Muslims represent the most peaceful religions on the Earth.

No joke.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9ibliR5pzQ

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

 Trump gave Syria attack order 'during dessert' - The Times of Israel 

https://www.timesofisrael.com/trump-gave-syria-attack-order-during-dessert/

 “We had finished dinner. We’re now having dessert. And we had the most beautiful piece of chocolate cake that you’ve ever seen and President Xi was enjoying it,” Trump told the Fox Business television network. 

Why?

Because Muslims hate Old Glory.

I carried our Flag through that intersection of Bourbon and Canal a number of times.

That beautiful memory has now been supplanted by the actions of a Demoncrat ally.

Burn in Hell.

.

Note the diametrically opposed 'science' on the heels of my boss Ronald Reagan's second term...

No money, however, to be made with hawking 

'Global Cooling'

With a weak President after my boss left office, and one who was easily manipulated...

The combined onslaught of the Demoncrats and legacy media jammed a truly money-making enterprise down the collective throats of dumbass lemmings.

And I mean money.

After enduring decades of Demoncrat rule, the global 'elite' shysters may finally be exposed for their profiteering.

Aye, there's the ticket!

Keep funneling hard working taxpayer dollars and print a few trillion more...

The Demoncrat Party will become richer than ever imagined.

And the most corrupt in history.

 Make it rain,  you gullible fools!

A Southern Hero transplanted into the Royal Canadian Air Force. 

Flight Lieutenant LeRoy M. "Sully" Sullivan

Born on Dec. 20, 1921, in Chattanooga, Sullivan was the only child of Nellie H. Sullivan.

 He joined the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1940 to fight against Nazi Germany before the United States entered WWII. Sullivan flew Spitfire fighters in North Africa and Egypt and later transitioned to the Hawker Typhoon fighter in England.

 He tragically lost his life on November 7, 1943, when his fighter crashed in England.

 He was the first pilot from Chattanooga to die in WWII.

 Over 80 years later, Maj. Luckadoo still considers Sullivan his best friend.  

Chattanoogan dot com: 

'The ceremony fulfills Nellie H. Sullivan's lifelong wish to have her son's remains closer to home.

 During the dedication, Maj. Luckadoo will inter soil from Sullivan's grave in England into his mother's resting place.

 Ms. Rosaline Kwan, consul general of Canada to the Southeast United States, will attend the ceremony on behalf of the Government of Canada.'

 https://www.chattanoogan.com/2024/10/3/493371/102-Year-Old-WWII-Pilot-Maj.-John-H..aspx

 In 1969 the University of Chattanooga joined the UT system and became the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga.

 I will never forget the pleasant smile that was on Dr. Jolley's face when we first met on a recruiting mission for UTCHS.

That disarming smile from Dr. Jolley was a welcome sight; my Spidey Sense tempered a bit.

I was excited and placed a lot of import on the impending visit from the dental school's emissary.

Knowing full well that most applicants are not accepted on their first attempt...

And many on their second.

After completion of the DAT and submission of a recommendation letter from my Professor of Military Science, I awaited further contact from UTCHS. 

I was relieved when the ROTC Department was, in fact, contacted and arranged a meeting with Dr. Jolley.

Assuming he would be more impressed with our meeting  being conducted in the ROTC Department, located under the bleachers of Chamberlain Field on Vine Street, I met him at the entrance to the ROTC Department.

We strode down Honorific Hallway, flanked with numerous plaques, photographs and awards that gave evidence of the national attention this UTC ROTC Department attracted.

Every step in my anticipated make-or-break meeting was planned.

Spidey Sense fully activated...

Catoosa Rifle Range presented the opportunity to hit 300 meter targets with relative ease.

Yes, Martha, iron sights...

Beautiful weapon with a sturdy wooden stock - one that my dear departed friend, Cadet Rick Sharp, used to remove hippie scum on Canal Street...

 This was the only weapon I was authorized to carry as Division Dental Surgeon with the combat-deployed Second Medical Battalion on the DMZ.

Defensive weapon only, as I was a United States Army medical officer.

I was only authorized to utilize my sidearm in the protection of my patient or myself.

If captured, I would be able to provide medical care to American or ROK POW's, but was also obligated to do the same for the enemy.

If I was captured with an M-16, those privileges would be forfeited.

Yes, Martha, the Geneva Conventions...

Geneva Convention ID Card

Mine has vanished somewhere over the  years...

Not only could Ranger Rick Sharp shoot the M-14 well, as evidenced by his 

 Army Expert Marksman Badge, but could also wield it in close order combat quite effectively.

And not losing cadence...

Another reflection of the UTC ROTC program was the annual request for the Color Guard and Drill Team participation in the Mardi Gras parades.  

Substantial effort went into the Color Guard drills per FM 22-5 Drill and Ceremonies; our performance at various events enhanced the reputation of the ROTC Military Science Department and,  more broadly, UTC.

As this was my first year as commander, I was most hopeful I didn't screw up that reputation...

As the sunshine of the day was yielding to night, the crazies starting coming out on Canal Street.  The occasional jeering or snarky remark could be heard from a drunk foul-mouthed, and always bearded, hippy along the parade's route.

That didn't bother any of us, as we had our weekly conditioning for such crap every Wednesday, uniform day.

The line was crossed, however, when a staggering, inebriated fool abruptly stepped off the sidewalk and defiantly stood directly in front of Cadet Sharp marching 10 meters or so away.

I suspected this was just a foolish taunt by the anti-war Flower Child.

Nope, he postured himself in an aggressive manner, forcing Cadet Sharp to go from right shoulder arms to 

and then return to right shoulder arms. 

Cadence maintained...

And it wasn't over for the Flower Child, probably the progenitor of dozens of filthy Democrats...

I suspect the addled dumbass wondered whose footsteps he was hearing...

This POS quickly scurried off the asphalt, as the nationally recognized UTC ROTC Drill Team was not far behind from where Rick had butt stroked this idiot.

The Drill Team's inability to suppress a grin after witnessing Cadet Sharp's protection of our Flag - again without missing a step - was evident.

And so were the dozens of spinning rifles...

With fixed bayonets.

Thanks to my generous mother and father, I was now the proud owner of a 1972 Mach I, sporting those beautiful hood scoops.

A road trip was in order.

My father was performing Drill Sergeant duties at Fort Knox; my mother was pre-deployed in Chattanooga.

My father suffered the hardship of not being with his bride and two daughters. This was a most incredible sacrifice in order for me to be successful.

Master Sergeant Daw, recently promoted after his elevation of the Columbia Military Academy Rifle Team to national prominence, continued his role in training young men at Fort Knox.  

But not before a second tour in Vietnam.

MSG Daw could have asked for an assignment that would allow him to be with his burgeoning family.

His second daughter, my beautiful sister, Dawn Kyla, was taking her first steps.  God blessed this warrior with a most remarkable young lady as a reward for his second tour in Vietnam.

And now DoD wanted this decorated warfighter to separate yet again from his family; this time it was back to Fort Knox, training troops and the further mission of improving their operations as a whole.

Ahhh...the trials and tribulations of a remarkable Warrior for the Army.  

My father always remembered the importance attached to his Drill Instructor duties; he was a role model for young combat soldiers.  Hence, his desire to pursue a career path that provided more impact for his beloved Army than the Army's first idea (of being an astronaut) ever could...

So, I spent most of my senior year at 217 Ashwood Drive, Columbia, TN, as the senior (and only) occupant.

I was blessed with really dedicated teachers at Central High School;  my math teacher taught a calculus class at 0700 hours for extra credit.

Imagine that - a teacher that wanted to impart knowledge, not indoctrinate.

Surprisingly, there were a dozen or so of us willing to get up at the crack of dawn in order learn a truly different concept of mathematics.

I gotta stop using that idiomatic 'crack of dawn' expression.

It seems the ladies are not immune from the satirization of their names by their fellow classmates.

My little sister experienced such in school.

  Those 'crack of dawn' utterances always drew the ire of my highly accomplished little sister.

At any rate...

Plane Geometry, Algebra I, Algebra II and Solid Geometry provided dopamine release via that 'puzzle solving' part in my brain.

And that compass provided so much fun with its various functions in Geometry.

As well as a great instrument to poke the guy in the seat in front of you...

Calculus provided the ability to calculate the volume of irregular shapes.

An impossibility I thought - before the amazing instruction by this delightful math teacher.

Can't say I have ever used this knowledge in any practical application.  There was, however, some dopamine release associated with calculus initially...

I think, subconsciously, I was justifying that road trip.

The year my father was in Vietnam - during Tet - left lifelong memories of my Mother providing comfort to me and my little sister. The Daw matriarch's constant efforts in the soothing of her children's concerns for their father's safety were a blessing from God.

As was the opportunity to see our Grandmothers, Aunts and Uncles...

Those interactions with our family in North Carolina were few and far between after my father's entry to active duty in the Army in 1961.

The annual Christmas visit, curtailed during our three years in Hawaii, was precious, indeed.

Above all, that interactive play with my cousins provided relief from the constant worry about my father, dodging bullets in Vietnam.

My brilliant idea:

Have a months-long fling with my first cousins and relive those amazing memories we shared as kids!

I could get a job working on a tobacco farm; my father's cousin, Alton Daw, had a large operation and was more than happy for me to work there.

In addition to farming, Alton Daw, like most North Carolina men, knew how to smoke a pig.

Large smokers on wheels made pork consumption an absolutely inescapable passion.  My father has had a number of memorable 'pig pickin' feasts over the years.

His friend, SGM Gainey, borrowed my father's smoker while they were assigned together at Fort Jackson.  He was going to smoke a goat...

Well, my father asserts, to this day, from that point on, everything rendered from hours of smoking 'tasted like goat'.

That didn't slow me down, casually walking by the open smoker and picking at that meat...

So, I would be gainfully employed all summer until the August semester of my freshman  year at UTC.  My saintly Aunt Emma Lee, affectionately known as 'Aunt Sister', welcomed me into her home with Uncle Bill Pittman, a most Manly Man, and my cousins Jerry, Janet, Judy and Jimmy.

I do love alliteration...

My dear Aunt Sister got up at the crack of dawn - there I go again - in order to cook breakfast for me.

Yes, Martha, bacon and eggs, not a bowl of cereal.  

This most remarkable lady, who was stricken by polio before a vaccine was developed, was much admired by this nephew.

Aunt Sister's laugh was infectious and her smile was second to none.

Oh, the reason Aunt Sister was up so early in the morning is that tobacco farming is determined by the sun.

It wasn't a 9 to 5 job...

Conversely, it was a dawn-to-dusk endeavor.

 I am so thankful I didn't waste that experience, as it was God's way of preparing me for something that lay on the horizon.

I was so blessed working for Uncle Alton; he and his family provided meals for me during lunchtime and I had the opportunity to drive a piece of farm equipment with which I had absolutely no experience.

Harkening back to that terrible year, praying every night for the safe return of my father, the infrequent opportunity to drive a tractor provided another measure of distraction for me.

Wow!  It seems tractors were quite common among my relatives - Allis Chalmers, John Deere, Massey Ferguson and International Harvester...

Now, five years removed, here was a tobacco harvester.

Oh my, this was an impressive piece of machinery.  Technology had propelled the harvesting of tobacco leaves from a mule-drawn sling with the croppers walking through those long, long rows, sometimes with no end in sight, to a two story, 9 passenger (4 of them God's beautiful creations) mechanical marvel.

Among the hardest working four men in all of farming, their butts firmly planted in their seats, were the croppers.

I was introduced to a just-past-dawn tobacco leaf

face-slapping extraordinaire.

That was particularly true with the harvesting of the first leaves, the 'lugs', large and with lots of oils that could wreak havoc with your skin.  My first experience as a cropper quickly taught me not to touch my face.  That was also my first experience with Solarcaine...

This elevated platform behemoth provided seating for four croppers, their butts inches from the ground, as they cropped 3-4 leaves, which had started to yellow, from each plant.

A  pitfall, however, of this amazing progression of tobacco harvesting was the fact that, if the urge hits you, that harvester does not stop.

There was the unrelenting flow of plant after plant, with the occasional glance to see if the much-welcomed end of the row was near, according concomitant rest while the harvester driver navigated the approach for the next set of four rows.

I can still vividly recall those huge leaves slapping me in the face, worsened by the early morning dew.

As the fields were visited approximately every three to five days, successive harvesting found the leaves getting smaller and with much less dew attached.

Cropping tobacco from dawn to dusk, with a 15 minute break midmorning and midafternoon, sandwiching a lunch break, was physically demanding and quite arduous.

I was in good shape; the physical exertion was not an issue.

One of the greatest benefits gained from this cropping experience was the sharpening of my situational awareness (Spidey Sense).

The most critical requirement of an infantryman is, in fact, that situational awareness.  Without it, he is unable to deploy the combat skills he has at his disposal.

Five years had passed since my exposure to tobacco harvesting that summer of 1967 and the shock of seeing classmates of mine in the seventh grade missing digits.

As child labor laws were more relaxed in rural areas of the country, teens were allowed to work the farms.

I would not take anything for my memories of handing bundles of tobacco to my Mother at the tobacco barn.

Mr. Howell paid me fifty cents an hour at the end of each day - in cash money.

  This twelve-year-old boy was amazed at the nimble fingers of his mother.  Wow!

After each stick of tobacco was looped, I carried it over to a staging area where it awaited before being hung in the barn for curing.

Those hours spent in the summer of 1967 working for Mr. Howell and being part of a team with my incredible mom are unforgettable. 

 Army Mother Bears are in a class by themselves...  

That experience was yet another of God's mechanisms softening the blow of worry for my father's safety.

My Mother is now on Overwatch duty.

Flying wing for her is my lovely bride...

 The good old chain and sprocket that provided the physics in order for immeasurable bicycle enjoyment, starting at age five.

 Further, look closely at the delivery system that allows the transport of the harvested bundles of leaves to these loopers.

As a cropper, you are seated inches away from a chain and sprocket (with a chainguard) at eye level.

The chain has a a number of mechanical grasping devices attached, providing a quick and easy transfer of a bundle of leaves from the hand of the cropper to the ascending grasping device.

The conveyance of these leaves to the looper is quite efficient; the speed of the process requires the utmost in care and attention.  The chainguard can only accord so much protection.

 Those missing fingers are prima facie evidence of that.

Like feeding carrots to a horse, do not extend the fingers...

My Spidey Sense was enhanced with remembrance of those injured seventh graders in North Carolina.

 Further demands of situational awareness were placed on the croppers.

  When your ipsilateral cropper had to take a piss break, and after issuing a stern 'I told you so about those Pepsi Colas you consumed during break', I cropped two rows at once, heightening my focus on what I was doing.

Further, there was a force that provided distraction that challenged even those vivid images of young teens with amputated fingers.

A primal force that had to be tamed...

The cropper had a great view of his looper just above him.  There was an approximately two x two foot opening and the occasional nice framing of a beautiful pair of legs in summer short shorts.

I know, Martha - TMI.  

I'm just trying to frame (pun intended) the distractions accorded in such an environment.  God strengthened a skillset required of combat soldiers and served me well in the challenging ROTC program that UTC provided.

Those gorgeous legs provided a nice lesson in focusing on the mission.

 Tobacco harvesting had progressed from the Farmall tractor and walking croppers.

That experience with Uncle Alton Daw allowed me to acquire those cropper skills that would later translate into easier acquisition of combat skills.

I will always remember a conversation we had on the way to the fields that first day.

I was really appreciative that Uncle Alton picked me up from Aunt Sister's and took me home every day.  These trips to and from the fields allowed us to solve many world problems.

I remember that first morning pushing his presets on that Chevy pickup's radio and finding only country stations.  Uncle Alton inferred by my checking each preset twice that I wasn't a fan of country music.

My parents were fans of country, as they were born and raised in rural North Carolina.

I heard a lot of Kitty Wells and others; I did like Charley Pride.

Boots Randolph was quite enjoyable, also.

 I played  one artist over and over on a state of the art stereo provided in a huge wooden cabinet.  It was a quite nice piece of furniture.  I would sit in front of it, soaking in musical frequencies never before heard by my seven-year-old ears.

 Johnny Horton

was tragically killed in 1960 at the height of his career and shortly after receiving the 1960 Grammy Award for Best Country & Western Recording:

 The Battle of New Orleans, featuring President Trump's favorite president.

And Southern Pride...

https://www.chosic.com/artist/johnny-horton/1bBZcz4jP7CoPlqpCFh4gz/

I remember 'Comanche' lyrics playing in my head as I toured General George Armstrong Custer's officers' quarters at Fort Reilly, home of the Big Red One.

Chills ran up my spine as I stood next to an impressive bronze of this magnificent animal who died at Fort Reilly in 1890.

The only survivor of Little Big Horn...

Uncle Alton was, indeed a prescient, as I have enjoyed a lot of country music for decades.  Nashville has exploded with a plethora of stars and is entrenched in MAGA...

I must admit I was glad Uncle Alton needed a new driver for the harvester; I was glad to relinquish my role as cropper for that of the driver.

The first third of my road trip was looking out for my fingers as a cropper.

The middle third provided much more enjoyment, as driving the huge 'tricycle' was something I had never experienced.

When the four delightful beauties finished looping their sticks, I stacked the loopers' completed sticks on a platform on the rear of the harvester.

Each of the ladies then started looping another stick; the cycle repeated itself  until we needed to offload to a tractor sent for just that purpose.

Periodic off loading to tractors for transport to the tobacco barn allowed  smoke breaks for the croppers and my flirting with four gorgeous ladies - all my age or close.

Thank you, God.

All good things have to come to an end.

 My final weeks found me hanging tobacco in the barn, superheated by it being the middle of July in North Carolina.

Those weeks were quite demanding, depending in which aspect of the process you performed.

The first guy removed the tobacco sticks from the tractor-drawn trailer and handed them one by one to another in the chain of Manly Men that ensured every stick of tobacco cropped that day would be curing by sunset.

The last man, or men if hanging on the third or fourth tier, required strong legs and sense of balance while straddling those rafters.

Upper body strength was an absolute requirement, as these sticks, especially the lugs or those with high moisture content, were quite heavy.

Frankly, I was ready to start my first semester at UTC. 

 Not much dopamine produced by hanging tobacco...

 In 1972, news must have been slow.

The news of two Army four year scholarship winners both selecting UTC was newsworthy.

I know, Martha...

The official signing and swearing in of myself and Joe Kilgore, a Manly Man who received JROTC training at Central High in Harrison, was moved up, due to the fact that a local TV station wanted to film the ceremony.

Joe Kilgore was the first of my ROTC MS I class to meet and a stud, indeed.  He worked at Loret Marina and provided instruction on water skiing to this willing student.  With this huge Lake Chickamauga and a number of boats to traverse it, I really enjoyed and give thanks today for Joe's opening a whole new world for me.

'RO Joe' as he was called in the ROTC department was a Man's Man.  He was an Airborne Ranger young Second Lieutenant who rose in rank to a full colonel in US Special Forces.

Yes, Martha, my friend Joe was a Southern Manly Man.

With a stunningly beautiful sister, I might add...

Back to North Carolina and those tobacco barns...

My mother notified me on Wednesday; I needed to be in Chattanooga Monday.

Consequently, I had one Saturday night remaining to engage the beautiful ladies in the small town of Goldsboro... 

That Saturday night left me with two experiences I will never forget:

Letting a most lovely long legged blonde compromise a major tenet of mine - no girl will drive my new 'Stang.  It was no contest, however, as her big blue eyes and a half dozen "Please..." found me in the passenger's seat, Spidey Sense fully engaged.

What was there to worry about?  The Mach I had an automatic transmission.   Her first few minutes, I observed, found a confident young lady masterfully handling her driving duties, her eyes always on the road and her mirrors.

I suggested, as we left this popular hangout in Goldsboro, similar to Sonic, I would like (cannot remember her name, only her beauty...) to show her the little enclave of Belfast where we attended church and also where my Uncle Bill and Aunt Sister lived.

No, Martha, not Ireland...

We went past the little church where the preacher specifically prayed for my father, engaged in the carnage of Vietnam, on several occasions.  

That remembrance my father received was powerful in my thirteenth year...

On the way back to Goldsboro, the second occurrence that night forever burned into my memory...

Approximately 2100 hours:

We were following a white 1963 Ford Galaxie 500, not dissimilar from one my Uncle Bill drove a few years earlier.

As we drew closer to this beautiful car, the lights of Goldsboro illuminated the interior of the car.  It was then I made a remarkable realization...

I recognized this car from the first combat tour of my father in 1967, requiring my Mother, Denise and me to move to rural North Carolina.  The Belfast church was an important factor in the family finding comfort while SSG Daw was decimating the enemy and protecting his soldiers.

Between God, my Mother and this little church with its supportive congregation, the worry for my father's safety was tempered.

With the illumination of the interior of the car, I was surprised to see a member of that congregation!

That's right, Martha...

Five years removed, directly in front of me, was that classic white '63 Galaxie 500, almost identical to the one Uncle Bill Pittman drove.

In fact, this thirteen-year-old had quite the crush on the lady who was driving the same car she drove in 1967.  I can still remember that, after Sunday School, my eyes would search for this petite dark haired lady while we found our seats for the sermon.

I would subconsciously ask God for forgiveness, as she was married.  I wasn't lusting for her, just appreciating another of God's creations.

And so pretty...

I was probably babbling to my date the surprise at seeing someone from those days...

The traffic was increasing and a misty rain was becoming evident.  As we were proceeding smoothly, my Spidey Sense was piqued by what I saw in this vehicle as the illumination from oncoming cars revealed a screaming potential danger.

There was a small child standing on the bench front seat, with only his mother's extended right arm providing restraint.  

With no seat belts in our family vehicles, until 1962 and that beautiful Impala, (as Fort Carson required them) this was not an  uncommon practice in rural communities.

But not the standing part...

Upon braking, my Mother would extend her right arm in order to protect her children in the years before seatbelts were common.

That continued for a decade or so; she was in 'auto-protect' mode for her kids...

At least we were sitting down in those days; this child was standing erect and I envisioned serious injury if his mother had to brake suddenly.

My Spidey Sense, fully engaged, could not stop what happened next...

 The Galaxie 500 was maintaining an appropriate distance from the car in front of her, as were we.  

I was not regretting the decision to allow a girl to drive my Mustang.  She was able to have a conversation without her eyes leaving the road.

She, also, saw the silhouette of this young child, no more than 3 or 4, and commented on the unwise decision to allow this potential danger to her child.

Our worst fears were realized.

Some dumbass thought he could shoot the gap and cut in front of the mother and child.

The wet road caused this POS to lose traction, resulting in his violently slamming into them.

The beauty piloting my beauty quickly stopped the vehicle and applied its flashers.

Atta girl...

I rushed over to the car and found this little boy had crashed through the windshield.

That year of Galaxie 500 did not have the safety glass windshield later required in the automobile industry.  As a consequence, this beautiful blond child received a deep and severe laceration on his right cheek.

I can still vividly remember his and his mom's screams. Profuse bleeding accompanied his fully lacerated cheek; his screaming produced a 'flapping' effect of the sliced open cheek.

His mother's eyes widened as I reached in to accord some first aid to the little fellow.

She recognized me from years earlier, but couldn't remember my name.  She appeared to be a little dazed, but otherwise OK.

She handed me a cloth which I applied on the wound.

I suspect he suffered from a severed facial nerve and artery.  Compression of the wound continued until the ambulance arrived.

I gave a deposition to a lawyer regarding what I saw and the obvious fault of the dumbass who cut in front of this nice lady.

Then immediately hitting the road for Chattanooga ...

The witnessing of that head on collision was one of two I have experienced in my life.

The next would occur a decade later...

SFC Joe Kahele replaced the NCOIC who was fraternizing with the Captain dental officer.

It is not fraternization when an officer interacts with a senior NCO, in contrast to a junior enlisted soldier.

A ramification of Carter's decision to severely disrupt military esprit de corps by thrusting the WAC into the male ranks:

'It is not fraternization when an officer interacts with a senior NCO, in contrast to a junior enlisted soldier.' must be caveated:

Don't be fu*#king each other!

Joe was a good athlete and I always looked forward to our competition in a racquetball court that was available 24 hours a day.  The BOQ at Fort 

Rucker had a set of nice racquetball courts; just sign the key out with the CQ.

It was about 2200 hours or so when SFC Kahele and I finished playing.  We were travelling the 2 lane straight-as-an-arrow road from Fort Rucker to Enterprise, where we lived. 

About 3 miles outside of post, for whatever reason, an oncoming driver swerved into the path of the vehicle in front of us, carrying a soldier and his wife.  Their baby was safely strapped into her baby seat; God was taking care of her.

Stopping my vehicle and ensuring enough distance from the collision in the event of a someone rear ending me, I hit my flashers and sprinted to offer assistance.

I stuck my head in and suggested they sit tight; I would arrange for an ambulance...

No cell phones in those days; just advise a number of drivers on the Fort Rucker side of this serious collision to head to Lyster Army Hospital and advise the Emergency Room of the situation.

Joe, flying wing, was providing traffic control on this two lane road.

The baddest and meanest of an Army family is Mother Bear.  

My initial evaluation of the passengers quickly found God's hand was involved.  The most serious injury suffered was sustained by the passenger in front, limited to the oral cavity.  

Yes, Martha, Mother Bear...

The driver, an Apache combat pilot, was attempting to extricate himself in order to tend to his family.  After identifying myself, as I was in shorts and T-shirt, I suggested he and his wife soothe their crying baby.

Mother Bear had already unfastened her seat belt and was on point for her primary mission in life - the protection of her child.

With her own injuries, this remarkable young lady commanded a soothing voice, despite the cacophony around her, and getting as close to her baby as she could, looked directly into her eyes.

Aware of her damaged teeth, Mother Bear nevertheless smiled constantly as she sang melodies to her now-calm baby girl.

Albeit without showing those fractured incisors.

My dear Mother was one of those Mother Bears, also.

SFC Kahele and I followed the ambulance to the ER at Lyster Army Hospital; I was able to ascertain the mother, after sustaining a severe blow to her mouth, was quite fortunate.

The fractured incisors she suffered were all Ellis class I and II only; endodontics would probably not be required.

Having said that, my future bride in Chattanooga would sustain a fractured upper lateral incisor, similarly in a head on collision.  Dr. Cofer restored this tooth nicely with a hybrid composite resin, optically activated.  A  year or so later, shortly after I had left the Army, I encountered Lisa; I was handling Dr. Cofer's emergencies, working nights and Saturdays in order to build a practice.

Lisa presented for treatment that never-to-be-forgotten evening with her eyes pleading for relief from her agonizing pain.  As is so often the case, an anterior tooth that receives a substantial blow, such as occurred with Lisa, suffers damage to the neurovascular blood supply.  Over time, pulpal death occurs; the intracoronal infection that follows, trapped in an enclosed space with no ability to drain, can, indeed, produce extraordinary pain.

A small access opening was provided for #10, providing immediate relief for this incredibly beautiful doppelganger for the Bangles'  

and placed me in a good position to eventually ask her out for dinner.  The rest is history...

 She also had relatively minor bleeding from extraoral tissues; no intraoral bleeding was noted.

No suturing was required.

As she was a family member (formerly known as a 'dependent' - Carter didn't like that term...), I would arrange for continuation of her treatment at DC #2.  

Dependents were treated in a facility dedicated to comprehensive dental care  for the soldier's family.  That was Dental Clinic #2.

I was assigned to DC #1, treating soldiers;  consequently, I arranged for her continuation of care at DC #2.

The next day, when I called this nice lady to check on her, she implored me to restore those fractured incisors.

I assured her any dental officer in our DENTAC would be more than capable of the restorations.  

And, following the idiomatic 'Better the devil you know...' aphorism, she graciously told me she would feel much more comfortable if I were able to complete her treatment.

Further, there was a six week wait at DC #2.  And, although this presented an aesthetic issue, it was not considered an emergency.

A soldier is part of the Army team; this certainly provided me the opportunity to offer support to the hardest working member of the military family - the wife and mother.

I reserved a couple of lunch breaks in the subsequent 2 days.  As access to these restorations was easy, the use of a rubber dam allowed me to perform the treatment without an assistant.

Those DAC's (Department of the Army Civilian) did not like missing, or being late for, lunch...

Damn government unions....

Maybe President Trump will clean house...

Our CDT, on site, generously gave his time and efforts in the quick restoration of this delightful patient.

His incredible ability in ceramics produced four beautiful restorations; she had a tear in her eye when she first saw them.

That's the joy in dentistry...

 I was surprised and proud to receive a letter of commendation from the DoD level.

Further, his boss was President Ronald Reagan.

Apparently, the satisfaction of the Warrior Wife lead to her father contacting the Pentagon and getting the wheels rolling for such an honor.

My personal gratification was found in the support of the family of a combat helicopter pilot.  This stud risks his life every time he ascends in that Apache.  The most lethal helicopter in the world, with an incredibly complex array of electronics, hydraulics and moving parts, provides testimony to the unquestioned status of this Manly Man.

God blessed everyone in this, and hopefully my last, head on collision...