The SandGram

The Thin Red Line…

Sometimes I have to sit back and chuckle at life, and the folks that surround you on a daily basis. Take last week for instance. I flew a KC-130 over to a local B-52 base not too far from my base in Texas. Yes, it’s in another state east/west of here (all you military hacks out there might know this Buff base, but I’m disguising it here), and we were tasked to pick up a giant B-52 tow bar to bring back for the air show they had this weekend.

Upon landing in the first 500 of this 14,000-foot runway, we turn off and receive instructions to park in front of Base Ops. The parking guide does a nice job of stopping us in the center of a red painted box. Unbeknownst to us, this was part of the red box of death. After shutting down, we stroll the fifty yards into Base Ops to check on the weather and call the “POC” (point of contact) for this tow bar. After killing ten minutes in there and sipping on a nice diet coke, we see the massive equipment loader with the forty-eight foot tow bar on top, moving towards the back of the plane.

As the Load Masters and the ground guys scratched their heads on the best course of action to move this bar inside (this taking about ten minutes), out of the corner of my eye, I see a large SUV pull up outside of our red painted line soon to be known as “The Red Box of Death,” and two Air force police officials, with loaded M4 tactical machine guns at the ready, approach the cab of the loader. The lead MP points at the driver and orders him out of the machine and the other then takes his flight line badge, followed by his Military I.D. card, puts handcuffs on this young lad, who looks nothing like a terrorist I might add!! They take him away to Hanger 54, I guess.

So here you have a giant mover, sitting as the engine idles, and all of us going “Huh????” We approach the lead MP, the question is asked, “Hey Sergeant, why are you arresting this man?” He turns around and says, “Sir, see that red line out there on the ground?” I’m straining my 20/10 vision to pick up on what he’s talking about. The MP points at the one next to my foot, and then points again on the flight line behind some B-52’s, “that driver crossed the Red line there and here; that is a violation of our flight line policy, punishable by arrest.”

Now I’m really confused and ask, “Sgt., if he can’t cross the Red line, then how is he supposed to drive his vehicle from point “A” to our plane’s tail?” The MP points to a small break in the magic box where he was supposed to daftly maneuver his massive vehicle to our plane. You’re talking about going out of your way with a lot of backing up etc. to finally straighten out in back of our plane vice turning left over this painted line on the concrete, and pulling up in back of our plane like he did. Oh, did I forget to tell you that the Air Force takes this “red line of death” thing VERY seriously and you will find yourself face first with an M-16A2 barrel in the back of your neck if you ignore it.

While we are talking, our young navigator is walking back from Base Ops with a couple of burgers he bought. Due to the noise on the flight line, the Engineer is waving his arms to get his attention, and have him stop before he crossed the Red line next to our plane and became victim number two. We moved him around the line until he could walk through this break in the paint.

I say out loud to myself, “Wow!!! Who’s going to drive the loader???” “Man, I always wanted to drive one of these things!” says one of the Air Force ground guys as he jumps up with a big grin. Actually he was the boss and drove it well. Mission completed, we closed up the back of our Herc. But it makes me laugh to think that the reasonable person approach would have told this driver, “Hey buddy, next time you need to drive around this invisible Red Line of Death” but no, sadly our brothers in arms can proudly boost back at the MP shack, “Man, did you see how I put that guy in handcuffs??? Not bad, they should put me on COPS!!”

Anyway, words of advice, the Airfarce spent all their money on the four-mile runways, nice BOQ’s and Officers club next to the golf course, and ran out of money for these nifty Jersey barriers. So mind any Red line on the concrete, they don’t lead to the Wizard of OZ.

Semper Fi,
Taco

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

U.S. Navy Water Torture Exposed!!!

Dear Gang,
What I’m about to share with you could result in my being arrested or banished from the Military, but I feel that it must be brought out. The U.S. Navy endorses water torture, and has been practicing it for many years. All this is fully funded by the United States Congress with oversight permissions granted by the Senate. It goes way past both parties, and happens every day of the week in our very own country! This water torture isn’t practiced outside of our borders, but right on at least three major installations across the United States. If word of this ever got out to the ACLU there would be all sorts of hell to pay.

Here is how it works. The Navy subjects a person to extreme pressure changes in a large hyperbaric chamber. They take the “prisoner” up around twenty-five thousand feet of altitude without oxygen, which causes him to be light-headed, followed by possible gray-outs, and a euphoric feeling that is enhanced by tingling in their fingertips. The worst part is being overcome by their bodily odiferous odors. See as the pressure increases, the oxygen in the body expands and there are only two ways out, burping it up or out the other end. As the cabin pressure rises, so does the amount of gas that escapes from the body. To put it mildly, if they were to light a match in there, it would cause a giant explosion. Same would happen if your jet airliner were to lose a window and you experienced a rapid decompression, just hope you didn’t eat Mexican the night before!

After they do this to the “prisoners,” they take them over to a large pool complex where they employ various controlled drowning techniques. They tie vast amounts of equipment to their body. This guarantees they will sink in the deep end of this giant pool. Navy personnel are located all around the pool area, watching as they drag the “prisoners” through the water attached to some ropes overhead. If a “prisoner” were to drown in the water, they can retrieve him in a heartbeat, administer CPR and chuck him/her back into the pool.

They have varied ways to drown the “prisoner” in the large pool. While treading water, they spray them in the face with powerful water cannons, causing loss of vision, disorientation and choking on copious amounts of chlorinated water in the mouth. This may last about two hours. The “prisoner” is broken down, very tired and almost out of hope. When this point arrives, they strap the “prisoner” to a seat inside a large barrel shaped device with the other “prisoners” who are suspended about four feet in the air, and then drop them into the deep end of the pool. The device they are strapped into then snap rolls 180°, causing the “prisoner” to be upside down, blindfolded with blackout goggles on, and almost three feet under the surface.

This is what the “prisoner” experience as his/her heart beats faster, anticipating the sound of the release mechanism. A loud “zing” as the cables slide, followed by the plunge into the water, causing a water injector to the brain as the pool water rushes up the nose, where it lodges in the sinus cavities. They are then expected to release themselves to reach the surface of the pool, while being weighted down with 20 pounds of equipment. The second time around being dunked into the pool, the “prisoner” is resigned to the fact that the next round may be his last trip, and will readily admit to killing President Kennedy although they weren’t even born yet.

The Navy is authorized to do this procedure up to six times to achieve the desired and maximum effects. If they deem, they can call this person back to do it again and again. Where is the press on this? Why aren’t the folks clamoring around a bonfire, telling the Government to put an end to this torture? I’ll tell you why. Because the “prisoners” volunteer for this assignment every four years of their careers as Aircrews in the US Military forces. What I have just described is the Water Survival Course that we, as Pilots, Crew Chiefs and Navigators, must undergo in order to keep our ratings. Now, I’m here to tell you that sitting in a cell, while your captors play loud rock music is nothing compared to this, and if I was in charge of the “Al Killya” scumbags down in Cuba, I’d have them strapped to a helo dunker and dropped into a pool everyday until they admitted their wrongs.

While the training I described sounds harsh, (it is) there are many men and women alive today because of the excellent instruction given by the Navy divers. So hats off to them for teaching us how to survive a crash in the ocean and make it back home to our families! This was the best training I’ve ever had. To think–all you guys thought I was just goofing around in Pensacola, Florida, drinking beer and chasing fish–shame on you.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

Two Amigos

Hey Guys,
If you are looking for two great guys to support and their units, then here are my picks. I’ll give you some background on these two Outstanding Americans. LtCol Jim Adams was stationed with me over in Okinawa back in 94 to 95 and he is a super talented writer whose wit and satire is limited by the standards imposed only by the military. He got out of the Marines for a couple of years but missed it so much and after 9-11, there was no doubt in his mind on what to do. This is his third tour, no I may be wrong; he may be going on his fourth tour there. I was able to be on hand to see him promoted to LtCol in Falluja last Nov and that is my wild Helo ride home, “Redman and rotten eggs” post. He is single so he doesn’t mind being gone. Anyway, Tom is out in the Wild Wild West of Iraq. Hopefully he’ll write you back soon but as the C.O. there, he is working like a mad dog. There is a Gunny, who is the POC for AnySoldier from their unit, but Jim is the Alternate and this address is good for him as well. When you write to him, ask him how his Arabic is going??? Ha ha!!
I have another buddy who also fly’s with me at my Airline. Alex flew the F-18 in the Marines years ago and after I got back in to the Reserves, he too started to express an interest in joining back up. Now his wife had something to say about this and wasn’t happy about it at the time, but I think she has accepted it now. See guys, the Islamic AssClowns will never win this war against the U.S. with guys like Tom and Alex around. The fact that they and all the others like us, will drop what we are doing to go kick butt, puts a damper on the idea that we will run away from a fight. Alex is also a famous Aviation Artist of renowned stature and I’m proud to say that I have one of his giant Oils in my office at home. I just saw one of his Oils on display here at the Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola Florida. He volunteered to be a combat artist in Iraq and is riding around with a Marine convoy right now somewhere capturing the moment with them.
These Marines are very OUTSTANDING American’s and I’m proud to be able to sponsor them this way to all of you, the best damn supporters in the world!!!! Please email me at Thesandgram@yahoo.com for their address. Take care and talk to you soon.
Semper Fi,
Taco

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

“Check Please”

Now picture this, in a Japanese restaurant on Okinawa that is the size of a Burger King. Mind you, this is a really large place to their standards considering how expensive real-estate is there to begin with. My buddy, we’ll call him “Kinsu” because he is taking Japanese and actually doing very well at it is sitting to my right. On my left is a local girl that we hang out with named Akiko. After a great meal of Sushi, followed by a couple of beers, “Kinsu” leans back and tries to make some small talk with Akiko on his observations of the Japanese language. I have to admit that the big hulking “Gaijin” or Foreigner as they call us is doing pretty well at a very difficult language.

“Kinsu” looks at the waiter across the room and in his deep American Marine voice yells over the din of noise as he waves his hand to get his attention and says something like “SemiSan, SemiSan, ConJo O Kudasi,” but the reaction he received was not what they told him it would be in Japanese One Oh Two. Every head in the place is now looking at us, chop sticks frozen in mid-stride, all conversation ceases. I calmly lean over to whisper, “Hey there Kinsu, what the hell did you just say???”
“Kinsu’s” face is flaming red, Akiko has her face covered with both hands, and is slumped down in her chair. He snarls under his breath in a low hiss, “I said, excuse me, excuse me, I’d like my check please.”

Akiko, slumped down whispers, “No, Kinsu, that is not what you ask. What you say was not polite.” I’d have to agree judging from the stares we were receiving. It was like that old broker commercial where the guy says, “My broker is EF Hutton and he says…” and the whole place freezes, which is just what this situation is like.
The waiter who we find out is actually the owner, comes over and says, “Please, in future do this for check, (drawing out on his hand) and I bring check.” We buy Akiko lunch and walk out to the van down the street. “Kinsu” is still reeling from his failure at asking for the check. He is bugging Akiko to tell him what he said to the owner of the newest blacklisted to all Gaijin because of him, restaurant. Finally, she looks up with this serious face and says, “What you say, not polite.”
He replies “Yeah, yeah, I got that already, I asked for the check right???”

Shaking her head back and forth she says “No, Kinsu, what you said across the restaurant was EXCUSE ME, EXCUSE ME, WOULD YOU PLEASE STICK YOUR THUMB UP MY A** and in Japanese that is not polite.” She continues “to ask for the check is OOHHH ConJOO, O Kudasi.”

“Kinsu” just shakes his head as we get into the van, “Happy to Glad, I’m sorry but your language sucks!!!”
Now you know how he got the nickname Kinsu…

Hey Gang, by the way, I have a buddy who is now over in Iraq for his third tour and here is his link on Anysoldier.com, if you look him up, please adopt him and his Marines for the rest of the year. He isn’t located on a base so there is no PX to get stuff from. Lets just say that they are West of everywhere in the desert and this is like being in the wild wild west!!! Thanks a ton for helping him out. Trust me when I tell you he can write VERY well and you would like to be on his email list. His name is LtCol Tom V
http://anysoldier.com/WhereToSend/DynamicAdmin.cfm?SEQNO=23239&popup=no

Semper Fi as always,
Taco

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

Gone West…Mike Horrocks

September 11th marks the fifth anniversary of the day our lives changed. You’ll read piece after piece on what happened and how we were attacked this week. When you back up the microscope, it comes down to the individual families who will never celebrate a birthday or Christmas together ever again. There is grief here that can never properly be put to words so that all can understand.

I just want to write about and dedicate this day to a friend of mine who died five years ago. Mike Horrocks was the First Officer on flight 175 that hit the South Tower at 9:03 that morning. I watched in horror with bowel-shaking earthquakes of emotion as this passenger jet vaporized into the side of the building. In the Airline business, when something like this happens, they lock out the Crew manifest so that the names can’t be released before the next of kin is notified. This time, It didn’t take long before the Marine KC-130 mafia had the names of all the crews involved in the four crashes. There are only about a hundred or so Marine KC-130 pilots out there flying in the system so it didn’t take long to do a tally, and find out if any of our friends were involved.

In this surreal case, unfortunatly it was a pilot I had the privilege of serving with for three years in Cherry Point, North Carolina, while flying with VMGR-252. There are few guys of his caliber; he was one that everyone wishes deep down they could emulate. On the scale of one to ten, he was a 20 in every category!! I mean that in the most sincere expression of deep awe. When you go through life, you meet good people, and then great people, all with faults and certain flaws that don’t allow them to rise above those levels. Then you have the pleasure of knowing men like Mike, who have the ability to be the best at everything and make it look easy, but at the same time humble enough to show you how to improve yourself and not make you look silly while doing it.

Mike, I want you to know that I strive to be the type of man you were. I want to be the father and husband you were, day in and day out. To your family, I say God Bless you. To you, Mike Horrocks, friend to thousands, I say “Semper Fi” and God speed as you fly West.
Semper Fi,
Taco
http://www.michaelroberthorrocks.com/

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

A Hero is buried

This is from one of my Crew. A great American who my wife and I were able to meet up in York Neb while on vacation. Her story tells the simple tale of how a hero should be taken care. We need more great Americans like the Patriot Guard Riders as well!!!
Semper Fi,
Taco

Today I attended the funeral of SSG Jeffrey H. SSG H. was killed in Iraq when the humvee he was riding in flipped over and went into a canal. He was the only fatality.

This was the first military funeral I attended. Knowing the proximity of the Kansas church group who protests military funerals, I was so glad to hear that the Patriot Guard Riders would also be in attendance. What a phenomenal group of people.

I took water, pop, and munchies to the staging area for the PGR and had the opportunity to talk to several members of the group. One of the riders had left at 3am to drive all the way here for the funeral a 4.5 hours ride. The group assembled at the fairgrounds at 8:30am. It was such an awesome sound to hear them coming down the road. They were surprised that I was there to greet them which really surprised me. I would think that anywhere they went, someone would be there to say thank you to them for taking time off from work to ride for a fallen warrior. Many of them had sons who were in the military. One has a son in the Marines just back from Iraq who will be deploying again in July 2007. One has a son in the Army who just deployed three days ago. Several guys I talked to were Vietnam vets. One is a Marine who is getting ready to retire after 22 years in the service. Again…such a phenomenal group of guys I had the privilege of meeting.

The protestors were here of course. One of the locals and one of the protestors got into a verbal confrontation. I guess it got pretty heated. I couldn’t see them, but you could hear them singing their filthy songs. As soon as the PGR heard them, first one, then two, then more came over and started their bikes up. What a beautiful sound! That silenced the protestors…the roar of approximately 100 gorgeous motorcycles.

The church is across from the elementary school and the teachers had lined the schoolyard fence with flags. When the funeral procession left for the cemetery, the kids, who were just finishing up with their lunch recess, stood along the fence with their hands over their hearts. It was really nice to see that.

I would imagine there was over 300 people at the funeral. It wasn’t as big as I had thought it would be. The service was decent. I don’t care for the minister who gave the service, but it was ok overall. The PGR had their flags at the burial site. As the 21 gun salute and then taps sounded, you could hear the sniffles..not just from me, but from the veterans I was standing with. This was one of the most incredibly touching things I have ever witnessed.

My boss…the idiot….asked me this morning when I stopped into the office….”What’s the big deal? What’s with all the notoriety? He’s not a local kid.” Now you know why I really dislike my boss. He just doesn’t get it. If you’re ever in Nebraska, I’d be more than happy to introduce you to him and let you explain it to him.

Rest in Peace, SSG Jeffrey H. Thank you for your service. May God bless your family, and may He keep safe those in your unit who still fight in Iraq.

God Bless the USA!

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

Keep on Truckin’ 10-4 GoodBuddy!!

The blinding light was directly in my eyes. Even though the tinted visor was positioned between me and the sun, it was blasting right through my retinas. The Marine KC 130 was flying along at eighteen thousand feet westbound, bucking headwinds, laden with a P19 fire truck in the back cargo bay. It seemed like an eternity since we had departed Cherry Point MCAS on our way to Yuma Marine Air Station, but in reality it had been only four hours prior. The usual chatter was bantered back and forth on the Intercom (ICS). It was my leg and I needed a short break to hit the head.

Looking to my left, I asked “Wedge” (the simplest tool known to man) if he wanted a cup of coffee to accompany the second bag of fried pork rings he had put down. He shook his head, “No,” as the crumbs settled on his chest.

I got out of my seat and stretched back. Looking at the Engineer, I mimed “drinking a cup,” and pointed to him. He didn’t move, so I moved around to his side. The sun was blasting him as well, and his eyes were shut, but you couldn’t tell that behind the dark Ray Ban’s that he had on. I shook him gently on the shoulder, causing him to spasm somewhat. After he settled down, I again motioned that I was going to fetch a cup of the Loadmasters strong coffee, did he want some? His head nodded up and down with a big smile on his face. Shouting into his uncapped headset, I asked, “How do you like it?” He leaned forward and yelled, “I like it, like I like my women!!!” I knew what he meant, “strong,” but I couldn’t resist. “Hey Gunny, we don’t charge for our coffee in the Marine Corps.” He just laughed and motioned for me to move on. Looking behind him, I noticed the Navigator and the Loadmaster playing on the H.F. (High Freq) radio, huddled together. Knowing SSgt. Martin, the Loadmaster, he was talking to his little girlfriend at Base Ops in Rota Spain.

First stop was in the back to get rid of my last couple of cups of “Java Joe.” The young Mech was back on the ramp with the first novel in the series of “Lee’s Lieutenants.” Man, these guys are no dummies with all they read while on the road. After relieving myself of the “Java,” I faced the long trek back, sliding sideways against the wall, and the giant fire engine since it took up most of the room in the cargo bay. The noise from the thin-skinned fuselage and the four turbine engines was deafening. Climbing back up to the flight deck, I notice the Navigator, Cpl. Wheeler, slapping Martin on the back and laughing so loud, I could hear it over the racket of the engines.

Stirring the creamer in my coffee, I handed Gunny his “Strong” black coffee and then moved back into my seat. They were talking on the HF radio, pausing, then more talking, followed by deep bellows of laughter. I grabbed my headset and turned the selector switch to H.F. “One,” so I could hear what was going on.

Over the radio, there was all sorts of excited chatter back and forth, but as I listened, I realized they were listening to C.B. channel 19 down below us as we were directly over Highway 20. “Breaker, Breaker,” SSgt. Martin, imitating his best “Dukes of Hazzard” country accents, “Hey Big Silver you up good buddy???” SSgt. Martin then releases the microphone switch and waits. It didn’t take long until “Big Silver” came up on the radio and he was mad!! I guess a lot had changed since the 70s when the movie “Convoy” was on the big screen, and “Good buddy” was the thing to say; now it’s the same as calling the guy GAY!!

“Big Silver” came back over the radio, “Hey, jerkweed, you tell me your twenty and I’ll beat you into next week!!”

SSgt. Martin, keys the mic again. “I’m right behind you asswipe, just where you probably like it!!” This really got “Big Silver” on the roll as he described in very vivid terms what he was going to do to Martin when he caught him, but right in the middle of his rant, Martin keys the microphone switch sending like a hundred and twenty one million gigawatts of power back down into his tiny C.B. radio. He releases the switch and then keys it again, “Hey Big Silver, you up.??? No answer, dead silence.

Actually, I think our radio puts out something like 300 watts of power, enough to talk to the other side of the planet, and a C.B. produces maybe 5 watts. Not sure about the mechanics of it all, but I guess that much power coming back into a trucker’s CB would fry the fuse in the trucker’s radio taking him out of action. After they chuckled again, they would listen for the next victim and pick out the “handle” of the poor trucker who was unaware that he was about to be ambushed.

“Wedge” keyed his mic, “What’s going on back there?” motioning over his right shoulder towards the Loadmaster and Navigator.

I reach over with a smile on my face and key the ICS, “Oh, nothing, the kids are just chatting with the locals, making friends as we pass through and weeding rude truckers out of the gene pool.”

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

Pins and Needles

Flying the mighty T-34C trainer out in Roswell, New Mexico, was incredible! Almost perfect weather all the time while back at the home base in Corpus Christi, Texas, it was overcast and foggy the majority of the winter there. They figured it was cheaper to put all the planes and students out in the middle of UFO country and be productive vice sitting around waiting for the weather to open up.

I was sitting by the flight duty officer’s desk the morning of my formation check ride. That is where you go out with an instructor in each plane and practice flying your Tiny Turbo T-34C on collision courses with each other, and then tucking the nose of your plane a few feet to the right or left of the lead airplane, matching his speed and altitude.

The sensation of rushing another object in space, and pulling the power back at just the right moment to avoid actually hitting the other plane, is the most exciting feeling you can ever have. It would be like driving your car over a hundred miles an hour at another car on the road, and then braking enough to put your vehicle right behind the other and, at the same time, adding enough power so that you become stabilized at the same speed with them. If you do it right, bravo!!! If you mess it up, then they staple your health record closed, and do a fly-by over your grave with the guys who figured out proper formation.

Going for a check ride was already making me nervous, but when I found out that I was flying with “The Thumper” so-named because he liked to whack his students on the back of the helmet with a long dowel rod as he sat behind them, I felt sick. I moved over to a group of my friends sprawled in various positions, quizzing each other on emergency procedures and normal limitations of the plane.

A Navy guy named Larry Ruttenberg asked, “Hey Taco, who are you doing your check ride with?” He was a bit of a pain in the ass because all he could think of was flying jets, and wouldn’t hesitate to throw you under a bus if he thought it would improve his chances of getting a jet slot.

I despondently replied, “Thumper.” They all started rolling their eyes and shaking their heads; in part, because they felt sorry for me, and partly because that meant they didn’t have to fly with him that day. “Thumper” was a screamer and the type of officer who was probably urinated on by his mother as a child.

The FDO (flight duty officer) called out my name to report to him. I trotted over to see what was up. “Taco,” he says, “Lt. Roberts (Thumper) has a review board this afternoon and I’m sending you up with Lt. Temple. Her student went down with a head cold, so go over to the ready room, she’ll be there waiting for you.”

Oh man, Lt. Temple was about 5′ 5″ with soft brown eyes and shoulder length blonde hair that she put into a ponytail during the day. She filled out a flight suit nicely, and was the subject of many a hushed conversation, as guys will do. Now I was rushing over to the ready room to brief with her and the other crew, cup of coffee in hand (my fifth cup in the last forty five minutes) and little time to think. They were waiting for me, and we rushed through the day’s events and were briefed on what our two-hour flight would entail. We were told to go preflight the planes ASAP so that we could get off the deck in the next thirty minutes. I had a slight urge to go pee but didn’t.

I was able to get the preflight done in fifteen minutes, and was all settled in as she came out to the aircraft and worked on getting strapped in. We all ran through the check lists and started the planes at the same time to make sure we’d both have equal amounts of gas to play with. It was a smooth take off and for first thirty minutes we practiced all the procedures, which were textbook, but as time wore on…I had to pee. Pretty soon, this urge went from “need to Pee,” to man, “I gotta Pee NOW!!” Every bump in the air was killing me; felt like I had needles in my bladder.

You can urinate in the plane in flight, but it’s a big pain in the rear. You have to undo your harness, your parachute, then under your survival vest, you fumble around until you have the said missing member in the clutch of your fingers and extricated from the flight suit. Then you inspect the relief tube one more time (you do this on preflight to make sure some jerk hasn’t put his chewing tobacco wad which would clog the tube) to ensure that when you pull the little trigger on the side of this inverted cup, it will drain out into the air.

On top of all this, I have a female behind me!! Bad enough to have some guy sitting there looking at you in the little mirrors going, “Come on, hurry up already…” Now I have a beautiful gal, with her smoked visor down, possibly looking at me. This was embarrassing since I was a single guy in love with all good-looking women. Not a good situation.

“M’am,” I start out. “I’m dying here; I need you to take the stick if you don’t mind so I can take a leak.” There, I said it!!! She didn’t skip a beat as she acknowledged that she had the controls. I unsuited, got into perfect firing position and tried to release my bladder. Nothing came out. I looked up and all I could see was her helmet, with the smoked visor down, looking right into the back of my head. “Stage fright” is a good word to describe me at that moment, I guess. After about five minutes of me just sitting there, and the other airplane doing break up and rendezvous, she asked me, “Taco, are you done yet?”

“No M’am, you could say that I’m a bit nervous, and it’s not wanting to come out.” God!! Now I’ve said it. I’m the only guy who has flown with her that actually asked to take a leak, and now I can’t do it. Here I am, the bottom of my flight suit undone, Mr. Johnson hanging out, a million needles poking me, and nothing to show for it!! They will make me the laughing stock of the squadron when word gets out on this.

She clicks on the ICS (intercom) in a very sultry, sexy voice, “Taco, Just…think of…WARM…running water.” With a big emphasis on warm! It was just like when I was a kid, and my mom would run the water in the tap to make me pee in the middle of the night. That was all it took as I closed my eyes with the sound of her voice echoing in my brain-housing group. The urine started flowing and boy did it go.

To describe what happens, when it enters the tube, suction is created that vaporizes it upon contact with the air stream underneath the belly of the plane. The pain is ebbing slowly as I evacuate my bladder, a process that has been going on for almost five minutes. Enough time for the instructor in the other aircraft to notice a vapor trail coming from the engine, and wondering what it might be…white smoke… that might be an oil problem.

He comes up on the radio, “Hey Beth, check your engine instruments. This is the second pass on you, and it looks like white smoke I see coming from the engine.” My head tilts down, and I’m scanning my instruments looking for any indication of a fire which thankfully I see none.

She clicks the ICS, “Taco, are you STILL peeing???”

I reply in a sheepish voice, “Yes M’am, still going strong here, almost done.”

She jumps on the radio fast and says, “Steve, we may have a problem here, would you mind getting up underneath the belly, and identify where the source of this smoke is coming from? I’ll hold this heading and altitude for you.”

The other instructor, as he moves the plane closer, replies, “Roger that, moving in.” He gently maneuvers his plane directly under our belly, and t
hen shouts over the radio, “Son of a Bitch!!! That’s piss!!!” as he correctly identifies the vapor coming from the small venturi under my seat. He moves directly to our left, and gives my instructor the middle finger.

Lt. Temple just purred back, “Hey Steve, if you come back, we’ll wash your windows once again.” The other plane just broke left and peeled away. Lt. Temple laughed and laughed at the thought of what she had done. I chuckled too, and all the stress of pissing in front of my female instructor evaporated along with all the coffee that I drank earlier. I was somewhat famous for taking a leak on the other bonehead Navy guy, and for having the balls to do it in front of Lt. “Shirley” Temple. She gave me an extra “Above” (like an A) for the ability to sustain my piss for what felt like a lifetime. So I guess that if all else fails in my life, I have that going for me.

Semper Flying,
Taco

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

Buy Your Calendar Now!

Hey Gang!!
The ANY SOLDIER 2007 Calendar is now accepting orders! What a great way to support our deployed troops by supporting AnySoldier.com.

Wait til you see the fantastic pictures submitted by our troops–even Capt B and yours truly are in it! Over 1,000 photos were originally submitted. Click here to go to the “Where to send” page and then scroll down the page until you see the order form. Here is a sample page thanks to Gunn Nutt. Let’s all support the troops by supporting AnySoldier!
Semper Fi,
Taco

Tags: The SandGram v1.0

Run Forrest, Run

The seven Second Lieutenants sat around a small campfire in the dense forest north of Quantico Virginia. They were out in the “Field” – AGAIN, learning the basic’s of leading Marines in Combat. Half of them were going to flight school and were classified as “FIGMAC’S” (F*%$ it, I got my Air Contract), so this stuff was fun for them and they took things a bit looser than the average “Grunt” Lieutenant. You can always tell the aviator wannabes because at night while walking in the forest, they wore clear safety glasses to prevent their eyes from that errant branch poking you in the Mach one, Mod A eyeball, thus causing you to lose your air contract and becoming a ground pounder!!

Their SPC (Squad Platoon Commander) was the stereo typical Marine Grunt Officer, the type guy who had no personality and only cared about how fast you could run. Truthfully there are 10% like that and the rest are good to go (Captain B!!). This particular Officer was training for the Marine Corps Marathon and used the platoon as his own personal running club. When the other platoons were done for the day, first platoon of Hotel Company would go for a six to eight mile run. This caused much hate and discontent as your buddies were all back drinking a cold beer at the “Hawk”, our little Lieutenant bar in the BOQ (bachelor officers quarters). His name was Captain Jeff MacCrane, but they all called him Captain Migraine, it should have been Hemorrhoid, but no one had the balls to let that one out in Public.

The guys were listening to another story from a funny Ex-Cuban Lt. named Castro, but no relation to the turd down south. Castro was a true “Wetback” when the boat they came over on in mid-seventies, capsized causing his family to swim to shore in South Beach Miami. The laughter attracted the attention of Captain Migraine who decided to hang out with the boys.

“Evening Gents” his monotone voice silencing the crowd. “How are things going?” Everyone just nodded their heads up and down and mumbled “Good Sir.” The silence continued with the only noise coming from the crackle of the burning wood until Lieutenant Butts, the outspoken farm kid from Knoxville Tennessee, asked in his loud southern drawl “Sirrrr, I believe I speak for the rest of the fellas when I say that I like running as much as the next guy, but when we get back to the rear, is there any chance we could do some other form of P.T.???” (Physical training) Migraine sort of reared back and you would have thought he caught Butts putting his hand up his sister’s dress. “What Lt? you don’t like to run?” Butts who hated to run said “Why no Sirrrrr, I LOVE to run, I just thought maybe we could have a little variety, that’s all.” Migraine nodded his head deep in thought and said “I’ll think about it.” Then walked off.

Castro stood up and motioned to his lower half, “Mannnnnn, Butts, you got some big cojones, but I like that!!! I’d love to do something else, hell man, I had to go buy new running shoes” Everyone patted Butts on the back and the word spread throughout the rest of the platoon elevating Butts to “The Man” status for trying to shake up the daily running routine.

Two days later, back in the rear at 1530 (3:30pm), the call was made for the platoon to fall out in PT gear and to bring a soccer ball. The morale of the guys went through the roof!! They ran down to the lower playing field engaged in a game of Combat Soccer, a very brutal sport that resembled “Smear the Queer”, “Soccer” and “Football.” Basically no rules. Migraine stood on the sideline with his arms crossed and played referee, not daring to join the fray for fear of getting his legs broken by some of these 200-230 pound LT.’s thirsting for blood. The whistle blew at 1630 (4:30pm) ending the game and forming the platoon back up. They were all breathing heavy, sweat dripping down their grimy faces but all smiles because Butts had managed to suggest the alternate form of PT. They heard Migraine called out “Platoon, Move Out!!” they all started a slow gait back to the main road, but instead of turning right back to the barracks, they turned left on the main road. Everyone looked at each other with puzzled faces. Someone shouted from the middle of the platoon “Sir, where are we going???”

Migraine looked over his right shoulder and said “Well, you guys got to play your Combat football, now we’ll finish it up with a slow six mile run.”
You gotta love the Corps!!
Semper Fi,
Taco

Tags: The SandGram v1.0