Those Magnificent Men and their flying Machines

Memorial Day weekend is here, just another day off to go shopping, grill steaks in the backyard, and chase the kids around the pool. How fast folks forget the meaning of these holidays and why we have them. It’s actually the first time in many years that I will be off from work and able to participate in a biplane tribute to the fallen American and Canadian Soldiers who died in training while stationed at Hicks Army Airfield in North Fort Worth, Texas. As you can imagine, flying the old Curtis Jenny, a classic biplane trainer, was a very dangerous prospect for these eighteen-year-old kids in 1916. Back then and even in WWII, more young men died in training accidents than were killed in combat. You faced a terribly high percentage of dying then, and yet these guys still trained for war in these flimsy motor powered “Kites.” As my dear pilot-friend Reb always says of the era, “That was back when flying was dangerous and Sex was safe, what a world we live in now.”

A group of local pilots here in my area will take to the skies in their antique biplanes to fly over the Veterans Cemetery in downtown Fort Worth to pay homage to those who have gone west before us. On the ground, the roar of old radial engines will fill the air as we pass overhead, our silk scarves trailing out of our cockpits; my eyes shaded by tinted flying goggles over a tan-colored flight helmet. Flying formation with six other planes is a very tedious task, constantly moving the throttle back and forth to control your airspeed as you maintain a position just off your partner’s right wing. Every bump in the air is felt, forcing you to make numerous corrections every second.

I often imagine that time travel is possible during periods like this; truly, you’re in a 1929 biplane, with the wind creating the same whistle as it passes through the flying wires out on the wing. They resonate along the lines of A plus, leaving a slight ringing in your ears after you have landed.



This is what I will do on Monday, flying my 1929 Fleet biplane and saluting all the veterans below who have paid the ultimate sacrifice for their country. I urge all American to reflect on what our military has done for this OUTSTANDING country; for without their sacrifices, we might be speaking German or Russian as a national language, or in this day and age, our enemy would like us to be Muslim or dead.

So, I will have my daughter set an extra place at our dinner table with an overturned wine glass for those who are serving now and those who will never come home.

Semper Fi,
Taco

Thanks for Flying with me today

The Super 80 sitting at the gate in Dallas Fort Worth was completely filled; all 136 seats plus two jump-seaters on the plane. In ten minutes the Silver bird would push from the gate on this hot May afternoon, bound cross-country to Seattle Washington. I turn to the Captain, a civilian-trained pilot in his mid 50’s, “Hey Boss, you want to see this plane go nuts???” He says “sure,” so I pick up the mike to make a P.A., but before I do, he says “just make certain I’m not called into the Chief Pilots office to explain my First Officer.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, as a Marine Corps Reservist who has just returned from Iraq, I just want to see a show of hands, Tell me, how many active-duty Military do we have onboard right now?” I am looking back and see two hands go up. “O.K., now let me see the hands all the folks who have served in the Military or have retired.” About twenty folks raise their hands. “Now the biggie, how many parents to we have onboard whose child is serving or has served? Especially all of you Mothers out there, put your hands up.” I can see at least thirty people put their hands up now. “Ok, I’d like all of you to raise your hands again that I have called out,” They do. “Folks, I’d like you to give these OUTSTANDING Americans a big round of applause for the sacrifice they have given our country!!!”
The entire plane erupts in clapping and whistles. I turn to the Captain and say “I sure wish the media could see this. Ok, the plane is yours again, Boss, and thanks.” The clapping continued for another thirty seconds causing the gate agent to run on board wondering if a riot had broken out. This is America, and like it or not, the military has touched many lives of the folks here. I am proud to say that I am part of that big Green Machine.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Save your Mommy, Kill a Commmie

The sweat stings as small drops make it into your eyes during the two-hour drill session on “The Grinder” which in laymen’s terms is a large asphalt parking lot the size of three football fields. We lucked out and had the Grinder booked from 0900 to 1100, but by 0930, the sun was starting to peek over the tops of the tall trees on the East end. The humidity was increasing too, causing our hands to slip on the plastic M-16 A1 rifle that we had to constantly switch from shoulder to shoulder.
The only goal while out here was to clear your mind and do EXACTLY as the Drill Instructor says. One small slip and he would know about it. The drill instructors visual scan over the platoon was incredible. Anders, the number one point guy, had a severe nosebleed the day of our first haircut and was taken to Bethesda Naval hospital where they cauterized every blood vessel in his nose. We all thought that was the last of the surfer boy, but he came back. Now here we are in our fresh uniforms and baldheads and it looked like a woman was point guy in the front of this mob with his shoulder length blonde hair, and he had to wait until Saturday for the next haircut. This, of course, put Anders on the skyline (walking on the skyline allows the enemy to see you and pick you off easily) who, to add insult to injury, couldn’t march to save his life. I have to admit, it’s hard enough to do all the drill, but at least I was behind a prior enlisted guy and could see what his movements were, whereas Anders was all on his own.
The platoon was drilling around in big squares, practicing “Right shoulder, Hharshhhhhhhh,” “Left shoulder, Harrrrrrrsshhhhhh” with the sweat dripping down our faces, hoping that we weren’t next to get yelled at. “Platoon Halt!!!” the drill instructor yelled out. “Left face” and we all turned like little robots towards him. This was our second week of this stuff and it’s starting to come together somewhat. SSgt JJ runs over to a guy only five down from me. His name is Clements, but he has one of those natural mouths that wouldn’t seal properly, so it left a gap. SSgt JJ took to calling him “Candidate Fly Catcher” when he addressed him. “Hey ‘FlyCatcher,’ what college do you go to?” Clements was from Ohio and was a Buckeye, “Platoon Sgt, this Candidate attends Ohio State” SSgt JJ looked at him and then shook his head, “Well, I’ll make sure I strike that off my son’s wish list if they all as dumb as you.” “Right Shoulder Harrrrrsssssshhhhhh” We all move the rifle to the right shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a guy in the second row named Eppson who moved his head as the rifle went in front of his face. “God Dangit!!! Eppson, WHAT I tell you? Don’t move your head! Dat Rifle ain’t gonna do you no damage if it hit you, watch, gimme dat rifle.” He moved out in front of us with the M 16 in his right hand. Took off his Smokey Bear hat and smashed the rifle up against his own head a couple of times. There was a sound of plastic hand guards rattling followed by a loud thunk..
“See Dat Platoon? This ole toy rifle don’t hurt none, but if I see you moving your head, you’ll be over in da corner beating yourself up with it and that will be painful.” He walks back and hands Eppson the rifle, and we go through it again. Eppson does the same thing. This causes SSgt JJ to explode as he is shouting in between us on the front row to Eppson behind me and over to the left. SSgt JJ had his arms outstretched to the sky, “Lord, why you give me such a F’d up platoon???” He then lowered his arm and pointed at Eppson, “You a Commie Spy Eppson ain’t you? Eppson is frozen, his lips quivering, on the verge of trying to answer this insane question, I mean, could you imagine being a spy and volunteering for this??? “NO Platoon SGT”, SSgt JJ was shaking his head left and right, “I think you are Eppson, I think you a God Damn Commie Spy sent here to F up my Platoon. So tonight, I want you to write your Commie Spy ringleader and tell him that you doing a great job F’ing up my Platoon.” Eppson, on automatic replies “Yes Platoon Sgt!” which sends SSgt JJ off again. “Oh, you admit you a SPY now huh???” The voice behind me is a bit weaker now, “NO, Platoon Sgt.” By now there were snickers coming out from everyone. I found it very hard to hold back the thought of some poor Russian getting tortured on the Grinder as a spy. SSgt JJ looked at everyone and said, “Well if you ain’t a spy, what then???” “Did my Ex-wife send you out here to F with me????”
After that, everyone called Eppson “Da Russkey”. All in a days work at OCS…
Semper Fi,
Taco

''DyyyynnnnoooooMIGHT!!!!!!"

You really take for granted the emotions a young man or woman feels when they join the military. I mean, from where we are in life, a 3-year commitment is nothing. Know what I mean, time flies by. Most of the time when a neighbor’s kid is going away to boot camp you might say “Oh Johnny, you take care and don’t let the Marines get you down too bad.” Just stop and think about what is going through this kid’s mind at the moment. It’s mixed emotions, kind of like the anticipation of dating the hottest girl in school but knowing that her big brother is about to kick your butt for the next couple of years that you are dating. The fear of the unknown, yes, but putting on a front that you have taken up the challenge to serve your country in the one of the finest fighting forces in the world. Now, when you are alone with just your thoughts, it begins to eat at you, “Have I made the right choice? Am I nuts? Oh God, I signed a contract-- what have I done???”
Yes, these thoughts went through my mind as I started working construction at the beginning of summer and the date approached that I was slated to go to Officer Candidate School located in Camp Upshur, Virginia, adjoining Quantico Marine Base. I had signed up to attend the P.L.C. (Platoon Leaders Class) which means you opt to attend for either two six-week summer courses during college or one ten-week session. My recruiter said, “Hey, just think of this as an internship for the summer where you get to keep the cool clothes if you decide not to come back.” Compounding my fears was the fact that a friends’ Pit Bull bit me on the face four days before I was to leave, tearing my upper lip in half, and I didn’t know if they would allow me to stay for training although it didn’t worry my recruiter who only wanted the credit for shipping me. The Doctor said that they couldn’t stitch it up and for me to just keep the butterfly bandages on it. To get in shape for OCS, all my buddies were out running six miles a day and hitting the gym. Do you think I did any of this??? I couldn’t, I was too tired from pushing Georgia buggies (like a wheel barrel) full of concrete as I helped build the tall office buildings in Ballston Commons in Arlington, Virginia. After running around all day in the heat and humidity of Northern Virginia, you’re set for anything.
Well the day of departure arrived and with a large farewell dinner at the Bell household, my father parted with the following sage advice. “Son, be outstanding, but don’t STAND OUT and you should be O.K.” I’m thinking that, with my busted swollen lip, I wouldn’t stand out at all. He had taken me to Henderson Hall Marine Base for a goodbye “high and tight” Marine haircut the day before, so I was set there at least. Mom dropped me off at National Airport with my little bag, a bad haircut and my crisp civilian clothes on my back. I was told to wander around and look for a Marine in uniform, and ask if he was taking the group to OCS. I found this thick, muscular Corporal standing there with a group of forty-some guys. He was very nice and all smiles as he guided me into the herd of fellow college students. The smiles went away as we boarded the bus out front and he was no longer in the view of the general public.
“SIT DOWN AND SHUT YOUR PIE HOLES,” he began as he paced up and down the bus, “MY NAME IS CORPORAL LITTLE, (he wasn’t little!!) AND YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS CORPORAL LITTLE, DON’T CALL ME SIR YOU MAGGOTS.” This went on the whole trip down to Quantico as he explained in a very loud voice the do’s and don’ts of his bus. It turns out that half my bus was from Ohio and the other half from California. Later, this would prove to be an interesting mix.
Moving from my seat after what felt like a five-hour road trip in a big white Marine Corps school bus, we got off and were broken up into platoons for our company. In a flurry of haste, you are shuffled around into alphabetical order and told to stand on top of a pair of yellow footprints painted on the asphalt at a forty-five degree angle. This is where the fun starts. Our Platoon Sergeant, Staff Sergeant Westgrove was at least 6’ 4” and unfortunately had the face of JJ from “What’s happening,” an old 70’s T.V. show, so I kept expecting to hear out of his deep voice was “DDDDYYYyyynnnnnoooomight.”
We were all lined up and told to dump out our suitcases for a contraband inspection. The first guy in line was named Anders, a tall lanky surfer boy from Huntington Beach, California, with long blond hair that went down to his shoulders. His dad must have given him the speech about “Stand out son, it’s good for you.” The guy next to me was Barns, then me, Bell, and so forth. SSgt JJ slowly walked up and down our line inspecting what damaged goods he had to work with. He looked down at his clipboard and said, “When I call out your name, I want you to sound off like you have a pair.” The first guy on the list is Anders, “ANDERS,” still looking down at his notepad, in a loud booming voice the reply is “YOO, YEAH, HERE MAN.” I froze with anticipation of this guy getting his head cut off right there, two guys away from me. SSgt JJ just walked up and looked at our surfer boy, “Anders, you and me, we’re going to have a real good time this summer.”
Returning to his clipboard, “BARNS” (a prior enlisted guy), “HERE PLATOON SGT!!!” Easy for me to follow that lead, “BELL,” “HERE PLATOON SGT,” then he looks at my face, “WHAT DA HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE, BOY? I figured that the best answer was the short one, “Bitten by a Pit Bull Platoon Sgt.” He made a note next to my name and said “YEAH, THAT’S WHAT THE RECRUITER TOLD YOU TO SAY HUH? WELL BOYS, WE HAVE A SCRAPPER HERE”. OH MAN, I’m thinking that I am so screwed. For the first couple of days after that, no one would come near me for fear that I might attack them or something.
The names keep rolling off the list till I hear “SWEET JESUS, WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE???” Out of normal reaction, I turn my head not knowing any better as I see three Marines descend on this huge Italian-looking football guy. They are holding up a huge black dildo, lots of leather and some crotch-less women’s underwear. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME MAGGOT?” the lead Marine starts into him. The red-faced, stammering two hundred and forty-pound linebacker (from USC it turns out) says “Sir, my name is DeRosa.” Oh boy, as a history major, I learn fast from others’ mistakes. First, these guys work for a living and are not called “Sir.” Next you never refer to yourself in the first person, it’s always “This Candidate requests permission to speak etc.” I learned a lot from the others mistakes right off the bat.
Now SSgt JJ, as I’ll call him, proceeds to interrogate this guy. “O.K. muscle head, you one of them funny guys from L.A., land of fruits and nuts???” “No Platoon Sgt, I just have some Jerkoff friends that...” JJ is looking down at this guy, only inches away and screams “What did we just tell you Maggot, don’t use ‘I,’ ‘me’ or ‘my’ in your sentences.” They do this to teach the rest of us who listen, what to say. The Marines are kind of funny like that. Now it’s 11 a.m. and the temperature is rapidly climbing. I’m used to it, but still sweat like a whore on “dollar night.” The funny thing is you never see these guys sweat as they run around yelling at us. They must be supermen!!! Turns out they had Scotchguard™ back then and they would spray the inside of their uniforms and trousers so the sweat just puddled up in their shoes or the towels they had wrapped around their calves and you never saw them in a pitted shirt. The other secret is that they take turns going into their office a.k.a. “Headshed” to change their shirts out. While you, average “Joe the ragman,” are running around soaking wet, they appear to be nice and dry. Mind games… I love it. Here is a shot of my bunkmate in our Sunday best. This was back before they had women out in the sticks of Upshur.
Well, that is day one, more to come…
S/F
Taco

Marines

I have found that some people look at you in a different light when they find out that you are in the Military. It's some foreign concept that you would WANT to be doing this as a job occupation. But I am here to tell you that coming from a long line of Military service, and growing up a Navy Brat were some of the best times in my life. I look back at those days in Little Creek Virginia on the Amphibious base there as the standard that all kids should have. The following are stories of joining the Marines and life as a pilot.
I always knew that one day I would join the service, which branch was a different story. I was taught that Marines were nuts, and the toughest of the different services. My Grandfather was a Naval Surgeon in the Navy during WWII and Korea; my Dad was in Danang at the Swiftboat Ops Center and served a sea tour in Vietnam; and my Uncle flew the mighty F-14 based at Oceana Airbase in Virginia Beach. So being exposed to all these different life styles made me think about my future. First of all, I don't have the patience to be a Doctor (nor the smarts) and after being bitten by the flying bug from my Uncle Bruce, I knew what I was going to do for the rest of my life.
I attempted in High School to become a Marine. It went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. This hard charging Sgt. showed up from the Old Town Alexandria office to interview me. "Mitch, with these scores, we can make you an aircraft mechanic since you want to work in the aviation field," he said. Well it wasn't flying, but I figured that I would get there somehow. Since I was 17, my Dad was needed to sign the early enlistment forms saying that I would go to boot camp in the summer. When Dad came home, this poor Sergeant didn't have a chance to use the Jedi mind trick on my father because he had him out the door in about a minute and a half. "My son isn't joining the Marines, he's going to college, and if he did join, I'd make him go to OCS [Officer Candidate School]." Dad was very adamant with this poor guy. I still feel like a heel to this day for wasting his time like that knowing what I know about the lives of recruiters.
So fast forward to college where I'm taking Army ROTC classes because that is the only Service available to me. At the beginning of my sophomore year, the Major in charge pulled me into his office. "Mitch" he said, "I understand that you want to be a pilot and fly. I have to ask you, how do you feel about being a cannon cocker???" See, they only have one flight school slot for the grads and he was getting me prepared that if I stayed in the Army and took a commission, I might not be a pilot. So as I walked across campus, I ran into one of my fraternity brothers who had joined the Marines. "Mitch, my OSO (Officer Recruiter) is at the student Union, come say "hi" to him with me." I reluctantly went with him because, although I respected the Marines, I deep down wondered if I truly had it in me to be one. (Funny thing is, I ran into Bruce my buddy over in Iraq after 20 years, small world)

The OSO was standing there with his booth covered in cool pictures of Marines doing various things. I told him I wanted to be a pilot and he said, "Well, if you take the aviation test, and pass it, we can offer you a slot at flight school." What he didn't tell me was there were ten contracts for each pair of wings awarded down in flight school. See you have to pass the test, then the physical, then OCS, then graduate from College, graduate from TBS (The Basic School), have perfect 20/20 vision, then complete 18 months of flight school. If you do all this, then yes, you will be a winged Naval Aviator.
He had me sold, so I took the test and somehow passed. Questions like "Johnny's pool is 20-feet wide, 30-feet long and 16-feet deep, what is the cubic space of Johnny's pool?" Hell, all I'm thinking about is how many chicks from Tri Sig Sorority I can fit into Johnny's pool. Well, after he gave me the good news that I had passed the test, I signed up to attend Officer Candidate School in Quantico Virginia. I called my folks from the Captains office and braced for the worst. "Hi guys, its Mitchell, hey what do you all think about the Marines?" They both gave me their answers and then asked "Son, where are you calling from?" Hmmmm what do you say "Dad, I took Aviation test for the Marines and guess what? Your-history-major-I-can't-stand-math-boy passed." He takes a deep breath; I'm sure the pause of WHAT THE HELL HAS MY SON DONE NOW-type breath as he collected himself. "Son, did you sign any papers by chance???" "Yes," I reply with an instant explosion on the other end of the phone. I can hear my Mom wailing, "Oh my God, my son has joined the Marines" with my Dad saying, "Mary, get off the phone," Mom crying, "Oh my God, my son is going to be a Marine." and Dad again, "Mary get off the phone." This goes on for a couple of minutes, and then he asks me to put the recruiter on the line. Captain Barker nods his head a lot, I heard a bunch of "Yes Sir, Yes Sir, I understand" and after what felt like 20 minutes, he says, "Sir, the bottom line is your son is over 18 and can do what ever he likes without parental permission."
Thus began my career in the Corps. Those were a couple of tough months with the folks till I graduated from OCS that summer and now, you would think that my Dad retired from the Marines and not the Navy. Why??? Well, President Reagan summed it up nicely, "Some people go through their entire lives wondering if they made a difference, Marines don't have that problem!!!" I'd say that both my folks are very proud of their boy, understatement.
Next stop, OCS, till then, remember... where ever you go, there you are.
Semper Fi,
Taco