The last few days have led to some introspection on the nature of my blogging. Sure, I have opinions, and thoughts, but what I know best, and no longer being plugged into current operations, I know the history of the Navy I served in. In addition, the Navy’s role, while important for the global support capabilities, in, until the rise of the Chinese Navy, rather secondary, necessarily so, to the front line Marines and Grunts who are the only ones who can take it directly to the enemy in the way all wars are eventually won. The support of the Navy to those ends, such as close air support, and the manpower to let the trained trigger pullers stay in the field certainly is of more importance right now.

Anyhow, I think for a while, I’ll spend some time catching up history. I went to the Wikipedia entires for three ships, two that I served on, and edited some history that I personally was around for.

So, for today, for all of you who have served, take a few minutes and see what isn’t told in a forum where you can directly add to the storage of actual events, and add some of what you know…..

Maybe one day when my professional background fits the current events better, I’ll add more to the multitude of commentaries.

Last month, I was engaged in a serial posting “The Ratchet and the Governor – Tools for Today” and Part III discussed how our model of sports could help us see a manner in which we could fight the war on terror.

I attended another even a few nights back and the next day I realized something I have been around my entire life, yet it didn’t strike me as consciously as it has now, particularly in light of the political divisions, and it is tied in to sports, too.

I have never been one to watch sports much. I have played and competed in several, and even don’t prefer to sit and watch any of those, unless it’s a last resort type situation. You have to watch the Super Bowl, because it’s the Super Bowl, but other than that, I might, while channel surfing (which I don’t watch much TV, either), stop and watch downhill skiing. I think I’m attracted by the speed and adrenaline factor here.

This leads into sitting in an indoor setting, with maybe 15,000 fans. While there are great things to emulate from the experience, it also (to me) clearly points out our differences. Many there are very knowledgeable about the rules and the play, but, I’d venture wouldn’t dare to put on skates and pads to take up a hockey stick and get slammed into the boards.

So….they are relegated to observing the game. Completing this experience, many, sitting at higher angles, with a completely different, and much uncluttered view of the rink, are wont to yell out the “right way” things should be done. I’d be willing to bet, many of these people have never played hockey, or any sport at a professional level.

In any case, I feel inclined, on this end of the binary scale to place these sorts of people and call them “spectators.”

These “spectators” are the media reporters, demonstrators, politicians, and people on the sidewalks, and all seem to “know” the war is not being fought right, and is, at best, a questionable adventure at best.

The other category are those who have managed to understand there is more to life than sitting on the sidelines and offering uneducated advice. These are the competitors. It’s easy to recognize them. They are wearing a uniforms and are in, near, over, or supporting the War on Terror.

I know, it’s fairly apparent that we are becoming so clearly split into these two categories. I would note, however, the number in each category is markedly out of balance, with the spectators far outnumbering the competitors. This is the point of contention, made more striking by many who have come to believe that “self-esteem” is not just about feeling good about your self, but means you can tell everyone around you how to do things to suit you, so you can feel good. Huge difference in the two issues. One side if self satisfaction, the other is blatant selfishness, of which we have way too much of.

If we can correct the balance, and make it more equitable for getting into the future, it requires more people step up to the plate, and become competitors, which in turn requires a total attitude change and acceptance of a teamwork mentality, and that of the need to sacrifice some personal comfort, so others may also enjoy life. Required, also, is the need to submit to the leadership and wisdom of the coach, knowing they are in that position because of the very reason they have more experience, hand in hand with responsibility as well.

How to do that? Simply put (SU)³.

Teddy Roosevelt had much to say on this topic in at least two speeches, one of which I posted here, the other the one where the oft used quote about it’s the man in the arena trying greatly and failing greatly…..

Ok, I feel better now, having brought out a subconscious pattern into my conscious world view.

Found via chasing links on the Sitemeter hits, I got to SkyGod. Not sure how I got there, but the words spoken about his father by Pat Conroy are priceless and inspiring.

A few days ago, I posted links to an editorial by Pat, where he realized he had made a mistake in avoiding service to his country. While he may have done that, he certainly understands what happens in the service, as you will note in the remembrances of his father.

In case the name isn’t ringing any bells, Col Don Conroy was the real life father of Pat, who the character of “Bull” Meecham in the book (and movie) “The Great Santini” was modeled after. The real “Great Santini” sounds like a real man who was larger than life, and more like a dramatized character we wish would have lived. Maybe, just maybe, one man was in real life, what we have only come to expect in the movies.

Required reading for anyone who has a parent who flies combat aircraft. ‘Nuff said. Get to reading!

Colonel Don Conroy’s Eulogy by his son, Pat Conroy

The children of fighter pilots tell different stories than other kids do. None of our fathers can write a will or sell a life insurance policy or fill out a prescription or administer a flu shot or explain what a poet meant. We tell of fathers who land on aircraft carriers at pitch-black night with the wind howling out of the China Sea.

Our fathers wiped out aircraft batteries in the Philippines and set Japanese soldiers on fire when they made the mistake of trying to overwhelm our troops on the ground.

Your Dads ran the barber shops and worked at the post office and delivered the packages on time and sold the cars, while our Dads were blowing up fuel depots near Seoul, were providing extraordinarily courageous close air support to the beleaguered Marines at the Chosin Reservoir, and who once turned the Naktong River red with blood of a retreating North Korean battalion.

We tell of men who made widows of the wives of our nations’ enemies and who made orphans out of all their children.

You don’t like war or violence? Or napalm? Or rockets? Or cannons or death rained down from the sky?

Then let’s talk about your fathers, not ours. When we talk about the aviators who raised us and the Marines who loved us, we can look you in the eye and say “you would not like to have been America’s enemies when our fathers passed overhead”.

We were raised by the men who made the United States of America the safest country on earth in the bloodiest century in all recorded history.

Our fathers made sacred those strange, singing names of battlefields across the Pacific: Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, the Chosin Reservoir, Khe Sanh and a thousand more. We grew up attending the funerals of Marines slain in these battles.

Your fathers made communities like Beaufort decent and prosperous and functional; our fathers made the world safe for democracy.

We have gathered here today to celebrate the amazing and storied life of Col. Donald Conroy who modestly called himself by his nomdeguerre, The Great Santini.

Read the rest of this entry »

I can’t find the exact date, but it was in 1974 sometime. It was warm, so not the winter, and my sophomore year, so it was before summer.

Vice President Ford was scheduled to make a visit to The Citadel, and we, the Corps of Cadets, would put on a parade for him.

So, in the fragile years, when military service was looked down upon, a Cadet Corps of about 2000 men, had, in one way or another, volunteered to be in uniform, and about 50% were going into the military. Future leaders for the nation, in the halls of power, and the halls of the Pentagon and on the battlefields of our future.

The first event of the visit was VP Ford having lunch with us. We formed up and marched, in company formation, to Coward Mess Hall, where we were locked in the building while every single barracks room in four battalions, were checked for stragglers by some one, I assume the Secret Service. Once that hurdle was cleared, VP Ford arrived in the Mess Hall and sat at the table with the Regimental Commander, front and center. The word was out: No one was to try to “wipe out” the VP’s shoes (this consisted of taking a bottle of ketchup, crawling under the table of the “target” and dousing the victims shoes profusely with the red, citrus based liquid. Today was not to be such a day to exercise that form of warfare.

The VP ate, and then rose to leave. Once more, the doors were locked until the VP was safely wherever, at which time, we were released to head out to afternoon classes.

In preparation for the afternoon parade, the “Tac Officers” (the active duty ROTC instructors assigned to the campus, each with a collateral duty to mentor a company or a staff) had to personally inspect each M-14 rifle of the his assigned unit, to make sure the rifles were not equipped with firing pins. All cadets, except those with ranks requiring carrying a sword, were issued a fully function M-14 rifle, sans the vital firing pin, each year for use in drilling and inspections. The concern was possession of functional firearm near a national level leader…..

Down the peninsula, the College of Charleston held a civilian student body, with a different outlook on life. Rumor had it, someone was planning t “streak” the VP, during the parade, and we were told (but, it was coming via the rumor mill) that not only were there snipers on the roofs of the campus buildings, armed with “conventional” arms, but also with rifles that cold fire tranquilizer darts, in the event that a streaker made their way onto the parade grounds. I guess they figured there was no risk of concealed weapons, so they would only have to put the offender to sleep in that event.

Now, in addition to checking all the M-14 rifles for firing pins, initially, the guidon corporals were instructed to remove the spear tip from their guidons, so there wouldn’t be a chance of a crazy sophomore, the head of their respective class among their peers, deciding to skewer the VP during the “eyes right” portion of the parade, as they passed the reviewing location. I’m not sure who brought some sanity to the equation, but before we marched onto the field, calmer heads had prevailed, and the guidons for each of the 17 companies carried the ceremonial spear tip as we paid tribute to the Vice President of the United States.

So, there we were, showing we had a degree of loyalty to the Government of the United States, in our troubled times following the Vietnam war and the social upheavel it produced, and we were looked upon with significant suspicion.

The parade went well and that’s the story of the one time I came close to any top level leader of our nation.

Today, we fly our flags at half mast for one more President. Fair winds and following seas, President Ford.

Tracked back at:
Cdr Salamander, Third World County

jfk (who served in Vietnam) in the mess hall in Iraq:

From the post on Hot Talk with Scott Hennan:

A friend of mine serving in Iraq sent me this photo and note. I received it before Christmas, but was out of the office. Priceless story it tells….:

This is a true story….Check out this photo from our mess hall at the US Embassy yesterday morning. Sen. Kerry found himself all alone while he was over here. He cancelled his press conference because no one came, he worked out alone in the gym w/o any soldiers even going up to say hi or ask for an autograph (I was one of those who was in the gym at the same time), and he found himself eating breakfast with only a couple of folks who are obviously not troops.

What is amazing is Bill O’Reilly came to visit with us and the troops at the CSH the same day and the line for autographs extended through the palace and people waited for two hours to shake his hand. You decide who is more respected and loved by us servicemen and women!

Hmmm…Not only are you stupid and get stuck in Irak, you look really stupid sitting alone, jfk.

H/T: Little Green Footballs.

It’s Wednesday again! Hope everyone had a great holiday season. Post your trackbacks, maybe someone will discover you here.

“Sea Story” of the day:

I had a “paper brain” that lived in my hands, being perused for the many items to be done and their status, or safely in my right seat pocket, with my wallet, which will further convey it’s relative importance. If was a 5″x8″ Day Timer with a leather cover and, believe me, it was well used in my XO days.

One day, somehow, I became “separated” from my separate memory. I believe it was after the end of a Planning Board for Training (PB4T) (held at 1300 on Thursdays weekly) while at sea on deployment. The anxiety level rose, but it was a busy day, and, after all, it couldn’t be over 453′ from me, unless it went for a swim…

It didn’t take long before an envelope was delivered to me by a watch messenger. It certainly didn’t appear that the wandering was enclosed, but, upon opening the message, I found two Polaroid pictures of said Day Timer. Both showed my almost sole source of recollection secured to a chair with the small nylon line used for the underway replenishment shot lines, and in one picture, a black gloved hand held a 1911A1 .45 caliber pistol, pointed at the Day Timer. Enclosed was a note, with some demand, beginning with “If you want to see your Day Timer alive again…”, yet, I had the Mater-at-Arms force on my side, so I chose to disregard any show of weakness.

Short moments later, the MA1 had dusted the pictures for fingerprints and, lo and behold, the miscreants had been careless, leaving their positive identification in my hands. The guilty parties were summoned to my stateroom and confronted, at which time, the leader of the pack handed over the missing collection of all tickler items to me. Chaos was fought back and the World restored to a right order.

You know, it gets boring at sea and the practical jokes sometimes get quite entertaining…..Somewhere, in a box in the attic is a set of Polaroid pictures, secured, after being used as evidence, for historical purposes.

Pat Conroy, a gifted writer, son of a Marine pilot, anti-Vietnam War protester has come out with a clear eyed letter on his decisions made in his youth, and how he views such actions now.

It takes some serious guts for a man to look back, his understanding of life tempered by years of experience, and grant that he made a bad decision. Most would prefer to ignore such choices to be forgotten, or try to rationalize them away, but Pat steps up tot he plate and admits he wasn’t so wise when he was young, and what that decision means to him today.

I applaud him for his courage to say this in a web based and media forum. Titled harshly by himself, “An Honest Confession by an American Coward” is worth taking about 5 minutes to read and reflect on his words, and how his college teammate, never questioned his views, yet in telling his story of captivity during the Vietnam War, and as a result of this relationship, cause Pat to look inside himself. Some would see this as the process of “iron sharpening iron.”

When I visited my old teammate Al Kroboth’s house in New Jersey, I spent the first hours quizzing him about his memories of games and practices and the screams of coaches that had echoed in field houses more than 30 years before. Al had been a splendid forward-center for the Citadel; at 6 feet 5 inches and carrying 220 pounds, he played with indefatigable energy and enthusiasm. For most of his senior year, he led the nation in field-goal percentage, with UCLA center Lew Alcindor hot on his trail. Al was a battler and a brawler and a scrapper from the day he first stepped in as a Green Weenie as a sophomore to the day he graduated. After we talked basketball, we came to a subject I dreaded to bring up with Al, but which lay between us and would not lie still.

“Al, you know I was a draft dodger and antiwar demonstrator.”

“That’s what I heard, Conroy,” Al said. “I have nothing against what you did, but I did what I thought was right.”

“Tell me about Vietnam, big Al. Tell me what happened to you,” I said.
[…]
It was that same long night, after listening to Al’s story, that I began to make judgments about how I had conducted myself during the Vietnam War.

In the darkness of the sleeping Kroboth household, lying in the third-floor guest bedroom, I began to assess my role as a citizen in the ’60s, when my country called my name and I shot her the bird. Unlike the stupid boys who wrapped themselves in Viet Cong flags and burned the American one, I knew how to demonstrate against the war without flirting with treason or astonishingly bad taste. I had come directly from the warrior culture of this country and I knew how to act.

But in the 25 years that have passed since South Vietnam fell, I have immersed myself in the study of totalitarianism during the unspeakable century we just left behind. I have questioned survivors of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, talked to Italians who told me tales of the Nazi occupation, French partisans who had counted German tanks in the forests of Normandy, and officers who survived the Bataan Death March. I quiz journalists returning from wars in Bosnia, the Sudan, the Congo, Angola, Indonesia, Guatemala, San Salvador, Chile, Northern Ireland, Algeria.

As I lay sleepless, I realized I’d done all this research to better understand my country. I now revere words like democracy, freedom, the right to vote, and the grandeur of the extraordinary vision of the founding fathers. Do I see America’s flaws? Of course. But I now can honor her basic, incorruptible virtues, the ones that let me walk the streets screaming my ass off that my country had no idea what it was doing in South Vietnam. My country let me scream to my heart’s content – the same country that produced both Al Kroboth and me.

It is in our relationships and getting to know each other’s life and stories, not in shouting down of one another, that we all grow. Many could take a lesson from the hard won wisdom of Pat Conroy.

H/T: Chapomatic

Posting will be a little light, as I’m sure it will be around the blogosphere and many thoughts are percolating on this end, but I prefer to do justice to some of the topics, rather than hack out a few paragraphs unchecked.

In the meantime, my work schedule allowed me the opportunity to have a late and extended breakfast with Jim Helinger, Sr, the glider pilot, and we, as usual, discussed a wide range of topics.

We didn’t “go there” intentionally, but the discussions of the Middle Eastern situation led to “you know, some people are denying the Holocaust ever happened?” he said to me. Yes, I agreed. He went on to say that at V-E Day, they were stationed in Munich. Because the glider pilots didn’t have to any missions to fly, they sent them to Dachau, 60 miles away to help with the clean up of that death camp.

He described some of what he saw, which included piles of bodies and the bottoms of the furnaces covered with skeletal remains. He stood on that real estate and witnessed that it happened. I know Jim, Sr. He tells a good story, but not a one of them is false. I know, because of my association with him over the past few years, that the Holocaust did happen.

They can have all the conferences they like, but my mind will never be swayed. Thank God he made it, and after reading “Silent Wings at War,” I further thank God that he is here to share his memories and stories, for many in his military specialty were not so lucky.

While on the sweetest shore duty known to a sea going sailor, short of being a Naval Attache in the Down Under (so I’m told, never got to make it there, but had a friend who did), I had to pen a paper on a topic for a Philosphy course. I thought: Hmmm…how can I do something that looks serious, but can’t have that much to read to get my arms around it????

A quandry, but, I went on to think: What about the Turkish and Armenian thing? Ok, I’ll do genocide as a topic, so I’ll learn something, but not have to do a lot of reading…

Foolish me…..I will say, once “engaged,” I found there was much to read and many ways we have determined it can happen, and it’s not always about killing. For instance, I found out that The Muslim Turks would take children from the Christian Aremnians and give them to Turkish families to be raised as Muslims. That, my readers, fits the definition of genocide, as determined in the United Nations definition of the crime of genocide (Resolution 260 (III)A) in 1948. Many other things, brutal and not (at first) come under the umbrella of this word we so fear, and hate, all at once. It’s not a long read, and I’d suggest you take a few minutes and gather some understanding for use in the ongoing discussions, not only about Iraq, but for the future of those in the Darfur region of Sudan.

A guest, and it may have been LCol Ralph Peters on Bill Bennett’s morning show (disclaimer: I was driving and I renouce the need to be 100% accurate on the source), but maybe it was elsewhere, talked about how the time of history we have come to call the “Cold War” had the entire World, in it’s bi-polar superpower state, keeping that conflict between the “free” and “Communist” factions at the forefront of our issues. He made this point to support his other point that the current religious fratricide we are witnessing today in Iraq (and elsewhere, such as Darfur, but the MSM reports on Iraq almost exclusively), is not something new. It is a bloody legacy of the Middle East and the history of the Sunnis and Shi’ites, begun shortly after the death of Mohammed. Now, tie the two together: Our conflict with the Soviet/Communist “sphere of influence” casued both ourselves and the Communists to maneuver pretty much everybody else as a huge political and sometime geographic, buffer between us, thus surpressing the ancient blood feud of the Muslims from our sight, and, while I’m sure some of it was going on, the tensions between the two groups have been simmering in that “pressure cooker” for the 1945-1989 time frame.

Both “spheres” put strong men in power, which aided in keeping the direct confrontations beneath the surface.

Now, flash back to fall 1987: As I dug further into the history and analysis of this horrible human capability of genocide, we saw many cases of genocide on the African continent, as the European colonists departed. The analysis: The same as the source above: The colonial governments never solved existing conflict of the indigenous populations, then did as it turns out the Cold War did for our era: The “lid” was kept on and when the pressure was released, boy was it ugly.

My $.02: The core local issues need to be dealt with in these circumstances. The issue of by lineage or by selection is now about a is almost 2000 years in the making at this time, so it will sure keep great minds thinking about what to do to end the bloodshed, our troops and thier civilians, too. In this case, how do we convince two major “branches” of Islam to park at a conference center and talk out their differences? The analysis of the Iraq Study Group certainly doesn’t focus on this on this issue, but blames our presence in the region, with a dash of the real estate know as Israel being the salt in the same perceived wound for the violence that originally erupted in the later part of the 7th Century AD.

I think Mr. Baker and the others certainly could have afforded to be much more knowledgable of the conditions we are facing, and forgetting “concensus.”

Genocide: Its history taught me so much about the human condition.

So, there I was, flat on my back at 20,000 feet…no kiddin’…oops…wrong story and me without the obligatory huge watch (to compensate, ya know), but…it’s open season on trackbacks, so link ’em up!

Last week, I left me “on station” at the gunfire support range at San Celmente, Island, by way of discussion the continualy noise that surrounds you while abaord a ship.

So as it was training, within minutes of checking in on the radio net after maneuvering into the assigned gunnery “box,” of course the observer ahsore had targets for us…”Fire Mission! Troops in the Open! Grid: ….” and so the formatted message went, telling us what, where and some other important details. The plotters surrounding me went to work locating the spot he was adressing, marking our position on the chart and “ded reckoning” (simple time/speed/distance calculation) to show our predicted path of the ship. Once we had the target location plotted, we’d measure the azimuth to the target from the ship’s track and compare that to where the gunfire control system (GFCS) had figured (with its own computer) where the target was. We had to be within a degree of difference, or we’d have to replot and check, which burned valuable time ashore and specifically in the target’s area.

On top of the comparison to the GFCS plot, we also checked with the Ship’s Navigator to make sure his plot tracked with ours. It’s all about accuracy and speed within that. The Gunnery Officer would order the guns loaded and I would announce “plot set!’ if all the navigation data (three separate plots) were within the allowed tolerances. Our readiness would be reported to the spotter, who would give us final clearance to shoot. Usually he would have us fire a single round to see where it landed, then he would pass directions to “adjust the spot, by his best reckoing, to make the next round land on target. Back then the “Mk 1 Mod 0” eyeball and the operator’s calibration were the means of doing this. Today we have fancy laser stuff to tell the observer the distances, accurate to very small distances.

So…when the radio told us to shoot, it was my responsibility to send a standard order to the Gunnery Officer, who would relay it to the gun crew and the gun control console (GCC) operator, who would step on a foot pedal to fire the gun.

In this sequence, I would come to learn the timing from the moment I gave the order to shoot to the time the round was on it’s way. The thumping of the electrohydraulic ammo hoists and the operation of the loader tray and ram, followed by the slamming shut of the large steel breech block became familiar to me, so when we got to exercises requiring rounds to arrive on a target at a specific time, I was able to time my order so the computed time of flight for the rounds was essentially what was measured from the actual shot leaving the barrel. The “latency” was all

As I meantioned last week, the operation of the guns, whether they be the forward or after gun mount, was detectable where I stood in CIC, in the darkened space with dungaree clad sailors and khaki clad chief petty officers and officers, while I learned a deadly trade.

Maybe more specifics next week…but…that’s the short form and worthy of not interfering too much with essential afternoon shopping runs for those of us late present determiners….