The SandGram

How to screw a single guy:

Now I’m sure that anyone who “Googles” some words relating to this post will be very surprised to find out that it has nothing to do with SEX. Actually, all you young Officers and Enlisted Marines out there, take heed, this has to do with you. See, for some reason, there is a prevailing wind in the military to shaft the “single” guy and or gal when it comes to entitlements that the Government owes them. There’s bound to be that awkward moment when it comes out that you are not married. The clerk will check the block on the right that says “single” and move on. As you get older and wiser, you learn that you just got screwed over. Here are some examples:
• DLA [dislocation allowance].
While living in lovely New Bern, North Carolina, I had to kick out my two civilian roommates (you’ve already heard some of their stories), and find some replacements ASAP. During a Wing safety stand-around at the base theater, I met two single Lt’s; one who realized the full potential of living on a beautiful lake away from base; and the other who needed some extra incentive to feel the same. Lt. Dan was living on base in the BOQ, waiting for his orders to attend his MOS school in California. I explained to him that if he didn’t move out of the “Q” [Bachelor’s Quarters] most “Ricky Tic,” he would lose his DLA which in the 90’s equated to roughly two months of “BAQ” [Basic Allowance for Quarters, a.k.a. Basic Allowance for Housing, or BAH] which equaled six hundred dollars, and helps offset the cost of moving off base. All he had to do was sign the lease, turn it in, leave me three rent checks and the six hundred dollars was all his since I already had the deposits paid on the gas, water, phone, and my first born child.

Lt. Dan was excited to think that he could pay down some of the debt on his uniform loan he took from the Marine Shop in Quantico for his dress blues etc. On Monday, we moved him in, signed the lease and off to work we went. He went to his admin guys to drop off the lease and await his check. I get a phone call about an hour later. “Captain Bell?” I’m not sure who is calling and say “yes.” “Hey, this is Lt. Dan, and Sir, I have to tell you that I’m pissed off that you screwed me.” You could tell he was very annoyed. “What is the problem, Lt?” He proceeds to tell me that the Gunny, in charge of the admin shop, denied his DLA because he was single.

This was lesson one for the Lt. “Hey Devil Dog, do you think they just give pilots DLA every time we PCS (Permanent Change of Station) because we are better-looking than our grunt counter parts? I’m telling you that he is full of crap! You rate it, and I want you to go back in there and tell him to show you in the “JTR” (Joint Travel Regulations) where it says you don’t rate it because you are single. If I’m right, you buy me dinner tonight with some of your cash, if I’m wrong, I’ll cut you a check out of my own pocket for six hundred bucks. How does that sound?”

Lt Dan did go back and confront the Admin NCOIC. About an hour and half later I received another phone call. “Sir (very happy voice), you were right!! I do rate it. He spent about an hour reviewing the manual and making phone calls. Turns out that he has been screwing over all the single Lt’s who checked in for the last three years and it’s too late for them to go back and claim it.” He is on cloud nine, so I say, “Great, I would like to have dinner at “Monte’s steak house,” say about 1800?” The answer for most things in the Corps are found in the “ABDTW” manual (always been done that way), located in some far off office that they could never find. I So I just live by the adage of “Show me in writing.”

“Ditty Moves” [where you move yourself].
When I PCSd to Okinawa Japan, I put my household stuff in storage, like a bed, couch etc., and then set up a small mini-move, the “Ditty move.” It weighed a certain amount and was shipped pretty quickly, in around two to three weeks. This included my clothes, uniforms, flight equipment etc. Well, after a year on the island and buying my TV, stereo system, blue lions and a ton of corny stuff from the year there, I had enough for a regular household move from the Island. How much weight you rate goes along with your rank.

I went to the “TMO” [local traffic management office] guys on Camp Foster and filled out the proper paper work in triplicate. When I was able to meet with Corporal Smuckatelly, my official councilor, we discussed the move, and as I looked at my calendar in my trusty “week-at-a-glance,” I asked the typical questions. “O.K., the house-hold move takes up to forty-five days to float back on some freighter, huh, and the small ditty move is less then two weeks?” He nodded his head as he was reviewing my paperwork. “Well then, I’d like my household move on this date, and my Ditty move on this date which is two days before my scheduled freedom bird off the Island.”

Cpl Smuckatelly looked at my dates, then at my paperwork, then at my left hand. I could see it coming a mile away. “Sir, are you married?” “No, I reply.” “Well then, I’m sorry Sir, but you don’t rate a Ditty Move back to the states.” Normally, this type of silly red-ass game gets my blood pressure up, but I wanted to see where he was going with it this time. “Well, Cpl, if I don’t rate it, then how did I get all of my stuff sent over here from the states that way?” He looked over at my paperwork again, and then said, “Sir, not sure how Cherry Point TMO got away with it; maybe it came from a different pot of money.”

I just looked at the dates again, and told him without looking up, “Go refer to the JTR and find that reference for me will you? I’m going to buy a coke while you check things out and if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you one, too.” He went and produced the JTR, spending the next twenty minutes flipping pages as he mumbled, “I could swear on my life that it was in here.” He even called his boss, the Gunny, and they put their heads together in the next office looking for another ten minutes. They then consulted their boss, the Chief Warrant Officer. The Chief Warrant Officer came in shaking his head with his Cpl in tow. “Sir, I can’t find it in here, but I’m sure that we are right.” I looked at the two of them and then said, “Well gents, if it’s not in your Bible there, I’d like my household on this date, and the Ditty move on this date and in the future, please don’t screw over the single Marines.”

They complied, and I went back to the “Q” that night explaining to the other Officers who were also leaving on the same plane. Two of them looked at each other and laughed, “Those bastards did the same thing to me and I fell for it.” The other guy was fired up and told us he was going back there in the morning to correct his move.

There are other stories like this I could tell. I don’t want to come across that I’m the “dickhead Officer,” but it drives me nuts when I hear of guys not getting what they’re entitled to. Last week, I was visiting Gunny Lewis, the Marine that got me back into the Corps, and as we were talking in his office, one of his new Sergeants came in talking about this DLA thing and how he didn’t rate it because he was single…

So for all of you “TED’s” (Typical Enlisted Dudes) and “TOD’s” (Typical Officer Dudes) just remember, for as long as you are in the Corps, if there is doubt, then there is NO DOUBT, so ask for it in writing before you accept it at face value.
Semper Fi,
Taco

This came from my last Captain, Nick Kougias, who flew in the Air Force and had to suffer through the DFW to LAX all night Red Eye’s with me plying him with story after story. The cassette tape he gave me sounded like it came out his trunk from Vietnam and if you can imagine a salty southern sounding pilot, full of piss and vinegar talking, then you can hear his voice in the following transcripts.
Semper Fi,
Taco
PS, Happy Birthday Poppa John

“What the Captain said”

The following correspondence was recorded by a civilian reporter, who interviewed a shy, unassuming F-4 Phantom Fighter pilot. So the reporter wouldn’t misconstrue the fighter pilots reply, the wing information Officer was on hand as a monitor to make certain the “Real” Air Force story was told.

The Captain was first asked his opinion of his F-4C aircraft

Captain: It’s so F***ing maneuverable that you can fly up your own ass with it.
Wing PAO (Public Affairs Officer): What the Captain means is, that he has found the F-4C to be highly maneuverable at all altitudes and he considers it an excellent aircraft for all missions assigned.

Reporter: I suppose Captain, that you have flown a number of missions over North Vietnam, what do you think of the SAMS used by the North Vietnamese?

Captain: Why those stupid bastards couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle, we fake the shit out them, no sweat.
POA: What the Captain means, is that the surface to air missiles around Hanoi poses a serious threat to our air operations and that our pilots have a healthy respect for them.

Reporter: I suppose Captain that you flown missions to the south, what kind of ordnance do you use and what kind of targets do you hit?

Captain: Well, I’ll tell ya, mostly we aim at kicking the shit out of Vietnamese villages. My favorite ordnance is Napalm. Man that stuff just sucks the air out of their friggin’ lungs and makes one son of a bitchin fire.
PAO: What the Captain means is that airstrikes in South Vietnam are often against VietCong structures and all operations are always under the positive control of a forward air controller or FAC. The ordnance employed are conventional 500 and 750 pound bombs and 20mm cannon fire.

Reporter: I suppose you have spent an R and R in Hong Kong, what was your impression of the oriental girls?

Captain: Yeah, I went to Hong Kong. As far as those Oriental broads, I don’t care which way the runway runs, North or South, East or West, a piece of ass is a piece of ass.
PAO: What the Captain means is, that he finds the delicately featured Oriental girls fascinating and he was very impressed with their fine manners and thinks their naivety is most charming.

Reporter: Tell me Captain, have you flown any missions other then over North and South Vietnam?

Captain: You bet your sweet ass I’ve flown other missions then over North and South Vietnam. We get fragged nearly every day to fly into Laos. The F**kers throw everything at you but the kitchen sink. Even the God dam kids have sling shots.
PAO: What the Captain means is that he has occasionally be scheduled to fly missions in the extreme Western DMZ and he has a healthy respect for the flack in that area.

Reporter: I understand that no one in the 12th tactical fighter wing has scored a MIG yet, what seems to be the problem?

Captain: Why you peckerhead, if you knew anything about what you’re talking about, the problem is MIGS. If we got fragged by those by those numb nuts in the 7th for those counters in MIG valley. You can bet your sweet ass that we’d get some of them Mothers. Those glory hounds at UBon get all them Frags, while we settle for fighting friggin the war. Those MOTHERS at UBon are sitting on their fat asses killing MIG’s and we’re stuck bombing the Goddamn cabbage patches.

PAO: What the Captain means is that each element in the Seventh Air Force is
responsible for doing its assigned job in the air war. Some units are
assigned the job of neutralizing enemy air strength by hunting out MIGs and
other elements are assigned bombing missions and interdiction of enemy
supply routes.

Correspondent: Of all the targets you’ve hit in Vietnam , which one was the
most satisfying?

Captain: Well, sh*t, it was when we were scheduled for that suspected VC
vegetable garden. I dropped napalm in the middle of the f**kin’ cabbage, and
my wingman splashed it real good with six of those 750-pound mothers and
spread the fire all the way to the friggin’ beets and carrots.

PAO: What the Captain means is that the great variety of tactical targets
available throughout Vietnam makes the F-4C the perfect aircraft to provide
flexible response.

Correspondent: What do you consider the most difficult target you’ve stuck
in North Vietnam ?

Captain: The friggin’ bridges. I must have dropped 40 tons of bombs on those
swayin’ bamboo mothers, and I ain’t hit one of the bastards yet.

PAO: What the Captain means is that interdicting bridges along enemy supply
routes is very important and that bridges present quite a difficult target.
The best way to accomplish this task is to crater the approaches to
the bridge.

Correspondent: I noticed, in touring the base, that you have aluminum
matting on the taxiways. Would you care to comment on its effectiveness and
usefulness in Vietnam ?

Captain: You’re f**kin’ right. I’d like to make a comment. Most of us pilots
are well hung, but sh**, you don’t know what hung is until you get hung up
on one of the friggin’ bumps on that goddamn stuff.

PAO: What the Captain means is that the aluminum matting is quite
satisfactory as a temporary expedient but requires some finesse in taxiing
and braking the aircraft.

Correspondent: Did you have an opportunity to meet your wife on leave in Honolulu , and did you enjoy the visit with her?

Captain: Yeah, I met my wife in Honolulu, but I forgot to check the calendar, so the whole five days were friggin’ vell combat- proof a completely dry run.

PAO: What the Captain means is that it was wonderful to get together with his wife and learn firsthand about the family and how things were at home.

Correspondent: Thank you for your time, Captain.

Captain: Screw you–why don’t you bastards print the real story, instead of all that crap?

PAO: What the Captain means is that he enjoyed this opportunity to discuss his tour with you.

Correspondent: One final question. Could you reduce your impression of the war into a simple phrase or statement, Captain?

Captain: You bet your ass I can. It’s a f**ked up war.

PAO: What the Captain means is . . . it’s a F**KED UP WAR.

Sean Hannity, what a guy!

OK, call me goofy, but I like Sean Hannity and I love to watch Fox News. In Iraq, the Government-owned Armed Forces Network split the programming time between first, Fox News; second, Communist News Network (CNN); and finally, some old TV reruns. Sometimes they would switch it around and you might miss Hannity and Colmes if you weren’t paying attention. Bottom line, I just like the way he presents himself on TV and he seems like a very genuine guy.

For several years now, Sean, in conjunction with the Freedom Alliance, has put on a series of “Freedom Concerts” around the country for a very WORTHY cause. The Freedom Alliance, founded by LtCol Oliver North in 1990, created a trust fund for the children of our active-duty Marines and Soldiers who have either given their lives for our country or have received 100% disability. The Alliance is amazing, for they have raised over ten million dollars so far for the 2,220 plus children who have lost their father or mother since their founding. Think about it. All those kids, ranging from newborns to teenagers, will be taken care of when the time comes for them to attend college, and their parents’ sacrifice will not be forgotten. I am in awe of this program; and my admiration for Sean, Col. North, and The Freedom Alliance continues to grow.

My parents purchased their tickets earlier, and I really wanted to go, but with schedule conflicts, I wasn’t sure if I could attend until the last minute. I called Mike, one of the staff members for Mark Davis on WBAP 820, and asked if there was a way to still get tickets. He took my number and said, “I’ll give you a shout back.” True to his word, he called back with an extra ticket. Turns out, a gentleman named Mike Loyd, wasn’t able to make it, and donated his tickets back to the station. Talk about happy! The other lucky ticket recipient, Kelly, picked up the tickets, and we met up with her and her family at the Nokia Theater. What a great time!! Kelly and Mike, I owe you guys a big cold beer!

Now, the kicker of the entire story is that I called Sean’s talk line, and told the screener I would love to meet Sean. Why? Well, because he was my hero. She said it would be up to Sean so I tossed in, “Well, would it help if he knew I was the poster boy on his sponsor’s website, BocaJava.com?” I told her the story of getting the coffee from Bruce, the CEO of BocaJava, and finding out when I returned from Iraq that they used me on their website banner (pretty honored by that, by the way). She started typing on her computer, and then put me through on the air with Sean. But, it was the tail end of the show, so he says, “Hey Col, stay on the line.” The next thing I knew, I was talking to his assistant Eileen who arranged for three backstage passes to meet him.

(My Mom was there but the only good picture taken was by her, my camera froze)

Guys, I can tell you that when he walks into the room, he has a magnetic charge that permeates the air! I’m sure you’ve met the type—he could be your best friend from college that you haven’t seen in twenty years, and you pick up right where you left off years ago. He makes you feel like the VIP. Thing is that he was that way with everyone. During the show they had four soldiers from Fort Hood on a live satellite feed to over twenty five thousand folks in the audience, and then they brought out their wives, mothers, fathers, girlfriends, and kids to talk to them. He and Col. North REALLY care for our servicemen and it shows. I sure wish that guys like George Soros would spend their vast hoards of money to help out the military families like Sean and Freedom Alliance does.

(back stage with Mark Davis from WBAP 820am)

Anyway, it’s a great show for a worthy cause, and you would have loved hearing the former Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich who told us that since Homeland Security and the INS can’t track illegal aliens, they ought to use the same technology that Fed-Ex does. If they can track forty-five million packages worldwide, why don’t we just send all these illegal aliens a package then have Fed-Ex track them for the US Government. That was pretty funny. One of the neatest moments was when he asked the audience to turn on their cell phones like people used to click their cigarette lighters. All those pinpoints of lights waving in the theater were so moving!

(Meeting Ollie North, the man who started it all)

I also got to meet him, and my folks got to say “hi” to Col. North who they know from years of going to the same barber in Arlington. He was really surprised to see them in Dallas! Governor Mitt Romney also puts on a great speech. All great Americans! In addition, the musicians were awesome and were constantly giving tribute to the service members and veterans of all wars. As my Dad said, “he felt like a jumping jack from standing up so many times with the other veterans!” They had Colin Raye, Lee Greenwood, and the Montgomery Gentry Band. All of them were just great! Bottom line is that if you can make the September 11th show in New York City, I sure recommend you do it!!

(Lee Greenwood who sings, Proud to be an American)

Well, have a great day and talk to you soon.
Semper Fi,
Taco
PS, Sean if you are reading this, thanks again

The bull came charging out of the ally, and off again down the street. I hobbled over to find out what happened to Dave. As I turned the corner, there he was, a bloody mess, crumpled in the corner with his large intestines spilled out over the street…
No really he was safe and sound. Turns out that he leaped up and grabbed a wrought iron balcony overhang below someone’s window. He was hanging on for dear life as he dangled above the beast until the bull could be chased away. He thought I was dead from the hit, I thought he was dead…

We drank more beer, exchanged stories, and ate more bull balls at Michael’s house. Having survived the initial bull that day, we decided to play with the bulls again the next day. This time it was in a different part of town, at a four-way intersection with hills going up two of the streets. Our crew found safe purchase above one of the streets with a good view of all the action. I decided I would be the hero,

(see the guy in the center of the picture looking down, that’s me)

and ventured out into the street where the bull was running around while the rest of the guys cheered me on and drank beer while sitting on the wall. Down in the center of town, I met up with some locals who talked me into doing the “Toro, Toro” thing with the bull. I took the challenge, being the super dumb 27-year-old Marine. Taking the cape, I began to tease the bull that was only twenty feet from me.

(look at the dumb American in the white tee-shirt holding the cape)
Everyone else sort of moved off, and once again, the bull had me in his target sight. He charged. My adrenalin was out of control; the sweat poured from my face, and I felt like I was about to take a dump as this three-thousand-pound bull started coming at me. At the last second, I performed a perfect sidestep as he went right by me at full speed. I think it was at that moment I realized that a) this was dumb and b) I didn’t want to die.

(Man this is dumb, what you don’t see is me running away fast)

Dropping the cape, I ran as fast as I could away from all the action, and had my guys pull me up on the wall. I never did the bull thing again and it never happened on my watch while visiting Lajes. Now did I ever tell you about swimming with the Great Whites off the coast of Australia?
Semper Fi,
Taco

PS,Just remember; never run in a straight line from a bull, always zigzag…

The trip to Rota Spain was fairly routine, and we had a nice stopover in Lajes, a small Portuguese island in the Azores. Both places hold a special place in my heart, but it was this homeward-bound trip home from Rota that sticks out in my mind. There were four pilots on board trying to eek out as much flight time as we could on this trip so there was a lot of time shooting the bull and reading books.

The Aircraft Commander, a great guy named Mark, who we all called “The Sheik” which is kind of funny because he was an Italian-type guy with an Irish surname. Then there was another guy named “Wedge,” a new Captain, and about ready to upgrade to Aircraft Commander. He was a bit different so we just let him do his own thing. The junior guy on the trip was a brand new copilot named Dave who always had this quiet, complete babe-in-the-woods type innocence. He is now the Commanding Officer for one of the Fleet VMGR Squadrons. Where does the time go?

The flight to Lajes takes about three hours, not considered a long time in the Herk, but when you have eaten something that doesn’t agree with you…it’s a lifetime. “Wedge” got up and started to fumble for the honey bucket on the ramp. Everyone walks by it, but most don’t know how to operate it. It’s basically a round can with a toilet seat that flips down over top so you can relieve yourself. With a typical “Wedge” move, he got it down, but didn’t put a plastic bag in the bucket. When we arrived in Lajes, he had this bucket stuffed into a plastic bag with the remnants of upset stomach inside. At the Billeting Office, I asked him what he was going to do with his present, and he said, “I’ll clean it out in the shower.” That was enough for me so I leaned over to the young Airman at the desk, and told him I wanted a room on the other side of the building from this yo-yo since we all shared bathrooms.

The next day as we were to leave, we got word that both compass systems were not working, and we were a ‘no go’ for the trip across the pond. Now most of the time, our visits to this beautiful island are very short and usually in the middle of the night. So a chance to explore it was too tempting. Being the FAGO or “Fun and Games Officer,” the “Sheik” asked me if I could put together something for the crew to do. I found out that the Running of The Bulls was going on in the town of Angra on the other side of the Mountain. I rounded up a couple of taxis for us, and we were off, minus the “Wedge” since he was tied to his bathroom.

I thought it was funny that we were the only Americans there (sticking out like a sore thumb), but since a local guy named Michael and his buddies who invited us to his house for beer and food adopted us, we fit in with the locals a little better. Now picture this—a small home, very quaint with the women cooking in the back room, and the boys telling large tales of past bull fighting in the dining area. The food was incredible. We all dug in, stuffing our faces and putting some large quantities of the local beer down to boot. They, of course, were impressed that we liked his wife’s recipe for Swedish meatballs. As it turns out, we were eating bull balls or whatever was whacked off the local beef. I have to tell you, though, after all the beer, well, “hell, it didn’t matter.”

Our host pulled us aside to pass on some words of wisdom for the Running of The Bulls. Actually, one is let out of his cage with a thirty-foot rope attached to his neck. If the bull gets wild or kills someone, these little guys in the white shirts and black hats step in to save the day, and pull him off the poor guy. At least that was the plan. Our host, Michael, said in broken English and sign language, “If bull comes at you, no run straight, bull catch you. You must do this,” and he used his fingers to show us how to zigzag. It didn’t make sense at first, but I found out why later. The streets where the bulls were released were cobblestone, and the bulls would slip on the stones if you cut hard to either side as he chased you. I’m sure that this escape maneuver was the last thing on our minds—like we would be crazy enough to be that close to the bull.

The crowd moved outside and up the street to where the bulls were pinned up in these large green wooden boxes. I noticed that the front fences of the houses were all elevated above the street and boarded up with plywood to keep the errant bulls from coming over. Folks were lined up, drinking beer and wine, overlooking the festivities from their yards. We followed Michael and his buddies to the start of the event. Thousands of folks were standing around; a charge of electricity was in the air, more of the fear of the unknown I’d imagine. A loud boom resounded as one rocket exploded over the town center alerting the good folks that a bull was on the loose and to watch out. We kept a safe distance back in the crowd as we watched this three thousand-pound bull trample a few folks right off the bat. I would say that we were pretty buzzed by this time, and laughing hard as we ran up the street, following the crowd. I turned back to say something to Dave who was right behind me, and his laughing stopped as a look of panic came over his face. He turned and started running the other way. I turned back and looked up the hill only to see the bull charging downhill. It was the parting of the red sea as I was now the only person in his line of sight. I forgot everything Michael told me and ran as fast as I could, but the bull was catching up to me. I saw some folks ahead on the right yelling at me from behind their barricaded fence motioning for me to run to them.

I cut right and leapt for the top of the wall they had built. The bull was right behind me. I had both hands on the top of the wall, grunting to pull my winded and drunk butt over, and one guy grabbed my belt loop, and started to pull me over. The bull collided with the plywood, glanced off it, and his forehead smacked my right calf knocking me sideways over the wall. My leg was VERY sore, and it felt broken as I giggled like a little girl having escaped death, but that soon passed as I looked over the wall at Dave running around the corner of the next street with the bull right behind him now. The lady and man next to me were exchanging a fast paced, excited conversation as they pointed in Dave’s direction. His wife asked me in broken English if that was my friend. I said, “yes,” and she then said, “I’m sorry but he just ran down a dead-end street.” I knew it was bad when the little men in the black hats ran down there to pull the rope on the bull. I also knew I was dead meat for taking these guys to the Running of the Bull’s and then letting our most junior 1stLt get killed in Lajes. My career was over!!

Standby for part two of No Bull

Hey Scott,
Your email bounced back, LtCol Voytko said for you to get in contact with him for sure. Email me again with a good email address so I can pass on his contact info to you.
S/F
Taco

Hey Gang, Check out WWW.BocaJavaCoffee.com go to the five million cup project. They are the ones that sent us three boxes of the best coffee in the world. This company is the real deal and I just did an interview with them on being one of the guys who received coffee from Bruce the President. If you want to send something to that special guy/gal over there, go check out Boca Java, I put a link on my site to them, they will hook you up. (I’m also the poster boy on their web site)

Lane Barnholtz over at VAJoe.com is putting on a contest to award money to your favorite Charity. I know that Marty had AnySoldier removed so belay my last asking you to vote for A.S.
Lane has a great site and I don’t know where he gets the money to give away, but I think it’s a wonderful deal. Good luck who ever wins.

Well, What do you want to hear about next? Landing on the USS Lexington or going the speed of sound? How about doing the bull fights in Lajes??
S/F
Taco
PS, I think Lajes wins out and I’m almost done

Well Gang, we have been home a week now and the fond memories of our little trip to the desert are fading fast as I get back into the cycle of L.A. all nighters in the mighty 737. The night before we left, we had a Mess night for all 224 members of the Detachment there. A Mess night is a formal event that goes back to our roots when we were part of the British Empire. We brought a lot of these customs over to the US Navy and Marine Corps in the 1700’s. Of course, we have added a lot to it, but here is a brief synopsis of the night. There are about two pages of rules of conduct for the event and you are not allowed to bring the rules in with you, so if you mess up, you have to pay a fine, usually a dollar.

I was “Mr. Vice” who carried the gavel and was the sole person that could levy fines against another member of the Mess. What you do is start out with simple stuff like, “produce your dog tags, ID card in the left breast pocket, proper uniform for the mess.” Some Officers show up in what they called a flight suit tux, (a picture is worth a thousand words) I can tell you that they were fined for that. Then we have fun like having each member of the mess write down his 8th Marine Corps General Order and passing it to the right. If they got it wrong, they had to pay a dollar.

We had one pilot named “Wolfie” who drank a bit too much at the Friday night softball game six days prior, and made a giant jackass of himself as he ran around shouting and cursing at the players. How do you fine a guy for that kind of behavior? It was fun putting this one together. We had a urinalysis on Monday and I borrowed one of the little pee cups they use with some red tape and filled it with apple juice. Then I called out the Staff Sergeant in charge of the pee test to report to me up front. Of Course, every one of us had to do TWO pee test during the AT (annual training) and the Marines probably thought I was going to fine the good SSgt for excessive wiener watching. I then mentioned the action of said Officer during the Friday night game and then asked the SSgt if this was indeed the urinalysis of the Officer in question. He took the sealed bottle from me and examined the name on the side, the initials on the top confirmed that it was indeed the pee of our drunken Officer. I opened the container and put my finger in it and then to my mouth, “Hmmmmm, I think we can save the government the cost of doing a test on this one…I taste Vodka in this sample. What do you think SSgt?”

The SSgt, took his finger and tasted the liquid in the bottle, but then smiled and raised it to his lips taking a big sip he said “Sir, I detect the presence of Crown and Coke, and it taste pretty good.” I then took another sip and handed it to another Officer who gulps it down and the strips his shirt off and runs around the head table like a crazy drunk monkey shouting “Look at me, I’m Wolfie, Look at me….” The funniest part of this was hearing the hysterical laughter from all the Marines and looking at the Commanding Officer at the head table (who didn’t know we had this planned) with a pained look on his face as our Commanding General Officer, the Guest of Honor, was sitting next to him watching all this. You could almost see the slow motion of him screaming “Nooooooooooooooooo!!!”

I fined Wolfie twenty dollars for conduct unbecoming of an Officer. That was classic. All and all, we had a great time out there and I’ll leave you with our top ten reasons why we held our two week training out in the heat of El Centro in the Summertime.

10. We go to cool places all year round
9. The boys miss the desert
8. El Centro has great looking hot chicks behind all the oak trees right? (The Blue Angels wouldn’t stay there if that wasn’t true)
7. We have to use the brown flights suits or turn them back in.
6. It’s not hot enough in Texas in July
5. The Group CO said it would be a Cold day in El Centro before we ever had a good time AT.
4. The beer is cold there
3. It’s easier to have bets on who will puke on the LAT (low level) missions with the heat.
2. They promised we would go somewhere cooler next year…like Iran

And the number one reason we did our AT out in El Centro is that we spent all of our FY (fiscal year) per diem flying to Thailand, Japan, Australia, St Johns, Norway, England and Hawaii…this is payback.

Semper Fi,
Taco

(Photo by Cpl. Jason Hartwig)

You know it’s funny, it rains and it pours when the husband goes away. I mean, it has really been raining in Texas. We had over twenty inches before I left for El Centro California for our annual two week training for the Marines. We planned out a fun filled two week trip to the deserts in the southeast corner of Cali next to Arizona. It’s only a hundred and fifteen out here in the heat of the day, but they call it the “Dry Heat.” Actually when guys complain about it, I just tell them, no problem, we’ll go where it’s a bit cooler, like Iran or something.

I still laugh though because right before I left, Teresa had started to build an ARK, we developed a leak in the roof of our garage with all the rain that has poured down on Fort Worth. Then after I left, our dishwasher went out in the kitchen, followed by Megan who laid a big cow paddy of poop all over our white carpet and down the stairs (thank God she bought a steam cleaner instead of new shoes) then yesterday the water went out. One of the main water lines for the city exploded and shot water everywhere, so the girls went to her folk’s house for the evening bath.

I on the other hand, have a great couple of days. Once all two hundred and thirty Marines were settled in their bunks, things calmed down for me and we started to fly. I just had my first flight with N.V.G.’s, (Night Vision Goggles) which we call flying “aided.” Now for all those out there who do this all the time, go ahead and skip this post, for the rest of you newbie’s like me, sit back and let me tell you my thoughts on this. It is ASOULUTLY the COOLEST thing I have done in my flying career. NVG flying had just started coming around to the KC130 fleet back when I getting out, so I never had a chance to use them. The flight equipment guys set you up with a helmet and then you take a class on how to play with these six thousand dollar toys.

Depending on the amount of moonlight, stars, clouds etc, it turns night into a greenish glow, just like you see on T.V. from views of the war. It amazes me that you can see cars parked in a field, roads, cactus and trees from a thousand feet as you plod over the low level course. The major drawback is I sweat like a whore in church on Easter when I wear a helmet. Always did in flight school too, which by the way was the last time I wore a helmet. With the helmet on, you have streaks of sweat rolling down your neck and back. I forgot to bring a snug head bandana like I wore on my motorcycle ride, so went over to a hanger where these flight students from VT 21 (Jet Students) were hanging out. I walked in and asked if anyone had an extra “Skull Cap” which they all have because they wear helmets all the time. They all kind of half ass looked around their bags and then I offered the Squadron patch off of my flight suit. One of the foreign exchange pilots then pulled out a brand new skull cap and I gladly parted with my five dollars patch for the gift. The skull cap keeps the helmet snug on your head with the NVG’S on and it won’t slip around due to all the sweat pouring out of my pores. Even at night, the outside air temperature was 40 degrees Celsius or one hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit at a thousand feet and the air conditioners weren’t working that well. It was HOT.
Man, I digress, flying around and landing with these things on are a blast. Here are a few pictures I took as I waited for my turn in the seat. Hope you guys are having a great weekend and talk to you soon. I’m pretty busy here, so it may be a couple more days before I post.
Semper Fi,
Taco

I told you guys about a site I love called “Together we served” where you can find old military buddies from your branch of service. Well, I found one of my old Instructors from The Basic School named LtCol Joe Jackson. Joe was a first Lieutenant when he arrived and picked up Captain about the second week we were there in 1988. He taught us tactics, the basic introduction for the boneheaded Second Louies there in Hotel Company. They called us “Honey Company” because we had a platoon of women where all the other companies were all male.

I had last seen Joe over in Iraq and it brought back many fond memories of “The Big Suck” or The Basic School, its proper name. Poor Joe had Tactics after lunch and had to fight the sleep monsters that caused your eyelids to shut tight as all the blood flooded to your stomach, digesting that fine Marine Corps Chow. His partner in crime was another hard charging Infantry Marine Named Chris Powderfoot (all names have been changed btw) who had had a knack for keeping us awake and motivated to be in his class. He would come in and get all the Lt’s to beat on their desk tops like wild animals worked up into a heated frenzy. Then, he would hold his arms up to bring the crowd under control. The Lieutenants all loved this guy because he would start out with a fast dirty joke to set the mood. The only problem was one of the female Second Lt’s took an extreme dislike to Capt. Powderfoot and started to complain to her Platoon Commander that she was offended by these dirty jokes and asked if he could stop. This went up the chain of command and back down to Captain Powderfoot. I guess this just kinda fueled him on more which provoked some really awesome jokes.

Now the young lady in question was really pissed off and made it clear that if he uttered one more offense joke, she would walk out of class and go file a complaint against him. Now the squabble had most of the Lt’s upset and on the Capt’s side with maybe three quarter of the women who thought their fellow Lt. was a bit out of control. Everyone was aware of her threat, including Captain Powderfoot who walked out onto the stage that fateful afternoon. The beating of the desk was deafening as the Lt’s waited for the command of silence. Everyone had a smile on their face wondering if he would tell his joke and face the wrath of a sexual harassment charge.

Captain Powderfoot put his hands up and pumped them for the crowd to stop beating their palms to a pulp. He then said, “Hey, did I tell you about the boatload of whores going to China?” All eyes were on Lt. Killjoy to see what would happen next. The question lingered in the air for several seconds before she stood up and started to move across the chairs to the exit row. Without missing a beat, Captain Powderfoot said “Hey Lt., where are you going? Boat doesn’t cruise till three. O.K., Marines, and today we’re taking on Squad in the attack…”

Lieutenant Killjoy stopped, hesitated for a second, realized that he set her up, and with a very red face, went back to her seat. We never had anymore good jokes after that and Tactics was never the same either.