The Gun Line MkIII

Well?

SGT B and Phoenix...

Know Ye, Oh Best Beloved, that SGT B and Phoenix, being of sound mind and spirit, were married in the eyes of God by a Pastor of the United Methodist Church at 2:00 PM, June 6, in the year of Our Lord Two Thousand Ten.

The population of the Firebase now stands at 11:

SGT B

Phoenix

Kat (Reservist)

Bear

The Engineer

Sir Artiste

and then the Life Sparks:

Ice (K9)

Spike (Feline)

Jojo (Feline)

Tristan (Feline)

Sandy (Feline)

and assorted fish and One Red-kneed Tarantula (under a suspended death sentence as long as it stays where it belongs…)

In light of today’s all female flight crews, the term “cockpit” is no longer used exclusively…  It will now be shared, relative to the gender of the flight crew, with “box office”…

In other news:

The Firebase has a new addition in the motor pool:

A 194? Ford GTB 1 1/2 ton truck, otherwise known as a “Burma Jeep”.  Doesn’t look like much right now, but she’s actually in pretty good shape:  All the important parts are there, and the engine isn’t locked up.

Oh, and it was FREE…

Tony

Woodfork

Butch

Mana and Grandfather

Mimae and Grampy

I miss you…

requiescat in pace

Phyllis Langfitt Freseman Kramer

b. August 3rd, 1927, d. May 8, 2010

It is inevitable that, as time passes, those who are our elders begin to depart to their Eternal Rest and Glory.

Unfortunately, these very same persons are the ones who filled our early years with memories.  Our grandparents, our Great Aunts and Uncles, our Cousins however many times removed, in memories from a childhood long past that hopefully contain the joys of the fellowship shared with family.

Life happens, however, and while we would like to say that we hold fast with our family, the reality is that we are a mobile people, and, especially in the Service, we are not always afforded the opportunity to stay in close proximity with all of our kith and kin, and thus, when a relative with whom we have not remained in contact passes away, we must draw upon those faint memories, and hope that we, in our own poor way, to honor our departed kin, and assure those with more recent experiences and proximity, that they who have departed are honored, and all that was the best of them celebrated.

And so do I remember well my cousin, Phyllis, from the days when I was a youth in Old Virginia, who shuffled off her mortal coil and went to God on Saturday.

As I recall, Phyllis was not what one would call “petite”…  And I do not believe such a moniker would do her justice, because the Phyllis I remember had a largeness of spirit about her, in fact, to my youthful recollection, she was more a force of nature: bold, dynamic, and expressive in her affections almost to the point of intimidation.  In extended families, there are those who are born to be matrons, and I remember that Phyllis was well suited to the role, a  veritable General of troops at social gatherings, a loud center of activities when the Clan gathered.

But there was love…  Love that swept through the gathered throng in the finest traditions of those cultures who celebrate family.  Any Italian, Russian, or Greek native would instantly recognize this love, and throw themselves bodily into the mix with nary a moment’s hesitation, fully understanding the rules of the game.

For me, used to smaller places, and quieter climes, it was a little overwhelming, and potentially frightening…

But Phyllis wouldn’t allow that, and my fondest memory of her was the time she spent making sure that I was included – nay – thrust into the mix, to fend for myself in a happy maelstrom of familial affections.  A little frightened, but knowing that I was safe.

I remember you with great fondness, cousin Phyllis, and a great presence in the world has fallen quiet, to our loss.

God speed, cousin, and His blessings upon those who mourn your passing.

The day broke on Wednesday, 30 April, 1975, just like it had every other day for a 10 year old boy living in the Kalayaan Housing Area aboard Subic Bay Naval Station, Republic of the Philippines.  Warm and green; comfortable in that we had been there for almost two years, and I had establish my schedule:  Go to school, explore the triple canopy jungle in my back yard, spend Saturdays attending MWR events, going snorkeling off of the back of Grande Island on Sundays after Mass, coming home to eat Chef Boyardee Homemade pizza in the living room while watching Star Trek on the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service (AFRTS) and then starting the week all over again.

As a kid, I really didn’t pay attention to world events.  I knew that we were at war, but at Subic, the microcosm of life was centered around the Station, and we weren’t really effected by the war.  We knew that it was happening, but there was a job to do at Subic.  Every military professional, however, kept an eye on what was going on over there.  The only times it really impacted dependents was when you were playing at a friend’s house, and the black Navy sedan with the Naval Officers in their dress whites pulled up.  I was asked to go home, and a few days later, my friend was gone, because his father had been shot down, killed, or captured somewhere in Southeast Asia.  These incidents didn’t happen on a regular basis, but they happened, and I remember them.

The military has a plan for everything, including what was considered highly unlikely, so when Saigon fell, Subic put its plan into action.  The Seebees were mobilized to Grande Island, the Red Cross (which included my mom) were given instruction, and the Naval Community prepared to receive the people and materials that were making their ways via the Naval Task forces, aircraft, and civilian ships across the sea to us.

Mom volunteered to help in Operation Babylift, where Vietnamese infants had been sent by their parents away from South Vietnam.  These children arrived at Subic, some wearing necklaces of Bot, gold with which to pay their way), and Mom helping to find sponsors and, later, reunite families at Grande Island.

Dad was busy arranging for the reception for the ships of the former South Vietnamese Navy, racking and stacking them wherever space could be found, and clearing them of vermin and ordnance, and later arranging for their overhaul and disposition.

Mom worked eighteen hours days, and Dad worked twenty hour days, leaving me with the dog, and our wonderful maid, Lina, who stepped up to the plate, and, in her own small way, contributed to the overall response to the evacuee situation.  This lasted about a month, until the last day.

Mom remembers:

One of the first refugees to arrive was a Vietnamese doctor.  He had lost contact with his wife in the confusion, but pitched in to assist the Americans by providing translation services, and cultural training (teaching the American volunteers about Vietnamese protocol and taboos.)  He stayed until the the last helicopter ferried the last of the refugees from the ships of the Naval Task Force.  When the helicopter landed, the last person off of it was his wife, and they were reunited.  That was closure for me as far as the Fall of Saigon was concerned, but I still have strong feelings about why events turned out the way that they did…

Thirty years later, I have learned much.  I learned how the country treated her returning veterans, and how the American public was manipulated by the mainstream media, who have since lost my trust completely.  I learned that any blame of the “loss” of the Vietnam War was on the shoulders of the politicians, and not the Forces on the ground.

I remember those days, and I want to express to those who served my feelings:

It took decades for the American public to learn how badly it has treated our Vietnam Veterans, and caused untold damage to those Veteran’s lives by its refusal to step up and help heal those who returned.  There are, however, many who never stopped believing that the Vietnam Vets are heroes in no less stature than any who served before them, and it has been my honor to be counted among their supporters.

If you are a veteran of the Southeast Asia Theater of Operations (1955-1975):  Welcome Home!  And thank you for standing the line on my behalf.

25 April 1915…

ANZAC Day…

It is believed that the national identities of Australia and New Zealand awoke, and amidst the bullets, shells, and blood of Anzac Cove, Helles, and Suvla Bay during the Gallipoli Campaign.

Years later, during another world war, Australia and New Zealand would sacrifice a vast majority of their countries’ young men as they brought another evil empire to heel, and at the same time, provided aid and comfort to my own forefathers: The First Marine Division of the United States Marine Corps.  The hospitality of Australia was such that the official song of the 1st MarDiv is “Waltzing Matilda”.

As a result of the valor and courage of the Forces of the United Kingdom, which included the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, the Turkish Commander, Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk) erected a memorial in 1934 with words that summed up the respect earned during the battle:

Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives… you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets where they lie side by side here in this country of ours… You the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. Having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.

Australia, especially, is known for the big-hearted ruggedness of her people:

When discussing the merits of our homes one day, a fellow from Texas expounded on the vast nature of his home state, calling to mind the wide ranging wilderness stereotypical of Texas.  When he finished speaking, the next man in line, an Australian, was asked about his homeland.  The digger tipped his hat back with a smile:  “Kinda like Texas,” he said in the easy manner of a native of the Outback, “Only big.”

On this day, remember those who fought at Gallipoli.  Remember their valor.  Remember their sacrifice.  Most of all, just remember, so that the veterans of that battle, and all the others, may know that they have not been forgotten.

Buy a red poppy…

Raise a glass to the ANZACs.

And Remember.

Semper Fi, mate.  Too easy.

"And his ghost may be heard when you're passing by the billabong... 'You'll come a'waltzing Matilda with me'..."

“Another one in the books!”

I had the pleasure of attending the 2010 MilBlog Conference in Washington D.C.!

Personally, the journey to and from the Conference was flawless and uneventful, and when I arrived in D.C., I was looking forward to the pre and post festivities as well as the event itself…

There are plenty of folks who have posted comprehensive summaries of the events, so I’m not even going to try (and ride their coat tails as far as kudos to all who pitched in to make it a great event!  Y’all rock!!!), but I am going to express a few thoughts:

I need to learn to twitter…  I’m sick and tired of not knowing where the after parties are…  ‘Nuff said…

I had a great time getting a chance to talk to the very same folks whose words have made me laugh, strengthened my resolve, and, most of all, forced me to expand my mind.  Rarely have I disagreed with any of them, but if I do, I know that, so long as I forward a reasonably thought out opinion, it will enjoy a cordial and genuine response.

Oh, and I need to learn how to spell Blackhawk Grayhawk Greyhawk…  And Mrs. G. is petite…  Kinda like dynamite…

Uncle Jimbo needs to get over his fear of public speaking and stop being a wall flower…

I don’t ever want to get Chuck angry at me…

The Golden Knights (U.S. Army Parachute Team) has a blog, and they were there.  I’m not sure whether a cost-benefit analysis would support them being there in their primary role as a parachute demonstration team, but I was glad to see them exploring the possibilities of using social media to advance their message as ambassadors of the U.S. Army.  Unfortunately,  the only thing I could have said to them face to face was “Dude, what you guys do is totally cool!”, and look like some blithering idiot, so I sat back and drooled from afar, because, you know, they are cool!  (And they left behind some really neat stuff!)

And then I was able to meet Major Norman Hatch, who shot combat footage of the Marines landing at Tarawa.  To Marines, he is a living legend, and meeting him, and having lunch with him was an honor of the highest degree!  He spins a good sea story as well!

And then there was Gina Elise…  What a sweetheart!  Got legs all the way up to her shoulders, and a heart of pure spun gold to boot!

Saving Able performed Friday night, and I wish I had brought my harps…  Next year: The Pipes!

If I were to try to list all of the bloggers I met and interacted with, I know I would forget somebody, but I see each and every one of you in my mind’s eye, and I enjoyed every conversation in which I participated, and I value the fact that some of you “heavy hitters” even remembered who I was!  It boosted my motivation to get my head and tail wired together and step up my own blogging.  Of course, being out in the middle of nowhere, it might look something like this:

12APR2010:  Watched the wheat in the fields growing…  Cleaned my rifle…

13APR2010:  Wheat is still growing…  Cleaned my rifle again…

14APR2010:  Still growing…  Rifle’s pretty clean…

15APR2010:  Wheat…  Growing…  Ran out of Hoppes No. 9…

16APR2010:  Growing wheat doesn’t make for good news…  Took a break from rifle cleaning and switched to the shotgun…

Anyhow, had a wonderful and enlightening time, and I’m looking forward to next year!

“The Navy Diver is not a fighting man, he is a salvage expert. If it is lost underwater, he finds it. If it’s sunk, he brings it up. If it’s in the way, he moves it. If he’s lucky, he will die young, 200 feet beneath the waves, for that is the closest he’ll ever get to being a hero. Hell, I don’t know why anybody would want to be a Navy diver.” – “Men of Honor” 2000

Retired Commander James Rad Nelson, 81, went to be with the Lord on Saturday, March 20, 2010.

Cmdr. James Rad Nelson was born in Waskom, Texas, on Dec. 11, 1928, to the parents of Rad Emery Nelson and Mary Lucille Rogers. He enlisted in the U.S. Navy in January 1946. Throughout his 36-year career, he was a Deep Sea Salvage Diver, a UDT  “Frogman” and was a member of the first UDT unit to see combat action during the Korean War. He was commissioned an Ensign in 1960 and had five “at sea” commands. He was commander of River Assault Division 112 in the Mekong Delta during the Vietnam War and was awarded the Navy Cross, Silver Star, two Bronze Stars with Combat “V” and two Purple Hearts. His last command before retiring in 1982 was as commanding officer of the Naval Diving and Salvage Training Center in Panama City.

At the time of his retirement, he was the oldest diver in the U.S. Navy.

Not content with retirement, he became a sworn officer with the Bay County Sheriff’s Office and served 15 years retiring as a sergeant. He was also an Apostle in the Church of Jesus Christ Lamb of God.

He is survived by his wife of 58 years, Donna Nelson; three sons, William Nelson and wife, Divina, Harry Nelson and Rad Nelson and wife, Diane; one brother, Michael Nelson; two sisters, Betty Espinola and Ann Blankenship; seven grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.

A funeral service will be held at 10 a.m. Thursday, March 25, 2010, in the Chapel of Kent-Forest Lawn, with Brother Don Hodges officiating. Interment will follow at Evergreen Memorial Gardens. The family will receive friends from 6 to 8 p.m. Wednesday, March 24, 2010, at the funeral home.

Rest easy, Diver.

And thank you.

There have been a number of life-sparks headed to Piddler’s Green as of late…  The Circle of Life, but damned depressing…

I offer this break from entropy, and celebrate the life-sparks that enrich my life…

First there is Spike (Interior Vector Control Tech 1st Class) who is voted most likely to speak in the manner of Sean Connery…  Yes, he’s THAT cool.

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