Some pictures I took at Gettysburg this weekend

They found remains here as recently as 1997

Arkansas' monument shows its troops trampling someone.  Now who do you reckon that is?

In these woods the 20th Maine defended Little Round Top against as many as five assaults by the 15th Alabama in the deepening twilight of July 2nd, 1863.  The Alabama troops had been marching half the  night and all day to get there; 26 miles in all.  With no time allowed to even fill their canteens with water they were thrown into the fight. The Mainers had marched about 15 miles in the hours leading up the battle as well.

It's on this precise rock that Colonel William Oates, Alabama's Commander, says his own brother was killed during the assault.  Colonel Joshua Chamberlain who commanded the 20th Maine says no, the Alabaman's never reached that far.  The monument commission sided with Chamberlain.  No monument was ever raised for the 15th Alabama on the spot of their struggle with the 20th Maine.

The Devils Den as seen from the top of Little Roundtop.  That's 500 yards away!  On the afternoon of the July 2nd, Confederate snipers likely hidden among the rocks there managed to shoot Brigader General Stephen Weed in the chest as he stood on Little Roundtop.  Almost to prove the first shot was no fluke, only a few moments later Weed's artillery commander Lt. Charles Hazlett was leaning over his dying commander and was himself shot in the head.  He died instantly and General Weed expired of his wounds later that night.

Read the sign placed at the scene and note how its author says the Confederates were "only 500 yards" away.  I'd like to see that guy make a head shot with TODAYs rifles at 500 yards - under fire!

Here's the view from Devils Den looking up at Little Round Top.

Here's a view of The Wheatfield.  By the end of the second days's fighting this 16 acre parcel of ground was covered in dead and dying.  It changed hands between North and South about four times.

Across this 1000 yard stretch of open ground 15,000 Southerners advanced under heavy rifle and cannon fire.  They broke through the line and advanced only a short distance before being repulsed.  Less than half the men that when up that gentle incline ever came back down.  The Copse of Trees in the center of the photograph was their goal.  It became forever known as the Highwater Mark of the Confederacy.

Here's the same field but seen from the yankee perspective.  This photo was taken the following morning and the weather had changed more to fit the somber nature of the place.

Deo Vindice

Misc meanderings while waiting on a flight

I spent the last couple of days in Washington DC on business. Words cannot express how uncomfortable it was for me to be here in the "belly of the beast"!  Suffice it to say that I am pleased to be boarding my flight out of here this morning. Oh God just get me back to the Deep South where I belong!

While I wait to board, I thought to share a few of my experiences here.

Sat next to a thoroughly obnoxious NY lawyer at dinner on Monday night. At some point during the evening he felt it necessary to share his opinion of Southerners.  Among the comments he made were:

"I think they must all wear coonskin caps"
"Slow talking ... Slow thinking"
"What a bunch of Hillbillies!"

Had it not been a guaranteed damper on my career, I would have punched the green-toothed bastard right on the mouth.

Part of my time up here included a tour of the Gettysburg battlefield.  I stood at the so-called Highwater Mark where there is a memorial on the spot where General Armistead fell mortally wounded. This man died, along with thousands of other Confederates, to free himself from the domination of Imperial Washington. And some representative of Boobus Americanus had placed there a … wait for it … US flag! I removed that foul thing with extreme prejudice.

So my final thought for this morning: DC has gone the way of Miami. White, English speaking Americans are in extremely short supply here. This is an utterly foreign city! It is a picture of the future. The same Gooberment that believes it can serialize and track every individual round of ammunition manufactured, simultaneously insists that it's impossible to control immigration!

The years ahead are going to be very bleak indeed.

Bambi gets revenge - the deer herd of Henry County strikes back

Well I spent the last weekend of Alabama deer season in a tree stand in Henry County Alabama.  In fact I spent the entire day Saturday sitting in a climber 25 feet up a pine tree overlooking a creek bottom.  I got settled in before daybreak and I didn’t climb down until dark..  I saw a total of five deer, including a small six point chasing a doe.  Just nothing I wanted to hang on my wall – and my freezer is already full.

I started back home Sunday morning and had traveled no more than half a mile before a MONSTER buck ran right out in front of my truck.  If I hadn’t slammed on brakes I’d have hit him!  Whew.  Close call number 1.

Twenty minutes later I spied lots of eyes off the side of the road and I did the prudent thing and slowed down.  Traveling at about 40 mph I passed the largest gathering of deer I’ve ever seen in the wild.  There was at least 25 does standing a tight little cluster immediately beside the road.  I expected them to scatter in all directions – including right in front of me – for some reason not a one of the moved as I passed by, except to swivel theirs heads following my passing.  I even had time to lower my truck window and get an up close look.  Whew.  Close call number 2.

Three’s the charm they say.  About a minute after passing the doe convention on the left side of the road, I heard and felt a loud thud on the passenger side of my truck.  I knew instantly what had to be the cause.  Glancing down into my driver’s side mirror I could see a deer flying thru the air tumbling end over end and crashing down into the ditch along the opposite side of the road.  I pulled over and surveyed the damage.

Dents in the rear passenger door, a shattered topper window, a smashed fender on my 4 wheeler, and the tailgate ramp torn loose from it’s locking pins requiring that I actually tie the trailer tailgate in place in order to drive. 

I walked back the short distance to see about the deer – and he (or she) was gone!  Doubtless the animal dragged itself off to die later.

What a frustrating way to close out the best hunting season I’ve had in a quite awhile!    Oh well.  I’m just glad the animal didn’t come thru my windshield and end up in my lap.  

He was nobody to the rest of the world, but to me he was everything

Reposted on the occasion of my father's 97th birthday.  Happy Birthday Daddy!

Sept 1939

On dogs

I read another blogger’s post recently where he was reminiscing about his best dog ever.  That got me to thinking about my best dog and I realized that I’ve never written about her, nor do I have any pictures of her.

Brunie (short for Brunehilda) was a brown female dachshund that we got from a family member when I was maybe 7 or 8 years old.  She was smart, loving, and full of energy; all the things you might want in a small boy’s pet.  Brunie was an outside dog since my mother was adamantly opposed to any animal ever coming in the house.  When a cousin came to visit one time and brought along her own dog (an inside dog), I thought my mother was going to have a cow!  But that’s another story.

As I have mentioned elsewhere, our yard contained pecan trees, plum trees, grape vines, and fig trees.  These food crop trees were in constant peril from marauding squirrels, and I was aided in my on-going defense mission by the ever vigilant Brunie.  She positively HATED squirrels, and no squirrel ever got into our yard that Brunie was unaware of.  I recall her sitting on her haunches with her eyes locked upwards for long periods of time waiting for some furry interloper to grow weary of hiding and make a run for it. Her patience was unwavering, and her enthusiasm for the hunt was unflagging. 

Brunie never had the benefit of formal training, but she would always come when called since she was such a loving little dog.  But there was one situation where you could expect Brunie to ignore you: when there was another dog around.  She would positively go nuts if another dog came into our yard.  If she saw another dog, you could forget trying to control her – all she could think about was getting to that other dog so she could make friends.

There came the day when we were in the front yard decorating the house for Christmas. The front gate was open (as it usually was) and we lived on a busy highway.  Bruine was of course hanging out in the front yard with me and my parents as we worked.  That is until she saw some other dog running alongside the road on the opposite side.  No amount of yelling or screaming could stop her as she headed out the gate at high speed; directly under the wheels of a passing car.

I saw the whole thing unfold very clearly from my perch on a ladder as I was handing lights up to my dad on the roof.  The car never even slowed down. Brunie was horribly injured but somehow was still alive.  Daddy suggested that the thing to do was to put Brunie out of her misery, but eleven year-old GunRights4US begged for her to be taken to the vet. 

To this day I do not know where my family came up with the money for what must have been a tremendous bill.  Brunie spent many days in the animal hospital, and this was a time when our family was struggling to make ends meet financially.  But somehow they managed it - my folks strongly believed in paying their bills!

Brunie was paralyzed from the waist down, and she had to drag herself along the ground.  But she was alive, and she was the same sweet and loving dog that meant the world to me.  For many months we worked with her trying to exercise her legs in an attempt to keep the muscles from atrophying.  But it was not until we got another dachshund puppy named Yippy that Brunie was motivated to try walking again. 

I no longer remember how long that whole process was, from the time of the accident until the time when Brunie recovered the ability to walk.  My parents are both dead now so there’s no one to ask about it.  I’m sure it was over a year – certainly a very long time.  But she did finally regain the use of her legs.  Her tail never wagged again, but you didn’t need that indicator of how happy Brunie was anyway.  You could see the love and the joy in her face!

I recall my mother being particularly glad at Brunie’s recovery because of how often Brunie would drag herself into the woods behind Yippi, and then get stuck somewhere.  Yippy would come to the back door and bark until it got Mama’s attention, and then Mama would go looking for Brunie and have to carry her back to the yard. 

One day I came home from school and there was no Brunie to greet me.  I looked everywhere but I couldn’t find her.  I asked Mama and Daddy, but they claimed ignorance.  This process went on for a few days; I would come home and search for my dog, and then question my parents.  Something about the way they were acting gave me cause to suspect that they weren’t being wholly truthful.  Finally my father admitted that he had found Brunie beside the road, and this time there was no vet that could help.  She had obviously been hit by a car and apparently killed instantly.  I cried for a long time, and the memory of that loss still brings an ache to my heart even forty years later. 

The thought occurs to me that God was indeed wise to provide man with a pet that could give so much unconditional love.  Thinking of my little furry friend from long ago, I reach down and pet my current little furry friend, a black miniature dachshund named Chopstick – and I am thankful.  

Concerning boogermen and elevator pranks

This video is being referred to on the internet as the scariest elevator prank of all time.  You watch it and be the judge of that for yourself.

I’ve always had a fascination with ghost stories as far back as I can remember.  When I was a young’un we lived in an old wood frame house that was built sometime in the early 1940’s.  It naturally made lots of creepy noises at night, and it was a passion of both my father and older brother to tell me that what I was hearing was the original owner of the house; a Mr. Hankins who died long before I was born, supposedly in our house.  I found out many years later that Mr. Hankins did NOT die in our house.  But as a boy I was utterly convinced that we had our very own spook.

There came the day when I wanted to tinker around in my dad’s very well stocked workshop.  My dad was determined that I would NOT be allowed in his workshop and as expected he’d locked the exterior door with a solid padlock.  Not to be deterred by the likes of a simple lock, I climbed over the wall in the back of the garage and made my way through the overhead and down into the shop.  Success!

After a short while of goofing around in the shop I began to take note of how dark and gloomy it was in there with the door shut like it was.  It was then that “Mr. Hankins” chose to make some strange noises in the very overhead that I needed to exit through (likely nothing more boogerish than a rat).  I decided to take my chances with the locked door rather than confront  some booger-man in the attic of our garage/shop.  I should have thought through the matter more thoroughly.

I got a running start and hit that shop door at full speed.  I don’t know now, forty years later, what exactly I thought would happen.  But what did happen was the door split half in two, from top to bottom; which is exactly what my daddy did to my backside when he got home and found the door hanging from its hinges all askew. 

Just a "small world" story

Twenty-two years ago, when my youngest son was just an infant, my family spent the day moving into some low rent apartments.  Things were tough for us financially at the time and we had to accept that this was all we could afford. 

After a hard day of moving furniture with the help of a couple of friends we went a few blocks to a burger joint to eat supper.  Returning to our new digs a scant half hour later we were amazed to see legions of police cars, a circling helicopter, and a couple of ambulances just a few doors down.  It seems that a drug bust in an adjoining apartment had gone bad and two cops were shot all to pieces – one dead, one seriously injured.

That night we didn’t sleep a wink, and the following morning we reversed the previous day’s process and moved the hell out! 

My youngest son has heard this story all his life.  Now he’s a medical student working towards his doctorate and he works part-time at a local orthopedic clinic.   Today he was interviewing a patient whose current complaint stems back to injuries received 22 years ago when he was a police officer and got shot during a drug bust.  One question led to another and … you guessed it… it was the cop who survived the shooting that night in the apartment a few doors down from us.

Small world huh?

 

Concerning events in a little country cemetery

Authors note:  When I was in the Marines, all the best stories started with some variation of “That ain’t no shit…”  Well, this ain’t no shit either!

I parked my truck in front of the old church just as the morning sun was peeking over the treetops along the eastern side of the highway.  As quickly as I could, I moved my gear to the rear of the cemetery and staged it in the edge of the woods there.  Shovel, arms cache, rake, and a scrap of old carpet were positioned out of sight behind a large oak tree, just in case some other early morning cemetery visitors showed up unexpectedly.

The particular grave I wanted to use for the purpose of hiding some guns and ammo was just a few steps away from the treeline, and I was fairly certain that any cars approaching along the highway could be heard in plenty of time to stash anything incriminating if the sound indicated they were slowing to pull into the cemetery.

Lest my reader think ill of me for disturbing a grave, allow me to explain that I had no intention of disturbing the grave itself, but merely to hide my cache behind, rather than in front of, the headstone.  These are, after all, strange times we live in.  And the old man sleeping here had been awaiting judgment day for over a hundred years now.  Besides – from what I knew of the old fellow I was fairly certain he would understand.

As further camouflage for my activities, I unloaded a weedeater, lawnmower, and other yard tools and positioned them strategically at the rear of my truck. 

Once everything was in place, I began to dig.  The soil was soft and the shovel was as sharp as I could get it, but the sweat was streaming down my face in no time just the same.  This was a task I would be happy to finish quickly and be on my way.

For the next few minutes the only sounds to be heard in this little country graveyard was the sound of a fat old man laboring with a shovel.  Then came a sound that made me almost jump out of my skin.

“Ahem”

I whirled around, and nearly fell over in the process.  Seated just a few feet away on another headstone was an old man.  One leg was crossed over the other as he sat there calmly puffing a pipe.  He was dressed in an old-style brown woolen suit, and he had an old wide brim hat on his head that looked like it had seen as many years as he had.  His demeanor was thoroughly calm; almost disinterested, and the expression on his face was one of mild amusement.

I’m sure I stood there, shovel in hand, huffing and puffing with a surprised look on my speechless face. 

“I don’t reckon you ought to be doing that young fellow.  Folks don’t take kindly to being disturbed ya know”.  His voice was deep and melodious, and the accent was that of a man born and raised in the southern Georgia backwoods.

“I’m sorry” I replied.  “I really need to hide something, and this was the very best place I could think of to hide it.  I didn’t hear you walk up.”

He eyed me for a moment without speaking, took another puff off his pipe, and then said “Well whatcha hidin that’s so all-fired important that you have hide it in a cemetery?”  My comment about not hearing him walk up was ignored.

For a moment I felt a little silly, but clearly there was no turning back now.  And the thought occurred to me that the only way out of certain trouble was to make my point to this gentleman sufficient for him to see the wisdom of burying guns and ammo in a cemetery.

“Well sir… this PVC pipe is filled with a couple a rifles and about a thousand rounds of ammo that I am scared to keep at my house.  I’m fairly certain that I’ve drawn the attention of this evil federal government that is busy destroying the Republic, and I’m scared of a midnight visit to my home”.

As I spoke I laid my shovel down and then leaned against the headstone I had been digging behind.  At my words I saw the first flash of something other than amusement in the old man’s eyes and I was afraid that I’d said something to offend him. 

“What’s that you say boy?  Government destroying the Republic!  Is this still America or what?”  he said with a degree of force in his tone that hadn’t been there moment before.

“Let me tell you sump’um boy” and he leaned forward as he spoke, his eyes becoming steely and his brow furrowed  “My grandfather was a Lt. in Colonel Anderson’s Company during the Revolution, and him and his men didn’t go off and bury their rifles!  They shot King George’s troops with ‘em!” 

His ire was clearly up now, and his demeanor no longer that of a kindly old country gent.  His pipe now forgotten in his hand, he stood up and hitched up his britches in the manner of someone resolved to action.   In a sweeping gesture with his free hand he continued on:  “Boy… take a look around yerself here.  Ain’t you standin amongst two hundred years of your own family?  And don’t you know these folks were made of stern stuff?”

Indeed I did know where I was, and I knew very well that my grandfather, his father, and his father’s father all lay within a few yards of where I now stood being lectured by a man whose identity was beginning to dawn on me. 

“I know who you are Boy.  I’ve watched you since you wuz a young’un.  And I watched your Daddy too.  Didn’t he go to war half way around the world back before you wuz born?  He damn sure did!  Hell… back in 1861 me and all my brothers, and every one of my cousins, and every able-bodied man in these here parts – we all signed up to go fight them sumbitches that come down here from up North.  You ought to know Boy… we ain’t never been the sort to run and hide!”

Hearing these words I knew that the man standing before me had departed this world in 1901, and was none other than my own great-grandfather – whose grave it was that I had disturbed.  Yet rather than fear my only feeling was one of profound shame.  His words struck to my very core.  My father had fought the Japs on Okinawa, and this old man had fought against Sherman in his march to the sea.  His father (my great-great grandfather) had served in the militia during the War of 1812, and that man’s grandfather had organized a chapter of the Sons of Liberty that was so effective in harassing the British in and around Savannah that he was mentioned by name in the Georgia Governor’s letters to King George.   

These things I knew well and the truth of his words had cut me to the quick.  I had bowed my head lower and lower with each word from the old man, and now as he seemed to pause, I raised my eyes and looked him full in the face.  All the pride I had ever felt in my ancestors now welled up within me, and I spoke to him from the bottom of my heart. 

“I hear you Grandpa.  And I reckon you’re absolutely right – There’re other things I need to be doing with these”

The old man smiled a smile of love - in a face framed in pride - and slowly faded from view.

Ahhh memories... (not for the squeamish)

A casual discussion about kids a moment ago with a co-worker, happened to mention projectile vomiting. That in turn sparked the following memory that I thought was just TOO good not to share!

I was at a bachelor party being held at a private residence. The young groom was well into his cups and even standing up was a challenge for him. A stripper had been hired to entertain the group, and she was doing a pretty creditable job. She danced her way around the room making sure all the gentlemen guests got at least a little bit of her attention. It was a rough crowd of North Florida rednecks in attendance that evening.

As I recall the girl was blond and pretty, but “big boned” and quite formidable. But again – she was a good sport and kept up a steady stream of jokes and banter as she wiggled and gyrated about the room. Came then the point where she had to switch the focus of her attention to the groom exclusively.

Placing an armless chair in the center of the room, she guided the drunken young man to have a seat therein. From somewhere I know not (being buck-assed naked!) she produced a small bottle of Crown Royal Whiskey. Then she sat on the grooms lap facing him with her legs to either side (sort of a simulated sexual position). Here her intention with the bottle of whiskey became clear – and my feeling of dread began to increase.

Tilting Loverboy’s head backward she coaxed his mouth open and began to pour the straight liquor down his open throat. I’m thinking to myself “Sheeese that’s risky”. No sooner than the thought formed itself in my mind, and scarcely sooner than the booze touched Johnny’s tongue, Madam Striptease was rewarded for her efforts with a quick and powerful stream of projectile vomit – right between her breasts! It came so suddenly that she was caught with the full force of it! Naturally she dashed off (screaming) to the bathroom, and we all guffawed uproariously!

The show was of course irrevocably concluded, and one hell of a memory was formed for all who witnessed it. LOL

One of those little things I'll never forget

Back in the middle 90’s I was regularly deer hunting a certain piece of property, and I got the idea (probably from some hunting article) to get my own aerial photographs of the place.

I made a few calls and priced an hour of flight time, and as I recall I paid $225 to go up in a rubber-band powered Cessna for one hour. That price would probably be at least double today!

The appointed day and time came and I met the pilot at the field, and somewhere in the conversation to book the jaunt either he didn’t hear me, or I failed to tell him, that the purpose of the ride was to take photographs. So after we were already strapped in, and with the engine running, he expressed surprise at the appearance of the camera in my lap. So he jumps out of the idling aircraft, runs around to my side and takes the passenger side door OFF and stows it in the rear of the fuselage. Now I’ve never been a big seat-belt advocate, but you can bet your ass that when I realized what he was doing, I hitched my seat-beat up as tight as I could get it!

We took off and WOW what a view! It was so loud that you could hardly hear yourself think of course, and the only way the pilot and I could communicate was with headsets. In far less time than it took to drive there, we were over my hunting property and flying level at 1500 feet. I instructed my driver to try and fly on an east/west axis so all my photos would be oriented either looking north or south.

When we came over the first spot that I was particularly eager to see I asked him to bank the plane “a bit” so I could get a better angle for my photos. He banked it a little bit all right. Where a moment before I was looking at a green carpet below me, now I was looking at green wallpaper! He banked the airplane a full ninety degrees and I found myself looking straight down even though it felt like I was looking outward. Great for the photos I admit – but it took some getting used to.

When we were done and returning to the airfield, as he banked the plane to get lined up on the runway, the pilot pointed out something in the trees below us. I asked what the unrecognizable shape was and over the roar of the engine he replied “It’s a wrecked aircraft that went down here last summer – nobody was killed though!” That’s a disconcerting thing to hear from your pilot as you’re coming in on final approach.

I got some great photos that day and I made good use of them for many years thereafter. Sadly the area was completely logged out at some point and I stopped hunting there. The photos no longer being of any use I threw most of them away. But I kept this one just to remember the occasion.

Six months or so after I made my photo flight, my pilot was killed in that same plane, and on that same airfield, when he crashed while trying to pickup an advertising banner.

This morning at the range

The range in this case being defined as a parcel of woods I have access to by virtue of a hunting club I'm in.

This first pic is the first shot of the day off a cold barrel - at 400 yards. 150 grain, .270 Win.

And here's my group at 400.


I had a really good day on the trigger today.

Something good for a change

A little over two years ago my son and his wife gave me my first grandchild: a precious and sweet natured little girl they named Isabelle. She has been a bright shining ray of sunlight across our lives, and a real blessing from Almighty God in every sense of the word.

Over time we discovered that she wasn’t developing in her motor skills at the normal rate, and after many doctor’s visits it was finally determined that she had undergone some oxygen starvation while in the womb. There is actually scar tissue on the surface of her brain. So we have watched as our precious grandbaby has lagged behind in motor development and speech patterns.

The good news, we are told, is that oftentimes the brain can adapt and other parts of the brain that are undamaged can “take up the slack”. Many children with this problem grow up and show no signs of ever struggling to develop normally.

Many children are afflicted to some extent for their whole lives.

Need I say that many prayers have been said over this sweet and wonderful little girl that she will be among those who are able to overcome?

Isabelle shows many signs that her problems are not cognitive, and that is something important to be thankful for. But she has reached the age of two and has not been able to walk without the aid of a walker. She is also way behind in her speech development and articulates very little that even passes for baby talk.

Nonetheless, we all love her very much, and her mother and father have both worked VERY hard with the physical therapy routines in order to give Isabelle every chance to walk and talk like every other precious two year old out there.

I got a text message from her mother this morning that absolutely brought me tears – and I am a man who could stomp the eyeballs out of an enemy and eat a sandwich over the corpse. But I blubbered like a little child when I read this from my DIL:

“Isabelle walked unassisted today without trying to hold onto the therapist. She actually looked like a toddler walking down the therapy hallway. :D”

Praise be to God from whom all blessings flow!

Of steaks, dry cleaners, and little old Japanese ladies

Over thirty years ago I was stationed at Quantico Marine Base outside of Washington while attending Embassy Guard training. A large part of being an embassy guard is looking great in the uniform, and I remember changing uniforms at least twice a day while going thru that program. Consequently MSG students spend a tremendous percentage of their paychecks on dry cleaning costs.

There was a Japanese lady who owned a dry cleaners there in Q-town, and it came as no surprise that she drove a huge Cadillac sedan. She and her staff worked seven days a week, and they did fabulous work too. They weren’t cheap, but you got your money’s worth!

Too many years have gone by for me to remember those lady’s names, but I can remember their faces like it was yesterday. Owner Lady and her sidekick were all business – all the time, but they were always personable, and if they made a commitment to have something done by a certain time, they wouldn’t let you down.

After spending three months there at Quantico learning to be embassy guards and enriching the local cleaning industry, there came the day when me and my buddies received our orders and would soon be shipping out. So when we three came into the cleaners for perhaps the last time, we told the ladies of our impending departure.

Now… allow me to point out here that Quantico is the Marine’s educational command. That is where it trains all of its officers, embassy guards, and a host of other school programs. So young Marines are constantly coming and going there. Thus my friends and I were kinda surprised that the Japanese ladies seemed truly upset that we were leaving soon. After all – we were just three guys among hundreds or even thousands of Marines passing through.

Imagine a thick Japanese accent when reading this: “You boys numba one customa. You boys come by shop Sunday – 2 oclock. I fix you goin away meal!”

As promised, Sunday at 2 oclock we showed up the cleaners – not quite knowing what to expect. The first surprise was that the shop was closed. We knocked on the door which opened quickly and we were ushered inside. We followed our gracious host thru the back part of the building where we’d never been before, and out onto a sort of patio that was the utter contrast of the crowded and cluttered cleaning shop. It was a Japanese garden done in the zen simplistic style. We were bade to sit on mats around a low table and Owner lady served up steaks straight from the grill. We had all the fixings ta boot: salad, vegetables, and various dipping sauces as well.

Owner lady suddenly remembered something: “You… look in coke machine in shop. Door already open. I have beer inside for you boys”. I went and looked and sure enough, she had one whole slot of the coke machine filled with beer!

We were treated to a “numba one” steak dinner and all the cold beer we could drink. The ladies all bustled around waiting on us like we were kings. I have often thought of those ladies, and many times wondered what became of them. I have also wondered many times why they chose to entertain we three particular jarheads out of the hundreds that visited their shop regularly. At the time, to ask “Why us?” seemed liked an act of complete ungraciousness, and there was no way in hell we would have wanted to offend those very proper Japanese ladies by acting so boorishly.

It is a memory that I will cherish the rest of my days, of that I am absolutely certain.

Alarm at the office

I watched a massive trophy buck canter boldly across an Alabama clear cut in broad daylight. The excitement built within me as I placed the crosshairs of my riflescope on his shoulder and my finger caressed the trigger.

The phone by my bed rang insistently and I was yanked from my pleasant dream into hearing my company’s alarm service telling me that there were multiple motion sensors being activated at my office; the police had already been notified.

Damn!

I jumped out of bed, pulled on my britches (the ones that did NOT contain my wallet with my DL and CWP) and headed for the door. The clock on the wall said 12:17 a.m.

My 21 year-old son was still up playing video games and I asked him if he wanted to respond to what seemed to be an obvious break-in at my office. He quickly dropped his game controller and grabbed his Glock and we headed out the door.

Twelve urban miles, and 18 minutes later we rolled up into the parking lot and found that there was a power outage in the area; everything was pitch dark except for a few battery powered lights inside the building.

There were no police to be seen as we circled the building looking for signs of forced entry. After a few minutes, and a brief discussion between us of how neither one could prove our identity (he’d left his wallet at home too), we wondered whether we ought to back off - or go in.

That’s about the time we spotted Barney Fife’s spotlight down the street searching for the address – and going the wrong direction.

Let’s do this.

We entered the front entrance and locked the door behind us. No sense in allowing Barney to come back and enter the building behind us!

By this point the power outage is no longer even on my mind. There is sufficient lighting from the emergency lights that we can see well enough. What IS on my mind are the three previous burglaries we’ve had in the previous eight years, one of which where the burglar surgically removed a pane of glass from an out of the way spot not easily seen from the parking areas.

I disable the audible alarm and we both think we hear something in the ensuing silence. Carefully we make our way down the main hallway with flashlights and pistols at the ready.

Suddenly the power comes back on.

In a microsecond the building goes from being quiet as a tomb to the sound of dozens of printers, copiers, fax machines, and PC’s powering up. In just a second or two it registered what was happening. But for the first half of that initial second as we listened to whirring, clicking, and assorted and sundry odd sounds from all around us, there was an involuntary puckering of the anus accompanied by the hair on the back of our necks standing straight up!

We cleared the building with no further incident and locked up and left.

The police department never made an appearance, and on the way home we had a good laugh at ourselves, but for that split second we both agreed:

“That scared the sh*t outta me!”

I just found an old friend

About 30 years ago I was a young Marine who had managed to make some bad decisions and gotten myself in trouble with the Corps. Being relieved from duty at the American Embassy in Kingston Jamaica, I was transferred to Beaufort SC and stuck in an office.

The Marines (as I assume is true of the other services) have a very long memory. If you ever screw up - it's never forgotten. There's an old saying: One aww shit wipes out a hundred attaboys. But in the service, one aww shit tends to wipe out all past AND future attaboys! And so I checked in to a new duty station and found myself very nearly a pariah among my "brother" Marines.

However there was a crusty old Staff Sergeant who watched me for a time, took my measure as a Marine, and decided that I was one of the good guys. He took me under his wing made me feel like I was still part of the team. That is NOT to say he coddled me. Far from it! He was a demanding hardass who had no compunctions about straightening out human error by getting loud and in your face. But he evaluated a man on his conduct in the here-and-now, as opposed to what one had done in the dim misty past.

For the record, my "crime" was to have a woman in the Marine House - a woman I eventually married and had two kids with. The Corps can be quite prudish you see.

Ssgt Dennis Hendry had once been a drill instructor on Parris Island. His tour of duty was not successful and he was - like me - relieved from this highly prestigious duty. I suppose that's why he tended to identity with me. He was destined to remain forever a Staff Sergeant, just as I was destined to never progress beyond the rank of Sergeant (and it took a ridiculous 3 years as a Corporal to get THAT far)

I don't know the circumstances of his relief from the drill field. I imagine his drinking problem played a role, though I have no direct knowledge that it did. By the time I knew Dennis in 1981, he had been off the drill field for a couple of years, and his drinking could well have been the result of his feelings about being relieved.

I do however know the circumstances of how Dennis handled himself in the office where I worked with him. He took care of his people! He was a Marine Staff NCO and those young enlisted Marines belonged to him. They looked to him for leadership - and he gave it. During working hours Dennis was all business and all Marine.

After working hours ... well... he came down among the troops and comported himself as one of them.

He knew that I loved to hunt, and that I had a personal rifle stored in the armory. So one Friday he asked me if I want to go hunting with him. Sure!

Shortly after working hours he picked me up at the barracks and we drove to Yemasee SC. Even though it was only an hour or so after we got off work, Dennis was already pretty well sloshed. That was a car ride I will never forget!

Arriving at a little isolated fishcamp / bar out in the South Carolina boonies, it was instantly apparent that a) Dennis was a regular patron, and b) hunting was NOT the primary purpose of our mission. For the next several hours we drank, played pool and socialized. As the night slipped away into the wee hours of the morning, and it was clear we were going to "close the joint", I began to seriously wonder where I would be laying my weary head.

Closing time did indeed come, and Dennis and I were escorted out the back by one of the bar matrons to a one room cabin that she occupied. I'm no shrinking violet, but I really did NOT want to assist my drunken boss in his coming carnal episode with this ... woman!

Inside I was shown the floor at the foot of the bed, and handed a rolled up towel for a pillow. Dennis flopped on the bed with his new friend, and the lights went out. To say I was uncomfortable on a variety of levels really wouldn't be doing it justice. I expected any moment to hear the symphony of dueling bedsprings accompanied by the sound of the beast with two backs.

There were some indistinguishable sounds, some muttering, and then a loud exclamation: "What? You ain't gonna gimmie no head?! Well F*uck you then!" In less than a second (it seemed) there was loud snoring to be heard and I was free to settle down somewhat restfully for the remainder of the night.

Being a natural early riser, I was awake at a hunting-appropriate early hour, and so I got up and flicked on the light (being somewhat trepidatious about what exactly I would see). My bleary eyes beheld a buck naked Staff sergeant spread-eagled and occupying 90% of the bed; his previous evening's temporary girlfriend forced to the very edge.

I slapped him on the foot, we got dressed, and hit the door in under a minute. I marveled at the man's ability to get moving apparently so effortlessly under the conditions of so little sleep and so much booze. But Dennis showed no signs of being discomfited. In fact, I'm pretty sure he was still drunk.

On foot we crossed the highway in front of the fishcamp / bar and set out down a dirt road for a short distance - me with a .30-30, and Dennis with a 12 gauge shotgun.

Maybe five minutes down the road an old cow bird rose up from a ditch off to our left and to my amazement Dennis shot at it.

He missed.

Not knowing what to say (remember he's my boss) I stood there noting the look of disappointment on his face. In a moment his remark was "Hell... there ain't no deer 'round here no how".

Without another word he turned around and led us back up the road, across the highway, and back into the now open bar. I think you know how the rest of this tale plays out.

Yes... Dennis was a character alright. I recognized his faults, but they were truly overshadowed by his good qualities. It was with genuine sadness that I rec'd the news of his death about four years later. His drinking mixed with his driving just one time too many, and he wrapped his car around a South Carolina oak tree.

Today he lies in the shade of another South Carolina oak tree in the Beaufort National Cemetery.

Rest in peace Staff Sergeant Hendry

Semper Fi my friend