"Did you see the monthly tonnage report?" "Yeh" "I've got a theory that they don't teach in War College". "There are over a thousand tons of bombs dropped over the North not including the part of the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. Those B-52s can carry a large load. "Do you think the Air Force is trying to look stupid?" Every flight all I see are the same trees knocked down and the holes we made in the dirt roads filled with rain water. "Here's the theory". If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war the Viet Cong would have surrendered years ago and still be trucking those balls to the coast."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Every 42 seconds there was a gnashing, screeching sound of the catapult cylinder hitting the end of its stroke. We would stop talking just before the stroke knowing what's coming. There was nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk rattling around.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the Viet Cong move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was rattling his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more than that to say about the stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong. Get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Was this ever going to end?
"The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in get the job done and come out." "Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings." He's got 5,000 hours flying and 300 carrier landings so I think he knows what we're thinking. "Or not thinking, gimme a light." I'm thinking of my wife waiting in the Philippines not knowing when and if we're coming home. I want to quit. My wife doesn't say it but she never thought much of President Nixon. There are a lot of pilots frustrated that we're wasting our time and energy and putting our lives at risk. They won't say anything now. There's no way out at sea in Nineteen Seventy Two. “Hey do you want to listen to Cat Stevens "Peace Train" or Simon and Garfunkel's "Sounds of Silence?"
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
I need help revision to somewhere
Did you see the monthly tonnage report?" "Yeh" "I've got a theory that they don't teach in War College". "There's over a thousand tons of bombs dropped over the North not including the part of the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. Those B-52s can carry a large load. Is the Air Force trying to look stupid? Every flight all I see are the same trees knocked down and the holes we made in the dirt roads filled with rain water. Here's the theory. If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war the VC would have surrendered years ago and still be trucking those balls to the coast."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more than to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong. Get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Was this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings." The war will be over soon, they agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more than to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong. Get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Was this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings." The war will be over soon, they agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Second Draft Somewhere at Sea...
"Did you see the monthly tonnage report?" "Yeh" "I've got a theory that they don't teach in War College". "There's over a thousand tons of bombs dropped over the North not including the part of the Ho Chi Minh trail in Laos. Those B-52s can carry a large load. Is the Air Force trying to look stupid? Every flight all I see are the same trees knocked down and the holes we made in the dirt roads filled with rain water. "Here's the theory." If we had dropped the same tonnage of bowling balls with no finger holes into the rice paddies of North Vietnam from the beginning of this damn war the VC would have surrendered years ago and would still be trucking those balls to the coast."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong with my wife, she's still in the Philipines and mother Navy won't let her stay on base. She has to move into town with the locals in Olongapo and wait. Meanwhile everyday I get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Is this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in, get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings."
"I've got a good one." "What?" The war will be over soon. "Oh yea."
Kissinger and the VC agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
"Pass the Chevas."
"Take a load off and we'll figure this out." I looked around the steel walled state room and all I saw was gun metal gray and lots of it. It made my head swim. Maybe it was the slamming sound of the hydraulic pumps catapulting the second wave of aircraft. Being a junior Lieutenant I didn't rate the best room on the aircraft carrier but a room next to hydraulics was gritting on my nerves. Nothing cheery about my temporary home sweet home these last eight months but the picture of my wife on my desk.
"You lock the door and I'll buy tonight." I opened the the safe on my desk meant for storing secret documents and out came the bottle of Chevas Regal. I had picked up a large bucket of ice for this debriefing. Chevas over ice had a nice golden hue to it and as I brought it up to my nose it had the effect of an ammonia stick and I shook my head. It's four in the morning and still a humid 81 degrees outside. The air conditioning was working overtime in my room and I shivered as the scotch slide down my throat. The midnight flying was going to kill me not the surface to air missiles they fired at us every night. We'd been out to sea for thirty four days straight and I was getting tired.
"What the fuck are we doing here?" "The Air Force gives us shitty targets every night. By the time we get the mission planned the VC move the ammo depot down the road and we knock down trees again. I feel like I'm in the lumber and swimming pool business."
My flight suit was still wet from the sweat in places so I moved around and pulled the nomex material away from my skin. It had been another stormy night and my landing hadn't been stellar. The Landing Signals Officer had told me I was high in the beginning, low in the middle and needed power over the ramp. All true but I had made a save at the ramp, grabbed a wire with my hook and was back aboard. It's not so bad they're shooting SAMs at you as having to listen to the LSO rant about your landing every night.
"You want another?" Valdez was clinking his ice around an empty glass. "Yea" "I have more to say than that stupid Air Force tonnage report." "Then drink up and let's hear it." I lit my third cigarette in as many minutes. I wasn't chain smoking but it was close. The scotch was taking effect and the nicotine was kicking in so I unzipped my flight suit a little bit and took a deep breath. We had been out at sea so long I couldn't remember the good times I'd just had in Hong Kong with my wife, she's still in the Philipines and mother Navy won't let her stay on base. She has to move into town with the locals in Olongapo and wait. Meanwhile everyday I get up, do paperwork, eat, bomb, sleep again, wake up to the screams of the hydraulic pumps. Is this ever going to end? "The skipper said not to hang around the target." "Go in, get the job done and come out." Don't get complacent about planning, missions and carrier landings."
"I've got a good one." "What?" The war will be over soon. "Oh yea."
Kissinger and the VC agreed on the shape of the peace table in Paris.
"Pass the Chevas."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)