Now the Rest of the story...

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

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

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

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...

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