Chapter 3: The Fallen Bird

Preparation moved forward with the usual Navy precision. This was the last practice day before the show. The Florida weather was its usual balmy self with high cumulus clouds and a light southeasterly wind.  Dick’s plane captain, Chief Daniel David, busied himself with final prep.   “Everything is four-oh really,” he thought to himself, his fussing mainly habit.  Shortly after six Dick pulled into his reserved spot by the fence.  As he climbed out of his car, Dick heard a Hornet running at ground idle.  Chief David saw him.  The two exchanged salutes but relaxed after that.

“Thanks for coming down early Mr. Cheye,” said David.

“No problem Danny, what’s up?”

Always drops handles, thought David appreciatively.  Not like most of these-carrot-up-the-butt types.  “Wellsir, Number 8's due for some down time and. . .”

“That’s no problem Danny,” Dick interrupted.  “I can fly the back up.”

Chief David let out his breath.  “That’s her you hear running, just a systems check,” he said.  “Figured you like a familiarization hop before practice.”  The Chief knew his boss.

As Dick taxied toward the duty runway for takeoff, the plane thumped and jostled as it rolled over the expansion joints in the concrete. It was already getting hot and he was thankful that Danny had turned on the cockpit AC. His blue flight suit and gloves contrasted sharply with the yellow inflatable survival vest worn as a concession to Pensacola’s inevitable over water flights.  He ran down the checklist and asked the tower for takeoff clearance. Traffic was light at oh-six twenty so the wait was brief. Dick turned the F18 onto the runway and braked to a stop. With his left hand Dick advanced the throttles to the stops and toggled the IFF to transmit.

The engines spooled up to military power and the nose dipped as thrust compressed the nose-gear oleo. Dick waggled the stick gently, checked his mirrors for stabilator movement and waited for peak engine temps. Satisfied, he released the brakes to begin his roll.

The nose oleo rebounded and the Hornet gathered speed.  The expansion strip thumps came faster and faster. When the needle on the airspeed indicator reached 165, Dick eased back on the stick and the nose came smoothly off the ground. The thumping stopped.   The landing gear came up followed by the flaps and slats as the fighter worked its way through 200 knots. They flashed out over Little Lagoon, already dotted with fishing boats, then went vertical when they cleared the beach. The plane performed flawlessly as Dick worked through a short routine.  After about twenty minutes he turned and dove for the beach. The wind had shifted around to the North so the tower directed him to an over water approach.  Five miles out, he dropped the gear to scrub off speed, eased out some flap and lowered the slats. Though not at sea, Dick instinctively checked for a safe hook indicator. As he looked back up, his vision swam. Thinking he was experiencing vertigo, Dick dropped his head again and closed his eyes.  That was when the impact occurred.

The Hornet was designed to handle a bird strike but the high angle of attack he was using proved his undoing. The seagulls were sucked enmasse into both engines, with a couple lodged in the port slat.   Warnings whooped as the blue jet began to stall and rolled over. Dick was staring straight down into a cluster of boats.  He could see them pointing up, some were jumping over the side, for all the good it would do them.  Suddenly, control returned and Dick snapped the plane upright. She was coming up from vertical, but Dick knew that he had to keep pulling if he was going to save those people; he could not eject.  He decided to aim the dying jet at the small island. If he hit on the backside, the dune would shield them from the worst of it.

Witnesses said that the Dick’s ship hit at about a 30-degree angle, probably at more than 250 knots. The impact with the dune top snapped the nose off at the cockpit. The fuselage bent forward, firing the pilot through the canopy like a canon shot. Somehow at the last microsecond before impact, Dick had reflexively pulled the ejection handle.  The ejection rocket fired augmented by the violent upward bending of the airframe, the pilot arced over the North Island passage, across the boat yard and up toward the runway.  The plane spent its energy in a huge explosion, parts falling, as Dick had hoped, onto the side of the island passage away from the boaters.  As Dick crossed the roadway the seat pack fell away creasing the roof of a FedEx van just entering the base.  The chute opened parallel with the ground, like a drag chute.  Dick began to slide up the steep embankment at the south end of the runway, arms and legs flapping, entangling unconsciously in the shrouds as he was once again launched into the air.   His final inertia was spent in a ten-foot drop back to the tarmac he had quitted only 20 minutes before.

Chapter 2: An Unexpected Date

The giant blue and yellow C-130 Hercules cargo plane rolled to a halt.   Her wings seemed to sag with the fading of her engines. Her eight small charges touched down, pulled in along side and nestled in like a flock of young ducks following the hen. The Blue Angel Squadron was home. Pensacola NAS always looked good to Dick but never so good as in July. This was first homecoming for the squadron.   The big Pensacola Beach air show marked the halfway point in the season.  As exciting as this year had been he was glad to be home.

After cleaning up, Dick decided to go over to the Wolf Bay Lodge for dinner, not because the food was all that great but because it was not a Navy hangout. He stood on the pier watching the sunset through the pines across the bay. A droning overhead drew his attention to a crop-duster pulling a banner hawking a local beach club. A vagrant crosswind snatched at the plane’s tail pulling it sideways.

 “Wind’s freshening,” said a voice.  “Unusual for this time of day.”  Then there was that scent again.

Always from behind, Dick thought as he turned, and there, her face oddly blushed by the fading sun stood Jane.  “Miss Roebling,” he said.  You do keep turning up.”  Jane related that she had been over in Foley shopping and was headed home on Highway 98 when she had decided to stop off for a quiet bite.

“Heard yawl were back,” said Jane.

“Just.”

“May I join you?”

“On the dock or in the dining room?” he wondered and then, almost as if she had read his mind…

“For dinner I mean.”

“Let’s eat.”

Normally a dinner at the Wolf Bay Lodge was quiet and languorous.  The Ladies Altar Society from the Elberta Baptist Church changed all that.  They were down for their summer social, which had little if anything to do with the altar.  Jane and Dick ate in mystified amusement, practically unable to hear each other.  They tumbled out the door about an hour later and burst out laughing.

“Well,” said Jane.  “My recipe book is full now.”

“And I seem to have leads on half the fast women in Elberta County,” replied Dick.  “I say, but when Christian women get together, Christian charity right goes out the window.”  They both laughed again.

“Tell me about it,” said Jane, appearing suddenly listless.  “I’ve dealt with old buffaloes like that before.”

“You were a member of a Ladies Altar Society?” asked Dick incredulously.

“Nnnot exactly,” said Jane as she fumbled in her handbag for her keys.  “Well sailor, care to see a lady home?”

“I’m afraid I came by boat,” said Dick pointing into the darkness at the end of the pier.  “What would you say to a short moonlight cruise?”

“Short?”

“Yea, I have to be up with dawn patrol tomorrow.”

“Wheels up at 0700 eh?”

“Yep, the show and all, you know.”

“All right,” Jane seemed to pout, just a little.  “A short one, this time Commander,” she said.

The boat was a Grand Banks 32, built in Singapore of select Asian mahogany.  The upright superstructure and lap-strake sides made the little trawler look much bigger than it was. Dick lifted the small handrail gate and ushered Jane aboard.  She stepped around a near vertical companionway leading to the bridge and over to an aft sliding door which led to the salon. The interior was polished mahogany and brass with Kelly green cushions.  A small aft galley and forward settee on the port side marked her as an older version built in the late sixties.

Jane took it all in.  “Cozy,” she said.

“Yes,” Dick replied.  “She’s mostly salon.  There’s a V-berth up front with a small wet head, er bathroom.”  Dick had left the blowers on so he pushed the starter and the old 471 diesel settled into a knocking idle.  He looked forward to see Jane at the pulpit, coiling the bowline.  “She’s done this before,” he thought and went out to untie aft.  They went back inside together and Dick eased the boat away from the dock. Wolf Bay is not very wide, only a mile or so near the lodge so even at the Grand Banks’ sedate 10 knots they were mid channel in minutes.

“How are we going to see any stars in here,” asked Jane.  “Let’s go topside.”

“Ladies first.”

Jane swarmed up the bridge stair like a monkey, her dress swirling in the evening breeze. Dick followed and had hardly seated himself and reached for the wheel when he felt Jane’s hand on his neck.  He was surprised.  He had to lean past her to reach the throttle and felt her warm breath on his ear.

“Can we drift for a while?” she asked.  There was that odd smile again, but her voice was like silk over naked legs.

“Sure, oh there is a remote for the anchor just. . .no the blue one.  That’s it press it.”  As the anchor dropped slowly into the depths he turned to her.  For an hour, the stars winked in the cold void as the boat rocked gently, no waves disturbing her rest.

Later, back at the Wolf Bay Lodge, as Dick eased the Grand Banks to a stop a foot from the pier, Jane hopped onto the dock.  “Don’t tie up,” she flung the words over her shoulder. “Just watch me to my car, okay?” The darkness swallowed her up just like that, gone.  He called after her but received no answer.  Dick waited until he heard a car start up before shaking his head, bringing the 32 about and heading back to the air station’s marina.

Dick saw Jane again the next day for lunch at the O. Club.  She even joined him for a quick sandwich on the tarmac during a rehearsal break. Jane made that week leading up to the show the best Dick could remember. He even managed to sneak her into a trainer for quick orientation flight.  Jane had staked her claim and the other women on base knew it.  It seem only natural but by the time Dick finally figured out what was going on, they were engaged.

Rolling Reversal: A Short Study in fear.

                                                             Chapter 1: The Encounter

Dangerous, he thought, dangerous, yet like so many things of that ilk hard to ignore.  It was a rare night off, and he had not wanted to go out. It was a company function too and business socializing went against his grain. However, when the company you worked for was the United States Navy, attendance was expected. The gathering was being held in the National Museum of Naval Aviation at Pensacola Naval Air Station surrounded by the most incredible collection of Naval aircraft in the world.  This particular model caught his eye like - “no that’s not right,” he thought.   More like a ghost on the radar.  Unseen, at first only felt.  Black hair, green dress, cliché spike heals and bare legs.  “Why don’t women wear stockings anymore,” he wondered, turning back to Sherry the pretty staff adjutant to whom he had been listening. Sherry’s looks almost made up for her unpartylike tapping at a smart phone.

“Here Richard, look at this.”   She leaned closer as though to brush against him.

“It’s a party Sherry.  Put that thing away.”  Richard said then turned in surprise.  There she was standing slightly behind him, the wing tip of a World War II PBY Catalina Flying boat just brushing the top of her head.  First a scent he couldn’t place and then - “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”  The elongated vowels and clipped consonants of a Georgia accent poured out like cane syrup.

Adjutant Sherry missed a step then blurted, “Eh yes, Richard meet Jane Roebling. Jane, Lt. Commander Richard Cheye.”

“A pleasure Commander, I’m sure,” said Jane. She shook hands like a man, green eyes rock solid and clear.

“Mine,” he said.  “Please call me Dick.”

“A bit Freudian don’t you think,” Jane drawled, taking a sip of her drink and glancing around the room. Sherry choked.

“My Mom was a Froid.  F-r-O-I- d,” he added quickly. “A psych major at U.C. Berkeley.   She couldn’t resist.”

Believing herself a third wheel, Sherry attempted to back out with apologies, but before she could, Jane touched her arm. “A moment Sherry if you please,” she said.  “Do you think we could . . .” they turned away.

The exchange gave Dick a chance for comparisons. Sherry was clearly the better looking. Full, blonde hair draped over the shoulders of her too short red suit, - female officers were allowed, (encouraged?) not to wear their uniforms at parties.  She had Arrakis blue eyes, cleavage for days and skaters legs that he could easily imagine - well.

Jane was something with which he was less familiar. Georgia prom queen sweetness backed by an edgy almost aviator like confidence.  She was tall too, easily a head taller than Sherry and while not anorexic, thin.

“The Admiral’s right over there,” offered Jane. Sherry looked over and Jane continued, “While he’s in a good mood, if you know what I mean?”

“I’ll give it a go,” laughed Sherry, and turned away through the crowd.

She walked away, while Dick, momentarily forgetting where he was, shook his head and sighed softly under his breath, “If I could walk that way, I’d walk everywhere I went,” unconsciously quoting a former Louisiana Governor. He looked up to see Jane watching him closely. Dick flushed, embarrassed at being caught ogling a colleague.

Jane giggled.  “Nice tail hook sailor?”

“Oooh, do NOT mention tail hook,” Dick groaned. “That little soiree’ resulted in more dry dock in-ports than I care to remember!”

Jane laughed and shook her head, “Naval aviators, you never change.  Let’s walk a bit shall we Commander,” she tucked her arm through his.  “And you can tell all about yourself.” As they strolled across the simulated flight deck, Dick told her about growing up in nearby Pensacola where running away to join the Navy was almost encouraged, about fishing and building boats with this dad and sister.

“And what is your connection to the Navy, Ms. Roebling,” asked Dick at last, hoping to change the subject.

“I work for a civilian contractor, a TAG-Rep is your quaint little word for it,” she replied.  Dick raised an eyebrow. “Oh nothing glamorous I assure you,” said Jane. “Performance testing of engine lubricants, lots of paperwork.”

Dick looked incredulous at first, and then smiled, “Well you’re the best looking efficiency expert I’ve ever seen.”

Jane fained irritation as she wrapped her knuckles against the nose of Fat Man 2.  The unused third atomic bomb’s shell rang predictably hollow. “Now Commander, a compliment and a jab in the same sentence?”

“Hey PAX,” said Dick. “Why don’t I grab us a drink,” but Jane appeared not to hear him.  She was running her long fingers over the smooth surface of the bomb.  “Ms. Roebling?”

“Umm hmm,” Jane responded absently. “Oh, sorry, that would be lovely.”  She smiled and Dick noticed not for the last time that it was an odd smile.

For the next few weeks Jane kept appearing, as if on cue. Dick was up for a slot on the elite Blue Angel Squadron and might begin to travel a lot very soon. Jane knew it and always seemed to be around, sometimes at the base, sometimes at his door with pot-luck. Dick was not sure where he wanted this to go and though ambivalent, was not sorry when his orders came through. As expected Jane was not happy about Dick's assignment, but she knew the Navy.  A tour with the Blues was a very big deal for a Naval Aviator. Advancement, a salary bump and the added notoriety meant Dick was destined for stars on his shoulders.  For now, Jane would just have to wait.

White After Labor Day is Good for You, In Moderation

Up here at the Old Place most folks keep a seasonal schedule.  The new year starts on Labor Day and ends on August 31st.  We hold autumn to be the start of the new year because of college football. Sure, the "Boys of Summer," still have two months to go, but even they would not start the new year in March. The start of college football season is a confirmation of expectations. The months of recruiting and the promises implied at the spring game are brought to a conclusion, for good or ill. So why do we leave a couple of days at the start of September? I suppose it is just to finish up summer. The Old Colonel uses those days to change his clothes: pastel shirts, white linen and seersucker suits join white buck shoes Monet' and sailboat ties in retirement until spring. The reds, oranges, browns (And purples) are starched and wait patiently to be ironed. So, what's it got to do with safety?

The annual ritual of change comforts and reassures. It invests us with a feeling of solidarity and gives us something to look forward to, even when there is little else. Autumn paints our homes and ourselves with the colors of changing leaves and of course, in purple and gold. Straw, Indian corn and pumpkins find their way into our preparation rooms while an ambush of anything striped turns the den into a Bengal tiger's hunting ground. The tailgating gear is pulled out, the giant "Gumbo" pot is wire brushed and the butane tank refilled. Almost any excuse will do to buy that three foot spoon with "LSU" molded into its handle.

October settles in, and the prep room is emptied of it's autumnal fruits and veggies. The works join pale skeletons and gingham clad freckle faced scarecrows on the mist covered veranda. Dark trappings of the "Wizarding World" take on a second life as witches, ghosts and giant spiders inculcate their blacks and greens into the mix!

Before you know it, pumpkins magically transform themselves into Thanksgiving pies and earthy colors steal away with the ghosts and mist. Red poinsettias and green garlands herald the start of Advent soon to spread joy filled wings across the lake. Children rake up piles of dry leaves only to leap laughing and scattering into their midst. Tired witches and wizards, now in muggley clothing, ply their brooms against multicolored detritus covering the sidewalks. 

Sure, white is okay if you are trying to stay cool, but does not the tie-dye change the white shirt for the better?  Do not purple and gold stripes make a plain white shirt into an LSU jersey?  Does not a fat man in red velvet suit, trimmed in white, make us all feel like children again?  A little bit of white does go a long way or would you rather shovel sneaux?

Sitting in a rocker at the Old Place, I am, Col. Jim

Spiritual PPE

The denizens are aging up here at the Old Place.  Some like a fine whiskey slowly mellowing to perfection, others like a favorite pair of shoes becoming softer and more comfortable. Our values were forged in the old days, by the old ways.  All perfect, proper ladies and gentlemen. . . oh not hardly. We have someone who drinks too much. We have someone who went to prison, well okay he was the assistant warden. We even have one Weather Underground radical who is hiding out. Look, I make "magic" wands.  We're eclectic.

How is it then that all these so called, "pedophile priests" are Catholic?  The obvious answer is priests are, after all, pretty much exclusively a Catholic thing. However, if you change the moniker from Catholic priest to Christian minister, well gee whiz there just do not seem to be any pedophiles among any other Christian leaders, at least no reports of any by ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, BBC or PMS-NBC. (Local news? There are thousands but none on big media.) Here is the telling part, there has not been one report of any Islamic imam, Siik, Shinto or Buddhist pedophile on any of the Big Cs, only Catholic priests.  Are Catholic priests really the only ones?  Now why do you think that is?  If you wanted to ruin someone's reputation, undermine their character, bring down their business and destroy their lives, what would you do? Easy, get some dissatisfied group or person, real or imagined (Radical women, LGBTQP, etc.) to make an accusation, then get the help of the wealthiest most powerful people 0n earth, the Big Cs TV news media.

Think about it, how do you beat the biggest gang on the block?  You submarine their leaders. Start rumors, tell stories, get their followers to become suspicious, to doubt their ability to lead. Then you get one to turn on them and before you know it the leaders and the gang are down. Where is the best place to punch, the head.  A sniper shoots the head, not the body.

History tells us, every other Christian "church" was formed by someone who became dissatisfied with the Christian church of which they were already a member. "I'll teach them a lesson. I've had a revelation from God. I'll start my OWN church." How does Satan tap into this dissatisfaction?  He wants to destroy Christ's Church on earth, and send everyone to hell, so what does he do? He whispers in the ears of priests and bishops. "God understands confess, but you must first protect the church." Satan submarines some of Christ's Catholic priesthood, undermines their character and destroys the flock's trust, their faith in the shepherds. Satan wants everyone to abandon Christ's Church in favor of any of the scattered weaker ones. Satan is not going to waste time with the weaker flocks. He is going to bring down the Royal Priesthood of Catholic shepherds that have protected the flock from the wolves for 2,000 years!  So, what's it got to do with safety?  Only this.  If we abandon the bride and her shepherds (Our Personal Safety) to Satan, then damnation (Injury and Death) becomes quicker, easier, more seductive. The Catholic Church is our Spiritual PPE. Right now, it is Christ's yoke (Safety Plan) that is easy, His burden (Safety Compliance) that is light.

Now Woa-Up, Wait a minute!  Before you burn up your keyboard, did you actually read this letter?  This is not a defense of the disgusting and criminal actions of pedophiles and their protectors. This is not a Catholic problem, it is not a Liberal problem or an LGBTQP problem, it is a problem of people, imperfect, sinful people. . . all people. "Maverick, it's not your flying, it's your attitude. They may not like you, you may not like them, but whose side are you on?"

Sitting in a rocker at the Old Place, I am Col. Jim

Here’s To The Good Old Ways

It is the start of a new year on the calendar.  I have often felt that time stands still up here at the Old Place.  Pretty much everyone keeps to the old ways, the good old ways.  We have a general store, run by a retired Marine.  It also serves as the post office and first point of contact for strangers to the area, usually lost because their navigation app was inscrutable.  Older, and more able to appreciate the good old ways, we welcome them as long lost friends.  Our police department is a park ranger station whose “Major Crimes Division” handles nothing more exotic than a band of masked marauders cavorting about in someone’s attic.  (Raccoons)  So, it came as a surprise when at 6:00am on December 31^st my short wave radio began to crackle; it was Ruth.

            “Mornin’ Colonel,” she said, “Sorry to bother you, but you have an overseas telephone call.”

“Really, at six in the morning, now that’s strange Gunny,” I replied.

“Oh that’s not the best part,” Ruth chuckled.  “Despite all our travels, this call is from the one place neither you nor I have never been to before.”

“I’m listening,” said I.

There was a brief pause from Ruth, then, “Come on over.”

This was intriguing.  I went out, hopped in the old Tornio and drove to the store.  As I walked in, I could smell the coffee.  Ruth put a big mug, laced with real cream and sugar, in front of me, and went off to unlock the front door.

            “Hello?”

The heavily accented Micronesian voice on the other end replied, “Kukuri Menaái Ririki maiia Kiribati*, Colonel Jim!”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” I replied, “but it’s not New Years day yet,” or was it?  I began to think and to muse.  Kiribati was a name I had not heard in a long time.  Long before MaryHannah was born, way before I met Melinda, indeed while I was still in short pants, Sister Claire Germane had taught our 2^nd grade class about time zones.  This phone call was from the future!

It is now, almost 18 hours later, on a chilly New Year’s Eve night.  Folks across the globe are partying their way through the waning hours of 2017.  The Old Colonel is curled up under a Biederlac in front of the fire.  Audrey and Molly are in my lap as usual while the gliders bark and glide around the Old Place and throw bottle caps, a cute but noisy ruckus.  I sat there and contemplated how this day had begun and what I should learn from it.  I had received a call from the future, but if so, then the other person had placed a call to the past!  We all know that it is possible to go back in time Einstein proved it, in theory.  So all I had to do was take a phone call from Kiribati and all of sudden I was much more clever than Einstein.  This was fantastic!  I could go back in time, back to the good old ways. . . .  WOAH hoss, not so fast.  When I received that call at 6:00am on December 31, 2017, from the tiny island of Kiribati in the Pacific Ocean, there it was already January 1, 2018.  How?  Kiribati rests astride the International Date Line on the opposite side of the world.  On one side today, on the other side, tomorrow!  Disappointed?  Don’t be.  We have an entirely new year full of new days and new months, to live, to learn, to share, to love.   

Sitting in a rocker at the Old Place I am, Col. Jim.

* Happy New Year from Kiribati.