Memorial Day 2024

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As a  young lad reared in conservative rural North Carolina, the Stars and Stripes always elicited a wave of love of God and country.

My first time attending school on a military installation provided an exposure to those values in a highly concentrated environment.

I was immersed into a sea of United States Army soldiers and their families.  Again, the men in my family were all Manly Men; I was now blessed:

I was able to witness numerous incredible parades and field drills by hundreds of Manly Men, patriots all of them.

Battalions of them.

To quote Chris Matthews, the liberal hack with the huge forehead, 

" I have to tell you, you know, it's part of reporting this case, this election, the feeling most people get when they hear Barack Obama's speech. My, I felt this thrill going up my leg. I mean, I don't have that too often. "

Maybe he was just experiencing a common symptom of Demoncrats - wetting themselves.  Chris, you washed up POS, follow your party's icon and buy some Depends.

In my case, the thrill ran up my spine...

The presence of so many Army soldiers in uniform rendering salutes to the colors leaves quite the mental image.

  That buttressing of values that were, in those days, and without exception, instilled by their parents ensured a generation of patriots would be ready for their turn in defense of our freedom.

My first Memorial Day found me proud of my young buck sergeant father...

Just before his promotion to E-5 and a reminder of a much remembered axiom from my father:

"Son, always have a good watch and even better shovel."

Note the entrenching tool and a beautiful Seiko...

The Seiko watches my father possessed over the years were few in number, as their longevity was remarkable.  They were beautiful marvels of engineering.

I hoped that, some day, I would possess one.

Fast forward to UTC - I would appreciate the "...even better shovel." advice some years later, digging latrines on field exercises as a cadet.

That entrenching tool provides an essential function in retrograde operations, also...

Highly recommend a visit to the USS Arizona...

The far distant rumblings, provided by big tank guns blasting miles from 7984 G Bailey Court, provided a lullaby for my drifting off into sleep.

After a chat with Jesus, there was no 'counting sheep'.

Nope, it was those M60 mechanized monsters heaving 105 mm rounds a mile downrange.  General Patton had to be looking down and admiring this evolution of the M48.

Again, highly recommend a visit to the Patton Museum.   

No, Joe, you are not General George S. Patton.

I fondly remember my visits to the Patton museum.

Dedicated to one of the most remarkable, if not controversial, field generals in the United States Army, this reminder of the historic sacrifices by our soldiers has been unceremoniously shut down.

General Patton was, after all, an insignificant historic figure:

Europe can thank him for their salvation.

The French have probably forgotten his rescue of Paris, ordering the soldiers who did the fighting and dying to stand aside so that the pompous REMF De Gaulle could prance under the Arc de Triomphe on his white steed.

Typical of the French, De Gaulle demanded US troops be removed from France a couple of decades later. 

  According to Dean Rusk's autobiography, the not-particularly-snappy line was 

"Does your order include the bodies of American soldiers in France's cemeteries?" 

Secretary of State Dean Rusk should have also replied:

"F*#k you and the horse you rode in on!"

De Gaulle - what a POS.

But not as much of a Piece of Sh*t as our Commander - In - Grief who has destroyed our military.  

Just waiting for the Buffoon Biden stating he was a tank commander.

Pete Hegseth's book  'The War on Warriors' recounts an unbelievable occurrence: standard infantry weekly training, e.g., radio operations at the squad level, was cancelled at the last minute by a 'woke' senior officer and replaced with much more significant and important training for our national defense:

LGBTQ XYZ .... accommodation!

The training must be on the proper use of  pronouns.  No, not grammatically correct usage, but, bowing to the altar of evil and surrendering to the most weird of weird creatures - do not confuse a man and a woman or spirit, et al. - retroactively change the definition of the English language.

And that's an order, soldier!

   WTF?

By the way, Captain Hegseth was deemed a white far right threat to the military because of a religious tattoo...

Can President Trump get here quickly enough to avoid God's wrath?

  "Helmet? I don't need no stinkin' helmet!" 

My father, despite his duties as a soldier, found time to teach his son how to throw, catch and hit that bit of horsehide so beautifully seamed.

My first organized baseball was the Little League as a ten year old in Hawaii.

As a kid growing up, fun on the diamond was a large part of my recreation.  No matter where I lived, there were other boys anxious to play ball.  Sometimes, the teams were only 3 on 3, with restrictions placed on the foul lines.  

Some of the guys had gloves; some didn't.  If you had forgotten your glove or, for whatever reason, didn't have one, you simply borrowed one from the other team.  On occasions, only a left handed glove was available, forcing an adjustment in catching and throwing the baseball.

I found early on I was ambidextrous, with perhaps a bit stronger left arm.  My father, noting this, suggested I learn to switch hit.  I was a bit reluctant, as I felt comfortable as a left handed hitter.

Additionally, first base was closer than from the right hand batter's box...

My father threw many baseballs in order for me to become proficient from the right side of the plate.

The impending start of the baseball season had me quite fired up.  I planned to switch hit, determined by the pitcher on the mound.  

The pitcher on that very first game was a lefty; I dug in from the right hander's box...  

He went 2 and 0; I waited to pounce on the next pitch.

He took a full windup and delivered a fast ball right down the middle of the plate.  That baby was smoking fast - maybe 50 MPH...

The sweet sound of wood (not aluminum) smacking that baseball heralded a hot shot between first and second.  I knew I would soon be standing on second (trying to suppress that Banty Rooster as I took my first step toward first base...).

That first step, to invoke FDR, has forever "...lived in infamy." 

So proud of that baseball hurtling out of the infield, I subsequently learned a rule of baseball of which I wasn't aware:

When the runner exits the batter's box, he must not step on the plate.  Oh, was I surprised when the ump shouted "Yerrr out!"

Pointing at the plate to me, as I had an incredulous look on my face, he seemed to relish the self-inflicted wound.

To quote one of my farmer relatives, that umpire was grinning "like a mule in a poke salad patch!".

Demonstrating the maturity typically displayed by a ten year old, I eschewed from that point forward any deviation from my much-preferred left hand box...

Visiting North Carolina for Christmas of 1962 provided an opportunity for me to accompany my father on a squirrel hunting adventure.

This would likely be the last Christmas visit to North Carolina for several years, as the Daw family was headed to Hawaii for three years.

SGT Daw's decision to eschew astronaut training in order to become a jungle operations infantryman, as part of his quest for that Drill Instructor Hat, necessitated our move to the only US state where jungles exist.

Even as a four year old, I was well familiar with my father's early morning departures from home in order to walk deep into the woods and find a nice spot to sit and wait for the sun to rise.

My incredible mother would inevitably have fried squirrel and gravy for supper that night.  MMMM good...

And, when I learned to ride a bike, I often flew a squirrel's tail.  Hail to Rocky the Flying Squirrel!

On this cold December morning, not dissimilar from Fort Carson's winter mornings, I would accompany my father on a much-anticipated trek into the woods.

We were spending a few days with my paternal grandfather, B.C. Daw.  Oh my - what a playground his farm presented to this 8 year old...

This mission in the woods that dark and cold morning solidified gun safety habits my father had been teaching me since I was 5 years old.

That was a couple of months after I learned from a counselling session, as a 4 year old, that adults were to be addressed as "Sir or Ma'am".  

Although armed with a flashlight, travel in darkness presents inherent difficulties; weapon transport modifications were warranted.

As an example, there was never to be a round or shell in the chamber while moving.  If an obstacle, such as a fence, is encountered, place your weapon on the ground and retrieve it after negotiating the fence.

Oh was I a proud young stud when my father was about to cross the fenceline and, instead of placing his 12 gauge shotgun on the ground, he placed it in my capable hands.

The omnipresent Banty Rooster was stirred...

After handing the shotgun to my father, I climbed over the fence; we were then enroute to a nice place my father remembered as a youth for squirrel hunting.   Lots of pecan and walnut trees provided tons of food for these tasty rodents.

To this day, many decades later, I still cast glances at tree tops and occasionally see a squirrel bouncing those branches on high.  That branch movement always elicits memories of innumerable squirrel hunting outings after school and the increased heart rate that accompanied that excitement.

Again, Chris Matthews, a thrill ran up my spine, not my leg.

I will always have that image of a ball of flame, in the early morning daylight, exploding from the barrel of my father's 12 gauge seared into my memory.

And, like Talladega, the unique smell stands out.  

To paraphrase Kilgore from 'Apocalypse Now':   “I love the smell of burning gunpowder in the morning.” 

No weapon for me; there would be more years teaching me about the responsibility that goes along with firearms.

Christmas that year in 1962 provided me with a most remarkable weapon:

The Fanner Fifty

The fanning of a gunfighter's pistol, which probably never actually occurred, was much celebrated in the old westerns of the early sixties.  Now, with a roll of  caps loaded, the Fanner Fifty provided seemingly unending ammunition in those Cowboy and Indian battles.

And Santa had left one for me!

Carried away with the ebullience felt that Christmas morning, I was on top of the world with my cowboy hat and pistol belt.

With a veritable treasure trove of ammunition at my disposal, the wonderful smell of gunpowder filled our home.

It wasn't long after my foray into the wonderful of caps (again, that primal urge to blow things up...), that I discovered I could explode the cap with precise scraping from my thumbnail.  

That was a good day.

Back to Christmas Day, 1962...

My little sister, now four years old, was a more than capable playmate.  Reciprocation was our watchword, as playtime with her 

Important lesson:

Never point a gun at anyone!

Never.

I was  too young to employ the Alec Baldwin defense...

My first Seiko...

Isn't she a beauty?

How was it possible this engineering marvel required battery replacement only once every five years? 

No more watch winding for this young man...

Jumpmaster Bill had previously shown admiration for my sweet Seiko at our prejump classes...

A number of the freshman cadets were training for the Airborne PT test, in preparation for Airborne School at Fort Benning.  Strenuous physical training was followed by performing PLF's (parachute landing falls) from the top of the bleachers at Chamberlain Field.   I was thankful for the combat boots; falling at 26 feet per second requires proper body, leg and feet position as well as great ankle support. 

Surrounded by Manly Men and true patriots, it was impossible to escape the infectious testosterone-driven thrills provided by Army training programs.

 The UTC ROTC Military Science and Leadership Program provided those young men who wished to excel four years of sophisticated combat training, stressing Airborne Ranger operations.

Providing cadence, every run had 'Jody song' variants, punctuated with the classic Airborne mantra:

"C-130 rolling down the strip,

Airborne Daddy's gonna take a little trip.

Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door.

Jump right out and count to four.

If my main won't open wide, I've got another one by my side.

If that one should fail me, too, 

bury me deep with a case of brew!"

There was a jumpmaster, Bill (cannot remember his surname, if I even knew it - it was always 'Bill'...), who provided instruction and the airplane for twenty bucks a jump.

Twenty dollars was steep in 1972; minimum wage was $1.85 an hour.  I recall lamenting that wage while at Pizza Hut, but comforting myself by the dream of making 20 bucks a day someday after college...

Bill was short in stature and long in hair, but appearances can be deceiving.

He was a supremely accomplished skydiver, having competed in international competitions for a number of years.

His instructions were well received by the cadets; he was one of those rare individuals that inspire respect from those around him, sometimes without saying a thing.

That first block of instruction was held at Bill's home in East Brainerd.  We were all pumped.  Rappelling was becoming old  hat; new challenges were on the horizon.

There was something, however, he wasn't sharing with us...

The second and final class before our actual jump provided more technical information and emergency procedures both in and out of the aircraft.  

As this was going to be a static line jump, there was much less danger than with free falling. 

 This parachute jump would not be like exiting a C-130; it would require positioning oneself on metal steps welded on the underside of the single engine plane's right wing.  It was imperative the jumper was parallel to the airplane, facing the earth, and release in such a manner that there would be no impeding of the static line.

Just stay parallel with the earth after release of the wing strut; the static line will be unimpeded allowing for proper deployment of the canopy.

Of course, deployment of the reserve chute was covered, including the cutaway and throwing of the reserve.

That was when Bill's demeanor suddenly became more somber.  He was describing safety improvements in skydiving, including the introduction of the AAD, Automatic Activation Device.

This device can be preset to deploy the reserve parachute at a specific altitude if descent is faster than it should be.  This would come in handy with a malfunction.

It also would have saved Bill's fiancee's life.

Pausing a moment before he continued, he recounted witnessing the death of the love of his life.

She and a friend of Bill's were executing high altitude and high speed acrobatics, thousands of feet above the earth.  Apparently they collided in midair, rendering  her unconscious.

The other skydiver landed safely, seconds after Bill witnessed his fiancee's plummet and slamming into the ground at terminal velocity.

Bill recalled "She bounced 12 feet off the ground...".

On that depressing note, we called it quits for the evening.  That mental image of Bill's fiancee's death was hard to forget.  

The next time we met, that first jump was finally going to be a reality.

Glad I wasn't going to be free falling...  

It was a beautiful Saturday at the Higdon airstrip.  Bright sunshine bathed us all day; it was a bit gusty, but mostly calm.

At 220 pounds, I was designated to jump last, utilizing a modified T-10 Army cargo chute.

Watching that plane take off, discard a jumper, and land five times was getting my epinephrine going.  As the fifth jumper landed in the drop zone, the plane returned within a couple of minutes.

Some trepidation started seeping in, facing the reality that it was now my turn.  No, I would never 'chicken out'.  Nevertheless, a few subliminal 'what if...'  thoughts were creeping into my mind.

With the T-10 harness secured, I ambled over to the waiting plane and climbed inside with the pilot and Bill.  The pilot made a pass over the drop zone, deploying a wind streamer in order to determine wind direction and velocity.

Giving me the 'thumbs up', Bill indicated I position myself on the wing struts.  Having been seated by the open door, it seemed more daunting with the discernable trees, cars and houses as the airplane climbed.

Above three thousand feet, I was more relaxed, for whatever reason.  Bill hooked up my static line and I positioned myself as instructed by our jumpmaster.  

With the wind buffeting my face, I looked at Bill, waiting for his signal to depart the plane.  With a big grin on his face, he indicated that I should leave my Seiko with him, as an afterthought.  

I looked at him like he was crazy, as I was now ready to jump.  He shrugged his shoulders, saying something about his dead fiancee...

He was just having fun in the moment...

Gee, thanks, Bill!

The jump was quite enjoyable.  Most notable was the total silence after the plane left the vicinity.

So quiet.....

As I looked down to see where I was landing, a sudden realization that a substantial wind change must have occurred; I was way off the designated drop zone.

I was tugging on those risers, trying to avoid landing in the middle of a highway near the airstrip.  I successfully veered away from the highway in time to warn some kids playing in their yard I was coming their way.  

God smiled on me; I missed their house and didn't land on any of the children...

Bill had to dispatch a truck to pick me up, as I was a half mile from the DZ.  He cracked a big smile when I triumphantly held up my left arm, displaying my treasured Seiko, still intact.

This relaxing summer afternoon was an infrequent respite from her responsibilities as a caretaker for her grandfather and big sister for my Aunt Faye and Uncle Gene.

Quite the athlete, my father's bride could hurl a fastball as well as execute sweet shots on the court.