The Laughing Wolf

I'm Happy

A lot got done here at the lair this weekend, even if such did negate my desired restful weekend. I will share a bit of it with you later this week, but for now, I simply want to thank Bloodspite for the Kentucky product with which he graced me. For I mixed it a while ago with fresh mint and powdered sugar, so that I could have a mint julep on this bleeping hot evening. It was good. I am happy. My blood pressure is coming down. Now to see if I did that laundry...

LW
oops...

Memorial Day -- Remember Them All

From the War of Independence to the War on Terror, from the open field to battles away from publicity's light -- remember this day all who have made the ultimate sacrifice, for freedom is never free.

LW

Memorial Day, Part 3

The adage that an army travels on its stomach is only partly true. You see, any military lives or dies on its logistics: food, fuel, ammo, spare parts, replacements, and more. Keeping any group supplied is critical, for not only can you not afford to screw up your logistics but you also have to know that the enemy is going to do its best -- if it has a brain -- to hurt your logistics efforts as much as possible. My Uncle James knew of that first hand.

A lot of people don't know that in WWII, the Marines in the Pacific Theatre had much of their logistics taken care of by the Army. It was Army supply ships and people that allowed the Leathernecks to do their island hopping. I know of it because of Dad and Uncle James.

My father's family had members in every branch there was, and Uncle James had gone into the Army. In an unusual move for the Green Machine, they picked up on his organizational and managerial abilities and actually put a round peg into a round hole, and put him into supply and logistics. Not just any supply and logistics, but those for the Marines.

Despite it not being a combat slot, logistics was not a safe haven. At some point late in the war, the fleet was being replenished and Uncle James was there on a supply ship when a kamikaze attack took place. Thinks looked very grim as one headed in straight for his ship, making it through the fighters and the flack. Just as Uncle James said he was reverting to training and trying to dig a foxhole in the steel deck of the ship, fire from the New Jersey took out the plane seconds from impact. Dad and James met up at a later date, and Dad asked him about the incident. James discussed it and how thankful he was for the fire that took it down. Dad looked at him, smiled, and said "You're welcome." Yes, it was Dad on the quad 50s that took down that plane, knowing that if he didn't, he would lose a brother.

Dad wasn't there at another time and place, when the ship James was on went down. He survived, but was in the water for a long time, long enough for some algae/fungal growth to get into his lungs. He was rescued, went back to work, survived the war, and even became National Commander of the American Legion later in life. That sinking, however, ended up killing him as they never could get rid of the stuff in his lungs, and it ultimately was a major factor (as I was told) to the heart attack that killed him. I am glad he made it as long as he did, for he told me of things that otherwise might have been lost, and taught some valuable lessons.

Those who make sure that the sharp end has what it needs oft get overlooked, but are a major target even today. How many people in the Someone You Should Know section were involved in supply runs? How many of the unsung heroes (especially in the Old Media) were involved with logistics as primary or secondary duty. On sea, in the air, or on land, supply will always be a target. Remember them this day, from those who labored to get food and supplies to Washington's troops to the 507th Maintenance Company, to those who put themselves at risk today to get food and more to the troops wherever they are.

LW

Memorial Day, Part 2

My father never flew with me. It had nothing to do with my skills, well maybe a little to do with a sideways (crab) approach witnessed by Mom, but a lot more to do with an older brother, a friend, and Admiral Spruance.

My Uncle Sam (real name) was one of Dad's older brothers, and I suspect the one he most admired and somewhat modeled himself upon. This is an uncle who has a bit part in the original "Ten Commandments" and apparently had some involvement with the chariot wreck at the start of the pursuit scene. At what would now be considered a far too young age, Uncle Sam went off to WWI, and ended up flying those newfangled aeroplanes. That was in a day when the plane itself could be much more dangerous than the enemy, being but bits of wood and fabric that might or might not hold together. While he enjoyed flying from various accounts, I have a suspicion that his matter-of-fact descriptions of such may have cooled Dad's thoughts of following in those particular footsteps.

The next nail in the coffin was a boyhood friend of Dad's, who became a pilot and flew some of the early dive bombers. I think it may have been during Dad's first hitch in the Corps that they met up near DC, and he invited Dad to go up with him. I think Dad thought it would be fun, let them spend some time together, and see DC and surroundings from a new perspective. The latter was quite true, as it turned out.

In those days, before truly good bombsights came out, the most accurate way to put ordnance on target was considered to be dive bombing. This entailed putting the plane in a very steep dive, as steep as the structure could stand, and then releasing the bomb at the lowest possible point that would allow the plane to pull up and not hit said target itself. Keep in mind that this must be done in a bouncing bucket of bolts that is buffeted by winds and is being shot at by anyone and everyone in the vicinity of the target... Easy it was not, but it did provide accuracy not possible with carpet bombing from higher altitudes.

Budgets being very tight back then, the practice bombs were bags of flour. To this day, I have no good idea what Dad was expecting, other than a nice ride, maybe a reasonable descent and release of bombs, and the beauty of watching that flour spread out over the target. What he got, from his description, was a full-up pushing-the-edge demonstration of precision bombing of a snag in the Potomac river not very far from DC (no airspace restrictions then). Dad remarked that he had a very good view of the floor of the plane, as that was where he got when the plane went straight down -- at least according to him. He was honest enough to admit that his friend found Dad's reaction rather amusing (and no doubt as planned).

I suspect another nail, though never discussed, was my Uncle John. John was a B-29 pilot on Tinian, and he paid a different price after the war. Dad and John were able to see each other a fair bit towards the end of the war, as Admiral Spruance spent a lot of time at Tinian. Dad never talked much about John, or the demons he faced later, but I do know that they discussed the flights and what all happened.

The final nail, however, was an incident with Admiral Spruance. While I can't find much on it, the Admiral apparently had learned to fly and did what was necessary to keep up his certifications and such. One such flight found Dad invited to go with him. Now, as bodyguard and orderly, Dad (or those under him) were supposed to be with the Admiral pretty much 24/7, but there is not much they can do to protect from gravity and cranky mechanical constructs, so flying was not usually an area where they went. For some reason, however, Dad was invited along with the Admiral went up in a P-38, and from some phrasing used one time, I suspect the Admiral did it as a bit of informal challenge, perhaps wanting -- as pilots often do -- to have some fun.

If you have ever seen that twin-tail devil, aside from some training aircraft they did not have two seats. What they did have was a sort of shelf that went back behind the pilot. While OSHA and the safety nannies would have fits today, that is where Dad found himself, looking out over the Admiral's shoulder. Looking out over that shoulder and up, according to him, at people on the deck of the New Jersey, against which the Admiral decided to make a mock attack. Dad swore he did not know how they managed to avoid going into the side of the ship, but they did. Nor would I ever accuse my father of embellishing a story a bit, but he maintained that he could clearly make out faces of those along the rails watching. From his mutterings, the Admiral may have just been getting warmed up too. Not sure, but what I do know is that from that day forward, Dad apparently declined any offers to go up. Come to think of it, he avoided commercial aviation as much as possible too... Dad was remarkably unamused when later, without knowing the story, I chose that plane as my favorite fighter from WWII and wanted to fly in one.

Dad did not talk a great deal about certain things, but we did share a few moments and I came to know of his respect for those that did fly. The suicidal bravery of the pilots at Midway, whom he respected and came to yet another level of respect courtesy of the Admiral. The bravery of those who pressed home other attacks he watched later in the war. The dedication of the ground-support craft who went in on bombing and strafing runs in support of his fellow Marines as they went island-to-island, often going in low, and even slow, against the enemy so as to protect the troops no matter the danger to themselves. He respected the fighters who tried to keep the enemy at bay, and would come in after them even within the defense zone of the ships, and risked being hit by the fire put up by Dad and others at the enemy they pursued. And what fire it was, for everything could and would open up at need. When the Admiral was on the New Jersey, Dad's battle station was the quad-50 on top of the 16-inch turret up forward, a fact I discovered when I built a model of the New Jersey as a child, and seeing it opened up something within him long closed.

I think he saw that same spirit in the chopper pilots in Nam, who would risk all to make a pickup or give fire support, and I know reports from Desert Storm reached that same place within. He may not have flown, but he knew the price paid by those who did, and he saluted them in his own way.

He accepted my explanation of the crab, as it had been caused by the instructor killing the engine a mile or so out from the airport and telling me to make it. I did, with plenty to spare including a certain amount of pilot ego and panache, which resulted in my coming in sideways for the last part so that I could kick it out and touch down just past the overrun. I was left to surmise a bit, but he apparently recognized something in me, and had had enough of pilots gleefully showing him what plane and pilot could do. A pity, as I would have loved to give him a nice boring ride just to make a point; then again, that may have been why as well.

Remembering this, and all the pilots who have served so well, from the skies above the trenches to the support for Iraqi Freedom where still today they give all going in close to support those on the ground, is a part of Memorial Day.

LW

Memorial Day, Part 1

I never knew my Uncle Foster, and the image above is the memory I have of him. I've seen pictures of him at various ages, right up until he was in uniform. There is one of him with a very lovely lady, his girlfriend who may have also been his fiance.

Foster was the last of 15 children in my Dad's family, and as such reports were that he was a touch spoiled and indulged -- at least for the first part of his life. His life, and the lives of the others, were forever altered by the Great Depression. They were prosperous until then, but afterwards lost almost all they had, along with my grandfather. They fell back on the farm they owned, worked it, and got by. In point of fact, they did okay for those days and times. There was food on the table, a roof overhead, clothes to wear, and the occasional treat.

The stories I have of Foster vary, though I think I have enough to have a fairly good picture. Most of the sources were biased, especially my Dad. There we had an odd mix of things, from the usual things brothers carry about each other to a strong pride.

It was from Dad that I first came to truly know that I had an Uncle Foster. I had seen the entry in the family tree, and maybe a picture or two, but Dad made him real one night at a restaurant. Growing up, eating out was a rare treat, and my seven- or eight-year-old self was chowing down on what passed for Chinese at that time in my hometown (the first real Chinese restaurant with real Chinese did not open for several more years if memory serves). Dad made some remarks about how Foster had loved Chinese food (and maybe culture a bit too, the memory fades) and how my enthusiasm reminded him very much of a dinner with Foster in Honolulu. There were a few more comments, then he closed down as he often did in regards the war and other painful subjects.

Being the meek and biddable soul that I am, I began to hunt for more, for I would know of this man to whom I apparently bore some striking similarities. We both loved Chinese food and more, had dreams of flight, and... what more? Knowing that Dad was a tough nut to crack, even then, I went and started asking relatives, for they were more forthcoming and I could use what I learned to get Dad to talk more. There was not nearly as much as I would like, for I quickly found out that the reason I knew him not was that his life was cut short.

When the war came, Foster went into the Navy and into Naval Aviation. From what I have been able to learn, he may have had a gift as a pilot, though he apparently told Dad that if he and his crew did not make it back it would probably be because of his navigation. I can empathize with that a bit, as dead reckoning is hard enough on land, much less over water far from shore.

The meal Dad mentioned that night was, I think, the last time Dad saw his baby brother alive. By rare chance, they were both in Honolulu at the same time, and went out for dinner. They apparently had a good time, with Foster very much enjoying the food. I suspect Dad did too, though not quite as much, and afterwards, well, he never did have a taste for it again.

It was towards the end of the war, and Foster's unit went forward and did some of the last conventional raids on Japanese harbors. Dad was forward deployed with Admiral Spruance, and got the news. Foster and his crew did not return from a raid. The ship with Foster's CO was in the same harbor, and the Admiral had arranged for Dad to go talk to the CO, but orders came and the ships must leave, so the discussion was by radio.

The raid went well, though the target well defended. From what I have heard, Foster took his plane in, and placed load on target. It was coming out that something went bad, and his plane went down. The others in the squadron reported that it angled down in such a way that indicated the pilot was dead, or unconscious, at the controls. The gunners/others never had a chance to get out before it went in, and none came up after it did. Dad felt, possibly guiltily, that such was for the best given what the Marines had found in regards the treatment of prisoners by the Japanese. Such was but one of the reasons the Marines were glad to oblige those who chose to fight to the death... Foster's death shook him, and hit hard. So hard that despite the many gifts he received after the surrender, he gave it all away and took nothing home that would remind him of the war.

So, a few years ago, I found myself at the Punchbowl. A request to the guardians of that place saw me in, and my taxi driver willingly took down his sign from his roof for commercial vehicles are not allowed in that hallowed space, and waited without charge while I walked. I walked and I searched, and I found:

It seems strange that such a simple marker could bring a tear to an eye for a man never met; nor that such a journey would move a taxi driver who had probably seen it all and heard it all. Yet that marker is a cenotaph to all who fell and will not come home until the sea shall give up her dead. For Foster was but one of many who so fell, and is honored in that place.

May she look down them all, those who fell then and those who fall now. May she gather them up and guide them to the Green where the light awaits them all.

This is one part of what Memorial Day means to me.

LW

BTW, should any read this who served with Foster, please do drop me a line. For I would know more, for good or for ill, of this man.

Whew

Whew. Things are going, and I hope that the light I see is the end of the tunnel and not yet another train. This year has seen me help an entity start what we hope will be a major subject matter blog; redesign a WWW site, which has entailed my starting to learn about coding and more; a complete re-do of all that entity's publications; assisting with some electronic newsletters; and, also doing a number of smaller jobs. It is an interesting time, to be polite.

Meantime, at the Lair, I have done some serious yard work; put in a garden; decided which of the major projects that needs to get done will get done and when; and, tried to cope with an explosion in the rabbit population. In fact, I have a new best friend I will share with you, Hasenpfeffer.

Still tiny, still thinks that if you sit perfectly still no one can see you, even when you are in the middle of the road or, better yet, on the patio. Foolish enough to let me get within 4-5 feet... Still considering names for the older relatives, have so far only come up with Jugged (as in Jugged Hare), need to hit the cookbooks a bit.

More soon.

LW

Cuba Nostalgia Today

Today is the first nice day here in NW Indiana in almost two weeks. A beautiful blue sky, great temperatures -- in short, all anyone could ask for. Yet, for all that, I wish I were in Miami at Cuba Nostalgia with Val and company. Know that I am there in spirit, and to all I say:

Cuba Libre! One day, one day soon...

LW

Dreams Of Motorcycles

This delightful post by Oddybobo brought a smile to my face, and a delightful memory to mind.

Several years back, I got to visit with my Godsons while on business in San Francisco. I had taken them and their parents out to dinner in the Fisherman's Wharf area, and we had decided to take them for their first icecream at the G place. On our way down, their Mom and I caught a look of pure, unbridled lust on the face of the youngest and looked at each other in horror. He was waaaay to young for this (though he had a strong interest in well-endowed females in his younger days, won't swear to now), and then he broke away from us.

He ran the few feet away and wrapped his arms around -- the front forks of a brand new Indian motorcycle.

The biker and his girlfriend nearly fell off the bike laughing at him, and at us and the looks on our faces. The big, burly biker looked down at Calculation, and asked with a grin "Want to come up?" The head nodded and eyes shown, and Calculation held up his arms for the lift. Once up, we could all see the excitement in is face and eyes, and the trembling in his body. The biker grinned even wider and said "Go For It!"

Calculation's arms shot out towards the bars, and if they could have made it I swear I think that they would have pulled a wheelie all the way down the wharf area. The boy was in nirvana.

That Christmas, Santa (with a little help) brought matching battery powered HDs for Chance and Calculation; and helmets and more were procured. The trike wheels were well hidden in the "saddlebags" of the bikes, and my little boys began riding around the block each night.

I wonder how long it will be before Calculation wants a real motorcycle, so he too can say "I'm sooo outta here."

LW

Okay, I'm Tired

And I don't feel real great. But you know, I'm just glad I'm not this far gone. ROTFLMAO! Thanks for a good and much needed laugh Grau...

LW

For Those Interested In Background To The Intel Debate

Crossposted at Blackfive.

It won't affect the screamers, but those who want to base discussions on reality and understand some of what has led up to current efforts, allow me to suggest the following as a start. For anyone truly interested in the psychological and informational warfare component, find a copy of the long-out-of-print Psychological Warfare by Dr. Paul Myron Anthony Linebarger, Jr. (better known in science fiction circles as Cordwainer Smith). Then, read Deep Black to get some more recent history, along with And I Was There. Yes, two of these go back quite a ways, but they lay some important framework for understanding what is going on today. There is, of course, much more to read, but this will keep those interested busy for a week or so...

LW

I'm Not Dead Yet...

Just haven't had time to do much posting. The day job bosses liked something I did, and have told me to run with it -- which is great except there is an unspoken expectation that I can make up for the project being delayed almost a full year. Add to that having to do all the regular duties at the same time, and I am a touch tired. The grass has not listened to me (Cnute had his ocean, I have my lawn) and is having to be mowed multiple times a week, plus am trying to lay in my garden and more.

More soon, including thoughts on single-author blogs and changes in the blogosphere, soon. That is, if the lawn doesn't get me...

LW

Park's Seeds: Very Disappointing

Not sure about anyone else, but I am very disappointed in Park's Seeds this year. There is a special pepper I order from them each year, and this year the seed package was sparse, and it seems like I need to order 2-3 to get what I used to get in one. Then, I and my good neighbors went in on some raspberry plants which I ordered from them. With no notice or consultation, I got something else instead of the golden raspberry plants that were ordered. They are refunding my money, but I am very unhappy that they made no effort to inform me of the need for a switch or to ask me what I wanted -- and it's not like they don't have my e-mail, phone, and other means of contact. Anyone else having problems with them?

LW