Nobody Asked Me…

The streets around it do not betray what you are about to experience.  The people who direct traffic are just that: men and women who tell people where they’re supposed to go and where they’re not supposed to go.  

Upon entering the gates, parking your car, and walking into the Administration Building, you still don’t see indications of the true nature of this place.  No, it’s only when you make your way down its tree-lined streets, trailing slowly behind the funeral coach that you begin to see some of what makes this place so special.  

You notice the names that grace the street signs: names like Eisenhower and Halsey.  You can’t escape the enormity of the simple white grave markers that file into the distance, the gardens of stone.  The falling leaves of gold and red ride the wind across the fields of green and past the smaller signs, which read simply: “Silence and Respect.”

There are soldiers, in their dress uniforms, marching along the streets.  As you wonder who they are or what they might be doing, you notice that their marching ceases.  As the hearse that you follow slowly passes this group of anonymous soldiers, they stop, turn to face it and snap a salute, which they hold until the fallen one passes.  Then they turn and resume their lives, their marching.  

This happens again and again.  No living soldier on this hallowed ground bursting with so many fallen soldiers allows a newly fallen one to pass without the show of proper respect.  One wonders if this is a diversion from their other duties, or if this is their duty, and their marching simply a diversion.  

As the procession slows, your attention is drawn to a group of eight soldiers standing some thirty yards away.  Seven of these bear arms, one holds a sword.  Another twenty yards from this group is a solitary soldier, right arm fixed in salute, a bugle in his left hand.  

The cortege reaches its destination.  It is met by another group of soldiers, these standing silently be-neath a large oak tree, its golden leaves bursting forth in a canopy of protection.  There are seven soldiers, in their dress black pants and brilliant blue jackets with polished brass buttons and medals adorning each chest.  Another soldier accompanies them, this one older, more distinguished, in the same uniform but with more medals and two shiny silver crosses on his lapels.  

The rear door of the funeral coach is opened to reveal a flag-draped coffin.  Silently, except for the tap of their polished shoes on the pavement, the group of seven makes its way to their fallen comrade.  Mechanically, yet reverently, six of them retrieve the coffin from its temporary home in three precise movements.  You sense that they see this as a rescue of sorts.  They recognize this as a fallen comrade who is not yet at rest, and will not be so until they make it so.  

With the fallen soldier safely in hand, the six escorts slowly march toward the hallowed ground that has been prepared to receive this one.  When the flag-draped carrier is placed above its final resting-place, the six remove the flag and hold it above, tightly in their white-gloved hands, while the seventh, too, stands near.  They all stand guard, at alert attention, over this grave as if it holds their commander.  

Who are these men-boys really? They are so young, so unfamiliar, and yet they seem so affected by their task, as if they are fortunate to have the duty of this honor.  History tells us they are members of The Third United States Infantry Regiment, the famed “Old Guard,” one of the oldest and most respected Infantry Regiments in the United States Army.  Perhaps they are chosen for their ability to respect, or more likely, their solemnity is earned through their duty.  

The older soldier with the crosses on his lapel, the chaplain, steps forward and says words chosen to comfort.  He speaks from the heart, not from notes.  He sees it as his duty, as his responsibility to speak of the fallen one as someone he knew.  He doesn’t pretend that he did, he simply knows their character because of those who sit before him and because of the right they’ve earned to be in this sacred place.  

After a few words, the soldier in the distance who holds the silver sword directs his charges to honor the fallen one with the ultimate military salute.  On his command the remaining seven present their arms and each fires simultaneously.  This action is repeated twice, comprising a salute of twenty-one guns, though not considered an official twenty-one gun salute, this reserved for fallen Commanders-in Chief.  

This practice of firing volleys over the grave originated on the battlefields of yesterday.  Fighting would cease while each army cleared away its fallen.  After the dead had been removed and cared for, each army would fire three volleys to signal that the fighting could resume-an odd sort of respect on a field of conflict.  On this hallowed ground, it strikes you that these volleys symbolize the opposite: this gunfire signals that the dead is again cared for but, for them, the end of all fighting.  

As quickly as the sound of gunfire came, it retreats, now replaced with the mournful strains of that most familiar of military melodies, “Taps.” 

                                  Day is done, gone the sun,

                                  From the lake, from the hills, from the sky.

                                  All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.

As silence again fills the chilly air, the six who watch over the grave solemnly, without even blinking, barely breathing, snap the flag taut while reverently folding it into the triangle of blue and white stars.  This takes a few minutes, not because they are unfamiliar with the process, but because they intimately know not only the how of what they are doing but also with the why.  This flag represents the nation, as does any other American flag, but this one has graced the coffin of a fallen hero, and just as significant as that is to the defense of the country, it’s even more important for the family member to whom it will be presented.  To him or her, the flag not only graced the coffin of a fallen hero, it graced the coffin of a fallen loved one.  

The flag is presented by one of the six soldiers to the seventh who has stood watch on their service.  He then presents it to the chaplain, who has the honor and the duty to present the flag to the fallen one’s next-of-kin.  “This flag is presented on behalf of the President of the United States, and a grateful nation, as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your loved one.” 

He then presents the Lady of Arlington, one of about sixty volunteers who attend every funeral that occurs in this sacred place.  No one worthy of this place should be buried alone.  That was the genesis of Arlington’s Ladies.  This Lady, escorted by yet another member of the Old Guard, represents the leadership of the branch of service in which the fallen one served.  She speaks a few words of comfort to the family and then presents a letter of appreciation and condolence.  

As the service ends, the fallen one having found their final resting-place, the family returns to their cars.  As they depart they are honored with one more long slow salute from each of the soldiers, all of whom now line the street.  The family will attempt to return to life, these fine members of America’s Old Guard will return to their duty of honoring America’s fallen.  Paths will likely never cross again, but that’s alright.  We’re better for knowing that they were there for us, that they’ll be there for others.  

The history of the cemetery tells us that “since 1864, when the first coffin was interred, more than 200,000 burials have taken place in the more than 600 acres of land devoted to America’s honored dead.  Privates and generals, astronauts and presidents, civilians with military service or relationships are all ranked in row upon row in the manicured lawns.  By the year 2021 the cemetery will be full and the burial ground will be designated a national shrine.” 

This fine line of legalese will change nothing for the families of those whose loved ones rest here.  What began as hallowed ground is now made even more so by the presence of their mothers, their fathers, their sons and daughters.  

                                 Then good night, peaceful night,

                                 Till the light of the dawn shineth bright,

                                 God is near, do not fear — Friend, good night

Hand Salute!

Ready…two.

The above was written following the burial at Arlington National Cemetery, close to the corner of Eisenhower and York, of Joseph S. Bonsall, and later, Lillie M. Bonsall.  The author is a friend of their son, Joseph S. Bonsall, author of G.I. Joe & Lillie, the book and the song of his father and mother.  Joseph “Joey” Bonsall is best known as a member of the Oak Ridge Boys singing group.

h/t to Bob F for the letter

Saturday…

To commemorate the Army, Navy, and Marines!

The U.S. Postal Service is honoring three of the nation’s military branches — the Army, Navy and Marine Corps — with commemorative stamps to mark 250 years of service.

Each of the three stamps features the respective name of the military service, the service seal and the inscriptions “250 Years of Service,” “Since 1775” and “Forever/USA.”

Full article, HERE from Military Times.

For all we complain about the USPS, they have always gotten the mail to troops deployed world-wide year after year, through APO and FPO addresses.

And for many of us old farts, that was the ONLY communication we had with home in either direction. We didn’t have the intarwebz, cell phones, etc. so we actually had to write out letters, send them, then wait a month (average) for an answer.

It was truly on our SOs to ‘manage’ the homefront while we were gone, for better or worse.

And sometimes, those letters brought pictures that allowed us to share significant events that, even though we missed them, were still major events in our children’s lives.

I don’t know about any of y’all, but I’m planning on buying some of the Navy stamps to replace my Forever US flag stamps!

A friend who was a WESTPAC sailor with us, and later a contractor passed away this week. In the course of the notification email chain, people started remembering ‘things’ that we’d been involved it…

This is from 2007, as we dodged yet another typhoon…

Since we have another $%^& typhoon screwing up our ops, and I was tired of herding cats; three of us went out to dinner last night at Sam’s Anchor Inn in Naha. In the course of dinner, I was reminded we had all been here, in this restaurant, maybe even at this table in 1975.

That was 32 years ago!!!! Damn…

After dinner, we decided to ‘tour’ our old haunts from the 70’s (e.g. we wanted more beer); so we got a cab to China Pete’s (which used to be a one story shack selling junk souvenirs and is now a four story mini-mall).

We hoofed it down to BC street and started looking for any of the dives we used to haunt. There was not a single sleazy sailor bar left!!!! There were fern bars, upscale hostess bars, and nice well lit places; so we finally stopped into the worst bar we saw. The beer was 500 yen ($5) and they even gave us a glass! That was something you NEVER got back in the day…

Sigh… Guess I’m really an old fart…

This is a tribute, I didn’t write it, but I sure as hell can identify with it…

Remembering Airdale Bars

Airdales always stuck together. They worked and played as a crew and they gravitated to places where they could be with fellow aircrewmen, in locations where people who could tolerate the obnoxious conduct, impure verbiage and rollicking nonsense that was the standard by which the aircrew were measured. Their hallmark, so to speak.

The airdale bar was unlike other naval watering holes and dens of iniquity inhabited by seagoing elements. It had to meet strict standards to be in compliance with the acceptable requirement for an airborne sailor beer-swilling dump.

Loudmouth Barmaid.

The first and foremost requirement was a crusty old gal serving suds. She had to be able to wrestle King Kong to parade rest. Be able to balance a tray with one hand, knock bluejackets out of the way with the other hand and skillfully navigate through a roomful of milling around drunks.

On slow nights, she had to be the kind of gal who would give you a back scratch with a fly swatter handle or put her foot on the table so you could admire her new ankle bracelet some AE brought her back from a Hong Kong liberty.

A good barmaid had to be able to whisper sweet nothings in your ear like, “Sailor, your thirteen button flap is twelve buttons short of a green board.” And, “Buy a pack of Clorets and chew up the whole thing before you get within heaving range of any gal you ever want to see again.” And, “Hey animals, I know we have a crowd tonight, but if any of you guys find the head facilities fully occupied and start urinating down the floor drain, you’re gonna find yourself scrubbing the deck with your white hats!”

They had to be able to admire great tattoos, look at pictures of ugly bucktooth kids and smile. Be able to help haul drunks to cabs and comfort 19 year-olds who had lost someone close to them.

They could look at your ship’s identification shoulder tab and tell you the names of the Skippers back to the time you were a Cub Scout.

If you came in after a late night maintenance problem and fell asleep with a half eaten Slim-Jim in your hand, they tucked your peacoat around you, put out the cigarette you left burning in the ashtray and replaced the warm draft you left sitting on the table with a cold one when you woke up.

Why?

Simply because they were one of the few people on the face of the earth that knew what you did, and appreciated what you were doing. And if you treated them like a decent human being and didn’t drive ’em nuts by playing songs they hated on the juke box, they would lean over the back of the booth and park their soft warm boobs on your neck when they sat two Rolling Rocks in front of you.

Imported table wipe down guy and glass washer, trash dumper, deck swabber and paper towel replacement officer.

The guy had to have baggy tweed pants and a gold tooth and a grin like a 1950 Buick. And a name like “Ramon”, Juan”, “Pedro” or “Tico”. He had to smoke unfiltered Luckies, Camels or Raleighs. He wiped the tables down with a sour washrag that smelled like a skunk diaper and said, “How are choo navee mans tonight?

He was the indispensable man. The guy with credentials that allowed him to borrow Slim-Jims, Beer Nuts and pickled hard boiled eggs from other beer joints when they ran out where he worked.

The establishment itself.

The place had to have walls covered with ships and squadron plaques. Many of the ships and the airplanes shown in the accompanying photographs had made the trip up the river to the scrap yard or to the Davis-Monthan bone yard ten years before you enlisted.

The walls were adorned with enlarged airwing patches and the dates of previous deployments A dozen or more old, yellowed photographs of fellows named “Buster”, “Chicago”, “P-Boat Barney”, “Flaming Hooker Harry”, “Malone”, “Honshu Harry”, Jackson, and Capt. Slade Cutter decorated any unused space. It had to have the obligatory Michelob, Pabst Blue Ribbon and “Beer Nuts sold here” neon signs.

An eight-ball mystery beer tap handle and signs reading: “Your mother does not work here so clean away your dam trash.” “Hands off the barmaid.” “Don’t throw butts in urinal.” “Barmaid’s word final in settling bets.” “Take your fights out in the alley.” “Owner reserves the right to waltz your worthless ass out to the sidewalk.” “Shipmates are responsible for riding herd on their squadron drunks.”

Typical signage found in classy establishments catering to sophisticated clientele. You had to have a juke box built along the lines of a Sherman tank loaded with Hank Williams, Mother Maybelle Carter, Johnny Horton, Johnny Cash and twenty other crooning goobers nobody ever heard of. The damn thing has to have “La Bamba”, Herb Alpert’s “Lonely Bull” and Johnny Cash’s “Don’t take your guns to town” in memory of Alameda’s barmaid goddess, Thelma.

If Thelma is within a twelve-mile radius of where any of those three recordings can be found on a juke box, it is wise to have a stack of life insurance applications within reach of the coin slot.

The furniture in a real good airdale bar had to be made from coal mine shoring lumber and was not fully acceptable until it had 600 cigarette burns and your carrier’s ship numbers carved into it. The bar had to have a brass foot rail and at least six Slim-Jim containers, an oversized glass cookie jar full of Beer-Nuts, a jar of pickled hard boiled eggs that could produce rectal gas emissions that could shut down a sorority party, and big glass containers full of something called pickled pigs feet and Polish sausage.

Only drunk Chiefs and starving Ethiopians ate pickled pigs feet and unless the last three feet of your colon had been manufactured by Midas, you didn’t want to get any where near the Polish napalm dogs.

No aircrew bar was complete without a couple of hundred faded airplane pictures and a “Shut the hell up!” sign taped on the mirror behind the bar along with several rather tasteless nekkit lady pictures.

The pool table felt had to have at least three strategic rips as a result of drunken competitors and balls that looked as if a gorilla baby had teethed on the sonuvabitches.

Aircrew bars were home, but they were also establishments where 19 year-old kids received an education available nowhere else on earth. You learned how to “tell” and “listen” to sea stories.

You learned about sex at $5.00 or 20 pesos a lesson from professional ladies who taught you things your high school biology teacher didn’t know were anatomically possible. You learned how to make a two cushion shot and how to toss down a beer and shot known as a “depth charge.”

We were young, a helluva long way from home. We were pulling down slave wages for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a-week availability and loving the life we lived. We didn’t know it at the time, but our association with the men we served with forged us into the men we became.

And a lot of that association took place in Naval Aviation oriented bars where we shared the stories accumulated in our, up to then, short lives. We learned about women and that life could be tough on a gal.

While many of our classmates were attending college, we were getting an education slicing through the green rolling seas in WestPac, experiencing the orgasmic rush of a night cat shot, the heart pounding drama of the return to the ship with the gut wrenching arrestment to a pitching deck.

The hours of tedium, boring holes in the sky late at night, experiencing the periodic discomfort of turbulence, marveling at the creation of St. Elmo’s Fire, and sometimes having our reverie interrupted with stark terror.

But when we came ashore on liberty, we would rub shoulders with some of the finest men we would ever know, in bars our mothers would never have approved of. Saloons that live in our memories forever.

Oh by the way… Windproof umbrellas AREN’T in 30 plus knot winds…