The Grey Man, an update…

Thank you to all who’ve parted with their hard earned money to buy the series. I’m truly humbled and appreciative! I’m up to 45 reviews on The Grey Man- Partners, still looking to get over that magic 50 reviews hump. Once that happens, then Amazon starts pushing it a bit more. Vignettes is over the 100 mark, Payback is at 89, and Changes is at 68.  100 reviews is the next milestone, but I’m happy to have the reviews I have.

It seems that the ‘average’ of reviews vs readers is in the 4-6% range, which is about what is expected. Having said that, I’d still like to get over the 50 reviews hump with Partners, so consider this a bleg… 🙂

In other news, thanks to those readers who’ve whined, threatened, sent harassing emails, expressed interest, I’ve started working on the fifth book in the three book Grey Man series. It’s WAY early yet, but here’s a tease… They usual caveats apply…

Dressing for the Occasion

Aaron came out of the bedroom stretching his neck in the unaccustomed suit and tie. As he walked into the kitchen, the old man asked, “What the hell are you doing?”

Aaron stopped short, “Uh, I’ve got to go to court today, I’m testifying. Remember I told you last night.”

“Not dressed like that you aren’t. Get that damn monkey suit off. Jeans and a pressed white shirt. BBQ belt, holster and gun. Get your good Silverbelly. Now vamoose.”

Aaron said, “Can I at least get a cup of coffee first?”

The old man chuckled, “I guess so. And I guess we need to have a chat about dressing for court.”

Fifteen minutes later, Aaron was back, and the old man looked him up and down critically, “Need to run a brush over the boots. A cowboy may only have one pair of boots, and they may be run down, but he’ll do his damnest to put a shine on them.”

Aaron retreated once again, and ten more minutes went by before he reappeared, “How’s this,” he asked.

“That’ll do,” the old man replied. “Now sit down and drink your coffee.”

Aaron filled his cup and took a seat at the table as Jesse came in drowsily carrying Kaya in her arms. Jesse plopped her in the old man’s arms and mumbled as she headed for the coffee pot. Aaron asked, “Why the jeans? When we went through testifying class in the academy, they specified being well dressed and professional looking. To me, that’s a suit.”

The old man sighed, “That’s typical of the HPD mentality. They aren’t in cow country. They’re in an urban environment. Hell, Austin and Dallas are the same way, but anywhere else in Texas, you go in wearing a suit and the jury is gonna be against you.”

Jesse flopped down across from Aaron, “Banker’s, right Papa?”

“Yep, anybody that looks like a banker is gonna remind those jurors of the damn bankers that took their pappy or grandpappy’s land back in the day. That is the wrong foot to get off on with any jury.”

“What about the lawyers?”

The old man chuckled, “Always wanted to get defense lawyers that dressed like that. Guaranteed the jury would hate them for cross-examining us poor ol’ hardworking deputies.”

Aaron said, “But Attorney Randall dresses well, right?”

The old man laughed this time, “Nan Randall dresses only well enough to be seen as a hard working county attorney. She doesn’t wear fancy dresses here, matter of fact, she gets them off the rack at the local department store. That way, if there are women on the jury, they’ll recognize that dress. Hell, they might even have that dress in their closet. Makes ‘em comfortable with her, knowing she’s not putting on airs.”

“Jeezus… What else did I get taught that was wrong?”

Jesse patted his hand and laughed, “Probably half the stuff. Urban versus rural. HPD does all urban, leaving us poor rural deputies to learn the hard way.”

Jace wandered into the kitchen rubbing his eyes, “Daddy you go work?”

Aaron tousled his hair, “Yes, Jace. Daddy is going to work.”

Jace ran his hand over the butt of the 1911 on Aaron’s belt, “Daddy wearing pretty gun today.”

The old man coughed to cover a laugh as Jesse said, “Jace, come here. You want breakfast? And what do you do if you see a gun laying out?”

Jace smiled, “No touch, tell a big person. Can I have cereal? With choco… Chocolate milk? Please?”

Jesse said, “That’s right. No touch and tell an adult. Are guns in this house loaded,” she asked as she got up to fix him a bowl of cereal.

Jace nodded solemnly, “Guns are always loaded. Especially the ones hanging on the wall. They make a loud noise!”

Jesse smiled at him, “Yes they do, don’t they! What are you supposed to do before you eat?”

Jace stood hands on hips, prompting another cough from the old man and a chuckle from Aaron, “Oh, I gotta feed Yogi and Boo Boo!” He scrambled across the kitchen, then came back for the bowls, carrying them to the dog food bin by the back door, closely followed by the dogs.

Filling them carefully, he tried to carry both of them back, but finally carried one at a time, sitting them in place next to the water dishes as the dogs whined, “Eat doggies,” Jace said proudly.

Aaron smiled at him, “Good job buddy!” Now you can eat too!”

Kaya took that as a challenge to start crying, prompting the old man to look at her, “Hey now, I’m not your mommy. You want food, go talk to her.” He set her down at watched her toddle toward Jesse, “Incoming.”

Jessie looked down, “Okay baby, give me a couple of minutes.” Kaya reached Jesse and started trying to climb her sweatpants, almost pulling them off. Jesse swatted her lightly, “Hey, mommy is not doing the strip tease here. Aaron?”

Aaron picked up Kaya, planted her in her high chair and thought, I wonder how old this high chair is? I know Jesse used it, I wonder if it was John’s too. There are a lot of pieces of furniture in these houses that are at least a hundred years old. Real wood and handmade. Hell, other than the appliances, I think the newest things in here are our bedroom suite.

With the kids fed, Jesse took them back to their room to get them dressed as Aaron got up, “Time to go do battle.”

He heard a whistle as the old man started to answer, turned and saw Matt come in the back door, “Don’t you look purty today! All dressed up and no place to go?”

Aaron replied, “Gotta go over to Alpine, testifying on that chase that started just south of town and ended up crashing at sixty-seven and ninety.”

The old man chimed in, “Remember, follow Clay’s advice, make sure you get with him before you go in. They’ll call you first, since you initiated it. Just give them the facts as you knew them at the time. Do not add any of the after the fact, at that point you were just an assist.”

Aaron nodded, “I’ll call Clay as soon as I get close to Alpine.” Aaron headed for the door, “Y’all have fun.”

Jesse came back with the kids dressed to find the old man and Matt poring over a topo map of the ranch, with Matt flipping an acetate overlay up and down, “See, if we do that, it’s six miles to eleven seventy-six, so we’re good in that direction.”

The old man pointed to a couple of tracks that ran between Hwy 18 and 1178, “What about these?”

I’ve talked to Halverson and Zapata, they don’t use them, matter of fact,” tracing one of the tracks, “Halverson has blocked this one at his ranch entrance.”

Jesse asked curiously, ‘What are y’all planning?”

Matt replied, “We’re looking at putting in a range on the south forty. We can get all the way out to a thousand yards right here,” pointing at the acrylic overlay, “It’s thirteen hundred, almost fourteen hundred yards deep. Doesn’t impact any wells or fields that are in use for anything. It’s pretty much mesquite, which needs to be grubbed out anyway.”

The old man nodded, “Okay, I’ll buy that. What else are you planning?”

Matt pulled another sheet from under the topo map pointing, “Well, we figured we could do a pistol range here, a hundred yard berm here, three hundred here, six hundred out here and a thousand all the way at the end.”

The old man shrugged, “Okay, if that’s what y’all want, go ahead.”

***

Aaron pulled into the diner in Alpine, saw Clay Boone’s unmarked car and parked next to it. Feeling a bit self-conscious, he walked into the diner and saw Clay waving from a booth at the back of the diner. “Morning, Ranger. Mr. Cronin said to make sure I talked to you.”

Clay stuck out a hand, “Sit, Aaron, sit. Yeah, just want to make sure you know what to expect this morning. Coffee?”

Aaron nodded and Clay waved his coffee cup at the waitress and pointed to Aaron, “Angie, another one please.”

Aaron slid into the booth and chuckled, “Normally, I try to sit facing the door, but I guess I’m out ranked aren’t I?”

Clay laughed, “Yep, John is worse than I am about it. Now the court down here is basically the same as Fort Stockton, but it’s Judge Cameron down here. He’s by the book, doesn’t like a bunch of BS in his courtroom and he’s already pissed off at this case and the defendant, not that he’ll ever admit that, but I’ve known him for thirty years. The change of venue motion didn’t go over well, nor did that highfalutin’ lawyer from Houston.”

Angie delivered Aaron’s coffee and refilled Clay’s, “Honey you want anything to eat?”

“No, ma’am. I had breakfast this morning, just coffee.”

She smiled and sauntered back to the counter, pouring refills as she went. Clay detailed the expectations for the trial, including the fact that even though the chase had started in Pecos County, it ended in Brewster County with the perp hitting the Brewster County patrol car, then rolling his brand new Challenger three times out in the field. He cautioned Aaron about letting the defense attorney try to get Aaron to say anything about what happened after the wreck, including the drugs Deputy Ortiz had found after Aaron called for backup after seeing the package thrown from the Challenger. Luckily, it had been caught on video with a road sign in the video allowing pinpointing exactly where it had been thrown out.

Clay stopped and sipped his coffee and Aaron asked, “So just to confirm, all I talk to is start of the pursuit to the wreck, nothing after. I know when they deposed me they wanted a copy of my wheel book, but they only got the pages with the notes for this chase, broken down by timeline.”

Clay nodded, “Remember to ask for a copy of your deposition to refer to. Don’t let them catch you out. I’ll guarantee they’re going to try.” Clay looked at his watch, “We better go. Ain’t no point in being late and pissing the judge off any more than he already is. I got the coffee, you get the tip.”

They got up and Aaron dropped two dollars on the table, tipping his hat to Angie as the headed for the door.

***

Thirty minutes into his testimony and cross examination, Mr. Klapp, the prosecutor wearily got up, “Objection again your honor, Deputy Miller was not involved in the subsequent arrest of Mr. Holmes that was conducted by Brewster County personnel.”

Judge Cameron rapped his gavel, “Sustained. Mr. Maginault, I’ve told you three times to keep your questioning relevant. Am I not getting through to you?”

Maginault, the lawyer hired by Holmes parents, didn’t even look at the judge, “No further questions.” He sat carefully back down, straightening his Armani jacket and smoothing his styled hair in what Aaron had determined was a nervous tic.

“Prosecution calls Deputy Grayson.”

Aaron returned to his seat in the back of the courtroom, next to Sheriff Rodriquez as they waited for Deputy Ortiz and Ranger Boone to testify. The sheriff gave him a thumbs up and leaned over, “Fun ain’t it, Amigo.”

Aaron said softly, “Yeah, ‘bout as much fun as a surprise inspection in the Corps. Glad that’s over.” He zoned out on Grayson’s testimony, just remembering the flashing blue and red lights of the roadblock, the Challenger’s frantic braking, hitting the front of the cruiser and rolling out into the field.

 

TBT…

How far we’ve come… In such a few short years…

My mother and dad had very distinct memories of each of those… Kitty Hawk, Dec 7th and Sputnik.

And they keep changing the names too… sigh

I wonder who had that thing as a doorstop???

And the best news of all…

Posted in TBT

Giving…

As we come to the ‘Christmas season’, our thoughts turn to giving…

I have had ENOUGH!!!! We’ll never help anyone again……EVER!! Either I’m too kindhearted, too stupid, or too gullible!! Out of the kindness of our hearts, and because it was so cold out yesterday, we took a man into our home. We felt so sorry for him. Poor thing was trembling out in the cold, but this morning he just vanished. Not a word…not even “goodbye” or “thank you” for sheltering him!! The last straw?!?! When I realized he had peed all over the living room floor!!! That’s the “thank you” I get for being good to people?!?!?!

So, warning my friends to watch out for this man! He is heavy set, and he’s wearing nothing but a scarf and a black hat. He has a nose that looks like a carrot, two black eyes, and his arms are so skinny they look like sticks!!! Don’t bring him into your house!! What a huge mess he made on our floor!!!

All joking aside, this IS the time to remember those who have less than we do…

Two organizations I support and would ask that you support, if able, are the Salvation Army,

and Toys for Tots, run by the Marine Corps Reserve.

Both these organizations are very well rated, consistently support those in need, especially in the Christmas Season. The Red Kettles are in pretty much every major shopping center, grocery stores, etc.

The Toys for Tots can be ‘interesting’ as we learned last year. Check your local area from the home page above to find donation drop off points.

Thanks in advance, and may your donations make a Merry Christmas for someone somewhere…

 

Globull Warming???

Huh, seems like Algore and his bunch have dropped off the media’s go to list, maybe it’s ‘fake news’???

Or maybe it’s the fact that the weather is cold now (calling for ‘chilling’  cold in the minus numbers already), plus the heavy storms that have rolled through already this year.

Algore talked a good game, made millions off the sheeple and apparently had one sit down with Trump. No details released…

But the real climatologists are coming back to life now that Trump is going to be the next president.

This article from National Review last year was one of many raising questions, HERE.

What seems to be happening now, at least with the folks I’ve talked to, is the modelers are scuttling off into the corners of the debate, mumbling about error bars, actual raw data not matching their ‘models’ and data ‘skew’…

John Casey’s case about the sun actually playing a major part in the global heat/cool cycle is another one that people are finally studying too, HERE. Although the skeptics claim it’s not possible…

And then there’s THIS from PSI…

Seems that ‘somebody(s)’ have or had skewed raw data AHEAD of modeling runs to make it match an ‘expected’ outcome to promote the AGW agenda.

YMMV, etc…

But this Australian bush poem by John O’Brien seems to cover all the bases.

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.

“It’s looking crook,” said Daniel Croke;
“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad.”

“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran
“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”

“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o’-Bourke
They’re singin’ out for rain.

“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,
“And all the tanks are dry.”
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.

“There won’t be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There’s not a blade on Casey’s place
As I came down to Mass.”

“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak –
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If rain don’t come this week.”

A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

“We want an inch of rain, we do,”
O’Neil observed at last;
But Croke “maintained” we wanted two
To put the danger past.

“If we don’t get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”

In God’s good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o’-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If this rain doesn’t stop.”

And stop it did, in God’s good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o’er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o’er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place
Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.

“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”

 

 

A little humor to start the week…

Bumper snickers!!!!

* Horn broken. Watch for finger.

* Keep honking…I’m reloading.

* Your kid may be an honors student, but you’re still an idiot.

* All generalizations are false.

* Cover me.  I’m changing lanes.

* I brake for no apparent reason.

* Learn from your parents’ mistakes – use birth control.

* I’m not as think as you drunk I am.

* Forget about World Peace…Visualize using your turn signal.

* We have enough youth, how about a fountain of Smart?

* He who laughs last thinks slowest.

* I love cats…they taste just like chicken.

* Rehab is for quitters.

* I get enough exercise just pushing my luck.

* Sometimes I wake up grumpy; Other times I let her sleep.

* Jack Kevorkian for White House Physician.

* I didn’t fight my way to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian.

* Sorry, I don’t date outside my species.

* No radio – Already stolen.

* OK, who stopped payment on my reality check?

* Few women admit their age;  Fewer men act it.

* It’s lonely at the top, but you eat better.

* A bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory.

* Give me ambiguity or give me something else.

* Make it idiot-proof and someone will make a better idiot.

* Be nice to your kids.  They’ll choose your nursing home.

* There are 3 kinds of people:  those who can count & those who can’t.

* Caution:  I drive like you do!

Aviation Art…

45

One of the ‘oddities’ if you will, was the Brits stayed low on launch, assuming the Germans had radar that was as good as theirs, hoping the low altitude would prevent the Germans from having enough time to recall strikes or give the strikes a heads up before the Brits could climb and engage them.

The NEXT set of scofflaws???

Maybe California???

Federal background checks for long gun sales in California surged to an 18-year high in November, according to the FBI’s database.

Dealers processed 82,554 applications for long guns through the National Instant Criminal Background Check system last month, a 57 percent increase over November 2015 and a 34 percent jump from October.

<snip>

Paredes says come January, not only will California no longer allow the sale of bullet button-equipped rifles, but it will mandate current owners to either register their firearms, sell the weapons across state lines, turn bullet button long guns over to law enforcement or destroy the guns completely.

Owners could also disassemble the weapons into “a conforming condition,” he said. “Folks are rightfully concerned because as of Jan.1, 2017, sales of those guns will be banned.”

Full article HERE.

When you compare that with this…

After dodging a Hillary Clinton presidency, Republicans have a historic shot to rewrite the nation’s gun laws under President-elect Donald Trump.

There is definitely a pro-gun agenda on the horizon starting in January…

Full article HERE.

And one more…

Anti-gun hysteria is hazardous to your health…

In July, the Crime Prevention Research Center published a comprehensive report on those Americans who hold concealed-carry permits. Among the findings, the Center notes that while the police are dramatically more law-abiding than the population as a whole (37 times more law-abiding), permit holders in Texas and Florida — two states that keep comprehensive records — were even more law-abiding than cops. Police officers committed crimes at a rate of 103 crimes per 100,000 officers. Permit holders in Texas and Florida committed crimes at a rate of 22.3 per 100,000.

Full article HERE.

Soooo… The left/MSM continues to trash us, even as the research proves we are categorically LESS prone to violate the law than just about any other group, but that’s still not good enough, with the MSM still promising blood in the streets (again)… sigh…

Airplane stories…

The mil email chain has been full of airplane stories this week…

The first two are about the F-4

“Hey, Grandpa,” the young lad said to me; “Tell me a war story. What did you do in the war?” 

“I flew “Phantoms. Rhino. Big Ugly.” Fascination and concern shone in his eyes. “Phantoms?” “Absolutely,” I said, looking off into the wild blue yonder and the setting sun. “Tell me about the Phantoms, Grandpa.”
I thought for a moment about what to say. How much could he really understand? Not much, actually. But kids sure like airplanes, even big kids like Grandpa. I thought a little more about what to tell him:

Actually, they’re called F-4s. The term, “F-4,” is like a scientific definition for a giant wild animal that will level your 18-wheel truck if it feels like it. The Phantom was the biggest, loudest, meanest-looking, raw power fighting machine ever built. It was a Man’s jet.

Spectators’ innards rumbled when Phantoms took off! Wide-eyed kids instantaneously decided they were going to be a fighter pilot just like me. They didn’t understand about back-seaters and crew chiefs, but they did understand brute power and speed. You could point this airplane at the moon and for a while you thought you were going to get there. It went a mile per breath at high cruise. A mile per breath!

Phantom. The big leagues. Normal earth people never witness the splendor nor feel the terror of Big Ugly closing for guns. Over the years, my jet fought them all: Tomcats, Eagles, Falcons, Hornets, F-5s, F-106s, A-4s, A-7s, F-111s, Buffs, B-1s, U-2s, even the F-105. Yeah, my pilots lost some, but won plenty! Don’t try to run from a Thud. To win with “Big Ugly,” use power, altitude, vertical, surprise.

Don’t get slow; speed is life. Cut across the circle. Don’t bury the nose. Kill the bandit now. Take that slashing gunshot. Don’t say the pilot cheated; he got the shot. You can’t outrun the missile.
That magnificent airplane remained a major player in our nation’s defense for decades, despite sharing birthdays with early pocket calculators. Is anybody still driving a ’65 Chevy? It’s the people who bring this aircraft to life and provide the brainpower. A roomful of Phantom crews sets a unique social environment. Seemingly insignificant behaviors and unusual events create career-spanning nicknames and legends. “Two Dogs” shot the tanker. “Tripod” kissed the colonel’s dog. They remember forever! Don’t believe the dreaded words, “Your secret is safe with me.” Don’t point fingers, for if you live by the sword, you will die by it.

It’s a rare combination of he-man pilots whose egos, fangs, and foolishness are tempered by an inseparable conscience embodied in the blind, trusty WSO who almost equally share credit for the fabulous success of this durable-crew airplane. It’s a we airplane – not an I, not a me, but we airplane. “We shot the drone. We didn’t go out of our airspace – not us.” The new stuff extends off duty as well. We were at the movies when the windows shattered. You get the idea.

Riding in the “pit”, WSOs are among the bravest souls on earth, betting their lives and reputation on the driver up front who will take them who knows where at a moment’s notice. The backseater lives by his cunning, competing against advanced technology with systems as old as himself. His understanding of human thought processes makes great WSO’ing an art form. He must be ready for any eventuality and provide timely information in a logical, understandable sequence for the multitasked Phantom driver to digest in small pieces. The key is to make the driver, “Mr. Sometimes Macho,” think it was his idea in the first place. The WSO must sense when his inputs have gone unheeded, yet never waste a second with unnecessary or mistimed information. He must find the target and get the frontseater’s eye on it. Then it’s grunt time, fighting the Gs while the animal frontseater maneuvers for the kill. No whimpering gents; we’re riding a Rhino! Sometimes we become the Rhino!

A flight of F-4s paired against multiple bogies creates instant comm jamming when only half the crewmen are talking. Hit the merge and they’re all start yakking away, like a gaggle of geese sorting out the variables. Phantoms somehow excel in defeating large numbers of superior aircraft under severe comm conditions. The more targets, the better. Rhinos charge the fight, shoot bogies and accept a few losses. There’s no way to recall everything that happened in a multi-ship merge, but each crewman brings back various recollections to defend vigorously at the debrief. At the height of the discussion, several pilots talk at once while gesticulating hands “gun” each other. The WSOs nod approvingly. Somehow, most participants emerge from the debrief with the positive notion that “we did fairly well…considering the circumstances.”

Computers changed the flying professional, but an evolution of slippery Phantom tactics continued to confound the sometimes embarrassed good pilots in modern machines. There was a lot of challenge. You were always up against supposedly better aircraft. Phantom crews shriek with delight, like the wide-eyed kid, when describing unobserved stern missile launches or tracking gunshots against a magic dream machine. Yet, satisfaction is rarely displayed in the presence of your opponent. The adversary must think that Phantoms gunning Hornets is fairly common, which it is, if you don’t keep exact score.

Let’s see now, 14 years and 2,500 hours flying Phantoms. No wars, only one engine problem, only one hydraulic failure (on the ground). Hot brakes once (my fault). Never lost a generator, no gear problems, never diverted, two fire lights (both false), no high speed aborts, can’t remember my last air abort (it’s been years). Can’t remember my last ground abort, either.

Never had a compressor stall. Killed a horse once. Popped circuit breakers a few times (usually they reset). Took the cable once for antiskid (no big deal). What a great airplane! Dependable with a capital D. Weather? No problem. Ice? Wind? No problem. The F-4 has done the job as an all-weather, day/night fighter extraordinaire.

Big ugly. Been my friend. Never scared me, never hurt me. Knock on wood. I suppose we’ll launch missiles at her at Tyndall – from some new magic jet. They’ll miss; too bad. Or, Big ugly will drag them back home stuck in her sides like porcupine quills. And someday we’ll look back at our Rhino pictures and remember her as we do steam locomotives.

I never knew an engineer or assembler who built the Phantom, and probably never will. But thanks, folks! Helluva job! What a great airplane! It’s been my everlasting pleasure and privilege to fly her. You just can’t imagine.

“Hey, Grandpa,” the little voice urges. “I thought you were going to tell me a war story. I began to tell. “So there we were, trying to dig this F-111 out of the canyon. We spot him flying along the cliff, fast and too low for a missile shot…” I swallowed hard and lost my voice there for a second. Kitchen clatter broke the silence with the distant call, “Food’s ready!”

Okay, guy,” I said quietly. “It’s time to wash your hands. Your mom’s calling for supper.” “I didn’t hear her,” he claimed, with a twinkle in his eye and a knowing smile like my old buddies had. Food’s ready tiger; wash up. I’ll be along shortly.” A couple of minutes slid by. Then I heard the voice from a distance. Grandpa? Grandpa. You okay?” A tear plopped on the window sill. “Yeah, yeah, be there in a minute. Just checking the moon.”

By Major Tom Tolman.

And another one-

I was OOD at NAS PAXRIV while attached to ST Division of NATC (1964-67), and just happened to be along one of the runways, when one of NATC’s F-4s came in for a touch & go. There were two  older black workers repairing potholes  near a taxiway when the Phantom‘s pilot fired off the afterburners. One worker hit the deck, while the other crouched at the sound.

Said the one on the deck, looking up at his coworker, “Man, yo’ hear dat guy double-clutch dat motha?” 

I had to turn away so they wouldn’t see me roaring with laughter.

And lastly, a story about 707s and the early days of jet travel!

The Age of the 707 (Written by an older pilot )This is a nostalgic and humorous retrospective on the golden age of commercial jet travel, ushered in by the redoubtable and classic Boeing 707.

That smoke is from the 1,700 pounds of water injection the J-57s used for take-off.     

 Those were the good ole days. Pilots back then were men that didn’t want to be women or girly men. Pilots all knew who Jimmy Doolittle was. Pilots drank coffee, whiskey, smoked cigars and didn’t wear digital watches.

They carried their own suitcases and brain bags, like the real men they were. Pilots didn’t bend over into the crash position multiple times each day in front of the passengers at security so that some Gov’t agent could probe for tweezers or fingernail clippers or too much toothpaste.

 Pilots did not go through the terminal impersonating a caddy pulling a bunch of golf clubs, computers, guitars, and feed bags full of tofu and granola on a sissy-trailer with no hat and granny glasses hanging on a pink string around their
pencil neck while talking to their personal trainer on the cell phone!!!

Being an airline Captain was as good as being the King in a Mel Brooks movie. All the Stewardesses (aka. Flight Attendants) were young, attractive, single women that were proud to be combatants in the sexual revolution. They didn’t have to turn sideways, grease up and suck it in to get through the cockpit door. They would blush, and say thank you, when told that they looked good, instead of filing a sexual harassment claim.

Junior Stewardesses shared a room and talked about men…. with no thoughts of substitution.

 Passengers wore nice clothes and were polite; they could speak AND understand English. They didn’t speak gibberish or listen to loud gangsta rap on their IPods. They bathed and didn’t smell like a rotting pile of garbage in a jogging suit and flip-flops.

Children didn’t travel alone, commuting between trailer parks. 

There were no Biggest Losers asking for a seatbelt extension or a Scotch and grapefruit juice cocktail with a twist.

 If the Captain wanted to throw some offensive, ranting jerk off the airplane, it was done without any worries of a lawsuit or getting fired.

 Axial flow engines crackled with the sound of freedom and left an impressive black smoke trail like a locomotive burning soft coal. Jet fuel was cheap and once the throttles were pushed up they were left there. After all, it was the jet age and the idea was to go fast (run like a lizard on a hardwood floor).  “Economy cruise” was something in the performance book, but no one knew why or where it was. When the clacker went off, no one got all tight and scared because Boeing built it out of iron.  Nothing was going to fall off and that sound had the same effect on real pilots then, as Viagra does now for these new age guys.

There was very little plastic and no composites on the airplanes (or the Stewardesses’ pectoral regions). Airplanes and women had eye-pleasing symmetrical curves, not a bunch of ugly vortex generators, ventral fins, winglets, flow diverters, tattoos, rings in their nose, tongues and eyebrows.

Airlines were run by men like C.R. Smith and Juan Trippe, who had built their companies virtually from scratch, knew most of their employees by name, and were lifetime airline employees themselves.. ..not pseudo financiers and bean
counters who flit from one occupation to another for a few bucks, a better parachute or a fancier title, while fervently believing that they are a class of beings unto themselves.

And so it was back then….and never will be again!

h/t JP

A date that will live in infamy…

Today is the 75th anniversary of Pearl Harbor. There are few living veterans of that fateful day and even less that are capable of making that trip one more time. Having said that, there are reports that four of the five surviving USS ARIZONA vets will make it.

These are the images we remember/grew up with…

ph-radiogram

This is one that always strikes home- USS ARIZONA after she was hit…

Landscape

Photographer unknown

We always heard the stories about what the Sailors, Marines and Army troops did, but I had never heard anything about the other folks, like Nurses…

MOAA had a very nice article from a variety of nurses, HERE. Roll your cursor over the article title to go to that story.

One from Military.com HERE.

Another from DOD.live HERE.

And one more from San Diego Tribune HERE.

No nurses died at Pearl Harbor, but over 200 died during WWII in various areas. One nurse, LT Anne Fox was awarded the Bronze Star for her actions at Hickam Field during the attack. The National WWII museum has a good look at Women at War, HERE.

No nurse that I have ever known was a shrinking violet, but I cannot imagine the horrors these women and men saw, not only on Dec 7th, but throughout WWII. God bless them for their willingness to step up and do what needed to be done not only to treat, but to comfort the wounded.