The Sandgram

New Address WWW.TheSandgram.com

2008-04-08T16:28:00.000-04:00

Well guys,

I have moved… With the help of my friend Marcus, I am now all set up on a new website, it will take a bit to get use to Wordpress, so please excuse the mess. If you can update your favorites to

Http://www.TheSandgram.com

I’ll see you there.

Thanks Blogspot for a great two years and thank you all for switching over.

Semper Fi,

Taco

Change in Orders

2008-03-30T17:16:00.003-04:00

Hey Guys,

I have started my journey to Camp Lejeune NC where I'll start the three weeks of training to prepare for my deployment. I have to say that the tide of the war has surely been changed forever!

Since I will be stationed with the State department, they offered me a chance to participate in a new program. If I extend my orders to 18 months, then I can take my family over with me. T and I discussed this as we were doing our Yoga this morning, and have decided to accept these new and exciting orders. We figured it would be a great educational experience for the children to say that they lived in Afghanistan.

Our soon-to-be five-year-old was very excited over the news and will be measured for her first Burka Monday at Burka's R-US in Dallas next to the Islamic world-wide education center.

The children will attend a local school near the base where T has applied to be a teacher. We're not clear if she will be able to drive or not so the taxi service might be our newest best friend.

Afghanistan will be an incredible assignment and anyone interested in visiting will always have a place to stay in our new Former Taliban palace. All I can say is that the Tea will always be on, and there will be fresh Lamb chops for dinner. I'd like to thank T for her tremendous support in this decision!!

Look forward to hearing from you all soon and an early Happy April's Fool Day too!

Semper Fi,
Taco

PS
For those who think I'm serious, this is a joke!!!

Reporting for Duty

2008-03-27T21:32:00.001-04:00

The countdown begins till I deploy...
S/F
Taco

Semantics, The Rebuilding in Iraq...

2008-03-21T16:21:00.002-04:00

You know, I’m tired of hearing people talk about the “Iraq War.” When you think about it, we aren’t at war in Iraq. As my Uncle Bruce pointed out, we are in the “Reconstruction of Iraq” right now. The last I heard, we won the war; hell, we kicked the Iraqi’s military back in ’91 and again in ’03. Right now we are helping them rebuild their country in addition to improving their security.

Think about it; we dropped two atomic bombs on Japan, firebombed their cities to dust, and then went in there and rebuilt their country as well. While we are on the subject of a “Do-over,” how about Germany? Man, we bombed the living hell out of their country as well, and look at the modern cities they got out of it. Both Countries are doing pretty well in the grand scheme of things I must say, and all thanks to the United States since most of the European countries were flat broke after the war or leveled by the armies of both sides. We even had to fight an insurgency in Germany in the years following the end of the war.

The American Military was present during the reconstruction for years after the cessation of hostilities in 1945, and to a great extent, are still there. Funny thing is look at former Eastern Germany; it still looked very much like it did after the dark days of WWII thanks to Russia and we got to see it when the wall came crashing down in ’91. Now maybe the Russians were keeping the Germans down after getting millions of their guys killed on the Eastern Front, but somehow I think Stalin was just a flat-out, mean guy, who then turned around and killed millions of his own people in the years that followed VE day. So the last thing he wanted to do was rebuild the country that kicked his behind.

With all this said, let’s no longer call it “The War in Iraq,” but call it what it really is, “The Reconstruction of Iraq” since we are building schools, hospitals, and the things that they need to live. Then, when all the protesters come out to march, they will be holding up signs that say “Pull out of Iraq, don’t help them anymore.” Kind of funny, just by changing a few words, you change the whole prospective of what this thing really is. While we help the Iraqis, we are not really fighting Iraqis.

But we are being attacked by Muslim terrorists from other countries. So that means we are fighting a war against Muslim Terrorists. We’re at peace with the Iraqi Government; we’re just at war with Muslim terrorists. The next time someone mentions “The war in Iraq,” stop him or her right away and say, “We’re not at war in Iraq, we’re rebuilding it.” They will come back with that we are fighting over there. That’s correct, our troops are fighting terrorists, but so are about thirty other countries too. If you start going around the world, country by country, you’ll see that most are having problems with Muslim terrorist too, so that makes it a “World-wide War on Terror.” But as to a War in Iraq, we’re at peace and working with the Iraqi Government, so I’d say that we’re rebuilding it.”

Now if enough people started saying this and the cable talk shows and radio shows began calling it what it is, then I think folks’ perspective would change as to what we truly are doing there.

So all together now “It’s not a war in Iraq, it’s a reconstruction of Iraq.” Semantics…that’s all.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Update #6 from Major Tucker

2008-03-14T17:33:00.005-04:00

Dear Family and Friends:

In a short time I will begin my journey out of Iraq to Kuwait and back home to the United States and my family. First and foremost, I am grateful for having had this opportunity to serve the Corps once again and to have been here during a critical phase of the American military experience in Iraq.

My unique job here provided me with a chance to live and observe Marines at the small unit level and it afforded me unfettered access to a variety of units and operations in Iraq that only a few outside those units ever see and experience. The other day I quickly tallied the cumulative distance I have flown in helicopters crisscrossing Anbar Province and they add up to somewhere over three thousand miles. Add to that number the few hundred miles on the roads in tactical convoys and mounted patrols and the innumerablevisits to Combat Outposts, Joint Security Stations, Patrol Bases, and Forward Operating Bases and you begin to get some limited sense of myodyssey.

There are many memories I will take with me, most of them positive, a few sobering, and some dispiriting. Several of my thoughts and impressions of Iraq, like the war itself, remain unresolved. To fully capture the experiences I have had here would be beyond the scope of this email, so I will try to convey my perspectives with regards to the situation here, a blend of fatalism, pessimism, and optimism.

Many back home say that the United States should not have gone to war in Iraq in 2003. This is the one position I have agreed with since before the war began, because as a student of history and a military man, I found it strategically unwise to open up a distinctly different front while we were engaged in Afghanistan. That strategic decision exposed how ill prepared we were for the sort of war we are fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, a type of war that requires a different military mindset and significant non-military expertise and resources. We have spent the better part of the last five years trying to make up for those deficiencies and to a great extent we have succeeded when it comes to military training, tactics, and techniques.

However, much work remains to be done with respect to the resources dedicated to the non-military side. For now, the task at hand is to find a militarily sound, politically reasonable, and cost effective means to help the Iraqis maintain security and stability, foster economic growth, and reform their institutions of government. It is reasonable to ask, "Are we and the Iraqis making meaningful progress?" Based on what I have seen and heard, from the walks through Iraqi towns and talks while drinking tea in people's homes to the briefings I have listened to, I would have to say yes, we are making progress. But much of that progress is occurring on more of an Iraqi timeline and in the context of what is feasible for Iraqis, not what we Americans expect or desire.

Some suggest that we ought to simply withdraw and that act, in and of itself, will get the Iraqis moving toward resolving many of their outstanding issues. Well, we are withdrawing to a limited and prudent extent and the Iraqis are aware that our presence will decrease in the coming year. In some ways, their leaders are probably more anxious than we are about our Presidential election. They know that as we reduce our presence, they will have to solve more problems on their own. I don't think a rapid withdrawal, as some envision it, would be prudent, because it would be destabilizing,put many Iraqis and Americans at risk unnecessarily, and jeopardize our gains at many levels.

The gradual, incremental approach we are taking with respect to security, rule of law, and governance seems the best way to effect a transition that will have a better probability of success in the long run.What is the "long run"? Well I can't predict how the future will play out, but if we want to see a viable and stable Iraq, I expect we will need an American presence, civil and military, at least until the Iraqis determine that we are not needed, which may not be for several more years.

The security agreements being negotiated now will probably allow us to remain here beyond that point, more likely for technical and logistics support and with a shallower "footprint". In the near term though, if certain conditions are met with respect to security this year, I can foresee a further reduction in the American military presence by the end of 2008 and possible further reductions in forces in 2009. Five years into this war, many Americans are right to ask "What have America's resources done for the average Iraqi?" who still struggles with getting clean water, adequate fuel and electricity, and confronts an unemployment rate of at least twenty five percent.

As I mentioned earlier, security has improved dramatically since this time last year. Iraqi confidence in the local police and judiciary are essential elements of the move toward a functioning society with respect for the rule of law. The slow evolution of these elements is the subject of much attention and frustration here, but there are signs of incremental progress. The credit for the decline in daily violence against Americans and Iraqis can be credited in large part to a combination of American and Iraqi courage and cooperation at the neighborhood levels in cities across Anbar, with Iraqis (mostly Sunnis in Anbar, Shiites in other provinces) informing police and the military of insurgent activities and men standing guard at checkpoints as members of armed neighborhood watch patrols.

The insurgents, for their part, are still indiscriminately attacking civilians and security forces, but with limited effectiveness. Several days ago, near a neighborhood watch post north of here, an Iraqi on watch foiled a suicide vehicle born IED by shooting the driver before he could reach the checkpoint. The car exploded short of its target, killing the driver and wounding the Iraqi sentry. His swift action prevented serious injuries and damage. But it is not just the Iraqis responsible for security who are standing up for security in their communities. Recently in Ramadi, the provincial capital, a suicide bomber entered a restaurant, but before he could detonate his explosives, the owner tackled him. The would be bomber broke free and fled on foot, pursued by Iraqi Police, who shot and killed him.

Much is made in the news of the violent and spectacular attacks that succeed, but you rarely hear of everyday Iraqis fighting against the insurgents and thwarting attacks. When will these sorts of attacks end? I suspect Iraq will experience some level of this sort of violence for years to come, but we are at the point where this sorts of sporadic violence has yet to sow widespread fear and disrupt the momentum and desire for progress.

When I think about progress here I am reminded of a foot patrol I was on a few weeks ago in Fallujah, with a squad of Marines and a team of Iraqi Police. We passed a school that had been refurbished using Iraqi labor and Marine reconstruction funds. It had reopened a month or so ago and was just letting out for the day. A cold wind spattered rain and blew trash down the street. Mothers rushed their children along to get out of the weather and our path, while the happy chatter of grade school girls dressed in colorful garb and crowding at the corner broke the drab surroundings and the silence.

As we walked by them we were greeted with shy smiles and waves from the girls and a few deadpan looks from the teenagers, who like teenagers everywhere, were trying to appear tough and unaffected. Moments like that illustrate to me that Iraq's future,the youth, may finally be experiencing a new sense of normalcy. On our patrol route down dirty alleyways and roads, we said hello to every adult and child we encountered, while the Iraqi Police handed out candy to the kids who trailed behind us or ran to greet us. Along the way, the Marines joked with some of the kids who they knew from their frequent patrols in the area. Fifteen years from now, if these same kids have grown up in a neighborhood free of the violence their parents knew,received an education, and been able to marry and find a decent job,those will be significant measures of our success.

Through it all, it is important for us to keep in mind that the Iraqis are learning what it means to govern themselves and how to hold their elected representatives accountable. Given their history and the recent attempts to reform their government and find common ground, you can imagine that much hard work and sacrifice remains. It will simply take time for Iraqis to bridge these divides while making and coordinating everyday decisions at the local, provincial, and national levels. Their list is long and daunting: expand and train the army and police, develop the expertise to establish a fair and functioning justice system that respects the rule of law, harness the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers to irrigate large tracts of arable land and provide power for businesses,and deliver basic services to the people.

Those back home who expect some magical moments of self reliance and reconciliation must understand that these will not manifest themselves as moments in time or singular events, but through the cumulative ebb and flow of negotiation and compromise within a society where religion and politics are intertwined. In this environment, there are varying degrees of societal resistance to solving seemingly intractable problems, like prevalent corruption and sectarian conflict. With the gains that have been made in the past year,there is now an urgent need for Iraqi leaders to roll up their sleeves and work together to instill a sense of popular confidence in their government before their people begin to lose hope. If they can seize this moment in time, America will witness the growing legacy of a worthy sacrifice.

Semper Fidelis,
Brooks D.Tucker Major, USMCR

the Home Front Hero's of this war

2008-03-11T14:03:00.002-04:00

When serving in the Military, you take for granted that folks will die. Crazy as this sounds to me, you just know that if a buddy didn’t make it out of his plane or an IED blows up next to a guy you are friends with, it was part of their job. We are a unit, all brothers in arms, and we all feel that loss. There is also another Corps of folks out there supporting our Military Men and Women every day. They don’t receive medals for what they do, nor will you see their obits run in any national paper under the death toll of the war, but they help keep the morale of our men and women to the level where this thing is bearable and in my mind, are the backbone of our Military.

I have made many Cyber friends through my experience in Iraq. Some, I’ve had the honor of meeting in the last two years, and still many more keep in contact via email. These folks span many states and spend countless hours either on the computer writing our troops or standing in line at the post office to send a package of support.

So, when one of them dies, I feel the loss as one of our own has passed. In the last twelve months, I have lost two of my biggest supporters. The first was a mystery woman named “Betty.” Actually, the letters were always signed “The Two Betty’s” because as it turned out, Betty had moved in to take care of her mother, also named Betty, and together they picked out Marines and Soldiers on AnySoldier.com to support. Being a crazy Marine, I had posted a request for help tracking down the agent of Catherine Bell, the Marine LtCol actress from the TV show J.A.G. It was my intent to get her over for a morale visit to the Marines in An Bar Province. Betty saw this post and responded immediately to my request with a phone number, cell phone number, and address for her agent. I was blown away by this immediate response, and asked how she came across this valuable information? She wouldn’t say, but from her style of writing there were many clues as to her background, and it was obvious that she was someone of extreme importance. As it turns out, I was right; she was a retired Senior VP for a major company in the US and still had her finger on the pulse of all the right people all over the world.

She wasn’t one to complain or go into her problems but as it turns out, she was suffering from a pulmonary problem that restricted her to her house, and now in the care of her mother. She passed away last March, and a part of my “Army” was now gone. I still go back and read her letters, for she had such a great way with words.

Recently we lost a former Marine named “Big Bro Jim I.” Jim liked to support our guys and gals with a box full of cigars and chewing tobacco if you were so inclined. He had spent his time in Vietnam and, by God; he was going to let our troops know that there was a segment of this great nation who supported them. I always pictured Jim as a big grizzly former Marine sitting at the keyboard pounding out letters to us with mitts the size of an outfielder’s hand. Jim liked to type in all caps, which to me is hard on the eyes, but it made it easier for him to read, I guess. One day I was in my office and I received an email from his wife “SusanIron@XXX.com” and when I opened it I read “TACO, I WANT YOU.” That was it, no more, no less.

Hmmmm, Taco, I want you what? Is she hitting on me? That is strange. So I hit reply and typed "Thank you very much for your email. While I'm flattered I'm sure that Mr. Iron might have an issue with this as well as my wife. Thanks again and have a great day."

About ten minutes after I sent this out, I received another email from Susan Iron that said "TACO, I WANT YOU TO GET ME SOME SAND FROM IRAQ AND MAIL IT TO ME, BIG BROTHER JIM." Ole Jim, not too savvy on the keyboard, had sent me an email prematurely while using his wife's account. It gave me a big chuckle later but had me worried for a while!!! What a crazy ole bastard!! I had to beat him to stop using CAPS too!!

Those were just two folks out there like you, the average Joe who lead a secret life of super supporter, and while we don’t have a medal made up for them just yet, you can bet a million dollars that their contributions to the troop morale will never be forgotten. God Bless you Betty and Jim who are now guarding the Pearly Gates for us, and all the countless others out there in Cyber land I haven’t mentioned. Now that my sermon is over, the Church Ladies will lead us in our next hymn…
Semper Fi,
Taco

Military Extreme Makeover

2008-03-05T16:29:00.003-05:00

Hi Gang,
I have received word via Steel Jaw Scribe about an incredible deal for one of our guys. The VP of Navy Marine Corps Relief Society said that ABC's Extreme Home Makeover program wants to assist one of our Iraq War veterans by totally renovating their home at no expense to the service member. This is an opportunity to identify a most worthy Marine or Navy family who suffered injuries in Iraq/Afghanistan/Arabian Gulf. Here is the info below, feel free to copy this or email my link to anyone you know that fits what they are looking for. Let's hook up our wounded with a new house.
Semper Fi,
Taco

SEARCHING FOR HEROIC FAMILIES
Do you know someone whose home deserves an Extreme Makeover? If so, the
producers of ABC’s Extreme Makeover: Home Edition want to hear from you! Ty
Pennington and his crew have been all across the map and they are ready to drive
that infamous bus into your neighborhood.
What does it take to be picked for an Extreme Makeover?
We are in search of real heroes - people that have amazing strength and who have
put their own needs aside to help someone else. In addition to heroics, the
producers are looking for families whose homes are in dire need of help. We don’t
want to tear down a nice looking house. We want to see houses that look like they
might fall down on their own!
To be eligible: A family must own their own single family home and be able to
show producers how a makeover will make a huge difference in their lives.
Interested families should: e-mail a short description of their family story to –
castextremehome@gmail.com.
Nominations must include:
1. The names and ages of each member of the household
2. A description of the major challenges within the home.
3. Explanation of why this family is deserving, heroic, or a positive role model in
their community.
4. Photos of the family and a photo of the home
5. Don’t forget to include a contact phone number.
The deadline: for nominations is March 13, 2008. Don’t Delay!
For more information on how to apply please visit our website at:
http://abc.go.com/primetime/xtremehome/index?pn=apply

Post from BlackFive

2008-02-28T19:24:00.001-05:00

This was brought to my attention and it's time out from story time to help out some of our guys...
s/f
Taco

Not too long ago, Blackfive readers, joined by thousands of readers from other blogs, sent over 30,000 emails of support to Marines in Iraq. The Marines had to shut down the email address because you all were causing bandwidth issues with the support we were sending.

Now, as if the Taliban and Al Qaeda, bad weather, and lack of support here at home weren't bad enough, the New York Times has published a one-sided view of the paratroopers tour in Afghanistan.

And so now we have cause to band together again and send massive support down range. Here's why:

Even though spring hasn’t officially arrived the snow line is beginning to move up the mountains in Kunar and surrounding provinces in Afghanistan. The Taliban have already begun attacking the KOP, Firebases and Observation Points where elements of the 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team from Bamberg and Schweinfurt, Germany, and Vicenza, Italy, are deployed. Almost 4,000 Soldiers from 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry (Airborne), 1st Battalion, 503rd Infantry (Airborne) and 1st Squadron, 91st Cavalry were deployed to Kunar and surrounding provinces in Afghanistan in May 2007 for a 15 month rotation. This region of eastern Afghanistan in the Hindu Kush mountains bordering Pakistan has been designated the most dangerous place on earth for military personnel.

A Paratrooper from 2nd Platoon, Able Company, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment (Airborne), navigates a steep incline during a patrol to Omar in Kunar province in Afghanistan Jan. 11. Date Taken: January 11th, 2008. Location: Kunar province, AF. Photographer: Sgt. Brandon Aird, Joint Combat Camera Center

This winter has been particularly harsh. Many of the Soldiers are living in mud huts and tents with little or no heat, no running water, intermittent use of generators, supply drops via air to drop zones that require a hike of up to 40 minutes each way in order to retrieve the supplies, 30+ days out on missions at the firebases without showers or daily hot meals before rotating back to the KOP or Camp Blessing for hot showers, hot meals and the ability to communicate with their families and friends.

Photo courtesy of a Sky Soldier
The Sky Soldiers have trudged through up to seven feet of snow on patrols day in and day out often at altitudes of 7,000 feet and higher. Each Soldier carries between 60 and 100 pounds of gear on these patrols. They Soldier-On each day despite the loss of many friends and comrades and substantially high numbers of wounded. Untold numbers of great Americans have provided amazing amounts of support to these Soldiers during this deployment. Public, private and civic organizations have provided direct support or indirect support.

A recent article by Elizabeth Rubin in the New York Times painted one Platoon of this Brigade in a less than favorable light. The article sensationalized the facts in a negative way, which served only to cause undue stress on the Soldiers and family members. The author failed to mention successes within the Brigade such as substantial humanitarian aid (tons of food and clothes) delivered to local villages, medical care for local children and adults, road projects, clean water projects, training of Afghan National Army personnel, distribution of school supplies, etc. [Don't worry, friends, Deebow is preparing a more detailed take down of Elizabeth Rubin. Stay tuned for that.]

Historically, spring is a time of heavy fighting in this region as the terrorists and insurgents emerge from their caves after the harsh winter temperatures and snows. Let’s show these Soldiers how much support they have from home to help them through the spring and the remainder of this long and dangerous deployment.

Right now, American Paratroopers are in the fight of their lives and they need to hear that America loves them.

Please send an email of support to skysoldiers173rd@gmail.com

Or you can mail cards to:

Leta Carruth
P O Box 100
Cordova, TN 38088

Due to security reasons in Afghanistan please do not put addresses or phone numbers on any correspondence. All emails will be printed out here in the US and mailed to Afghanistan as they do not have the resources to receive a large number of emails. All letters and emails will be vetted to make sure there are no negative comments. These are letters of support, so please keep them positive and uplifting.

A Huge THANK YOU to the proponents of (and the leaders of) this effort - Tanker Babe, Chromed Curses, and Mrs. Diva!

Iwo Jima 1995

2008-02-23T22:34:00.011-05:00

Back in 1995, I was involved in the “Okinawa Plus Fifty Committee” with my close friend Jim Adams. Basically we were the guys who were trying to help set up the return of the WWII veterans to Okinawa, and let them face their enemy who are now our allies after all these years. Because of the press for this and my love of history, the Squadron Commanding Officer asked if I would lead a battle study of another battle…the fight for Iwo Jima. When he asked if I could take this on, my first reaction was “Does a bear piss in the woods? You betcha, Sir!”

I had spent the better part of six months digging up old Japanese caves with a couple other Marines (another story, another time) finding bones of dead soldiers and turning them into the local authorities. To find all these hidden caves, I poured over old maps of the battlefields and would take off at four am to make my way down south of Naha Okinawa, to the ridge lines where the Marines and Japs fought. This type of battlefield study discipline allowed me to put together an all day event on the island of Iwo Jima. I had a close bond with the island when I was commissioned a 2nd Lt and a retired Marine Corps Colonel from our church, James A. Michener, showed up with a big box. “Taco, now that you are a Marine, I guess I need to pass some of this from one Marine to another.” He opened up the box and out came his Mameluke Marine Officer Sword, his name down the side and authentic aged ivory handles that were yellowed from time, his uniform from the battle of Iwo Jima, and his Colt .45 that he carried there (he kept that though for home protection). He was with the fifth division when they hit the beach, and he told me about the battle. About the shells, the absolute chaos, and the screams of the wounded as he advanced, and the men he killed.

His eyes watered as he told me this story and I was a twenty-two year old at a complete loss. I had known Mr. Michener all my life, and never knew that he was a Marine much less that he had fought on Iwo. He was the scary, retired school teacher that growled at us kids for running in the building as children, and now he was entrusting me with his uniform and sword. The history of it all, his .45 took many a Japanese life during the senseless Bonsai attacks those first couple of days on the island and carried with it,some ghosts for him I think. LtCol. Michener escaped major damage during WWII and went from a 2nd Lt to Major in two years, only to be medically retired after the Korean War from injuries sustained in combat there. For the chance to visit his island for him since he was in a nursing home at the time, I was willing to spend many a night reading all the books of the battle that I could find, and memorizing all the facts that I could.

The visit to the island was a success that fall, and we promoted thirty enlisted Marines from the Squadron on top of Mt. Suribachi. That was truly a powerful moment in my life. I have to say that the next was being allowed to attend the fiftieth anniversary of the actual battle of Iwo Jima "as a good deal trip" since it was my last flight in VMGR 152 in the KC-130F while stationed on Okinawa.

We took off a week prior to the event, and loaded a ton of stuff in the back of the plane for the ceremonies that were to take place that day. I took advantage of my free time there, and set out on foot, going through many of the caves on the island. I was fully equipped with a miner’s helmet and light, water and camera. The difference of this battlefield and all others is the fact that most of the island is just as it was in 1945. The Japs aren’t big on exploring, and there hasn’t been much of an American presence there all these years. I found all sorts of stuff while on the island, of course we left it where we found it to honor the dead, but it was still amazing. The caves were wide enough for two men to walk shoulder to shoulder in and the temperature was well over a hundred degrees because of the geo thermal activity on the island. It was hard to imagine what the Japanese Soldiers endured as we bombed the living hell out of the island. They had carved out sleeping beds in the walls for the Soldiers to crawl into or to put the wounded. It was incredible to walk for what seemed like miles through these caves. While we were there, they had discovered a medical cave by accident with thirty mummified Japanese Soldiers who all wrote letters home to their families knowing that they wouldn’t live since the entrance was caved in. I wondered if this was the basis of Clint Eastwood’s movie “Letters from Iwo Jima.”

When the vets of Iwo arrived, they flew in old Continental Micronesia airlines 727’s to the Island. All the Marines on the Island formed a Congo reception in front of the hangers as the vets formed a single line and shook all of our hands. One of them said “yep, fifty years and we still have to wait around in a line, nothing changes much in the Corps.” I ended up with a bruise on my right hand after being crushed by 700 vets still firm grips. The reactions were varied, many cried, lots of somber faces, and lots of guys that were happy to see old friends. They all had to turn in their passports to the Japanese officials in the hanger to get a stamp which got a lot of old emotions stirring, not a good thing after all these years, and after that it was off to the races. We loaded the vets in trucks and took them down to the invasion beach for a big ceremony. All of them carried jars to collect some volcanic sand, and took a million pictures. That happened to also be the day that General Krulack took office as the 31st commandant of the Marine Corps, and what a mess that caused. They closed off Mt. Suribachi for this event for two hours, and that made some of the old timers ready to storm the mountain again.

I guess the most touching thing that happened to me was while driving back to the airstrip. I took the long way around the North part of the island to see the concrete ships that were still beached along the shoreline. We found this eighty-plus-year-old man walking by himself along the road (a big no-no for them in case they died and we couldn't find them). We pulled up in our jeep and I said, “Sir, are you OK? You are a long way from the beaten trail and it’s pretty hot out here.” He looked over at me and replied, “Skipper, I was stuck in a foxhole very near here for two days with my best friend, surrounded by Japs. We couldn’t get out. I’m just trying to find it again and leave this for my friend. He died that first night, and I fought to make sure that I got his body out, and buried proper like.” He had a little cross with his friends name in it. I agreed to drive him, and help him find the hole if he would come with us and drink some water. He described the tree trunk that was on the south end of the fox hole that was actually a bomb crater hole. You know, it’s been fifty years, and I didn’t think he would find it again. At least the chances were very slim, but by God, he told us to stop the jeep at a certain point. We started walking out in this one area and about two hundred yards off the road we found his pit with the tree trunk still showing signs of massive bullet barrages. He placed the cross in the hole next to the tree and wept. We had to help him back to the jeep after that, most of his energy sapped as we drove him back to the hangers on the airfield.

Charles Lindberg and his wife'95
Before the trip out to the Island, I went to the Intel weenies and asked for the largest chart of Iwo Jima that they had, and then had it laminated. That evening, all the vets were in the hanger for the speeches and dinner. The Japs about caused the second invasion of Iwo when we found out that all the passports were just dumped into several boxes, not sorted by plane or anything. So they had to line all the vets around this very large hanger, get to the head table and call out a name. “Bob Smith” followed by thirty Marines scouring a table with passports looking for this individual. The blunder by the Japs, turned into my advantage as I approached each vet with poster in hand and said “Sir, I’d be honored if you would sign my poster.” They all wanted to put their name where they were wounded, but I talked them into signing right down from top to bottom.

I had the honor of meeting Charles W Lindberg, the last of the original flag raisers from that fateful day Feb 23rd 1943, who recently passed away. He and his wife were there, and the nicest folks you ever had the chance to meet. He handed me his card and said, “Captain Bell, if you ever make it to St. Paul MN, please look me up.” I never thought I’d see him again but as it turns out, I flew up there all the time for the Marines while on recruiting duty in Kansas City MO, and took him flying one cold day. I was even able to visit them while on layovers during my time up there with my airline since they lived about ten minutes from the airport. His house was full of paintings and pictures of the battle, and he’d show them all to you. It was always humbling, and an honor to be in his presence along with all those men I met that day in 1995 on Iwo Jima. I have to say that there won’t be a day that goes by that my children won’t pay honor to these men as I have that poster hanging in my office, and one day it will go to the Marine Museum in Quantico.

So on this day, during the heat of the battle so many years ago, let us all take a minute to pay tribute to the greatest generation of Americans to ever live. For with everyday that passes we lose another vet to age who now guard the gates of heaven.
Semper Fi to you all!!
LtCol Bell

What is worth Fighting for? Joe Foss knew

2008-02-21T21:57:00.000-05:00

Why we fight…Over there; anywhere. These are questions that went through my mind as I read Joe Foss’s book, A Proud American, to get a feel for my new job as a speaker for the Joe Foss Institute. It’s a great job, for you are paid $5,000.00 per day plus expenses (just kidding, it’s all volunteer) to go into schools and talk about the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights.

It’s a program set up by General Foss’s family to help students hear from Military Veterans about why we live in such a great country. Think about it, most people depending on the depth of their school’s curriculum, have never read or studied these great words that make up the fabric of our freedom. I had to memorize the Preamble to the Constitution when I was in Fifth Grade and still know it by heart. Actually, I have a secret to share; I sang it from the old “School House Rock” song that I watched on Saturday morning cartoons back in the early seventies. Of course, at Blue Ridge School, the boarding school where I went to high school in the mountains of Virginia, we had to study Government, and that included all aspects of this monumental document. Well, I’m saddened to say that most people tend to forget the purpose of our country, and what it stands for.

I started out my class (talked for six periods) with a brief introduction about General Foss; then jumped into the actual heart of the subject--the Constitution. As with every member of our Armed Forces, we took an oath that says we will “Support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” Nowhere in that oath do we say we will only support the President or Congress. We support the actual document itself.

I began to tell them of things I had seen around the world and how they related to our rights. First of all, can you imagine what would happen to you if you protested the Government of China in public? Of Course, they weren’t even born when the Tiananmen Square protest happened back in 1989. I explained that the Chinese Government sent tanks to run over the folks who protested. We are given the right to free speech and to peaceably assemble if we please. They could stand on the street corner on a soapbox and read from the Bible or badmouth the policies of our Government, if they so choose. These are rights provided to us in the First Amendment, but, of course, if you stand up to your mom and dad and try to mouth off and claim your rights under the first Amendment, you might get the back of their hand since you still live under their house.

Then I told them of my cousin in Australia, and how he has a problem with the local Kookaburra birds in his back yard. I asked why he didn’t go down to the store, buy a pellet gun and take care of the pests? He told me that once, a long time ago, folks were armed in Australia, but one day they told everyone they had to register their weapons. Not to be against the new policy, everyone did as they were told. Then they returned later and collected everyone’s guns. Now only the bad guys have guns in Australia and most every other country in the world that has taken weapons away from their citizens. Our Second Amendment gives us the right to have a well-regulated Militia and the right of the people to keep and bear arms. I am a firm believer in this right and carry a weapon every time I leave my house. Better to have it and not need it, then to need it and not have it I always say when the friendly guy in the Wal-Mart parking lot is trying to carjack me.

I skipped over the third Amendment, for that was more aimed at British Soldiers taking over colonist homes, but the 4th, 5th and 6th Amendments, man you’d think I was letting them in on a big secret when I told them they didn’t have to talk to the police at all if brought in for questioning and could ask for a lawyer. Oh by the way, if you are tried, you can expect a somewhat speedy trial and one by your peers. If you live in, oh say, Saudi Arabia or about 95% of any other strict Islamic country and a young girl has premarital sex, well they would haul her out in the street and stone her to death. I guess you could say that was a speedy trial in one sense. How about the Turkish Private, who stole a case of Budweiser beer from the Marines back in ‘92. His commander hauled him out and chopped off his hand in front of everyone as an example. See, they poop down a hole and wipe with their hand. No paper. Actually, come to think of it, they do this in most 3rd world countries like the Middle East, so if you are a thief and get caught, I’d say you have a 50/50 chance of reforming your ways or wiping and eating will get real tough. When I used examples like this, I think they started to see that how good we have it in America.

Think about it, we have a black man running for President of the United States. Not only that, but a woman. These things wouldn’t be possible if we didn’t have the Thirteenth and the Nineteenth Amendments in there as well.

After giving them a short history on our Constitution, I then told them why I came back into the Marine Corps. September 11th, losing my friend Mike Horrocks the co-pilot on United 175, taking all the young Marines and Soldiers home from the war on my jet, and all of my Marine buddies mobilized to fight over in the middle east. I believe in this war, because right, wrong or indifferent to the situation out there; we are fighting because we believe in our rights that our founding fathers wrote down almost 232 years ago. The rest of the world hates us for what we stand for. I’m sure they laugh at the Code Pink idiots too but guess what; they have the privilege to be idiots because we ensure those rights as a member of the military and that makes me VERY proud.

Maybe that is why I have decided to go back for a second tour, this time in Afghanistan, because I believe in our rights as a citizen of the United States. If you feel the way I do and you are a veteran, then I encourage you to visit the Joss Foss Institute website www.jfiweb.org and sign up to be a speaker, so that young kids will be enlighten as to how great this country truly is and who makes it that way!!
Semper Fi,
Taco

New Post from Major Pain

2008-02-19T20:00:00.000-05:00

Gang-
Things have been going great here in Iraq. Internet is bad but tonight a huge sand storm has hit and BOOOOYA, internet is up and everyone is emailing away. A little action in our area but all has been great. Life is getting better a day ata time. Mail.......well is ok, once or twice maybe a week. The guys got your packages and think you all are angels. We smell. I will send Marty a post update at www. anysoldier.com after this for those not on the OMV hitlist. A few smart guys figured out who I am and now see how the AS web site is soo good for morale.Letters seem to sneak through and Ive given them to warriors without mail. VTines day was grreat as I played mail man for these guys. It made their day. We worked with a German Shepard Military Working Dog today.....he bit a Marine. We told the Marine, dont play or bother Satan..........nice doggy, nice pooch munch, bark ,bite, munch, drool.....the Marine didnt listen. I think I saw Satan smile. Ive never seen a dog move that fast. It was a blur of fur and blood and Marine trying to get away from Satan. I really didnt know if I should laugh or cut his arm off for him. Ya, good idea, get the furocious animal mad at ya....your on your own buddy and you look like a steak!!!! Meanwhile I'm staying perfectly still.

I cant see across thee street as I'm sure the hords of locus are comming next as the sand storm rolls in.......for the past couple days. Is it bad when you breath in and you have dirt on your teeth? If the girls could see us now! epeto the mouse in my room has escaped! Be on the look out for a four legged mouse with my knife! I thought I caught him and began the interrigation process about his regieme and overall plan to continue to invade my mattress and I go get a bottle of water and Booya, he is gone. I knew I should have used handcuffs. Until next sand storm when I can get on the all mighty internet, stay safe and dont pet starnge dogs!

BELOW IS AN ARTICLE I WOULD LIKE TO POST ON MY BLOG, BUT,NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO INTERNET SERVICE LONG ENEOUGH TO DOIT. SO HERE YOU GO!

Years of U.S. intel work are paying off, as more and more senior terrorist leaders are being identified, and found. This has caused most of the al Qaeda leader ships to flee the country, taking their cash with them. The U.S. is putting additional pressure on Syria to give up terrorists who flee in that direction. The Iraqi Sunni Arab terrorists groups, who comprise over 90 percent of the people fighting the government, and making attacks on U.S. troops, are also in big trouble. The leaders of these groups are hoping for some kind of amnesty before they get caught. Capture can be delayed for a while by bribing the local police and army units. Meanwhile, the terrorists are suffering a severe cash flow problem. The al Qaeda contributions are gone, and most of the money coming from foreigners has dried up. The Iraqi “resistance” is seen as broken, and no one wants to support a lost cause. Being on the run has made it difficult to organize the roadside bomb teams. The use of these weapons has declined so much (over 90 percent in some areas) that U.S. commanders fear their troops are starting to get sloppy, after being on the streets for weeks without encountering a single IED.

Meanwhile, the parliament is fighting it out over how much amnesty to give the Sunni Arab terrorists. The U.S. is pushing for more, many radical Shia groups demand a mass roundup of suspected Sunni Arab terrorists and Saddam era enforcers. While the Iraqi politicians may be corrupt, they do have to listen to their constituents, and most of these voters want Sunni Arab blood. The parliament finally passed laws meant to bring the Sunni Arabs back into the family. But the bad feelings will last generations, and will explode into murders and lurid stories (of past atrocities) in the next few years.

The corruption that is so characteristic of Iraq, works against the terrorists as well. Iraqi media is full of stories of former terrorists complaining of betrayal and cheating by their fellow killers. It’s always been about money, and the police and army have been able to disrupt a lot of the criminal activity (theft, extortion, kidnapping) that the terror groups used to fund the terrorism. It was often difficult to determine if some guys were gangsters moonlighting as Islamic terrorists, or the other way around. The reputation for being an Islamic terrorist was useful, as it tagged you as a real badass. But in the last year, it too often tagged you as one of the usual suspects for the increasingly efficient police and army commands. Most holy warriors have decided that terrorism is too dangerous. Those that could, just became full time crooks, other went straight, and some joined over a million other Sunni Arabs and fled the country. The remaining terrorists have concentrated their attacks on Sunni Arab leaders, especially those who recently supported terrorism. Thus the suicide bombs are still killing civilians, but wealthier and more powerful ones.

Speaking of corruption, Russia has forgiven $12 billion in debt, for weapons and military equipment bought by Saddam, in return for the government recognizing oil field development contracts signed by Saddam in the months before he was overthrown. This gives Russian companies entry to the lucrative Persian Gulf oil business. The Russians have no qualms about bribery and paying off government officials. That makes them popular in Iraq. The corruption if often quite macabre. For example, the investigation of a recent suicide bombing, using two mentally ill girls as unknowing bombers, led to a mental hospital. The director of the hospital took bribes to allow the terrorists to go through patient records, to find women who could be used for suicide bombing attacks (women are less likely to be searched, or even suspected.)
There are still thousands of Sunni Arab terrorists in action, and nearly as many Shia Arab bad guys waiting for their chance to resume killing Sunni Arabs. The U.S. wants to round up as many of these guys, especially the leaders and technical experts, as possible, while the entire terrorism infrastructure is in disarray. Strategy.com

A tale of Two Captains Part I and II

2008-01-29T20:14:00.000-05:00

A tale of two Captains…

I guess you could say that it all started over a beer at the Camp Foster O’Club in Okinawa sometime in late October of 1994. My buddy, Ken Briggs, was eating his special Texas popcorn, VERY salty and slathered with Tabasco sauce, but the heat was offset always by a cold Heineken beer. He was hunched over a copy of Pacific Stars and Stripes and yelling to no one in particular about the lousy letters to the editor as I approached and took my stool next to him.

Lately, the editor’s page were filled with peeved wives who were either married to an Officer or Enlisted service member on the Island and had nothing better to do then complain about one another. At first it was kind of funny as we perused the daily banter back and forth, but, after awhile, it got old. Ken reminded me of Robert Duvall from the “Great Santini” as he yelled aloud with each new letter.

This was also about the time that serial killer Jeffery Dahmer was murdered in prison. Do you remember the “whack” job guilty of killing all those young men in Wisconsin? We only had one news channel at the time so the coverage was spotty at best. But there was a general consensus that it was a good thing he was dead. Ken listened to the conversation at the bar that night among all the young Officers, and then took off for his BOQ room spewing madness about Dahmer’s death. The next day I received an email from him that had me laughing so hard that I spit my diet coke out my nose (that hurts by the way!) I replied that Ken should send this letter off to the editor of the Stars and Strips and maybe it would break up the chain of tired old bitchy wives who dominated that section. We went to lunch and discussed his letter to great length. Should he use his real name? Hell no! So we settled on a pen name for him, “Jim Adams.” This guy had written a whiney letter to the editor months before about someone stealing his extra flight suit from the dryer, and had rotated back to the states with his helicopter detachment. Perfect name.
I enjoyed being part of his little pet project, and vowed to keep my silence about the author. Ken submitted the letter that week, and to our surprise, it was published on December 15th 1994 and here it is, word for word.

Dahmer needed our help
The same cold, heartless, society that created the environment which spawned the childlike and impressionable Jeffrey Dahmer also cast his inevitable fate. Sadly, we live in a throw-away society. If we can’t fix something, we simply discard it.
So it was with a crazy, mixed-up kid like Jeffrey Dahmer. Did we, as a society, try to help this young, misguided young man? Did we ever offer him some tenderness, a shoulder to cry on? Did anyone offer him a helping hand and say, “Here, son, gnaw on this?”
No. When his antics ceased to amuse us, we simply threw him away like a toy which has lost its novelty. Now this discarded plaything has become a glaring example of judicial hypocrisy.
In a state that claims to disavow the death penalty, Jeffrey Dahmer was cynically sentenced to “Live” in prison, and through this action, just as surely as if they had strapped him into the electric chair, Wisconsin murdered one of its own children…a child who just didn’t play well with other little boys.
Call him a rebel; call him disturbed. So what if he didn’t “fit in” to what we so self-righteously call “normal” society. Did he deserve the cruel fate which befell him? Maybe he was just frustrated; maybe he needed to be loved.
Were the authorities really so ignorant or naïve that they thought Jeffrey Dahmer would be safe in prison? Who will publish his culinary books now that his is gone? And what of the terrible loss of his rather unique scientific endeavors into the physiology of man? Tragically for all of us, science must suffer along with justice. A disturbed young man thought he had finally found his niche in our confusing society, and he was brutally murdered for it. Welcome to America.
Jim Adams
Camp Foster, Japan

The response was immediate and you couldn’t go anywhere on the Island without someone talking about “That Letter!!!” It was cut out and taped to bulletin boards in offices all over the base. Ken would get a big chuckle out of it, but the biggest surprise was on Christmas day. I opened my edition that I bought in the USO in Hong Kong and there were two whole pages of replies devoted to Ken’s letter. The WWF fans on Okinawa, mainland Japan and the whole the Pacific couldn’t recognize satire even if it reached up and bit them on the bum. Once again we got a great laugh out of the whole thing as they bashed this crazy guy, Jim Adams.

The trouble started later when I called Ken up for lunch. He answered the phone and in my best “Jimmy Stewart” voice, I asked for Jim Adams. Ken put me on hold before I had a chance to say “Hey Ken its Taco, let’s go eat chow” and the line came to life with the voice of his Master Sergeant who was also in on the letter. I figured I’d have some fun with this, so I asked if he approved of the editing job on his piece and told him that the circulation for the Stars and Stripes had gone up 30% because of his letter and that we would like him to write another letter knowing that Ken was listening on the other end as his Master Sergeant pretended to be the author. “What would you like me to write about?” I thought about it for a second and the only thing that came to mind was that abortion Doctor who was murdered the week prior. “Oh, write about anything, the abortion Doctor who was killed, mass murderer’s, the price of gas, how the Chinese hold mass executions in stadiums and charge money, I don’t care, you’re hot stuff.”

Hanging up the phone, I called right back and asked for Ken. “Hey Ken, let’s go get some chow.” Ken was already typing on his computer a new masterpiece and was too busy. I figured he’d send me a copy of it to proof for him and then I’d tell him it was me. Well, two days went by, then four and Ken hadn’t mentioned the phone call or anything. That night at the bar, he leans over with a big smile on his face and says “Hey Taco, the editor of Stars and Stripes called me and asked if I would write another piece for the paper. Hell, I may become a regular guest there…” I nodded and said “Ken, that’s awesome, when are you going to send me a copy to proof for you?” He leaned back on his bar stool and said, “Can’t, I’ve already sent it.” I felt a bit of panic in my chest...

“Hey Ken, what did you write about?” He went on to tell me how he wrote about the Abortion Doctor who was murdered and titled it “Taking God’s place.” This little joke had gone too far now. “Ken, that was me who called you up last week.” He shook his head back and forth, “No way, I was listening to him talk, it was the editor.” I then shifted into my Jimmy Stewart voice after watching “It’s a Wonderful life” for two days straight as a kid, and said “Tell me Jim Adams, did he sound like this? Do you feel we did a good job on your editing?” The color drained out of his face and I felt bad. “Ken, you always sent me your stuff to look over, and I figured that I’d tell you when you sent me the letter. I waited and no letter. I’m so sorry brother; can we get the letter back?” He shook his pale head again left and right, “No, I mailed it out that day.” I put my arm around his should and leaned over. “I’m sorry Ken. What’s the worst that can happen? It will spark another round of WWF folks writing letters into the paper.” I paid for his beers, and we back over to our BOQ, each lost in thought as to our actions.

The letter was published later that week and the fire storm was worse then the B-29 raids over Tokyo in WWII.

First of all, it turns out that Doctors on military bases overseas perform abortions, so when the paper hit the streets, all the Docs refused to come into work until they found out who this “whack” job “Jim Adams” really was. They were afraid that he may come after them. Since only three people knew who “Jim Adams” really was, the Army CID, NCIS and Air Force SP’s were spinning around in circles trying to track this ghost down. They called the editor of Stars and Stripes who in turned called Ken on his home phone number in the BOQ that he submitted with his piece.

Editor: “Hello is this Jim Adams? This is Bob, the editor of Stars and Stripes, your last letter has really stirred the hornets nest down there in Okinawa and the different investigative services would like you to go have a chat with them. So would you mind going?”
Ken: “No way Bob, you knew that my letter was controversial and you published it anyway. Tell those guys to pound sand.”
Editor: “So, you’re not going to turn yourself in?”
Ken: “No”
Editor: “Is Jim your real name?”
Ken: “No”
Editor: “What is your real name?”
Ken: “Like I’m going to tell you! Just to clear things up, your paper never said I had to give my real name, so I used a pen name and if your readers are too dumb to differentiate between Satire and real thoughts, well it’s not my fault. You deal with this.”
Editor: “I’m going to turn over all my info on you to the authorities “Jim or whatever your name is” and you are banned for life when we find out who you are.”
Ken: “Oh Yeah… Blank, Blank Blank” end of call.

Damage control started right there. See the advantage of living in the BOQ and having lots of close buddies right down the hallway paid off. Ken ran down to Dan Sanderson’s room, another Captain, who just happened to be in charge of the telephone department on Okinawa. He explained that he was in trouble and needed his help, some ex girlfriend was trying to call him and he needed to dump his phone number. They raced down to his office, and with a few key strokes assigned his old phone number to the base gym and assigned him a new one. On Monday, the different investigative services exploded with activity when the Editor turned over “Jim’s” phone number to them. Monday, after coffee and donuts, they went down to the phone company, a Marine-run operation on Camp Foster only to find that “Jim’s number” rang the base gym, and they had never heard of him, but “yes” they had all read his letters. They were back at square one (these aren't like the guys you watch on Tuesday night NCIS). So the next thing they did was round up any Jim or James Adams on the Island. The Air Force had a poor Airman named James Adams in the interrogation room for half a day. He admitted to killing President Kennedy and owning all the Village People’s albums before they were done with him. This whole thing went up to the base General with daily progress reports, on how this guy “Jim Adams” was one tricky Kook and they were having better luck catching DB Cooper.

It turns out that Ken’s Master Sgt was also a part time Cop over on the base, and as this thing progressed, it was getting WAY out of hand. He asked his boss to turn himself in to stop the witch hunt that was going on. Ken thought about it for awhile and then turned himself in to the head of PMO with his Master Sergeant at his side as a character witness. He explained how it all happened, and also showed other things he had written to prove that he just liked good Satire and wasn’t out to hurt anyone.

The investigation was solved; all the different services slapped one another on the back for a job well done, and now it sat in front of the base Commanding General who didn’t have much of a sense of humor. During his morning briefing, he turned to the base JAG officer (another Captain who we drank beer with) “I want this Officer brought up on charges.” The base JAG looked over the package and replied, “But Sir, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He wrote opinions that were published in the editors section, and there was nothing there against the United States Government or Marine Corps.” The General didn’t like this answer very much. “Well, he used a fake name, hang him on that.” The JAG, once again shook his head. “Sir, the paper doesn’t say that you can’t use a pen name. Also Sir, I happen to know this Officer, and he is a card carrying member of the ACLU. I’d hate to see him raise a stink about his right to free speech being trampled by the Corps. I mean, we could have sixty minutes out here, and the PR would be horrible.” The Base public affairs Officer (another Captain drinking buddy) jumped in, “Sir, that would be the last thing you need to happen before the Commandant of the Corps comes out to visit.” The General just mumbled that he would get this Captain somehow and moved on to the next subject.

He did though. The General called down to Ken’s boss, a LtCol, and told him to fix his fitness report so that he doesn’t get promoted to Major. The problem with that solution is Ken had never had any “bad” paper before, and the boss couldn’t give him a double signer meaning that Ken could contest it, so he made Ken average right down the line and a few below average to boot to ensure that he wouldn’t get promoted. Ken was passed over for promotion and given a nice severance package when he left the Marine Corps a few years later. Funny thing is that he ended up joining the Reserves, and becoming a STELLER LtCol on his way to a full bird Colonel one day
We were joking about it the last month and it’s hard to believe that he was still my friend after setting him up like that, but you know, it’s hard to disown family.
Semper Fi,
Taco
Ps
If you have to be away from home for the holidays and want to make it a memorable one, write a letter to the editor of the Stars and Stripes. But I have to warn you that using a pen name is no longer allowed since the investigation that ensued from the other letter that Ken wrote. At least there was one positive letter out there for ole Jim Adams...OOOOOOHHHHHH RRRRRRhhhhhaaaaaa

Lessons of Iraq by Erik Swabb USMC

2008-01-19T14:22:00.000-05:00

The Lessons of Iraq

By ERIK SWABB
January 14, 2008; Page A12

While the improved security situation in Iraq is changing views about the chances for success there, one common belief has remained unchanged: that the war is eroding U.S. military capabilities.

It is true that repeated deployments have caused considerable strain on service members, equipment and our ability to respond to other contingencies. These problems, however, only tell half the story. The Iraq war is also dramatically improving the military's understanding, training and capabilities in irregular warfare. Since this is the preferred method of Islamic extremists, the experience in Iraq is transforming the military into the force required to help win the Long War.

The blunders of the early years are well-known. Trained for conventional warfare, the Army and Marine Corps were unprepared for the aftermath of the invasion of Iraq. Commanders emphasized killing or capturing insurgents, not securing the population as counterinsurgency doctrine emphasizes. U.S. units were stationed on large bases and didn't develop the critical relationships with local leaders that only come from living among the people.

When units did interact with Iraqis, the interaction ranged from fruitless patrols in Humvees zipping through town to draconian operations that detained scores of innocent people. The Sunni insurgency only grew in this environment, attracting al Qaeda and spurring the growth of Shiite militias.

After a costly learning process, the military increasingly "gets it" when it comes to irregular warfare. The Army and Marine Corps published a new counterinsurgency manual that legitimized the radically different strategy that the Iraq War required. Pre-deployment training now includes realistic scenarios that test units' ability to build relationships with local leaders and partner with host-nation forces.

Commanders, from the small-unit level to the general ranks, increasingly understand that population security, political reconciliation and economic development create legitimate government, which saps insurgents' strength. As a result, conventional forces are now performing counterinsurgency missions at a level that many experts thought impossible.

My old unit returned from Iraq last spring after serving in a city in Anbar Province. As a mechanized reconnaissance company, its traditional mission focused on scouting for Soviet-style armored forces. The unit's performance in Iraq more closely resembled that of the Green Berets.

Soon after occupying its forward outpost, the company met heavy insurgent attacks. But it did not over-react with mass detentions and other alienating tactics. Instead, the Marines took a patient approach to win the support of the population and eject the extremists hiding among them. They partnered with Iraqi police, established a pervasive security presence throughout the city, and worked with local leaders to improve basic services, governance and the economy. Such tactics used to be rare, but are now increasingly the norm, thanks to Gen. David Petraeus's dogged emphasis on seeing counterinsurgency conducted by all units.

The Sunni tribal uprising that's driven al Qaeda from Anbar Province and Baghdad wouldn't have occurred without U.S. forces grasping the complexities of irregular warfare. Iraqi Sunnis rejected the oppressive version of Islam that al Qaeda imposed -- but feared the consequences of resisting. By showing a willingness to help, U.S. troops presented a more trustworthy and less-threatening partner than al Qaeda, a remarkable achievement considering the vast religious and cultural differences between Americans and Iraqis.

U.S. commanders reached agreements with tribal leaders to accept their members into local security forces and establish combat outposts among the populace. Knowing that their families were safe from reprisals, the tribes gained the confidence to go after al Qaeda. Now U.S. officials are considering whether to adopt a similar model for Pakistan's Northwest Frontier.

It remains to be seen whether the new counterinsurgency strategy will lead to a peaceful, democratic Iraq. Success ultimately depends on the ability of Sunnis and Shiites to overcome decades of mistrust and antagonism. But the current approach has created an opportunity for political reconciliation, as Sunnis have demonstrated that they reject al Qaeda's campaign of terror against Shiites. The new strategy is also helping to prevent the establishment of an al-Qaeda safe haven in Iraq -- and in this sense, it has already proven its worth.

The strains on the military are real. However, overemphasis on the "eroding" capabilities of the armed forces belies the incredible emergence of an irregular warfare capacity in the world's greatest conventional military.

This hard-fought transformation faces resistance from advocates of the status quo in the military, and thus is easily reversible without political support. Such support is something Democrats and Republicans should be able to agree on.

Mr. Swabb served in Iraq as a Marine infantry officer

How do I become a fighter pilot?

2008-01-13T12:57:00.000-05:00

Hey guys,
A year ago I wrote a post on “When I grow up... I want to be a Pilot” on setting your goals in life to be the guy up in the wild blue yonder. Well, that piece gets about 10 hits a day from all over the world and I answer a couple of letters each month. This letter was sent to me back in 1998 and I laughed my rear off at the absolute truth in it then and it still holds true today. I could see myself writing this to some young lad as well. I hope you all get a nice chuckle from another C-130 pilots words of advice…
S/F
Taco

Sir:

I am D.J. Baker and I would appreciate it if you could tell me what it takes to be an F-16 fighter pilot in the USAF. What classes should I take in high school to help the career I want to take later in life?

What could I do to get into the Air Force Academy?

Sincerely,

DJ Baker

*********************************************

From: Van Wickler, Kenneth, LtCol, HQ AETC

Anybody in our outfit want to help this poor kid from Cyberspace?

LTC Wickler

**********************************************

A worldly and jaded C130 pilot, Major Hunter Mills,
rises to the task of answering the young man's letter.
**********************************************
Dear DJ,

Obviously, through no fault of your own, your young, impressionable brain has been poisoned by the super fluous, hyped-up, “Top Gun" media portrayal of fighter pilots.

Unfortunately, this portrayal could not be further from the truth. In my experience, I've found most fighter pilots pompous, backstabbing, momma's boys with inferiority complexes, as well as being extremely over-rated aeronautically. However, rather then dash your budding dreams of becoming a USAF pilot, I offer the following alternative:

What you really want to aspire to is the exciting, challenging and rewarding world of TACTICAL AIRLIFT. And this, young DJ, means one thing..the venerable workhorse, The C-130! I can guarantee no fighter pilot can brag that he has led a 12-ship formation down a valley at 300 feet above the ground, with the navigator leading the way and trying to interpret an alternate route to the drop zone, avoiding pop-up threats and coordinating with AWACS, all while eating a box lunch.with the engineer in the back relieving himself and the loadmaster puking in his trash can!

I tell you DJ, TAC Airlift is where it's at! Where else is it legal to throw tanks, HUMVs, and other crap out the back of an airplane, and not even worry about it when the chute doesn't open and it torpedoes the General's staff car! No where else can you land on a 3000 foot dirt strip, kick a bunch of ammo and stuff out on the ramp without stopping, then takeoff again before range control can call to tell you that you've landed on the wrong LZ! And talk about exotic travel; when C-130s go somewhere, they GO somewhere (usually for 3 months, unfortunately). This gives you the opportunity to immerse yourself in the local culture long enough to give the locals a bad taste in their mouths regarding the USAF and Americans in general, not something those C-141 Stratolifter pilots can do from their airport hotel rooms!

As far as recommendations for your course of study, I offer these:

1. Take a lot of math courses. You'll need all the advanced math skills you can muster to en able you to calculate per diem rates around the world, and when trying to split up the crew's bar tab so that the co-pilot really believes he owes 85% of the whole thing and the navigator believes he owes the other 15%.

2. Health sciences are important, too. You will need a thorough knowledge of biology to make those educated guesses of how much longer you can drink beer before the tremendous case of the G.I.s catches up to you from that meal you ate at the place that had the really good belly dancers in some God-forsaken foreign country whose name you can't even pronounce.

3. Social studies are also beneficial. It is important for a good TAC Airlifter to have the cultural knowledge to be able to ascertain the exact location of the nearest topless bar in any country in the world, then be able to convince the local authorities to release the loadmaster after he offends every sensibility of the local religion and culture.

4. A foreign language is helpful but not required. You will never be able to pronounce the names of the NAVAIDs in France, and it's much easier to ignore them and to go where you want to anyway. As a rule of thumb: waiters and bellhops in France are always called " Pierre ", in Spain it's "Hey, Pedro" and in Italy, of course, it's "Mario". These terms of address also serve in other countries interchangeably, depending on the level of suaveness of the addressee.

5. A study of geography is paramount. You will need to know the basic location of all the places you've been when you get back from your TDY and are ready to stick those little pins in that huge world map you've got taped to your living room wall, right next to the giant wooden giraffe statue and beer stein collection.

Well, DJ, I hope this little note inspires you. And by the way, forget about the Academy thing. All TAC Airlifters know that there are waaay…too few women and too little alcohol there to provide a well-balanced education. A nice, big state college or the Naval Academy would be a much better choice.

Hunter Mills,
Major USAF

Third post from Brooks

2008-01-10T10:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Family and Friends:

Since my last update, Christmas and New Year’s Day has come and gone, as has Ramadan, or “The Break in the Fast” celebration, and Eid al Adha or “The Sacrificial Holiday”, where all work stops here, sheep are slaughtered, and families, wealthy or poor, gather for sumptuous meals. The tiny office I share with two other Marines has a small refrigerator stocked with baked goods from friends, family, and well wishers across America who we will probably never meet. In the past few weeks the flow of care packages has not ceased. From middle schools to church congregations, small and large boxes arrive almost daily, filled with beef jerky, granola, energy bars, shaving cream, athletic socks, and cards and letters. A British Royal Marine I work with commented that he is simply stunned by the volume of goods Americans send to their troops, for this sort of display of gratitude from countrymen is something entirely foreign to the deployed British troops in the south, who he says rarely receive much from the home front.

The generosity and largesse that is unique to America has also been manifested in the lives of many well to do and ordinary Iraqis in Anbar, where, for the past year, the Marines have allocated tens of millions of dollars to the provincial economy, working with sheiks and municipal government leaders to identify areas where our money can jump start reconstruction projects, repair schools, clean the water, and get school books and pencils to needy children. It is probably fair to say that Anbar has received over one hundred million dollars from the military, with over two thirds of that going to education, governance, justice, public safety, sewer and water, electricity, and trash collection.

While I was traveling through northern Fallujah two weeks ago, we passed through the Jolan District, the scene of some of the fiercest fighting between Marines and insurgents in 2004-2005 and still a very dangerous place up until about nine months ago. Our small convoy of Humvees stopped in the main market area and we were mobbed by a crowd of young boys, practicing their English, eyeing our gear, and asking us for candy. Children nearby is always a good sign, so we let our guard down a bit and joked with them. The market was full of sheep being herded toward the open square where they were purchased, then held down, their necks slit, and once dead, skinned and taken to the nearby butcher. A fruit and vegetable stand was full of fresh produce, everything from peppers to watermelons to cucumbers, much of it imported from Syria, but some of it locally grown. Nearby stood a new water tower, once nearly destroyed in the urban fighting, but now fully functional and freshly painted: American dollars, Iraqi labor.

Outside Fallujah, we drove through a verdant agricultural area called Azergiya, where children raced barefoot down dirt driveways to the main road, waved to us, and asked for soccer balls and candy. We had none; in fact we have stopped handing out gifts like candy to the children out of concern that we were raising unrealistic expectations and for their own safety along the road. I found it interesting that a few of these kids had become so jaded that they merely opened their mouths and pointed to their tongues, but most ran alongside our vehicles and smiled innocently. Someday soon, we’ll have to also reduce our handouts to the sheiks in Fallujah, who are unceasing and unabashed in their requests for American financial assistance. It seems we cannot encounter an Iraqi who does not ask us for something. We stopped at a local school, where we met the caretaker and toured the trash and sheep dung covered grounds. Our hope was that it would be suitable for a joint US-Iraqi medical team to set up and administer to the locals. Two of the insidious legacies of Baathist rule are the high illiteracy rate among Iraqis and the poor water quality, both of which affect children, moreso than adults. Our Iraqi interpreters handed out fist sized stuffed animals and pencils for school as gifts to the caretaker’s seven children. Down the road, we stopped to pay a visit to the local Iraqi Police colonel at his command post set up in the home once occupied by his brother, who was killed by the insurgents. The burned out and bullet riddled carcass of his brother’s white BMW was parked outside. The colonel had fought the Iranians in the Iraq-Iran War many years ago and was a seasoned military man. Before we departed, a convoy from our Combat Engineers arrived with plywood guard shacks, purchased for the Iraqi Police so that they can stay sheltered while standing watch on cold winter nights when the mercury dips below freezing.

As I near the end of my third month in Iraq, I often reflect on a comment made by an Iraqi Police major who spoke English quite well. He and I were seated next to one another at a town council meeting in Fallujah. During the weekly meeting, where local leaders submit their constituents’ bids for American funded contracts and haggle over pricing with the Marines, the discussion turned to politics and the plight of the Sunnis in Anbar, who are now out of power in Baghdad and none too pleased about it. The police major told the sheiks and the senior imam (religious leader) that the only way to change their political circumstances was to vote in the next election and tell all their people to vote. He mentioned all Iraqis voting, but he really meant all Anbar Iraqis, specifically the Sunnis. Then he turned to me and said “You know, we must only talk about the future, (for) if we keep talking about the past, everyone here” and he swept his arm around the room, “(would have been) detained.”

Semper Fidelis,

Brooks D.Tucker

Major, USMCR

Second Letter from the Front

2008-01-06T11:41:00.000-05:00

Here is the second letter from Brooks. Hope you enjoy the update. More to come.
S/F Taco

Dear Family and Friends:

With six weeks under my belt now, I am beginning to feel at ease with the surroundings and the routine of work and daily life here, which, when we are not working, is mostly filled with sleep, exercise, trying not to eat too much chow in the dining facility, and waiting for helicopters. Lest anyone thinks the two hour advance arrivals in the States are unknown in a combat zone, forget it. Reservations for a seat on a flight must be made exactly four days in advance and you must check in at the air facility 2 hours before your departure time. The only positive is no TSA checkpoints, since everyone here is already armed. Most flights out of my camp and back to it are done at night, so this usually means sitting around a dusty plywood hut for two hours or more until around midnight, when the flight arrives and the wind from the rotors buffets the thin plywood walls. A Marine with a roster and a fluorescent blue chemlight ushers the passengers outside and we follow in single file to the landing zone, clad in our flak jackets and helmets, and lugging backpacks and rucksacks through the hot rotor wash, blowing sand, and gravel. Once aboard, bathed in dim green light, we sit knee to knee inside the rumbling fuselage, smelling exhaust fumes wafting through the narrow compartment. The waiting can last a few minutes, or if you are unlucky, there is a lengthy delay as the aircrews and ground crews work to load or unload cargo (sound familiar), which can take longer than you would think since it is being done in the dark, with a military forklift, while the helicopters are running. Last night, when we departed a remote airbase, the helo fired off a solitary red flare, probably as a precaution, that was intended to distract man portable surface to air missiles. I don't know if there was a legitimate threat below trying to shoot us down, but when you are sitting near the rear of the aircraft, as I was, peering out into the blackness beyond the edge of the ramp, and you hear a loud pop, followed by burst of red light, it certainly gets your attention for a second.

Since my first update, I have ridden on nearly a dozen helicopters and visited several cities, military bases/camps, and Joint Security Stations (police precincts) in Al Anbar Province. My focus has been on what is termed "Transition", which, for the military, is the training, advising, and equipping of the Iraqi Security Forces, their Army, Police, and to a lesser extent, their newly formed Highway Patrol. Transition, though, is more than just training a military and a police force; it consists of several pillars or elements that must be interconnected and interdependent to fully function as one. These elements are: Rule of Law, Security, Communication, Governance, and Economics. In order to get all of these elements of Transition to work is a complicated, sometimes rewarding, and frequently frustrating process, involving military civila affairs teams, US State Department Provincial Reconstruction Teams, US Agency for International Development, law enforcement advisors, and instructors on judicial process and municipal management. The overall goal of Transition is to move the Iraqis to a point where they have become relatively self sufficient and reasonably capable of providing security, stability, and the broad array of basic services at the local, regional, and national levels. There will be differing and uneven progress in all these areas, imperfect solutions at best, but if we and the Iraqis can build on the trust that has been established so far, their formal government institutions and their age old tribal organizations will find a way to work together and function for the betterment of their leaders and their constituents.

For the Marines, the Security element of Transition, especially the training and advising piece, can be somewhat counter intuitive for the American military mind. Our traditions and our ethos are steeped in the institutional practice of empowering young leaders and solving problems at the lowest levels. Our ranks are replete with Type A, problem solvers and aggressive, smart young enlisted who want to "fix" and change things, in this case the Iraqis and their seemingly bad habits. But the Iraqis do not adhere or subscribe to a Western military mindset. Arab militaries, for the most part, do not have any tradition of expecting their Corporals and Sergeants to take decisions; that is left to the Captains and Majors. However, the Iraqi soldier, or "jundi" is desirous of a challenge, eager to learn and show he is competent and capable, and their officers are, for the most part, quite seasoned. We Americans often look at their Army and Police with a very critical eye and see their shortcomings compared to our capabilities as deficiencies we must address and indeed correct before we can depart and deem our mission a success. But our trainers and advisors must fight this urge to try and remake the Iraqis in our image, for the longer we persist with this line of thinking, the more the Iraqis will lean on us and expect more from us. We are, as one departing colonel told me, "advisors, not providers" and the sooner we embrace that philosophy, the sooner the Iraqis will begin to solve their problems in their own time and in their own way. They are already doing this in many areas, we are simply here to ensure they make progress, but over time, that progress will have to be defined more by them, and less by us.
For those of you wondering where and when this relationship ends, it won't, at least for another twenty years, perhaps much longer. We have made a long term moral, financial, and military commitment to the Iraqis and we are not going to renege on that commitment, regardless of the political rhetoric in Washington DC or on the campaign trail. Our degree of involvement and numbers of troops will decline in the years ahead, but it is obvious to me that we will have troops working alongside the Iraqis, just as we have the South Koreans and the Germans, for at least another generation. By that time, it is my hope that the young barefooted Iraqi boys, who passed me by the other day, pushing carts to Fallujah, will have had an opportunity to go to school, find an honorable way to earn a living, and raise their families in peace.
Semper Fidelis,
Brooks D.Tucker
Major, USMCR

God's Speed Major Andrew Olmsted USA

2008-01-05T18:50:00.000-05:00

Hey Guys,
This just in from JP at Milblogging.com. We lost Major Andrew Olmsted US Army, in Iraq. A man who was a true wordsmith and one of the best Mil Bloggers out there. If I don't get the links right, Google Andrew Olmsted and you will read a letter from the grave that will bring a tear to your eye.http://www.andrewolmsted.com/

God’s Speed Andrew
Semper Fi,
Taco

January 4th, 2008

Tragic News: Top Military Blogger Dies In Iraq

This is very tragic news I have to report to you today. Milblogger Andrew Olmsted, was killed in Iraq. Our hearts and prayers are with his family, friends, and everyone that got to know him, as they face this enormous loss and tragedy in their lives.

From The Huffington Post:

(The Huffington Post) Andrew Olmsted, who also posted here as G`Kar, was killed yesterday in Iraq. Andy gave me a post to publish in the event of his death; the last revisions to it were made in July.

Andy was a wonderful person: decent, honorable, generous, principled, courageous, sweet, and very funny. The world has a horrible hole in it that nothing can fill. I`m glad Andy -- generous as always -- wrote something for me to publish now, since I have no words at all. Beyond: Andy, I will miss you.

My thoughts are with his wife, his parents, and his brother and sister.

Letters from the Front

2008-01-02T15:14:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year to all of you out there in Cyberland!! I’m very lucky to have a guest writer on the SandGram. Major Brooks Tucker, USMC. He is a fellow reservist that I served with on recruiting duty who has also volunteered for a tour of duty in Iraq with the Marine Corps Center for Lessons Learned. His writing is awesome and it tells the story that the media has hidden from the public about our progress over there since it’s going so well. There are three letters and I’ll post the next two shortly. I hope that you enjoy his insights as much as I have. Feel free to pass these along.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Dear Family and Friends:
I have been in Iraq for nearly three weeks now and am beginning to find a rhythm to my work days and nights and have seen just enough to have some sense of awareness concerning the complex nature of the war and our role in it. Before I begin to cover some of the latter, I would like to dispel some of the lingering misconceptions that remain in the American consciousness on the home front. First and foremost, it is instructive to note that as of two weeks ago there were less than 20 journalists embedded with US forces across all of Iraq. There are approximately 165,000 US troops in Iraq, so that is 1 reporter for every 8,250 troops, roughly the equivalent of almost two regiments. If the media has been our window, no matter how opaque or transparent, into this war, the media is not in a physical position to report with much authority at this stage, in my opinion. Which leads me to one of the changes the media has not covered well, what is going on and has been going on for almost six months in al Anbar Province, where the US Marines and US Army are working day and night to set the conditions for transition of security to Iraqi Police and Army.

Within days of my arrival, I Iearned that our base outside the once violent and impenetrable city of Fallujah had not received incoming fire since April of this year. In the past several months, the Marines and Army have taken many casualties while making great strides finding roadside bombs, defusing them, and training the Iraqis to find them and report this to US forces. The number of violent incidents in the provincial capital, Ramadi, has declined 95% in the past year and Marines now patrol both Ramadi and Fallujah on foot without the ever present fear of being shot. Neighborhood watch programs manned by Iraqis proliferate and it is common for a Marine security patrol to encounter numerous checkpoints throughout the city of Fallujah, where Marine platoons man Joint Security Stations alongside Iraqi Police. I spent a day and a night with one of these platoons two weeks ago, and found the perimeter guarded by Iraqi Police, the interior manned by Marines and Iraqis in observation posts, and the outlying neighborhood patrolled at night by squads of young Marines on foot searching for signs of insurgent infiltration from outside the city limits. I sat in on a gathering of Fallujan leaders and Marines to discuss better communication and cooperation and found that their relations were professional and cordial. The Marines and the city leaders in Fallujah have brokered a way forward that respects the local muhktars, or religious leaders, vests much power in the city council, and allows the Marines to step back from their prior role as the key power brokers. The Fallujans are smart and they know the Americans have money and resources or at least can lead them to money and resources for their badly damaged neighborhoods and inadequate infrastructure, especially sewer and power. They also know that the insurgents have neither the money nor the resources to rebuild their city and will not help them gain leverage with the central government in Baghdad. This bottom up approach is a key component of our counterinsurgency strategy and tactics, for it empowers local and municipal leaders who are very wary of the civil servants in Baghdad. Furthermore, the Iraqi constitution gives significant powers to the provinces, so a strategy that builds the capability of the provinces is in keeping with that document. I have just returned from Hit, a city north of Fallujah, along the Euphrates River, where much the same story is playing out, Iraqis and Americans joining forces to defeat remnants of the insurgent cells that are still active, but are finding it increasingly difficult to locate safe havens free of the 24 hour US and Iraqi security presence on the highways, in the streets, alleyways, all under the watchful eyes of unmanned drones circling aloft.

Now a few words about quality of life for me and the other Americans serving and working here. I live in what is called a "can", a basic trailer type living space, with a couple beds, lockers, and maybe a camp chair. Most have AC. Showers and toilets at main bases are like you would find in a basic locker room, but showers are individual stalls. Third Country Nationals, Pakistanis mostly, clean the toilets and showers twice daily. Laundry service usually has a 24 hour turnaround. At more remote bases, or platoon and company outposts, showers are more primitive and porta johns are the rule. Food on main bases is plentiful and well cooked, to include fresh fruit, salad, Gatorade and pastries. Even at the remotest locations, the logistics folks manage to deliver some semblance of good food, although it is not as well presented. People here work long hours, mostly because there is little else to do, and most battalion and company bases have some form or internet access for official business, at least. The weather is cooling off now, temps in the high 80's during the day, high 50's at night. No rain yet, but when it comes the "moondust" will turn to slick muck. Until then, we are enjoying the fall like weather.
Best regards,
Brooks

Merry Christmas to all!!

2007-12-27T16:07:00.000-05:00

Christmas:
I just returned from four days on the road and just wanted to wish everyone a VERY Merry Christmas. Santa came to visit the girls early and Jake celebrated his first Christmas on Sunday. Figured they would call me out (being on reserve), so Tee and I enjoyed playing Santa Sat night. I think the best part is drinking the milk while you put all the presents out. That afternoon on Sunday, off I went to DC for the first night. It was a 737 international trip that I was covering so the next morning we took off for DFW with an overnight in Belize City, Belize.

When I walked out to the counter in DFW, decked out in my Santa hat and Grinch tie modeled after a Marine I know, I noticed a woman at the counter just flat out sobbing. I approached her and asked if she was ok? In between her sobs I found out that her daughter and fiancé were delayed coming in from Chicago with eight guests and if she didn't make this flight, she would miss her planned wedding the next day out on some island off the coast of Belize. I pulled up the flight number and saw that it was on the ground and parking on the other side of the airport from us in A terminal. "Mrs. Tucker, call your daughter on her cell phone and tell her to take the tram to D22 exit and we'll make sure she gets on the plane. We won't leave her on Christmas Eve, trust me, I'm the pilot." the tears stopped and a look of complete peace came over her followed by a thousand thank-you's. About this time a man walked up to me at the counter with a big smile on his face. "Taco?? Taco Bell???" I hate that, I know the guy, but can't place his name. "Where do I know you from?" He smiles and says "it's me Desi from TBS (the basic school for Lt's in the Marines) I can't believe you're my pilot. We sat down and caught up in a fast ten minutes. Flight school in Corpus and that was the last I had seen of him and that was back in 1989 or 1990. Where the hell does time go? He ended up going to work for Qualcomm out in San Diego and has been there since (ladies, he is single and a V.P., but before all the gals out there try to track him down, you would have to be as hot as his English girlfriend on the next island over). Turns out he owns a hotel on the island of Caye Caulker in Belize where he grew up. He invited me and my Captain to come visit his home island the next day and filled me in on how to get there.

Christmas Eve, Perry my Captain talked about going out for dinner and I agreed. Anything but the usual fare at the hotel, so we took off for a walk down the road and discovered a brand new place called Jambel. It’s a Jamaican style restaurant about a quarter mile walk from the hotel. It was a beautiful night so we sat out on the patio upstairs and enjoyed a nice cold beer while checking out the menu. We ended up meeting Rhonda Crichton the proud owner who told us how she went into business just a week before. She recommended a combo platter of chicken, beef, shrimp and a lobster tail. It was awesome and very spicy!! Just remember if you ask to make it EXTRA spicy, the old motto of Hot in, well Hot out the next morning. Rhonda is also a tour guide there and here is her email and site. email scenicroutebelize@yahoo.com and her website http://www.scenicroutebelize.com/

Christmas day, we caught a plane out to his island and what an awesome place it is. No cars, just golf carts, colorful hotels, coconut palm trees and a mixture of delicious smells wafting from the local restaurants there. We toured his small Caye and then were lucky enough for a boat trip with his brother Nano out to reefs. The water is crystal clear as we put on the masks and fins to go snorkeling along the reef. Schools of Stingrays would glide past you and disappear then circle around swarm you from behind. It was a lot of fun. Funny how time passes and we haven't seen each other since 1989 and yet it was like yesterday. If I had to be away from home for Christmas, then who better to be with but another Marine brother and his family.

Sorry I forgot to finish the story, as Paul Harvey would say "and now for the rest of the story" the lady at the counter who was worried about her daughter making the flight...well we left without them...no I'm just kidding. I told the Captain and he agreed that there was no way we'd leave them on the last flight of the day, especially on Christmas Eve. We took a twenty minute delay waiting for them but it was worth it. They ran down the jet bridge with the exuberance of newly weds. When they got off, they promised to name their first kid after me...Taco. I have that going for me at least.

Here is a Belize trip report for you to file away for a future vacation. First of all, book your flight down there on American Airlines, the best way to get there. Once you land in Belize and pass through customs, you will go to Maya Island Air, small airport and all right there. Best to book your flight via http://www.mayaislandair.com/ or call 011-501-225-2336. at Belie International. Tip, if you pay cash, they give you a 20% discount. If you are an airline employee, then it's another 20% off. With the exchange rate around 2 to 1 right now, It cost about $50 U.S. bucks for a roundtrip ticket to Caye Caulker.

Now my buddy's hotel, The Costa Maya Beach Cabanas, which is run by Julian Rosado. It's right across from the beach and downtown. Rates are 50 to 60 U.S. a night. There is an awesome room overlooking the ocean for about $100 a night that I would opt for size wise. They have a couple of really nice dive/snorkel boats and even a glass bottom boat for those who watched "Jaws" at a young age and afraid to get into the water. You can swim with sharks or Sting-rays out over these beautiful reefs. Don't worry, they are pretty tame and under the guidance of Nano, Desi's brother and reef guide, you won't have any problems. They have different water trips on the boat that vary from $45 dollars to swim around the local reefs to a trip to the Great Blue Hole over the lighthouse reef atoll to all day fishing trips for $175 dollars. Something that you'll never forget. To book a room, go to http://www.tsunamiadventures.com/ their phone number is 011-501-225-2336 or Julian's cell phone 011-501-610-3151 Bonnie found some of Desi's photos on the web that you can check out here http://www.pbase.com/drosado/belize_june_07/

Then if you get tired of the beach/ocean stuff, you can go cave tubing and then explore the Mayan ruins or take a jungle cruise. If it's up to me, I think after nursing my hangover and a sun burn, I'd like to swing under the shade of a large coconut tree with a cold drink in my hand and watch the surf pound the reef with a nice breeze blowing over me. The small streets are lined with family owned restaurants with a mixture of local Belize, Jamaican and Chinese foods and a couple of pubs. This use to be a British colony and a lot of Chinese immigrated from Hong Kong over the years, so you really get a mix of cultures in one place ie local native, Spanish, British and African influence. I could see going for three days to a week and taking the family along too since there were a lot of kids running around. It's easy to get to and really nice during Oct to March timeframe. Crazy how a chance encounter with an old friend can open up new adventures in life.

I've covered the basic logistics', now its just up to you to plan out a great vacation. I hope you have a great New Year and talk to you soon.
Semper Flying,
Taco

Legends

2007-12-17T16:06:00.000-05:00

Famous guys I knew and didn’t know it.
The sign of a great pilot is that he won’t tell you how great he is. Back in Dec of 1992, the FDO (flight duty officer) called me up and asked if I wanted to fly to Hawaii to pick up a refueling job for a week. What a dream trip, one week in Waikiki and all we had to do was refuel two F-4 Phantoms on Tuesday and Thursday. Since the trip was leaving December 4th, it went to all of the single guys who didn’t care if the plane broke there and missed Christmas since it was a two week deal. The flight over was a blast as we talked about what we planned on doing while staying at the OutRigger hotel on the beach.

On Sunday, we met the two pilots flying the F-4’s. They belonged to “TriCorp” a company that flew vintage jets and did contract work for the Navy. This week, the two Vietnam work horses would be carrying one large drone missile under their belly that would be released at fifty thousand feet to attack an Aegis cruiser down below. Dick Lawyer was the head test guy there and after he briefed with us I went up to him “Hey Dick” that always makes me shudder saying that to a guy, “Any chance I could get a ride in the back of your jet?” He smiled and said “Naw, I’m not sure if the insurance department would approve that request.”

Well, I’m a firm believer in that the answer is no unless you ask, so I just had to ask. The F-4 was out of service for the military, especially the Marines, so the opportunity to get a backseat hop was just too great to pass up. On Tuesday, we took off with a full bag of gas and climbed up to twenty-five thousand feet. I was flying in the right seat, “Paulie” was in the left seat with “Hairy Larry” standing over my shoulder. The two jets joined up with us over Barking Sands missile range near the island of Kauai. Dick was in a blue F-4 and his partner was flying the white one. Both pilots were retired Air Force Col’s who had spent many hours in the front seat of this jet, bombing the crap out of the VC during Vietnam. They handled their jets with fingertip finesse, plugging into our baskets with ease. After Dick topped off on his gas, he flew under the right wing of our KC-130 and pulled up right next to our plane. We were all a bit freaked out by this show of airmanship but he was planted right there, not moving. Perfect formation flying. When “Paulie” asked him if he could move a bit closer (being factitious of course), Dick chuckled and said “You guys haven’t seen anything yet, man I wish I could show what we did to the Russian Bears we intercepted in Alaska.” Then he toggled the mike and said “Hey Taco is that you?” Of course, I replied to the man I could touch next to me. He then asked “I thought you wanted to go fly with us, what happened?” man I was all over him with questions about going up and he just told me to show up on Thursday two hours prior to the brief and bring another Marine along for a ride on the hop that day. I was ecstatic at the chance to go up with him. Since I flew on Tuesday, ole “Hairy Larry” had to go fly on Thursday and wouldn’t be able to go. Now it was down to a couple of the enlisted guys in the back as to who wanted to go.

There was a Staff Sergeant back there who flat out was a bully to young co-pilots, so as much as he bragged that the seat was his, I had other plans. There was a young Mech back there named Aldrich and this Lance Corporal was a hard working great guy. I pulled him aside after the flight and told him my plan. On Thursday I basically ditched the Staff Sergeant and grabbed Mike for the trip over to Barbers Point, a Navy Base an hour away. Dick briefed us on the hop, suited us up and took us out to the planes. We climbed in back of these monster machines and strapped in. Let me tell you that there is no sound like that of those J79 engines as they fired up. We taxied out to the main runway as a section, conducting our before take off checks. I had a VHS camcorder on taping as Dick keyed the mic to the other ship. “Last one off the deck, buys the first round at the monkey bar when we get back” with that statement, game on, the throttles went forward and I was pressed into the back of the ejection seat as we went from zero to two hundred miles an hour in a mere matter of seconds.

The F-4 burns a lot of gas and now I know why they had to tank off of us after full afterburner takeoff. We climbed up to 25k to our tanker that was orbiting off the edge of the training area. The hoses came out as we pulled up into the contact position. I could see the face of “The Bully” pressed up into the window of the paratroop door. He wasn’t happy with me, but oh well. Watching this operation from the other end, gave me a greater understanding on the art of plugging into a tiny 27 inch basket that is floating around out there in space. Dick hit the basket in the first try and we started taking gas for our next segment of the climb. We went into full burners, climbing up to fifty thousand feet. From there, you can see the curvature of the earth; the sky is no longer blue, but black. We were trucking along at Mach 1.5 the speed of sound when the drone was released climbing up to eighty thousand feet before it started it’s attack run on the USS Shenandoah. I remember Dick making comment about how pretty it was up here and if we lost our engines to a flameout, not to worry because we’d be dead in seconds as our blood started to boil. “What was that part about blood boiling???” I asked, my voice about ten octaves higher. He expanded his statement as we were now fifty three thousand feet in Altitude. “Well, we’re so high that without a space suit, pressure suit, the oxygen in our blood would expand so fast that it would cause it to boil above fifty thousand feet.” I wasn’t happy about that small facttoid and kept looking at my fingers for signs of hypoxia. He remained up there for a long time till dash two reminded him that we needed to get gas. His visor was up and I could see him staring up into space with the look of a dreaming child.

As it turns out, I googled “Dick Lawyer pilot” and found out that Dick had passed away. What I read though was incredible. Here is his obit, what a man. As I drink a glass of red wine with my dinner tonight, I will toast Dick, a great American and so humble that you would never know it.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Former test pilot Lawyer dies at 73 This story appeared in the Antelope Valley Press on Thursday, November 24, 2005. By ALLISON GATLIN Courtesy of the Valley Press
Former test pilot, astronaut-select and flight instructor Richard Lawyer, 73, died November 12, 2005, at his home in Palmdale, California, of a suspected blood clot.

The retired Air Force colonel's flying career spanned more than 50 years, beginning with his Air Force pilot training in 1955 to his most recent occupation as an instructor at the National Test Pilot School in Mojave, a position he had at the time of his death.

"He led a charmed life," flying from the moment he first fell in love with flight, said Gayle , his wife of 23 years. "His wings were never clipped."
Lawyer had assured her years ago he would walk away from airplanes at the very first indication that his flying was not up to his high standards, she said, a promise he thankfully never had to fulfill. Lawyer was in the cockpit three days before his death and was scheduled to fly for the test pilot school November 14, 2005.

Born November 8, 1932, in Los Angeles, the University of California graduate entered the Air Force in 1955. His flight test career began three years later when his fighter squadron was selected to test the F-105B.
He was a distinguished graduate of the Air Force Fighter Weapons School and of the Air Force Aerospace Research Pilot School (now the Air Force Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base).
His Air Force career included two combat tours during the Vietnam War, as well as a time as chief of fighters at Edwards.
One little-known facet of Lawyer's career was his selection in 1965 as one of the first astronauts to the Air Force's classified Manned Orbiting Laboratory program. This program, later canceled without sending any astronauts into space, was to man a military space station with Air Force astronauts using a modified Gemini spacecraft.
Even after the program was canceled, Lawyer did not discuss it, still feeling the obligation to honor its secrecy.
"They made a vow; they never were released from that," Gayle said. "That was huge. He was a man of honor."
After his Air Force retirement in 1982, Lawyer served as flight test manager for Martin Marietta (now Lockheed Martin Corp.) at Edwards.
He then went on to join the National Test Pilot School and later another Mojave Airport business, Flight Systems Inc. There, he served as chief test pilot, piloting the first flight of the QF-4 drone.
Lawyer retired from Flight Systems in 1998 but continued at the test pilot school and as a self-employed consultant and test pilot. He most recently flew the F-100 for Flight Test Associates' tests of Northrop Grumman Corp.'s Guardian airliner defense system.
Lawyer was a fixture at the Mojave Airport, known for driving his truck around the airport to visit friends after work at the test pilot school.
"Dick Lawyer has known a lot of big names in aviation history," said friend and Mojave Airport tenant Cathy Hansen . "He was a big name himself, but he just didn't know it."
"He was very humble, quiet and soft-spoken," she said. "He had a dry sense of humor which I thought was just hilarious."
Hansen's husband, Al, credits his license to fly his F-86 jet to Lawyer's cockpit checkout.
"Dick was one of two people Al let fly" the F-86, she said.
In addition to flying, Lawyer had a passion for hunting and fishing, his other life-long love.
"When the day came flying was over, he was going to do even more hunting and fishing," Gayle said.
Lawyer had just returned from an elk-hunting trip to Colorado when he died. He had also already begun planning his annual Alaskan fishing trip.
His other great joy - one he found unexpectedly later in life - was his nine grandchildren, ages 18 months to 11 years old.
"He adored his grandchildren," Gayle said, introducing the older ones to fishing and flying. They were a "joy in his life he knew would be there when the day came that he might no longer be able to do the things that filled his life with joy."
In addition to Gayle and the nine grandchildren, Lawyer is survived by sons Tim Lawyer of San Luis Obispo and James Lawyer of College Station, Texas; daughter Lisa Burr of Austin, Texas; stepdaughters Casey Hinds of Lexington, Ky., and Halya Mugglebee of Sherman Oaks.
"He was very much a family guy," Cathy Hansen said.
Cathy sent Lawyer an e-mail, apparently one of the last he read, that talked about living life to the fullest.
"He had. He was living proof of that," she said.
Lawyer will be remembered by family and friends in a memorial service at the National Test Pilot School on Dec. 17. For aviators like Lawyer, the date holds special significance as the anniversary of the Wright brothers' first flight.
He will also be paid tribute with full military honors in a burial at Arlington National Cemetery on January 5, 2006.
It was Lawyer's wish that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Society of Experimental Test Pilots Scholarship Foundation or to the Air Warrior Courage Foundation of the Red River Valley Fighter Pilots Association.
Colonel Richard E. Lawyer, United States Air Force, was born on 8 November 1932 in Los Angeles, California; he is married with three children. He received a bachelor of science degree in aeronautical engineering from the University of California in 1955 and was chosen for the MOL (Manned Orbiting Laboratory) programm on 12 November 1965 (Group 1).
Following the cancellation of the MOL programme he remained with the Air Force and returned to active flight duty. He is currently Deputy Commander, Test Evaluation Directorate, Air Weapons Center, Tyndall Air Force Base, Florida.

Monday, 21 November 2005: Courtesy of Aero-News Network
Richard E. Lawyer, 73, passed away on November 12, 2005, the day after Veteran's Day. The apparent cause of his death was a deep vein blood clot. His death was peaceful but completely unexpected; he was sitting at his desk at home. Dick Lawyer was born November 8, 1932 in Los Angeles and served his country as a test pilot, as a designated astronaut who never flew in space due to circumstances beyond his control, and as a senior officer in the Air Force.
The retired Air Force Colonel still taught at the National Test Pilot School at the Civilian Flight Test Center in Mojave, California, still conducted flight tests, and was scheduled to fly this week, according to the Society of Experimental Test Pilots.
Lawyer remained healthy and active, holding a Class 1 medical certificate till the day he died. Indeed, the F-100F pictures, taken earlier in 2005, show Col. Lawyer (below, front seat, blue helmet) and a flight test engineer conducting calibration test flights at Mojave earlier this year. The purpose was to get valid data up to Mach 0.90 in support of a Boeing 737 flight test program, so the intrepid duo passed by the Mojave tower at 70 feet AGL at speeds up to M0.90 which is 560 kts. Not many septuagenarians are doing that, but then, there was only one Dick Lawyer.

As well as the F-100, Dick Lawyer was actively flying T-33s, F-86s, and QF-4s for a variety of contractors at Mojave Airport. During his Air Force career he'd flown F-80, -86, -100, -101, -102, -104, 105, and -106 fighters, T-6, T-33 and T-39 (Sabreliner) trainers, and U-2 and B-57 reconnaissance aircraft.
Colonel Lawyer first came to the attention of Aero-News in June, when we ran an article on the discovery of a spacesuit with his name on it at Cape Canaveral. His relatives sent him that article, which upset him, because it mentioned that we tracked him down to the NTPS and they didn't respond to our email (it turns out we used an old address that isn't monitored). That article is here. ("NASA Finds 1960s Spacesuits," 17 June 05). He was upset at the idea that people would think him unresponsive, which illustrates a little something of his character -- the humble, friendly test pilot -- not exactly a stereotype.
When he did get in touch with us, he was very complimentary about the article, and a little bit bemused that anyone even cared about the Manned Orbiting Laboratory, forty years later. "While it contains a few minor errors, is the most accurate and detailed article of all those that have appeared," he said. To us, that comment was worth more than a Pulitzer Prize.
The Manned Orbiting Laboratory, announced in 1963, had some of the features of a space station. A crew of two would launch in a modified Gemini capsule, the Gemini-B, and on reaching the desired orbit, would be able to go through a hatch in the back of the Gemini into the MOL's work and accommodation spaces.
After spending thirty days in space, the crew would climb back into the Gemini-B capsule and deorbit. At a relatively low altitude, under 100 miles, the orbit of the MOL would decay and it would soon be destroyed by re-entry.
Then-Captain Richard E. Lawyer was selected for the MOL in its first group of pilots -- they avoided the word, "Astronaut" -- selected. That group was announced on November 12, 1965 -- forty years to the day before Lawyer would pass away. The original MOL pilots were all USAF Test Pilot School or Naval Test Pilot School graduates. Lawyer mentioned to us with some pride that he graduated the USAF TPS, but he -- characteristically -- never got around to mentioning that he was distinguished graduate of his class, we had to learn that elsewhere. It probably helped him that he started his Air Force career with an Aero Engineering degree from USC -- but he never mentioned that to us, either.
When the program was cancelled, officers under 35 years old were permitted to sign on as NASA astronauts. All did, and all went on to fly in the Shuttle program -- one went on to be NASA Administrator. But then-Major Dick Lawyer was a few months too old. He, like the other "overage" pilots (except for one who took a non-astronaut position with NASA), returned to the USAF where he served in numerous assignments with distinction before retiring in the early 1980s as a Colonel. His last assignment was deputy commander of Eglin Air Force Base, at the time a significant test center.
Characteristically, Colonel Lawyer expressed no bitterness at the cancellation of the MOL, or the bureaucratic rule that would have let him go into NASA had he only been born in 1933, not '32. When we pressed him, he admitted being "disappointed." And after that disappointment he, again characteristically, bounced back.

I like young girls...

2007-12-05T19:25:00.001-05:00

Back in Okinawa in 1994, Jim Adams, my faithful side kick, got me involved in a group called Okinawa plus 50. It was going to be the reunion of Marines and Soldiers from WWII and their Japanese counterparts. A good will gesture as the fiftieth anniversary was coming up. Being part of this committee was very interesting since some of the old guys had no desire to bury the hatchet with the Japanese. That’s a different story.

In the course of attending a few of these meetings, a LtCol, with a real zest for history, invited Jim and me to attend a special dinner. The guest was Arocki Toboson or something like that, and he had been a Kamikaze pilot in the tail end of WWII. Well, he obviously wasn’t a successful Kamikaze pilot if we were having dinner with him, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to drive down for the visit. Mind you, this was in the All Hands Club at Camp Kinser, which, in traffic, would be about a forty-minute drive.

Jim and I dressed up in our green Alpha’s and off we went. There were many officers there when we arrived, and only being Captains, we were seated down the table from this older Japanese man who occupied the head seat with his twenty-five-year-old interpreter. LtCol History boy occupied most of the conversation during the night with his vast knowledge of what the Japanese were doing during those last days of the war. It went like this—you would ask a question to the young girl, and she would ask Arockison and he would answer in soft Japanese, after which she would then reply. We found out that his mother was an American who married his father in 1925, and moved back to Japan with him. Even though she had assimilated into the culture, during the war they had her under house arrest, and she didn’t leave her house for almost five years.

Arockison talked about his early flight training, or lack there of, and how the war ended before they could strap a plane on him. So what does an out of work Kamikaze pilot do after the war? He becomes a dentist, one of the most successful dentists in Southern Japan. I guess he would dive into those mouths screaming “BONZI!” Old Arockison took a liking to Jim and me, especially since I was a pilot, and he thought Jim was too with his gold parajump wings on his left chest. At the conclusion of the dinner Q and A, his interpreter asked if Jim and I could drop them off at their hotel in downtown Naha. I think the Colonel was rebuffed that he didn’t get asked, but volunteered us to do this task. That was about to add another hour of driving in the crappy gridlock traffic that Okinawa enjoys.

As we get settled into Jim’s van, Arockison exhaled loudly and said in slightly accented English, “Oh man, am I glad to get away from that suck butt Colonel.” I just about had a heart attack when I realized that he spoke English. Holy crap, what did we talk about back there that he could have heard? We both spin around with a total look of disbelief. He smiles and says, “Don’t look that way, I told you all that my mother was American so, of course she taught me to speak English.” I spewed out, “What gives with the interpreter and not speaking English tonight? We wanted to ask more questions, but it was tough to get in line for the Q and A.” He patted his “Interpreter” on the leg. “See, first of all, isn’t she beautiful? I just love looking at her. Second, if she wasn’t there, then guys like that Colonel who think they know it all about the war would never let me get a bite of dinner. She and I chatted, and I made her do all the hard work while I was able to eat. See, very smart no?”

I had to agree with his method and got a chuckle when he made us promise to never tell his secret or the LtCol would lose face. We promised and exchanged cards that night, a big deal in their society, and said goodnight. He told us that he may call us up some time on his next visit to the island.

A month later, my phone rang and it was Arockison. “Tacoson, I want you and Jimson to be my guest on a boat cruise next Saturday. Are you available?” I said, “yes” for both Jim and I and got directions on where to meet him. In closing he said, “Also, please wear your Dress Blues; it’s a bit formal.” My enthusiasm for the boat trip dropped, as it was August, and thick Dress Blues didn’t mesh well with the 100-degree heat and the 100% humidity on the Island. You could hard-boil an egg inside your uniform with that kind of heat.

That Saturday, we piled into Jim’s van and took off for the Japanese Naval base on the other side of the Island by the Sea of Japan. As we approached the dock where the Japanese Cruiser was located, the sentry on duty checked our names against his list and waved us through to the VIP parking close to the ship. Leaving the comfortable air conditioning of the van, we put on our Dress Blue blouse and donned our white covers. The sweat started to pour out of our tightly shaven heads as we walked up the gangway to the ship. A whistle started blowing as we reached the top; both of us smartly saluted the back of the ship where the Japanese Flag was hanging before saluting the Officer on duty. In front of us was a long line of Japanese Officers from the ships’ Captain to an Admiral and standing at the end of the Congo line was Arockison. After a million bows and card exchanges, Arockison takes us down to the Officer’s wardroom for refreshments.

“So, how do you like this ship?” We were now cooling off a bit from the heat as he handed us a shot of sake. The first shot was a bit rough, but as they kept coming, I didn’t notice the heat of the uniform as much. He explained that the Admiral was the son of one his best friends from Kamikaze school, and this little trip out in the Sea of Japan was to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of the Japanese Self defense force. Jim and I noticed that we were the only Americans on board and it made me wonder how we managed this coup. After two hours of steaming out to sea, they put on a show of the different weapon systems and their capabilities while we stood in the wind on the bridge of the ship. Leaning over me, Arockison shouts in my ear, “I like young girls” as he pats his chest with a big smile on his face. I reply that I like my girls to be young, but not under the age of 21. He shakes his head fiercely and a bit tipsy like me says, “NO! You don’t understand, I LIKE YOUNG GIRLS!” I understood him the first time and then it dawned on me; he must be some pervert who thought Jim and I could hook him up or something. “I’m sorry Arockison, I like young girls too, but I don’t know any young girls for you.” I’m convinced he wants some dependant daughter with blonde hair. Great, we were trapped on a Jap cruiser with a drunken 70-year-old Kamikaze pervert.
He sways a bit and comes back in close again, “No, you don’t understand, I want you and Jim to meet my young girlfriend when we get back. We will go to my club in Naha; there you will see my young girlfriend.” Folks, don’t ask me what this guy was up to, but he took a shine to two Marines and we were being invited to hang out and experience the culture. “Oh by the way, do you have a nice suit to wear?”

Later that night, we met Arockison at the Suntory Whiskey building in downtown Naha. True to his word, there was a young twenty-five-year-old girl in the full kimono dress standing next to him in his fresh suit. We entered the elevator and with his special key, went to the top floor of the swankiest Gishi girl establishment you’ve ever seen with the Momma son standing there waiting for us as the doors opened. Now, all sorts of things were going through my mind as to what a Gishi girl’s job was. Whorehouse, Cat-house? Wow, we were really dressed up for that. Well, fear not, turns out that the Japanese Ego is about as thin as OJ Simpson’s murder defense and requires lots of boosting. All they do is talk. Jim and I both had a girl on each arm that escorted us into the main room. There were little booths all around, filled with older gentlemen sipping their whiskey and talking to their girls. Our gals asked what we wanted to drink and then prepared our Vodka Tonic. I was feeling like a stud as this girl who spoke great English, pumped my ego up to where I might not get my head through the door. “Oh you must be berry berry smart to be a peelot” “Oh feel those big muscles in your arms, I like strong men.” Comments like that all night.

They had a gent playing the piano in a suit and tie not far from us. Turns out, you would go up there and pick a song and sing with him as he played the piano. Piano Karaoke, crazy Japs really know how to have fun. I got up and sang Elvis, Blue Suede shoes. Hard to keep time with a guy banging away on the piano and be in tune, but I guess I did a great job because all the old guys would come up afterwards and tell me, “You Sing Elvis, berry guot, next time pease sing All Hooked up.”
My young girl told me later that Arockison considered Jim and I his Gaijin pilot sons. “Wow, I’m really honored, how cool.” Thinking that having a rich old pervert Japanese dad wasn’t such a bad thing. She then told me that we must be special because in the three years she had worked there, this was the first time she had ever seen a military person in the house. I asked her why and she said, “Well, it’s very expensive here, each girl cost $200 dollars an hour plus the liquor. I about spit my drink out when she told me this. Arockison was paying $600.00 dollars an hour to have some young girl pump his ego up plus take care of his two Marine sons the same way…talk, talk, talk. For Six hundred dollars an hour, I should have more then my ego pumped up, but hey, that is their culture and I was just a guest. I didn’t even get a phone number from my gal.

We ended up going with him a couple more times before we transferred back to the states. I heard that he passed away a few years ago, and I’ll relish those interesting memories of a culture that will always fascinate me. Who says that you can’t dress a Marine up and take him out? Just learn to sing Elvis and the world is your Oyster.
S/F
Taco

Shhhhh, guess whose birthday is coming up!

2007-11-28T08:45:00.000-05:00

Hi everyone!
This is Taco's Mama, and I wanted to alert you that Taco's birthday is this Friday so swamp him with greetings in the comment section! He doesn't know I'm posting this so don't be surprised to hear the hollering all the way from Texas to Virginia when he finds out what I've done (at the urging of the Church Ladies, of course!!). Let's have some fun!!

Hugs to all!
Taco's Mama

PS
He hasn't changed much since he was four and eight years old--mischievous as usual!!!

Hey Guys,
I want to thank you all for the awesome Birthday wishes and also thanks to my Momma Taco for the nice surprise! I’ve been in the simulators battling flaming engines and thunderstorms as part of the nine month check that all airline pilots must undergo to continue to fly.

It’s funny though, I was thinking back to my tenth birthday, when we lived in Little Creek Virginia on the Naval Amphibious Base next to lake Bradford. My Dad was out to sea on the U.S.S. San Diego, a supply ship plying the Atlantic Ocean, so he missed the party where we terrorized our neighborhood for a few hours. When we had my birthday party, my uncle Bruce who flew F-14’s at the time and took after my Grandfather, six foot seven, joined us. His call sign was “Big Bird” due to his size and I was always bugging him to take me flying in his Cherokee 140 that he ended up selling to me years later. Bruce went down to his boys in the Flight Riggers shop and grabbed a bunch of stuff that they had “Surveyed” a term in the military that means it’s trash and would be chucked. So after we blew out the candles on the cake, Bruce starts pulling out all sorts of cool stuff. Mind you, we lived on a military base and played Army in the woods every chance we had so when he gave me all this survival equipment that a jet pilot would wear, I was in seventh heaven!!

The SV-2, survival vest contained a compass, the standard survival knife (very cool) a signal mirror, sea dye markers, shark repellant, and survival flares. This was going to elevate me to the top of being super cool with my friends when they saw all of this. Bruce then took me outside to demonstrate the flares. They were about the size of a soda can, a bit thinner though, and he showed me that if it was night time and you were splashing around in the ocean, you could tell which end was the night flare because of the bumps around the edge. He pulls the tab fires up these flares. Now when these things ignite up, they spew out a flame about three feet long. It lit up my backyard and probably made the neighbors wonder what the hell was going on over there…

After about four of these burned out we flipped them over to do the day portion. When he pulled the tabs on these, orange smoke started pouring out. I mean the whole backyard filled up with smoke and it began to spread out from the back side of the house to the street. By the third and fourth flare, our whole section of the neighborhood was cloaked in an orange mist that would make Steven King proud. What was neat for a ten year old, but didn’t impress the local cops or MP’s who were driving around with their search lights on looking for the source of this smoke. My Uncle ushered me back inside the house as he tossed the spent flares into the trash. Then he giggled like a school girl as he drank beer and watched the keystone cops frantically drive around outside. We never got in trouble for that one, but the following summer when I let the sea dye markers out into the ocean at the Officers beach and all the kids and their parents came out of the water stained bright red, well that was a different story.

Those are some great birthday memories which made a lasting impression in my minds eye. Thanks again for the birthday wishes you guys, you made my day! If any of you are flying from DFW to LAX the next three nights and returning at five in the morning (LA all nighter) look up front and say hello.

Semper Fi, Taco

Turkey time, Amen

2007-11-20T10:13:00.000-05:00

Hey Guys,
I just wanted to wish you all a wonderful Thanksgiving! I have been blessed with a wonderful family and a wife who is willing to raise our children and put her dreams of nursing aside till the children are older. My parents who are there at our beck and call to help us out when they come visit and my In-laws who treat me as their own son. I can say that life is good here. I have a friend,Jim Adams, who has gone over for another tour in Iraq. I started to put his message up about how things are but I’m going to wait because he has promised to write a longer piece and be my guest writer/eyes there.

As you all sit down for dinner this Thanksgiving, please remember our troops in Harm’s way and say a prayer for them. If you are flying this vacation and on a big silver 737-800, look for me up in the cockpit, for I will be in my office the next four days. Take care and I have a couple of posts in the works for your entertainment. Until then if you are new to the Sandgram, go back and read the older posts, they might bring a smile to your face.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Happy Birthday Marines!

2007-11-09T20:07:00.000-05:00

Hey Guys,
November tenth is the birthday of our beloved Corps. So far I have attended a ball, (minus the wife but able to take my Dad and Uncle-both Navy) and some other smaller celebrations that included hearing a speech by former CMC Hagee and a few beers hoisted up over a nice cigar with a few buddies named “Chuck the Asst. D.A.,” “Fred the Fed,” “Steve the Cop,” “Perry the Diver” and “Simon the Retired.” All have ties with the Corps and it was an awesome time as we told lies and sat in our overstuffed leather chairs smoking a ten-dollar cigar. They always say that if you have two Marines together, they will celebrate the birth of their Corps with as much gusto as former President Clinton when he found he had a new intern (or that his wife was taking a trip to NYC for the weekend). Either way, we have a good time.

It’s a hard date to forget after so many balls and pageants over the years. Funny though, the true litmus test for a person claiming to be a Marine is to ask them what is the actual day of the Marine Corps Birthday. We were having lunch for the second time at a new local Italian place in Fort Worth, and had the same waitress, a young gal named Lynn who claimed that she, too, was a Marine. The first time I talked to her, I didn’t press the issue since we were about to leave. The next time was last Sunday, after the ball. She proudly stated again that she was a Marine who got out after three years when she heard us talking about the Military. My Uncle, 6’ 5” and a former RIO in the F-14, asks across the table, “Hey when is the Marine Corps Birthday?” she just shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t remember that little stuff.” Now I was pretty sure that this semi-cute young thing was lying through her teeth. Not sure if she thought it would bring a better tip, I asked her, “Where did you go to boot camp?” She beamed and said, “Pendleton, of course.”

I didn’t want to bust her in front of my in-laws and family (plus we didn’t have our food yet) so I waited until I was driving home from one of the cake-cutting ceremonies in my Dress Blues and decided to stop by the restaurant. I flagged her down and asked her to come over. “Lynn, while I appreciate you wanting to be a Marine, if you are going to lie about it, first Google the Corps and find out the date of it’s inception, because EVERY Marine knows that. Second, women only attend Boot Camp in Paris Island.” You could see the shame in her eyes, and she started to explain something, but I just said goodbye and turned around to leave.

Now this Saturday, November tenth will be a different story. I am flying to San Antonio with a good buddy named Paulie, in our Government-issued KC 130T. Our mission is to pick up six young Marines who were wounded in Iraq, and fly them to a football game up here in North Texas. Ross Perot and his son are helping organize this through the Wounded Warrior group. They are going to watch the University of North Texas play the Naval Academy. I think it’s an awesome thing, and it’s one of those flights that I can’t wait to make happen. I can bet you a million dollars, that these heroes know the meaning of the tenth of November!
To all of you Marines out there, I wish you a very Happy Birthday, for you are looking good for being 232 years…
Semper Fi,
Taco

The Skipper

2007-11-04T17:30:00.000-05:00

I have to say that out of all of my jobs in the Marine Corps, I look back at my time with MWSS 274 as the Air Ops OIC in Cherry Point as my favorite one hands down. I was an old hand at VMGR 252 and a boot Captain which made me ripe for a FAP billet. The Fleet Assistant Program is when the base or units in your Wing need extra bodies to fill certain Officer and Enlisted billets. Basically it can mean not flying for a year or so while you go play with the Grunts down at Camp Lejeune most of the time.

Reporting to Sunshine, our XO after lunch, he informs the three most senior copilots that there are two FAC (forward air controllers) jobs down at Camp Lejeune and one FAP job on base at Cherry Point with MWSS 274. We all knew that Zeke, the Assistant S-3 Officer, never flew and he hated his job there. Nobody wanted to replace him and we all hoped that the job would just go away. My two buddies jumped on the FAC jobs like a hobo on a ham sandwich before I had a chance to say boo. We all walked out and shook hands to say goodbye. They would be gone from Cherry Point for 15 months or so and I was only going to be away for a year. You would think that my option was the best, but you have to understand the pain a pilot feels when you are chained to a desk while your buds all flew to Rota Spain, Germany, England, Iceland and all the cool places in the world. They like to rub salt in your wounds at the O’Club about it too. At least if you were gone on a ship, you don’t have to see the planes flying over head taunting you.

I checked out of my Squadron, put on my green dress Alpha’s to go report in for my new job. I stuck my head into the Adjutants office, a young second Lieutenant and asked if the boss was around. Nodding, he made a phone call and announced my presence. The C.O. was a LtCol and proud of his school that was located in some small town in Maryland called Annapolis, you could tell by all the blue and gold stuff on the wall.

He proceeded to tell me that while the KC130 pilot normally fills the S-3a job there at HQ, he was short an Officer to fill the Air Ops OIC position that is a Captain/Major’s job because the ECMO from VMAQ 2 (backseater guy in the jammer sqd) was stuck on the boat and two months late returning. So I would take that job and he would get the S-3a when he returned. I thanked the CO for the chance to work for him and excused myself to check out my new diggs.

The Air Ops was located right down the street from my Squadron and next to our simulator building. It was a large brick warehouse that housed all the stuff you needed to outfit an airfield during wartime in some far off country. I had seventy Marines under my charge, a salty Warrant Officer and a slew of Staff NCO’s. For the first time in my career as a Marine I really felt like an Officer. Over at the Sqd, you worked with older senior enlisted Marines for the most part and here I had the whole range of guys from brand new out of boot camp,to ready to retire to one SSgt who was on the ROAD program (retired on active duty) which all made for some interesting times.

That week, I snapped in and toured all of my “Assets” which ranged from guys at the PMO-military police, EOD-bomb guys, ATC-air traffic control, gas trucks etc. They set up a demo in the field located next to my warehouse and filled these big rubber bladders with gas to show me what my boys did and how they did it. The Gunny from my gas section escorted Gene my Warrant Officer and I over to this big 18 wheeler for the brief on gas. I walked up to introduce myself to PFC Geddy who was from West Virginia. Now Geddy had that sort of Pig Pen look about him, not that he was really dirty, but you could say he had a layer of dust on him, smudges of oil and grime on his face giving him a weathered darker complexion that made his really blue eyes stand out.

“OK Geddy, lets pretend that my KC-130 pulls up and you are going to give him some gas, how do you do this operation?”
Geddy gets very excited and turns around pointing to a set of valves on the side of the truck. “Weeeeell Siiiiir,” in a long slow Hillbilly accent “If I’s want to pass some gas to you, well I open the H valve here then turn on the L valve and You should be getting gas lickety split Sirrrrrrrrr.”

I’m looking at him impressed that he knew the names of the valves inside his truck. They made us memorize all the valves in the wing of the KC 130 too (like it would make a difference in flight) looking over his shoulder, I notice that the valves letters are stenciled on top of the piping, so I tap him on the arm so that he turned around. “OK Geddy, without looking, what happens if your sphincter valve is clogged, how do you bypass that so you can let your gas out?”

Geddy’s eyes sort of bulged out of their sockets and then proceeded to blink in a rapid motion. Sweat starts to glisten on the side of his head and he lowers his eyes and sways from foot to foot. I wink at the Gunny and Gene who are trying not to laugh. Geddy looks back up to me and says in a panicked look “Siiirr the SPINKTER valve?” I nod yes, he pauses for a second and then says “Sir, this Marine doesn’t know the answer but I will find out.”
I thank him for a great demo and walk off to the next piece of equipment set up. As we walking away, I can hear the Gunny chewing old Geddy “What do you mean you don’t how to bypass the Sphincter valve Geddy??? Take this truck back to the barn and pull out the manual for it. Don’t come out of the office till you find the Captains answer.”
Poor kid was in that office for the rest of the day trying to find that bypass valve so that he could fart.

They held inspections every morning and I loved this part the most. I would go around and ask current event questions each day, stuff that I had read in USA TODAY that morning over my cup of coffee. Simple stuff, “Who is the President of Russia?” What country just had a coup? How many feet in a mile? All sorts of off the wall stuff. It became a big game for the guys. I had two Marines cut out current articles from my paper in the morning and post them on the wall next to the bathroom. Then they would post the sports over the urinal. They figured out that I would ask questions relating to what was posted on the wall.

That first week was a blast and on Friday I dropped the bomb on them. After chow, I told the MasterSgt to have the guys and gals form up in the PT field at 1500 (three O’clock for you Air Force readers) for a nice six mile run. You could hear the bitching and moaning all the way into my office about the new Skipper making them run at 1500 on Friday (this guy was suppose to be laid back, he was a pilot for Christ sakes). We formed up and took off for our run down the side road to a nice wooded area about a mile from the warehouse. There was my Warrant Officer with my pickup truck parked in the shade of a tree. In the bed of my truck was a keg of beer and a ton of cups. I told the Marines to grab a brew and form a school circle around the truck.

“Ok Marines, here is the deal just so you know what I’m all about. I believe in work hard, play hard, but there are also things that we need to do to run smoothly. First of all, when you go out in town, you will have a designated driver. I kid you not about this. Draw straws, hook up with a Mormon, do whatever it takes to have one sober driver in your group. If that person screws up and drinks, then you take a cab home to the base. If you have spent all of your money down at "Honey's" the local strip joint, then you will call the Gunny, then the MasterSgt or the Warrant Officer and finally me for a pick up. I would rather drive down from New Bern to the Beach to pickup my drunk Marines then to grab your sorry drunk butt out of jail. It’s all about taking care of one another. We might have you waxing our cars during lunch hour for the ride, but that is a small price to pay for being alive and not in jail. I’m not worried about the beer here because I plan on sweating it out of you on the way back to the hooch. If you have any problems, bring them up the chain of command. I’m all about hearing first hand about a problem rather then getting a call from my boss the Col about it later. Accountability is another biggie. Always let someone know where you are going over the weekend and give them a recall number in case we have to get a hold of you. We are Marines and if we have to fly out for some action somewhere, I’d hate for you to be U.A. and miss all the fun. Finally, I believe in taking care of my guys. You take care of me and I take of you. Don’t break my rules about drinking and we’ll have a great time this year. That’s all, enjoy the beer.” We smoked and joked about being a pilot then headed back to the barn after a couple of beers.

I never had a problem during my time there. Every Monday morning at the CO’s brief, we would go around the table and my peers would have to explain how a couple of their boys were in jail for drinking or fighting. They would ask me and I answered, “Nothing to pass Sir.” I would love to attribute this to my outstanding leadership, but really it was a case of being lucky and I would rather be lucky then good anyday…
More to come on this job later.
Semper Fi,
Taco

New Marine on Deck

2007-10-26T17:36:00.000-04:00

Hey guys,
Sure wish I could concentrate and write something funny for you all, but I am sitting in the Hospital looking at the newest Marine Corps Aviator that arrived today. We are naming our newest addition Jacob “Jake” and he is a small baby, tipping the scales at a little over 10lbs 2oz’s. Tee my wife is recovering well from the C-Section. You know, after watching that for the third time, I don’t think that I can look at a big Rib eye steak the same. The Doc made the first cut which made my knee’s buckle. Tee, gave me grief “Gosh, tell me how this makes you woozy and yet when you help cut off that insurgents leg in Iraq and you were all smiles.”

Ok, I forgot to tell you how to have fun with your prego wife at the hospital. I bought one of those remote control fart machines years ago. As she is laying in bed holding the baby with guests in the room, I hit the button causing a huge fart from the machine under her bed. Sounds perfect. There is that pause when folks look at her and the baby trying to figure out which one did it. I of course, am sitting on the other side of the room, so it can't be me... Then Tee jumps my crap about having fun with her.

Well, hope you guys have a great day and thanks for all of your support over the last year!! Also I forgot, if you have time, please go over to this site and pop a vote for my buddy Marty Horn. Micro soft is putting this on and I cant't think of a more deserving guy/family.
http://www.microsoft.com/industry/government/federal/AboveandBeyondAwards.mspx

Semper Fi,
Taco

Phone Colonel

2007-10-14T17:10:00.000-04:00

You know I have to laugh when I think about Rank sometimes. When I was younger, a Major was old as dirt and a LtCol, hell forget it, that guy farted dust. A General would be close to using a walker and that is because they are soooo old. Now I am a LtCol and although I feel about 25 and act like a first Lieutenant on the inside, the gray hair is harder and harder to cut out of my head and the run time on my PFT goes down hill each year.

This flashback came to me as I was walking today in Tampa Florida. I remember sitting in the office over in Al Taquddam Iraq, while the “Colonel” was working on the desk finishing up his email. The phone rang and here is how the conversation went.

“Good Afternoon, Colonel Cassius, Airboss, may I help you?”

Phone: “Hey this is Col. Dover from the 187 airwing in Diewabuabbee, calling to find out why it’s so dangerous at your base. Every time one of my C-130’s fly’s into your airfield they are taking fire about a half mile off the end of the runway.”

Col Cassius “I’m sorry; who did you say this is?”

Phone: “Colonel Dover”

Col Cassius “Is this like… a full bird Colonel, or an Air Force Phone Colonel?”

Phone: “Ahhhhh, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Dover, aren’t you the same?”

Col Cassius “Well no LtCol Dover, in the Marine Corps, we answer the phone as either LtCol smuckatelly or if you are an O-6, Colonel Smuckatelly. In this case you are speaking to the big cheese, COLONEL CASSIUS. As to your birds getting shot at, first of all, I think they are just picking up the intense heat from the burn dump about a half mile off the field. Second, I think your boys are a bit over reactive and maybe embellish their combat reports so they get more points for their air medals or bronze stars or what ever they are putting in for. But that’s just my opinion since OUR KC 130’s land here five times a day and they have never reported being shot at on final. Second of all if they were getting shot at, then they DO rate those medals and all I can say is…Hey it’s a WAR ZONE.

Phone: OOOOhhhh UUUUMMMMM, Well, huh

Col. Cassius “Ok Dover, if that’s it, have a great day and tell your boys to keep braving all that fire as they yank and bank into our airfield. Goodbye.”

He hung up the phone and turned to me saying “We use to call these guys Pentagon Phone Colonels because they would never say Lieutenant in front of their rank when I was stationed there, so I would be calling these pukes “Sir” when we were the same rank. That always bugged the crap out of me.”

Hey you Air Force guys, sorry, we aren’t normally this hard on the phone but Damn, Marines are just hard sometimes…
Semper Fi,
Taco

You've Got Mail...

2007-10-08T15:05:00.000-04:00

You’ve Got Mail…

Electronic mail is a curse in the most simplistic manner speaking. Where are all the old handwritten letters that we use to send? Remember that special emotion we felt when a letter arrived in the mailbox instead of all the junk mail and bills? I have copies of all the old love letters and correspondence between my Grandfather, then Navy Lt. Bruce R. McCampbell, and his bride during WWII while he was stationed in the Pacific on the U.S.S. Mugford DD389. They pass on a tale of what life was like for them during that time and in their own handwriting. These letters continue through his service as Chief of Surgery on the hospital ship USS Consolation in the Korean Police Action. It’s actually a very special treasure that I enjoy going back through and reading from time to time. [Editor’s note: our letters from Vietnam and from my husband’s Naval deployments fill a storage box, but they haven’t been made public—yet!]

While Stationed in Iraq, I was able to email back and forth to my wife almost every day that became banter of some sorts. The longer letters were a testament to some of the things I experienced while there, and her side was a picture of life at home. It allowed me a chance to be there when the kids were sick, or share her last minute thoughts before she went to bed that night. It always amazes me that these letters were zipping across time and space in fractions of a second, arriving in my “Inbox” only minutes later, often accompanied by a picture of something that happened that day.

We saved all these letters in a folder on our home computer, but as with most computers, the program failed, and we lost that folder and all the memories contained within. It was kind of depressing to think that my grandkids would have no written exchanges between us to read through to see what our lives were like in the year 2005. The bitterness towards MSN lasted for months, but truly, I had no one to blame except for myself. Why didn’t I print off those letters as soon as I got home? Well, you just don’t expect to lose the data deep down in your hard drive. Just like you never expect that you will be the one to die in a car wreck, thus the “What If” file I wrote about last week.

If you are one of those people, who like me, expected that one day I would retrieve the data and print off all the letters, well—get to it fast!! I was lucky, for about two months ago, I stumbled across a PST file that one of my data dinks had saved on my thumb drive before we cleaned my profile off of the office laptop top in Iraq. It contained all the letters from my wife that I had put in a folder in my mail program. When I opened it up, there they were. All of them!! It was like finding that lost ring that had been missing for months and you had given up on it.

I took advantage of it right away. I made a Word document and cut and pasted seven months worth of emails into it. (Believe me when I acknowledge that this is a lot of time and effort). Then I ran the entire 200 pages through a free program my Mom sent me called “Email stripper” which removes all those carrots and crap out of a forward or reply. When I was done, I had one hundred and eighty-eight pages of our email back and forth that was as pretty as any book you pick up.

Now my wife, “Tee,” has an October birthday, and I was thinking of what to get her. This was the perfect present, something that she said she missed as well and was very special to her. I looked at my project and realized that I had cut and pasted them in reverse order Feb 06 to Aug of 05, so I had to go back and cut and paste everything so that is was in chronological order. Then I put all of my digital photos in a collage pattern of seven pictures per page. Took the thumb drive down to Office Depot where they printed off my Word document, front and back, and all the picture pages on a great heavy-duty color laser printer. I then went next door to Hobby Lobby and bought a hard back expandable photo album book to hold it all. I had to come up with longer bolts to go through it, but it looked like a hardbound book now.

I gave it to “Tee” for her birthday and she loved it. Hours of manual labor produced something that my kids and their children will now be able to go back and read to see what our lives were like during that year. If you need a project to work on, I suggest you make one of these books too! If you have a loved one over in the war, this is something you could do for them as well. Hell, it is just something you should do because, like it or not, we live in a electronic age where documents like “letters” will be non-existent and our ancestors will have no insight to our thoughts or lives. Better do it now than lose all that data later and regret never having printed them out. The only thing I wished I had done was having them printed on acid-free paper.

Semper Fi,
Taco

Death on Dying

2007-09-24T15:52:00.000-04:00

During the Vietnam War, when a young Marine reported into his unit (true today as well), they went through all your paperwork to make sure you were up to date on your rifle range and gas chamber training, health physical, dental, and also your SGLI (Service Group Life Insurance) to determine if you had designated a beneficiary. I think back then if you died you would get 25K, but you could opt to increase to 75 or 100K for an extra five dollars a month. I guess a lot of young Marines opted for the free amount to save money for the Friday beer night.

In one unit (as the story goes), they put a young, motivated Corporal in charge of some of these classes, and they noticed that his sign-up rate for the higher insurance amount was around 100%. The S-1 Admin Officer was curious how this kid was able to convince these other young Marines to spend more money when they hardly made enough to live on in the first place. Mind you, this was during the war as well, so the Officer snuck in the back of the building to hear his pitch.

The Corporal went through the whole presentation, and at the end, when he explained about opting for the higher insurance, he said, “So Marines, think about this. If you opt for the extra insurance and you go over to Vietnam, who do you think they are going to put on the front lines? The guy that is going to cost the Government $25,000 dollars if he dies or the guy that is worth $100,000?”

Of course this isn’t true, but it does bring up a point that I want you to read, then re-read and pass on to everyone. This isn’t just for the Marine or Soldier going over to the War, it’s for everyone, guy or gal. We all believe that we’ll live forever! I mean it. When you are young, you are bullet proof and as you get older, you just never expect that you will die. Well, I am speaking as a guy who lost his sister while in college, his college roommate fifteen months later, and about a dozen guys in plane crashes over my adult life. With this in mind, I came up with a “What if” file.

The “What if” file is a complete folder for my next of kin on what to do if I get whacked by a drunk driver in the morning on the way to work. This is to ensure that my wife and parents would not have to search through old papers, files, boxes in the closet etc to track down my investments, mortgages, car info, work info, passwords etc. Now mind you, the “what if” file is a VERY important document, and should be placed in your fire proof home safety deposit box or gun safe, or with your folks and/or your wife in a safe, secure place. It would be bad news falling into the wrong hands with all that info in one place.

Here is what I did when I married my beautiful wife. I wrote a letter to her, very personal and with the intent that it would my last words to her. I also told her what needed to be done and in what order.
Within the folder, you should have:
-Copies of all bank statements
-All online passwords
-Account numbers
(these are required to cancel credit cards and find out what bills have to be paid)
-Copies of all life insurance policies
-POC’s (point of contact) and correct phone numbers
-Copies of your investments and assets
-POC within the state to get copies of your death certificates, how many copies and who to send them to in order to collect insurance and notify Social Security
-POC (supervisor) at work to notify so they don’t call wondering where you are
-Passwords for email accounts, so that your family can send out an email using your address book to notify all your contacts about your death or serious injury. Otherwise your family will have to provide AOL or MSN with death certificates to get into the mail accounts
-An envelope with $1,000 in cash to cover immediate and unforeseen needs
-Instructions for how you want to be buried, where, what etc.
-Copy of your current (valid) will (if you don’t have one, you can get from your legal department or online for a nominal fee. Legalzoom.com will do it)
-Copies of your Living Will/Advance Directive/and Power of Attorney (if needed)
-List the value of certain items in your estate that might be worth some money (you don’t want them sold for pennies on a dollar at an estate sale)

This is just a start, a basic roadmap for you. There are many more things you can add to it. I’m death on Marines who don’t have this set up, and so is my Dad who has an extensive “what if” file. I’ve seen too many cases where a Marine has died, and he didn’t switch over his life insurance from his EX-wife who he hates, and she now has won the lotto with a tax-free check while his present wife gets nothing. That is pure laziness and I despise it. Just remember that dying is the easy part of life; it’s the loved ones you leave behind that suffer. If you have your life tied together in a “What If” folder, when that unexpected time comes, it will make life so much easier for the ones left behind. If you care about your spouse/kids and folks, take the time today to start putting one of these together, and store it in your home fireproof safety deposit box(but watch out if you use a banks they will close those up tight till the probate of the will if you don't clean it out fast).

I hope this post helps. Please copy it, and send it to your friends and family. I would be willing to bet you a beer that if polled, only about one out of ten will have anything remotely set up like a “What If” file.

Semper Fi,
Taco

Adam KoKesh Busted loser and EX-Marine

2007-09-17T13:44:00.000-04:00

Hey guys,

You know, from reading my past posts, that I normally focus on old Marine or Military stories, and try to stay away from the political hatred that bubbles from this war. This is now an entirely different situation than we faced in 2003. That was a war that ended in just a couple of days. Now, the fact is that we are trying to bring peace to a country that has never had freedom in years, and this is worth it, in my opinion. We could sit and chat about the pros and cons of being “over there” for the next decade, and it will not get us anywhere. I will still think we are right, and others will say that they are right. Only time will tell. I mean we are still in Kosavo aren't we? That was Clinton's little war and no one speaks about that years later.

Recently a reporter, Suzanne Schrobsdorff, interviewed me for a Newsweek.com article on returning vets some of whom choose to be anti-war protestors. I think they are TURDS with a capital “T.” No “if’s, an’s or butts” about it. The article focused on Adam Kokesh, one of these vets who are getting their fifteen minutes of fame. You know what will become of him ten years from now? Nothing. He’ll be a fat, bitter former war protester. He is a “Turd” of a former Marine who has been let go from the Corps with a “general discharge under honorable conditions” even though other officials recommended an “other than honorable” discharge. He has no integrity, in my opinion. He was busted from sergeant to corporal for trying to bring back a gun that he “bought” from an Iraqi. Hell, he is lucky he didn’t get the BCD, “Big chicken Dinner” or Bad Conduct Discharge. This NCO knew better then to violate general rule number one, you do not drink, no porno, and no smuggling guns back. The funny thing is that he was in a CAG unit. They did not go around and sand bag “innocent” Iraq’s; they were the guys with the money. One of the Officers in my unit just came back from doing that job for a year. It is dangerous, no doubt about it, but it requires trust. Makes me wonder if he’s lashing out at the Corps because he was busted down in rank? What do you think? Maybe he is a disgruntled grunt?

Well, Adam, I hope you enjoy your short fame and fortune because when you finish your degree, there will be a limited number of folks out there that will hire you. Here is what I see may happen to you in the near future. You go for an interview and don’t get the job because A: the HR person also served in the Military and had an honorable career there. B: They may have served in Iraq and hate you for what you have done. C: They had a child that served and hate you for what you have done. D: They lost someone during 9-11. E: Would they want to hire someone who has a “General Discharge” and was busted down in rank for trying to smuggle a weapon back which reeks of questionable integrity? Just remember, you are associated with the same scum who vandalized the Vietnam Memorial last weekend with acid spray.

Who knows what the case may be, but when they Google your name, guess what they will find? All of your Anti-War protests, and a number of Male Gay websites that love you. That’s sad if you ask me. Maybe someone from “Moveon.org” will put you to work in the mailroom. Yes, folks can blast me all they want for not liking him or what he stands for, but bottom line, he is a loser. Now that I have vented, those of you that have found my site from the Newsweek.com article, stay tuned for the regularly scheduled stories.
Semper Fi,
Taco

PS, just saw in the paper that Sire Records just gave your group $100K, I hope that you don't screw that up end up in jail for tax evasion or misuse of funds...

9-11

2007-09-11T17:10:00.000-04:00

We will never forget…God Bless all the Men and Women who died this day and all the Men and Women who have died since to ensure we have the freedom to pray to our God without an Imam telling us what to do.
S/F
Taco

How to screw a single guy...

2007-09-06T13:05:00.000-04:00

How to screw a single guy:

Now I’m sure that anyone who “Googles” some words relating to this post will be very surprised to find out that it has nothing to do with SEX. Actually, all you young Officers and Enlisted Marines out there, take heed, this has to do with you. See, for some reason, there is a prevailing wind in the military to shaft the “single” guy and or gal when it comes to entitlements that the Government owes them. There’s bound to be that awkward moment when it comes out that you are not married. The clerk will check the block on the right that says “single” and move on. As you get older and wiser, you learn that you just got screwed over. Here are some examples:
• DLA [dislocation allowance].
While living in lovely New Bern, North Carolina, I had to kick out my two civilian roommates (you’ve already heard some of their stories), and find some replacements ASAP. During a Wing safety stand-around at the base theater, I met two single Lt’s; one who realized the full potential of living on a beautiful lake away from base; and the other who needed some extra incentive to feel the same. Lt. Dan was living on base in the BOQ, waiting for his orders to attend his MOS school in California. I explained to him that if he didn’t move out of the “Q” [Bachelor’s Quarters] most “Ricky Tic,” he would lose his DLA which in the 90’s equated to roughly two months of “BAQ” [Basic Allowance for Quarters, a.k.a. Basic Allowance for Housing, or BAH] which equaled six hundred dollars, and helps offset the cost of moving off base. All he had to do was sign the lease, turn it in, leave me three rent checks and the six hundred dollars was all his since I already had the deposits paid on the gas, water, phone, and my first born child.

Lt. Dan was excited to think that he could pay down some of the debt on his uniform loan he took from the Marine Shop in Quantico for his dress blues etc. On Monday, we moved him in, signed the lease and off to work we went. He went to his admin guys to drop off the lease and await his check. I get a phone call about an hour later. “Captain Bell?” I’m not sure who is calling and say “yes.” “Hey, this is Lt. Dan, and Sir, I have to tell you that I’m pissed off that you screwed me.” You could tell he was very annoyed. “What is the problem, Lt?” He proceeds to tell me that the Gunny, in charge of the admin shop, denied his DLA because he was single.

This was lesson one for the Lt. “Hey Devil Dog, do you think they just give pilots DLA every time we PCS (Permanent Change of Station) because we are better-looking than our grunt counter parts? I’m telling you that he is full of crap! You rate it, and I want you to go back in there and tell him to show you in the “JTR” (Joint Travel Regulations) where it says you don’t rate it because you are single. If I’m right, you buy me dinner tonight with some of your cash, if I’m wrong, I’ll cut you a check out of my own pocket for six hundred bucks. How does that sound?”

Lt Dan did go back and confront the Admin NCOIC. About an hour and half later I received another phone call. “Sir (very happy voice), you were right!! I do rate it. He spent about an hour reviewing the manual and making phone calls. Turns out that he has been screwing over all the single Lt’s who checked in for the last three years and it’s too late for them to go back and claim it.” He is on cloud nine, so I say, “Great, I would like to have dinner at “Monte’s steak house,” say about 1800?” The answer for most things in the Corps are found in the “ABDTW” manual (always been done that way), located in some far off office that they could never find. I So I just live by the adage of “Show me in writing.”

“Ditty Moves” [where you move yourself].
When I PCSd to Okinawa Japan, I put my household stuff in storage, like a bed, couch etc., and then set up a small mini-move, the “Ditty move.” It weighed a certain amount and was shipped pretty quickly, in around two to three weeks. This included my clothes, uniforms, flight equipment etc. Well, after a year on the island and buying my TV, stereo system, blue lions and a ton of corny stuff from the year there, I had enough for a regular household move from the Island. How much weight you rate goes along with your rank.

I went to the “TMO” [local traffic management office] guys on Camp Foster and filled out the proper paper work in triplicate. When I was able to meet with Corporal Smuckatelly, my official councilor, we discussed the move, and as I looked at my calendar in my trusty “week-at-a-glance,” I asked the typical questions. “O.K., the house-hold move takes up to forty-five days to float back on some freighter, huh, and the small ditty move is less then two weeks?” He nodded his head as he was reviewing my paperwork. “Well then, I’d like my household move on this date, and my Ditty move on this date which is two days before my scheduled freedom bird off the Island.”

Cpl Smuckatelly looked at my dates, then at my paperwork, then at my left hand. I could see it coming a mile away. “Sir, are you married?” “No, I reply.” “Well then, I’m sorry Sir, but you don’t rate a Ditty Move back to the states.” Normally, this type of silly red-ass game gets my blood pressure up, but I wanted to see where he was going with it this time. “Well, Cpl, if I don’t rate it, then how did I get all of my stuff sent over here from the states that way?” He looked over at my paperwork again, and then said, “Sir, not sure how Cherry Point TMO got away with it; maybe it came from a different pot of money.”

I just looked at the dates again, and told him without looking up, “Go refer to the JTR and find that reference for me will you? I’m going to buy a coke while you check things out and if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you one, too.” He went and produced the JTR, spending the next twenty minutes flipping pages as he mumbled, “I could swear on my life that it was in here.” He even called his boss, the Gunny, and they put their heads together in the next office looking for another ten minutes. They then consulted their boss, the Chief Warrant Officer. The Chief Warrant Officer came in shaking his head with his Cpl in tow. “Sir, I can’t find it in here, but I’m sure that we are right.” I looked at the two of them and then said, “Well gents, if it’s not in your Bible there, I’d like my household on this date, and the Ditty move on this date and in the future, please don’t screw over the single Marines.”

They complied, and I went back to the “Q” that night explaining to the other Officers who were also leaving on the same plane. Two of them looked at each other and laughed, “Those bastards did the same thing to me and I fell for it.” The other guy was fired up and told us he was going back there in the morning to correct his move.

There are other stories like this I could tell. I don’t want to come across that I’m the “dickhead Officer,” but it drives me nuts when I hear of guys not getting what they’re entitled to. Last week, I was visiting Gunny Lewis, the Marine that got me back into the Corps, and as we were talking in his office, one of his new Sergeants came in talking about this DLA thing and how he didn’t rate it because he was single...

So for all of you “TED’s” (Typical Enlisted Dudes) and “TOD’s” (Typical Officer Dudes) just remember, for as long as you are in the Corps, if there is doubt, then there is NO DOUBT, so ask for it in writing before you accept it at face value.
Semper Fi,
Taco

"What the Captain Said"

2007-08-27T13:55:00.000-04:00

This came from my last Captain, Nick Kougias, who flew in the Air Force and had to suffer through the DFW to LAX all night Red Eye’s with me plying him with story after story. The cassette tape he gave me sounded like it came out his trunk from Vietnam and if you can imagine a salty southern sounding pilot, full of piss and vinegar talking, then you can hear his voice in the following transcripts.
Semper Fi,
Taco
PS, Happy Birthday Poppa John

“What the Captain said”

The following correspondence was recorded by a civilian reporter, who interviewed a shy, unassuming F-4 Phantom Fighter pilot. So the reporter wouldn’t misconstrue the fighter pilots reply, the wing information Officer was on hand as a monitor to make certain the “Real” Air Force story was told.

The Captain was first asked his opinion of his F-4C aircraft

Captain: It’s so F***ing maneuverable that you can fly up your own ass with it.
Wing PAO (Public Affairs Officer): What the Captain means is, that he has found the F-4C to be highly maneuverable at all altitudes and he considers it an excellent aircraft for all missions assigned.

Reporter: I suppose Captain, that you have flown a number of missions over North Vietnam, what do you think of the SAMS used by the North Vietnamese?

Captain: Why those stupid bastards couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle, we fake the shit out them, no sweat.
POA: What the Captain means, is that the surface to air missiles around Hanoi poses a serious threat to our air operations and that our pilots have a healthy respect for them.

Reporter: I suppose Captain that you flown missions to the south, what kind of ordnance do you use and what kind of targets do you hit?

Captain: Well, I’ll tell ya, mostly we aim at kicking the shit out of Vietnamese villages. My favorite ordnance is Napalm. Man that stuff just sucks the air out of their friggin’ lungs and makes one son of a bitchin fire.
PAO: What the Captain means is that airstrikes in South Vietnam are often against VietCong structures and all operations are always under the positive control of a forward air controller or FAC. The ordnance employed are conventional 500 and 750 pound bombs and 20mm cannon fire.

Reporter: I suppose you have spent an R and R in Hong Kong, what was your impression of the oriental girls?

Captain: Yeah, I went to Hong Kong. As far as those Oriental broads, I don’t care which way the runway runs, North or South, East or West, a piece of ass is a piece of ass.
PAO: What the Captain means is, that he finds the delicately featured Oriental girls fascinating and he was very impressed with their fine manners and thinks their naivety is most charming.

Reporter: Tell me Captain, have you flown any missions other then over North and South Vietnam?

Captain: You bet your sweet ass I’ve flown other missions then over North and South Vietnam. We get fragged nearly every day to fly into Laos. The F**kers throw everything at you but the kitchen sink. Even the God dam kids have sling shots.
PAO: What the Captain means is that he has occasionally be scheduled to fly missions in the extreme Western DMZ and he has a healthy respect for the flack in that area.

Reporter: I understand that no one in the 12th tactical fighter wing has scored a MIG yet, what seems to be the problem?

Captain: Why you peckerhead, if you knew anything about what you’re talking about, the problem is MIGS. If we got fragged by those by those numb nuts in the 7th for those counters in MIG valley. You can bet your sweet ass that we’d get some of them Mothers. Those glory hounds at UBon get all them Frags, while we settle for fighting friggin the war. Those MOTHERS at UBon are sitting on their fat asses killing MIG’s and we’re stuck bombing the Goddamn cabbage patches.

PAO: What the Captain means is that each element in the Seventh Air Force is
responsible for doing its assigned job in the air war. Some units are
assigned the job of neutralizing enemy air strength by hunting out MIGs and
other elements are assigned bombing missions and interdiction of enemy
supply routes.

Correspondent: Of all the targets you've hit in Vietnam , which one was the
most satisfying?

Captain: Well, sh*t, it was when we were scheduled for that suspected VC
vegetable garden. I dropped napalm in the middle of the f**kin' cabbage, and
my wingman splashed it real good with six of those 750-pound mothers and
spread the fire all the way to the friggin' beets and carrots.

PAO: What the Captain means is that the great variety of tactical targets
available throughout Vietnam makes the F-4C the perfect aircraft to provide
flexible response.

Correspondent: What do you consider the most difficult target you've stuck
in North Vietnam ?

Captain: The friggin' bridges. I must have dropped 40 tons of bombs on those
swayin' bamboo mothers, and I ain't hit one of the bastards yet.

PAO: What the Captain means is that interdicting bridges along enemy supply
routes is very important and that bridges present quite a difficult target.
The best way to accomplish this task is to crater the approaches to
the bridge.

Correspondent: I noticed, in touring the base, that you have aluminum
matting on the taxiways. Would you care to comment on its effectiveness and
usefulness in Vietnam ?

Captain: You're f**kin' right. I'd like to make a comment. Most of us pilots
are well hung, but sh**, you don't know what hung is until you get hung up
on one of the friggin' bumps on that goddamn stuff.

PAO: What the Captain means is that the aluminum matting is quite
satisfactory as a temporary expedient but requires some finesse in taxiing
and braking the aircraft.

Correspondent: Did you have an opportunity to meet your wife on leave in Honolulu , and did you enjoy the visit with her?

Captain: Yeah, I met my wife in Honolulu, but I forgot to check the calendar, so the whole five days were friggin' vell combat- proof a completely dry run.

PAO: What the Captain means is that it was wonderful to get together with his wife and learn firsthand about the family and how things were at home.

Correspondent: Thank you for your time, Captain.

Captain: Screw you--why don't you bastards print the real story, instead of all that crap?

PAO: What the Captain means is that he enjoyed this opportunity to discuss his tour with you.

Correspondent: One final question. Could you reduce your impression of the war into a simple phrase or statement, Captain?

Captain: You bet your ass I can. It's a f**ked up war.

PAO: What the Captain means is . . . it's a F**KED UP WAR.

Sean Hannity is my Hero "Freedom Alliance"

2007-08-16T20:02:00.001-04:00

Sean Hannity, what a guy!

OK, call me goofy, but I like Sean Hannity and I love to watch Fox News. In Iraq, the Government-owned Armed Forces Network split the programming time between first, Fox News; second, Communist News Network (CNN); and finally, some old TV reruns. Sometimes they would switch it around and you might miss Hannity and Colmes if you weren’t paying attention. Bottom line, I just like the way he presents himself on TV and he seems like a very genuine guy.

For several years now, Sean, in conjunction with the Freedom Alliance, has put on a series of “Freedom Concerts” around the country for a very WORTHY cause. The Freedom Alliance, founded by LtCol Oliver North in 1990, created a trust fund for the children of our active-duty Marines and Soldiers who have either given their lives for our country or have received 100% disability. The Alliance is amazing, for they have raised over ten million dollars so far for the 2,220 plus children who have lost their father or mother since their founding. Think about it. All those kids, ranging from newborns to teenagers, will be taken care of when the time comes for them to attend college, and their parents’ sacrifice will not be forgotten. I am in awe of this program; and my admiration for Sean, Col. North, and The Freedom Alliance continues to grow.

My parents purchased their tickets earlier, and I really wanted to go, but with schedule conflicts, I wasn’t sure if I could attend until the last minute. I called Mike, one of the staff members for Mark Davis on WBAP 820, and asked if there was a way to still get tickets. He took my number and said, “I’ll give you a shout back.” True to his word, he called back with an extra ticket. Turns out, a gentleman named Mike Loyd, wasn’t able to make it, and donated his tickets back to the station. Talk about happy! The other lucky ticket recipient, Kelly, picked up the tickets, and we met up with her and her family at the Nokia Theater. What a great time!! Kelly and Mike, I owe you guys a big cold beer!

Now, the kicker of the entire story is that I called Sean’s talk line, and told the screener I would love to meet Sean. Why? Well, because he was my hero. She said it would be up to Sean so I tossed in, “Well, would it help if he knew I was the poster boy on his sponsor’s website, BocaJava.com?” I told her the story of getting the coffee from Bruce, the CEO of BocaJava, and finding out when I returned from Iraq that they used me on their website banner (pretty honored by that, by the way). She started typing on her computer, and then put me through on the air with Sean. But, it was the tail end of the show, so he says, “Hey Col, stay on the line.” The next thing I knew, I was talking to his assistant Eileen who arranged for three backstage passes to meet him.

(My Mom was there but the only good picture taken was by her, my camera froze)

Guys, I can tell you that when he walks into the room, he has a magnetic charge that permeates the air! I’m sure you’ve met the type—he could be your best friend from college that you haven’t seen in twenty years, and you pick up right where you left off years ago. He makes you feel like the VIP. Thing is that he was that way with everyone. During the show they had four soldiers from Fort Hood on a live satellite feed to over twenty five thousand folks in the audience, and then they brought out their wives, mothers, fathers, girlfriends, and kids to talk to them. He and Col. North REALLY care for our servicemen and it shows. I sure wish that guys like George Soros would spend their vast hoards of money to help out the military families like Sean and Freedom Alliance does.

(back stage with Mark Davis from WBAP 820am)

Anyway, it’s a great show for a worthy cause, and you would have loved hearing the former Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich who told us that since Homeland Security and the INS can’t track illegal aliens, they ought to use the same technology that Fed-Ex does. If they can track forty-five million packages worldwide, why don’t we just send all these illegal aliens a package then have Fed-Ex track them for the US Government. That was pretty funny. One of the neatest moments was when he asked the audience to turn on their cell phones like people used to click their cigarette lighters. All those pinpoints of lights waving in the theater were so moving!

(Meeting Ollie North, the man who started it all)

I also got to meet him, and my folks got to say “hi” to Col. North who they know from years of going to the same barber in Arlington. He was really surprised to see them in Dallas! Governor Mitt Romney also puts on a great speech. All great Americans! In addition, the musicians were awesome and were constantly giving tribute to the service members and veterans of all wars. As my Dad said, “he felt like a jumping jack from standing up so many times with the other veterans!” They had Colin Raye, Lee Greenwood, and the Montgomery Gentry Band. All of them were just great! Bottom line is that if you can make the September 11th show in New York City, I sure recommend you do it!!

(Lee Greenwood who sings, Proud to be an American)

Well, have a great day and talk to you soon.
Semper Fi,
Taco
PS, Sean if you are reading this, thanks again

Running of the bulls part II

2007-08-10T00:05:00.000-04:00

The bull came charging out of the ally, and off again down the street. I hobbled over to find out what happened to Dave. As I turned the corner, there he was, a bloody mess, crumpled in the corner with his large intestines spilled out over the street...
No really he was safe and sound. Turns out that he leaped up and grabbed a wrought iron balcony overhang below someone’s window. He was hanging on for dear life as he dangled above the beast until the bull could be chased away. He thought I was dead from the hit, I thought he was dead...

We drank more beer, exchanged stories, and ate more bull balls at Michael’s house. Having survived the initial bull that day, we decided to play with the bulls again the next day. This time it was in a different part of town, at a four-way intersection with hills going up two of the streets. Our crew found safe purchase above one of the streets with a good view of all the action. I decided I would be the hero,

(see the guy in the center of the picture looking down, that's me)

and ventured out into the street where the bull was running around while the rest of the guys cheered me on and drank beer while sitting on the wall. Down in the center of town, I met up with some locals who talked me into doing the “Toro, Toro” thing with the bull. I took the challenge, being the super dumb 27-year-old Marine. Taking the cape, I began to tease the bull that was only twenty feet from me.

(look at the dumb American in the white tee-shirt holding the cape)
Everyone else sort of moved off, and once again, the bull had me in his target sight. He charged. My adrenalin was out of control; the sweat poured from my face, and I felt like I was about to take a dump as this three-thousand-pound bull started coming at me. At the last second, I performed a perfect sidestep as he went right by me at full speed. I think it was at that moment I realized that a) this was dumb and b) I didn’t want to die.

(Man this is dumb, what you don't see is me running away fast)

Dropping the cape, I ran as fast as I could away from all the action, and had my guys pull me up on the wall. I never did the bull thing again and it never happened on my watch while visiting Lajes. Now did I ever tell you about swimming with the Great Whites off the coast of Australia?
Semper Fi,
Taco

PS,Just remember; never run in a straight line from a bull, always zigzag…

No Bull

2007-08-09T22:38:00.000-04:00

The trip to Rota Spain was fairly routine, and we had a nice stopover in Lajes, a small Portuguese island in the Azores. Both places hold a special place in my heart, but it was this homeward-bound trip home from Rota that sticks out in my mind. There were four pilots on board trying to eek out as much flight time as we could on this trip so there was a lot of time shooting the bull and reading books.

The Aircraft Commander, a great guy named Mark, who we all called “The Sheik” which is kind of funny because he was an Italian-type guy with an Irish surname. Then there was another guy named “Wedge,” a new Captain, and about ready to upgrade to Aircraft Commander. He was a bit different so we just let him do his own thing. The junior guy on the trip was a brand new copilot named Dave who always had this quiet, complete babe-in-the-woods type innocence. He is now the Commanding Officer for one of the Fleet VMGR Squadrons. Where does the time go?

The flight to Lajes takes about three hours, not considered a long time in the Herk, but when you have eaten something that doesn’t agree with you…it’s a lifetime. “Wedge” got up and started to fumble for the honey bucket on the ramp. Everyone walks by it, but most don’t know how to operate it. It’s basically a round can with a toilet seat that flips down over top so you can relieve yourself. With a typical “Wedge” move, he got it down, but didn’t put a plastic bag in the bucket. When we arrived in Lajes, he had this bucket stuffed into a plastic bag with the remnants of upset stomach inside. At the Billeting Office, I asked him what he was going to do with his present, and he said, “I’ll clean it out in the shower.” That was enough for me so I leaned over to the young Airman at the desk, and told him I wanted a room on the other side of the building from this yo-yo since we all shared bathrooms.

The next day as we were to leave, we got word that both compass systems were not working, and we were a ‘no go’ for the trip across the pond. Now most of the time, our visits to this beautiful island are very short and usually in the middle of the night. So a chance to explore it was too tempting. Being the FAGO or “Fun and Games Officer,” the “Sheik” asked me if I could put together something for the crew to do. I found out that the Running of The Bulls was going on in the town of Angra on the other side of the Mountain. I rounded up a couple of taxis for us, and we were off, minus the “Wedge” since he was tied to his bathroom.

I thought it was funny that we were the only Americans there (sticking out like a sore thumb), but since a local guy named Michael and his buddies who invited us to his house for beer and food adopted us, we fit in with the locals a little better. Now picture this—a small home, very quaint with the women cooking in the back room, and the boys telling large tales of past bull fighting in the dining area. The food was incredible. We all dug in, stuffing our faces and putting some large quantities of the local beer down to boot. They, of course, were impressed that we liked his wife’s recipe for Swedish meatballs. As it turns out, we were eating bull balls or whatever was whacked off the local beef. I have to tell you, though, after all the beer, well, “hell, it didn’t matter.”

Our host pulled us aside to pass on some words of wisdom for the Running of The Bulls. Actually, one is let out of his cage with a thirty-foot rope attached to his neck. If the bull gets wild or kills someone, these little guys in the white shirts and black hats step in to save the day, and pull him off the poor guy. At least that was the plan. Our host, Michael, said in broken English and sign language, “If bull comes at you, no run straight, bull catch you. You must do this,” and he used his fingers to show us how to zigzag. It didn’t make sense at first, but I found out why later. The streets where the bulls were released were cobblestone, and the bulls would slip on the stones if you cut hard to either side as he chased you. I’m sure that this escape maneuver was the last thing on our minds—like we would be crazy enough to be that close to the bull.

The crowd moved outside and up the street to where the bulls were pinned up in these large green wooden boxes. I noticed that the front fences of the houses were all elevated above the street and boarded up with plywood to keep the errant bulls from coming over. Folks were lined up, drinking beer and wine, overlooking the festivities from their yards. We followed Michael and his buddies to the start of the event. Thousands of folks were standing around; a charge of electricity was in the air, more of the fear of the unknown I’d imagine. A loud boom resounded as one rocket exploded over the town center alerting the good folks that a bull was on the loose and to watch out. We kept a safe distance back in the crowd as we watched this three thousand-pound bull trample a few folks right off the bat. I would say that we were pretty buzzed by this time, and laughing hard as we ran up the street, following the crowd. I turned back to say something to Dave who was right behind me, and his laughing stopped as a look of panic came over his face. He turned and started running the other way. I turned back and looked up the hill only to see the bull charging downhill. It was the parting of the red sea as I was now the only person in his line of sight. I forgot everything Michael told me and ran as fast as I could, but the bull was catching up to me. I saw some folks ahead on the right yelling at me from behind their barricaded fence motioning for me to run to them.

I cut right and leapt for the top of the wall they had built. The bull was right behind me. I had both hands on the top of the wall, grunting to pull my winded and drunk butt over, and one guy grabbed my belt loop, and started to pull me over. The bull collided with the plywood, glanced off it, and his forehead smacked my right calf knocking me sideways over the wall. My leg was VERY sore, and it felt broken as I giggled like a little girl having escaped death, but that soon passed as I looked over the wall at Dave running around the corner of the next street with the bull right behind him now. The lady and man next to me were exchanging a fast paced, excited conversation as they pointed in Dave’s direction. His wife asked me in broken English if that was my friend. I said, “yes,” and she then said, “I’m sorry but he just ran down a dead-end street.” I knew it was bad when the little men in the black hats ran down there to pull the rope on the bull. I also knew I was dead meat for taking these guys to the Running of the Bull’s and then letting our most junior 1stLt get killed in Lajes. My career was over!!

Standby for part two of No Bull

Looking for Scott Eaton

2007-08-05T18:55:00.000-04:00

Hey Scott,
Your email bounced back, LtCol Voytko said for you to get in contact with him for sure. Email me again with a good email address so I can pass on his contact info to you.
S/F
Taco

Hey Gang, Check out WWW.BocaJavaCoffee.com go to the five million cup project. They are the ones that sent us three boxes of the best coffee in the world. This company is the real deal and I just did an interview with them on being one of the guys who received coffee from Bruce the President. If you want to send something to that special guy/gal over there, go check out Boca Java, I put a link on my site to them, they will hook you up. (I'm also the poster boy on their web site)

Lane Barnholtz over at VAJoe.com is putting on a contest to award money to your favorite Charity. I know that Marty had AnySoldier removed so belay my last asking you to vote for A.S.
Lane has a great site and I don't know where he gets the money to give away, but I think it's a wonderful deal. Good luck who ever wins.

Well, What do you want to hear about next? Landing on the USS Lexington or going the speed of sound? How about doing the bull fights in Lajes??
S/F
Taco
PS, I think Lajes wins out and I'm almost done

Mess Night

2007-07-29T16:08:00.000-04:00

Well Gang, we have been home a week now and the fond memories of our little trip to the desert are fading fast as I get back into the cycle of L.A. all nighters in the mighty 737. The night before we left, we had a Mess night for all 224 members of the Detachment there. A Mess night is a formal event that goes back to our roots when we were part of the British Empire. We brought a lot of these customs over to the US Navy and Marine Corps in the 1700’s. Of course, we have added a lot to it, but here is a brief synopsis of the night. There are about two pages of rules of conduct for the event and you are not allowed to bring the rules in with you, so if you mess up, you have to pay a fine, usually a dollar.

I was “Mr. Vice” who carried the gavel and was the sole person that could levy fines against another member of the Mess. What you do is start out with simple stuff like, “produce your dog tags, ID card in the left breast pocket, proper uniform for the mess.” Some Officers show up in what they called a flight suit tux, (a picture is worth a thousand words) I can tell you that they were fined for that. Then we have fun like having each member of the mess write down his 8th Marine Corps General Order and passing it to the right. If they got it wrong, they had to pay a dollar.

We had one pilot named “Wolfie” who drank a bit too much at the Friday night softball game six days prior, and made a giant jackass of himself as he ran around shouting and cursing at the players. How do you fine a guy for that kind of behavior? It was fun putting this one together. We had a urinalysis on Monday and I borrowed one of the little pee cups they use with some red tape and filled it with apple juice. Then I called out the Staff Sergeant in charge of the pee test to report to me up front. Of Course, every one of us had to do TWO pee test during the AT (annual training) and the Marines probably thought I was going to fine the good SSgt for excessive wiener watching. I then mentioned the action of said Officer during the Friday night game and then asked the SSgt if this was indeed the urinalysis of the Officer in question. He took the sealed bottle from me and examined the name on the side, the initials on the top confirmed that it was indeed the pee of our drunken Officer. I opened the container and put my finger in it and then to my mouth, “Hmmmmm, I think we can save the government the cost of doing a test on this one…I taste Vodka in this sample. What do you think SSgt?”

The SSgt, took his finger and tasted the liquid in the bottle, but then smiled and raised it to his lips taking a big sip he said “Sir, I detect the presence of Crown and Coke, and it taste pretty good.” I then took another sip and handed it to another Officer who gulps it down and the strips his shirt off and runs around the head table like a crazy drunk monkey shouting “Look at me, I’m Wolfie, Look at me….” The funniest part of this was hearing the hysterical laughter from all the Marines and looking at the Commanding Officer at the head table (who didn’t know we had this planned) with a pained look on his face as our Commanding General Officer, the Guest of Honor, was sitting next to him watching all this. You could almost see the slow motion of him screaming “Nooooooooooooooooo!!!”

I fined Wolfie twenty dollars for conduct unbecoming of an Officer. That was classic. All and all, we had a great time out there and I’ll leave you with our top ten reasons why we held our two week training out in the heat of El Centro in the Summertime.

10. We go to cool places all year round
9. The boys miss the desert
8. El Centro has great looking hot chicks behind all the oak trees right? (The Blue Angels wouldn't stay there if that wasn't true)
7. We have to use the brown flights suits or turn them back in.
6. It's not hot enough in Texas in July
5. The Group CO said it would be a Cold day in El Centro before we ever had a good time AT.
4. The beer is cold there
3. It's easier to have bets on who will puke on the LAT (low level) missions with the heat.
2. They promised we would go somewhere cooler next year...like Iran

And the number one reason we did our AT out in El Centro is that we spent all of our FY (fiscal year) per diem flying to Thailand, Japan, Australia, St Johns, Norway, England and Hawaii...this is payback.

Semper Fi,
Taco

More to come

2007-07-24T11:47:00.001-04:00

(Photo by Cpl. Jason Hartwig)

What can go wrong now?

2007-07-13T23:45:00.001-04:00

You know it’s funny, it rains and it pours when the husband goes away. I mean, it has really been raining in Texas. We had over twenty inches before I left for El Centro California for our annual two week training for the Marines. We planned out a fun filled two week trip to the deserts in the southeast corner of Cali next to Arizona. It’s only a hundred and fifteen out here in the heat of the day, but they call it the “Dry Heat.” Actually when guys complain about it, I just tell them, no problem, we’ll go where it’s a bit cooler, like Iran or something.

I still laugh though because right before I left, Teresa had started to build an ARK, we developed a leak in the roof of our garage with all the rain that has poured down on Fort Worth. Then after I left, our dishwasher went out in the kitchen, followed by Megan who laid a big cow paddy of poop all over our white carpet and down the stairs (thank God she bought a steam cleaner instead of new shoes) then yesterday the water went out. One of the main water lines for the city exploded and shot water everywhere, so the girls went to her folk’s house for the evening bath.

I on the other hand, have a great couple of days. Once all two hundred and thirty Marines were settled in their bunks, things calmed down for me and we started to fly. I just had my first flight with N.V.G.’s, (Night Vision Goggles) which we call flying “aided.” Now for all those out there who do this all the time, go ahead and skip this post, for the rest of you newbie’s like me, sit back and let me tell you my thoughts on this. It is ASOULUTLY the COOLEST thing I have done in my flying career. NVG flying had just started coming around to the KC130 fleet back when I getting out, so I never had a chance to use them. The flight equipment guys set you up with a helmet and then you take a class on how to play with these six thousand dollar toys.

Depending on the amount of moonlight, stars, clouds etc, it turns night into a greenish glow, just like you see on T.V. from views of the war. It amazes me that you can see cars parked in a field, roads, cactus and trees from a thousand feet as you plod over the low level course. The major drawback is I sweat like a whore in church on Easter when I wear a helmet. Always did in flight school too, which by the way was the last time I wore a helmet. With the helmet on, you have streaks of sweat rolling down your neck and back. I forgot to bring a snug head bandana like I wore on my motorcycle ride, so went over to a hanger where these flight students from VT 21 (Jet Students) were hanging out. I walked in and asked if anyone had an extra “Skull Cap” which they all have because they wear helmets all the time. They all kind of half ass looked around their bags and then I offered the Squadron patch off of my flight suit. One of the foreign exchange pilots then pulled out a brand new skull cap and I gladly parted with my five dollars patch for the gift. The skull cap keeps the helmet snug on your head with the NVG’S on and it won’t slip around due to all the sweat pouring out of my pores. Even at night, the outside air temperature was 40 degrees Celsius or one hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit at a thousand feet and the air conditioners weren’t working that well. It was HOT.
Man, I digress, flying around and landing with these things on are a blast. Here are a few pictures I took as I waited for my turn in the seat. Hope you guys are having a great weekend and talk to you soon. I'm pretty busy here, so it may be a couple more days before I post.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Lt. Killjoy

2007-07-01T15:30:00.000-04:00

I told you guys about a site I love called “Together we served” where you can find old military buddies from your branch of service. Well, I found one of my old Instructors from The Basic School named LtCol Joe Jackson. Joe was a first Lieutenant when he arrived and picked up Captain about the second week we were there in 1988. He taught us tactics, the basic introduction for the boneheaded Second Louies there in Hotel Company. They called us “Honey Company” because we had a platoon of women where all the other companies were all male.

I had last seen Joe over in Iraq and it brought back many fond memories of “The Big Suck” or The Basic School, its proper name. Poor Joe had Tactics after lunch and had to fight the sleep monsters that caused your eyelids to shut tight as all the blood flooded to your stomach, digesting that fine Marine Corps Chow. His partner in crime was another hard charging Infantry Marine Named Chris Powderfoot (all names have been changed btw) who had had a knack for keeping us awake and motivated to be in his class. He would come in and get all the Lt’s to beat on their desk tops like wild animals worked up into a heated frenzy. Then, he would hold his arms up to bring the crowd under control. The Lieutenants all loved this guy because he would start out with a fast dirty joke to set the mood. The only problem was one of the female Second Lt’s took an extreme dislike to Capt. Powderfoot and started to complain to her Platoon Commander that she was offended by these dirty jokes and asked if he could stop. This went up the chain of command and back down to Captain Powderfoot. I guess this just kinda fueled him on more which provoked some really awesome jokes.

Now the young lady in question was really pissed off and made it clear that if he uttered one more offense joke, she would walk out of class and go file a complaint against him. Now the squabble had most of the Lt’s upset and on the Capt’s side with maybe three quarter of the women who thought their fellow Lt. was a bit out of control. Everyone was aware of her threat, including Captain Powderfoot who walked out onto the stage that fateful afternoon. The beating of the desk was deafening as the Lt’s waited for the command of silence. Everyone had a smile on their face wondering if he would tell his joke and face the wrath of a sexual harassment charge.

Captain Powderfoot put his hands up and pumped them for the crowd to stop beating their palms to a pulp. He then said, “Hey, did I tell you about the boatload of whores going to China?” All eyes were on Lt. Killjoy to see what would happen next. The question lingered in the air for several seconds before she stood up and started to move across the chairs to the exit row. Without missing a beat, Captain Powderfoot said “Hey Lt., where are you going? Boat doesn’t cruise till three. O.K., Marines, and today we’re taking on Squad in the attack…”

Lieutenant Killjoy stopped, hesitated for a second, realized that he set her up, and with a very red face, went back to her seat. We never had anymore good jokes after that and Tactics was never the same either.

Wild Hogs Part Deux

2007-06-26T16:06:00.000-04:00

Dear Gang,
There were three morale boosters while over in Iraq that made the world of difference for me. First was Anysoldier.com, an organization that I am a fevered believer in. Second was Boca Java Coffee. They sent over two hundred pounds of coffee to us over the course of our last couple of months there. Finally, having the internet available to email to home, family and friends made a world of difference for a solid piece of mind.

Well, I can tell you that being invited by Marty and Sue Horn from AnySoldier.com to participate in a fund raiser up in St. Louis was a no brainer this past weekend, I mean, you call, I haul. “Hey Marty, just give me the who, what, where and when.” All I had to do next was to get permission from my Commanding Officer which went like this if you were sitting next to my desk when I called. “Hey honey, do you mind if I fly up to Missouri for a fund raiser for Marty in June? What is it? Ohhhhh just a little ride to help raise money for the cause. Bike ride? Well, no not a bike. Yes, a motorcycle, guess I left that part out of it. Yes honey, you did tell me that I could buy another airplane before I ever bought a motorcycle. I promise I’ll be careful. Yes, I will only smoke a few cigars with Major Pain. You don’t mind? Great, thanks honey, I love you too!!”

The big hurdle was done with two phone calls, one to the wife and the other to jack up my life insurance and I was on the road to Missouri. Della Williams, a dispatcher for the Wentzville Police Department, put the whole thing together and man did she do a fantastic job. She arranged for T.V. coverage of the event with Channel five of St. Louis, two free Harley’s from Pat, a great supporter who owns “Doc’s Harley” of St. Louis, the ride route, the Army color guard, a band, picnic, poker run and hotels for us. I’m talking about months of planning to put something this big together.

Everything worked out great till Saturday morning when we found out that Maj Pain from One Marine’s View was stuck in Pittsburg and wouldn’t arrive till one pm that day. The ride started at 11am and we made the decision that we would not leave a Marine behind, so a small group of us would take off late and go get him. Taylor Batten, a live wire thirteen year old girl, who is an honorary Gunny in the Corps, drove all the way down from Michigan with her Family, Cathy and Kevin and brother Tanner for this event. If you go back to Major Pain’s site, you can read all about this wonderful little lady and what she has gone through. She surprised Major Pain at the gate as he was walking up the terminal.

As it turned out, just six bikes for the ride was a lot nicer than in the pack with the other two hundred. We had Harry as the lead, who is a Lieutenant for the Wentzville PD, Leon and Kriss who are Sgt’s with Wentzville as dash three and six, Gary, Marty and myself. The ride started off easy enough as we headed West on highway 70, the only problem was a line of thunderstorms moving our way. As we cruised along the highway, the skies became darker, then you noticed all the cars heading east bound with their headlights on and covered in water. Then it hit, a few drops at first, followed by a complete deluge of water. The Bikes handled great as we slowed up and took shelter under an overpass. The thunder boomed, visibility dropped to a half mile and it poured for a good 40 minutes as we waited. Harry was able to pull up Accu-weather on his phone so we could get a good peek at the storms. “Hey Taco, you’re a pilot, what does this mean as he showed me the radar picture. It wasn’t good; the line of thunderstorms was over our entire route for the ride. We figured out that we needed to head West, through this, go about twenty miles west or so and then head south to come in behind the line of storms.

With a solid plan and a break in the rain, we took off again. The only problem was the next wall of water we hit about ten minutes later. Our speed dropped down to a crawl as we were pelted with water. Your glasses fog up, you can’t see worth crap and the worst part is the water running down your soaked Levi’s legs into your boots. (that sucked) No stopping this time, we pressed on through the rain and busted out onto the other side of the front into sunshine. Back up to seventy miles an hour in the heat of the sun, we dried us off pretty fast. Except, for the wet boots.

The next couple of hours, once we got off the highway and headed South on route 19, was some of the most beautiful countryside you have ever seen. Sweeping valleys with some good size little mountains and lots of green trees covering many small rivers. Our plan worked great as we watched the storm front off to the east and traveled behind it. The end of the ride was down near Fort Lenoard Wood where Della had a band playing and a cookout by the VFW. It was an outstanding ride and all for a great organization. If you have the chance next year, come on out for it! You won’t be disappointed. I’d like to thank Della, Terry, all the Officer’s of the Wentzville Police Department, The Batten family, Pat from Doc’s and of course Marty and Sue for a great time. I think Major Pain and I lost our butt’s somewhere after two hundred miles out of five hundred, but I would do it again in a heartbeat and twice on Sunday. Until then,
Semper Fi,
Taco

I kid you not!!

2007-06-17T22:16:00.001-04:00

Hey Guys,
I just wanted to wish you all a wonderful Fathers day for the guys out there who are Fathers and thanks to all the wonderful women who helped us be Fathers. So here is a toast to all of you, yes Dad especially you, thanks for everything you did to help me get to where I am now and to Ron, my father in law, for taking care of our family too.

Tonight, I thought I would pass on a nice story from an Outstanding Marine, 1stLt Zech and his Dad Ed. As you know... all good Military stories always start out, “I shit you not” or “No Shit man, this really happened.” This piece deals with some Navy guys with a lot of time on their hands to make the ultimate “Whistling Death.”
I hope you all have a great week and I’ll talk to you soon.
Semper Fi, Taco

Subject: Dixie Station Strike

Yes, this really happened Once again history is stranger then fiction, and alot funnier:USS Midway VA-25's Toilet Bomb.In October 1965, CDR Clarence J. Stoddard,Executive Officer of VA-25 "Fist of the Fleet",flying an A-1H Skyraider, NE/572 "Paper Tiger II"from Carrier Air Wing Two aboard USS Midway carried a special bomb to the North Vietnamese in commemoration of the 6-millionth pound of ordnance dropped. This bomb was unique because of the type... it was a toilet!

The following is an account of this event, courtesy of Clint Johnson, Captain, USNR Ret. Captain Johnson was one of the two VA-25 A-1 Skyraider pilots credited with shooting down a MiG-17 on June 20, 1965."I was a pilot in VA-25 on the 1965 Vietnam cruise.572 was flown by CDR C. W. "Bill" Stoddard. His wingman in 577 (which was my assigned airplane) was LCDR Robin Bacon, who had a wing station mounted movie camera (the only one remaining in the fleetfrom WWII).

The flight was a Dixie Station strike (South Vietnam) going to the Delta. When they arrived in the target area and CDR Stoddard was reading the ordnance list to the FAC, he ended with "and onecode name Sani-flush". The FAC couldn't believe it and joined up to see it. It was dropped in a dive with LCDR Bacon flying tight wing position to film the drop. When it cameoff, it turned hole to the wind and almost struck his airplane. It made a great ready room movie. The FAC said that it whistled all the way down. The toilet was a damaged toilet, which was going to be thrown overboard. One of our plane captains rescued it and the ordnance crew made a rack, tailfins and nose fuse for it. Our checkers maintained a position to block the view of the air boss and the Captain while the aircraft was taxiing forward. Just as it was being shot off we got a 1MC message from the bridge, "What the hell was on 572's rightwing?" There were a lot of jokes with air intelligence about germ warfare. I wish that we had saved the movie film."

COMBAT DEATHS ARE PART OF VICTORY

2007-06-12T20:12:00.000-04:00

Guys,
This is a letter from my Dad. It could be a two part letter to the people, but I told him it was fine as stated. There are so many things in this piece that ring true and need to be said. I truly believe that we are on the brink of something very big here in the world between our cultures and people.
Anyway, I asked him to write something for you, so here he goes.

Combat Deaths are part of victory,

In the 18th, 19th century, WWI and WWII, Americans believed in their military leaders and believed in a military VICTORY. They understood that only victory ends a war. We did not achieve victory in either Korea or Viet Nam. Those “wars” never ended. What has happened to our nation? Why do we not allow the military leaders to do their jobs? Why are the politicians now running the wars, retreating at every possible turn?

My uncle served with the 10th Mountain Division in Italy during WW II. My grandfather’s younger brother served in WW I in France. My great-great grandfather served and died in Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. One great-great-great grandfather served in the War of 1812 and my other great-great-great grandfather in the Revolutionary War. My father-in-law served as a Naval Surgeon during WW II and Korea.

My brother-in-law served as an NFO (Naval Flight Officer known as a “back-seater”) in the F-14 during the Cold War with Communist Russia in the 1970s. My first cousin served in the Korean Conflict. I served in Viet Nam 1967-1968 in I Corps during the Tet Offensive. I am the first in my extended family to have made the military my career. Did we, the living, and our ancestors go to war just so this country could go down in defeat?

I lost a daughter in an accidental fall so I know the loss of a child and the pain it brings. I feel for every parent who lost a child in combat, or brother or sister who lost a sibling or wife/child that lost her husband/their father due to war. But do combat deaths mean we retreat and wait for an enemy that has a stated purpose of killing or subjugating our country and the world we know? It appears that the sole purpose of almost all news broadcasts is to daily report on, drone on and dwell upon on the number of our troops killed and wounded in our current conflict daily followed by the accumulated total since 2003. Nothing positive is reported about what our troops are doing in Iraq and around the world.

According to DOD numbers, we suffered 4,435 deaths during the American Revolution, 2,260 deaths during the War of 1812. Let us skip over the numbers during the Indian, Mexican, Civil and Spanish American Wars. During WW I, we had 53,402 deaths, 63,114 other deaths in service not in theater. WW II we suffered 291,557 battle deaths, and 113,842 other deaths in service not in theater. What would our lives be like if we had surrendered and withdrawn from any of these wars/conflicts? Would we be speaking German or Japanese?

In the Korean Police Action, we had 33,741 battle deaths, and 2,835 other deaths in theater. In Viet Nam we had 47,415 battle deaths, and 10,785 other deaths in theater. In neither war was the outcome a clear VICTORY for the USA. The politicians, the anti-war movement and the “being tired of war” populous movement won out over victory.

Desert Shield/Desert Storm (1990-1991) we lost 147 battle deaths, and 235 other deaths in theater. We achieved the goal of kicking the Iraqi forces out of Kuwait, but stopped short of removing Saddam Hussein so as not to destabilize the region politically or militarily. We know the results of this failure to achieve total VICTORY. In 2001, nineteen dedicated, fanatical men killed over 3,000 innocent people in the attacks of 9-11.

We serve/served in the military for various reasons, we try to do our best and we try to win! According to DOD and VA figures, over 42 million men and women have served during our wars, over 650,000 died in our countries’ defense, 524,000 died in other deaths in service (non-theater) and 1,431,290 non-mortal wounds were recorded. I repeat. Political figures need to lead this nation to VICTORY not to defeat. This is done by supporting the troops and not using their funding bills for political advantage, retaining office or adding earmarks for their home states. We are no longer isolated by the two large oceans east and west from missile attack or the suicide bombers who desire to bring in and detonate a nuclear/biological or chemical weapon. Sadly, victory comes with losses in our military ranks.

As a child, I remember the dark air raid window shades, the troop convoys constantly going by our house, and being taken to the railroad bridge to count the 150-200 long flatbed trains hauling planes, trucks, jeeps, trailers, tanks and artillery to Norfolk, Virginia, to be shipped to Europe for the invasion. I will not forget the joy and celebration when VE day was announced, and we all went downtown to Lynchburg’s main street to cheer and dance for joy.

We gave up a lot of things so the troops would have the best of everything; no one really complained. The only dessert we had occasionally was Eagle Brand pie with vanilla wafers as a crust so we could save the rationed sugar. I later learned this was only a lime squeeze away from being the Key Lime pie everyone knows it as today. Gasoline was rationed and the Sunday afternoon drives in the mountains of Virginia stopped.

Ask yourself; are you ready to stop getting your Starbucks latte or stop driving your gas hogs even with today’s gasoline prices? What, then, are you doing for the war effort today?

AMERICA, WAKE UP !

Together we served

2007-06-07T11:22:00.000-04:00

Hey Guys,
No story today, just some Admin notes of interest. First of all, I am flying up to St. Louis MO on the 22nd of June to join Marty Horn and Maj Pain for a Harley Bike ride in support of Any Soldier. If anyone is close to St Louis, check out the latest news on http://www.anysoldier.com/ and you will see where the ride starts etc and we hope to see you there.

Second, Yes, I pinned on LtCol the other day with my folks who made it down from DC, my wife, In-laws and another Marine buddy named Reb.
The CO did a great job and I'm very proud that I have made O5.

Third, we are expecting a boy this Oct, so we've been throwing names out there and right now "Jesus Mohammad Bell" I think it would reflect the dichotomy of our world today and the future of his classes and race. He would fit in well with all his Hispanic, Islamic classmates the way America is moving and ensure that no college would dare turn him down...
What do you guys think???

Fourth item. “Together we served” this is an incredible website devoted just for each service branch. You have to be a Marine/spouse/dependent to join (and it's free) I have spent hours playing around on the site, adding ribbons/medals, duty stations, and looking up old friends. There must be over 100,000 Marines on the rolls now, so there are a few guys you might know. If you are former Military, find your branch and join up. I think you will really like this site. The address is http://www.togetherweserved.com/

Semper Fi,
Taco

"T" Model

2007-05-31T13:37:00.000-04:00

Let’s talk about my plane today. The mighty KC-130 has been around for almost fifty years or so and they are still pumping the latest version, the “J” model, out of the Lockheed plant in Georgia. Rumor has it that the reserves will start getting the “J” model in the next few years so that we can be compatible with our active duty folks, less of a parts nightmare when we deploy to the gulf. Right now we fly the "T" model in the reserves, a great plane but getting a bit worn out.

The old planes that I flew in the fleet in the early nineties were the “F” and “R” models, which were built, in the early sixties and early eighties. Believe it or not I liked them better than our newer planes in a couple of ways. One reason I liked them better was because they had a “Pisser”. When you had to go to the bathroom you tapped your partner on the arm, gave him the hand sign that you were going to the back and if you were nice, you asked if he wanted a cup of coffee so he would have to go next. Then you sat on the flight deck platform, hopped off into the cargo bay and worked your way back to the ramp of the plane. There you opened a little green covered swing door, dropped the floor plate and stepped up to the urinal drain. All that was required of you was to lift up the small lid to the drain and suction would begin. As you evacuated your bladder the urine would vaporize out of the tail of the plane in to the atmosphere.

Once you were done you reached up and took a handful of water from the emergency water supply (they looked like large coffee pots and were stored along the sides) to wash your hands. This was a great system in my mind because you were able to stretch your legs for a minute and the pee was gone. Now days they have these two big stainless steel vats up front at the bulkhead behind the cockpit. Someone decided when the new planes were built that the urine vapor caused too much corrosion so it should be self-contained. So, you stare at the wall with twenty guys (and sometimes girls) trying not to look at you. What they didn’t count on was volume. See, if you have over twenty guys flying for eight hours or more, you fill up these vats pretty fast. It then becomes a big rush to collect all the plastic bottles out of the trash for waste container duty…

We haven’t even touched on how you drop a flight suit for the ole number two. Maybe, another day, I will share this story though. I always carry a hammock on the long trips and string it up over the ramp area. When it’s my break from flying (three or more pilots) I go back, jump in my sleeping bag, put my eyeshade on and crash. One day when I went back to take a pee and my sleep break I saw this jet guy we were hauling to Norway asleep in my bag, in my hammock with my eyeshade cover on, drooling. I thought that was kind of ballsy to just use my stuff and not ask so I took a small handful of water from the emergency tank and flicked it at his head a couple of feet away. As the water hit his face and woke him up he looked for the source of those drops. Turning his head, he saw me standing on the platform next to the urinal; my flight suit unzipped and “Mr. Johnson” shaking in his direction. Have you ever seen someone try to get out of a small hammock fast? They become very unbalanced and sort of get dumped out. That’s what happened to our F-18 pilot as he fell a few feet to the hard metal ramp. Of course he thought I had sprayed him, but when I showed him that he was hit with water not pee he calmed down a bit. I told him to find another spot for this one was mine.

See, now that we don’t have that pisser anymore, you can’t play those good old fun and games like you use to. Oh well, I’ll have to think of some more.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Memorial Day

2007-05-28T09:14:00.000-04:00

Guys,
I just want to say thanks for all that you have done for the US and her service men/women. As I sit and watch “Patton” on AMC, I am reminded that we can win all wars with the right attitude.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Last Leg home

2007-05-24T15:10:00.000-04:00

Aubrey was her name

The last leg home on this month-long journey was punctuated with slight bumps as we slowly plowed across the tops of the clouds. The sound of Bread played into my headset as I sat at the Radio Operator’s table thinking of this past month. There are many people out there who know my feelings right now. As a single guy back in my early days in the Corps, I lived for the road trip. Always keeping my suitcase packed in the trunk of my car with all the proper gear for a flight that could encompass the cold of Iceland or the warm beaches of Rota, Spain.
Now as a forty-something man, home is truly where the heart is. I married a beautiful woman whose heart far exceeds the bounds of normal love. The past ten years have flown by with a trip every three days to cities all over our great country. It wasn’t until I came back into the Marine Corps and took a trip over to Iraq, seven thousand miles away, that I realized what the most important thing in life is--being home, watching the kids run around, or the gentle hugs of my wife as she walks by.
We all take these trips for our job. Make the sacrifices, miss birthdays or holidays. It’s a lucky thing that my spouse understands this. I grew up with my father taking off on a Mediterranean cruises lasting six months at a time. That was just the way it worked in the Bell household as a kid. He is fortunate to be married to a very strong, independent woman as well who kept the home fires burning while he was gone.
I guess that the heart grows fonder with distance and I’m sure these feelings have been shared by men and women for thousands of years who took to the sea, military life, or sell medical supplies around the world. It’s a common thread amongst people in our profession. The only regret I have is not being able to share these experiences with “Tee,” my wife, on a daily basis. My words can’t express the feelings of joy as you do something you love like flying 250 miles an hour, five hundred feet above the surface of the earth, cresting mountain ridges and coasting back into the valley below. Gliding between giant cumulus clouds as they billow into the sky, boiling forth like some erupting volcano of cotton. Also, the good feeling of the final few feet as the plane settles down on the pavement of the runway with hardly any noticeable contact.
The unbearable moments are when you hear your child’s voice over the phone asking when you’ll be home; watching a family play the park together in some far off city. Those sights and sounds make the journey harder still. That is when I would hang up my wings just to return home that instant. I realize that you only have a few years with them before they move on. One day, as they read my words, I hope they understand what pulls a father away from his home.
We would all give up everything we own, just to be home once again. To all of you out there who share these feelings, do you not agree that the last leg home is always the hardest? The anticipation of what awaits you. It’s a bittersweet feeling knowing that this won’t be the last trip in your lifetime. I just wonder if I will ever lose my yearning to take off to the skies and if I do, will I miss it?
Semper Fi,
Taco

Dark Days Ahead

2007-05-16T01:22:00.000-04:00

Until today, I believed that we were winning the war and that it was in fact winnable, but I came across official correspondence today that offers irrefutable proof this is no longer the case. The situation here is obviously untenable -some might say hopeless, as evidenced by the desperate measures that have been taken at the highest levels in Washington - measures I never believe our leadership would ever enact, at least not in my lifetime. This situation has been brewing for some time now and it involves officers at the highest levels, including elected officials and even the Commander in Chief. They were able to keep the incident secret up until now but it is only a matter of time until the press gets a hold of it. It will be impossible for me to deny that I actively participated in what transpired. When the time comes, I will accept responsibility for my actions. I am confident, however, that nothing will happen to me for several months. Numerous lawyers from more than one Service component have examined the situation and there is nothing any of them can do to change it. It's a very simple matter of law. I must admit that I never thought I would ever be put in this position. In so many ways it seems like a dream. Please do not let this incident cause you to lose faith in the leadership of this country. You must understand that the chain of command did what they could given the information they had. Please do not blame President Bush or anyone in the Marine Corps. If you must blame anyone, blame me. And blame this damned war. I am convinced that none of this would have happened had it not been for this damned war. So far the situation has gone as high as Rumsfeld and although he did not address me personally, I received word from one of his subordinates who stated in a very terse message: ".the following named officers on the Reserve status list of the Marine Corps have been selected for promotion to the grade of Lieutenant Colonel."
My name is on that list...
Semper Fi,
Taco
Thanks to my good friend Tom, for this great piece

Trixx are for kids

2007-05-10T08:22:00.000-04:00

Hey guys,
Just wanted to say hi from Korat Thailand! This det has been fun but the best part is hijacking a Thai internet signal and chatting with my wife and folks via MSN messenger. I was finally able to get the mic and video phone to work this morning and talked to Mom and Dad for about an 1/2 hour. That was great! Wanted to chat with Teresa but she was in bed already. After I talk to her last night, right before she went to work (we are 12 hours ahead of Texas), we were attacked by swarms of bugs. The building I was in was infested with these dime sized termite looking winged bugs. There were thousands on every window and we had to shut the lights off to keep them from attacking. So here we were in the dark, with the only light coming from my computer screen and hundreds of bugs in the room flying into the side of your head. Well, when I walked home, it was a mile and half stroll, in the pitch black night. As I walked along, (in the dark cause my flashlight is busted) I kept hearing a crunching sound underfoot. A car finally came along and when the headlights played out in front of me, the entire road was moving. I mean it was flowing. There were creepy crawly things, millipedes, giant beetles, frogs and these termite bugs. I just walked as fast as I could and tried not to think of the bugs I turned into road pizza.

Yesterday and the day before we flew low levels over Thailand in the Herc at 500 feet. It was a rush to pass over these rice paddies and small towns. The farmers would all look up and wave at us. The cattle would get spooked and run, those farmers didn't wave at us, I think they gave us another international type of Hello. The Aerial Drop platoon had made two pallets of water that weighed about 1,500 pounds each. We dropped them over the LZ on each pass at the end of our low level. The dummies parked their trucks about ten yards from the drop zone, so on the second pass we slide over on our track and dropped them almost on top of their cars. You could see them running as this bundle of water came out of the back of our plane at 1,000 feet and landed only yards from where they were standing around, smoking cigarettes next to these small Thai pickup trucks. We caught some flak over that but they really couldn't complain because they were parked right next to the drop zone being lazy so they didn’t have to walk far in the heat.

Then as we were zooming off, we notice one of these giant Buddha's on a hill to our right. "hey, let's get some shots of that" so we did a nice wing over in the Herc and came back along the ridge where this hundred foot gold Buddha was looking over the peaceful rice lands.

We started to head back when the Thai's announced that thunderstorms had over taken the airfield. Since it was a giant isolated cell, we were ok 20 miles north of the airport and just flew around the country side over our low level route at 500 feet. If we saw something of interest, we'd turn and check it out. The funny thing that sticks out in my mind, as we cruised up the valley with ridges on either side of us was the trees. There in the middle of a plowed field would stand one lone tree that must have been over 150 to 200 feet tall. It would have this ball of leaves right on the top and that was it. Almost like they trimmed it all the way to the top. Why it would be in the middle of their plowed fields was the top question we had.

We got into the field before the second thunderstorm hit and a wall of rain turned the whole base to a giant puddle. The Marines spend a lot of time in the Canteen where they make our meals. The Thai food is awesome here, the chairs padded, and mild AC relieves the hot temp outside, so it's our hangout. Don't ask for an American Omelet though, better to just ask for scrambled eggs and bacon. They will wash our clothes once a day here, up to 9 pieces max.

We had a mixer with the Thai Officers a couple of nights ago. Here is a shot of me and "Trixx" who fly's the F-16. It cracked us up, because all the Thai-jet guys have these goofy call-signs that they think are tough and hard sounding. Some that stick out in my mind were "CaveMan" "DeathMaster" “DieHard” but the best I thought was "Delay" because they said he was slow in the jet (thinking wise) They didn’t know what Taco Bell was so they must think mine was plenty dumb. I could see them now, “Why didn’t he just go by KFC if he wants to be named after a fast food joint.”

Trixx said that XXX was already taken when he got to the Squadron, so he was Tri-XX, He wondered why I laughed so hard, and I told him that in the States, Trixx's were for kids. He didn't like it that I was comparing his tough call-sign to a kids cereal and not the Van Diesel movie by the name of XXX. Ha!!! I liked him though. Oh yeah, I put my apt up for sale and have had a couple of offers. The picture of a dirt road was where we dumped out the bundles. If you follow it up, on the right side is an orange A that is sideways, and the left are their cars I was telling you about that we almost smashed.

I wish that I was there. Its fun hanging out with the guys again but Home is where my heart is.
Semper Fi,
Taco

A nut for a nut

2007-05-06T09:56:00.000-04:00

Well Gang,
I’m finally over in Khorat Thailand after a long 40 hour flight over the water. I was lucky enough to meet up with Gunny John and his awesome wife the second night I was in Okinawa Japan. We had dinner at one of those little places where you sit down and cook your own meat over this little fire pit. It's all you can eat for about nineteen dollars, really not bad for Japanese prices. I know he talked about it on his blog, but you really build a great friendship writing and it’s not often that you actually get to meet the face at the other end of the computer. So now I figure it’s my mission in life to fly around the world and say hi to all our blogger Brothers and Sisters in arms!!

I have been asked what it is like to fly over the Pacific, for forty hours. I mean, what do you do up in the cockpit all that time. Well, as we stare out the window at the countless white caps, we play little thought games over the ICS (intercom) to pass the time. Mind you, there are sometimes over ten people on this group line and the answers come so fast that you might now know who said what. I’ll pass on an actual conversation that we had from Japan to Thailand during the eight hours. The funny thing is this might go strong for about an hour and then die out only to be brought back to life a little later.
The guy I’m flying with was in the left seat this leg, he clicks his interphone and fires the first shot.
“If you could throw anyone out of the back of the Herk, who would you toss?”
From the line comes the following exchange, all different people, so I couldn’t even tell you who they were.
“The first person I’d toss is Rosie, that fat pig”
“Screw that, Hillary would have to be first, then maybe tie a line to Rosie and take her second”
“I have to ask, can we do a group dump or would we have to come down and land to pick up each person? I only ask because we might exceed the monthly allotted flight time for the Herk and be forced to ask Congress for more money.”
“That’s a good question, how about a group dump and we set up a pay-for-view deal to offset the cost and try to recoup some of the money the Gov’t spends to let us fly?”
“Oh that would be rocking, put a little helmet cam showing their face as we toss them out the back and watch them put little holes in the desert.”
“How about starting on the West coast and working our way to DC? That way we can take all those know it all Hollywood idiots and give them a free ride.”
“Yeah, I’m up for that. Send that chick, oh what’s her name? Married to that chicken shit…Tim Robbins, … oh it’s Susan Sarandon, I’d toss them first.”
“No way, Sean Penn would be on my list first. He’s a traitor!”
“God, you guys are forgetting Jane Fonda. I know you aren’t Fonda of Hanoi Jane.”
“Hey boss, I don’t think we’d have enough room back here for all the Asswipes in Hollywood.”
“I know, but we could make a damn fine start.”
“Well I still say that we toss Rosie first, but we should strap her in a car and then put a camera mounted on the dash so you can watch her ride all the way down. I know the average American would pay big money for that…I mean that’s real entertainment if you ask me.”
“Quality”
“Must see TV”
“I’d cancel my check to green peace for that.”
“I’d give my left nut”
“A nut for Rosie? That would be an over kill. I’d just give up smoking.”
“I wouldn’t even give up my worst enemy’s nut for that pig.”
“Well, can I tie a line from her to your nut? That is if you were willing to give up one.”
“You guys are sick….”

This banter will go on forever. That is just a sample of what you might hear over the intercom system on a long trip with a bunch of Marines. The language is a bit more graphic, I had to tone it down, but you get the idea.

I hope that you all have a great day; I’ll send more updates from Thailand as the week goes on.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Pump Fake

2007-04-26T12:53:00.000-04:00

In my travels around the world, I have seen and probably eaten some pretty wild stuff. Somehow, when I tell a story, there seems to be a recurrent theme threaded throughout each adventure. A person might even suspect I have an obsession with the fury little rats with tails, but I’m here to tell you that it’s not true. They just seem to always be there.

It all started as a kid in Virginia Beach, on a school trip to the zoo there. My buddies all headed over to see “George”, the five hundred pound Gorilla. He sat there, munching on some celery, staring out beyond his bars as these little nine year olds jumped up and down to get his attention. Ole George just chewed away, his eyes had a sort of glazed over look to them, ignoring all attempts to get a reaction out of him. One of my friends decided he knew how to make friends with this large black beast, so he pulled out some pennies and fired off one through the bars. It bounced off of George’s head, who just sat there, not even phased as these pennies hit his chest and head. We laughed at this, wondering if this was a real Gorilla or what. Finally we got a reaction from George as his head turned to look at the offending penny thrower. His right arm slowly moved behind his back. Faster then you could blink your eyes, George’s arm whipped around from behind his back in an arching motion, slinging a hand full of Gorilla crap through the bars squarely hitting my friend on the chest. The force and sudden speed of this counter attack from George knocked my buddy onto his butt causing him to break out in a wail of tears as we all laughed pointing at his soiled, stinky tee-shirt.

The teacher hauled him off to the bathroom after we claimed no knowledge as to why peaceful George would attack Billy. Leaving the three of us staring at George with a new found respect. We decided to all flick pennies at George and when he counter attacked, we, being smarter, would jump out of the way, thus avoiding a trip to the bathroom and a stinky tee-shirt. Again, George took the pennies with indifference and finally he slowly reached behind his back for the second time. Being prepared, we all tensed for his attack. George’s arm jerked and we all jumped to the left, only he didn’t toss anything, he paused for a mere second before unleashing both arms resulting in victim/harasser number two hitting the deck, covered in Gorilla poop. Can you believe we were “Pump faked” by a Gorilla?

Once again, we claimed our innocence to the teacher as to why George would attack us as she hauled dash two off for cleanup. With just the two of us left, we figured we needed to move on down road and visit Zebra’s.

Fast forward to 1992, we were flying out of the Subic Bay in the Philippines. Hot, muggy and still a ton of ash from the volcano that erupted the year prior. Walking out of the billeting office to our van, the Gunny, who was smoking a cigarette at the back of the van, asked me “Sir, did you ever play baseball as a kid?”

“Of course I did. Outfield why?” He pointed a big fat monkey sitting on the closed half of a split top dumpster. “I’ll bet you a beer that you can’t hit that monkey with a rock from here.” I looked at the distance, a mere twenty five yards or so and thought I could win this bet. Reaching down, I selected the best round medium size white painted stone I could find. Taking aim, I let that sucker fly at the peaceful monkey who was sitting there, a nice target. The rock hit just left of him, skimming his leg and making all sorts of noise as it ricocheted off the blue metal lid. What I didn’t notice was the Gunny sneaking off and climbing back into the van, followed by all the doors being locked.

I was amazed at how many monkey’s were actually inside of the dumpster as they all came climbing out, teeth bared, a horrible screeching ensued followed by the counter attack. At least ten monkeys came running towards me throwing rocks at the cyclic rate. They were accurate and it hurt!! I turned to the backdoor of the van to let myself in, but found the door locked. The van started to move down the road with me screaming for him to stop and open the door with a squad of “Stone Monkeys” in hot pursuit. I soon found out lesson number one in the P.I., never throw stones at the monkeys, because they will throw back in a team effort. Once again, the fury, funny monkeys became my nemeses. Ahhhh, the mysteries of the Pacific region unfold to newbie’s gullible enough to listen to his Gunny engineer.

All I can say is that they taste like chicken when grilled with some teriyaki sauce. I’ll send some updates from our great Asian tour this month and I hope all of you that are attending the MilBlog conference have a blast!!
Semper Fi,
Taco
PS, I'll be in hawaii this sat, Oki by Wed With Gunny John from the Firing line and out of pocket for the next three weeks in Transit. Take care and stand by for my next post.

Go West young man

2007-04-22T20:46:00.000-04:00

Hey Guys,
I just picked up a trip to Japan and then on down to Thailand to drop off some junk there for Cobra Gold. Last time I was there in May of 1994, we arrived right before these giant thunderstorms hit the airfield. The little Thai guys parked our KC 130 on the ramp next to base ops and motioned for us to all go into the shack before the rain hit. We had the APU running and nice cold air blasted our faces as the crew begin to pack up their stuff. I looked at the outside air temperature gauge and it read 120*F and saw the solid wall of water approaching us. The Mech came back inside and buttoned up the door to keep the rain out. We all agreed that waiting out the rain would be a good thing and give it a chance to cool off the air. Well that doesn’t happen there, as we all found out. The rain just turned into steam and we enjoyed a nice sauna bath for the rest of the trip.
Because I will be gone for a month, I won’t be able attend the National Milblogging Conference in DC. My folks will be there and will get to hang out with for the party with all the Usual Suspects! On the other hand, I will catch up with Gunny John as we eat some Sushi outside of Gate Two Street by Kadena Air Force Base. That will be a blast!! I will have time to write though as we chug across the Pacific, so stand by to stand by…
Well, before I sign off, I just want to say “God Bless” to the family of Lt Cmdr. Davis who has Gone West doing what he loved to do…Flying.

Until we talk again.
Semper Fi,
Taco

"Virtual Leadership 101"

2007-04-16T15:11:00.000-04:00

“Virtual Leadership 101”
Dear Gang,
This letter comes from the bowls of my old computer emails, filed under “DumbSh**.” I was on recruiting duty with the Officer in question and have about six months worth of material just on this guy alone. Normally I change the names to protect the guilty, but in this case, the offender will remain so named but the Lt’s involved have been altered. For all of you young Officers out there, remember that emails have the half life of an atom, so be careful of what you write…it may come back to bite you one day. In this case, Barrett, is on his own sheet of music, hence his "virtual embarrassment." Here is the flow of the long chain letter that was sent around the world about seven years ago. Since the original letter was so long, you will see references to start at the bottom. I cleaned it up and put it in order so that you can read the true flow of events. The first two comments from some senior Marines kind of say it all, after that I will post this young Lt’s email in the order that it happened and the reply from Captain (now a Major) Barrett. Then you will see the reactions of MANY Marines to this chain of email based off a simple question. Anything I add will be in parentheses.
S/F
Taco

{This is one of two original comments that was on the forwards, which reached me.}

Gentlemen,

I'm sort of at a loss on this one. Some of you (youngsters) know Capt Barrett, the CO in this chain of emails. Many of you have been CO's at this point. I won't impune Capt Barrett here, but I have to ask why this sort of thing is going on via email. Does anyone LEAD in person anymore or is it down to this? Next, do people understand that emails can easily get forwarded around the whole Corps and outside? This is embarrassing to me a Marine, as an officer, and as an Infantryman. Capt Barrett ought to use a little more discretion in his leadership of his Lieutenants as well as some patience and tact. Mutual respect goes a long way with subordinates, officer or enlisted. Mark, I think you and I once joked about "Virtual Leadership", this is the first solid evidence I seen of it in action. The request for "Poll" responses is particular degrading, I mean, how insecure can you be to need reinforcement from the entire internet? Strange and pathetic. How long before this gets into the Marine Mail?
-jhl

(Another Officer puts his two cents worth in}

I thought you two would enjoy this... read the bottom e-mails first and then work back... If you weren't in Charlie Co, you'll only appreciate this for it's stereo-typical grunt attitude - Damn the man, ask questions!! - what happened to the only stupid question is the one not asked? On the other hand for all you non-infantry types. In six and a half years as a grunt, I truly only met a handful of Hard-cases like this! The common sense in question belongs to whatever brain-child let this e-mail out to the general public. It also questions "what, if any, lesson is young Mr. Herr learning by being degraded throughout the inter-net.

-----Original Message----- From: Herr 1stLt D Sent:Friday, October 13, 2000 11:57 AM To: House Maj Chris

Subject: Suggestion Sir, A topic that has come up while here in Fuji is field orders. Our question is why is our pay checked when we go on deployment. We are charged for every meal whether or not we eat it or not. This year alone, I personally have been to Fuji three times, JWTC two times, and Korea once. This totals between six and seven months of deployment time. My pay was checked for each one of these deployments for chow that I ate or did not eat. This takes a large chunk of money out of each paycheck. Per deployment, my pay has been checked twice as much for chow myself than I would normally spend a month for both myself and my wife plus I still need to feed my wife while I am gone. The question is: Why do we get our pay checked on deployment for chow and other such items while other services are given pay for their meals and other such items? Lt Herr sends.....

Original Message----- From: House Maj Chris Sent: Friday, October 13, 2000 1:29 PM To: Herr 1stLt ; Barrett Capt Craig A;

Subject: RE: Suggestion The stock answer is that you receive BAS or ComRats while in garrison IOT pay for meals outside the chow hall. This is to compensate an individual for costs he would not incur if he subsisted at the dining facility or otherwise at the cost of the govt. BAS/ComRats is not, and never was, intended to pay for your spouse to eat. Basic pay covers that, much as your father's salary paid for you, your siblings, and mother to eat. I agree that it is galling to be checked for meals that you don't eat, but then again, there are only a couple of options. One method is to have a Marine pay for each meal as it is issued to him. This creates a huge headache IOT comply with funds accountability and auditing requirements along with being very impractical. Of course, we could have all the Marines "pay as they go". Certainly no Marine will have trouble coming up with the exact change for his meals prior to the field op, just as they never lose a canteen, always have all their uniform items ready (remember the clothing allowance), and certainly save enough cash to have plenty on-hand to set-up a household and buy cars when they first reach Oki. I do not know of any service that pays their service members for eating in the field. Of course, you can point to the Air Force who has their personnel purchase MREs in the commissary for field ops. This is more a function of poor leadership and punting the responsibility of ensuring their personnel are adequately fed than it is one of "taking care" of them. Of course, when they actually deploy to a no-kidding remote part of the world, the very few who are not billeted in 4 star hotels have their pay checked for 3 meals a day. Which then, in many cases becomes a haphazard affair. What for you is inconvenient and seemingly unjust in many other cases is the only way to ensure that Marines; 1)Actually have chow to eat, 2)Have chow to eat that has some semblance of nutritional value, 3)Provides an efficient method to affect items 1 and 2 above for large numbers of personnel (imagine collections done throughout a Division in Somalia). The PersO and SuppO can give you chapter and verse on the MCOs. There are other methods than those I have mentioned. I haven't even begun to cover the convoluted procedures for when you are embarked upon a naval vessel, when your mess bill will routinely exceed your BAS. Your Company Commander and XO can likely give you some insight as well. XO

(Sounds pretty simple right? Well now here comes Leadership 101 from our fearless leader Barrett)

-----Original Message----- From: Barrett Capt Craig A To: Howie 2ndLt G; Herr 1stLt ; Sprad 2nd Lt. ; Hohoa 1st Lt ; Greenly 1stLt Sent: 10/16/00 7:02 AM

Subject: FW: Suggestion Lieutenants, Everyone counsel Lt Herr that by asking the Bn XO directly a question about ComRats and/or BAS it has solidified the following in Major House's mind:
1-one, that Lt Herr has no faith/loyalty to his own chain of command
2-two, that after Lt Herr deployed twice to Fuji, twice to JWTC, and once to Korea (over a period of twelve months) he must be severely lacking moral courage if it took him so long to have enough ball sack to finally ask the question
3-three, that he's a dumbass I don't know if his actions are funny or sad but it clearly proves my theory that today's Marines may be more intelligent but they don't have any common sense. Its like being a tech shop manager at the Motorola Corporation and then going outside your shop, outside your department to the Vice President of Operations and asking "Sir, why is there static on radios". Hey, you don't have to use your Co XO, if you want to be regarded as a tool by your peers, laughed at during Bn social events, and have stories told about you long after you leave the unit for the stupid shit you did, e-mail the Bn XO directly, hell try the Commandants e-mail address. Capt Barrett sends...

From: Herr 1stLt Sent: Wednesday, October 18, 2000 10:27 AM To: Barrett Capt Craig A; How 2ndLt; Sprad 2nd Lt.; Hohah 1st Lt; Greenly 1stLt

Subject: RE: Suggestion Sir, To readdress the question that I asked the BN XO, I would like to first say that I did not go outside of my chain of command and I do not consider myself to be a dumbass. An e-mail was sent out by the BN XO asking Marines to suggest questions that the BN CO could take to the Commanders' Program back in Quantico and address in the per group questions. The question that I asked was a topic of conversation here in Fuji and it was suggested to me by the 1stSgt to ask the question. So I did. Have I been places and done things since I have been on island? Yes. Have I asked the question before? Yes. Do I believe that it was a stupid question? No, considering no one here could give me a solid answer. If my loyalty/faith is in question, than so be it, but when given the opportunity to ask the question, I did. If it is assumed that I have no faith or loyalty, than let people talk about me. I have worked at the Commanders' Program so when the BN XO asked for suggestions from the Marines in the BN, I took a suggestion of a Marine here in Fuji and asked the question. R/S
1stLT Herr

-----Original Message----- From: Barrett Capt Craig A Sent: Thursday, October 19, 2000 7:58 AM To: Herr 1stLt and a list of about 20 Lt’s

Subject: RE: Suggestion Dear dumbass, No where in your original e-mail does it state you are providing information for the Cmdrs Conference. This is probably why the Bn XO wondered aloud why you would come directly to him to ask this question. Additionally, thank the XO for his time, say Respectfully submitted, something... I mean he's only a Major with 15 years in the Marine Corps in zone for LtCol for Christ sake. Why not utilize your chain of command to forward your question? From you to your Composite Co CO or from you to your actual CO. Do you lack loyalty or faith? My point remains that if you cannot utilize your chain of command than you are demonstrating a lack of loyalty or lack of faith in them. Major Burke and I are unaware of any previous Comrat/BAS questions to date. Now in my first e-mail these were suggestions, guidance if you will. Let me make it plain to you, since you don't understand, if you correspond directly with the Bn XO again, I'll kill you. I'll poll all those in the Cc block to see to determine if Was his e-mail inappropriate: Yes or No Does his actions categorize him as a tool: Yes or No Does his actions categorize him as a dumb ass: Yes or No Will you use him as an example for years to come: Yes or No Please send your response directly to Lt Herr and Cc me. Capt Barrett sends...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
(these are comments from the many forwards of this email)

Subject: Faith in the chain of command and the US/Them mentality...

Check out this motivator! I think the CO makes it clear why his Lt wouldn't want to use the chain of command. Ouch! I love how the COs CC list grows with each reply. Feel free to fill out the poll and forward it to Capt Barrett. They are keeping a tally until the end of the month. Start at the bottom and work your way up. Chris
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gents- This is a copy of e-mail correspondence between an engineer and his Co XO. These guys are on the island with us (Lt Greenly is in the Cc: block). This message is coming to me from Jen, so obviously this message is making it's rounds in the Marine Corps. Unbelievable....
Bone
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CHARLIE COMPANY OCS GRADS: Guys, you have to read this e-mail. Remember Captain Barrett and how he was at OCS? Well apparently he is no different in the fleet. This one is awesome.
***********BE SURE TO READ FROM THE BOTTOM UP!!!!!!************
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One can only hope that this is some sort of twisted joke.
S/F, Capt Schmidt : FW: FW: for all us one bars...

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This is a little bit long but if you start at the bottom it is a real interesting read. I think there must be a big difference in leadership philosophy between the Ground Guys and us. Mike
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Fascinating....

Chesty Puller

2007-04-09T20:56:00.000-04:00

This great story about Chesty Puller came from the Net and it arrives every blue moon. Hope you enjoy it.

The Korean War, in which the Marine Corps fought and won some of its most brutal battles, was not without its gallows humor.

During one such conflict a ROK (Republic of Korea) commander, whose unit was fighting with the Marines, called legendary Marine (then Colonel) Chesty Puller to report a major Chinese attack in his sector.

"How many Chinese are attacking you?" asked Puller.

"Many, many Chinese!" replied the excited Korean officer.

Puller asked for another count and got the same answer: "Many, many Chinese!"

"#*#&*!#%!" swore Puller, "Put my Marine liaison officer on the radio."

In a minute, an American voice came over the air: "Yes, sir?"
"Lieutenant," growled Chesty, "exactly how many Chinese you got up there?"

"Colonel, we got a whole shitload of Chinese up here!"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Puller, "At least there's someone up there who knows how to count!"

Where the hell are we??

2007-04-01T06:00:00.000-04:00

***Hey the interview with Layla was a blast, check it out on her blog page below. Also email any questions you want to ask me for a future post to thesandgram@yahoo.com .***
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/hostpage.aspx?host_id=2018

Dear Gang,
While I was channel surfing the other day, I stopped on a news clip about two battle groups in the Persian Gulf off the coast of Iran in the midst of “War Games” but it was proclaimed that it wasn’t suppose to be a threat to Iran. Funny how this came about after the Brits were kidnapped. What makes this news segment noteworthy is the fact that it was on the “700 Club” and this was on Monday, days before the mainstream or even cable news brought this up. I think the Iranians need to go review past history and a place called the Falklands. All that needs to happen right now is some suicide bomber to attack that group and all hell would break loose in Iran.

It brings back a story about my old Squadron, VMGR 252 during the first Gulf War in 1991. Every unit, ship, or squadron has a couple of real bone heads attached to them and we were no different. We happened to have a few extra that made life very interesting. One in particular named Major Dilbert, was as we say…a total tool. It was a policy in the Squadron that no one would say his full name. It was like invoking the name of Satan or something, so we just called him “Major D.” He was a one man show and in all of my years of flying, the only person who ever came close to killing me and the whole crew in a KC 130.

Now that you know how I feel about him, picture endless hours, droning along the border of Iraq and Iran, passing gas to any jet vectored up to our flying “Texaco” in the Sky. This was a week into the air war and we owned the skies over Iraq. The crew was heading North/South along the border of Iran, in a twenty mile race track pattern. To keep radio chatter down, we tanked “M-Con” which means no communication at all. A jet would pull up to the right side of the KC 130, extending his probe and if everything worked out, a hose would supply him with gas.

Major D was in the left seat looking out the window, lost in thought as he always seems to be. The Navigator, a young Sergeant named Alders, was getting pretty frustrated. There was a strong wind from the West that was constantly blowing them off their track. Each time he pimped Major D. to turn to a certain heading, the pilot would snap off some smart ass comment, basically questioning if Sgt. Alders was providing good headings. After the fourth course correction, Major D. turned to the Navigator and pointing at his name tag, he said “Hey knucklehead, do you see these gold wings on my chest? I’m a God Damn Naval Aviator and I know how to fly a plane and make the proper corrections for drift.”

Well, that comment went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter with the Navigator who was just trying to do his job. He rolled his eyes when the Major turned back around and reaching for the brightness knob, turned his little black box down that told him where he was according to the internal navigation systems. This was the perfect time to get back to his book since the pilot just announced to the whole crew, the Nav wasn’t needed. The rest of the crew went back to looking out the windows or reading a book, waiting for the next customer to fly up.

An hour later, the cry of “Jet Tally-Ho Starboard side” brought the crew out of their trance. The Engineer released the hose on the right side and checked the pressure of the line. “O.K., hose is good, flash him a green light.” Lance Corporal Holister sitting on the small square seat attached to the paratroop door flashed the F-14 out of his window a green light. The jet crew pulled up closer and then extended their gas probe, beginning a series of poorly aimed jabs at the twenty seven inch diameter basket attached to the hose. Holister, shook his head as he watched, this pilot was horrible and after ten minutes, was still not plugged in. He then pulled out his little country flag identifier and started to take a closer look at the F-14. This wasn’t a US Navy plane and he didn’t recognize the flag on the side of the tail. Holister deselected everyone on the Intercom except for the Engineer and keyed his mike. “Hey Gunny, if you have a second, could you come back here?”

Gunny Lewis deselected his communications panel so that his conversation was between just the two of them. “What’s up back there?” Holister, repeated his request but in a very tense voice. Gunny Lewis leaned in between the two pilots and told them that he had to step in the back to check something out. Climbing off the flight deck he had to turn sideways to fit between the large gas tank in the cargo bay of the plane and the walls of the plane. Making his way to the rear of the plane he approached Holister who was holding the country flag page out to the Gunny and pointing to the plane, his brows all bunched up in deep concentration. Gunny lifted up his headset and Holister yelled “Hey Gunns, where is this plane from, I don’t recognize the flag at all.”

The Gunny looked at the F-14 who had finally plugged into the hose, looked at the flag on the tail and down at the book in hand and back up at the jet. Holister couldn’t hear what the Gunny said, but figured it was pretty important when his headset was unplugged and replaced by the Gunny’s who selected the Navigators position. “Hey Alders, where the hell are we?” Sgt. Alders put his book down and keyed his mike. “Why don’t you ask the Pilot? He’s a God damn Naval Aviator and knows his location at all times.” This wasn’t the time to piss the Gunny off and with the next bark of his voice had Alders reaching over and turning his magic box back up. Consulting his charts and looking at the position of the plane according to the INS, he keyed his mike with his right hand “Shit Gunny, we’re about fifteen miles over the border into Iran.”

The Engineer ran back up to the front of the plane and plugged into his ICS, “Sir” tapping Major D. on the right shoulder, “That is an Iranian F-14 back there taking gas from us. I STRONLY suggest that we turn left and slowly drag this guy back over the border. The Hercules, slowly made a gentle left hand turn West bound towards the border with the crew wondering if they would get shot down for this. They figured that since the Iranians hated the Iraqi’s, this guy probably wouldn’t waste a missile on the KC 130, but who knows.

As the invisible border sled underneath the plane, the F-14 backed out of the hose and pulled up next to the right wing, he rocked his wings and gave an “O.K.” sign before rolling over and departing to the East. He seemed pretty happy that he was able to get his refueling qualification back for free from the Americans. I don’t think the Herk crew listed that buno number from the side of the fighter that day when the final tallies were recorded for the number of jets fueled. Lesson learned, much like when your wife is navigating in the car, if the Nav says turn left… turn left, they are always right, mostly.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Overcome...Adapt

2007-03-22T21:27:00.000-04:00

Today’s lesson on Ingenuity

Here is your lesson on how to adapt, overcome and improvise─the Marine Way. During Korea, there was a young Marine who was given the task of escorting eight Chinese prisoners to the rear for interrogation by our Intel bubbas. Now this young Devil Dog looked at these eight Chinese prisoners who all had murder in their eyes, and turned to his Sergeant, “You know Sarge, I could probably use a couple more guys to go with me to the C.P.”

It was one of those days; lots of wounded, low on bullets and on top of that, a bunch of prisoners. The Sergeant, short-handed after this latest battle, replied, “Hey Marine, if they try to do anything, shoot them.” This normally would be the solution to the obvious problem, but he only had two rounds left in his M-1, and there was no way he could beg his buddies for bullets when the next attack might arrive any minute. Looking around, he noticed an unconscious wounded Marine lying on the side of the road awaiting transport to the rear. This particular Marine was in the Engineer Platoon and had a rucksack full of “Det” Cord, used by Engineers to blow up multiple things simultaneously. This stuff is highly explosive and fast acting. Pulling the cord out, he proceeded to make loops, spacing them about two feet apart. He then went up to each Chinese soldier, slipped a loop over their head, and pulling it to a nice snug fit around each guy’s neck. They all stood there wondering what the hell he was doing. I’m sure they were all thinking they’d jump him at the first chance they got.

After securing all eight Chinese Soldiers, he then took some extra cord and wrapped it around a broken tree trunk. Looking at the prisoners, he made the following hand signs to them. “Eight of you to one of me. I understand what you are thinking, pointing to their head and then to his head. If you try anything…I will do this.” He hit the switch, blowing the blasting cap and igniting the Det Cord. It blew the two-foot tree trunk in half. This little demo on “demolition 101” was all that was required to ensure he wouldn’t be attacked by these eight. His three-mile hike back to the rear was uneventful as he walked about fifteen feet behind them, guiding them with his long, deadly leash. News of this spread and soon Det Cord leashes were pretty much the standard way to transport prisoners if you were low on bullets and guards.

That’s using your head and figuring out how to solve a problem…Marine Style Ingenuity.
Semper Fi,
Taco
ps forgot to include this video link to show you what Det cord could do.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FU64SLmn60s

The Eagle has landed in DC

2007-03-18T12:27:00.000-04:00

Dear Gang,

Admin day at Casa de Taco:
1. Gathering of Eagles
2. Request from LL at Chromed Curses
3. Special announcement

I have to tell you how very proud I am of my folks and friends that went down to DC yesterday for the Gathering of Eagles. Not only did “Momma Taco” and “DaNang” (the folk’s computer call-signs) go, but they were accompanied by Leta, Joan, GunnNutt and Maj Pain. The weekend for them also included standing in the freezing conditions Thursday and Friday night at Walter Reed Hospital to welcome the wounded when they arrived on the buses. So you could say that this has been a very hectic and cold weekend for all these great Americans showing our colors.

My Dad said that it was the biggest collection of losers and derelicts that liberal money could buy. Their turnout was minimal. He said that it was about even all the way around, equal number on both sides. Momma Taco told me that there was a gauntlet of “Counter Protestors”-the good guys, made up of Veterans, active duty, parents and supporters, just begging these silly, yellow covered scumbags to have a little talk. GunNutt, made up “Spit Shields” to protect against the possible HIV or Hep C infections these rabid dogs might carry. They were the hit of the parade.

Maj Pain had a backpack full of surprises for the war protestors if they tried any thing silly. He also said it would have been WWIII if they had tried anything, for some of these Vets were pretty tough. From my view on Fox News and the rest of the stations down here in Texas, it was a collection of idiots lead by Cindy Shithan and when they showed the folks from the GOE’s, they stood strong and silent, arms crossed and a look of “Come get some” in their eyes.
Great job to all those who braved the cold to show those Soros losers that they may have the right to march, but if you attempt to deface our memorials, you would face the consequences.

I have a request from LL over at Chromed Curses
Dear Taco,
About a month ago, Cpl M at A Soldier's Perspective put up this post about how he wanted to do Cigar Hour with the Chaplain. I sent out emails to different companies online and one wrote back. The guy at cigar.com hooked me up by selling me two humidors at over 40% off their online list price.

He has also been selling me cigars at a much reduced price. He suggested that I start a chatboard because one of the commenter’s on A Soldier's Perspective mentioned that they have no clue when it comes to cigars. So I started Let's Talk Cigars. Jeff will answer any and all questions about cigars for us clueless folk.

Well, the whole thing has snowballed. Jeff Jackson (my cigar.com contact) has a lot of military clients in Iraq and Afghanistan and he sent the link to them. He is also allowing me to post One Day Sale items and special prices for certain items.

In the end though, what counts is that for all the items sold through him and the chatboard, he will "credit" Cpl M's project and send me free cigars to ship out to Iraq for Cigar Hour.

I was hoping that maybe you guys could mention the chatboard and the help that Jeff has been giving us and maybe encourage your readers to consider buying through him. They don't have to donate the cigars to Cpl M, but if they want to, that would be MOST EXCELLENT. I wrote a post over on A Soldier's Perspective covering buying cigars for the project here.

Also, I have set up a section so that if someone who is deployed would like to be a recipient of a sampler or something, they can put in a request. I've started a Paypal account to gather funds from my readers and hopefully that will be enough to get things rolling.
Thanks so much,
LL @ Chromed Curses

Last but not least, I have the honor of announcing that my wife and I are expecting Dash-three to our family. We will be looking at Nov 10th as a due date which would be fitting for me…
Semper Fi,
Taco

Patience, the Marine Way...

2007-03-12T21:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Gang,
I’m going to start a series on different Marine Corps leadership traits and principles. The Corps has many traditions and edicts that are taught to you as a young Marine in Boot Camp or OCS. I would like to think that there are many levels to “Honor, Courage, and Commitment” and the different traits like “Dependability, Bearing, Courage, Endurance” to name a few. So the next couple of posts will describe some of the “Other” Virtues that are more learned then taught.

“Patience”

As a child, my Father always stressed, “Patience is a virtue.” It helped temper some of my erratic impulse urges over the years. The Marines also calmed me in that area (actually my wife more so), and when I think of a way to help someone understand patience, the following story comes to mind.

While stationed on Okinawa, I had a boss whose father was in WWII and Korea. He would tell us stories about his dad being a Marine in those days, and let me tell you, they were one helluva bunch. One episode that sticks in my mind happened in 1952, during his time in Korea with Second Battalion, Fifth Marines. He was a young Platoon Sergeant, fighting the Chinese, a lot of it, in hand-to-hand combat. The Marines were positioned on a hill overlooking a small valley. Each night the Chinese dropped mortars on top of our Devil Dogs with devastating accuracy and lethal effect. The Marines moved around, but the mortars seemed to find their positions each night. Finally, they figured out that during the day, the local farmer, plowing on the field below, marked the Marine emplacements and relayed this info to the enemy.

The order came down that morning for this farmer to be taken out. Sgt. Winter had a sniper group attached to his platoon, and he passed this order on to a young Marine to kill the farmer. The young Marine nodded to his Platoon Sergeant and gave him an “Aye Aye Sarge.” So he found a position on the hill, and watched his prey. The farmer would plow up towards their position, pretend to rest and scout out the area, and then plow back the other direction. This went on all morning and into the hot afternoon. Sergeant Winter came back around 1500 to check on the sniper. The farmer was still plowing away with the Marine keeping him in his sights. He didn’t bother the sniper, thinking that maybe he was waiting for the right shot.

Before dark, he made it back to where this young Marine was still positioned. He watched the farmer at the plow but moving slowly after a long hard day of work and spying. “Hey, I thought I told you to shoot that bastard? Why is he still alive? What sight picture are you looking for?” The Marine just took the safety off of his M-1 Garand and fired a single bullet, dropping the farmer. The Marine sniper turned to his Platoon Sergeant with a small smile on his face and replied, “Hell Sarge, I just wanted him to die tired, that’s all.”

Now that’s what I call “Marine Corps Patience”

Semper Fi,
Taco

Gotta Smoke?

2007-03-06T16:32:00.000-05:00

The smuggling tip came in through the usual network of low paid informants and lowlife that exists in every society. But in Iraq, having thousands of years graft and greed built into its culture, there seems to be more of it. In this particular case, a certain Iraqi high-ranking Shia military General Officer who has pictures of Muqtada al-Sadr proudly displayed on his office wall is part of problem there. He makes a lot of money on captured black market goods that come into Iraq and then find their way to the back streets of Baghdad.

In this case, part due to good intel, and part damn good luck, a Marine Cobra flight, coming back off a sector patrol, spotted a heavily loaded truck in the middle of the desert with a tent set up next to it. The Marines circled the site, and reported back to the TAC (Tactical Air Command), who in turn dispatched three battle-hardened Humvees and crews to check out this suspicious group sitting all by themselves and hidden amongst some dunes.

When the team arrived, they formed a tactical wedge on the high ground overlooking the Iraqis below. With two Humvees and their crews providing security, the young, newly promoted Captain who was on his second tour, approached the MAMS (military-age male suspects, AKA bad guys) in the third Humvee.

The MAMS came out of their tent slowly with all the firepower pointed down at them. “Hank,” the Iraqi translator, started firing off questions that went along these lines,
“What are you doing here?”
“What is your cargo?”
“Not your truck?”
“Whose is it?”
“If not your truck, then what are you doing way out here?”
“Who dropped you off?”

You can see where this is going. They were caught with their hands in the cookie jar, and not a damn thing they can do about it. Their story finally emerged. They didn’t know what was in the back of the truck; the drivers took off to meet some other guys, and they were just the strong back, weak-minded labor that would do anything for a buck.
The young Captain inspected the back of the truck and found it was loaded with boxes of Camels, Marlboro Lights, Newports, and, of all things, Luck Strike cigarettes. There must have been over 1.5 million smokes in the back of this truck. The Captain knew these bastards were lying about owning all this black market stuff so he called his guys down from their offensive positions overlooking the area. He turned to “Hank” and said, “Ask them if they care what we do with this load of illegal black-market stuff?” Hank asked, and of course, the answer was, “Oh no, we don’t care at all what you do with the cigarettes since they don’t belong to us.” (Oh yeah, as if they didn’t know what was there.)

The Captain turned to his men, “Ok, you smokers, grab a carton of smokes and, then I want them all dumped off the back of this truck into a big pile over there.” Pointing to the other side of the truck, all this downwind from the tent.

“Jonesey” The radio operator turned to face the Captain. “You don’t even smoke, where are you going?” Jonesey just smiled and replied “Sir, I don’t smoke when I have to pay for them, but free, hell I can’t pass that up. I’ll grab you some Sir, don’t worry.” The Captain shook his head and then turned to watch the three Iraqis as his men made a huge pile of boxes. He then slowly opened a pack of Marlboro Lights and put one in his mouth. Reaching into his left sleeve pocket, he retrieved a gas-operated cigar lighter that John, one of his supporters from the Metropolitan Society (A very private cigar club in Jersey), sent him. He then lit the cigarette in his mouth. Reaching down, he picked up one of the empty boxes, and torched the end in seconds with the intense heat this beast produced. Placing this box on the edge of the pile, it didn’t take long before a raging inferno engulfed the pyre of smokes. It reminded him of the bon fire they used to have down at his old College of Texas A & M.

When the fire consumed all the smokes, he loaded his men and gear into their Humvees and headed back to base. That night, an Iraqi Major showed up with his men to collect the cigarettes on behalf of the General waiting in his Black SUV. He caught up with the Marine who was taking a break outside the Command Post with his First Sergeant. Smiling broadly, he said, “Captain, I have heard that you found a large shipment of illegal black-market goods. I have come to collect it from you.”

The Captain pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights, slowly lighting one as he looked him in the eye and replied, “I’m sorry, Sir, but there was just too much of it to bring back so we burned it in place.” The stuttering and foul language could be heard in the bunker next door as the Iraqi realized this Marine had destroyed his Boss’s tidy profit for that month. He left in a huff, and the First Sergeant turned to his Officer with a gleam of pride said, “Sir, you have some big brass balls because you know you’re going to catch some crap from the Colonel for this, but I like it!!

The Captain just shook his head, took a draw on his cigarette, and calmly replied, “All in the days work. Life is tough, tougher when you’re an Iraqi on the take. Besides, what are they going to do, shave my head and send me to Iraq??.”

Thanks Guys

2007-02-28T21:18:00.000-05:00

Dear Gang,
I want to thank all the Folks who voted for the Sandgram. I owe it all to Maj Pain at One Marines View for helping me out through the year and I say he is NUMBER ONE in the arena. Thanks to Momma Taco and DaNang Bell for telling me when to cool my jets on some of the posts and for Momma Taco on her editing. I have a real problem with present and past tense. I owe my wife for her patience when I should be painting the house and I’m typing but most of all, thank you guys for reading my stuff.
JP if you are out there at MilBlogging.com, thanks again for all your hard work right before you deploy.
As Forrest Gump said “That’s about all I’ll say about that”
Semper Fi,
Taco
P.S. I'm in 737 school now and will only be able to check my email every couple of days, so forgive me if I don't answer back right away.

Without further ado, the 2006 Milbloggie Winners are:

U.S. Army

Acute Politics

U.S. Air Force

Afghanistan Without a Clue

U.S. Navy

Doc in the Box

U.S. Marine Corps

SandGram

U.S. Military (Veteran)

Blackfive - The Paratrooper of Love

U.S. Civilian

Soldiers' Angels Germany

U.S. Military (Spouse)

Andi

U.S. Military (Parent)

Some Soldier's Mom

U.S. Military (Supporter)

Fuzzilicious Thinking

Wax on, Wax Off

2007-02-26T11:50:00.000-05:00

Dear Gang,

Being the hard charging reservist that I am, I decided, against all good advice, to enroll into the Marine Cops Marshal Arts Program (MCMAP) to earn my Tan belt. This program, the brainchild of a certain high-ranking officer, combines about six different combat styles into one modified art. Now I was under the impression that this was going to be the Geritol version for the old guys, but found out quickly how wrong I was!

Our “Dojo” was manned by a handful of mid-twenty something "Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles" who proceeded to P.T. the crap out of these old officers and Staff NCOs. We started at 0630 and ended at 1700 (5pm) each day. It only took three hours to break the first old man. Neal, a 41-year-old LtCol airline pilot reservist, started to do his forward roll which failed causing him to get the new call sign "Nadia" as in Nadia Comaneci the Russian Gymnast. His poor grace landed him in the hospital with a clean break on his collarbone.

I know you could see the doubt in my eyes as the potential dangers of taking this course began to be clearer. They were treating a bunch of old guys like we were in shape like a 25-year old. We worked our “arses” off till lunch and then made a few phone calls, asking, "Hey isn't this supposed to be the old man's course?" It all fell on deaf ears. We returned for our afternoon workout getting battered till 1700. When I made it home, after a hot shower, I had to bust into my wife's old pain med's from her C-section for all my aches and pains. My head hit the pillow at 8pm.

Day two: The alarm went off at 0500, "Oh Lord, I can't move!" It took every ounce of will power to get dressed. I admit it; I whined like a baby to these hard chargers at the bunker and demanded that we dumb this down a bit. "Sir" the Sgt replied, "You are a Marine, we are all Marines...you are expected to maintain that level that separates us from the other services ...Suck it up...Sir."

"O.K. Gents, stand by for the next exercise. Twenty Marine Corps pushups followed by low crawls through the grass, crab crawls, jumping jacks, smurf jacks, bends and thrusts, and duck walks." He would put us into the next position of pain. This is all part of being the new Marine Warrior...guess I felt like Ralph Macchio in "The Karate Kid" doing all the stuff for Mr. Miyagi... wax on, wax off, paint up, paint down. It doesn't make sense while you are doing it, but later realize its part of the overall program.

We lost pilot number two that day to a shoulder injury. I went home again, dragging butt and wondering if they were trying to kill me. I am a shell of the physically fit man I used to be at twenty-five, but I have always refused to quit. So day three, just as hard, but we can see the light at the end of the tunnel as we beat each other up, tossed each other over our shoulders, learned how to do effective blood chokes, pounded bags, kicked the living crap out of a dummy, practiced bayonet fighting and knife fighting. Did I cover all the basics? I think so. Did I tell you that this was a hard course? Oh yeah baby, I earned that belt. See this is what happens after you leave the Corps and come back in five years later, they change things up a bit. They teach this to all new recruits and young Lt's, good thing, too, because I'm telling you that some of us old guys would have a hard time getting to the black belt level. It makes me appreciate that I'm an expert pistol shot if I ever have to use it, but if I ran out of bullets, I'd only go down after some kicking and punches. Hats off to our hard-charging young NCOs who took the time to teach us the ropes of this excellent, but demanding program.

Oh by the way, here is one Marine who proves you are a lethal weapon no matter what age you are...
Semper Fi,
Taco

February 23, 2007 -- A retired 70-year-old Marine killed a mugger with his bare hands after a tour bus of U.S. senior citizens was held up in the Costa Rican city of Limon, authorities said yesterday.
The retiree squeezed the 20-year-old mugger in a headlock, broke his clavicle and choked him, police said.
The thief's two accomplices, who were armed, fled as other retirees on the bus started defending themselves. The group then drove the unconscious mugger to a local Red Cross clinic, where he was declared dead.
Local police named the former Marine as Allan Clady, but could not say where in the United States he resides.
The 12 tourists involved in the incident on Wednesday were on a stopover from the Carnival Cruise ship Liberty.
Local Police Chief Luis Hernandez said no one would be charged in the incident.
"They were in their right to defend themselves," he said.

Happy Post VD day

2007-02-15T13:43:00.000-05:00

Nothing says love like… A Japanese toilet (photo from Cheryl Friend,: )

If you want to give your spouse a gift that will leave a meaningful memory, if it doesn’t cause a divorce, buy a high-tech Japanese toilet like I found in my hotel in Tokyo. To set the scene, you check into this beautiful hotel after a long, long, twelve-hour flight from the states. The room is very small since real estate is so expensive causing them to cram so much into such a confined area. Almost everything in the room touches something else. The craziest thing, though, is the bathroom. It looks like they had pre-fabricated bathroom modules installed into the open room when the hotel was built. Small, plastic walls with the coolest space-age toilet you have ever seen.

I had a couple of hours to kill before meeting the crew downstairs, and decided that I had to deposit some American fertilizer before taking a shower. I sat down on the toilet with an old issue of USA Today that I was re-reading for the fourth time; but that soon lost its appeal and was replaced by my curiosity of the fancy computer on the wall next to the toilet paper roll. It had a lot of buttons, with little cartoon pictures depicting certain functions of this high-speed, low-drag futuristic waste disposal unit. The problem I encountered came from my lack of understanding Kanji. Warning, graphic language to follow—hide the kids. There was a block with numbers on it, so I started pushing them and noticed the numbers getting higher, 10,15,20,30,40 before it stopped. Not knowing better, I pushed another set of buttons which resulted in a strange motor noise from somewhere in the back of the toilet seat. Not sure what that was, I peer between my legs and noticed a little white rod directly in the center of the space under my hinny.

About the time I figured out what this thing was, it erupted with a water jet of 40 Celsius or 104 degrees Fahrenheit straight up my butt crack giving me a scalding enema. I shot forward into the room, screaming like a chick, with a stream of hot water arcing over onto my back until I lay prostrate, half-in and half-out of this plastic bathroom. Once my weight came off the seat, it triggered a shutdown of the bidet, but not before it left a searing red line up my butt and the small of my back. Water was everywhere.

After I was able to regain my composure, and recover from this attack of the robotic toilet seat (this took awhile) I finally figured out what all the little cartoons were depicting. I guess there is something to be said for crapping in a hole in the ground like they do in Turkey or a nice old American Toto porcelain John.
But if you decide to get your spouse the toilet with all the works, get one of these Japanese models, but make sure that you get the one with English printed next to the cartoons…
Semper Fi,
Taco
PS, Here is an update on these toilets... (Thanks to Bridget)
Japanese Company Offers Free Repairs on Toilets That Could Catch Fire
Monday , April 16, 2007

Japan's leading toilet maker Toto Ltd. is offering free repairs for 180,000 bidet toilets after wiring problems caused several to catch fire, the company said Monday.
The electric bidet accessory of Toto's Z series caught fire in three separate incidents between March 2006 and March 2007, according to company spokeswoman Emi Tanaka. The bidet sent up smoke in 26 other incidents, the company said.
"Fortunately, nobody was using the toilets when the fire broke out and there were no injuries," Tanaka said. "The fire would have been just under your buttocks."
The company will repair 180,000 toilet units manufactured between May 1996 and December 2001 for free, she said. A manufacturing defect is thought to have led to the faulty wiring.
Toto has been a pioneer in high-tech toilets fitted with pressurized water sprayers - a standard fixture in Japanese homes.
The popular Z series features a pulsating massage spray, a power dryer, built-in-the-bowl deodorizing filter, the "Tornado Wash" flush and a lid that opens and closes automatically. Prices range from $1,680 to $2,600.
The model is not sold overseas

Who cares??

2007-02-08T22:32:00.000-05:00

You know it’s a sad state for our country when I land only to see all the news channels reporting Anna Nicole Smith died today in a hotel down in Florida. Here is the problem with our country, they focus international news for, well, all day on a former stripper and gal that bared her body to Playboy, married rich and sucked as actor. I’m sorry that she is dead, but if that was you or me who died, would CNN talk about us? Maybe if we walked into a 7-11 with an AK and took the place out, then they might.

Folks, I know I’m preaching to the choir here but what about all the heroes who die in a war saving others lives, where is the coverage for that? It frustrates me that America would rather be undated with useless news on worthless actors, who they are sleeping with, what they wear and who will be divorced next. I can understand say Elvis, that guy did something with his life, but this gal??? She was a nobody, nothing, but will be remembered for years. How about our military, police, and firefighters? Where are they on the cover of people? Anna will probably immortalized as a goddess diva for absolutely doing nothing.
In a side bar on the news, Iran has threatened the U.S. with attacks on us worldwide if we even sneeze in their direction, but that only made it on the news for about 20 seconds. No, we can’t watch that… we have to mourn over poor Anna who most likely killed herself to fit into the Hollywood life style of the Rich and Famous.
Well, I pray for the souls of the seven that were lost in the CH 46 from my old base in TQ Iraq, those names will be erased in the sands of times, and Anna will remain. I wonder what will happen to all those folks who are insanely interested in that kind of stuff when the first Nuke or roadside bomb goes off in their neighborhood. Will they still be clamoring for details on who is the it girl and guy in Hollywood, or will they be looking for the heroes to come save their lives who are willing to take a bullet from our enemy for 20K a year and not a 20 million dollar contract?
America, WAKE UP.
Semper Fi,
Taco
PS, I had an affair with her too and the baby is mine.

Rambo...

2007-02-05T11:31:00.000-05:00

This email comes from Captain John Hunt, US Army in Afghanistan. It's a great update and one that I thought you would like to read.
S/F
Taco

Our guy Rambo in Afghanistan..................

Hi everyone.

I'm still alive but freezing my tail off. We got 8 inches of snow last week and it reached 5 degrees below zero that night. That's not why I'm e-mailing though.

You may have heard about a suicide car bomb attack in Kabul last Thursday. It was at one of our FOB's (Forward Observation Bases) about 27 miles from here.

But the real story is why no one was killed.

We employ several thousand Afghans on our various bases. Not to mention the economy that is fed by the money these locals are making.

Some are laborers and builders, but some are skilled workers. We even have one Afghan that just became OSHA qualified, the first ever. Some are skilled HVAC workers.

Anyway, there is this one Afghan that we call Rambo.

We have actually given him a couple of sets of the new ACU uniforms (the new Army digital camouflage) with the name tag RAMBO on it.

His entire family was killed by the Taliban and his home was where our base currently resides. So this guy really had nowhere else to go.

He has reached such a level of trust with US Forces that his job is to stand at the front gate and basically be the first security screening.

Since he can't have a weapon, he found a big red pipe. So he stands there at the front gate in his US Army ACU uniform with his red pipe.

If a vehicle approaches the gate too fast or fails to stop he slams his pipe down on their hood.

Then once the gate is lifted the vehicle moves on the 2nd gate where the US Army MP's are. So he's like the first line of defense.

Last Thursday at 0930 hrs a Toyota Corolla packed with explosives and some Jack Ass that thinks he has 72 Virgins waiting for him approached the gate.

When he saw Rambo he must have recognized him and knew the gig was up.

But he needed to get to that 2nd gate to detonate and take American lives. So he slams his foot on the gas which almost causes the metal gate to go up but mostly catches on the now broken windshield.

Rambo fearlessly ran to the vehicle, reached thru the window and jerked the suicide bomber out of the vehicle before he could detonate He detained the guy until the MP got there.

The vehicle only exploded when they tried to push it off base with a robot but no one was hurt.

I'm still waiting for someone to give this guy a medal or something. Nothing less than instant US citizenship or something.

A hat was passed around and a lot of money was given to him in thanks by both soldiers and civilians that are working over here.

I guess I just wanted to share this because I want people to know that it's working over here.

They have tasted freedom. This makes it worth it to me.

JOHN W. HUNT, CPT, US ARMY

Part two...

2007-01-30T22:11:00.000-05:00

This is part two to "Don't count your chickens"

She then called the reserve P-3 squadron at Willow Grove to tell the Navy that her loving husband was dead, and to find out who she needed to send the death certificates so she could collect his service group life insurance and social security benefits for the baby about to arrive in a few months. The duty officer answered the phone and said, “Ma’am, I’ve been here four years, and your husbands name doesn’t ring a bell. Why don’t you try our sister squadron next door; they might be able to help you.” He transferred her to the Admin Officer next door who said, “Bob who”??? He says, “Sorry, never heard of him and I deal with all the members of this Squadron.” She really began to freak out now. “Well, he flew up there to drill once a month for the past four years we while we were married, and he also flew to Key West a lot with you all for his two-week Annual Training each summer.” Her words were starting to babble now as she wondered why her world was crashing around her. The Admin Officer took pity on her and offered to do some research on her behalf. Armed with his social security number and date of birth, he started to scour the naval records in DC.

A few phone calls on his part about the mysterious Naval Commander named “Bob” revealed some interesting facts. It turned out that ole’ Bob was never a pilot in the Navy, nor was he ever an officer. Turned out that Bob was indeed in the Navy during the Vietnam War during the early 70’s aboard the U.S.S. Oriskney, a small aircraft carrier where he was a crew chief in the SPAD squadron, and when he returned to the states, he was honorably discharged from the service. I guess that he built himself a bio from talking to the pilots he worked for. I mean this guy knew the names of the Squadrons he was in, the flights he took, the tail numbers, he knew it all.
Then she learned that he wrote his parents, and told them that he had been accepted into the NavCad program and offered a slot in flight school down in Pensacola. He disappeared for “training” and would, from time to time, show up to visit his folks in uniform. Over the years, he promoted himself on schedule and had a closet full of Naval Officer uniforms by the time he married ole Elizabeth. His own family never knew the truth about him. For all those years, he pretended to be someone else. He sure had me fooled, for he knew things that only a guy who served would know. No wonder, he wasn’t able to apply to the airlines, all of his combat flight time was nothing more then a bunch of fluff and stuff.

Again, that night, I heard it all. She cried on Teddy’s shoulder, for there was no insurance money, no military money, a baby on the way, her dead husband was a fraud, and now she wondered where he disappeared to when he was away flying for the Navy! It opened more mysteries then it solved. Could he have switched another body in the jeep that night? Did they kill him off and he knew something was amiss and set her up? Was this his idea of revenge? I’m not sure, but I think I heard a distant voice laughing that night from the grave as he rolled over knowing he had the last laugh. See, sometimes, the truth is stranger then fiction.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Don't count your chickens...

2007-01-28T22:33:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, the truth is stranger then fiction. I think this post should be sent to “Cold Case Files,” but I’ll leave it up to you, the readers out there in Cyberland to determine who did what to whom.

When I lived in New Bern, North Cackalacky, back in the mid-nineties, I was renting the most awesome house directly across the street from the New Bern Airport also located on a beautiful fresh water lake. At that airport, within sight of my house, is where I kept my 1967 Cherokee 140, a small white and blue low wing four-seater aircraft with a mighty 150 HP engine. I used to walk to the “F.B.O.”(fixed based operator), where I met this older guy, Bob (name changed), wearing a Navy flight jacket with patches all over it. We Marines like to say that the Navy guys put patches all over their jackets so that they can remember where they were when they parked their aircraft carriers. Bob told me he flew during Vietnam in the mighty SPAD, a prop plane that dropped many a bomb on the bad guys. After hearing a couple of his stories, I was addicted to drinking coffee and listening to Bob talk about the near miss he had off a bombing run in the Qui Trang area when his SPAD took small arm hits all over. With his experience, you would have thought he would fly for one of the commercial airlines, but, no, he was now flying cancelled bank checks in a Piper Navajo at night for some fly-by-night outfit out of New Bern. I thought it strange since he said he was a Naval Reserve Commander for a P-3 unit in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. Old Bob was married to a VERY young gal he met while taking graduate courses at a local college. It was a very odd relationship, but one that seemed to work, or so I thought.

Now, there were a couple of young flight instructors at the airport who graduated from the prestigious Emery Riddle Flight school in Daytona Florida, where it costs $100,000 to get all the ratings, and then the pilot spends the next twenty years paying off the school loans incurred as they pump gas, and fly in the mighty Cessna 150 that was held together with bailing wire and chewing gum. They were all trying to build up time to eventually one day become commercial airline pilots. A couple of these guys come into play later.

Due to the nature of the Marine Corps, my roommate was leaving in a month for Okinawa, Japan, for a fast back fill there (urgent replacement). I needed a roommate Riki Tic, so I put feelers out, and found myself in a bit of a rush to replace my friend for I would lose this awesome house on the lake if I didn’t find one soon. We are talking about the best bachelors pad in the world! Two guys who pumped gas at the airport lived in a trailer at the back of the airport with ten other flight instructors. They were available to move into my house with me thus saving me from having to find a new place to live. This turned out to be a bad decision and one of the worst of my life.

One guy, “Ted,” was from New Jersey and reminded me of Ralph Macciho from the Karate kid. He was of Italian descent with dark hair that was my same age. The other was “Beal,” a lazy piece of crap who always had a dip in his mouth, and was a real “couch potato.”
I came to the stark realization that this arrangement was a mistake when Ted showed up at my house with a girl in her mid-twenties named “Elizabeth.” She liked to smoke lots of cigarettes, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she was the wife of the Ex-Navy pilot named Bob from the FBO at the airport. I learned that Bob, a man in his fifties married a girl thirty years his junior, had asked Teddy to take his wife out for an occasional movie and dinner while he was out flying. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that these two would hook up, and have an affair behind Bob’s back. They started dating and before long, Elizabeth and Bob were separated.

Now, here starts the wild ride. Bob, who had never had kids, asked Elizabeth if she would have his child. The deal was, he would pay for her to fly to New York, and get artificially inseminated by a doctor buddy there. The other stipulations in their agreement included his taking out a million-dollar life insurance policy for himself, and that he also set up a trust fund for the baby. The weird part is that she agreed to do this, while dating Ted, and separated from Bob. She goes off and presto, the baby takes in her misguided womb and she is now pregnant. I kept busy and tried to avoid her when she came over. I wouldn’t allow her to smoke inside the house so she was out on the back deck a lot.

You can imagine that there was some tension over at the F.B.O. between Bob and Ted over his wife who was still legally married to him. As the months went by, Elizabeth’s belly got bigger and bigger, and I heard some more stories about why she left Bob from Ted, who would spew madness from time to time. Apparently, Bob wasn’t able to perform in the bedroom unless he watched at least two hours of porno beforehand to get him in the mood, all stemming back from his long stints aboard aircraft carriers. All sorts of crazy stuff, most of which I’m sure was created by Elizabeth to justify what she was doing. She claimed to love Bob, but she couldn’t live with him. At least she claimed this on the day he died.
While driving home in his old, ratty jeep, he apparently succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning from a hole in his exhaust that leaked into the jeep’s closed cab. He veered off the highway, headlong into some of those tall pines you see along the North Carolina highways. His jeep exploded like a massive torch, and pretty much melted into a molted pile of metal, because it turned out that he had a bunch of scuba tanks in the back filled with O2, not compressed air. I guess the police where able to track down who owned the jeep from the license plate that was thrown from the back of the wreck. What a way to go.
On that cold night, I had hit the rack early only to be awakened by loud voices on the back deck outside my bedroom window, a set of French windows always cracked. It was the super wife and Ted. She, with a smoke in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, was counting the money already in her head, and ole Bob wasn’t even in the ground. “Let’s see, we have the million from his life insurance policy, and oh, don’t forget, we will get $250,000 from the Navy for his SGLI insurance. I can sell his house and make another 20K off of that.” She was working the numbers, and Ted with a smile on his face was just nodding. I never understood what spell she cast over him, but I wasn’t sure that Bob’s death was an accident after all.
They had a memorial at the airport for Bob that Sunday, and, of course, it was a nice military send-off for a war hero. Knowing what I had overhead, it was pretty weird watching the mourning wife, with her belly swelled out a foot, crying on Ted’s shoulder. Here is where the fun began…
That Monday morning she got the shock of her life, the first of several. Bob had paid his premiums on the million-dollar policy, well at least the first two installments, and then let it go. There was no money to be had since he elected to default on the payments. You could hear her screaming all the way to South Carolina as the realization hit her, no insurance money and she was about to have a baby.

Stand by for the rest of the story
Semper Fi,
Taco

Lessons learned...

2007-01-22T15:28:00.000-05:00

It’s been a year since I started writing on Blogspot over in Iraq. I owe it all to Major Pain over at One Marines View for all of his help and time while I struggled to learn the code. Now I owe my Uncle Bruce who is the mastermind behind a new project. Thanks to Momma Taco for all the hours spent editing my post. I also wanted to thank all of you readers out there, your positive feedback makes writing fun!
You know, through the years, I have kept a little green “Lieutenant’s” book (a small hardbound book all Lt's carry) ever since I was at The Basic School in Quantico. Whenever I heard a great joke, quote or word that I liked, I would whip out my book and write it down. I have many of these books and there are some wonderful little pieces of wisdom there. For you, today, I am going to publish some of these gems of wisdom. Some of these may not make sense but they sure did for me at the time. Hope you get something out of the Taco’s lesson’s of life from his little Green Book.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Sayings:
“Time is a man made imposition upon the universe, it doesn’t exist, we are trying to control something we can’t control, the universe is timeless” Capt Jim Adams

“Some men see things as they are and say “Why?” I dream of things that never were and say, “Why Not?” George Bernard Shaw

“There is no chance, no destiny, no fate that can circumvent or hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul” Captain Walt Fisher

“A mistake is evidence that somebody has tried to accomplish something” John Babcock

“Better to be thought a fool, then to open your mouth and remove all doubt” Old Chinese fortune cookie

“Better to try and fail, then to never to attempt at all” Captain Jones

Quotes:

“He was hand picked, like a booger” Major Beck

“Watching him work is like watching a Monkey F**K a football” Maj John Wissler

“Don’t tell me how to build a watch you idiot, just tell me what time it is!”
Major to a Captain about a question on the up status of a plane.

“A life lived in Fear is but a half life lived” Old Spanish saying

“Fear is a mind stricture that prevents you from doing things, but when thrust in the midst of it, the fear dissipates, leaving an edge of awareness, but not the paralysis” Sailor rescued off the coast of Japan

“She must have had a rough paper route as a kid” Major Pat Redmon

“Lie, Deny, make counter accusations…” C.I.A. motto

“Hey, hand me a pair of those needle nose, vice girpping, monkey Mother F**kers”
Wrench turner I overheard in the hanger bay

“Hey, keep your motivation out here on recruiting duty. Don’t let them see you sitting at your desk with a .45 in your mouth and the Marine Corps flag draped around you!!”
District Col to his Commanding Officers during a brief

“An organization does well only those things that the boss checks” Major John Wissler

“Nothing concentrates the military mind so much as the discovery that you have walked into an Ambush” Thomas Packerman

“Minds are like Parachutes, they only function when they’re open.” My flight instructor

“Prefer a loss to a dishonest gain the one brings pain at the moment, the other for all time.” Chilon

and then of course how can we forget…”The average pilot, despite the sometimes swaggering exterior is very much capable of such feelings such as love, affection, intimacy and caring. These feelings just don’t involve anybody else.” Trader Johns’

Now words:
Lackadaisical : Adj without enthusiasm: without much enthusiasm, energy, or effort

Nebulous Adj 1. unclear: not clear, distinct, or definite

Fruition: Noun, 1. completion: a state or point in which something has come to maturity or had a desired outcome
Our plans have come to fruition.

Remiss: Adj negligent: careless or negligent about doing something that is expected

Intramural: Adj 1. within school or institution: occurring within, or involving members of, a single school, college, or institution

Wherewithal: Noun necessary means: the money or resources required for a purpose

Deleterious: del•e•te•ri•ous adj harmful: having a harmful or damaging effect on somebody or something

Trepidation: Noun 1. apprehension: fear or uneasiness about the future or a future event

Reiterate: 1.repeat something: to say or do something again, once or several times, sometimes in a tiresome way

Hubris: Noun 1. pride: excessive pride or arrogance
2. excessive ambition: the excessive pride and ambition that usually leads to the downfall of a hero in classical tragedy

Conundrum: Noun 1. something confusing: something that is puzzling or confusing

Effusive Adj unrestrained in expressing feelings: giving or involving an extravagant and sometimes excessive expression of feelings in speech or writing

Serendipitous: Noun 1. discovery of something fortunate: the accidental discovery of something pleasant, valuable, or useful

Now the Rest of the story...

2007-01-17T14:05:00.000-05:00

Walking out of my room into the Corpus muggy August morning, I slowly recited my emergency procedures for the days flight. Crossing the grass, I looked up to see my blue Chevy S-10 and part of it was covered in seagull “poop.” As badly covered as my truck was, it was nothing compared to Larry’s sand-colored Toyota pickup truck. It was covered completely as if the birds just hovered over his truck and opened up all the poop gates. Cursing the birds, I rushed to the car wash to remove the evidence from that night’s attack before heading to the Squadron. Larry came in about an hour later, fuming about the birds attacking his pickup. No one really gave it much thought. The next day, the same thing happened except two other unlucky bastards were parked on either side of Larry’s truck and got hit also. It became almost a daily routine and no matter where in the parking lot that Larry parked, the next morning it was covered in seagull calling cards.

After two weeks of this, Larry was beside himself and placed a call to the animal control officer from the ready room. “Yes, I’m the one who was attacked by the skunk, and no I didn’t provoke him, he just went nuts….” There was a long pause. “No, I don’t have anything against seagulls except they crap on my truck.” Pause, “I want to know what you are going to do about these birds…” pause… “Yes I want you to kill them all…” pause… “What do you mean they are protected???” This conversation, overheard by all the students in the ready room, brought lots of snickers as they sipped their coffee. Adam said, “You know, Larry, maybe it’s the color of your truck.” Larry turned around and said, “What did you say? Color? Why do you think it’s the color?” Adam looked around and with a wave of his arm across the room replied, “Well no one else here has a tan-colored vehicle, so that must be it.” Everyone started nodding in agreement; of course, the discussion of how birds could tell the difference in color AT NIGHT never came up. As Larry left, he was heard mumbling about how he might have to trade in his truck for another color.

That night at 1130 pm, I came around the corner of the building with a load of clothes I had just laundered. Across the night came the loud clear imitation of a seagull, “Hawwwwrrrrrrrrrkkkkk, Haaaawwwwwwrrrrrrk” and there in the parking lot next to Larry’s truck was someone clapping his hands. Walking to where I could get a better view, I saw that he had spread bread all over the hood, roof, and bed of the truck; arousing the birds by his calling. They started landing on the truck to eat the bread. Me, with my arms loaded with clothes, waited by the stairwell for the mystery man to walk by. Adam almost ran me over as he turned to climb the outside stairwell. The surprised look on his face gave it away. “Taco, you can’t tell a soul about this!!! I mean it, no one!!” I just laughed and said, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, but don’t you think every night is over doing it a bit?” Adam, just chuckled and replied, “I wanted to do it a couple more times before he trades it in. The sucker truly believes it’s because of the color of his truck. I’m just pissed that he turned us in so I’m having a little fun with the turd.” The two walked up the steps for a beer. Now, as Paul Harvey says, “You know the rest of the Story.”

The Birds

2007-01-11T20:40:00.000-05:00

The five flight students were sitting outside their room on the third deck of the Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ) in Corpus Christi, Texas, enjoying some afternoon adult beverages while watching the sun start its’ slow descent to the west. The buzz of the little red and white Navy T-34 trainers in the landing pattern overhead made a racquet every fifteen minutes or so, but that was the sound of freedom. Unlike the shrieking of hundreds of seagulls hanging in the stiff sea breeze just a few feet from the railing of the walkway from the five men.

As they leaned back in their deck chairs, a 6’ 4” former linebacker from Penn State, Adam Bolachek, in his deep baritone voice barked, “These God Damn seagulls are ‘rats with wings’ and crap on my car all the time.” Every one reflected on this true statement for a moment. We also knew of his hatred towards the highly skilled dive-bombing “rats with wings” that assaulted our cars in the parking lot on a daily basis. Once, at the beach, he caught a seagull by looping his fishing line in a circle with the little clip device and catching one by its’ webbed feet. He then let it fly off and would reel it back to him till the bird tired enough to be set free. He, by no means would get hired at P.E.T.A, but I dare a P.E.T.A. member to say anything to him for fear of being squashed…

Adam, whose voice only came in one caliber…loud, then bellowed out, “Hey, anyone ever feed a seagull an Alka-Seltzer tablet? I heard it makes them blow up; something about the gases expanding in their stomachs.” It was a quiet moment as each guy thought about all times they had cleaned the gull’s “poop” off their cars, and soon it became a mad dash into their rooms to search for some tablets. Maybe five minutes later, everyone was on the edge of the railing, tossing tablets at the hungry, hovering birds. They might catch one, but the gulls couldn’t swallow it--too big. They tried breaking the tablets into smaller pieces to feed them. That didn’t work either. The birds never blew up; they were truly “rats with wings” and could eat anything.

Taco Bell remembered his Russian History professor feeding vodka-soaked corn kernels to the pigeons outside his classroom. “Hey guys, what if we tossed them some alcohol-laced pieces of bread?” It was another mad dash to the different rooms looking for bowls, bread and alcohol. Pete Noah had a bottle of 180 proof grain alcohol-- true “set-your-throat-on-fire" stuff. Taco had some loaf bread and, loaded with those supplies, the pretty-smashed crew started to have some fun. They rolled the bread into tiny balls and then dipped them into the grain alcohol, followed by a toss into the air towards the hungry birds. The greedy little rats would dive down and attack the balls, swallowing them whole. It was the funniest sight to see when the bird realized that the bread had a chaser to it. They tried to cough it up but to no avail. Only one ball was required to get them drunk off their rockers. Pretty soon, they started to crash into each other, the walls, the lamppost, and the trees; then a bird body count began to amass on the grass below.

Adam then had the bright idea of using his officers’ sword to whack a couple of the birds. Encouraged by the others, Adam hauled back with his sword over his head while Pete stood a couple of feet in front of him and tossed the bread into the air. I’m sure that the beer played a big part in it, but Adam misjudged the birds, and the tip of the sword came down, slicing the front of Pete’s shirt and leaving a nice thin line from mid-chest section to his belly button. Through the haze of the beer and laughter of the others, the realization that this game was dangerous dawned on the group, thus ending that fun.

Adam went to his room to collect a heavy duty trash bag, followed by picking up some of the dead birds on the ground who proved the addage that you shouldn’t drink and fly. After dumping them into the dumpster, they returned to drinking some more beer and watching the poor smocks beating up the landing pattern.

A little later, a grey Navy police pickup truck pulled into the almost near empty lot. An overweight chief got out of his truck, and walked across the white feathers strewn all over the ground and called up to the group on the balcony, “Afternoon Gents. We got a call from someone in the building here that a group of fellas were killing some seagulls. This isn’t true is it?” All five were shaking their heads back and forth like the little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Oh no, Chief, nothing like that happening here,” Adam bellowed back down. The chief looked at all the feathers on the ground, and Pete shouted down, “Don’t mind those feathers, Chief, the birds are molting.”

The Chief looked back up and said, “Well, if you see anyone doing something stupid like that, would you remind them that it’s a $200 dollar fine per bird since they are protected down here in Texas.” He returned to his truck and waved. The group broke out in snickers… “Holy cow, Adam,” Taco said, “go bury those birds out in the sand dunes by the beach, and hope he doesn’t check the dumpster.” As he watched the truck driving out of the parking lot, Adam was now pissed through and through. “Who the hell turned us into the cops??? The only cars in the lot are ours and--wait a second, isn’t that Larry’s truck there?” The words no sooner passed from his lips than Larry’s door opened and closed, and he walked to his truck. He got in and never acknowledged the hellos from the party on the third floor.

They all looked at each other with disgusted expressions and, in unison, said… “Larry!!!!”

Missing the big picture

2007-01-05T22:53:00.000-05:00

Before I continue with my Corpus Christi Saga, I have to put a plug in for a great American and his name is Cpl Matt Sanchez USMCR. I’m very impressed with this guy and hope that one day he has the chance to run for office. I Know that you will enjoy his style of writing as much as I have. Please go check out his blog for some clips of him on the O’Reilly Factor and Hannity and Colmes. I had the honor of chatting with him via Email, and can tell you that he is the real deal. Where do the Marines find such Outstanding young men?? He and the thousands of others that are signing up everyday make me proud to say that I'm a Marine and American!!
Semper Fi,
Taco

www.mattsanchez.blogspot.com

Missing the big picture
Ivy League protesters feel superior to service members

By Matt Sanchez
The Columbia University Activities Day was the first week of school in 2005, with eager students lingering by a group of tables, deciding which activities to sign up for.
I was talking with friends when a group of student socialists gathered in mass and started to yell, “Get off our campus!”

“The military exploits minorities!” they chanted in a frenzy. It does?
“Hey,” I replied. I used my college voice, that sensitive, interested-in-debate tone that’s supposed to be passable at an Ivy League school. “I’m a minority; I joined the military, and I don’t think I’m being e One protester’s face flared red, like a pale recruit after two minutes on the quarterdeck.

“That’s because you’re stupid — too stupid to realize you’re being used as cannon fodder.”
I took the high road, leaving the table to report the group’s conduct to the university administration. This was not the first time such a confrontation had happened, but I wanted it to be the last.

It wasn’t the insults that bothered me: Shouts of “baby killer,” “murderer” and “Nazi” didn’t compare to the extreme stress and conflict I felt during boot camp. We all stepped on the yellow footprints in the middle of the night, completely disoriented. After the fourth day of sleep deprivation and fatigue, I knew I wasn’t going to quit, but it sure looked like the guy next to me was, and he may have been thinking the same thing about me.

What disturbed me was the odd disconnect between Columbia University, an elite institution of higher learning, and the Marine Corps, an elite branch of the military. Just that summer, a young sophomore asked, “You’re a Marine and you learn how to kill, so what makes you any different than the terrorists who flew the planes into the Twin Towers on 9/11?”

The group I had offended was not as inquisitive; they just wanted a poster boy. So they printed a flier of me next to a dead Iraqi kid and a homeless veteran and wrote “Victim?” next to it. In the morning, they handed the fliers to students as they entered the campus for a new day of learning.

I’m not a whiner. I never once raised my hand for sick call. I didn’t complain when, one calm Sunday afternoon, the drill instructors tore apart the barracks right after we had finished cleaning them. I didn’t say a word when, during the Crucible, a careless recruit dropped a cement-filled bucket on my head.
So why did a bunch of privileged brats calling me cannon fodder for joining the Marine Corps bother me so much? I could speak of racial injustice, breaking group and student conduct rules, or harassment, but that wouldn’t be the entire story. When I’m completely honest with myself, I understand the real reason this episode made my blood boil.

Deep down inside, most of the people at sophisticated, exclusive Columbia University felt they were superior to the military, and particularly the Corps. Honor, courage and commitment? Any undergrad and most of the faculty would tell you, in a double-spaced six-page essay, that these things are relative — impossible to define. For the academics, joining the Corps over attending an Ivy League school was an obvious sign of desperation.
Were we desperate? Our platoon “heavy hat,” Staff Sgt. Forde, never once mentioned he was named the best tanker in the Corps — two years in a row. But my professors at Columbia always mention the books they and their colleagues have written and often assign those books, as graded papers, so we all have to mention them, too. Who is desperate?

I joined the Corps not because I couldn’t make it elsewhere or because I needed money to go to school. No signing bonus was going to turn me into a soldier. I became a Marine because I wanted to be among the best, just as I applied to Columbia because I wanted to be among the brightest. I knew both required a high price.
Why not go elsewhere? Because we were different before we joined the Corps. We knew it was going to be tough, more intense, but we still joined instead of taking an easier way. We made it through boot camp and even reported for duty after they gave us our first 10 days of leave. We all got in for different reasons, but the Corps trained us, honing our skills so that we’d attack on command and fight to win. For the few, the eagle, globe and anchor is not just a popular window sticker, it also means we stand for something.

Like rapid fire at the 200-yard line, the flurry of action after the incident was quick and easy to lose track of. I went from one administrator to the next, confident I would eventually find someone to help. I met many people who emphasized how much “we really appreciate our veteran community.” But like patched up “D” targets, they all looked the same — compassionate and concerned — and said the same thing — “This was an outrage.”

Months passed, and the administration dismissed the complaint, with no appeal. According to the student newspaper, the Columbia Spectator, two of the students “were brought in for hearings in November and were later told that the administration did not hold them responsible.”

I became more determined. Sometimes, firing from the farthest line is where you take the best, most meditated shot. I settled in, drew my breath and aimed. If Columbia was not downrange, the media was in plain sight.
I went on national television, debating free speech on campus vs. anti-military sentiment. “What do you want out of this?” asked the commentator. “What do you expect Columbia University to do?” he asked, smirking.
What do I expect? How about saving veterans thousands of dollars by giving a lousy physical education credit for going through boot camp? It’s at least as tough as running after a birdie for an hour on the polished wooden basketball court.
How about a university Veterans Affairs representative who can deal with a Marine’s mistaken tuition charges when he’s deployed overseas? How about dropping the “we appreciate our veterans community” line and provoking a serious dialogue on campus, because if an Ivy League student cannot understand the difference between the commandant of the Marine Corps and Osama bin Laden, higher education has sunk pretty low.

So why do we do it? Why do I do it? I’m doing this for Lance Cpl. Lam, who used to call me “Super Sanchez” in the shop before he deployed and was killed in Iraq.
I’m doing it for the literally hundreds of veterans who e-mailed after I wrote an op-ed piece in The New York Post and appeared on national television to tell me similar stories of double standards for veterans, and the hundreds more who thought of writing me but just figured it wouldn’t matter.

I’m doing it for Lt. Bayer, a Columbia graduate, who died in the World War II Battle of Peleliu and whose plaque in the university gym often goes unnoticed by students who have not acquired the skills to connect his bravery and sacrifice with the everyday freedom they have to assemble, protest and, yes, pass out fliers.
I’m doing it because I know the Marine Corps has a special, personal intelligence that goes far beyond book smarts and high above street smarts.

I’m writing this because you should know that I go to school with the people who literally write history books and — whether we like it or not — the way the Marine Corps is portrayed depends almost as much on them as it does on us.
Editor’s note: Columbia University issued this statement when asked for a response: “Columbia University conducted a thorough investigation of the charges Mr. Sanchez made against other students in 2005 for insensitive remarks.” The school declined to discuss its findings, citing privacy laws.
The writer, a corporal in the Marine Corps Reserve, is a junior at Columbia University. He can be reached at matthew.a.sanchez@gmail.com.

Pepe' Le Pew

2007-01-03T22:13:00.000-05:00

Corpus Christi 1990

The five flight students were finishing another pitcher of beer at the “Eleventh Hour,” a dark jazz club in the heart of downtown Corpus, but with the added bonus of the upstairs “Crow’s Nest;” a fly boy’s dream come true. Lots of cold beer, assorted liquor and more local aviation history then one could shake a stick at. It was two a.m. and time to rally the troops for the drive home. One of the five was really steaming about his flight that morning, and this guy wasn’t one to lose his cool.

“That SOB Larry, I swear I feel like beating the living tar out of him.” Jake Swan was a Navy NavCad, (join the Navy and learn to fly and get paid as an E-4 till you were winged and then commissioned an Ensign. All this with two years of college under your belt). Jake was in this limbo because, on the scale of things, he was at the bottom of the ocean floor, “lower than whale crap” as he would say. If he punched this Ensign out, then he was afraid that the punk would run him up on charges of attacking an Officer. Larry Ruttenberg would throw you or his own mother under a bus if he thought it would advance him further towards his dream of becoming a jet pilot.

Larry was fast losing friends after he turned in one of our Marines for having a pistol in his BOQ room; actually it was a no-kidding-metal-toy gun that this guy had since he was a boy. So the charges were dropped, but it came out that ole Larry had dropped the “sewer top dime” on him. After that, few would let Larry into their rooms, especially if they were in competition with him for grades, and the few jet slots the Navy had to offer for fear that he would try to find some elicit infraction to get them in trouble.

Boys being boys, the group decided to help out Jake and start “Operation Petticoat.” Phase one would commence in twenty minutes when everyone arrived back at the BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters). If you weren’t married, and 90% were single, then we lived in these little studio apartments on the base. It was great camaraderie and made flight school easy when one could walk down the hallway to ask a buddy for some help. Our BOQ was located across from the O’Club and down the street from the ocean. We had lots of wildlife around the area, and phase one of our attack tonight involved “Pepe Le Pew,” the semi-pet skunk who waddled about the grassy area next to our building in search of love and food. Guys would feed the skunk so he became sort of a mascot.

The five students piled out of the Nissan Pathfinder in search of Pepe who was finally found at the end of the parking lot. They fanned out and sort of “shooed” Pepe up to the building, moving north along the many doors till they arrived at Larry’s room. Two of the fellows moved around, out flanking the skunk till he waddled back to a position right in front of Larry’s door. Then they, all at the same time, jumped at the skunk, growling with teeth exposed and hands in the air like claws. Ole Pepe hadn’t really seen this behavior from his human friends before, and let out a massive spray which went all over the front of Larry’s door, the intake for his air conditioner, and the concrete on the floor. The five took off running as fast as they could to avoid the blast, laughing as they went.
Larry, awakened by the stomping of feet outside of his room, opened the door only to come face to face with Pepe right outside his door, and an odor that some in Tennessee or Arkansas would find fragrant, but not to a New York Bronx boy. Pepe turned and sprayed Larry as he waddled off to the screams of a grown man as he ran back into his room.

The five vowed secrecy and told no one of their adventure. Not even whispered to their best friends, “Hey, don’t tell anyone, but last night…” So the next day when Larry did finally show up to the squadron, he cut a wide berth as he passed by, still reeking of skunk. His instructor told him to go home and take a bath in tomato juice that would get rid of it, and not to come back in till he did. Later that afternoon, a new name was written up on the whiteboard behind the flight duty officer next to Larry’s name.
“Pepe’ Le Pew”
Standby for Phase two…

Christmas With the Few, the Proud...

2006-12-27T14:31:00.000-05:00

Dear Gang,

The trip down to San Antonio was a great event and I think I’ll bid for this trip next year as well because if I have to be away from my family then I’ll go see my “Other Family…Marines.”

I arrived on time in Texas, after another 4:30 am wake-up call in Dayton, Ohio. Very tired, but the anticipation of the visit brought me my second wind. Changing into my dress blues, I waited just a short time for LtCol O.B. to pick me up from the hotel for the ten minute ride to the Brooks Army Medical Center.

Just to give you some background, this is the process if you are wounded and burned while in Iraq. Depending on what base is closest, they stabilize the trauma patient, medivac them to Balad north of Baghdad and then they have a dedicated C-17 airlift on two hour notice to fly them to Germany. From there, they have another C-17 fly them directly to San Antonio Texas to the burn center. Each plane is basically a critical burn ICU and set up with EVERYTHING required to work on a Marine or Soldier while they fly over the Atlantic. It is amazing to know that one of our wounded servicemen or women can be snatched from the filthy streets of Iraq and within twenty-four hours, they are stabilized in an ICU stateside.

They have the VERY best Doctors and nurses on staff plus all the outside Doctors who come to treat our boys as well. There are apartments built next to the hospital called the Fisher house where the families stay so they are able to be with their wounded sons/husbands during their recovery. I was so impressed with every aspect of treatment that our guys get, and I can’t tell you how proud I am of the Army for the facility they have put together.

As we drove over to the hospital, the Colonel briefed me on what to expect and that some of the guys were in very serious stages of recovery. The first time he went into one of the wards, he said it was enough to make you want to vomit. We first started with a Lt (we’ll call him Lt Dan). He was wounded two months ago, and now was a day away from being discharged. He was there with his Mom and Dad while his wife and son were back at the Fisher house. This Marine was burned over 60% of his body and within two months was on the move and ready to leave. I’m talking about sheer will power, positive love and faith from his family and friends, and a will to live and a drive that if I could bottle, I’d be a multi-billionaire…

He was joking about being back up to a 300 PFT (the run test I hate) in less then a year and I believe him. We had a great time joking about some of the knuckle heads we had while over there in Iraq. I am thinking that I will have to have an arranged marriage with his son and my daughter since they both have blue eyes and their daddy’s are Marines. Lt Dan is ready to heal and get back in the Fleet with his men. I tried to talk him into moving into the Aviation field, but I don’t think I was able to convince him.

The tour started with him and then progressed through the others who were in various stages of healing. It is amazing how fast these guys pull through. They have the treatment down to a science and are able to show a guy what things will be like in a few months which to me, is a positive thing. I was overwhelmed by the positive attitudes they had and the jokes they told.

The last two Marines I saw were in Intensive care and we had to dress in gowns, hats, gloves, masks and shoe covers. See, as they repair the skin, the temperature in the room is elevated to around 90 degrees or so to keep them comfortable since they have no blankets etc. to help keep them warm. They were on drugs so the visits were very short.

It really blows the mind to see them from just a week back in country from Iraq and then about to check out two months later. I have to say that I was amazed by the dedication of the staff, the volunteers, the facilities and the love that surrounded these men. I left with a great appreciation for the young men that volunteer for the service, and believe that we have the best military in the world!!

As I stated at the beginning, next year, I will bid for this trip again if I can and since I can’t be with my family, I’ll be with my “Other Family.” It sure was a blast playing Santa Clause and passing out those cards and Wal-Mart gift cards thanks to the generosity of so many friends and family members. Next year, I'll start earlier. I hope that you all had a wonderful Christmas and have a safe and Blessed New Year!!!
Semper Fi,
Taco

"I'll be home for Christmas"

2006-12-23T12:29:00.000-05:00

I will be on the road for Christmas this year. It’s not a new thing; if I’m not deployed then I’m flying for my company, and taking folks to where their love light gleans. This is explained to my children as follows; “Santa comes to visit all the houses of Airline pilots early because he knows that they will be gone helping Santa out.”
Being gone is just a fact of my life, so I make the best out of it. I’m the junior guy on the Super 80 and for the past eight years have flown all major holidays, birthdays, you name it, and nothing is off limits. I did have a trip to Memphis one Christmas morning that I put on my Santa’s hat, Elvis wig and glasses and sang Blue Christmas to all the passengers. This year will be just a bit different and barring any weather delays, this will be how I spend my Christmas on the road 2006.

Four a.m., Christmas Eve, the alarm goes off. I get up, shower and dress as quietly as I can so not to wake my wife. Let the puppy out; eat my oatmeal, kiss the girls goodbye and slip out of the house at 0435 onto the empty highway to DFW airport. Go through TSA’s finest, sign-in and then preflight my plane. All this before we depart the Airport at 0640 for our first leg to Jacksonville Florida. The Co-pilot (me) will greet all the passengers with a Santa’s hat on, and small candy canes tucked in a large red stocking hanging with care on the bulkhead of the cockpit.

My day will end in Dayton Ohio at 1630 (four thirty local) Christmas Eve where I will have dinner with an old Marine buddy named Don. He is a geo bachelor there and as it turns out, can’t make it home due to his business. It’s the end of a long day as I settle into the Holiday Inn around 8:30pm, my home away from home, and call my wife to see how her day went.

Christmas day, the alarm goes off at 0500 (east coast time, four a.m., my body clock) shower, pack up the suitcase, and meet the crew in the lobby for our trip to the airport. Go through TSA, preflight the plane, take off and watch the sunrise… again. This time we fly back to DFW, sit for two hours, and then take off to San Antonio, arriving by noon.

Today is going to be a bit different though. Last year, I spent Christmas with Marines in Iraq, my other family. This year I will spend it with Marines again only at Brooks Army Hospital burn unit. A friend there is the Officer in Charge of our Marines that return from Iraq, badly burned from IED’s. I asked Col “O.B.” if I could spend Christmas day with the young Marines there in my dress blues and asked what I could bring them. He said, “If you get some gift cards from Wal-Mart, that would be great, then the parents could go pick something up for them, since they would have an idea of what they could use.” I went to the Officers of my Squadron first and passed the hat. Then I contacted family and friends and told them of my mission on Christmas day. The checks flowed in. I’m proud to say that $1,540.00 is going to them this year, and all because the spirit of giving to others still exists.

I feel strongly about this visit because, but by the grace of God, walk I. It could be me, or one of my friends, going through the painful recovery that these brave men are facing. Later that day, after I get back to my hotel room, I will write about the visit.

Folks, this is what my Holiday will be like this year and although I’d love to be at home, I have to look at the bright side and say, at least no one is shooting at me, so I have that going for me. I hope that you all have a wonderful Christmas and that the weather allows everyone to get home safe and sound. If you are walking through DFW and hear, “I’ll be home for Christmas or Blue Christmas, look to see if it’s me.

I would be remiss if I didn’t thank some folks as well. Friends at VMGR 234, Kurt W, John and Mary B, Ron and Mary H, Jack F, Mike H, MAG-41 Officers, Dan and Cynthia B, Guss R, John “Cuz” W, and Susanna S from Newsweek. Thanks to all of you for your support on this last minute, crazy idea. Merry Christmas all!!!
Semper Fi,
Taco

P.S. Go wish Major Pain a Happy Birthday, today is the big one for him…
P.S.S. go check out www.newsweek.com Maj P and I are there in the Iraqi section.

"Where's the Beef??"

2006-12-16T11:06:00.000-05:00

The Marine Corps has many fine traditions that they can point back to the early days and say, “That program really sets us apart from the other services.” A lot of the time, there may be some ancestor worship going on that just hasn’t changed because that’s “the way we always done it.” Take for example the P.F.T. (physical fitness test) that active duty Marines must complete twice a year and once for us Reservists. You are required to run three miles; max time is 18 minutes and to fail it, depending on your age, is around 27 minutes. You can score a hundred points for this event. Then, they make you climb up on a pull-up bar and going from a dead hang, you pull yourself up. Max is 20 for five points each and minimum is three. Followed by crunches (sit-ups), max 100 in two minutes and minimum of forty.

In the “Old” days, the run never bothered me, as I was in good shape and a former cross country guy who could turn his mind off and just run like Forest Gump. The pull ups didn’t faze me much either because I could knock out twenty in a heartbeat using the “kip” technique where you sway your body, and in a snake-like motion, use the momentum to hurl your body back up over the bar. The Corps figured out that this was sort of cheating the system and outlawed the “kip” in the mid-90s, but it was a good thing when we had it…

The sit-ups in the old days were a breeze too, if you just did one sit-up every two seconds then at the end you could pace yourself, and knock out the rest before the two minutes were up. Put all this together and you would have a pretty decent score for your fitness report that year.

Well, going from running three to six miles a day when I was 29 to walking three a day at 41 is a big life change. Of course I’m a procrastinator who likes to wait till the last minute to get something done, and pushed off doing my PFT till Sunday, the last day this year we could run it. The days prior to Sunday, were, oh, around twenty-two degrees each early a.m. and didn’t warm up to fifty till around the afternoon. I couldn’t figure out why we were having our PFT at 0800 in the morning but figured that next year I would be smarter and run it in October or November when Texas weather is really pleasant.

That prior Saturday night was also our Officer’s Christmas party, and I tied on a good one with the wine, rum and beer. That helped the next day because it made me not even care how cold it was. The Lord was watching over us, as Sunday arrived and a warm front from the South moved in making the temperature at 0800 a lovely forty-five degrees, but with a stiff wind from the South. That gave us a tailwind going out to the mile and a half point and a head wind coming home. So the best bet was to find a big guy and use him as a wind block and draft the whole way back (thanks RonJon for being my windblock)

What bothers me is that the Marine Corps should change this test to reflect today’s situations. I’m proud to say that I ran 24 minutes for three miles (good for an old reservist) but where is the true test for our Marines? This test was put together by a bunch of skinny, office pencil-pushing geeks who liked to run at lunch, and decided that the whole Corps should be like them. Here is where common sense is not coming into play. We punish Marines who are all bulked out from lifting weights for being over weight by these 1950 standards and charts. Do you think our Marines are running a 5K in Iraq with all their gear on? No, of course not!! They run in short bursts from house to house with tons of gear and loaded for bear. If I was in a grunt unit, I’d want the biggest, meanest, son of a gun toting the M-60 next to me and laying down some serious covering fire on the bad guys and able to carry thirty pounds of extra ammo with him. Instead, they are punishing those big guys with bad fitreps and eventually running them out of the Corps if they can’t get their weight down or achieve faster run times. Face it, big heavy muscle guys can’t run like the wind.

Now, of course I’m going to offend all the skinny “I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in two hours and twenty minutes” types, but I say let’s change the test. Let’s turn our Marines into these giant WWF-looking types who can bench press four hundred pounds and could not only throw your wounded butt over his shoulder, but could return fire as well. I want to see the Army match that!!! I say “Where’s the Beef??”
Oh well, I’m dreaming about when I take over as dictator again… until that time, I have to go for a walk, take care and talk to you soon.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Marine Corps Ball

2006-12-13T21:34:00.000-05:00

Hey Guys,
This is a month off, but Gunny Baker from our PAO was able to put together some clips from our ball. This was a great night and I really enjoyed being the MC/Narrator for events. Here are three links and I have one more that should be ready in a day or so. When you watch it, there may be dark spots with me reading till the action happens. This was the living memorial that we put on. I hope you enjoy it too.
Semper Fi,
Taco
I had to move these You-Tube video's to the bottom of the blog, let me know if they work. They appear dark and you hear me talking, then after a minute or so the living memorial kicks in, hang tight.

Dec. 7th 1941

2006-12-07T16:37:00.000-05:00

“Was it over when the German’s bombed Pearl Harbor???”

This was the famous line shouted by Jim Belushi in Animal House, a film made famous in the Seventies, but with real undertones that bother me a bit. You know the man on the street series that Jay Leno does? He walks around Hollywood Blvd and asks the average American history questions that EVERYONE should know. I remember once he asked “So what year did the Germans bomb Pearl Harbor?” They stumbled, all of them and the sad part is, not only did they mess up the year, not one of them piped up and said “Germans??? I thought it was the Japanese?”

Sixty-five years ago, the Empire of Japan, attacked our country and killed thousands of our servicemen and Americans. That was the straw that broke the camels back and got us into the whole World War act. Those generations are leaving us at the cyclic rate and pretty soon, say in the next ten years, our children will only hear about this in a chapter in their textbook at school. What scares me the most now, is how the Japanese are changing history little by little and now their books show that America forced the Japanese to attack us. Can you believe that? Now fast forward sixty-five years to the year 2071. What will the history books say about America then? If it keeps going the way I imagine it will, all of the history books will show that America forced the Muslims to attack us on September 11th 2001 and all the other attacks that we have endured.

I only hope that we never forget these brutal attacks on our country and to those men and women who survived that day in Hawaii, I will never forget, nor will my children.
Semper Fi,
Taco