La Bonne Histoire du Petit Chat qui avait Faim

https://www.thetoymaker.com/Stories/2spootale/01spoo.html

This is an old school assignment I am fond of.  It's a spoof of Ianesco's "The Bald Soprano" (but you knew that already).

The Cannon

THE CANNON

One aspect of living on a military post that affects everyone regardless of rank or station is the twice daily firing of the post canon.  It is often called the "General's Cannon" as it sits, more often than not, in front of either his headquarters or his residence.  Every day, as the flag is raised and lowered the cannon is fired.  In this way, everyone on post will know that the flag is in motion, and needs to be saluted.  If you are driving a car, you are to stop, face the sound and render the proper salute.

While this gesture is patriotic, it made for a mad rush towards parking lots and then off post;  at much high than posted or prudent rates of speed.  Both the Daleville and Military police were known to ignore potential speeding during this time period.

At Ft. Rucker, the cannon is at the edge of the parade ground in front of the HQ .  Next to the General's cannon is the post flag pole.  Perched atop the flagpole is a ten inch brass sphere containing, tradition holds, one wooden match and one round .45 cal. ball ammunition.  These are to be used in the event of the post being overrun and captured;  the match to burn the flag so that the colors could not be captured.  The single bullet is for the soldier who burns the flag, in order that he may dispatch himself to avoid capture.  However, the Colt model 1911 .45 caliber automatic has long since gone the way of the caisson horse and campaign hat, having been replaced by the Beretta 9mm.  This point is however moot, in that there is no ax or ladder near enough to the flag pole nor any mention of how a soldier is to retrieve said bullet and match.  

The Parade ground, the flag pole and the cannon belonged in a personal sense to the general, but, their upkeep was the responsibility of the Alpha company WOCs(Warrant Officer Candidates).  It was their solemn duty to raise the flag, polish the cannon and paint the rocks in front of the Generals HQ.  A color-guard was formed twice a day to attend to the flag and once a week to the other two.  Color-guard was intended to be made up of the most squared away or "strack" WOCs, as befitting such an important detail.  However, since every WOC of the color-guard was awarded at least four merits, it was usually made up of those who needed as many extra merits as possible, rather than those who already had earned them by being squared away.  Included was at least one Candidate who knew what was supposed to happen.  This was mainly to prevent anyone from dropping the flag or wandering off.  Color-guard was worth at least two merits, plus it showed the TACs that you were "highly motivated" and worth retaining, at least one more day.  This being the case, I was on color-guard almost every day for six weeks (and was still able to accumulate the highest number of demerits ever for a graduating candidate.  There is a small plaque attesting to this at Ft. Rucker).  

Except when polishing the cannon, WOCs were not to be found within ten feet of it.  To do so meant instantaneous elimination.  One morning I asked the Captain of the gun, if it was because they were afraid that the WOCs would mutiny and turn it on our officers as they had at the Bastille.  He felt that my doing twenty push-ups would sufficiently explain the Army's logic in lieu of a drawn-out explanation.  However, when I admitted that I was still a bit fuzzy on the concept, we both found that my doing one hundred push-ups enabled me to see their logic much more clearly.  

After being on medical-hold for a few weeks I became  assigned to the company supply Sgt. and would fill in for him if he had to leave the office.  It was easy work and a veritable treasure trove for anyone with an enterprising eye.  After ten years, I still have boxes of unused skilcraft pens.  Like most items in the Army world, pillows are tightly controlled.  However, there were hundreds of pillows that had been deemed un-serviceable but not disposable.  Like the Reese's cup; the combining of pillow and cannon would be greater than the sum of its parts.  

The following Monday morning I awoke early for "personal physical training.".  That way I would have a reason to jog past Post Headquarters without looking out of place.  With the parade ground darkened, dawn and it's attending WOC's,  still thirty minutes away, I removed the pillow from under my sweats and stuffed it into the cannon's muzzle.  I then jogged on out the Daleville gate and down to Hardee's' for a coffee and sweet roll.  From the dining room at Hardee's I had an unobstructed view across the parade grounds towards the flagpole.

As if part of some grotesque Medieval-clock works, the Captain of the gun appeared as the WOC Color guard walked the 122 steps of the gravel path leading to the base of the flag pole.  Even though he had done this hundreds of times, the Captain of the gun checked his watch.  The WOC-IC (Warrant Officer Candidate in charge) didn't have to;  As a WOC, you were required to know how many steps were involved and how many seconds required to raise, lower and fold the flag.  

With the care required of neurosurgery, the WOC's attached the flag to the halyard and raised the flag.  At the moment the flag begins moving, the Captain of the gun fires the gun.  

The sight was awe inspiring; the "General's lawn" lightly dusted with a fifty foot arch of feathers while the WOC's raised and secured the flag.  It wasn't until the Captain started screaming that any of the WOC's realized what had happened and that they would somehow be held responsible for it.  It wasn't until someone wet themselves attempting not to laugh at the Captain for screaming, that they all started to fall down with hysterics.  Of course, this made the Captain even angrier and his ordering the Candidates to do push-ups for laughing just made it worse.  Eventually the WOC's were sent back to their company area and the Captain was reassigned to the DMZ in Korea.  The feathers weren't picked up until after the M.P. 's had come out and assessed the scene of the crime.  They thought it was funny too.  

That's me--in the back

In the course of the investigation a complete inventory of all pillows belonging to all Candidates was ordered.  We were assembled in front of our barracks, everyone holding their issued pillows at arm's length while our Training Officers counted noses and pillows.  The offending soldier would be found, punished and sent to the DMZ  for an undetermined length of time.  

Me and TAC Merille

They never found that soldier and no one ever admitted to it, despite the promise of clemency.  My Training Officer, CW-2 Merille did pull me aside several times to tell me that he didn't want to know anything about it.  I told him that I felt this was wise, as it would only upset him.  

Watermelon Man

WATERMELON MAN

You lift sixteen tons

and what d'you get?

Another day older

and deeper in debt

TH-55A being used as a shopping cart

I was the first to solo in Class 86-12.  
No clouds, no wind, visibility fifty miles.  I flew with my I.P. out to Hanchy stage field and landed, he got out, told me not to break the goddamn helicopter because he had signed for it and it wasn't coming out of his paycheque.  So, I taxied out, took off, flew crosswind, downwind, base, final and landed; three times.  I had single-handily slipped the surly bonds of earth and lived to tell about it.  My face hurt from grinning.  I opened my eyes.

When I landed, my I.P. stormed from the tower and met me at the aircraft, and told me to get the hell out of it.  Another Instructor had come with him and took the controls while I unstrapped, trying to remember what rule I had violated while unsupervised.  My I.P. grabbed me by the collar and seat of my flight suit, carried me to the tower, and threw me into a blow-up wadding pool filled with water.  Head first.  Then he shook my hand smiling and said I knew you could do once you got your head outta' your butt.  High praise indeed.  

Twenty minutes of flying and I was done for the day.  I had just conquered gravity and cheated death, and now I had to sit and watch every else fly.  Only one other guy soloed about an hour later.  So, I sat around, wet.  Fortunately, being the beginning of summer in Alabama, it was already in the mid nineties.  Then since the relative humidity was around 95%, I sat around hot and wet.  

Finally after everyone had had their flights and were heading home my I.P. told me I was going to fly him back to the field to get full ninety minutes I was being paid for.  After take off, he said he wanted to show me steep approaches and take offs from a confined area.  This meant flying in and out of small clearings.  Landing on an asphalt runway was one thing but I was a little unsure about landing in holes in the trees.  

Around Ft. Rucker there are hundreds of clearings, just for this sort of thing.  But, at certain times of the year, these ad hoc LZs become wild watermelon patches.  It was a matter of prestige for my I.P. to have the first student to solo in the class.  A credit to his genius, not mine.  And, as part of the Nobles Oblige, he was going to bring watermelon for all the other IPs.  And I was going to help.

We landed and took off from three or four “LZs” before we found any watermelon.  When we did he took the controls and said Don't ever try this yourself,  pitching the little two seater well past the recommended angle of bank and dropped into the LZ so fast my helmet bumped the canopy.  To slow the forward momentum, he pulled the nose up beyond the tops of the trees and kicked the rudder pedals making the trees lurch away up and to the left.  Thirty seconds ago I was flying and we were above the trees, now we were on the ground below the trees.  As he rolled the throttle down to the idle stop, he cautioned again, never to try that myself.  I nodded, trying to remember how to do it when I got to fly solo again.  

There was only one watermelon ripe, so I cut the vine with my survival knife, and we were off to the next field.  The next field was almost too small to land in, but from the air we could see five, maybe six good sized watermelons ripe enough.  Because the LZ was so small, our approach had to almost vertical.  This also meant that to take off, we would have to climb straight up to about eighty feet before we would clear the trees.  Once on the ground, I got out and picked six or seven watermelons, all weighing at least twenty pounds each.  Since no more would fit in the already cramped cockpit, I strapped in and readied for take off.

About Density Altitude:  Density Altitude is a combination of Barometric pressure, Temperature, and Humidity.  High temperature and high humidity make for a high density altitude.  This means the air is thinner than is standard.  When the air is thinner, engine performance is affected and there is less potential lift available.  For airplanes, this would necessitate a longer take off roll.  For helicopters, this limits the amount of weight that can be lifted.  

Being that I weighed in at about 180, and my IP at fifty pounds better, we were already rather close to Max. Gross Allowable with a full gas tank.  We had burned about 1/4 tank so far, but took on about a hundred pounds of produce.  These factors, in combination with the outside air temperature didn't seem important until about twenty feet below the tops of the trees.  Then they became very important.  As we struggled aloft, me holding on to the watermelon and I.P. swearing, we made it to about sixty feet when the Main Rotor RPM began to drop.  Like the stone we would become shortly.  When Rotor RPM drops, it means the blades are not creating sufficient lift to make the helicopter fly.  To correct this the first response is to ad power and blade pitch, but this only aggravates the RPM bleed off.  The best thing to do is drop the nose and pick up forward air speed.  That's fine when you have 200 or even 100 feet to use, but in a tight confined area such as this a vertical take off is the only way out.  

Back on the ground, I recommended leaving some of the watermelons behind.  I was told that that was not an option; not in those words, but the blow I received on the top of my helmet said roughly the same thing.  Next I suggested letting the engine run until we burnt off enough fuel to get out.  Same answer.  I stopped making suggestions.  

My I.P. said there was a road just to the north of the clearing.  He said he would take the aircraft to the road and I would walk out to meet him, but to wait until he was clear of the trees before leaving.  After three attempts, my he set the aircraft down and motioned for me to come over.  He asked if I had any other recommendations.  Wisely, I thought, I replied no.  For my candor I was rewarded with another thump on the head.  I should have been wearing my helmet.  

It was decided that I should try to fly it out since I weighed less, and if I couldn't do it I would carry the watermelon to the road for pick up.  Without another word between us, I strapped in and rolled on the throttle and faked the before take off checks, along the lines on "Atomic Batteries to power, Turbines to speed".  Slowly increasing the RPM and pulling up on the collective and correcting with the pedals, the aircraft became light, then wobbly, then airborne.  This was not like hovering at a stage field; the ground was uneven, there was grass swirling in the rotor wash and I was staring at a wall of pine trees.  When hovering, the idea is to pick a spot on the horizon as a reference point.  I had a tree much too close for piece of mind.  Not having an adequate reference point, I mearly closed my eyes and pulled in the power.

TH-55 cockpit

Once above the trees, the aircraft reacts to the wind, causing the helicopter to turn into it like a 1600 pound weather vane.  Now, to find the road and actually land on it.  Well, this should be easy, roads look a lot like runway, right?  Well yes and no.  Runways don't have telephone wires across them or cars on them.  For very good reasons too.

I sighted the road and flew towards it.  The only way I could land was by doing a traffic pattern first, so I flew the little square, and lined up on the road. I wondered should I land in the middle or on the right hand side?  Or land and pull over to the curb?  This was not covered in ground school.  As I was about to touch down, I noticed the power lines and ducked under them, bouncing and skidding on the asphalt.  It was then that I noticed the car.  Also, in ground school they never mentioned who has the right of way, a car or a helicopter.  Since they had a horn, I figured the car did so I yanked on the collective, sending me up and sideways.  I was so rattled, I dropped the aircraft back to earth just as my IP came through the bushes.  The car had already disappeared out of sight , so the bad landing became my fault.

Gold Flight WOC hat

We returned to Cairns Army Airfield as the other were getting their final critiques.  Normally an overdue aircraft was cause for great wailing and gnashing of teeth, but since we had watermelon, all sins were forgiven.  Nothing was said about the mishap with the car, and the damage to the skids was put down as run-on landing practice.  My beaming Flight Instructor did present me with my solo wings and wrote in my log book Candidate Waters did this day perform solo and unaided flight in the TH-55a Helicopter not once but twice.  

Google Teacher Academy video!

This video has had over 45 THOUSAND views!  WtH?

New Glasses

I can see clearly now,

the pain is gone.

-Carol king

For we walk by faith, not by sight.

2 Corinthians 5:7

For the most part, I am proud of my military record.  In addition to the fact that not only did America remain unconquered from without, but we also won all our wars while I was serving.  However, what has amazed me the most is that I was the first Warrant Officer Candidate to be allowed full-time prescription glasses.  This may not sound like a big deal; but according to the regulations, all WOC's must have 20/20 vision when they show up at Ft. Rucker.  But, another regulation says that all application requirements may be waived once a Candidate has one hour of flight time.  The trick was getting through the flight physicals, and knowing how to read the regulations to your advantage if need be.

I had four US. Army flight physicals prior to beginning my flight training.  In all of these there was some question of my eye tests.  They were all "close" but not quite 20/20.  When told of this  genetic imperfection, I suggested to the eye tech “come on, just this once.”  Agreeing, I was approved for flight training.  

While flying one day, my instructor noticed that I was squinting and recommended I get an eye exam.  An eye exam?!  This was considered sudden death for any WOC.  There were no WOC's with glasses.  They just disappeared, like characters in a Solzhenitsyn novel.  

By this time, I had already made a “name” for myself around Ft. Rucker, and I lived in terror until the day I left for California that it would catch up to me. However, I had learned by this time to read regulations and find loopholes that I could exploit.  The powers-that-be couldn't really get rid of me without a fight and this is where regulation-reading would come in to play.

At this point, and “for my own good”, the Sr. TAC officer decided to make yet another example of me.  Only this time I didn't have to march all night in the rain or do push-ups until I threw up.  He got me an emergency appointment and told me not to show my face until it had some Army glasses on it.

In an un-Army like show of efficiency and compassion, I got my examination and glasses in about two hours and reported to the Sr. TAC.  This was done in WOC fashion of course, by slapping his door frame three times and shouting SIR!CANDIDATEWATERS!REPORTINGASORDEREDSIR!”  

Waters, how come you check in with 20/20 and four months later you need glasses?  He asked with a tone of voice somewhere between concerned father and a Pirannha.  I didn't know.  I had no GOOD explanation, so trying to deflect this line of questioning I panicked. I gave him the first one that popped into my head.  Well, Sir, I've been away from home a long time.  And since I've been gone, well I play with myself a lot more...an' well you know what they say....SIR!  

Trying to maintain composure, neither laugh nor exploding, he asked me in that special TAC Officer way to please leave his office two minutes ago.  

The next day, while unsuccessfully trying to sneak out of the company area unnoticed, the Sr. TAC asked me to please explain to the TAC Officers he was talking with, why I needed glasses.  I may not have had 20/20 vision, but I could see a set-up coming.  So, trying to sound as "military" as possible I began:  Sirs, they way I understand the flight surgeon is this:  I have an astigmatism in my left eye, and because my right eye is trying to compensate, the resulting strain has weakened it as well.  That is why I need glasses, Sir.  His face fallen and slightly confused, the Sr. TAC asked me What about playing with yourself Waters?  

Pardon me Sir? I replied, trying to look innocent.  

Since you've been away from home, you play with yourself, right?  The Officers with him were starting to look uncomfortable.  To them, these were pretty personal questions to be asking a WOC, even though it was back in the days when hazing of Candidates was still allowed.  To me, this was just another day at the office.  Realizing he had been hoist by his own petard, the Sr. TAC asked me to wait for him in his office.  Shall I do push ups while I wait Sir?  He only grunted something but by then I had already double-timed half way across the parking lot.

He arrived at his office 125 push ups behind me.  Lowering himself to ground level, he asked me why I had answered as I did.  I replied that I did not know these officers and did not want to say anything unprofessional in front of them as it would look bad for the company.  He thanked me for my concern for the company's reputation, and promised me that for the duration of my tour of duty there, he would pay special attention to me.  

Like I said, just another day at the office.  The special attention was limited to be asked for the next week at roll call why I needed glasses. So, each time I would answer at the top of my lungs: "SIR!CANDIDATEWATERSAIRASSAULTSIR!INEEDGLASSESBECAUSEIPLAYWITHMYESLFSIR!  
This created a certain amount of notoriety for me.  Officers from other companies would come by to watch.  Besides, according to the WOC guide, “Admissions of a personal nature, before the company” counted as “Displays of Moral Courage”, and worth four merits per display.  If needed, this could be used for the old “Mental Distress” plea; a good trump card to hold on to.

The special attention dropped off the next week, when five other candidates went for eye exams and came back with glasses.  
I was finally able to fade back into the crowd unseen.

© Ronn L. Waters 1994

Lucky Checkride Underwear

I found some old stories I wrote about flight school, and thought I'd post them and see if I can get them cleaned up.

LUCKY CHECK RIDE UNDERWEAR

In the span of ninety days I had “busted” (flunked) two check rides and had ten PL's or “precautionary landings”.  Normally busting two rides was grounds for elimination from the flight program, however I had several more or less legitimate excuses and a note from the flight surgeon (plus a new pair of glasses).  Besides that, nothing I did in flight school was considered normal.  A “Precautionary Landing” means that something BAD will happen soon, whereas an Emergency Landing means something bad has already happened.  Either way, the helicopter will be coming into contact with the Earth, of it's own free will, shortly.  

When an Army Aviator walks away from an emergency landing he is awarded a Broken Wing Award.  Flight students aren't allowed to have emergencies, so we were in-eligible for the award.  I was however, mentioned in the citations for three as the pilot on the controls at the time.  The Army, in it's wisdom, began to view me not as a pilot who could handle himself in an emergency situation, but as a pilot who was always getting into trouble.  Despite this, some of the instructor pilots thought I might be “charmed”, so I spent two weeks flying with different Instructor Pilots so as to spread the luck around.

The other students in the class avoided me like the plague.  If you had to make a PL somewhere out in the bushes, and were able to walk away from it, it could be a number of hours before the rescue ship came and got you.  This would cut into free time and nobody wanted to take that risk.  At first, I thought the reputation was cool:  Be feared if you’re not going to be respected.  But, then I began to feel jinxed, which is the worst thing a student-pilot can be.  I had seen enough John Wayne and Randolph Scott fighter-pilot movies to know that.  I wasn't real concerned with my classmates' opinions as much as busting another ride.  I knew I would never talk my way out of that.  

I started wearing a rabbit's foot and the Battalion Chaplain brought me an Our Lady of Loretto (the Patron Saint of those who fly) medal to wear when I flew.  By this time, I would have been surprised if neither her nor the Chaplain hadn't heard of me.  Besides, at this point, anything would help.  My flying was OK, I was just scared.  

J.J. , my girlfriend at the time, was also scared.  I was beginning to become manic.  What time we did spent together was spent passionately reviewing checklists, procedures and other aviation arcana.  Not exactly the stuff of a young girl's' dreams.  Something had to be done.  What I needed, as she saw it, was something to make me feel loved all under.  

JJ is the one on the Right

And that something was a pair of mint green panties.  According to the note, his was the closest color she had to OD. Green, and they would bring me luck.  Mail Call would never be the same.  For the first week I  carried them in the breast pocket of my flight suit as a good luck charm.  

Just as Dumbo had his magic black feather, or a Medieval Knight would go into combat with the favors of his lady affixed to his armor, I too went out with mine in my pocket.  Armed with this powerful talisman, I felt more confident and my daily scores improved.  Plus, the helicopters, as if by magic, became more reliable.  My luck was starting to change; for the better.

That is, until the day I was doing laundry, and had emptied the contents of my pockets into my desk drawer while I was putting clothes in the wash.  That was the day Chief Warrant Officer (CW2) Hogan decided to surprise us with a contraband inspection.  

When I returned to my room, I was greeted by my Mr. Hogan holding at arm's length, a pair of mint green panties.  When asked to explain these, I replied that they were “PANTIES,WOMEN'S,GREEN,ONEEACHSIR” trying to sound military.  I thought I could dissuade him if I gave it to him in Army nomenclature.  When he asked if there was anything he should know about me possessing women's’ underwear, and not to be deterred by a simple yet truthful, SIRNOSIR!  I explained that they were my “Lucky Check Ride Underwear” as if everybody had a pair.  Then, as if everybody did have a pair, he said “Oh, that's OK”, and put them back in the drawer.  I lived in fear that I would have to explain this to the company at some formation, but nothing was said about it and I muddled my way through Advanced Combat Skills.

For the Advanced Combat Skills Check Ride, they assume you can fly.  What they look for is, can you navigate, talk on the radio, handle in-flight emergencies and fly all at the same time.  Sort of like juggling while singing something by Gilbert and Sullivan while riding a unicycle down a flight of stairs.  This may sound difficult, but I was prepared:  I had my Lucky Check Ride Underwear.  Taking no chances this time, I was wearing them.  

The preflight oral exam was brief; while my “Stick Buddy” was asked every emergency procedure in the book, the Examiner asked me if he was right or wrong.  Other than that, the only question he asked me was about one of my own emergency landings.  My stick-buddy flew first while I sat in the back and navigated.  It was my job to guide him on a route that changed every five minutes.  This meant you had to constantly rework your entry and escape routes, make the proper radio calls stay out of restricted airspace and not hit any telephone wires; all while zooming ten feet above the trees at 90 mph.  Nothing to it really.  

After two hours, we'd switch places and do it again.  I liked flying second because it meant all I had to do was drive and not hit anything.  It was my GiB’s (guy in back) turn to advise me when to make certain radio calls, when to slow for an approach, and when to watch for wires.  This was important when flying down river beds, just above, or just below the tree tops.  

Maybe I had become too confident in my abilities.  Maybe I was relying on his.  Either way, I wasn't aware of the telephone wires bisecting a peanut field about half-way up the windshield until they looked as big as fire hoses.  The examiner had been writing on his knee board, Guy in Back was trying to find us on the map, and I was trying to find some music on the Automatic Direction Finder receiver.  As if responding to a celestial voice, we all looked up together and said “WIRES!-UP!”.  Hoping that would make the aircraft levitate out of harm's way.  When in doubt, it is always better to get away from the ground or anything solid until you can think about the problem at hand.  

So, I went down.  I bottomed the collective, causing the helicopter to drop thirty feet in two seconds.  Since we were no more than thirty feet above the peanut field to begin with, our descent was about to be arrested by contact with the ground.  However, just prior to impact, realizing I had picked the wrong direction, I pulled the collective as high as it would go.  I was caught off guard by the surge in torque that accompanies any rapid increase or decrease in power to the rotor system, as the helicopter slewed to the right over the trees at the end of the field.  After a few minutes, we realized we were not dead.  At this point, the examiner called it a day.  After landing, we found pine needles wedged into an access panel just under the rear door.  

The pine needles discarded, the incident was forgotten, as it would require too much paperwork.  When we returned to the company area, Mr. Hogan went down the list of stick buddies, and we had to announce our score or say “Re-check” if we busted.  After mine announced “Re-check.  Navigation”, Mr. Hogan asked “Waters, did you break another of the taxpayers' helicopters, or did you wear your Lucky Check Ride Underwear today?”  

The next day, Guy-in-Back passed his re-check.  I don't know if he actually wore my lucky check ride underwear, or just kept them in his pocket.  

Tallest one at the talent show!

My students "double-dog dared" me into playing something at the school Talent Show.
Here's my arrangement of Colin Hay's "I just don't think I'll ever get over you".  Playing my home made Pineapple Super Tenor ukulele!