Remember in my last blog I was all proud of myself decades ago when I had outsmarted Uncle Sam's draft without running off to Canada? Yeah, right.
Like war protestor-singer Country Joe used to sing, "Well, it's one, two three..what are we fighting for? Don't ask me, I don't give a damn, next stop is Vietnam!" (Country Joe and the Fish: I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die)
You guessed it. After a luxurious two years in Japan (with short trips to Korea tossed in every couple of months), I got orders the the " 'Nam".
As I look back, I can't understand how I ever thought at the time that a weapons mechanic could avoid service in Vietnam. I mean, we were the ones they needed over there!.
I arrived in Vietnam April 1st, 1970. We landed at a large airbase at Cam Rahn Bay, and were subsequently ferried to Phu Cat Airbase to be assigned to the 412 Munitions Maintenance Squadron (MMS) in the12 Tactical Fighter Wing (TFW) as a weapons loader, with three stripes on my sleeve.
I remember Cam Rahn bay was a beautiful place. Phu Cat, however was just a small base with non-descript vegetation on our perimeter. We were never allowed to leave the base, so I can't tell you anything about its surroundings. The base was constructed in 1967 as part of the war build-up.
We lived in screened wood-framed barracks with no other form of air conditioning other than an electric fan, if you bought it at the base exchange(BX- aka: store).
We ate at Dining Hall No. 2 and worked on the flight line just up the dirt path about 200 yards. We were surrounded by barbed wire (concertina) wire with Korean troops on our west side in an artillery detachment. Their job was to fire their 105mm and 150mm cannon into a no-man zone on demand to keep the enemy infiltrators at bay. They also patroled the perimeter.
From the stories I was told about their famous acts of brutality, I was not surprised by their effectiveness. We were rarely attacked from close up. The enemy feared the ROK Marines more than they feared anything.
Captured-enemy interrogations, I was told, were carried out in helicopters hovering at lethal altitudes. The first one refusing to talk was simply invited to go for a swim(with a boot added to the invitation) -- into thin air over dry, hard land. The next person queried, supposedly, would suddenly confess all he knew.
I don't want to dwell on the macabre because there are enough other stories more interesting.
On occassions, Charlie (the enemy) would send us a present by air. They were known as 122mm un-guided rockets aimed and launched in our direction usually by what was called the "Kentucky Windage" method. ( Some readers are unfamiliar with the term "Kentucky windage." In this context it means putting your finger in the air, making a guess, and aiming left or right to correct for the presumed breeze on the way to the target.) This usually did nothing more than make a lot of noise and sent many of us scurrying for cover. At nights we would just roll out of our bunks and crawl under them and continue sleeping there.
On one occassion, however, their aim was devastating. They struck our supply depot and set fire to all the toiler paper we had on base. Now that was just damn mean! Literally hitting below the belt, if you get my meaning. Lest you think this was all fun and games, I hasten to add we did have some fatalities, and wounded. Never enough to make the six o'clock news in the states, but enough to keep us sober.
The Vietnamese people were a lot different than the Asians I was used to seeing in Japan and Korea. Far poorer than the Japanese, they ate simple foods, and had some strange habits, to wit: chewing betel nuts.
Now, the betel nut is a small nut that grows on trees in the Asian jungles and is peeled and chewed for its narcotic like qualities. Chew enough and you get a good buzz. So far as I know, no GI ever dabbled in this nasty habit.
First of all, the nut's juices were red and would stain the corners of your mouth revealing to all your choice of high. Secondly, its accumulitive effects left one's teeth dark black giving the illusion of being toothless whenever a smile was proffered.
Anyway, I remember the first time I came into our barracks. At the porch infront of the doorway to our barracks was where the house servants squatted to socialize on their breaks and shined our boots.
I remember one in particular who appeared to be advanced in years, and was squatted down (as only they could do), shining a long row of military work boots. As I passed by her, she looked up at me and said something akin (I'm sure) to 'good morning' in Vietnamese. She then cracked a smile which appeared to me to be toothless, at first glance. Then a I saw a red tongue with the unmistakable profile of teeth in front of it. I almost drew back in revulsion. I remember my first thoughts were she was spit shining our boots and must have gotten polish on her teeth. I found out later that the old mamasan was a betel nut chewer!
Did I mention these people don't sit? They squat whenever thay gather or wait in one place for awhile, or whenever the nature calls, if you know what I mean. Lacking ample backsides as we Americans seem to all have plenty of, they are able to squat for hours in such limber fashion and even do tasks that require them to be near to the ground. Tables aren't a necessity when you can sit back on your legs so close to the ground and use what God has made for your table.
I recall one time I was in the barracks latrine in what I thought was an empty row of stalls. Deep into my own thoughts I was suddenly startled to hear the toilet in the stall next to me flush. "What the...??" I said to myself, (or so I thought it was to myself). I looked down and saw two sandled feet alight on the crude concrete slab of the latrine floor in the stall next to mine. It seems one of the mama-sans had to use the toilet, and, in true Vietnamese fashion, had stood on the toilet seat one foot on the left side and the other on the right, to squat right over the bowl.
Not only was I taken aback by the fact she couldn't sit on a seat so generously provided by Uncle Sam, to go to the restroom, but she didn't give a flip over the fact that a man was in the same restroom and stall next to her!
Another time I was standing at the latrine sink lathered up and ready to scrape the stubble off my face after a nice cool shower. In the mirror I could see behind me the empty toilet stalls. Yep, you guessed it! They weren't quite empty. The sound of the toilet flushing, seeing two feet with red painted toenails descend onto the floor, and the stall door swing open made me quickly adjust my towel for proper decency. A young lady stepped unabashedly out of the stall and greeted me with a nod and smile, just as if we were meeting at the village bus stop! (Do you think Jerry Seinfeld could have used stories like these?)
I have other stories of the Vietnamese on our base. I remember watching them empty the trash cans around the shop and on the flight-line. They never picked up the can and dumped it into a hopper of trash without first going through it to see what was salvageable. Sometimes things would go into there pockets, other times they would eat it. How I remember feeling humbled and compassionate at those times.
Most of my time was spent working on the flightline preparing combat aircraft for their missions by loading them up with bombs, rockets and guns. You know, all those nasty little weapons man can devise to obliterate his enemies. My principal position was that of jammer driver (bomb lift truck operator) until I sewed on my 4th stripe.
Mind you, these little trucks had no cabin or cockpit nor any sort of windshield. You worked in the open air, and most of the time that was okay. (Monsoons and other weather conditions sometimes changed all that. ) You sat on a flat-cushioned seat with no back or sides and worked a steering wheel and levers. The floorboard had a brake pedal, clutch and gas pedal. On my right hip was the tranmission shift lever.
I would, at times, be required to drive the truck to the end of the runway whenever a fighter plane would return with a bomb that wouldn't release when pickled by the pilot. On one such ocassion I was enroute to the north end of the runway. Without warning a huge rice bug about six inches in length and 2 inches wide with a wingspan of a B-52 flew right in front of me. It struck me square between the eyes and I nearly tumbled backwards off my jammer seat. It then landed in my lap and began to crawl up my shirt. I was so repulsed by this ugly monster I nearly panicked with fear and jumped off the jammer.
I began to loose control of the jammer and started careening wildly in a zig-zag pattern. The whipping action nearly tossed me off the truck onto the taxiway. Finally I latched onto the gross looking bug with my right hand and gave it a wild toss to the right. I think I screamed.
Talking about these rice bugs reminds me of something. These ugly critters are a delicacy to the south east Asian people. During rice growing time these bugs invade the paddies and eat the green rice on the stalks. Whenever they can capture them, the people snap off their heads and suck out the green rice digesting in the stomachs of the rice bug. GROSS!
The flight line was an interesting place to work. You would see things you knew no one else would believe. One late night we were called to the end of the runway to meet another plane returning to base with a mechanical problem.
Racing down the taxiway in the darkness of the evening we caught a glimpse of something dead ahead in our headlights. It was a huge constrictor snake! We hit it and the step-van jumped a foot into the air. The driver, a black sergeant, turned white! We stopped and looked back out of the opened back doors. To our amazement it slithered across the taxiway into the vegetation, seemingly none the worse for wear.
In April,1971 I finished my required 12 months of duty and was shipped home. Eight days later I married my beautiful wife in the Los Angeles Temple. We are still happily married to this date.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Never Order Food in French
(Note: For some reason the links I posted here are not showing up as URL's you can click on, so you will have to cut and paste them to see the graphics that accompany this post.)
After being in Vietnam for eight months, I was worthy of a small vacation, which we called " R and R" in the military. Where to go was the big question. On the menu was Austrailia, Tokyo, Hawaii, Hong Kong, and Bangkok, Thailand.
After mulling it over for a few days I decided to go to Hong Kong. Don't ask me why, I just don't remember why I ruled out Austrailia. Maybe it was the Hong Kong tailors that I was interested in. I remember wanting silk suits and stuff like that.
Anyway, I decided to chum around with another LDS friend from our little church group we had at our airbase. So, off we went to Hong Kong.
It was a beautiful pre-dawn morning as our little old C-47 lifted off the runway and banked towards Danang airbase, Vietnam where we could catch a passenger jet bound for HK.
Now, for those of you who don't know it, a C-47 was a plane developed in the 1930's for the US Army. It was easily 7 years older than I was. http://www.simonb6.co.uk/2002/DS-C-47-4766.jpg
Shortly after take off, the morning sunrise was visible and with Nikon in hand I snapped this photo: http://community.webshots.com/photo/51205533/51207622TGimtj We spent that night in Danang, and boarded our flight to Hong Kong.
We stayed at a nice hotel called the Empress Hotel. As we were checking in a very attractive Chinese woman clerked us. Not wanting to be disrespectful, I answered "Yes, Ma'am" or "No, Ma'am" to any questions she asked me. She seemed irritated by it, and eventually asked me to stop calling her Ma'am.
"Yes, Ma'am", I quickly responded (Oops!) She glared at me for a second, and exclaimed, "I am not a Madam!" She was right, of course. I should have known that: 1) Madam is how a married woman is addressed, in the queen's English, and afterall, I was in an English Colony-- and, 2) A Madam runs a brothel. (Doh! Leave it to an un-worldly Mormon boy to not know that!)
After a day of taking in the sights of exotic Hong Kong, (http://community.webshots.com/photo/51205533/51206280OCdfuH) we were famished. Now, being GI's, we had healthy appetites, so we wanted something good and tasty, and it not resemble anything we were eating in the Air Force. We decided to eat in the hotel's restaurant.
After seated at our table, a proper looking Chinese water attended to our needs. Complete with the towel draped over his forearm, he resembled a gentlemen's gentlemen out of some English movie. Not wanting to appear ignorant (too late for that!), I scanned the menu as if I were a professional diner."Oh, boy!", I said to my companion," it's in French!"
After a minute or so I spied one dish that said something in French, and then in English had "in butter sauce with garlic toast" Hmm! Sounds good to me.
I casually indicated with my finger the dish I wanted, and the waiter scurried off.
A few minutes later he returned with a small silver platter with seven little indentations in it. Seated in each indentation was, -to my horror- a common, ordinary, ugly garden snail. Seven of them! With buttery garlic sauce still bubbling out of their stupid little shells! (Now I knew what "escargot" means in French.)
Determined to not waste my fifteen dollars, I ate them. Now I know why the French have the attitudes they do! The only thing I can think of is during the first world war when they were starving, some fool stooped to eating these things and called it a French delicacy.
And, to answer the question: No, they were not good!
After being in Vietnam for eight months, I was worthy of a small vacation, which we called " R and R" in the military. Where to go was the big question. On the menu was Austrailia, Tokyo, Hawaii, Hong Kong, and Bangkok, Thailand.
After mulling it over for a few days I decided to go to Hong Kong. Don't ask me why, I just don't remember why I ruled out Austrailia. Maybe it was the Hong Kong tailors that I was interested in. I remember wanting silk suits and stuff like that.
Anyway, I decided to chum around with another LDS friend from our little church group we had at our airbase. So, off we went to Hong Kong.
It was a beautiful pre-dawn morning as our little old C-47 lifted off the runway and banked towards Danang airbase, Vietnam where we could catch a passenger jet bound for HK.
Now, for those of you who don't know it, a C-47 was a plane developed in the 1930's for the US Army. It was easily 7 years older than I was. http://www.simonb6.co.uk/2002/DS-C-47-4766.jpg
Shortly after take off, the morning sunrise was visible and with Nikon in hand I snapped this photo: http://community.webshots.com/photo/51205533/51207622TGimtj We spent that night in Danang, and boarded our flight to Hong Kong.
We stayed at a nice hotel called the Empress Hotel. As we were checking in a very attractive Chinese woman clerked us. Not wanting to be disrespectful, I answered "Yes, Ma'am" or "No, Ma'am" to any questions she asked me. She seemed irritated by it, and eventually asked me to stop calling her Ma'am.
"Yes, Ma'am", I quickly responded (Oops!) She glared at me for a second, and exclaimed, "I am not a Madam!" She was right, of course. I should have known that: 1) Madam is how a married woman is addressed, in the queen's English, and afterall, I was in an English Colony-- and, 2) A Madam runs a brothel. (Doh! Leave it to an un-worldly Mormon boy to not know that!)
After a day of taking in the sights of exotic Hong Kong, (http://community.webshots.com/photo/51205533/51206280OCdfuH) we were famished. Now, being GI's, we had healthy appetites, so we wanted something good and tasty, and it not resemble anything we were eating in the Air Force. We decided to eat in the hotel's restaurant.
After seated at our table, a proper looking Chinese water attended to our needs. Complete with the towel draped over his forearm, he resembled a gentlemen's gentlemen out of some English movie. Not wanting to appear ignorant (too late for that!), I scanned the menu as if I were a professional diner."Oh, boy!", I said to my companion," it's in French!"
After a minute or so I spied one dish that said something in French, and then in English had "in butter sauce with garlic toast" Hmm! Sounds good to me.
I casually indicated with my finger the dish I wanted, and the waiter scurried off.
A few minutes later he returned with a small silver platter with seven little indentations in it. Seated in each indentation was, -to my horror- a common, ordinary, ugly garden snail. Seven of them! With buttery garlic sauce still bubbling out of their stupid little shells! (Now I knew what "escargot" means in French.)
Determined to not waste my fifteen dollars, I ate them. Now I know why the French have the attitudes they do! The only thing I can think of is during the first world war when they were starving, some fool stooped to eating these things and called it a French delicacy.
And, to answer the question: No, they were not good!
Saturday, December 10, 2005
May 16th, 1968:The Day the Earth Stood Still. (Not!)
You'd think being born and raised in California al Sur, (That's Southern California, just in case you are not aware of what's going on around here), recounting an old earthquake experience wouldn't really mean much to me.
Well, you see, I never was in an earthquake while I lived in California before I went overseas. My first real heart-thumping experience with shifting tectonic plates happened to me on an island far across the pond in a place called Misawa, Japan, where I was stationed for two years as an aircraft weapons mechanic in the US AirForce.
I had been on the island of Honshu (Japan's largest and most populated island) for only two months, when the earth began to shake. http://www.cnn.com/WORLD/asiapcf/9809/01/asia.floods.01/map.japan.honshu.jpg
While tidying up things while in an airplane hangar where we had our training and certifications on a real jet fighter with dummy weapons, I heard a strange rumbling sound. I had just dismounted from an MJ-1 bomb-lift truck (http://www.clubhyper.com/reference/images/MJ-1%200772.jpg) to move a stand. I looked acroos the hangar and noticed the office doors along the hangar wall were flinging open and airmen were heading towards the hangar doors in full tilt. It looked like a firedrill in high speed.
Just a few feet away from me was a JN (Japanese National: aka- citizen) installing hot water radiators for heating the hangar. He spun towards me on his short little legs and began to pump them furiously as he made for the nearest exit. I decided to join him.
Still young and lithe, I made good progress towards the opened hangar doors. http://www.midwaydoor.com/images/hangarx450.jpg I say opened, but they soon began to roll closed as the earth growled and whipped and bucked like a bull out of the chute in a western rodeo. http://www.bocadeiguana.com/la_manzanilla_to_do/03-05-15_toros_bucking_bull_allan_t_o.jpg
Hang on! This little doggie isn't going to toss me down onto Mother Earth so easily! I made a bolting leap through the doors just as the ceiling in the hangar let go, and passed unscathed into the morning sun-lit outdoors.
Not wanting to be any part of the demolition that was going on behind me in that hangar, I continued to run away from it until I had crossed the security rope corraling the jet fighters that were out side on the ramp. I didn't even show my line badge! Luckily, the armed Security Police had more brains than we chided them for having and he didn't level his M-16 on me, or any of the others who had poured out onto the ramp, Pilots and all.
Still the earth continued to buck. I looked over to the runway and noticed an F-4 C on final approach who wisely decided not to set down and burst back into the air. I was amazed to see thousands of feet of concrete runway undulating like ocean waves, rising and falling!
I saw a tree on the side of a small nearby hill suddly dart higher upwards then suddenly plunge into a dusty valley, only to rise again and repeat the process. It was like watching flotsam being cast up and down on the crest of the ocean's waves. It was all so surreal.
The F-4 fighters were being bucked up and down like pogo sticks jumping their wheel chocks. One airman was caught just as he was coming out of a cockpit while servicing the radar, and was tossed like a buckaroo* to the ground and broke his arm.
The earth continued to tremble! I looked back to the hangar and saw high over the doors was a a huge light fixture. The lamp inside of its enclosure had somehow worked its way free of the lamp socket and was rolling around inside the glasssed-in front. Amazing!
Finally, it happened. Mother Earth ceased convulsing! It was over! Yet, it still felt like she was pitching. I realized my legs were betraying me. They had turned to a mass of jelly. After a moment things settled down and I felt stable enough to take my first steps.
All around me men were cursing, some wanting to go back to a combat zone in Vietnam, and others were just too scared to say anything. Me? I was looking for a bathroom!
We learned later the epicenter was located across the water north of us near the island of Hokkaido deep under the ocean's floor. It registed 8.0 on the richter, a large quake to be sure.
Between the main quake which occured at 10:20 am, and the last measurable after-shock, we shook another 88 times that day. Most of us slept or at least lounged in our barracks in our fatigues, sitting as close to the barracks door as possible. Each little tremor sent us spillling out onto the sidewalk. Some men ran out in their skivvies, and others ran out clutching their cases of beer they bought to 'settle' their nerves. (As if they needed that for a reason).
We spent days digging holes around the base helping the base engineers look for broken water pipes so we could shower, shave and eat! Food was handed out in cartons called K-rations. (I swear some of those things were left-overs from WWII.)
Casualties were few, thankfully. One small home downtown caught fire, the train tracks were lifted up for miles so high they resembled a roller coaster's tracks. They were up and down like waves of iron.
One Japanese man perished while fishing in Lake Towada 35 miles away. His rowboat capsized. He drowned.
For months following the quake we were as nervous as sheep in a minefield. Anytime a large dump truck or other like vehicle drove by our barracks on the street out front, the building would shudder, and we would head for the exits. It took a long time for us to sleep normally.
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*(Did you know?: Buckaroo, is an adaptation to English from the Spanish word vaquero [bah-care-oh], meaning cowboy.) Just thought I'd toss that in.
Well, you see, I never was in an earthquake while I lived in California before I went overseas. My first real heart-thumping experience with shifting tectonic plates happened to me on an island far across the pond in a place called Misawa, Japan, where I was stationed for two years as an aircraft weapons mechanic in the US AirForce.
I had been on the island of Honshu (Japan's largest and most populated island) for only two months, when the earth began to shake. http://www.cnn.com/WORLD/asiapcf/9809/01/asia.floods.01/map.japan.honshu.jpg
While tidying up things while in an airplane hangar where we had our training and certifications on a real jet fighter with dummy weapons, I heard a strange rumbling sound. I had just dismounted from an MJ-1 bomb-lift truck (http://www.clubhyper.com/reference/images/MJ-1%200772.jpg) to move a stand. I looked acroos the hangar and noticed the office doors along the hangar wall were flinging open and airmen were heading towards the hangar doors in full tilt. It looked like a firedrill in high speed.
Just a few feet away from me was a JN (Japanese National: aka- citizen) installing hot water radiators for heating the hangar. He spun towards me on his short little legs and began to pump them furiously as he made for the nearest exit. I decided to join him.
Still young and lithe, I made good progress towards the opened hangar doors. http://www.midwaydoor.com/images/hangarx450.jpg I say opened, but they soon began to roll closed as the earth growled and whipped and bucked like a bull out of the chute in a western rodeo. http://www.bocadeiguana.com/la_manzanilla_to_do/03-05-15_toros_bucking_bull_allan_t_o.jpg
Hang on! This little doggie isn't going to toss me down onto Mother Earth so easily! I made a bolting leap through the doors just as the ceiling in the hangar let go, and passed unscathed into the morning sun-lit outdoors.
Not wanting to be any part of the demolition that was going on behind me in that hangar, I continued to run away from it until I had crossed the security rope corraling the jet fighters that were out side on the ramp. I didn't even show my line badge! Luckily, the armed Security Police had more brains than we chided them for having and he didn't level his M-16 on me, or any of the others who had poured out onto the ramp, Pilots and all.
Still the earth continued to buck. I looked over to the runway and noticed an F-4 C on final approach who wisely decided not to set down and burst back into the air. I was amazed to see thousands of feet of concrete runway undulating like ocean waves, rising and falling!
I saw a tree on the side of a small nearby hill suddly dart higher upwards then suddenly plunge into a dusty valley, only to rise again and repeat the process. It was like watching flotsam being cast up and down on the crest of the ocean's waves. It was all so surreal.
The F-4 fighters were being bucked up and down like pogo sticks jumping their wheel chocks. One airman was caught just as he was coming out of a cockpit while servicing the radar, and was tossed like a buckaroo* to the ground and broke his arm.
The earth continued to tremble! I looked back to the hangar and saw high over the doors was a a huge light fixture. The lamp inside of its enclosure had somehow worked its way free of the lamp socket and was rolling around inside the glasssed-in front. Amazing!
Finally, it happened. Mother Earth ceased convulsing! It was over! Yet, it still felt like she was pitching. I realized my legs were betraying me. They had turned to a mass of jelly. After a moment things settled down and I felt stable enough to take my first steps.
All around me men were cursing, some wanting to go back to a combat zone in Vietnam, and others were just too scared to say anything. Me? I was looking for a bathroom!
We learned later the epicenter was located across the water north of us near the island of Hokkaido deep under the ocean's floor. It registed 8.0 on the richter, a large quake to be sure.
Between the main quake which occured at 10:20 am, and the last measurable after-shock, we shook another 88 times that day. Most of us slept or at least lounged in our barracks in our fatigues, sitting as close to the barracks door as possible. Each little tremor sent us spillling out onto the sidewalk. Some men ran out in their skivvies, and others ran out clutching their cases of beer they bought to 'settle' their nerves. (As if they needed that for a reason).
We spent days digging holes around the base helping the base engineers look for broken water pipes so we could shower, shave and eat! Food was handed out in cartons called K-rations. (I swear some of those things were left-overs from WWII.)
Casualties were few, thankfully. One small home downtown caught fire, the train tracks were lifted up for miles so high they resembled a roller coaster's tracks. They were up and down like waves of iron.
One Japanese man perished while fishing in Lake Towada 35 miles away. His rowboat capsized. He drowned.
For months following the quake we were as nervous as sheep in a minefield. Anytime a large dump truck or other like vehicle drove by our barracks on the street out front, the building would shudder, and we would head for the exits. It took a long time for us to sleep normally.
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*(Did you know?: Buckaroo, is an adaptation to English from the Spanish word vaquero [bah-care-oh], meaning cowboy.) Just thought I'd toss that in.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
English Spoken Here
Back in my day there was a thing called the Vietnam War and a government enlistment enhancement program called the Draft. Now, as I see it, the draft did more to benefit the other armed forces of the united states such as the U.S. Navy and U.S. Air Force, National Guard units, and the Coast Guard than it did the Army.
I mean, who wanted to be drafted and sent to the frontlines in the Vietnam jungles stamping out landmines and playing catch with mortars and rockets?Not I! I was too smart for that. So, I stepped right up the the plate and joined the United States Air Force. Boy, did I fool them! My first PCS assignment out of technical school was Little Rock, Arkansas.
Talk about culture shock. My first real adjustment came in acquiring an ear for the southern drawls and twangs that surrounded me. Not just the ones in Arkansas, but all those men who were from other parts of the south stationed with me. How did these guys pass the language test to enter the air force??
I'll never forget one guy named Doug who was from Kentucky (backwoods, I am sure). He kept calling me Mack. I don't remember ever telling him my name was Mack. I tried to correct him politely, by informing him my name was Mike not Mack. He quickly replied, "Rat! That's what I said, Mack!"...... Oh.
On another occasion we were working together on a fuel tank pod. I was sitting high atop this gigantic pod which was carried beneath the belly of the B-58 Hustler. http://www.pipers-place.com/SS/AF/pic00268.jpg Doug whistled up to me and hollered, Mack, toss me down those warplers. Now, don't ask me why, but maybe it was embarrassment being the new guy in the shop, so I hurriedly looked around me for something I was working with that was a warpler.
Obviously disappointed in my ignorance, I asked him, " what are warplers?" "Warplers, Mack, warplers! Ya' know?? those things you have in your hand! Those thangs ya'll use to twist the warrs with!"
Suddenly it dawned on me that he was asking for the pliers I was using for twisting the safety wire. http://www.quickcar.net/tools/images/64-010~1.jpg "Oh!" I exclaimed, you want the wire pliers! He obviously didn't appreciate my enunciation and retorted, with explicit exaggeration, "wy-er ply-ers ya' damn yankee! Toss 'em down here!"
It took me sometime to come to know that Chewsdee was the day after Mundee, and New Orleans was actually Nawlins. Oh, and my good friend Doug was from Loovil, Kentucky. I confessed my ignorance and told him I never heard of the place. Man, was I stupid!. "Ya'll ain't never heard of Loovil??" (I soon learned Loovil was actually Louisville.)
Well, just as I was getting tuned in to this new language I was learning, I was transferred to another air base where I had to start the process all over again.... in Japan.
My first night in Japan was bewildering to me. Our plane landed at a base outside of Tokyo, in the city of Yokota. We had two days before we were to head north to our final destination, Misawa, Japan. No sooner did we get billeted that we hopped a train bound for the amazing city of Tokyo.
The first thing I noticed was it was a LOT bigger than in those Godzilla movies! Also it was soooo crowded! And, oh, those lights! Huge neons everywhere with words like Nikon, Yamaha, and Toyota or other famous brands. All else was written in either Kanji or Hiragana/Katakana characters.
Needing to go to the bathroom I found my way (very carefully I might add, for all the good those Japaneses characters did me) to the train station's men's room.
Another cultural shock! The men's room was as big as the Taj Mahal! But nowhere could I find a toilet!! Then I saw all these businessmen squatted down reading their newspapers. Apparently this was a reading room with no seats. It didn't take me long to see their pants were down. Now I knew I was in the men's restroom!
These guys were squatted astride a porcelain trench doing what comes naturally! I groaned. No stalls, no seats, no privacy!! Man I can't do this! I remember my first (and last) attempt was nearly a disaster. I left.
After walking around Tokyo for several hours and going to the Ginza it was time to get a bite to eat. What to eat? Most restaurants had their menus on physical display outside the restaurant in a glass case. The were plastic replicas of the dishes they served. Most of the dishes looked like something from a biology class. Squid, whole fishes, etc.
Then I saw it!! there on a small platter were two hot dogs!! That's all I needed. We went inside and sat down at a table. Being the two biggest men in the room, all eyes were on us!
The waitress shuffled over to us and displayed a silver-toothed smile. She said something neither of us understood. We simply said. Hot Dogs, kudasai. (We learned to say 'please' our first hour there).She stood there a second or two and acted as if she didn't understand us. I repeated our order. Hotdogs, kudasai! Again, she looked perplexed. Nani? (What?)
After repeating this scene a third time she took me by the arm and led me to the display case whereupon I pointed out the hotdogs. Her face lighted with understanding, "Ah, so des! Hoe-too doe-goo". Okay! Another breakthrough!
A bit later she returned with those hoe-too doe-goo's that tasted everybit as badly as they were pronounced.
More to come.
I mean, who wanted to be drafted and sent to the frontlines in the Vietnam jungles stamping out landmines and playing catch with mortars and rockets?Not I! I was too smart for that. So, I stepped right up the the plate and joined the United States Air Force. Boy, did I fool them! My first PCS assignment out of technical school was Little Rock, Arkansas.
Talk about culture shock. My first real adjustment came in acquiring an ear for the southern drawls and twangs that surrounded me. Not just the ones in Arkansas, but all those men who were from other parts of the south stationed with me. How did these guys pass the language test to enter the air force??
I'll never forget one guy named Doug who was from Kentucky (backwoods, I am sure). He kept calling me Mack. I don't remember ever telling him my name was Mack. I tried to correct him politely, by informing him my name was Mike not Mack. He quickly replied, "Rat! That's what I said, Mack!"...... Oh.
On another occasion we were working together on a fuel tank pod. I was sitting high atop this gigantic pod which was carried beneath the belly of the B-58 Hustler. http://www.pipers-place.com/SS/AF/pic00268.jpg Doug whistled up to me and hollered, Mack, toss me down those warplers. Now, don't ask me why, but maybe it was embarrassment being the new guy in the shop, so I hurriedly looked around me for something I was working with that was a warpler.
Obviously disappointed in my ignorance, I asked him, " what are warplers?" "Warplers, Mack, warplers! Ya' know?? those things you have in your hand! Those thangs ya'll use to twist the warrs with!"
Suddenly it dawned on me that he was asking for the pliers I was using for twisting the safety wire. http://www.quickcar.net/tools/images/64-010~1.jpg "Oh!" I exclaimed, you want the wire pliers! He obviously didn't appreciate my enunciation and retorted, with explicit exaggeration, "wy-er ply-ers ya' damn yankee! Toss 'em down here!"
It took me sometime to come to know that Chewsdee was the day after Mundee, and New Orleans was actually Nawlins. Oh, and my good friend Doug was from Loovil, Kentucky. I confessed my ignorance and told him I never heard of the place. Man, was I stupid!. "Ya'll ain't never heard of Loovil??" (I soon learned Loovil was actually Louisville.)
Well, just as I was getting tuned in to this new language I was learning, I was transferred to another air base where I had to start the process all over again.... in Japan.
My first night in Japan was bewildering to me. Our plane landed at a base outside of Tokyo, in the city of Yokota. We had two days before we were to head north to our final destination, Misawa, Japan. No sooner did we get billeted that we hopped a train bound for the amazing city of Tokyo.
The first thing I noticed was it was a LOT bigger than in those Godzilla movies! Also it was soooo crowded! And, oh, those lights! Huge neons everywhere with words like Nikon, Yamaha, and Toyota or other famous brands. All else was written in either Kanji or Hiragana/Katakana characters.
Needing to go to the bathroom I found my way (very carefully I might add, for all the good those Japaneses characters did me) to the train station's men's room.
Another cultural shock! The men's room was as big as the Taj Mahal! But nowhere could I find a toilet!! Then I saw all these businessmen squatted down reading their newspapers. Apparently this was a reading room with no seats. It didn't take me long to see their pants were down. Now I knew I was in the men's restroom!
These guys were squatted astride a porcelain trench doing what comes naturally! I groaned. No stalls, no seats, no privacy!! Man I can't do this! I remember my first (and last) attempt was nearly a disaster. I left.
After walking around Tokyo for several hours and going to the Ginza it was time to get a bite to eat. What to eat? Most restaurants had their menus on physical display outside the restaurant in a glass case. The were plastic replicas of the dishes they served. Most of the dishes looked like something from a biology class. Squid, whole fishes, etc.
Then I saw it!! there on a small platter were two hot dogs!! That's all I needed. We went inside and sat down at a table. Being the two biggest men in the room, all eyes were on us!
The waitress shuffled over to us and displayed a silver-toothed smile. She said something neither of us understood. We simply said. Hot Dogs, kudasai. (We learned to say 'please' our first hour there).She stood there a second or two and acted as if she didn't understand us. I repeated our order. Hotdogs, kudasai! Again, she looked perplexed. Nani? (What?)
After repeating this scene a third time she took me by the arm and led me to the display case whereupon I pointed out the hotdogs. Her face lighted with understanding, "Ah, so des! Hoe-too doe-goo". Okay! Another breakthrough!
A bit later she returned with those hoe-too doe-goo's that tasted everybit as badly as they were pronounced.
More to come.
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