she thought that Amazon was getting money to move there instead of simply getting reduced taxes the first several years of operation. Amazon decided to move elsewhere. That cost her district JOBS and jobs  in turn create taxpayers. 

Actually does corporate greed exist? I suppose it does to a certain degree but what keeps it in check is competition.

If Smith Iron Works makes anvils at $10/pound you can bet that you can find them in the Acme catalog for $9/pound.

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One of the things someone can do to reduce their danger of becoming a crime victim

is to simply avoid associating with criminals.

Early in life I avoided the drug scene not because I was afraid of what drugs would do to me but because I didn't want to get ripped off, beaten up or murdered.

It seems that everyone I knew that was into drugs back in the day was always having problems of one sort or another. It also seemed that people involved in other criminal activity got into extra-legal problems, too.

While I am a self-confessed outlaw, I am certainly not a criminal and have pretty much steered clear of basic dishonest bull$hit and had damned few problems.

Drugs seemed to be the worst. Druggies were always getting ripped off, beaten up, cheated and/or were snakes that cheated others. Some of them were stupid and beat themselves up with their stupidity.

I'm an old man and I remember 'cocaine wars' in the 80s and recall one idiot that thought they could step on coke with Tide and get away with it. Yeah. He was that stupid.

The first guy that got ripped off and thumped him got not only his money back, but everyone else's and left the rest of his patrons with the option of getting their payback out of his flesh. He survived a lot of pain and suffering.

I also knew someone that left Kodiak for Anchorage with the (then) princely sum of $10,000 looking to buy cocaine for resale and was found dead in Anchorage. 

The chances of being an uninvolved crime victim, while entirely possible are fairly low. Of course you have to have common sense, too. Stupidity hurts. Stupidity should hurt. Advertising you are going away for a month and are keeping $250,000 under your mattress really isn't a good idea. Neither is leaving your garage door open with a brand new expensive whatever in it. You're leaving a target of opportunity.

Still, there's a better than average chance that if you are a crime victim that you are involved in something criminal.  Cops know this and think accordingly. They also know that tip lines are chockablock full of criminals ratting each other out in a lame effort to wipe out competition.

Generally speaking, with exceptions, you reap what you sow.

The best way to fly under the radar of the criminal world is to pretty much keep your nose clean.

Update. Apparently there is a ballyhoo about some kid getting killed by the people he sold a gun to. A PRIME example of what I am talking about.

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The rise of Karens and Dweebs is because we have it too good.

When I heard somebody complain about having to watch the game on a 32 inch TV I have to say "Poor baby."

When I heard a woman griping about the deer and how they need to be culled screech about the possibility of having a hunter drag a dead animal out of her back yard. 

We're looking for wand wavers. We want the fairy Godmother to swing by on demand, wave a magic wand and have everything beautiful and painless.

It seems the better and easier we have it the more some of us complain. 

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At the Sportsman's club.

OK. You bums know I have a 55th class reunion coming up that I'm likely going to miss.

I dropped by the Sportsman's Club for a beer and a hotdog and mentioned the reunion and someone that knows me asked if I was going to bring a 21 YO hottie with me.

I shot back that that's a rookie trick. The way to do it right is to walk in with a $hit eating grin and a pregnant teenager.

Two guys snarfed beer all over the bar and the bartender (a woman) almost fell over laughing. 

Why would I want to do something that stupid?

Of course that started and impromptu think tank about how to fool the entire class that I started a family at the age of 70.

The comments were like something out of an old Redford/Newman movie, The Sting. 

I was in the company of thieves for a few minutes as a few of the guys threw in the details of how to convince the entire class that I had started my family at 70.

Needless to say, I don't really GAF but it was fun thinking about it.

Frankly most of my classmates are not worth the time and effort.

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Someone asked me about women on the water.

which probably accounted for about 1% of us.

Out of a dozen I can think of, about 4 were throwaways and didn't last very long. This sounds about the same as their male counterparts. A tour or two and they were gone. They found out fast that it's not for everyone.

The rest of them found themselves a home on the water and simply became deckhands just like everyone else and not too many of the guys thought about it after a while.

A handful of them headed into the wheelhouse and one I recall became an assistant engineer. The Chief commented she had exceptionally nimble fingers which is certainly a plus when it comes to fixing stuff with small parts in it.

I remember about 15 years ago talking to one newcomer that was trying to fit in by being one of the guys. That never seems to work out very well simply because as a woman one is simply not one of the guys. I coached her a bit.

I told her to realize she was not one of the guys and to stop trying. She was actually simply a woman working in a very male dominated industry and to realize it and act accordingly.

I told her to show up for crew change in a pair of woman-cut jeans and a blouse and to slip the outfit on when she went ashore for errands like grub shopping. Between that, just do your job as best you can and you'll be OK.

She did just fine and turned into a respected deckhand in a short time.

There was another interesting woman that I believe grew up on the water and spent her early years on a tug with her father when she wasn't in school. She was hired as a mate and shortly afterwards was promoted to captain. A few years later she announced she was getting married and quietly told me that she planned on having a kid but had a deal going with her husband that he'd work from home and she'd return to working on tugs after things settled in. Later she became pregnant and went ashore.

Sure enough, about 3 years later she was spotted in NY Harbor running a day boat. She was seen regularly there for quite some time and Rumor Control had it she was working in the Gulf running a pretty good sized tug.

For a while I had a regular tug that had a 'girly-girl' mate. She was funny because she'd sit in the wheelhouse waiting for us to load while she knitted Afghans clad in a girly sweater. When it was time to sail she'd stuff her knitting into a bag, crank the sound powered phone and tell the Chief, "Fire 'em up!" and wrestle a loaded barge off the dock. It was an amusing transformation.

One time her flight home got screwed up. I was headed to MA from my crew change to visit family and offered her a ride which she gratefully accepted. She taught me how to use WAZE instead of my GPS. IIRC I still had a flip phone at the time. I took her to the Quincy T and she managed to get into Boston and catch a ride home from there without any problem. 

One half-pint girl that got my attention was pretty lacking in the upper body strength. She couldn't really throw lines very well. Personally I didn't care and happily tossed her a hook line and hauled them aboard. 

Later I commented to the Chief that she seemed to lack upper body strength. He told me she made up for it by being a damned good cook and good with a paint brush. Then he gave me a the Mafioso making a drug deal look and told me, "She musta gotten a Charles Atlas course on eBay because she's shoveling down the protein and works out pumping iron after every watch. Keep it under your hat so she doesn't get her chops busted."

A few weeks later the tug was reassigned to the Gulf or somewhere and I lost touch with them. About a year or so later I ran into the skipper and asked him how she was doing and he laughed. "She kept eating her Wheaties and is still pumping iron and turned out to be a pretty handy deckhand." I have a lot of respect for that. 

Generally these woman were accepted by their male counterparts and quickly became a part of the woodwork and I recall the biggest problem they had wasn't with the guys. It was with their wives.

I sometimes heard someone say, "If my wife found out I was working with a woman out here she'd raise holy hell. She says she'd trust me but doesn't trust her."

A couple of times I'd reply, "It takes two so I guess that means she doesn't trust you very much." It pissed a couple guys off so I stopped doing it. No use looking for trouble.

One thing I have noticed about women on the water is they rarely last. While I imagine the woman that returned to work after her child was settled in with her father is likely to be a grandmother running an ATB somewhere, most women at sea are in their 20s and go ashore after a few years. Women in their 30s are somewhat rare and with one exception, I have seen only one woman over 40 out here. I don't know why that is.

As I think about this it makes me wonder why not because most women have maternal instincts and the source of all life is the sea. Just for that reason it's surprising we don't have a lot more women out there.

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It's never enough.

We have it far too good and it's created an awful lot of First World Problems.

Much of today's First World complaints seem to be registered by karens but the one that belted it out of the park was registered by a dweeb. "My big screen died and now I'm going to have to watch the game on a 32 inch TV!" he whined. Poor baby!

I heard THE complaint of all time the a while back.

"My big screen died and I had to watch the big game on a lousy 32 inch TV." 

Poor baby.

 

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Busy today.

Sorry.

 

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