Happy Birthday Marines!

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

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

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

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...

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