Hey friends,
Thank you all for your loyal readership despite my lackluster writing frequency. This said, I am moving my site to wordpress.
The new web blog address is www.lukeriddle.wordpress.com
Please feel free to link and refer as you please.
As always....be good.
LW
Friday, January 26, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
nights like these
So I finally understand the old army slogan, ‘we do more before 8 a.m. then most people do all day’. It’s a simple matter of time difference; else it’s some sort of inside joke between Joes. Honestly, I’m fairly certain there are more then enough underemployed Joes to suffice without adding more troops. Oh if all warriors were as diligent and industrious as sailors…
For weeks now I’ve promised an entry concerning the lesson God is teaching me lately. However, one thing after another continues to creep or jump in the way. Surely soon, I’ll get to some meat and substance, as it is what I really want to write even now. Alas, I find myself relating a story from a couple days ago you might find interesting. I’ll warn you, there is quite a bit of aviation jargon. I’ll do my best to explain everything, if you are still confused, let me know and I’ll further refine and define. Without further ado, nights like these.
For those of you new to my web log, I am deployed in Kuwait, serving as a pilot in the facility of an air ambulance squadron. Coalition forces proudly claim we own the night. I prefer to think of it as on loan. Though our technology allows us an advantage, it is not always a gift. There is a reason the night is so coveted by military leaders and yet so slippery. For the night in the desert is dark. Very dark.
And what a night it was. We stand twenty-four hour alert shifts. We launch on a moments notice. The notice comes in the form of a ‘nine line’, a brilliant name gleaned from the fact it contains nine lines of information describing what sort of injury, the wounded’s locale and other peripheral information.
The day began slowly. Nothing happened. Though this means no flight time, it also means no injuries, no death and no tears from mothers and sisters of those fighting bravely. My crew drove home from dinner blaring Wilson Phillip’s Hold On, all singing along. A cop pulled us over for going too slow. Apparently this gentleman didn’t share our appreciation of one of the ninety’s real gems (sarcasm). We cracked up as he yelled his face red despite the fact we couldn’t hear a word he said due to the music. When we turned the music down, he was so flustered, he drove off. We thought this was the highlight of the night. How does it get any better then getting reamed for singing along to Wilson Phillips and serenading the troops?
The night was only just beginning. I was just about to lie down to sleep when the nine line came in. 2230 perhaps. Selene sleepily rose to take her throne low on the horizon above an ever-thickening layer of spotted clouds. Over the hand held radio came a raspy voice, ‘medevac, medevac, medevac!’ I couldn’t help but wonder why people never get hurt in the daytime. I put on my side arm and hurried into the tactical operations center, toc. The squadron duty officer was furiously chatting away on the telephone, scribbling notes. She hung up the phone and told the crews now assembled, we were flying to western Iraq. Immediately we began loading additional ammo clips, checking our side arms and rifles.
When flying into Iraq, it is required we fly as a flight of two. This requirement acts as a safeguard against the chance of one helicopter going down without aide. As is standard operating procedure, the co-pilots, played in this case by Lieutenant Junior Grade Mike ‘Long John’ Silver and a dashing young Lieutenant (yours truly) quickly grabbed our gear and the ‘football’ and ran to start up the alert helicopters. The football is our secret briefcase filled with the current passwords and frequencies in Iraq. And yes, we stole the name from the president’s nuclear code briefcase.
Quickly, the rest of the crews arrive and we spin up the bird. Pat Larsen, a pilot I cruised with the past year was assigned as the helicopter aircraft commander, HAC, for this particular event. A HAC is the one who signs for the aircraft. In a nutshell, it is his bird and consequently his flight. The other aircraft, commanded by Lieutenant Joe Adams, call out they are up and ready.
I lower my NVD’s and taxi behind them. ‘Tower, Dustoff Evac zero-five and flight, approaching hold short for the active.’
‘Roger, Dustoff Evac zero-five, wind three-three-zero at twelve, cleared to take off.’ We launch in order. The excitement of the rush to get to the bird and launch is still evident in the idle chitchat and excited voices over the internal communication system, ICS. Dustoff Evac zero-five, Dash One, lifts. I pull us into a hover, check the gauges and call, ‘Two’s in’.
A moment later the form flight is bustering (flying as fast as the aircraft will allow) at two hundred feet, skimming along the desert floor. Dash One, the lead aircraft sets in the locale and heads direct. My aircraft, Dash Two, follows behind, keeping them at our ten o’clock. It wasn’t until this moment we realize just how dark it was. The precious light of the moon was masked behind an ever-growing layer of spotted clouds high above us.
‘It’s a varsity night boys,’ I call over the ICS. How right I was, for it was a dark night. One of those terribly dark nights. In the desert, when there is no light, there is NO light. In low light situations on goggles you get a situation called scintillation; an effect borne from the way goggles gather ambient light (a flash of light from the ionization of a phosphor struck by an energetic photon or particle). The normally crisp green and black images are now laced with tiny flickering dots. It looks very much like a television station you can’t quite pick up.
Joe’s voice over the radio: ‘Looks like we have fog forming below us.’
‘I don’t know man; it actually looks like the difference in the shadows of the moon poking through the clouds,’ Pat answered.
As we flew deeper into Iraq the weather started to get a little worse by the second; a false horizon formed. We were bustering at one hundred, thirty-eight knots (roughly equivalent to one hundred, sixty mph) at two hundred feet and below. The excitable chitchat lessoned. It’s clear this is going to be a night we are put to the test. I am at the controls. Without warning, dash one made a startling climb.
‘What in the world are they doing? Why are they climbing?’ I almost yelled the question.
‘Climbing…they're not climbing!’ Pat replied. Immediately I recognized vertigo. A false horizon (a cloud layer resembling the visible horizon but above it) formed in the distance tricking my brain. Vertigo is a play of deception with your senses acting as the stage.
‘Vertigo, Vertigo!’ I cry, passing the controls. We were in a fifteen-degree nose down dive! It came on so quickly; I felt no effect of the ‘leans’, the typical clue of its onset. One moment perfect, the next completely in the grasp of vertigo. Recognition is the key. Luckily I recognized and passed the controls and we were saved the very fate of the doomed marine h-53 of one year ago. Until that moment, I didn’t understand how the pilot of the marine helicopter could suddenly loose all awareness and crash straight into the ground, killing all thirty-five men aboard. That crew was in the exact situation I now found myself in; Dash Two on a low light, low-level flight. I suddenly became very aware of my situation.
Pat took controls and leveled us out from the diving turn, reestablishing straight and level flight. It took a moment, but I re-caged. The weather suddenly took a turn for the worse (if that was even possible). A glance at the gauges showed us still fifteen miles from the crash scene. The left seat, the HAC, had controls. We swap duties, I began making the calls and running the show. The pilot at the control’s only job was to fly. Just fly. No brainpower extended anywhere else besides keeping the equal proportions of blue on the top and brown on the bottom of attitude gyro. Knowing first hand how difficult the formation flying had become, I began backing him on the gauges.
‘Air speed’s looking good. I’ve got you a hundred, ninety feet. Dash One is at ten for about fifteen (ten o’clock for a distance of fifteen rotor arches). Looking good.’ I continue to call out our numbers, not only for safety and his benefit, but to help get my mind around reality. Mere moments later, the nose pitches up and airspeed drops through the floor.
‘Watch your nose attitude. Watch your climb. Dude, watch your nose up!’ The second I mention it, Pat confesses vertigo and passes me the controls but not before over compensating for his lack of perception by pushing hard forward on the cyclic. The result it now a hard nose down one thousand feet per minute rate of descent at one hundred, sixty five feet and minimal airspeed.
My heart jumps. I immediately level the nose and pull in as much power as I can. Good thought, poor execution. I am not completely over my vertigo, but I now have the controls. I pulled in too much collective and see red on the NR gauge (NR=rotor speed. The gauges stay green during normal operation; red indicates a significant rise or drop in rotor speed. A dramatic power pull increases the blade pitch, increasing the ‘bite’. This slows down the rotors causing a condition called drooping because the transmission cannot handle the additional strain and the helicopter begins to loose the ability to stay in the air). The power did its job and got us to three hundred feet before we began to droop.
Yanking that much collective (the collective is the lever at the pilot’s left hand which controls the vertical axis) was a rookie mistake. But in defense, I was scared. No lie, scared. The lightening change from extreme nose up, to nose down, then level put me back in the throes of vertigo. I hung on as long as I could. You are taught to trust the gauges. I don’t talk. I just look at the gauges. Pat, gathering his wits, flips the C-PW (contingency power) switch giving us more power and alleviating the drooping. ‘Trust the gauges,’ I tell myself, ‘Trust the gauges.’
It is amazing how much your brain can actually handle. We are flying in a tactical formation over Iraq, doing our best to maintain flight integrity while in condition midnight (completely blacked out). Somehow your brain filters out the superfluous. Unfortunately, one thing we failed to recognize was the low-lying cloudbank we had flown into.
Pat, now re-caged, took the controls. As he does, we go zero-zero (zero vertical visibility, zero horizontal visibility). We are completely blind. There is nothing. We could have been upside down for all I knew. No reference to anything. Dash One, while only a few hundred feet away, was gone. As a pilot, this is as terrifying a moment as you can imagine. We brief the procedures for inadvertent IMC (instrument metrological conditions) before every flight. Unfortunately this time it came at the most inopportune time; on a low light, low level, high air speed, form flight when both pilots are experiencing vertigo.
It is nearly impossible to describe the sensation. The closest simile I can conjure is driving full throttle, blind folded through intense traffic while reaching behind you to smack the kids. Discombobulating and frightening to say the least.
Most who survive a moment of physical crisis tell the same story; you are overcome with a sense of calm as your mind begins to wash out peripheral information and your better sense takes over, whether it is natural reaction or in this case training. Time slows down as your mind speeds up, once again proving the relativity of time and the immensely spectacular brain the Creator provided.
As so often happens in times of peril, the crew gelled in a remarkable way, any dissidence prior to the current situation dissipated in a single heartbeat. The moment we recognized our situation, Pat instantly began the loss of visual contact procedures as briefed that morning.
‘Loss of visual contact,’ he called over the radio.
‘Roger, we are currently heading three-zero-zero, two hundred feet,’ came the voice from Dash One.
‘Rog, turning right one-one-zero.’ We broke away, beginning a climb in order to separate altitudes. I looked around frantically. Still no idea where they were. Through my goggles I can see only green. Worse, a flat green. There is no differentiation between sky and ground. Screw being tactical, I threw the anti collision lights on. Pat continued to make calls try to coordinate a rendezvous. I heard Dash One calling their turn. The goal of the turns when you encounter inadvertent instrument conditions, especially whit the loss of visual contact is to get out of the situation you put yourself into and create a safe distance between yourself and your playmate.
Turns completed, we began the arduous adventure of rendezvousing. Pat, performing ever bit the role of competent pilot, presented a steady platform; wings level steady altitude. Petty Officer Petrie, who remained stationed just behind the pilots ever since he rushed up to turn the altitude hold on while we were experiencing vertigo, backed us up on the gauges.
Like I said, the weather was zero-zero. Seemingly, ten very long, very uncomfortable minutes later a call comes from the back, ‘got ‘em…four o’clock high, coming down!’ Dash One called two hundred feet; we reported level four hundred so what were they doing above us? Clearly the night was affecting everyone. As I catch sight of our playmate, they descend from above and pass right behind us, within several hundred feet, on their way to their called altitude of two hundred feet! Scary.
Dash One tells us they are passing controls back and forth; vertigo. Yeah, no kidding. This night is turning into a disaster. It is not until this very moment I was able to even think past the essentials of flying to consider the mission. We were in a horrible situation, promising to get worse, and still had not found the crash site.
Luckily, when things seemed at their worst we see a strobe. The crashed Australians (yes we were risking the lives of 10 good men and 60 million dollars worth of us technology for Australians), put out a strobe. The little blinking light created a point of reference to the ground. Essentially, a twenty-dollar piece of equipment saved us. In an area where the sand stretches for miles and miles with no topographic deviation, anything that delineates ground from sky immediately re-cages your brain.
We began a slow controlled descent to an altitude of two hundred feet. Visibility increased to roughly a tenth of a mile. Through my goggles I could see the non-infrared strobe light from about .5 nm out, but no further. To extend beyond that miniscule arch was to once again be blind. On a typical night, where the visibility was normal, the fact they placed a non-infrared strobe out would infuriate me because with each pulse our goggles would bloom out. This night, however, it allowed us to actually find the crash site.
Pat, the HAC, took off his goggles and switched to an instrument only scan. Though a deviation in standard operating procedures it was a brilliant move. We made it as simple as possible; he flew, I controlled him around the crash site. It was seriously a brilliant move. The goggles were killing us, almost literally. Though he no longer had any visual reference to where we were, we now had a stable platform and were orbiting the crash site safe and controlled. The next thought was to land and aid our allies.
I analyzed the situation. From what we knew to be the injury (a broken leg and possible broken back) and the immense difficulty in simply flying to the crash site, I felt it wasn’t worth it. It just was not worth it. The moment I verbalized this to my crew, Dash One calls for us to set up as an octagon gun ship. They were going in!
‘Come right. All right, roll out. Easy right,’ I called as we traced an octagon around the crash site. The crew in the back is still experiencing vertigo. It is much easier for a pilot to overpower the false sense of motion because we can look at the gauges for proof. Unfortunately for the gentlemen in the back, they have no such luxury. The corpsman, Chief Owen, continued to ask for our altitude and ask why we were descending in a left hand turn despite our right hand orbits. Now out of imminent danger, we laugh a bit as he was clearly turned around and full into a bad case of the leans with no chance of getting past it anytime soon.
Dash One descended to perform a landing zone evaluation. They made several low passes and found a clear lane by which to enter and began their pattern to land. ‘I can’t take this one Mike, I’ve got vertigo, you’ve got it,’ Joe told his co-pilot. It was a brave decision. Mike ‘Long John’ Silver is a very skilled aviator, but he lacks the experience of a pilot like Joe Adams. However, it was the only way to land and help this guy. Petty Officer Carlile felt none of the effects of the vertigo plague and began making the calls to guide Mike into the landing zone.
Mike did not have full vertigo. However, he did have the leans. He felt a very real sensation of a right hand turn. A pilot naturally combats this by putting in a bit of left cyclic thus the dangers of vertigo. Carlile called him straight. Mike fought every feeling in his body and the urge to conform to the sensations ever arguing and persuading him to put in just a little left stick, just a little left pedal. Carlile’s calls were true and Dash One landed safely behind and left of the crash site.
The sand kicked up while coming into the zone splashed off their rotors creating a fire of green light around their helicopter as seen by our orbiting bird. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I can't tell you how great it was to see them safe on deck.
‘Well done boys, well done!’ I called over the radio. It was the first time I gave any real credence to the possibility of my friends balling it up and dying. It is a prospect all to real, thus one we put in our pocket, hide and forget about.
Dash One quickly prosecuted the Medevac. We are left with one last obstacle; how do we coordinate a safe rendezvous and fly in formation through the same conditions back across the Iraqi plains to Kuwait? I still had a good eye on our playmate. By giving directions for Pat to loop wide around, we were able to allow Dash One to launch and fall in directly behind them with interval.
Once again, we are totally in the blind. The air-to- air tacan read one point six miles of separation. Dash One assured us they were at five hundred feet. We claimed seven hundred feet and simply push despite IMC and lost contact. We are in a loose combat cruise formation of sorts. There was adequate spacing to allow for any deviation.
‘We’re climbing to see if we can get above the goo,’ Pat called as he began a slow climb. All of a sudden a flicker of black, then we push through into the black darkness of a clear night with light green puffy clouds below us. ‘Joe, looks to be VFR on-top around thirteen hundred feet.’
When we crossed the boarder into Kuwait we dissolved the formation. Dash One took the highly sedated patient to Camp Arifjan and we turned northeast heading home. Barely a word was spoken from the time we departed the soup, till the moment we got on deck. Then it was all smiles and slaps on the back. As you can imagine we were all pretty glad to be back on deck.
I have nearly died a couple times since I’ve had this job, but this was hands down the scariest of them all. We ordered a pizza and discussed the flight. Pat pointed out the obvious, ‘someone should have died there, we are good pilots, but we are not good enough to get out of that one. That was luck.’ I’ll put it one further, it was God's protection.
I suppose I’m supposed to wrap this up with a moral or a witty remark to the extent of it all in a day’s work or some nonsense, but not this time. The next day I ate lunch alone. A funny thought came to mind; I nearly proved my religion. God clearly has work for those of us on that crew to complete. I felt obligated and thankful. Praise be to God.
For weeks now I’ve promised an entry concerning the lesson God is teaching me lately. However, one thing after another continues to creep or jump in the way. Surely soon, I’ll get to some meat and substance, as it is what I really want to write even now. Alas, I find myself relating a story from a couple days ago you might find interesting. I’ll warn you, there is quite a bit of aviation jargon. I’ll do my best to explain everything, if you are still confused, let me know and I’ll further refine and define. Without further ado, nights like these.
For those of you new to my web log, I am deployed in Kuwait, serving as a pilot in the facility of an air ambulance squadron. Coalition forces proudly claim we own the night. I prefer to think of it as on loan. Though our technology allows us an advantage, it is not always a gift. There is a reason the night is so coveted by military leaders and yet so slippery. For the night in the desert is dark. Very dark.
And what a night it was. We stand twenty-four hour alert shifts. We launch on a moments notice. The notice comes in the form of a ‘nine line’, a brilliant name gleaned from the fact it contains nine lines of information describing what sort of injury, the wounded’s locale and other peripheral information.
The day began slowly. Nothing happened. Though this means no flight time, it also means no injuries, no death and no tears from mothers and sisters of those fighting bravely. My crew drove home from dinner blaring Wilson Phillip’s Hold On, all singing along. A cop pulled us over for going too slow. Apparently this gentleman didn’t share our appreciation of one of the ninety’s real gems (sarcasm). We cracked up as he yelled his face red despite the fact we couldn’t hear a word he said due to the music. When we turned the music down, he was so flustered, he drove off. We thought this was the highlight of the night. How does it get any better then getting reamed for singing along to Wilson Phillips and serenading the troops?
The night was only just beginning. I was just about to lie down to sleep when the nine line came in. 2230 perhaps. Selene sleepily rose to take her throne low on the horizon above an ever-thickening layer of spotted clouds. Over the hand held radio came a raspy voice, ‘medevac, medevac, medevac!’ I couldn’t help but wonder why people never get hurt in the daytime. I put on my side arm and hurried into the tactical operations center, toc. The squadron duty officer was furiously chatting away on the telephone, scribbling notes. She hung up the phone and told the crews now assembled, we were flying to western Iraq. Immediately we began loading additional ammo clips, checking our side arms and rifles.
When flying into Iraq, it is required we fly as a flight of two. This requirement acts as a safeguard against the chance of one helicopter going down without aide. As is standard operating procedure, the co-pilots, played in this case by Lieutenant Junior Grade Mike ‘Long John’ Silver and a dashing young Lieutenant (yours truly) quickly grabbed our gear and the ‘football’ and ran to start up the alert helicopters. The football is our secret briefcase filled with the current passwords and frequencies in Iraq. And yes, we stole the name from the president’s nuclear code briefcase.
Quickly, the rest of the crews arrive and we spin up the bird. Pat Larsen, a pilot I cruised with the past year was assigned as the helicopter aircraft commander, HAC, for this particular event. A HAC is the one who signs for the aircraft. In a nutshell, it is his bird and consequently his flight. The other aircraft, commanded by Lieutenant Joe Adams, call out they are up and ready.
I lower my NVD’s and taxi behind them. ‘Tower, Dustoff Evac zero-five and flight, approaching hold short for the active.’
‘Roger, Dustoff Evac zero-five, wind three-three-zero at twelve, cleared to take off.’ We launch in order. The excitement of the rush to get to the bird and launch is still evident in the idle chitchat and excited voices over the internal communication system, ICS. Dustoff Evac zero-five, Dash One, lifts. I pull us into a hover, check the gauges and call, ‘Two’s in’.
A moment later the form flight is bustering (flying as fast as the aircraft will allow) at two hundred feet, skimming along the desert floor. Dash One, the lead aircraft sets in the locale and heads direct. My aircraft, Dash Two, follows behind, keeping them at our ten o’clock. It wasn’t until this moment we realize just how dark it was. The precious light of the moon was masked behind an ever-growing layer of spotted clouds high above us.
‘It’s a varsity night boys,’ I call over the ICS. How right I was, for it was a dark night. One of those terribly dark nights. In the desert, when there is no light, there is NO light. In low light situations on goggles you get a situation called scintillation; an effect borne from the way goggles gather ambient light (a flash of light from the ionization of a phosphor struck by an energetic photon or particle). The normally crisp green and black images are now laced with tiny flickering dots. It looks very much like a television station you can’t quite pick up.
Joe’s voice over the radio: ‘Looks like we have fog forming below us.’
‘I don’t know man; it actually looks like the difference in the shadows of the moon poking through the clouds,’ Pat answered.
As we flew deeper into Iraq the weather started to get a little worse by the second; a false horizon formed. We were bustering at one hundred, thirty-eight knots (roughly equivalent to one hundred, sixty mph) at two hundred feet and below. The excitable chitchat lessoned. It’s clear this is going to be a night we are put to the test. I am at the controls. Without warning, dash one made a startling climb.
‘What in the world are they doing? Why are they climbing?’ I almost yelled the question.
‘Climbing…they're not climbing!’ Pat replied. Immediately I recognized vertigo. A false horizon (a cloud layer resembling the visible horizon but above it) formed in the distance tricking my brain. Vertigo is a play of deception with your senses acting as the stage.
‘Vertigo, Vertigo!’ I cry, passing the controls. We were in a fifteen-degree nose down dive! It came on so quickly; I felt no effect of the ‘leans’, the typical clue of its onset. One moment perfect, the next completely in the grasp of vertigo. Recognition is the key. Luckily I recognized and passed the controls and we were saved the very fate of the doomed marine h-53 of one year ago. Until that moment, I didn’t understand how the pilot of the marine helicopter could suddenly loose all awareness and crash straight into the ground, killing all thirty-five men aboard. That crew was in the exact situation I now found myself in; Dash Two on a low light, low-level flight. I suddenly became very aware of my situation.
Pat took controls and leveled us out from the diving turn, reestablishing straight and level flight. It took a moment, but I re-caged. The weather suddenly took a turn for the worse (if that was even possible). A glance at the gauges showed us still fifteen miles from the crash scene. The left seat, the HAC, had controls. We swap duties, I began making the calls and running the show. The pilot at the control’s only job was to fly. Just fly. No brainpower extended anywhere else besides keeping the equal proportions of blue on the top and brown on the bottom of attitude gyro. Knowing first hand how difficult the formation flying had become, I began backing him on the gauges.
‘Air speed’s looking good. I’ve got you a hundred, ninety feet. Dash One is at ten for about fifteen (ten o’clock for a distance of fifteen rotor arches). Looking good.’ I continue to call out our numbers, not only for safety and his benefit, but to help get my mind around reality. Mere moments later, the nose pitches up and airspeed drops through the floor.
‘Watch your nose attitude. Watch your climb. Dude, watch your nose up!’ The second I mention it, Pat confesses vertigo and passes me the controls but not before over compensating for his lack of perception by pushing hard forward on the cyclic. The result it now a hard nose down one thousand feet per minute rate of descent at one hundred, sixty five feet and minimal airspeed.
My heart jumps. I immediately level the nose and pull in as much power as I can. Good thought, poor execution. I am not completely over my vertigo, but I now have the controls. I pulled in too much collective and see red on the NR gauge (NR=rotor speed. The gauges stay green during normal operation; red indicates a significant rise or drop in rotor speed. A dramatic power pull increases the blade pitch, increasing the ‘bite’. This slows down the rotors causing a condition called drooping because the transmission cannot handle the additional strain and the helicopter begins to loose the ability to stay in the air). The power did its job and got us to three hundred feet before we began to droop.
Yanking that much collective (the collective is the lever at the pilot’s left hand which controls the vertical axis) was a rookie mistake. But in defense, I was scared. No lie, scared. The lightening change from extreme nose up, to nose down, then level put me back in the throes of vertigo. I hung on as long as I could. You are taught to trust the gauges. I don’t talk. I just look at the gauges. Pat, gathering his wits, flips the C-PW (contingency power) switch giving us more power and alleviating the drooping. ‘Trust the gauges,’ I tell myself, ‘Trust the gauges.’
It is amazing how much your brain can actually handle. We are flying in a tactical formation over Iraq, doing our best to maintain flight integrity while in condition midnight (completely blacked out). Somehow your brain filters out the superfluous. Unfortunately, one thing we failed to recognize was the low-lying cloudbank we had flown into.
Pat, now re-caged, took the controls. As he does, we go zero-zero (zero vertical visibility, zero horizontal visibility). We are completely blind. There is nothing. We could have been upside down for all I knew. No reference to anything. Dash One, while only a few hundred feet away, was gone. As a pilot, this is as terrifying a moment as you can imagine. We brief the procedures for inadvertent IMC (instrument metrological conditions) before every flight. Unfortunately this time it came at the most inopportune time; on a low light, low level, high air speed, form flight when both pilots are experiencing vertigo.
It is nearly impossible to describe the sensation. The closest simile I can conjure is driving full throttle, blind folded through intense traffic while reaching behind you to smack the kids. Discombobulating and frightening to say the least.
Most who survive a moment of physical crisis tell the same story; you are overcome with a sense of calm as your mind begins to wash out peripheral information and your better sense takes over, whether it is natural reaction or in this case training. Time slows down as your mind speeds up, once again proving the relativity of time and the immensely spectacular brain the Creator provided.
As so often happens in times of peril, the crew gelled in a remarkable way, any dissidence prior to the current situation dissipated in a single heartbeat. The moment we recognized our situation, Pat instantly began the loss of visual contact procedures as briefed that morning.
‘Loss of visual contact,’ he called over the radio.
‘Roger, we are currently heading three-zero-zero, two hundred feet,’ came the voice from Dash One.
‘Rog, turning right one-one-zero.’ We broke away, beginning a climb in order to separate altitudes. I looked around frantically. Still no idea where they were. Through my goggles I can see only green. Worse, a flat green. There is no differentiation between sky and ground. Screw being tactical, I threw the anti collision lights on. Pat continued to make calls try to coordinate a rendezvous. I heard Dash One calling their turn. The goal of the turns when you encounter inadvertent instrument conditions, especially whit the loss of visual contact is to get out of the situation you put yourself into and create a safe distance between yourself and your playmate.
Turns completed, we began the arduous adventure of rendezvousing. Pat, performing ever bit the role of competent pilot, presented a steady platform; wings level steady altitude. Petty Officer Petrie, who remained stationed just behind the pilots ever since he rushed up to turn the altitude hold on while we were experiencing vertigo, backed us up on the gauges.
Like I said, the weather was zero-zero. Seemingly, ten very long, very uncomfortable minutes later a call comes from the back, ‘got ‘em…four o’clock high, coming down!’ Dash One called two hundred feet; we reported level four hundred so what were they doing above us? Clearly the night was affecting everyone. As I catch sight of our playmate, they descend from above and pass right behind us, within several hundred feet, on their way to their called altitude of two hundred feet! Scary.
Dash One tells us they are passing controls back and forth; vertigo. Yeah, no kidding. This night is turning into a disaster. It is not until this very moment I was able to even think past the essentials of flying to consider the mission. We were in a horrible situation, promising to get worse, and still had not found the crash site.
Luckily, when things seemed at their worst we see a strobe. The crashed Australians (yes we were risking the lives of 10 good men and 60 million dollars worth of us technology for Australians), put out a strobe. The little blinking light created a point of reference to the ground. Essentially, a twenty-dollar piece of equipment saved us. In an area where the sand stretches for miles and miles with no topographic deviation, anything that delineates ground from sky immediately re-cages your brain.
We began a slow controlled descent to an altitude of two hundred feet. Visibility increased to roughly a tenth of a mile. Through my goggles I could see the non-infrared strobe light from about .5 nm out, but no further. To extend beyond that miniscule arch was to once again be blind. On a typical night, where the visibility was normal, the fact they placed a non-infrared strobe out would infuriate me because with each pulse our goggles would bloom out. This night, however, it allowed us to actually find the crash site.
Pat, the HAC, took off his goggles and switched to an instrument only scan. Though a deviation in standard operating procedures it was a brilliant move. We made it as simple as possible; he flew, I controlled him around the crash site. It was seriously a brilliant move. The goggles were killing us, almost literally. Though he no longer had any visual reference to where we were, we now had a stable platform and were orbiting the crash site safe and controlled. The next thought was to land and aid our allies.
I analyzed the situation. From what we knew to be the injury (a broken leg and possible broken back) and the immense difficulty in simply flying to the crash site, I felt it wasn’t worth it. It just was not worth it. The moment I verbalized this to my crew, Dash One calls for us to set up as an octagon gun ship. They were going in!
‘Come right. All right, roll out. Easy right,’ I called as we traced an octagon around the crash site. The crew in the back is still experiencing vertigo. It is much easier for a pilot to overpower the false sense of motion because we can look at the gauges for proof. Unfortunately for the gentlemen in the back, they have no such luxury. The corpsman, Chief Owen, continued to ask for our altitude and ask why we were descending in a left hand turn despite our right hand orbits. Now out of imminent danger, we laugh a bit as he was clearly turned around and full into a bad case of the leans with no chance of getting past it anytime soon.
Dash One descended to perform a landing zone evaluation. They made several low passes and found a clear lane by which to enter and began their pattern to land. ‘I can’t take this one Mike, I’ve got vertigo, you’ve got it,’ Joe told his co-pilot. It was a brave decision. Mike ‘Long John’ Silver is a very skilled aviator, but he lacks the experience of a pilot like Joe Adams. However, it was the only way to land and help this guy. Petty Officer Carlile felt none of the effects of the vertigo plague and began making the calls to guide Mike into the landing zone.
Mike did not have full vertigo. However, he did have the leans. He felt a very real sensation of a right hand turn. A pilot naturally combats this by putting in a bit of left cyclic thus the dangers of vertigo. Carlile called him straight. Mike fought every feeling in his body and the urge to conform to the sensations ever arguing and persuading him to put in just a little left stick, just a little left pedal. Carlile’s calls were true and Dash One landed safely behind and left of the crash site.
The sand kicked up while coming into the zone splashed off their rotors creating a fire of green light around their helicopter as seen by our orbiting bird. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I can't tell you how great it was to see them safe on deck.
‘Well done boys, well done!’ I called over the radio. It was the first time I gave any real credence to the possibility of my friends balling it up and dying. It is a prospect all to real, thus one we put in our pocket, hide and forget about.
Dash One quickly prosecuted the Medevac. We are left with one last obstacle; how do we coordinate a safe rendezvous and fly in formation through the same conditions back across the Iraqi plains to Kuwait? I still had a good eye on our playmate. By giving directions for Pat to loop wide around, we were able to allow Dash One to launch and fall in directly behind them with interval.
Once again, we are totally in the blind. The air-to- air tacan read one point six miles of separation. Dash One assured us they were at five hundred feet. We claimed seven hundred feet and simply push despite IMC and lost contact. We are in a loose combat cruise formation of sorts. There was adequate spacing to allow for any deviation.
‘We’re climbing to see if we can get above the goo,’ Pat called as he began a slow climb. All of a sudden a flicker of black, then we push through into the black darkness of a clear night with light green puffy clouds below us. ‘Joe, looks to be VFR on-top around thirteen hundred feet.’
When we crossed the boarder into Kuwait we dissolved the formation. Dash One took the highly sedated patient to Camp Arifjan and we turned northeast heading home. Barely a word was spoken from the time we departed the soup, till the moment we got on deck. Then it was all smiles and slaps on the back. As you can imagine we were all pretty glad to be back on deck.
I have nearly died a couple times since I’ve had this job, but this was hands down the scariest of them all. We ordered a pizza and discussed the flight. Pat pointed out the obvious, ‘someone should have died there, we are good pilots, but we are not good enough to get out of that one. That was luck.’ I’ll put it one further, it was God's protection.
I suppose I’m supposed to wrap this up with a moral or a witty remark to the extent of it all in a day’s work or some nonsense, but not this time. The next day I ate lunch alone. A funny thought came to mind; I nearly proved my religion. God clearly has work for those of us on that crew to complete. I felt obligated and thankful. Praise be to God.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
the worst of my worst
For some reason, I decided to dig deep into the repertoire and pull one from the tremendously horrible date file. A little back story, Monica was a girl I knew in San Diego a few years back. Her ex-boyfriend was a buddy of mine throughout flight skool. He introduced us thinking I might be a good influence on her and I might like her since she was killer hot. She worked for the Padre’s and we went to all the games for free. Just a little fun, no biggie. I asked Monica if she would be my date for the Navy Ball. The Navy Ball is a formal dinner and dance where women wear gowns and the men wear choker whites. Alright, enough background, onto the goodness.
Saturday I took Monica to the Navy Ball. The date didn’t start as planned. She was to be at my apartment in the afternoon and meet some friends and me before going to the Ball. Friday came and went and she never called to confirm. Saturday morning comes and goes and still no Monica. Finally late Saturday afternoon she calls. With a bit of exasperation she explained how she spent the night in jail. In jail. A DUI. Not a good start indeed. But she still wanted to go. I was already dressed, so game on.
She no longer has a license so I pick her up. She doesn’t say a word. Clearly not in the mood I was hoping for. My friends, Sam and his wife, Pat and his girlfriend, classy kids all of them, arrive to pick us up. I don’t mention the fact she spent the night in jail. It’s not really their business. Besides, you wouldn’t know it. She looked fantastic. Unfortunately, I think the reality of her situation was finally beginning to set in. She lights a cigarette and spewing profanities. Not becoming of a lady, but we’ve all seen worse.
At last we get arrive at the Ball. The set up was outstanding. The entire Radisson teemed with Lieutenants and gowns, wine glasses and laughter. The hotel was set perfectly on the water making for a spectacular view of the setting sun. All of this was wasted on my date. She grabs a wine for the two of us. I’m not about to tell her no, although I can’t help but to think it’s a bit odd considering. Looking back, it is as though the first domino was pushed even before the last is placed. Next we know test tube shots are in order.
Monica had no intention of being social, but that’s to be expected. She doesn't know anyone and doesn’t try. Dinner comes. She is still cursing and behaving completely inappropriate for the situation. We have another drink.
Throughout dinner, the girl starts flirting with my friend Mark who is himself, three to the wind. Midway through dinner we sneak upstairs to the 'Admin Room’. A Navy Admin Room is a suite rented by the squadron to allow the guys to party in a little more relaxed atmosphere. There is an idea of acceptable behavior while at a formal ball wearing choker whites that does not include all out boozing. I suppose the Admin Room is a hold out from the old Navy; the pre-Tailhook Navy. Monica pours herself some vodka. By now her drink count is somewhere between four and five.
I'm sure you see where this is leading. Not me, however, not at the time. We have now been at the Ball for two hours. She finishes her drink and I persuade her to have some desert. I paid good money for the tickets, I wanted my desert. After quickly putting down three bites I’m chasing after her on her way back up to the Admin Room. As we await the elevator in the midst of a crowd of couples and regular hotel patrons Monica starts yelling.
'You people can all f--- off,’ she slurs to no one in particular. Mind you, most of these are just people staying at the hotel. A very nice hotel down town on the water.
'What are you doing? Shut up!’ I exasperatedly whisper under my breath.
'I'm just telling them they can get on the elevator too'.
'By telling them to f--- off?'
'Yeah.’
Now I know she's completely out of control. It’s as though it just hit her all of a sudden. Luckily the elevator doors open just in time to end the beginnings of a new tirade. We make it up the elevator uneventfully, our last uneventful moment of the night. While we walk (well, I walk, she stumbles) to the Admin Room she begins an incoherently, random rambling. Something about how she can't stand Bush lovers or something, I don't know. Somehow, from the elevator to the suite, a whopping six doors, Monica manages to break her wine glass.
We hurry into the room, hoping no one noticed. I fix a drink. She sits down on a chair on the balcony. I'm already tired of the girl. I do my best to forget I brought her. My friends are all filing in; the night looks salvageable until someone points to the blonde on the balcony. Monica passed out in the chair; completely slumped over, drink precariously held in her hand. Oh, oh…oh no, the glass slips from her hand and smashes. Glass number two. I can't believe it. I finish my drink in disbelief. Begrudgingly, I make my way across the room to her chair.
'Baby, wake up and act sober for 30 seconds,’ I whisper. Unfortunately, it was a request to great for her to manage. I half carry her, half lead her to the elevator. I’m praying no one will see us. I am in the midst of the final stage of flight skool and all my friends, not to mention instructors are all around.
The elevator door opens. To my dismay, one of my favorite instructors is standing there staring at me. I manage a wry smile and attempt a look which I hope conveys the only thought in my mind, ‘this girl is a total wreck and I’ve beyond frustrated, beyond embarrassed’. As so often with men, it almost seemed as though he understood and said not a word. The elevator is small and lined with mirrors. Perfect for reflecting on how ridiculous I look holding this beautiful blonde up by the waste. She wrapped her arms around my neck as though she was going to kiss me, completely oblivious to our guest or my growing annoyance. My instructor is cracking up. He’s managing to make it subtle so as not to ruin Monica and my romantic moment. But all of a sudden, this drunken girl on my arm hikes her leg up and wraps herself around me. Then he loses it. The expression on my face must have been priceless. I'm so, so, so embarrassed. I do my best to disencumber myself, not as easy a task as you might expect, before the door opens displaying us to the busy hotel lobby.
'Stay there,’ I order her, as I physically place her in an overstuffed chair in the lobby. I walk to the concierge station, ‘Sir, I need a cab now. Five minutes ago in fact.’ I look over my shoulder to see Monica pulling out her cell phone to make a call.
'Speak up! I can't F---ing hear you.' In horror and disbelief I notice she is talking the wrong way into her phone; mouth to speaker. Her mother is on the line.
Snatching the phone, 'Mrs. Ulmer, this is Luke. I'm taking care of Monica, don't worry'. The same moment her mother is thanking me, Monica breaks her third glass of the night. This one was far and away the most impressive; mostly because she managed to break it on carpet. The bad news was we were drawing the attention of those around us, the good, she no longer had a drink or anything glass.
The security guard, a plump middle-aged woman purposefully makes a b-line for the small commotion. 'Sir, you two must leave; your wife is way too drunk'.
'I know, I'm so sor…’
Emphatically Monica breaks in, 'He's not my husband! We're just having sex'. The security guard’s face turns blush, without a doubt dimly mirroring my own. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I did not have sexual relations with that woman. I could not believe she said, no, yelled that statement. A family with small kids was sitting in the adjacent couch. All heads snapped toward us.
Flustered, 'Well, whatever your 'status' you need to leave.'
'Not status,' Monica comes back, 'sex.’
'Monica!!! Go sit outside, don't talk to anyone, just sit on the steps and wait for me!' I demand. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I should have seen it all coming. What a disaster. Luckily a lieutenant in my squadron saw what was going on, stepped in and began to run interference while I got her ouside. I walk back to the concierge. 'Sir, we simply must have that cab!'
'I'll call again,' he replied dryly. Profusely, I apologize. Cab en route, I step out to find my burden. I walked outside but she is no where to be found. Not on the stairs. Not to my left. Not on my right. At this point I'm through. Parked in front of the stairs, under the arcade is a giant limousine; a converted SUV. I have a sneaking suspicion where my little drunk date might have wandered. I poke my head in the open door. My lovely Monica had crawled in and slid to the very front of this huge limo.
'What are you doing?' I ask. She shakes her head while stealing Champaign glasses and putting them in her purse. I'm through with her. I'm passed mad; beyond embraced. The limo driver is standing there with a sardonic look on his face as he takes in the ridiculous scene. He is a young guy with bleached blond hair, spiked a bit as though he was getting about ready to go to a Green Day concert. 'Listen man, I'm sorry,' I tell him. 'Can I just rent this thing? I don't care what it costs. Just take her home.’
'Sorry bro, it’s already rented.’
I coerce then drag Monica out of limousine. On the way out, she gives the driver, completely unaffected by the tumult as though it happens regularly, a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek. Finally our cab arrives. I literally throw her in and she passes out cold. Now, what to do with her? I can't take her back to her place; I don't know the apartment code or where she keeps her keys. The only option is to let her sleep it off at my place.
The cabby helped me hold her up as I pulled out my keys out and his fare. Seriously, we held her up as she was completely limp. A moment later, she comes to and starts saying, 'Did he tip you? Did he tip you? He never tips. Did he tip you?’ The cabby kept assuring her I did. I guided her down the walkway, up the stairs and into the apartment. No sooner had we stepped through the doorway, when she strips down buck naked, superman dives into my bed and backs out.
We left for the Ball at 7:30; it is now 10:30. Three glorious hours. My friends called, 'Dude, were going out, but we have to come by and get Pat's keys first. We’ll pick you up, you'll ride with us.'
'Sorry guys, can't'. My friends drop by and I can’t help but laugh as I explain that my date is blacked out drunk and naked on my bed. How do you make that sound innocent? Despite their persistence suggesting I leave here there, I decide to stay. I’m not exactly sure what to do, so I cover her up with a blanket, put a bucket out just in case and try to get some sleep myself.
4:30 A.M. rolls around and she wakes. She comes over, wrapped in the blanket and wakes me. 'What happened?'
‘Well, long story short you got drunk and made an ass of yourself and here we are.' She cracked up and asked why she’s naked. No apology. No mention of the previous night’s events. Amazing. Honestly, I hope she has no recollection of it. I hope it’s a complete blank.
‘I've got energy now…’ she says. I turn over and go back to sleep. Monica got up, meandered to my refrigerator and cracked open five beers as she watched Sportscenter and proceeds to pass out once again. Fin.
Saturday I took Monica to the Navy Ball. The date didn’t start as planned. She was to be at my apartment in the afternoon and meet some friends and me before going to the Ball. Friday came and went and she never called to confirm. Saturday morning comes and goes and still no Monica. Finally late Saturday afternoon she calls. With a bit of exasperation she explained how she spent the night in jail. In jail. A DUI. Not a good start indeed. But she still wanted to go. I was already dressed, so game on.
She no longer has a license so I pick her up. She doesn’t say a word. Clearly not in the mood I was hoping for. My friends, Sam and his wife, Pat and his girlfriend, classy kids all of them, arrive to pick us up. I don’t mention the fact she spent the night in jail. It’s not really their business. Besides, you wouldn’t know it. She looked fantastic. Unfortunately, I think the reality of her situation was finally beginning to set in. She lights a cigarette and spewing profanities. Not becoming of a lady, but we’ve all seen worse.
At last we get arrive at the Ball. The set up was outstanding. The entire Radisson teemed with Lieutenants and gowns, wine glasses and laughter. The hotel was set perfectly on the water making for a spectacular view of the setting sun. All of this was wasted on my date. She grabs a wine for the two of us. I’m not about to tell her no, although I can’t help but to think it’s a bit odd considering. Looking back, it is as though the first domino was pushed even before the last is placed. Next we know test tube shots are in order.
Monica had no intention of being social, but that’s to be expected. She doesn't know anyone and doesn’t try. Dinner comes. She is still cursing and behaving completely inappropriate for the situation. We have another drink.
Throughout dinner, the girl starts flirting with my friend Mark who is himself, three to the wind. Midway through dinner we sneak upstairs to the 'Admin Room’. A Navy Admin Room is a suite rented by the squadron to allow the guys to party in a little more relaxed atmosphere. There is an idea of acceptable behavior while at a formal ball wearing choker whites that does not include all out boozing. I suppose the Admin Room is a hold out from the old Navy; the pre-Tailhook Navy. Monica pours herself some vodka. By now her drink count is somewhere between four and five.
I'm sure you see where this is leading. Not me, however, not at the time. We have now been at the Ball for two hours. She finishes her drink and I persuade her to have some desert. I paid good money for the tickets, I wanted my desert. After quickly putting down three bites I’m chasing after her on her way back up to the Admin Room. As we await the elevator in the midst of a crowd of couples and regular hotel patrons Monica starts yelling.
'You people can all f--- off,’ she slurs to no one in particular. Mind you, most of these are just people staying at the hotel. A very nice hotel down town on the water.
'What are you doing? Shut up!’ I exasperatedly whisper under my breath.
'I'm just telling them they can get on the elevator too'.
'By telling them to f--- off?'
'Yeah.’
Now I know she's completely out of control. It’s as though it just hit her all of a sudden. Luckily the elevator doors open just in time to end the beginnings of a new tirade. We make it up the elevator uneventfully, our last uneventful moment of the night. While we walk (well, I walk, she stumbles) to the Admin Room she begins an incoherently, random rambling. Something about how she can't stand Bush lovers or something, I don't know. Somehow, from the elevator to the suite, a whopping six doors, Monica manages to break her wine glass.
We hurry into the room, hoping no one noticed. I fix a drink. She sits down on a chair on the balcony. I'm already tired of the girl. I do my best to forget I brought her. My friends are all filing in; the night looks salvageable until someone points to the blonde on the balcony. Monica passed out in the chair; completely slumped over, drink precariously held in her hand. Oh, oh…oh no, the glass slips from her hand and smashes. Glass number two. I can't believe it. I finish my drink in disbelief. Begrudgingly, I make my way across the room to her chair.
'Baby, wake up and act sober for 30 seconds,’ I whisper. Unfortunately, it was a request to great for her to manage. I half carry her, half lead her to the elevator. I’m praying no one will see us. I am in the midst of the final stage of flight skool and all my friends, not to mention instructors are all around.
The elevator door opens. To my dismay, one of my favorite instructors is standing there staring at me. I manage a wry smile and attempt a look which I hope conveys the only thought in my mind, ‘this girl is a total wreck and I’ve beyond frustrated, beyond embarrassed’. As so often with men, it almost seemed as though he understood and said not a word. The elevator is small and lined with mirrors. Perfect for reflecting on how ridiculous I look holding this beautiful blonde up by the waste. She wrapped her arms around my neck as though she was going to kiss me, completely oblivious to our guest or my growing annoyance. My instructor is cracking up. He’s managing to make it subtle so as not to ruin Monica and my romantic moment. But all of a sudden, this drunken girl on my arm hikes her leg up and wraps herself around me. Then he loses it. The expression on my face must have been priceless. I'm so, so, so embarrassed. I do my best to disencumber myself, not as easy a task as you might expect, before the door opens displaying us to the busy hotel lobby.
'Stay there,’ I order her, as I physically place her in an overstuffed chair in the lobby. I walk to the concierge station, ‘Sir, I need a cab now. Five minutes ago in fact.’ I look over my shoulder to see Monica pulling out her cell phone to make a call.
'Speak up! I can't F---ing hear you.' In horror and disbelief I notice she is talking the wrong way into her phone; mouth to speaker. Her mother is on the line.
Snatching the phone, 'Mrs. Ulmer, this is Luke. I'm taking care of Monica, don't worry'. The same moment her mother is thanking me, Monica breaks her third glass of the night. This one was far and away the most impressive; mostly because she managed to break it on carpet. The bad news was we were drawing the attention of those around us, the good, she no longer had a drink or anything glass.
The security guard, a plump middle-aged woman purposefully makes a b-line for the small commotion. 'Sir, you two must leave; your wife is way too drunk'.
'I know, I'm so sor…’
Emphatically Monica breaks in, 'He's not my husband! We're just having sex'. The security guard’s face turns blush, without a doubt dimly mirroring my own. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I did not have sexual relations with that woman. I could not believe she said, no, yelled that statement. A family with small kids was sitting in the adjacent couch. All heads snapped toward us.
Flustered, 'Well, whatever your 'status' you need to leave.'
'Not status,' Monica comes back, 'sex.’
'Monica!!! Go sit outside, don't talk to anyone, just sit on the steps and wait for me!' I demand. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I should have seen it all coming. What a disaster. Luckily a lieutenant in my squadron saw what was going on, stepped in and began to run interference while I got her ouside. I walk back to the concierge. 'Sir, we simply must have that cab!'
'I'll call again,' he replied dryly. Profusely, I apologize. Cab en route, I step out to find my burden. I walked outside but she is no where to be found. Not on the stairs. Not to my left. Not on my right. At this point I'm through. Parked in front of the stairs, under the arcade is a giant limousine; a converted SUV. I have a sneaking suspicion where my little drunk date might have wandered. I poke my head in the open door. My lovely Monica had crawled in and slid to the very front of this huge limo.
'What are you doing?' I ask. She shakes her head while stealing Champaign glasses and putting them in her purse. I'm through with her. I'm passed mad; beyond embraced. The limo driver is standing there with a sardonic look on his face as he takes in the ridiculous scene. He is a young guy with bleached blond hair, spiked a bit as though he was getting about ready to go to a Green Day concert. 'Listen man, I'm sorry,' I tell him. 'Can I just rent this thing? I don't care what it costs. Just take her home.’
'Sorry bro, it’s already rented.’
I coerce then drag Monica out of limousine. On the way out, she gives the driver, completely unaffected by the tumult as though it happens regularly, a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek. Finally our cab arrives. I literally throw her in and she passes out cold. Now, what to do with her? I can't take her back to her place; I don't know the apartment code or where she keeps her keys. The only option is to let her sleep it off at my place.
The cabby helped me hold her up as I pulled out my keys out and his fare. Seriously, we held her up as she was completely limp. A moment later, she comes to and starts saying, 'Did he tip you? Did he tip you? He never tips. Did he tip you?’ The cabby kept assuring her I did. I guided her down the walkway, up the stairs and into the apartment. No sooner had we stepped through the doorway, when she strips down buck naked, superman dives into my bed and backs out.
We left for the Ball at 7:30; it is now 10:30. Three glorious hours. My friends called, 'Dude, were going out, but we have to come by and get Pat's keys first. We’ll pick you up, you'll ride with us.'
'Sorry guys, can't'. My friends drop by and I can’t help but laugh as I explain that my date is blacked out drunk and naked on my bed. How do you make that sound innocent? Despite their persistence suggesting I leave here there, I decide to stay. I’m not exactly sure what to do, so I cover her up with a blanket, put a bucket out just in case and try to get some sleep myself.
4:30 A.M. rolls around and she wakes. She comes over, wrapped in the blanket and wakes me. 'What happened?'
‘Well, long story short you got drunk and made an ass of yourself and here we are.' She cracked up and asked why she’s naked. No apology. No mention of the previous night’s events. Amazing. Honestly, I hope she has no recollection of it. I hope it’s a complete blank.
‘I've got energy now…’ she says. I turn over and go back to sleep. Monica got up, meandered to my refrigerator and cracked open five beers as she watched Sportscenter and proceeds to pass out once again. Fin.
Friday, December 29, 2006
photos
hello everyone, thought i might post a couple photos in lieu
of my next post which i'm still in the midst of mentally composing. i'm working out a few thoughts on the lie of nostalgia. if my musings and such are of no interest, no problem, please let me
know and i'll focus more on the daily military life here at camp buehring. until next time, i leave you with a photo of me as a boy contrasted with me as a man...some habits are difficult to break! the other is from a trip to grove city college this spast summer. may God bless you all. be good.
of my next post which i'm still in the midst of mentally composing. i'm working out a few thoughts on the lie of nostalgia. if my musings and such are of no interest, no problem, please let me
know and i'll focus more on the daily military life here at camp buehring. until next time, i leave you with a photo of me as a boy contrasted with me as a man...some habits are difficult to break! the other is from a trip to grove city college this spast summer. may God bless you all. be good.Thursday, December 21, 2006
i will be rejoice and be glad in it...
Yes, yes, three posts in one day is obscene and creates a standard I most certainly can not and will not live up to. But enjoy it while it lasts. The lack of sleep tends toward either of two extremes, excessive joy, or the grouch. Today, the lack of sleep has led to the former.
It’s difficult to be in a bad mood when the weather is so terrific. More so when we are only a couple days away from Christmas! Today feels like the first day of true spring; an odd feeling for the winter solstice. Perhaps it’s the mystique of the solace or simply the fresh breeze, but for once, all feels well.
These tend to be the moments you live for. I’m beginning to learn a lesson I wish I heeded years ago; the more you look for joy in your daily circumstance, the more you find it. For some reason it just clicked today. I went to sleep with all the weight of a very difficult day, the fruition of the headache began early in the morning now blooming in full and the sound of my own frustrated voice lulling me into a poor restless sleep.
I began a project at 0900 and worked full on until 0300 the following morning. The frustration of fixing other’s work while fully accepting the heat they deserved tends to put you in a tiff. I dreamt of work. My feet froze. I slept in my flight suit as I was on 15 min alert and there was no time to change.
Yet as the door swung open at 0700 and the tenor of the young Petty Officer awoke my crew alerting us of a MEDEVAC in process, the weight and worries of the previous day fell away. I’m so reminded of the bit, ‘This is the day that the Lord has made. I will be rejoice and be glad in it’. I grabbed on to the promises and it held fast.
Today is essentially no different then any other day. However, my mentality changed. With it came a sea change of realization. There are multiple ideas to the above statement. In the first stage, the reader understands God is in control and your only response is to rejoice – the feeling is freeing. The reader then gains appreciation of his responsibility to rejoice and be glad despite circumstances because the day belongs to the Lord God Almighty – the feeling is heavy. Next our reader sees the duality of responsibility as it is not his responsibility to create the day rather rejoice despite the day – the feeling ebbs to partnership. Lastly the reader reaches understanding and rejoices not in the day, but the Creator of the day.
Rejoice today for our God is one.
It’s difficult to be in a bad mood when the weather is so terrific. More so when we are only a couple days away from Christmas! Today feels like the first day of true spring; an odd feeling for the winter solstice. Perhaps it’s the mystique of the solace or simply the fresh breeze, but for once, all feels well.
These tend to be the moments you live for. I’m beginning to learn a lesson I wish I heeded years ago; the more you look for joy in your daily circumstance, the more you find it. For some reason it just clicked today. I went to sleep with all the weight of a very difficult day, the fruition of the headache began early in the morning now blooming in full and the sound of my own frustrated voice lulling me into a poor restless sleep.
I began a project at 0900 and worked full on until 0300 the following morning. The frustration of fixing other’s work while fully accepting the heat they deserved tends to put you in a tiff. I dreamt of work. My feet froze. I slept in my flight suit as I was on 15 min alert and there was no time to change.
Yet as the door swung open at 0700 and the tenor of the young Petty Officer awoke my crew alerting us of a MEDEVAC in process, the weight and worries of the previous day fell away. I’m so reminded of the bit, ‘This is the day that the Lord has made. I will be rejoice and be glad in it’. I grabbed on to the promises and it held fast.
Today is essentially no different then any other day. However, my mentality changed. With it came a sea change of realization. There are multiple ideas to the above statement. In the first stage, the reader understands God is in control and your only response is to rejoice – the feeling is freeing. The reader then gains appreciation of his responsibility to rejoice and be glad despite circumstances because the day belongs to the Lord God Almighty – the feeling is heavy. Next our reader sees the duality of responsibility as it is not his responsibility to create the day rather rejoice despite the day – the feeling ebbs to partnership. Lastly the reader reaches understanding and rejoices not in the day, but the Creator of the day.
Rejoice today for our God is one.
of one
I knew this girl
..Her smile
Her laugh
Her song
..She fell
I knew this girl
..Oh pride
Damn pride
Beautiful pride
..I fell
I knew this girl
..I knew this girl
I knew this girl
I knew this girl
..This girl is gone
..Her smile
Her laugh
Her song
..She fell
I knew this girl
..Oh pride
Damn pride
Beautiful pride
..I fell
I knew this girl
..I knew this girl
I knew this girl
I knew this girl
..This girl is gone
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
definitive statements are dumb
Yesterday I had one of those unfortunate reality slaps. One of the ‘oh, I’m an idiot’ moments. A group of us were driving back to base and I made one of my ridiculous blanket statements. Of course it lacked merit. Of course it lacked backing. Of course it represented only my opinion. Of course it was meant merely for effect. Of course no one called me on it.
The words hung in the air like the smell of burnt hair. Their putrescence apparently noticed only by their creator. Two seconds later, someone else in the SUV made a similar definitive statement. Mild in comparison to the type I fling around so loosely. His words sounded so cocky and ignorant; the statement so bland and casual in its damning of so many innocents.
It caught me off guard. I almost smiled, knowing I was caught. Worse, I caught myself. For no one else seemed to notice my hypocrisy. A more damning thought, people around me are callous to the fact.
This is my crime, my punishment, my penitence and my new beginning.
The words hung in the air like the smell of burnt hair. Their putrescence apparently noticed only by their creator. Two seconds later, someone else in the SUV made a similar definitive statement. Mild in comparison to the type I fling around so loosely. His words sounded so cocky and ignorant; the statement so bland and casual in its damning of so many innocents.
It caught me off guard. I almost smiled, knowing I was caught. Worse, I caught myself. For no one else seemed to notice my hypocrisy. A more damning thought, people around me are callous to the fact.
This is my crime, my punishment, my penitence and my new beginning.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
a kentucky sort of day
Sometimes out of nowhere a blessing sneaks up on you like a storm stalking you from the western skies. Today’s blessing just so happened to be a storm. A cold rain. Overcast skies. A Kentucky winter day. It was a taste of home. The bleakness of gray skies brings a peace and comfort only matched by mom’s apple pie or a gentle kiss. The feeling of belonging. The feeling that you know this place, this time, this person in a way which is known only to the two of you. It quiets your soul. An ambiguous idea I know. More, to attribute such thoughts to a rainstorm may seem silly. But so it is with things which remind you of home.
The past few weeks have made for a sea change at Camp Buerhing. The ‘surge’ has past and the number of personnel has dropped from 30,000 to a more manageable 2,000. Those remaining seem to be hunkering in for the holidays. Holidays away from your friends and family take a certain amount of energy. You go through all the expected phases: nostalgia turns to longing, longing to anger, anger leads to disappointment, then ultimately acceptance. But as I’m learning people tend to overcome and make the best of even the least desirable of situations.
Christmas decorations are sprouting up everywhere. First it was a string of lights in our TOC (tactical operating center). Then a tree decorated with squadron patches taken directly from our flight suits. Next came tins covered with snowmen and sleighs filled with homemade fudge sent from mothers and lovers. Just last week, the fire department put up a large, lit star and a sign saying ‘Merry Christmas Camp Buerhing’. The decorations have even touched my room. My aunt and uncle send a little tree and lights and my good friend Shayna sent snowflakes.
It goes to show you can make the best of any situation. I suppose it is the day that is important, not the weather or the place where you celebrate it. To see the men and woman here, so far from their homes, making merry in the best way they know truly exemplifies a celebration and I can not think of a finer way to spend Christmas.
I hope and pray you find joy in your situation.
The past few weeks have made for a sea change at Camp Buerhing. The ‘surge’ has past and the number of personnel has dropped from 30,000 to a more manageable 2,000. Those remaining seem to be hunkering in for the holidays. Holidays away from your friends and family take a certain amount of energy. You go through all the expected phases: nostalgia turns to longing, longing to anger, anger leads to disappointment, then ultimately acceptance. But as I’m learning people tend to overcome and make the best of even the least desirable of situations.
Christmas decorations are sprouting up everywhere. First it was a string of lights in our TOC (tactical operating center). Then a tree decorated with squadron patches taken directly from our flight suits. Next came tins covered with snowmen and sleighs filled with homemade fudge sent from mothers and lovers. Just last week, the fire department put up a large, lit star and a sign saying ‘Merry Christmas Camp Buerhing’. The decorations have even touched my room. My aunt and uncle send a little tree and lights and my good friend Shayna sent snowflakes.
It goes to show you can make the best of any situation. I suppose it is the day that is important, not the weather or the place where you celebrate it. To see the men and woman here, so far from their homes, making merry in the best way they know truly exemplifies a celebration and I can not think of a finer way to spend Christmas.
I hope and pray you find joy in your situation.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
a poem out of season
Raindrop
Beloved raindrop fresh and fair
Perfuming this sad dry air
Bringing life and making green
All you see fit to wash clean
Do you recall from whence you came
The rushing flood, the hand of Cain
High and higher your power swept
Catching the tears Noah wept
Or do you remember God’s good grace
A rainbow’s thought upon your face
The mighty choir in which your tiny voice sings
Of naps and rest you’re sure to bring
-Luke W. Riddle
Beloved raindrop fresh and fair
Perfuming this sad dry air
Bringing life and making green
All you see fit to wash clean
Do you recall from whence you came
The rushing flood, the hand of Cain
High and higher your power swept
Catching the tears Noah wept
Or do you remember God’s good grace
A rainbow’s thought upon your face
The mighty choir in which your tiny voice sings
Of naps and rest you’re sure to bring
-Luke W. Riddle
Friday, December 8, 2006
heritage and the professional militia
Two weeks have past. A new post is past due.
I have several thoughts I plan on expounding upon soon. But first, I would like to begin a series I’m going to call ‘Hard Truths’. In fact, as we are all learning, other then The Truth, everything else tends to be well though out opinions and perceptions. With that disclaimer I’ll start this series off with a topic I am confronted with daily. Without further ado…
Yesterday’s events:
0800 – Awoke despite no alarm clock
0830 – Took too long a shower, especially nice after the cold night
0900 – Went to work and checked email
1000 – Watched Sportscenter
1100 – Went to Burger King and bought a Double Whopper
1200 – Went home, threw on the movie Hero and relaxed
1500 – Started the crossword puzzle
1515 – Decided to take a nap
1700 – Went to dinner – Indian food…God I love curry
1800 – Back to the crossword
2000 – Read a book
2200 – Went to bed
Sound familiar? It reminds me of so many days I’ve spent in the past. The difference, this day was spent in a War Zone.
Professional Soldiers. All volunteer military. These are primary military bragging points for the past thirty years. As a nation we soaked this bit of propaganda up with the same thirst we drank Ockham’s Razor.
As a general statement, people want to believe the simple answer is the correct one. So it would stand to reason that a military built of trained professionals who make it their life to hone skills meant to kill and destroy is the only way to go. What do we know of professionals? Professionals are the best at what they do correct?
The first line of work most think of when they hear the term ‘professional’ is athletics. A professional athlete simply is the elite. One earns the title of ‘professional’ through years of hard work, hours at the gym, brutal practices, hours contemplating strategy and study of his opponents. But few actually rise to the top. It is these who outdistance their peers who earn the coveted title of a professional athlete.
With this in mind, it is no accident the military uses the same term. Re-read the above description, sounds like a winning combination for a military man doesn’t it? The simple answer is yes. Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way. The route word in ‘professional’ is ‘profession’. Here lies our problem and the core difference between a professional athlete and a professional soldier (other then the money, prestige and hordes of woman admirers of course).
What is the goal of war? To bring the enemy into submission via violence. Any other definition is ideological and sweet, but childish and ultimately fatally wrong. It stands to reason then, war is an unsavory business. Why then would we make it a profession?
As a professional you train to maintain a status allowing you to continue in your profession. You long for job security. The purpose of your training is no longer to get to where you are, but to maintain the status quo. Does this sound like a good thing for soldiers to be participating in? Do we want to protect the jobs of those whose sole purpose is to kill and destroy? Depend on who you are.
By your leave, I’ll end the ever loosening analogy and speak my feelings directly concerning a professional military. A professional military is built for self preservation. Self preservation leads to lack of effectiveness. Lack of effectiveness in war leads to death.
‘Downsizing’, the dreaded catch word from the mid-eighties and nineties scared everyone except stock holders. Workers hated the idea of streamlining, but the ultimate result was higher yields, less costs and greater employment. The military hates the idea of peace like a mid level manager hates mergers.
Peace is a professional soldier’s nightmare. It means there is no longer any need for him or his trade. It means he has to go home. It means he no longer can feast upon the dollars thrown his way in the name of patriotism. But is this what we want? Is this the reason we built a military? Something is intrinsically wrong with this picture.
The question I’m asked most by my peers and my leadership is not ‘What are you doing for the country today?’ or ‘What did you do to defeat terrorism?’, rather ‘Do you plan on staying in?’
WHAT THE HELL!?!
See, war is no longer considered bad. And why should we think any different? My God, I ate a Whopper today, paid for with tax free income! You cannot win wars with leaders whose primary concern is if you want to make a career out of the military.
It goes without saying that we must have those who make killing and the training of killers their life. Where would we be if the high brass and those training the boots on the ground did not make a life of the military? Yet there is a difference between a ‘lifer’ and experience and expertise.
I’ve never been to a dog fight, but I’ve read about them. One thing is clear; a hungry dog will kill a well satisfied, fat dog ten out of ten times. Why would soldiers be any different? Do you want ‘warriors’ who have no incentive to fight to win?
No and no! If I am building a military to go to war, I want those who don’t want to be there. I want those who can’t wait to go home to their wives and sweethearts. Those who not only hate, but abhor war. I want a fighting force full of men pressed into killing because it’s the only way to end this confrontation and go home. I want cold meals and hard beds.
I’m sorry if this sounds very harsh, especially from a Naval Officer. I truly believe we are paying for our decisions. This war is not being fought to win. It is not due to a lack of funding, training or expertise. It is due to a lack of desire and the heritage we established. Please do not misunderstand. The military is a honerable thing. Military service and service members should be held in regard and esteem. Furthermore, I think all men should serve their country. But in no way, shape or form, should the military be concidered a career path. It is not akin to the butcher, the baker or the candlestick maker; rather the last resort of civilized societies.
I have several thoughts I plan on expounding upon soon. But first, I would like to begin a series I’m going to call ‘Hard Truths’. In fact, as we are all learning, other then The Truth, everything else tends to be well though out opinions and perceptions. With that disclaimer I’ll start this series off with a topic I am confronted with daily. Without further ado…
Yesterday’s events:
0800 – Awoke despite no alarm clock
0830 – Took too long a shower, especially nice after the cold night
0900 – Went to work and checked email
1000 – Watched Sportscenter
1100 – Went to Burger King and bought a Double Whopper
1200 – Went home, threw on the movie Hero and relaxed
1500 – Started the crossword puzzle
1515 – Decided to take a nap
1700 – Went to dinner – Indian food…God I love curry
1800 – Back to the crossword
2000 – Read a book
2200 – Went to bed
Sound familiar? It reminds me of so many days I’ve spent in the past. The difference, this day was spent in a War Zone.
Professional Soldiers. All volunteer military. These are primary military bragging points for the past thirty years. As a nation we soaked this bit of propaganda up with the same thirst we drank Ockham’s Razor.
As a general statement, people want to believe the simple answer is the correct one. So it would stand to reason that a military built of trained professionals who make it their life to hone skills meant to kill and destroy is the only way to go. What do we know of professionals? Professionals are the best at what they do correct?
The first line of work most think of when they hear the term ‘professional’ is athletics. A professional athlete simply is the elite. One earns the title of ‘professional’ through years of hard work, hours at the gym, brutal practices, hours contemplating strategy and study of his opponents. But few actually rise to the top. It is these who outdistance their peers who earn the coveted title of a professional athlete.
With this in mind, it is no accident the military uses the same term. Re-read the above description, sounds like a winning combination for a military man doesn’t it? The simple answer is yes. Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way. The route word in ‘professional’ is ‘profession’. Here lies our problem and the core difference between a professional athlete and a professional soldier (other then the money, prestige and hordes of woman admirers of course).
What is the goal of war? To bring the enemy into submission via violence. Any other definition is ideological and sweet, but childish and ultimately fatally wrong. It stands to reason then, war is an unsavory business. Why then would we make it a profession?
As a professional you train to maintain a status allowing you to continue in your profession. You long for job security. The purpose of your training is no longer to get to where you are, but to maintain the status quo. Does this sound like a good thing for soldiers to be participating in? Do we want to protect the jobs of those whose sole purpose is to kill and destroy? Depend on who you are.
By your leave, I’ll end the ever loosening analogy and speak my feelings directly concerning a professional military. A professional military is built for self preservation. Self preservation leads to lack of effectiveness. Lack of effectiveness in war leads to death.
‘Downsizing’, the dreaded catch word from the mid-eighties and nineties scared everyone except stock holders. Workers hated the idea of streamlining, but the ultimate result was higher yields, less costs and greater employment. The military hates the idea of peace like a mid level manager hates mergers.
Peace is a professional soldier’s nightmare. It means there is no longer any need for him or his trade. It means he has to go home. It means he no longer can feast upon the dollars thrown his way in the name of patriotism. But is this what we want? Is this the reason we built a military? Something is intrinsically wrong with this picture.
The question I’m asked most by my peers and my leadership is not ‘What are you doing for the country today?’ or ‘What did you do to defeat terrorism?’, rather ‘Do you plan on staying in?’
WHAT THE HELL!?!
See, war is no longer considered bad. And why should we think any different? My God, I ate a Whopper today, paid for with tax free income! You cannot win wars with leaders whose primary concern is if you want to make a career out of the military.
It goes without saying that we must have those who make killing and the training of killers their life. Where would we be if the high brass and those training the boots on the ground did not make a life of the military? Yet there is a difference between a ‘lifer’ and experience and expertise.
I’ve never been to a dog fight, but I’ve read about them. One thing is clear; a hungry dog will kill a well satisfied, fat dog ten out of ten times. Why would soldiers be any different? Do you want ‘warriors’ who have no incentive to fight to win?
No and no! If I am building a military to go to war, I want those who don’t want to be there. I want those who can’t wait to go home to their wives and sweethearts. Those who not only hate, but abhor war. I want a fighting force full of men pressed into killing because it’s the only way to end this confrontation and go home. I want cold meals and hard beds.
I’m sorry if this sounds very harsh, especially from a Naval Officer. I truly believe we are paying for our decisions. This war is not being fought to win. It is not due to a lack of funding, training or expertise. It is due to a lack of desire and the heritage we established. Please do not misunderstand. The military is a honerable thing. Military service and service members should be held in regard and esteem. Furthermore, I think all men should serve their country. But in no way, shape or form, should the military be concidered a career path. It is not akin to the butcher, the baker or the candlestick maker; rather the last resort of civilized societies.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
went to war and all i got was this stupid tee-shirt
I wish I had a slogan such as Garrison Keeler's intro to the Prairie Home Companion...'It's been a slow week in Lake Wobegon'. A catch phrase always comes in handy. Its the little bit of nothing somehow signifying so much. Perhaps I'll try a few out in the upcoming weeks. Until then you simply have to put up with my meager beginnings.
Something disturbing struck me this past week. I found conclusive evidence there is simply no urgency to end this war. It wasn't a decoded message or even an overheard conversation between generals. Rather something much more significant, telling and truthful: a sweatshirt.
Yes a sweatshirt, then a tee-shirt. Later a keychain then a shot glass.
Merchandise. Merchandise brandishing a logo of a man's face with an American flag wrapped around him in such a way as to conjure images of Lawrence of Arabia; and underneath or behind the slogan, 'Operation Iraqi Freedom'.
I nearly got sick the first time I saw it. What sort of sick joke is it to produce a line of merchandise for a war. I can understand an 'I was there' tee-shirt from Disney Land. But from a war? And selling it at the Exchange in a war zone. Unthinkable.
And who is the target customer? The soldiers, sailors and marines dying daily? Perhaps its the thousands of Iraqi civilians dying from suicide bombers each month? Since when did war and Disney Land come join hands?
I don't remember, for it was not my time, but i heard about a time when war was sacred and solemn. a time when the 'merchandise' was a flag and a uniform. when the 'i was there' souvenirs were scars and German Lugers. Why in God's name has it fallen to this? What happened to the fierce, unconquerable spirit supposedly innate in the American psyche.
'Dead,' I respond. 'But at least I have a sweatshirt.'
Something disturbing struck me this past week. I found conclusive evidence there is simply no urgency to end this war. It wasn't a decoded message or even an overheard conversation between generals. Rather something much more significant, telling and truthful: a sweatshirt.
Yes a sweatshirt, then a tee-shirt. Later a keychain then a shot glass.
Merchandise. Merchandise brandishing a logo of a man's face with an American flag wrapped around him in such a way as to conjure images of Lawrence of Arabia; and underneath or behind the slogan, 'Operation Iraqi Freedom'.
I nearly got sick the first time I saw it. What sort of sick joke is it to produce a line of merchandise for a war. I can understand an 'I was there' tee-shirt from Disney Land. But from a war? And selling it at the Exchange in a war zone. Unthinkable.
And who is the target customer? The soldiers, sailors and marines dying daily? Perhaps its the thousands of Iraqi civilians dying from suicide bombers each month? Since when did war and Disney Land come join hands?
I don't remember, for it was not my time, but i heard about a time when war was sacred and solemn. a time when the 'merchandise' was a flag and a uniform. when the 'i was there' souvenirs were scars and German Lugers. Why in God's name has it fallen to this? What happened to the fierce, unconquerable spirit supposedly innate in the American psyche.
'Dead,' I respond. 'But at least I have a sweatshirt.'
Friday, November 17, 2006
life lessons and back to the future
Ah, the immortal words of Biff, 'McFly...McFly!'
I first watched the quintessential bully thunder his way through hill valley (yes, I googled the name of the town) and I saw my own skool bullies. I loved the fact Biff got his in the end. Clearly, despite all attempts to quell the fires of vengeance burning in all men, we all want the bully to lose - more, to fall hard.
I took something else from the movie years later when I was out of skool and out of direct contact with middle skool bullies. I remember watching and wondering, is there a point in time when those bullies grow out of it. In the movie, Biff was mean and ornery to the end. A bitter hostile youth, a bitter angry old man. But is that reality? I just can't imagine the same tactics work with men. If I was to turn bully, I have a few ideas of how I would bully. Physical and verbal attacks would be low on the list. Men tend to fear insinuation and manipulation much more then childish verbal threats etc.
Needless to say, I’ve almost been amused at the skool yard bully here at work. It’s almost funny to me. I mean, who writes nasty things on dry erase boards and talks tough behind your back when you're almost 29 years old? I’ve almost rather enjoyed it. But the whole thing makes me wonder whether people change.
I can't decide if people chose a path early and then dig ruts or if we daily chose. If the former, its habit, if the latter, it must become easier to make the same decisions each time. That said, can the opposite be true? Can we wear ruts of servant hood and piety? I’m not sure.
My mom says old age intensifies personality of your youth. I believe it’s an interesting theory. So what of these bullies and what of the mcfly's? I guess there will always be those who allow themselves to be pushed around and herded through their own sheepishness; and those willing to follow in the same characteristic paths of yesterday and everyday before.
It firms in my mind the consequences of our everyday decisions. We think we always have time to change. Fact is, the way we are living today is most likely outcome of years of poor or wise decisions.
As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
Luke
I first watched the quintessential bully thunder his way through hill valley (yes, I googled the name of the town) and I saw my own skool bullies. I loved the fact Biff got his in the end. Clearly, despite all attempts to quell the fires of vengeance burning in all men, we all want the bully to lose - more, to fall hard.
I took something else from the movie years later when I was out of skool and out of direct contact with middle skool bullies. I remember watching and wondering, is there a point in time when those bullies grow out of it. In the movie, Biff was mean and ornery to the end. A bitter hostile youth, a bitter angry old man. But is that reality? I just can't imagine the same tactics work with men. If I was to turn bully, I have a few ideas of how I would bully. Physical and verbal attacks would be low on the list. Men tend to fear insinuation and manipulation much more then childish verbal threats etc.
Needless to say, I’ve almost been amused at the skool yard bully here at work. It’s almost funny to me. I mean, who writes nasty things on dry erase boards and talks tough behind your back when you're almost 29 years old? I’ve almost rather enjoyed it. But the whole thing makes me wonder whether people change.
I can't decide if people chose a path early and then dig ruts or if we daily chose. If the former, its habit, if the latter, it must become easier to make the same decisions each time. That said, can the opposite be true? Can we wear ruts of servant hood and piety? I’m not sure.
My mom says old age intensifies personality of your youth. I believe it’s an interesting theory. So what of these bullies and what of the mcfly's? I guess there will always be those who allow themselves to be pushed around and herded through their own sheepishness; and those willing to follow in the same characteristic paths of yesterday and everyday before.
It firms in my mind the consequences of our everyday decisions. We think we always have time to change. Fact is, the way we are living today is most likely outcome of years of poor or wise decisions.
As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
Luke
Thursday, November 16, 2006
just a bit outside
if i may, i would like to broach a subject important to us all but not normally openly discussed in polite company. fearlessly, i will storm the gates of politeness and jump right in. one of the things i find the most daunting, the most uncomfortable and the most inhumane of issues i deal with on a day to day basis is the lack of naked time. yes, naked time. unless you have lived in a tent with 50 of your closest friends, you have not played with the idea of not being naked for an extended period of time. you might ask, 'what about the shower?' let me remind you of shower shoes. a person needs time to air out. think of little babies. how often have you walked into a friends house or perhaps your own nursery and found a spanking naked bumpkin? as any mother will tell you, babies need time to air out. so why is it we lose this requirement as we age. seems like the older we get the more our aging skin needs a good 'airing out'.
now many of you are thinking its a bit uncouth to speak of nakedness and i understand. many of you are good southern baptist taught that dancing is an abomination much less dancing naked! but be honest, who hasn't had that sunday morning when they had the house all to themselves, no one would be around for hours and all you wanted to do was be natural?
its just a thought. even in this life of comfort, it tends to be little gifts that mean the most. whether it be a note left on the windshield of your car by a loved one, someone making your favorite dinner or a bit of naked time, it is the small things which make life livable. i think this is the central argument for simple living.
this note really isn't going anywhere, but the thought was firm in my head. this base is like no other military institution i've ever been on. everyone where's civilian cloths around here. its strange, yet nice. the past couple of days, i've thought about clothing and its significance often. as i walked around in my blue adidas pants and red toyota shirt, which unfortunately you all know well, i could not help to laugh at how the difference of camouflage meant so much. if i see a old school tan cami uniform with large swabs of drab color, i see navy and consequently shipmates and friends. small green and tan digital squared cami's with a floppy hat, equals army, i.e. sheep. lately, the third leg of the fire triangle arrived on base...the tan and brown digital cami's of the marines. i have an innate dislike for all marines. i would enjoy my blanket dislike if i didn't like so many of them. sounds like a contradiction, but it is what it is.
none of these ridiculous outfits have the first thing to do with who the person is. it might dictate actions for a few hours while worn, but when those precious few moments of 'naked time' arrive, we are all somehow the same. all of us. all hoping to find love, keep love; find prosperity, keep prosperity; find peace and keep peace. well, here's to stripping down. have a happy naked day.
luke
now many of you are thinking its a bit uncouth to speak of nakedness and i understand. many of you are good southern baptist taught that dancing is an abomination much less dancing naked! but be honest, who hasn't had that sunday morning when they had the house all to themselves, no one would be around for hours and all you wanted to do was be natural?
its just a thought. even in this life of comfort, it tends to be little gifts that mean the most. whether it be a note left on the windshield of your car by a loved one, someone making your favorite dinner or a bit of naked time, it is the small things which make life livable. i think this is the central argument for simple living.
this note really isn't going anywhere, but the thought was firm in my head. this base is like no other military institution i've ever been on. everyone where's civilian cloths around here. its strange, yet nice. the past couple of days, i've thought about clothing and its significance often. as i walked around in my blue adidas pants and red toyota shirt, which unfortunately you all know well, i could not help to laugh at how the difference of camouflage meant so much. if i see a old school tan cami uniform with large swabs of drab color, i see navy and consequently shipmates and friends. small green and tan digital squared cami's with a floppy hat, equals army, i.e. sheep. lately, the third leg of the fire triangle arrived on base...the tan and brown digital cami's of the marines. i have an innate dislike for all marines. i would enjoy my blanket dislike if i didn't like so many of them. sounds like a contradiction, but it is what it is.
none of these ridiculous outfits have the first thing to do with who the person is. it might dictate actions for a few hours while worn, but when those precious few moments of 'naked time' arrive, we are all somehow the same. all of us. all hoping to find love, keep love; find prosperity, keep prosperity; find peace and keep peace. well, here's to stripping down. have a happy naked day.
luke
the dance of the bumblebee
The past few days have offered plenty of time to look around and consider the difference between perception and reality. Just today a fellow pilot said in an email, 'whether we like it or not, perception is reality'. I completely disagree. Of all, perception has the least to do with reality. Truth has many shades and perception is the dark corner where the shadows draw long and wreaks havoc on understanding.
This is an inadequate lead in to the subject of today's email. I want to describe for you, through my limited perception, the Army. More specifically, the Army camp where I now reside. I remember a few years back watching Gods and Generals. The austere General Stonewall Jackson bravely leading doughy eyed troop through the hills and valleys for the glory and protection of proud Virginia. I distinctly remember the neat rows of white pup tents, lined stake to stake, forming the orderly rank and file. A broad avenue of sorts cut a swab between the to sides of the camp leading directly to the General's tent. Inside a single, massive table stood supporting an intimidating map, surrounded by serious faced officers who more resembled their corsairs chomping at the bits to lead the vanguard through the very guts of the damn Yankees.
Its unfortunate Hollywood plays such a significant role in how we imagine things outside the realm of our personal experience. Reality is nearly always less organized and assuredly grittier. The people are more real and considerably more distracted. In reality, people have much more going on in their life. In Hollywood, they focus only on the task at hand. We are complicated beings and even war does little to pull our minds out of our own thoughts. Its this tend toward the complexity that makes it all but impossible for camps to look like the rows of white tents we love in the movies.
As I walked around the camp this week I attempted to come up with an appropriate analogy to convey the feeling this place exudes. My first shot was to compare it to a beehive void of the dance of the bumblebees. After a short evaluation I realized bees dance to communicate orders. There is a clean feeling to the chaos and a general sense of purpose. Each bee realizes its own specific role and lives for only its execution. The chaos is production and the dance is tells of its glory.
Not Camp Buering.
My second attempt lent to a thought I found more apropo: an elementary school play ground at recess. Balls are flying; games of tag are formed and as quickly forgotten. Rules are created throughout and redrafted in the same breath by the biggest and quickest. Some loiter. Others simply run. A gaggle throw rocks at the same group trying to collect the prettiest stone. Zero coordination. No production. Yet not chaos. It's a dance of sorts as well. Those who live it day to day see the 'order'. Those adept at monitoring can quickly glance and see the flow where running willy-nilly leads to the monkey bars, to the swing, to the collecting of secada shells and ultimately exhaustion.
This is an Army encampment in a nutshell. I feel rather certain those in the 'life' see this as orderly and as close to the picture of the General and his tents. Upon a Navy ship everyone has purpose. The engineer's job is no more or less important than the machinist. It is a beehive; clean and efficient. Perpetual motion.
This being my realm of experience, poking my head into the playground with kids I don't know, playing games whose rules I don't know, is daunting. The level of loitering is staggering. I suppose these ladies and gentlemen's only reason for being is to fling and consequently catch as much lead as possible in as short a period as human depravity allows.
They are everywhere. The air is filled with the sound of grunts and 'hooa's' from sunup to sundown. To your left they are standing in small clusters smoking, always smoking. Off to the right there are three merely holding up the wall. To the front, a group complaining about their sergeant, behind, two sergeants complaining about their specialists.
Spectacular. I don't know the rules. I don't speak the language. Yet spectacular none the less.
Perhaps the winding 'roads' carving through the smattering of shades, concrete obstructions and trailers make since to these guys. But I don't understand the people either. The Army seems to be made up of two ages with no median population. Two-thirds are barely old enough to shave; the other third are nearly old. I see equal amounts of gray hair and stubble. What happened to those in the middle? Where is the grizzled 33-year-old sergeant we see in the movies?
Ah, that's right…perception.
Be good.
This is an inadequate lead in to the subject of today's email. I want to describe for you, through my limited perception, the Army. More specifically, the Army camp where I now reside. I remember a few years back watching Gods and Generals. The austere General Stonewall Jackson bravely leading doughy eyed troop through the hills and valleys for the glory and protection of proud Virginia. I distinctly remember the neat rows of white pup tents, lined stake to stake, forming the orderly rank and file. A broad avenue of sorts cut a swab between the to sides of the camp leading directly to the General's tent. Inside a single, massive table stood supporting an intimidating map, surrounded by serious faced officers who more resembled their corsairs chomping at the bits to lead the vanguard through the very guts of the damn Yankees.
Its unfortunate Hollywood plays such a significant role in how we imagine things outside the realm of our personal experience. Reality is nearly always less organized and assuredly grittier. The people are more real and considerably more distracted. In reality, people have much more going on in their life. In Hollywood, they focus only on the task at hand. We are complicated beings and even war does little to pull our minds out of our own thoughts. Its this tend toward the complexity that makes it all but impossible for camps to look like the rows of white tents we love in the movies.
As I walked around the camp this week I attempted to come up with an appropriate analogy to convey the feeling this place exudes. My first shot was to compare it to a beehive void of the dance of the bumblebees. After a short evaluation I realized bees dance to communicate orders. There is a clean feeling to the chaos and a general sense of purpose. Each bee realizes its own specific role and lives for only its execution. The chaos is production and the dance is tells of its glory.
Not Camp Buering.
My second attempt lent to a thought I found more apropo: an elementary school play ground at recess. Balls are flying; games of tag are formed and as quickly forgotten. Rules are created throughout and redrafted in the same breath by the biggest and quickest. Some loiter. Others simply run. A gaggle throw rocks at the same group trying to collect the prettiest stone. Zero coordination. No production. Yet not chaos. It's a dance of sorts as well. Those who live it day to day see the 'order'. Those adept at monitoring can quickly glance and see the flow where running willy-nilly leads to the monkey bars, to the swing, to the collecting of secada shells and ultimately exhaustion.
This is an Army encampment in a nutshell. I feel rather certain those in the 'life' see this as orderly and as close to the picture of the General and his tents. Upon a Navy ship everyone has purpose. The engineer's job is no more or less important than the machinist. It is a beehive; clean and efficient. Perpetual motion.
This being my realm of experience, poking my head into the playground with kids I don't know, playing games whose rules I don't know, is daunting. The level of loitering is staggering. I suppose these ladies and gentlemen's only reason for being is to fling and consequently catch as much lead as possible in as short a period as human depravity allows.
They are everywhere. The air is filled with the sound of grunts and 'hooa's' from sunup to sundown. To your left they are standing in small clusters smoking, always smoking. Off to the right there are three merely holding up the wall. To the front, a group complaining about their sergeant, behind, two sergeants complaining about their specialists.
Spectacular. I don't know the rules. I don't speak the language. Yet spectacular none the less.
Perhaps the winding 'roads' carving through the smattering of shades, concrete obstructions and trailers make since to these guys. But I don't understand the people either. The Army seems to be made up of two ages with no median population. Two-thirds are barely old enough to shave; the other third are nearly old. I see equal amounts of gray hair and stubble. What happened to those in the middle? Where is the grizzled 33-year-old sergeant we see in the movies?
Ah, that's right…perception.
Be good.
skiing and politicks
ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
i pose a simple analogy for the state of the current political climate. please review and tell me what you think.
someone asked me to explain my rather 'individualistic' political views recently. i began my typical political rant with a history lesson, founders views on taxation and government control, standing militia and original intent. after feeling out the now sorry questioner, i delved into the root of revolution and the desire for change being the catalyst for our beginning. i spoke of toaism's relation to anarchy and anarchy's relation to our revolutionaries. seeing a spark in his eye, i progressed, almost all in one breath, to the fight between constant motion and stagnation. after a nod of understanding, but a look of doubt, i jumped straight into the heart of the politick, which is the heart of man. the struggle between obedience and the vanity of rebellion. to understand politics is nothing short of fleshing out said struggle into applicable issues. all in all a well rehearsed, concentric conversation.
unfortunately, i have no one to ask the question and certainly no one to listen as i dogmatize. so of course, its a conversation i've had with myself many times, as most men do, attempting to figure out why everything is so backward and why despite ourselves no one seems to posses the tools to fix it. but last night as i lay awake, mind racing, tent mates snoring, critters creeping, clocks ticking five after four, i received a sleep deprived political parable. a way in which i can best summarize how i see the politics of the time. so here goes.
the political landscape is much like a large ski resort. the mountain is morality, decency and common sense. i saw two skiers. the first was flying down the slippery slope, racing to an end only few could see. his face was drawn tight with intensity as he tucked low, keeping his center of gravity just above the skies. flying, now gliding down to the base which is human depravity. this is our democrat. closely behind him was a more relaxed skier, a republican. a weekend warrior. controlled hip oscillations kept a smooth yet ever increasingly slalom down the slope. this skier spoke loudly of his slalom, yet yearned for the race downhill.
at the base of the hill stood all those who had thrown off the yokes of morality, decency and common sense in the past. i heard them clamoring to be the first to offer the new comers a hot cup of the cider of ignorance and the hot chocolate of despotism. but lo, to the east of lodge is a lift. a simple devise to take you back to the top and all skiers are able to ride granted their a ticket is purchased. there is a sign stating a completely unreasonable price. no one in their right mind would pay that toll, nor could afford to. but there is a man standing stoically next to the lift to righteousness who is handing out free passes. his name is Jesus, the lift is Christianity.
i pose a simple analogy for the state of the current political climate. please review and tell me what you think.
someone asked me to explain my rather 'individualistic' political views recently. i began my typical political rant with a history lesson, founders views on taxation and government control, standing militia and original intent. after feeling out the now sorry questioner, i delved into the root of revolution and the desire for change being the catalyst for our beginning. i spoke of toaism's relation to anarchy and anarchy's relation to our revolutionaries. seeing a spark in his eye, i progressed, almost all in one breath, to the fight between constant motion and stagnation. after a nod of understanding, but a look of doubt, i jumped straight into the heart of the politick, which is the heart of man. the struggle between obedience and the vanity of rebellion. to understand politics is nothing short of fleshing out said struggle into applicable issues. all in all a well rehearsed, concentric conversation.
unfortunately, i have no one to ask the question and certainly no one to listen as i dogmatize. so of course, its a conversation i've had with myself many times, as most men do, attempting to figure out why everything is so backward and why despite ourselves no one seems to posses the tools to fix it. but last night as i lay awake, mind racing, tent mates snoring, critters creeping, clocks ticking five after four, i received a sleep deprived political parable. a way in which i can best summarize how i see the politics of the time. so here goes.
the political landscape is much like a large ski resort. the mountain is morality, decency and common sense. i saw two skiers. the first was flying down the slippery slope, racing to an end only few could see. his face was drawn tight with intensity as he tucked low, keeping his center of gravity just above the skies. flying, now gliding down to the base which is human depravity. this is our democrat. closely behind him was a more relaxed skier, a republican. a weekend warrior. controlled hip oscillations kept a smooth yet ever increasingly slalom down the slope. this skier spoke loudly of his slalom, yet yearned for the race downhill.
at the base of the hill stood all those who had thrown off the yokes of morality, decency and common sense in the past. i heard them clamoring to be the first to offer the new comers a hot cup of the cider of ignorance and the hot chocolate of despotism. but lo, to the east of lodge is a lift. a simple devise to take you back to the top and all skiers are able to ride granted their a ticket is purchased. there is a sign stating a completely unreasonable price. no one in their right mind would pay that toll, nor could afford to. but there is a man standing stoically next to the lift to righteousness who is handing out free passes. his name is Jesus, the lift is Christianity.
post entry: the day to day
hey kids,
sorry i've not written in a few days. things have taken a turn for the asinine. i've actually composed three emails in my noggin which i've not set down. none of them are worthy of emails unfortunately. probably better suited for a blog of sorts. so instead of providing mildly entertaining and undoubtedly verbose rants i'll just give a quick update and tell you of the day to day.
first. thank you thank you thank you to those who have emailed me. i very much appreciate them. unless you've experienced something like this, its difficult to express the joy that it is to hear about your lives back home. i suppose a decent similitude would be (sorry for the passive voice. all english majors and those who take offense to the trampling of the english language please forgive.) summer camp for adults. complete with all the trappings and complexities of the adult life with the surreal bubble of camp. so thank you.
day to day. well, the weather is like san diego right now. perhaps a bit more of a chill to the air actually. the wind has picked up and average wind is in and around 30 mph. of course nothing is in mph but kph. and electricity is not 110 but 220. so converters are coveted items. i'm the admin officer. its all paperwork all the time. i have zero staff. i'm replacing a staff of two officers and on enlisted specialist. but whatever. the navy has a funny way of doing business. they would never send a personnel specialist to fly, but they have no qualms about sending a pilot to do personnel work. you can choose to have me fly or do administrative work. the combination will only produce problems. the unfortunate part is the ones making decisions have decided that the providing for and advancement of the sailors is not of a concern.
we've flow a bit. not much. my boss is a marksman line of sight tasker. everyone is encouraged to set goals for the deployment. i.e. read two books (yes, that would be an accomplishment for most of my coworkers - and most likely dan brown books :( ), take a college class on line, lose 20 lbs. i've clearly identified his goal is to do as much paperwork with as little productivity as possible. now if this is his goal, i must admit, he is very adept. its simply unfortunate it doesn't align itself to my goal of not doing paperwork. can you guess who might lose here?
i've done about ten things in the midst of writing this email and apologize for the lack of coherence. all in all things are good. very long days. lots of halogen bulbs and laminate flooring. more dust and wind. too many army grunts and not nearly enough alone time. it is what it is. if any of you want, i'll jot down a few notes on my thoughts concerning the army, camp life, the current state of politics and even a clothing piece. (told you they weren't email worthy...but as i look at what i've written already, i realize either my level of thought process is significantly lacking, else my esteem for email worthy material is bloated. thank you all my dear, erudite family and friends. you are my reprieve. God bless
sorry i've not written in a few days. things have taken a turn for the asinine. i've actually composed three emails in my noggin which i've not set down. none of them are worthy of emails unfortunately. probably better suited for a blog of sorts. so instead of providing mildly entertaining and undoubtedly verbose rants i'll just give a quick update and tell you of the day to day.
first. thank you thank you thank you to those who have emailed me. i very much appreciate them. unless you've experienced something like this, its difficult to express the joy that it is to hear about your lives back home. i suppose a decent similitude would be (sorry for the passive voice. all english majors and those who take offense to the trampling of the english language please forgive.) summer camp for adults. complete with all the trappings and complexities of the adult life with the surreal bubble of camp. so thank you.
day to day. well, the weather is like san diego right now. perhaps a bit more of a chill to the air actually. the wind has picked up and average wind is in and around 30 mph. of course nothing is in mph but kph. and electricity is not 110 but 220. so converters are coveted items. i'm the admin officer. its all paperwork all the time. i have zero staff. i'm replacing a staff of two officers and on enlisted specialist. but whatever. the navy has a funny way of doing business. they would never send a personnel specialist to fly, but they have no qualms about sending a pilot to do personnel work. you can choose to have me fly or do administrative work. the combination will only produce problems. the unfortunate part is the ones making decisions have decided that the providing for and advancement of the sailors is not of a concern.
we've flow a bit. not much. my boss is a marksman line of sight tasker. everyone is encouraged to set goals for the deployment. i.e. read two books (yes, that would be an accomplishment for most of my coworkers - and most likely dan brown books :( ), take a college class on line, lose 20 lbs. i've clearly identified his goal is to do as much paperwork with as little productivity as possible. now if this is his goal, i must admit, he is very adept. its simply unfortunate it doesn't align itself to my goal of not doing paperwork. can you guess who might lose here?
i've done about ten things in the midst of writing this email and apologize for the lack of coherence. all in all things are good. very long days. lots of halogen bulbs and laminate flooring. more dust and wind. too many army grunts and not nearly enough alone time. it is what it is. if any of you want, i'll jot down a few notes on my thoughts concerning the army, camp life, the current state of politics and even a clothing piece. (told you they weren't email worthy...but as i look at what i've written already, i realize either my level of thought process is significantly lacking, else my esteem for email worthy material is bloated. thank you all my dear, erudite family and friends. you are my reprieve. God bless
and it begins
Today I flew for the first time since I arrived. It was a benign ferry flight from Kuwait city back to the camp. It was good to get in the aircraft again. Its odd when you don’t fly often it feels very strange the first few moments when you return. It feels as though you have forgotten everything but the moment you touch the controls its back to normal. We flew a three-helo form flight using night vision devises (nvd’s). There is simply nothing to see in kuwait.. that is unless you really enjoy sand. I think those girls who go to the beach to lay out wouldn’t mind Kuwait that much. Its those of us who think the reason to go to the beach lies in the power of those magnificent waves.
I’ve managed to twinge my achillies tendon running the other day, which is keeping me from the ‘Friday night lights’ tonight. Apparently the detachment before us made it through the week by keeping two treats, one at the end, and one at the beginning. Sunday is the only day they allow themselves desert. I am used to the boat where the desert was suspect at the best and down right terrible at the worst. Here the ‘dfac’ or dining facility has an ice cream bar not to mention a rack of pies and cakes that look amazing. Its no wonder they decided to limit themselves. I mean, free ice cream daily. Come on.
The second treat they keep sacred is the ‘Friday night lights’. A fairly gay name for the sand volleyball game. Apparently they are decent and run everyone else off the court, then play till two in the morning. I remember my days at uk as a summer advising conference councilor playing endless volleyball. Needless to say, I’m very excited about the prospect of competitive volleyball again.
The day-to-day aspect is fine. I feel almost mentally removed from the reality of being deployed. The homesickness and feeling of destitute has not even entered my mind. Last cruise was so much more complicated it seems. My life at home was filled with unresolved relational issues, but today I sit here simply a war fighter. The Bible mentions that a soldier cannot be effective if worrying about anything other than his duties. I always thought it was funny that this was mentioned. Now in fairness, it’s a small part of a larger parable, but I’ve found it to be so very true. I’m sure it holds true for all people in all occupations.
We have this terribly off base concept in the flight community known as ‘compartmentalizing’. It’s an idea demanding the person put each part of his life into a drawer and only pull them out at certain times. When you fly, your money issues, your marital problems, your new car, etc. get placed in a bin and you only fly. While this is a great concept, anyone who is a person, or at least knows one realizes the unreality of the idea. You can put some things away, but you will never be able to completely focus on anything by simply deciding to compartmentalize.
Perhaps by having your house in order you may learn greater focus, but life and its little thrills creep up whether or not you place them in a compartment or not. This is a long way to say, my house feels in order and my life separated into little drawers which simply don’t interfere with my job they way they did last year.
Last year I vowed, rather resolved to live drama free. For those of you who know me well can appreciate why the sentiment was well meaning and well deserved but ultimately ridiculously out of the realm of possibility. However I learned through the drama of the spring with a certain young lady, life’s drama does not retreat without a fight. It takes time. So those of you who watched and laughed at my vain thrashings, can now look at me and say, ‘he did it’.
Clearly this letter has no real structure or point. I value each one of you. It is a special thing to have the epiphany showing you who your true friends are and the consequent thoughts of inadequacy and thankfulness that ensue. The above is a poor way of saying how much I think of my friends and I truly do not feel worthy of you. Its been said, ‘if you claim more than three friends, you’re counting co-workers’, I’m beginning to disagree. Well, I’m off to sleep. Have a great day. Allow God to bless you in new ways today. Peace.
I’ve managed to twinge my achillies tendon running the other day, which is keeping me from the ‘Friday night lights’ tonight. Apparently the detachment before us made it through the week by keeping two treats, one at the end, and one at the beginning. Sunday is the only day they allow themselves desert. I am used to the boat where the desert was suspect at the best and down right terrible at the worst. Here the ‘dfac’ or dining facility has an ice cream bar not to mention a rack of pies and cakes that look amazing. Its no wonder they decided to limit themselves. I mean, free ice cream daily. Come on.
The second treat they keep sacred is the ‘Friday night lights’. A fairly gay name for the sand volleyball game. Apparently they are decent and run everyone else off the court, then play till two in the morning. I remember my days at uk as a summer advising conference councilor playing endless volleyball. Needless to say, I’m very excited about the prospect of competitive volleyball again.
The day-to-day aspect is fine. I feel almost mentally removed from the reality of being deployed. The homesickness and feeling of destitute has not even entered my mind. Last cruise was so much more complicated it seems. My life at home was filled with unresolved relational issues, but today I sit here simply a war fighter. The Bible mentions that a soldier cannot be effective if worrying about anything other than his duties. I always thought it was funny that this was mentioned. Now in fairness, it’s a small part of a larger parable, but I’ve found it to be so very true. I’m sure it holds true for all people in all occupations.
We have this terribly off base concept in the flight community known as ‘compartmentalizing’. It’s an idea demanding the person put each part of his life into a drawer and only pull them out at certain times. When you fly, your money issues, your marital problems, your new car, etc. get placed in a bin and you only fly. While this is a great concept, anyone who is a person, or at least knows one realizes the unreality of the idea. You can put some things away, but you will never be able to completely focus on anything by simply deciding to compartmentalize.
Perhaps by having your house in order you may learn greater focus, but life and its little thrills creep up whether or not you place them in a compartment or not. This is a long way to say, my house feels in order and my life separated into little drawers which simply don’t interfere with my job they way they did last year.
Last year I vowed, rather resolved to live drama free. For those of you who know me well can appreciate why the sentiment was well meaning and well deserved but ultimately ridiculously out of the realm of possibility. However I learned through the drama of the spring with a certain young lady, life’s drama does not retreat without a fight. It takes time. So those of you who watched and laughed at my vain thrashings, can now look at me and say, ‘he did it’.
Clearly this letter has no real structure or point. I value each one of you. It is a special thing to have the epiphany showing you who your true friends are and the consequent thoughts of inadequacy and thankfulness that ensue. The above is a poor way of saying how much I think of my friends and I truly do not feel worthy of you. Its been said, ‘if you claim more than three friends, you’re counting co-workers’, I’m beginning to disagree. Well, I’m off to sleep. Have a great day. Allow God to bless you in new ways today. Peace.
post entry
Things are beginning to settle into the routine of un-routine. The weather remains remarkably temperate and as we were laboriously told by the weather forecaster in his excruciating brief, it will become more and more mild. January promises highs of 64 and lows in the low 40’s. Appears I picked the right time to visit the desert.
I’m must admit I’m already tiring of the tent set up. I know, I know, I only lasted three days and nights before I had enough. For those of you who know me have heard me say many times I will not have another roommate less it be my wife. I spent two hours the first night building what has become known as Fort Riddle. I stood four cots on end and attached sheets to create a room of sorts. The next step was furniture. Some army guys were getting rid of the things in their rooms. I managed to find a small wooden nightstand of sorts with shelves and partitions. Then I found a small rug to place next to my bed and cover the concrete. Next I found several beer posters.
This foraging and construction of the small room amidst the rows of cots earned me the reputation of a looter to the jealous and the guy who gets things to the same. All in good fun. The whole thing has a very real flavor of Apocalypse Now – minus the hanging dead and worship from the locals. Okay, it is nothing like Apocalypse Now, but it was the best I could manage.
The food here is actually fairly decent. Not my Mama’s homemade or fresh ahi, but palatable. Infact, tonight was surf and turf; a slightly over boiled piece of steak and lobster tails. The army must know something about moral (or if you are in the business, p.m.a. – positive mental attitude). Not only do they have a very diverse cornucopia ranging from salad bar to fried foods, they have an ice cream bar. I mean seriously, an ice cream bar. Thank God for the gym. Looks like I’ll be spending significant time at both. A beauty of sorts. The balance. It’s a conservation of energies I suppose.
Thus far it has been death by powerpoint, but beginning tomorrow we start our under instruction time. It will be nice to actually start.
I’m must admit I’m already tiring of the tent set up. I know, I know, I only lasted three days and nights before I had enough. For those of you who know me have heard me say many times I will not have another roommate less it be my wife. I spent two hours the first night building what has become known as Fort Riddle. I stood four cots on end and attached sheets to create a room of sorts. The next step was furniture. Some army guys were getting rid of the things in their rooms. I managed to find a small wooden nightstand of sorts with shelves and partitions. Then I found a small rug to place next to my bed and cover the concrete. Next I found several beer posters.
This foraging and construction of the small room amidst the rows of cots earned me the reputation of a looter to the jealous and the guy who gets things to the same. All in good fun. The whole thing has a very real flavor of Apocalypse Now – minus the hanging dead and worship from the locals. Okay, it is nothing like Apocalypse Now, but it was the best I could manage.
The food here is actually fairly decent. Not my Mama’s homemade or fresh ahi, but palatable. Infact, tonight was surf and turf; a slightly over boiled piece of steak and lobster tails. The army must know something about moral (or if you are in the business, p.m.a. – positive mental attitude). Not only do they have a very diverse cornucopia ranging from salad bar to fried foods, they have an ice cream bar. I mean seriously, an ice cream bar. Thank God for the gym. Looks like I’ll be spending significant time at both. A beauty of sorts. The balance. It’s a conservation of energies I suppose.
Thus far it has been death by powerpoint, but beginning tomorrow we start our under instruction time. It will be nice to actually start.
In the beginning
Fri
After a long and exhausting plane ride which saw stops in Illinois, Newfoundland, Germany and finally Kuwait, I finally made my way to camp buering. If you’ve ever spent a similar time on a jet at 35,000 ft., you realize how discombobulated we all were. Needless to say, my mind had a difficult time calibrating. We departed San Diego bright and early the morning of the 28th. By the time we landed in Newfoundland it was the pitch black of night, yet when we arrived in Germany the sun was rising. By now time was feeling as relative as it is claimed. The four hour flight from Germany to Kuwait found us not in the mid morning, rather the late evening, which turned to night within an hour of our arrival. So in one day of traveling we experienced in our mind’s eye two complete days! (sorry about the explanation points…I realize its like laughing at your own jokes, but I like them!)
The camp is very much different from the boat as you can imagine. Buildings and tents seemingly strewn around, tanks parked in close lines, little g.i. joes wandering around with unloaded rifles; all very different from the close quarters of a well-oiled navy ship. The smart tidiness of a navy ship is replaced by vastness and dirt. That is not the army’s fault, rather Kuwait’s. Kuwait remains the same as last I was here, flat and dusty, with two exceptions, it is mild and has rained the past two days.
Looking around I still cannot understand why people live to die for this wasteland. Imagine fighting for the steaming hot, cracked parking lot next to the closed kmart when you have no shoes and the only reprieve is a section of broken glass to ease the burning of your soles. Perhaps not a perfect similitude, but what a wasteland. The answer ‘oil’ was given to my question, ‘why would anyone live in this place and more, die for it?’. A popular answer in today’s ‘we fight this war for oil’ mentality. Goes to show you how little people read history. Blood has been shed on this land far before suv’s and even before the discovery of the shiny black stuff.
Today was our first real day here. We had nothing to do as we are still ‘acclimating’. Tomorrow will start the beginning of the briefings constituting a long and most likely painful turn over. I’m looking forward to getting in a grove and actually doing our job. I’m especially looking forward to moving out of this large tent where we are living. If you’ve never lived with fifty of your closest friends you have no idea the powerlessness you feel when the big guy across the tent snores at a volume which puts rock concerts to shame. Impressive really. And I must say, it masks my own snoring, so I’m not that upset with the guy.
Before you start imagining a Vietnam style tent with green vinyl and stretched camouflage overtop, let me remind you we are in the middle of the flattest land you can imagine. There is no sense trying to hide. We live in an enormous white tent with concrete floors and air conditioning. Not the height of comfort or hardship. It simply is.
The last is a statement I’ve found myself saying more and more as of late. I’m not sure if it is a sign of giving in or simply an understanding of what can be changed and what cannot. I suppose there is wisdom in the famous lines from that oh so inspirational movie fight club; ‘we have learned to let slide, that which truly does not matter’. So perhaps, ‘it simply is’ is my way of letting things of which I have no control, not get me in a fuss. More on this later, as I think it is an important issue.
After a long and exhausting plane ride which saw stops in Illinois, Newfoundland, Germany and finally Kuwait, I finally made my way to camp buering. If you’ve ever spent a similar time on a jet at 35,000 ft., you realize how discombobulated we all were. Needless to say, my mind had a difficult time calibrating. We departed San Diego bright and early the morning of the 28th. By the time we landed in Newfoundland it was the pitch black of night, yet when we arrived in Germany the sun was rising. By now time was feeling as relative as it is claimed. The four hour flight from Germany to Kuwait found us not in the mid morning, rather the late evening, which turned to night within an hour of our arrival. So in one day of traveling we experienced in our mind’s eye two complete days! (sorry about the explanation points…I realize its like laughing at your own jokes, but I like them!)
The camp is very much different from the boat as you can imagine. Buildings and tents seemingly strewn around, tanks parked in close lines, little g.i. joes wandering around with unloaded rifles; all very different from the close quarters of a well-oiled navy ship. The smart tidiness of a navy ship is replaced by vastness and dirt. That is not the army’s fault, rather Kuwait’s. Kuwait remains the same as last I was here, flat and dusty, with two exceptions, it is mild and has rained the past two days.
Looking around I still cannot understand why people live to die for this wasteland. Imagine fighting for the steaming hot, cracked parking lot next to the closed kmart when you have no shoes and the only reprieve is a section of broken glass to ease the burning of your soles. Perhaps not a perfect similitude, but what a wasteland. The answer ‘oil’ was given to my question, ‘why would anyone live in this place and more, die for it?’. A popular answer in today’s ‘we fight this war for oil’ mentality. Goes to show you how little people read history. Blood has been shed on this land far before suv’s and even before the discovery of the shiny black stuff.
Today was our first real day here. We had nothing to do as we are still ‘acclimating’. Tomorrow will start the beginning of the briefings constituting a long and most likely painful turn over. I’m looking forward to getting in a grove and actually doing our job. I’m especially looking forward to moving out of this large tent where we are living. If you’ve never lived with fifty of your closest friends you have no idea the powerlessness you feel when the big guy across the tent snores at a volume which puts rock concerts to shame. Impressive really. And I must say, it masks my own snoring, so I’m not that upset with the guy.
Before you start imagining a Vietnam style tent with green vinyl and stretched camouflage overtop, let me remind you we are in the middle of the flattest land you can imagine. There is no sense trying to hide. We live in an enormous white tent with concrete floors and air conditioning. Not the height of comfort or hardship. It simply is.
The last is a statement I’ve found myself saying more and more as of late. I’m not sure if it is a sign of giving in or simply an understanding of what can be changed and what cannot. I suppose there is wisdom in the famous lines from that oh so inspirational movie fight club; ‘we have learned to let slide, that which truly does not matter’. So perhaps, ‘it simply is’ is my way of letting things of which I have no control, not get me in a fuss. More on this later, as I think it is an important issue.
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