Yes First Sergeant, I belive in Santa Claus.

Upon entering the room, we noticed evidence that our room had been entered by someone besides us (we were elsewhere, drinking).

The "evidence" was Christmas stockings, one on each of our beds.

And who is "we?"

We is myself (your humble storyteller) and my (then - then being December of '85) roommate, Senior Airmen Stan "the Batman" Jackson.

Ok, let me back this story up a bit.

"Batman" Jackson, my roomate was a Radar technician assigned to my unit - the (now deactivated) 1923 communications group on (the now closed) Kellys AFB in San Antonio, Texas - which I believe is still open. I had known him from training in Biloxi (Keesler AFB Mississippi ), so this was our 2nd assignment together.

Stan was a colorful character, but what was most interesting was that he bore a striking resemblance to the comic strip character Andy Capp when he was out of uniform (or even when he was in uniform), especially when he wore the hat!

Stan's preferred beverage was "Bat Juice" - Rum and coke, specifically Bacardi and Coke (for those who don't know, Bacardi has a logo of a bat on the bottle, hence the name "Bat Juice" for Bacardi and Coke), which is how he earned the name "the Batman" (had nothing to do with the comic book hero).

So it was Christmas eve, 1985. Like a lot of GIs,  then and now, we were away from our friends and families at Christmas time...

Well, not entirely true. We had each other. You'd have to have been in the military to completely understabd, but the guys you served with were more than just co-workers, they were your military family.

So Christmas eve, after finishing the duty day we went to our room to watch the Thundercats...

Yes, Stan and I were fans of the Thundercats. Stan had a crush on Cheetara.

...and then went down for food at the chow hall, where Stan and I contemplated what to do with our evening.

It was a short contemplation. The answer was the Airman's Club. It was downstairs, which meant we didn't need to drive anywhere, which meant we could drink as much as we wanted because we didn't have to worry about DUI coming back from wherever we weren't going to go. And since Christmas was a non-duty day, the Club would be open until 2am - 4 extra drinking hours!

Now, it's not as bad as you might think. The Club had a Christmas eve buffet, there was dancing, a pool tournament and other games. Stan and I played darts...

"Real" darts, with steel tips. Not those plastic tips they use now - we lived dangerously back then.

It was actually a rather nice event. It wasn't just heavy drinking, it was moderate.

OK, it was more than moderate. But we weren't driving, OK?

At 2am the club closed and we all left. Stan and I went upstairs to our room, and that's where we come to the part of my story that I started this blog entry with.

Upon entering the room, we noticed evidence that our room had been entered by someone besides us (we were elsewhere, drinking).

The "evidence" was Christmas stockings, one on each of our beds.

Stan went over to his bed and picked up the stocking, examined it, the looked at me and said "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot."

That isn't actually what he said. What he actually said was something more colloquial.

Those who were in the military know what Whiskey Tango Foxtrot means (and what the Batman actually said).

We examined our stockings. They were the mesh type you could get at any store, full of nuts and candy. Nice gift, I suppose, except there was no tag that said Merry Christmas from whoever.

Was it possible that there really was a Santa Claus?

The next morning (Christmas morning) the Batman and I went down to the chow hall for breakfast, where we were joined by David "Mac" McLaughlin. Stan and I were talking about the stockings and I had just said "I'd like to know where those stocking came from" when he sat down.

"You guys got a stocking too?" he asked.

Upon returning to his room, Mac had found a stocking on his bed. So did, we discovered,  everyone else in the barracks.

Could Santa be real?

The chow hall had a rather nice dinner for us later that day - turkey AND ham, plus a wide assortment of side dishes like stuffing, mashed potato and gravy, salads (green, potato, and fruit salads), sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, assorted nuts, and a variety of holiday pies. All and all, not a bad way to spend Christmas.

And after dinner? The Airman's Club. But only until 10 as the 26th was a duty day.

Oh, and where did the stockings come from? According to Jack Bishop, the dorm supervisor, our First Sergeant intercepted him Christmas Eve coming back from a date with his girlfriend. He (the First Sergeant) was full of the Christmas spirit (literally - Jack said he was afraid to light a cigarette because of the whiskey fumes) and after Jack got out the master dorm room key, the two of them went from room to room distributing four cases of Christmas stockings which the First Sergeant had apparently purchased earlier that day which he had stored in the back of his car.

Merry Christmas, sir.

Old Lang Syne

On New Years Eve in 1983 I was on active duty in the Air Force, and that night I had guard duty from 2200 to 0000

For all you civilians, that from 10pm to midnight.

I was in training at the time, and part of the training was to learn about the importance of security by standing guard duty. Nothing every happens. Your not guarding anything of real importance, just the dormitory. There is a bigger picture, that is, learning to guard real assets by starting with the dormitory. You don't even get to carry a weapon yet, you just wear the web belt.

Dorm guard means checking everyone's ID card when they come in, and if a person is not on the authorized list of people authorized to come into the dorm, you must deny them access unless they have a pass from the CQ, or the Sergeant said it was OK to let them in..

Nobody comes in at night, so guard duty on night shift is boring. Much like being the Maytag repair man.

---

But the military is like that. Hours and hours of boredom, waiting for something to happen. And considering that war is the something that might happen, you hoped that everything remained boring. Nobody ever really dies of boredom. They die of war, however.

---

Guard duty in training was the beginning of a continual learning process that everything in the military needs to be secured. From basic training onward, you are continually learning to guard thing, secure things, and someone is occasionally monitoring your security.

I covered all this on a previous blog entry.

Regular readers of this blog will remember that was the blog page where I told the story about how Airman Brumble forced a Brigadier General to lay face down in the dirt. 

Security comes in various forms and various levels - Top Secret, Secret, Very Secret, Uber Secret, Classified, semi-classified, unclassified, and "between you, me and the lamp post."

And if it doesn't fit into any other category, there is the catch-all classification of "need to know." Basically, anything (and everything) is considered need to know, and if someone doesn't need to know you don't tell him anything.

And some of the oddest things get classified under the "Need to Know Doctrine." True story:

Once, during a routine check by security, I was quizzed on procedures and protocols, and one of the questions was who do I call in such-and-such event, and I answered Security Police (correct answer). I was then asked what the phone number was. I was suppose to remember that number, but even back then I had problems remembering numbers. But, seriously, even in the military, in the event of an emergency, dial 911

I told the man I couldn't remember the number, but it was in my pocket phone book, and I removed it from my pocket to show him. He asked to examine the "little black book" and after briefly going through it, he returned it to me that since I had (in addition to the phone numbers of every female I knew in San Antonio) military phone numbers inside, he informed me that my "little black book" was to be considered  a classified document - that is "need to know" information.

I knew some cuties in San Antonio, and I "needed to know" their numbers ;-)

But I digress 

2358 - I heard someone walking towards me. Airmen Jenson was coming to relieve me - he had duty from 0000 to 0200

That midnight to 2am

The clock hit Midnight. Elsewhere, at least in the Central Time Zone, people were yelling and tooting noisemakers and setting off fireworks. And maybe kissing that special someone.

Not in the dorm. Except for me and Jensen, everyone else was asleep.

"Happy New Years" I told him as he approached.

"Same to you" he replied.

Softly, Jensen began to sing. I joined in

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Jensen looked at me and said "You are relieved" he told me.

"I stand relieved" I replied, then walked to my bunk to go to sleep.

I did not kiss Jensen. He wasn't that special.

Mean Ass Female Drill Sergeants

So it is December of '83, almost midnight, and I am standing outside with several other guys wondering if the Sergeant was even aware that we were out there, as we had been standing there for some time. He hadn't and eventually he came out and began yelling.

And I, and no doubt the other guys, were wondering just what we had gotten ourselves into.

Welcome to Lackland AFB - the gateway to the Air Force. Basic training began right there and then.

For the first 72 hours, the yelling is continual. There is nothing you could do right. Ye stood wrong, you looked wrong, you even breathed wrong. And if you didn't breath, that was wrong too.

Most people, that is to say those who did not join a branch of the military, find this somewhat evil. We did too, at first. But the "evil" has a purpose:

• It weeds out those unfit to serve. If you can't handle being yelled at, you won't handle being shot at.
• You learn to work as a team. Even though the other guys were mostly strangers, it was us against him.
• You learn to do things the military way, correctly, the first time.

The last one is important. Unlike other professions, not doing something correctly the first time could have lethal consequence. For example: You failed to properly maintain your weapon, and it malfunctions during a combat situation. You, and/or your team may wind up inadvertently dying for your country.

General Patton once pointed out that you do not win a war by dying for your country, but by making the enemy die for his country.

 But as hard as it looks in the movies, and as hard as it seems at the start of basic, by the time you are done and look back on it all, you can't believe that you were such a wuss at the start of Basic Training.



So what is the meanest animal?

It sort of depends on your definition. Some say badgers, some say Tasmanian devils, some say grizzlies, some say pandas.

Pandas? Really??

 My choice, at least for the top ten list of mean mammalian creatures in Homo Sapiens Drillus Femalia, more commonly known as the female drill Sergeant.

Women can be pretty mean to begin with, especially mothers. And not just human mothers: Sarah, my female, got fairly protective when she littered.

For the safety of all concerned (being my other dogs), I set up a special kennel/nursery for Sarah - otherwise she will take her pups and hide them under the bed or behind the sofa. Like a military commander, Sarah sets up an perimeter around the kennel/nursery, and no one (except for me) is allowed in the exclusion zone.

I have a fourth dog now, her name is Reba. She is 5 1/2 month now. Shortly after Reba was born (around the third day or so) we went outside for a potty break. We being me and the dogs, although I don't go potty outside  - the neighbors would not appreciate that very much. Potty break for Sarah when she has pups is to run out, pee, and run back in to take care of the babies - usually under a minute.

The other dogs take there time.

This time, however, there was an unexpected development. Sandy, a Rottweiler who lives nearby had gotten out of her backyard and was wandering.

Sandy is a friendly dog (not vicious), and she never wanders far, just around the neighborhood. She will eventually go home on her own, if someone doesn't take her back.

Sandy had wandered into our complex and was near our unit when I opened the door to let the canines out. Sarah spotted her right away, and her motherhood gene kicked in. She did not want any straying dog in (what she considered) her area. She let out angry barks, and charged towards Sandy.

This could have gotten ugly, but it didn't.

Sandy is a big Rottweiler, at least 100 pounds. Sarah is a Chihuahua/Pomeranian, around 5 pounds. Despite the size difference in Sandy's favor, the sight of an angry Chihuahua charging towards her at full speed, barking angrily, must have unnerved her, because she turned around and fled back to the safety of her own yard.



But female drill Sergeant mean is a bit difference. Female drills need to be a bit meaner than there male counterpart, not because the possess different genitalia, but because on the average a female is smaller than a man, and unless she learns how to get a smart ass male's respect instantly, she will never be an effective drill sergeant.

And the female drills I encountered were good at this.

I could tell several stories, but perhaps the best example involved a female sergeant who simultaneously chewed out two entire flights (platoons) of men. That was 100 men, including me

I didn't do anything

(this time)

What had happened was this: We had just finished up one of the many classes we were required to attend, and were outside waiting for the sergeants to come get us and march us to somewhere else - class, chow, etc. Since we were just waiting, we were standing roughly in formation, but at ease - which meant informal.

As we were waiting, a female sergeant walked past. She was one of the shortest sergeants I had ever seen, standing about 4'12" and weighing maybe 115 pounds. As she walked past, she noticed that one of the trainees had his hat on askew.

Sergeants notice these thing

She slowed for a moment, and requested that the trainee with the askew hat correct his improper wear of the uniform.

By request, I do not mean that she politely requested that he adjust his hat because it was improperly being worn contrary to Air Force Regulation 35-10

By request, I mean she went up to him and informed him "You better get that hat on correctly"

The offending trainee came to attention (as was required in Basic training when being addressed by anyone higher than the rank of squirrel), then swiftly and efficiently corrected the hat (improperly being worn contrary to Air Force Regulation 35-10).

Satisfied, the female sergeant proceeded onward around the corner of the building towards her destination.

After a few movements had past, one of the other trainees made kissing noises in her directions, thinking she was out or range.

Or so he thought.

Now what I remember about this was this: One moment she wasn't there, then there was a flickering of light as Mr Scott beamed her into the middle of our formation

(I said Mr Scott instead of Geordi LaForge, because at the time I was in Basic Training, Star Trek the Next Generation had not been made yet)

She had heard the cat call, such are the eyes (and ears) of the Training Instructors, but was unable to determine with any certainty who the offending trainee was

Or maybe just didn't care.

Unable to determine the source of the cat-call, she called both Flights (100 men) to attention, faced each flight towards the other, and then walked up and down between the two formations and informed all of us in no uncertain terms (and a few terms that cannot be repeated) that such behavior was not appropriate, etc, etc...

So efficient was her 100 man ass chewing that five of the 100 wet themselves, two collapsed from the verbal assault, and one (Airmen Kowalski) suffers from PTSD and is still receiving psychological counseling from the VA.

I was informed by a member of the other Flight that the offending Trainee, who made the cat-call, was appropriately dealt with by the other members of his flight, sort of a peer intervention.

By peer intervention, I mean a "blanket party" after lights out.

 You don't have much of a sense of humor in basic training.

The base I spent most of my time in the military was Kelly AFB, located in San Antonia, TX. Kelly AFB was right next to Lackland AFB - and by right next to i mean they shared a common fence.

Two of my close friends during this time was a supply specialist (who was part of my unit) and her husband who was a KP sergeant.

At least once in Basic you will get KP duty (washing dishes, etc). Its a five to mine job.

Yes, I said five to nine. You start a 5am and get off at 9pm.

Welcome to the military, where regular hours are a luxury, and working long hours occurs more often than you might like.

My record was 3 days straight when lightning fried out the air traffic control toweree's comm systems.

 So we drove to the  trainees chow hall to pick up her husband. As we were sitting at a table, waiting, trainees came out and quietly sat at anoth table, waiting to be dismissed. At the time, I had heard this totally funny joke and had been telling it to anyone and everyone all day

I can't repeat it here - it's one of those kind of jokes.

My friend told me to tell the boys my joke, so I did. They sat quietly as I told it, and when I got to the punch line...

Nothing.

They just stared at me, like frightened rabbits.

Later, my friend the KP sergeant reminded me that there was no such thing as humor in Basic. To them, an NCO was something to fear, and the fact that I was trying to tell them a joke didn't register.



So like I said, my base was next to the trainee's base, and since we had minimal shopping facilities on Kelly, I often went to Lackland. One of the "facilities" was a photography studio. For whatever reason I felt I needed to have a portrait of me in my full uniform, so I scheduled an appointment.

Being that I didn't want to risk getting my Dress Blues dirty and/or wrinkled before I had the picture taken, I waited until I got to the mini-mall before going into the men's room and changing into my uniform.

After I got my picture taken, I returned to the men's room, change out of my uniform and started to go to my car.

That's when the Female TI stopped me

"You had a uniform on when you went into the latrine" she informed me.

Latrine is military-ese for bathroom, in case you didn't know.

"Where is your uniform now?" she asked.

"In my duffel" I responded.

Now I should explain what was going on. Most of the personnel on Lackland are trainees, either in basic training or technical school. As such, they are subject to certain restrictions, such as not being allowed to wear your civilian clothing when going off base. The Sergeant assumed that I was a trainee who was trying to sneak off base in his civvies.

I realized this, and decided to play along for a while - I had nothing major planned until that evening.

"Why is it in there?"

"It's easier to carry"

"OK, smart guy. Why don't you just hand me a 341"

AF form 341 was a disciplinary form that, as trainees, we were all required to carry at least two of them at all time. That was, no matter where we were on base, if a training sergeant saw us doing something wrong, he (or she) would request on of our forms (which already had our names and units filled in) and the sergeant would fill out the bottom part, detailing our misbehavior, and forward them to our sergeants via the distribution system (which worked very quickly). Our sergeant would then apply the appropriate level of yelling and punishment.

In theory, the Form 341 could also be used to inform our sergeants what a good job we were doing, but I never heard of them being used in this capacity.

"I don't have any" I informed her.

I burned my 341 after I completed my school and was no longer considered to be in training status.

"What is your name" she asked, pulling out a small notebook and pen.

I gave her my name, and she wrote it down.

"What's the number to your CQ?"

CQ is, essentially, the main office for a military unit.

"5-1693" I answered.

She pause, momentarily caught off guard. The reason was that each of the (then) six military bases had a different exchange number. Lackland was 3-, and I had just given her a 5- number.

"What unit are you with? she asked, not quite as forceful.

"1923 Comm" I answered.

"Your permanent party? Why the hell didn't you tell me that when I stopped you?"

"Because I have always wanted to get back at a training sergeant"



I encountered my Basic Training Sergeant some time later, at a base wide softball tournament - my shop had a team. Me and O'Leary had been drinking beer all afternoon, and slightly buzzed I noticed the man nearby with a small child was none other than MY sergeant. I mentioned this to O'leary, who dared me to go talk to him.

"I ain't afraid of him" I said

"Then go talk to him"

"OK, I will"

And I did.

I walked up and and said "Sir..."

Yes, I said "Sir" - Drill Sergeants in the Air Force, while you are in training, are addressed as "Sir"

"Sir, you may not remember me..."

"Barnes" he said. "Flight 015, January/February 1984"

"Yes, sir" I answered.

I almost came to attention (also required in Basic). The reason I didn't was because of all the Beer I drank.

We chatted for a moment, then I was informed (by O'Leary) that our team was next up in the Tournament. I informed him that I was needed, and that it was good to see him again.

I actually pause for a moment, waiting for his permission to depart.

Basic training lingers for a long time.

Fred the Squirrel (USAF, Ret.)

I realize that today (October 31st) is

Halloween, but I am not doing a

Halloween entry.

My dogs are not very big on Halloween.

Candy is not good for dogs, especially
chocolate, so trick-or-treating isn't as
much fun.

Last year they dressed up and knocked
on my door, and after I gave them each
a (dog) treat, they walked around the
house and knocked again.

They were bored with this quickly.

But if you want a Halloween story,
click here and read the one I posted
last year which tells how Macky Rae
whacked a real zombie.

I went to the VA clinic last week and got my flu shot.

One of the benefits of having served in the military is that I get a free Flu shot every year courtesy of the VA.

They set up in the back parking lot, and (I love this) the had a drive thru! Veterans with vehicles could just drive up, stick there arms out the car window and get the shot, and then drive off.

Myself, I rode in on the bus. I walked up to the pavilion, bared my arm and let a nurse give me the shot.

At least I think she was a nurse.

She didn't have a badge, nor did I ask for identification. I just walked up, bared my arm as requested, and accepted the shot without question - the result of military training, no doubt. For all I knew, these innocent looking females could have been terrorists, and I may have been injected with Anthrax.

I'm not dead, so I guess they were nurses.

 

October was vaccination month in the Dances with Dogs household. My trio of dogs got there shots updated a few weeks ago, so the are protected against whatever diseases dogs might get. They were very good about it. They were not pleased, but they were good about it.

Their anger lasted about as long as it took me to open the bag of beef jerky I brought for a snack.

I was thinking about not getting my flu shot this year, but the dogs were not going to allow that.

SARAH: That's @#$%!!

MACKY: Yeah!

FREEDOM: We had to get our shots!

MACKY: Yeah!

SARAH: Hypocrite!

MACKY: Yeah!

Before I knew it, I was being shoved out the front door by my dogs. I heard the sound of the door being locked behind me, and a voice from behind the door telling me:

SARAH: And don't come back until you get your flu shot.

MACKY: Yeah!

I wouldn't of minded it so much, except the VA wasn't giving the shots until the next day.

And it was starting to sprinkle.

From inside, I heard :

FREEDOM: You guys want to eat the leftovers in the fridge?

MACKY: Yeah!

I dislike shots.

Let me tell you a story: Some years ago, I developed a tooth ache. Of course, I didn't take care of it right away (I dislike dentists more than I dislikes vaccinations) and of course it got worse. It became serious on an evening when I was hanging out with my friend Keith, drinking and eating pizza while watching something on cable. Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain jolted through my jaw. It had upgraded from a simple tooth ache. The pain on my face was obvious as after a few minutes Keith suggested that I let him take me to the ER. I told him I'd be OK in a moment, to which he said "I don't know. You just turned a shade of white I ain't never seen on a white boy." So we went to the ER. It must have been a slow night (definitely not a full moon) because after filling out some forms and answering a few questions from the triage nurse... Q: What have you taken so far for the pain? A: Four Ibuprofen and a triple shot of Jack Daniels. (The triage nurse didn't even blink. She had either heard that before, or was a redneck herself.) ...we were taken back to an examination room to be examined by the examining doctor. We only waited a few minutes (which is hours when there is a sharp, stabbing pain jolting through your jaw) before the examining Doctor came in, asked a few more questions, then looked in my mouth and declared the tooth to be infected. And it needed to come out first thing the next day. In the meantime, if I wanted something for the pain (yes, please!) he would send a nurse in and give me a shot. The problem is that this type of shot is always injected into the fleshy region of the lower anatomy that is know as the gluteus maximus. I refer to da butt! The nurse came in with a vial of something I assumed to be "something for the pain" and a hypodermic needle, and requested that I roll over on my stomach and lower my pants. I hate this part. It's not that I'm shy or nothing. I have no problem undressing for a nurse... I have no problem undressing for anybody of the female persuasion ... but this is going to hurt, because I have no butt. Those of you who know me know what I am saying. I have what is referred to by the medical community as a gluteus minimus. And I had this professionally confirmed by the nurse who (after a visual inspection of my left buttock) informed me that I didn't have much padding down there... (to this day Keith, who heard all this from the other side of the curtain, still brings this up and laughs) ...so this was going to hurt more than normal. Is it worse than the sharp, stabbing pain jolting through my jaw? After I was injects, the nurse informed me that I should not to drive, or anything else along those lines while under the influence of the pain medication. The nurse informed Keith that he could take me home as soon as the pain medication took effect. I lay on the examination table for a few minutes, then a thought occurred to me: "Keith" I said. "That nurse was cute. Did you notice if she was wearing a wedding ring?" Keith decided it was OK to take me home at this point, as I was returning to my normal, sexist self. And can someone (medic or other) tell me this: Why does the pain meds numb the sharp, stabbing pain that was jolting through my jaw, but doesn't work on the spot where you got the injection? Ever ridden in a pick-up truck, sitting on one butt cheek the whole way?

But this blog entry is not about nurses, vaccinations, my dogs, Halloween, or my tushie. Next month (the eleventh) is Veterans day, and I would like to pay tribute to a humble and little know veteran of the United States Armed Forces: Fred the Squirrel (USAF, Ret.)

Keesler AFB, Mississippi
 

After basic training, I was loaded on a bus with several other GIs and transported to Keesler AFB, MS.

For those of you who have seen Neil Simon's play and/or movie Biloxi Blues, this was the same base. The play is a semi-autobiographical account of Neil Simon's time in the Army (it was an Army base in the 1940s).

Neil Simon was not there when I was there - they had discharged him years (and years) before I got there.

One of the first things they briefed us on upon arriving at the base was not to feed the squirrels.

We did anyhow.

There were a plethora of squirrels on the base, as well as the Biloxi/South Mississippi area. And they were all weird. I mean weird, even for squirrels. If you are familiar with Ray Steven's Mississippi Squirrel Revival song, you may remember a crazed squirrel that got loose in a church in a "sleepy little town of Pascagoula."

Pascagoula was 26 miles from Keesler.

Mississippi Loblolly Pines
 

Squirrel Jedi Training

Let me give you an example:
Me and my buddy were sitting at a picnic table in the park-area across the street from our squadron compound, working on a six-pack and watching two young squirrels playing the squirrel version of grab-ass tag, with one squirrel chasing the other up and down the pine tree, then switching off.

Now, I should point out that these loblolly pine trees grew fairly tall. The ones on base were easily 75 feet tall.

Occasionally, during the rough housing that occurs when they are up in the branches, they shake a pine cone loose and we hear it thump as it hits the ground.

Or they could have been aiming for us.

As we were drinking the beer, we heard a THUMP. Not a thump, but a THUMP that sounded heavier than just a loblolly pine cone. We looked over, and saw one of the young squirrels on the ground in a daze - like a Looney Tunes character after a stick of dynamite had just gone of in his hand. He (the young squirrel) apparently either fell out of the tree, or was pushed by his buddy.

Either was a possibility. We think the latter.

The young squirrel shook it off quickly (like in the Looney Tunes) then, with that "you're going to pay" look in his eyes, raced back up the tree.

A moment latter, there was a loud squirrel chatter (squirrel profanity?) and then anoth THUMP. We looked (we had to) and there, on the ground, dazed, was the other young squirrel.

I was assigned to the 3383rd Student Squadron, and it was there that I first met Fred.

 

Fred the Squirrel was the semi-official mascot of the squadron. Unlike the rest of us who lived in the dormitory, Fred lived in an old oak tree in the courtyard of the squadron compound - much like a Keebler™ elf except (to the best of my knowledge) he didn't bake cookies.

There were rumors that he had a microwave, and some claimed to have seen a glow coming from the tree at night that indicated that he may have had a TV.

Fred was old. How old I do not know, but if I found out that Fred was there the same time Neil Simon was there for basic training I would not have been surprised. Like many seniors, Fred had aging issues, one of the was his tooth.

Like many elderly southerners, Fred

the Squirrel only had the one tooth.

Like most squirrels, Fred was a rodent. You may remember from middle school biology that a rodents teeth continue to grow and that they need to gnaw on stuff in order to keep their teeth ground down. Otherwise, they grow long, which is what happened to Fred's tooth. He wasn't gnawing as much as he should because his tooth had grown fairly long and had curled around and was stabbing his cheek.

Fred was well loved and it was decided that we would all chip in and take Fred to the veterinarian (as the base dental clinic did not have anyone qualified to work on a squirrel.). The money was raised quickly, and Fred was caught and made comfortable in a cardboard box.

The problem was that the veterinarian was 9 to 5 Monday thru Friday, which was (for us) during duty hours. Students were not permitted leave the base during duty hours without permission (and the Captain was not likely to authorize going off base because of a squirrel). So the duty to save Fred fell on the First Sergeant.

A First Sergeant in the Air Force (in case you are wondering) is the senior NCO of a unit, serving as both guidance counselor and disciplinarian, sort of a cross between your uncle and your high school principle.

Senior Master Sergeant Mesnières (our First Sergeant), a thirty-four year veteran of the Air Force with tours of duty in Vietnam and Korea, humbled himself and agreed to escort Fred to the veterinarian.

God bless Sergeant Mesnières.

Fred's other aging issue was his eyes, and it was obvious from observation that Fred didn't see as well as he did when he was a younger squirrel. I can feel his pain. Some years ago, I noticed the local paper had began to use small (and fuzzier) print-type. Finally, I had to admit my aging issue, and go get a pair of reading glasses.

But Fred's hearing was still 20/20, and he could hear a peanut 500 feet away. He just couldn't see it to good. And he also had a basic understanding of the English language. Once, when me and my roommate were on our way to chow, I told him to hold up because I wanted to get some peanuts for Fred.

There was a covered walkway between the CQ and the Training Office, which had a vending machine with a candy, gum, chips, cookies, and peanuts.

I put my money in the slot, pushed b-9, and watched as a bag of peanuts dropped from the slot. I turned around, and there was Fred. He had followed me into the walkway, watching me get his peanuts.

Military security was covered in a

previous blog entry.

As you might imagine, security is very important in the military. It is one of the first things you learn in basic training.

So what does that have to do with squirrels?

While in training, we had to do what was know as dorm guard duty. This was a two hour shift in which you monitored one of the two entry points of the squadron dormitory, and made sure everyone who was going in had a military ID and a squadron ID card, or had a pass from the CQ. It's not that hard, really. It's low level, as security goes, and a chair is provided and you are permitted to sit. You can also do your class work, read a book or magazine, listen to music (the Sony Walkman had just come out, and many GIs on dorm guard jammed out on music), smoke, drink (soda, not beer), eat lunch - or any of the mentioned activities, as long as you checked everyone coming in for proper documentation.

Usually, dorm guard duty was done by members of the same squadron, but not always, and one afternoon dorm guard duty for our squadron was being performed by members of the 3411th - the women's squadron. On that particular day, I was coming out of the CQ and saw the young lady who was guarding the west door. She was sitting in the chair, drinking a diet Pepsi while reading a copy of Cosmopolitan (very popular with GIs of the female persuasion). She had also brought along a snack, a bag of M&M'S® which she decided to open at the same time I was exiting the CQ.

The sound of a bag of M&M'S® being opened sounds the same as a bag of peanuts. Fred, who could hear a peanut 500 feet away heard what he thought was a bag of peanuts being opened. As I watched, Fred came racing down from the oak tree, and went racing down the sidewalk towards the young lady with the M&M'S®.

It was at this moment she looked up.

Not being assigned to our squadron, the girl was unaware who Fred was (or for that matter that his name was even Fred) What she saw was (what she believed to be) one of the lunatic squirrels charging full speed towards her.

She screamed, dropped her magazine, M&M'S®, and ran inside the men's dormitory, and refused to come out for about a half hour.

My roommate, who was one of the men whom she burst in on, told me later that she kept insisting that there was a squirrel trying to kill her.

Fred, however, was disappointed. The M&M'S® that had been scattered in the young ladies hysterical retreat were plain, not peanut.

And Fred didn't read Cosmo.

I felt sorry for him, so I bought him some peanuts from the vending machine.

One more story before I go:
I was heading back from the base exchange (yeah, probably to get another six-pack) and I just happened to be looking when a power transformer blew. There was a loud BANG and a big puff of grey smoke, and I also saw a squirrel falling from the pole.

Thanks to the squirrel, the power was out for several hours.

The squirrel was laying on the ground as I walked past, 'cept he wasn't dead. Just dazed. After a moment, he got up and ran off.

Honest, I am not making this up.

Military Security

When the supervisor arrived on the scene, he found five people (three civilians and two military, one of with was a Brigadier General) laying face down on the ground. Nearby, with an M-16 readied in his hands, was Airman First Class Brumble, standing over the quintet of detainees in a pose that resembled a modern Samurai, If Samurai came from western Montana. Staff Sergeant Ballard knew it was going to be an interesting day.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Sir, may I see your

authority to enter,

access badge, or

military ID card?

Security, as you might have guessed, is taken very seriously in the military. Security training begins on the first day of basic training (and continues until the day you leave the military).

In the Air Force (my Alma Mater), we took turns standing watch as "dorm guards." It was a two hour shift, and what you mostly did was stand by the door, and guarded it. If someone came to the door, the dorm guard had to determine if that person could come in. Other Airmen in your dorm, and your Sergeants, can be allowed in on personal recognition. Others, such as the officers, are on the admittance list, and can be allowed into the dorm (after showing ID). Others must have a pass from the CQ (and ID), otherwise they don't come in.

And you also do "fire watch" every half hour by walking around the dorm and making sure nothing (or nobody) is on fire.

Training continues while you are in technical school, and when you get to your first duty assignment you get trained again.

Repeatedly.

And because of the nature of my equipment (secured and classified communication devices), I along with the other members of my repair shop to which I was assigned were expected to maintain a higher level of security than, say, the chow hall cooks.

The facility in which I worked was, due to the nature of some of the equipment we repaired and maintained, a secured compound. The area was surrounded by a high fence (topped with concertina wire) with a gate secured by a solid combination lock. The building (our shop) was made of cinderblock, windows covered with bars, and a thick wooden door, also secured by a combination lock

We were secure.

And as a secured area, we would periodically and randomly be checked by security people to confirm that we were complying with all security regulations and procedures. A routine procedure, they (security people) would stop by (unannounced) and check on us - sort of like the (Monty Python version of) the Spanish Inquisition.

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

(Monty Python fans will know what that means)

So what happened was this:
I was busy with about 4 dozen PRC-68 portable radios, trying to a) do a routine maintenance inspection, b) repair non-functioning PRC-68s, and c) instruct two airmen just out of tech school on the PRC-68s.

And that's when the SP Sergeant arrived for his routine security check.

He check the perimeter, the files, etc. Then decided to go around and ask a few random questions, just to see if we were all up to date on security procedures. And he decided to start with me.

I didn't mind the checks, but could he not see how busy I was?

The SP Sergeant came over, and asked me a few "what if" questions in order to test my knowledge of security procedures.

This (roughly) is the dialog that transpired:

SP: Scenario - You find a hole in the fence. What do you do?

ME: Post a man to guard the hole, then contact the SPs to report a possible intrusion.

SP: And what's number would call?

ME: Nine. One. One.

Duh!

SP: Do you know the actual number for the SP squadron?

No, I don't. That's why we have "nine one one".

ME: No, but we have the number attached to all the phones in this building, plus it is on the list of emergency numbers on the wall.

I notice at this point that the shop chief (MSgt Garrett), has emerged from the office and is listening.

SP: Suppose you look out the window and saw an intruder hacking at the cables on the antennae tower with an ax, what would you do?

The intruder must have come through the hole in the fence.

Remember Primitive Pete

from the safety film that

your shop teacher showed

on the first day of class?

ME: Go get a hacksaw from the tool cabinet.

The look on the SP's face was priceless.

So was MSgt Garrett's

SP: Why a hacksaw?

ME: Because he's using the wrong tool. He'd be all day if he tries to cut through those cables with and ax. And probable ruin the ax in the process.

The Sergeant was stunned into silence.

Behind him, I could see Master Sergeant Garrett showing signs of what might be a stroke.

ME: The proper tool for the proper job.

After a few moments, I gave another answer (the correct one). But for some reason, the security person didn't want to ask me any more questions.

MSgt Garrett did.

GARRETT: Why the hell do you do say @#$% like that?

Because I can?

So I started to tell a story at the start of this blog.

So what happened was this: Three VIPs (two men and a women) from Washington D.C. were visiting our base on official business. While they were there, Brigadier General Hoffman (the Vice Commander of the base) took them on a tour of the base. And they had to have been important VIPs for the General to have conducted the tour himself. No tour of the base would truly be complete without visiting what was referred to as the C-5 area, a collection of facilities and buildings, the centerpiece of which was the ginormous repair hanger. By "ginormous", I mean humongous. You could easily lay out a regulation (NFL) football field inside. And seating for the spectators. The reason for the ginormousness of the hanger is that it was where they maintained and repaired the ginormous C-5 Galaxy transport. The C-5 area was also a secured area, meaning it had its own perimeter fence, detection equipment, and there was always a force of security policeman monitoring security. The reason for this security is that in adition to the C-5 Galaxy, the hanger was also used to maintain and repair the B-52. No not the cocktail. The B-52 Stratofortress. Nuclear Bombers. Needless to say, security was tight. The C-5 area was classified as a yellow zone. General Hoffman, for reasons only know to him, decided to enter the C-5 area (a Yellow Zone) without going through the established entry point. Not good. As the General escorted the VIPs into the C-5 area, they were observed by Airman 1st Class Brumble, a member of the Security Police Squadron and part of the detail assigned to guard the perimeter of the C-5 area at the time Hoffman decided to bypass the entry point. Fresh out of training (more or less), Brumble was on it (like a Rottweiler on a T-bone steak). "Intruders, halt!"

Before I go further , I'll need to explain yellow and red zones.

And while I'm at it, I should explain about SP training.

SPs, or Security Police (now called Air Force Security Forces) are the Air Force equivalent of MPs and were responsible for the security of Air Force bases and equipment. The SP school is on Lackland AFB, which is where SP students learn all about security, law enforcement, weapons, tactics, etc. Part of that training is learning how to guard things, and the SP students learn how to do this by going out and guarding dead planes.

Dead planes?

Yes, Dead Planes.

The SP school has a training area which is a mock-up of a tarmac (more or less), simulating where planes are parked which need to be guarded. The planes, however are not the B-2, F-15, and other current aircraft, but rather an assortment of planes from the 1960s (and older) in which the engines, electronics, and everything else of value has been removed, leaving only the outer shell of an aircraft that makes it's final contribution to the defense of our country by pretending to be a real plane, guarded by a student pretending to be a real SP.

Each plane is "parked" in a separate bay. Around each plane there are two circles: an outer yellow circle and an inner red circle. These represent the "Yellow Zones" and "Red Zones" which indicate the level of security, and the appropriate response by the SP (or, in this case, the student). The appropriate responses are:

Yellow Zone:
Give warning, and order the intruder to the ground.

Red Zone:
Shoot. The intruder will fall to the ground on this own.

And they will shoot. Anyone.

Regardless of the rank or status of the person violating security, if security is violated, the SP will "jack-up" the offender. Properly trained, a SP will order Jesus himself to lay face down on the ground if he appeared out of nowhere, and happened to be standing in a Yellow Zone.

Heaven help us if the Prince of Peace appeared in a Red Zone.

And this was before 9-11. I can just imagine how much more intense SP training has become since.

Famous former Air Force SP:
Carlos Ray "Chuck" Norris

So, where was I? Oh, yes. General Hoffman's unauthorized crossing into the C-5 area. "Intruders, halt!" All five members of the touring group turned towards the voice, and found themselves facing the business end of Brumble's M-16. "Lay face down on the ground, now!" The three VIPs (along with the Captain) complied with Brumble's request. The General took a moment longer. "Do you have any idea who I am?" Hoffman growled. "Sir, lay down on the ground!" Hoffman was an idiot, but not an complete idiot. Complete idiots don't become Brigadier Generals. Faced with Brumble's fully loaded assault rifle, the General had no other choice that to acquiescently accede to Brumble's demands. Brumble contacted his supervisor (SSgt Ballard) using his radio (which was a PRC-68!), and appraised him on the situation. Within minutes Ballard arrived on the scene and found five people (three civilians and two military, one of with was a Brigadier General) laying face down on the ground. Nearby, with an M-16 readied in his hands, was Airman First Class Brumble, standing over the quintet of detainees in a pose that resembled a modern Samurai. Staff Sergeant Ballard knew it was going to be an interesting day Ballard ordered Ballard to stand down and return to duty, then informed the former hostages that they may return to an upright position. The General was irate. Ballard diplomatically herded the tourists towards the entry gate, processed them in, issued them visitor badges, and assigned them an escort - which as you probably guessed was not Brumble. It was an interesting day. Shift change came, and Ballard and his crew were relived by the next crew. Ballard had intended to write up a report regarding the incident, but never had the opportunity as he was informed as he returned to the SP building that the Colonel Davenport (the SP commander) wanted to see him immediately. And Ballard knew why. Brigadier General Hoffman had called the Colonel, demanding that disciplinary action be taken against Brumble. The Colonel, however was as of yet unaware of the facts of the incident (or even that there had even been an incident) but assured the General that he would make investigating the situation a top priority. When dealing with Generals, you usually have to make thing "top priority." Ballard reported to the commander's office, and explained the "incident." Brumble was also called in, same reason. Armed with the facts (as opposed to the rantings of an irate Brigadier General), Col. Davenport was able to proceed in an orderly, logical manner. The Colonel called the General back the following morning, and informed him: That he (the General) had violated perimeter security. The SP (A1C Brumble) had done his job correctly, as he had been trained to do. Not only was the Colonel not going to take disciplinary action against Brumble, he was going to personally write up a Letter of Commendation to be placed in his file. And the next time the General decided to breach a secured perimeter, he had best be prepared to lay down in the dirt again. Ballard told me later that Colonel Kellerman showed up for the shift briefing, and personally handed Brumble a copy of his Letter of Commendation.

As a collateral duty, I was a security police augmentee. That's the Air Force's equivalent of the Police Reserves. In the event of an emergency (or, more often, when the base went on alert, or was engaged in an execise) I would often get a call to report to the SP squadron. After checking in, I would report to the armory where I would be issued:

• Helmet
• Flak Jacket
• Web Belt
• M16A1 Assault Rifle
• 80 rounds of 5.56×45mm NATO (4 clips with 20 rounds each)

After being issued the equipment, I would return to the "squad room" and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Sometimes we would actually go out and guard something, or otherwise assist the SPs. Usually though, after we were activated, checked in, and issued gear, whoever activated us would forget that we were activated, and we would sit in the "squad room" until the alert/exercise was terminated, at which time we would return the gear and get dismissed.

During one of the alert exercises in which I was activated as a Security Policeman (and actually posted) I was posted to gate 17B. Like many of the gates, this one was normally unguarded, closed, and secured by a combination lock. Ironically, this was a gate I was more than familiar with as it lead to the base's Air Traffic Control Tower. Being a Radio Repair Technician, I used this gate frequently as there are a plethora of radios and related equipment in the tower.

I even knew the combination to the lock on the gate.

I knew most of the people who would come through the gate. In theory, I was suppose to check their badges as the came in, but as I knew them (and knew they were authorized to be in there) there really wasn't much point to that. I just waved everyone through.

Except TSgt McMinn - my supervisor.

McMinn rode up in the pick-up truck (Ford Ranger), parked, exited the truck and came over to the gate. It wasn't until her had opened the gate and crossed into the secured area that I informed him that he was not wearing his access badge.

And we were technically in a yellow zone

"Mac" where is you access badge?"

He glanced down, and realized it was not pinned to his shirt.

It was (no doubt) in the truck, clipped to the visor.

"Mac" I informed him "you do realize that I am required to jack you up and wait for the sergeant of the guard to come and clear you."

He gave me that you wouldn't dare look.

And yes, I would.

"Doug" he informed me "you do realize this exercise will end, after which you will have to returned to your regular duties."

I hesitated for a moment.

"I have got a lot of extra duties back at the shop that need to be done."

I tried to stand firm, but...

"O.K." I relented "Go get you badge"

"The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have sav'd my life." ~ Henry The Fourth, Part 1, Act 5, scene 4

The Blizzard of '85

Less then pleased!

When we (me and my dogs) got up a while back, we were less than please to discover that the ground was covered in a thin layer of snow. We discovered this a bit past 6am, when we went outside to "do some business."

By "doing business" I mean they needed to do what everyone else needs to do when they first get up: They need to pee!

Peeing is not as pleasant of a task on cold, snowy days. The boys (Freedom and Macky) were reasonably OK with it, because all they needed to do is lift a leg. Sarah, however, being female, does not lift her leg. She squats. And I could see an expression of discomfort as she squatted, hovering just above the snow, and tinkled. As soon as she was finished, she ran (ran!) back to where I stood waiting by the door with my cup of coffee, ran past me, and ran back inside (where it was warm).

I'm sure many of you ladies reading this are sympathetic to Sarah's ordeal. For those of you who aren't, try this: Go outside (without pants) and hover just barely above the snow for 5-10 seconds. You will not only be sympathetic, you will be empathetic.

And I bet you run back to the door as well.

For those of you who are actually going to try this: From observing Sarah, I have discovered the proper method of thawing frozen genitalia is to curl up in front of the space heater and let the warm air blow over your body.

I dislike the snow, and the cold, and everything associated with winter.
Except spiced rum and eggnog.

When I hear about the polar vortexes coming down to freeze part of the U.S of A. that are rarely frozen, by vortexes or other, I am reminded the time that south Texas got covered in snow, a time fondly remembered as:

The Blizzard of '85.
Saturday, January 12th, 1985.

When I was in Basic Training, amongst the numerous forms we had to fill out was AF Form 392. Also called a dream sheet, this form allowed to to express your assignment preference to whoever was in charge of assigning you. What you did, using a alphanumeric code to indicate where you would like to be stationed, was select eight locations overseas and 8 locations CONUS (for all you civilians, CONUS means CONtinental United States) and turned the form into the personnel office. It would go into your personnel file, and would be consulted regarding your restationing.

They weren't under any obligation, however, to honor you request(s) - which is why it was called a "dream sheet."

In fact there was a story that there was a super-computer on Randolph AFB (in Texas) which could, based on your choices, determine with uncanny accuracy the one place you didn't want to go. And try to send you there!

Friends call me Snow Miser
 What ever I touch
Turns to snow in my clutch
 I'm too much!

Macky Rae (my youngest dog)
likes Christmas specials, including
The Year Without a Santa Claus.

He even learned the snow miser dance!

But as I said I dislike the snow and the cold and everything associated with winter, so I selected 8 warm places overseas and 8 warm (southern) locations CONUS. My eight overseas locations, and my first 5 CONUS, were overlooked, and after I completed Technical Training I was assigned to Kelly AFB - San Antonio, Texas.

South Texas. That should be warm, right?

Wrong!

Because there are no mountains to slow him down, the Snow Miser (and all his dancing minions) come charging down the great plains at full speed in the winter month, bringing the freezing cold, although rarely, however, does he grace the city of San Antonio with snow.

Which brings us to Saturday, January 12th, 1985.

The first indication that something was wrong was the fact that I was able to sleep late, past oh eight hundred (8am to all you civilians). I could usually sleep as late as I wanted on the weekends, but this was "Warrior Weekend" and I should not have been able to sleep past oh eight hundred.

McDonnell Douglas F-4C Phantom II

For those of you who don't know, "Warrior Weekend" is when the Air National Guard and/or Air Force Reserve units come in to do their "one weekend a month." On our base, that was (amongst others) the 182d Tactical Fighter Squadron (Texas Air National Guard).

I should also mention that the roar of
the F4s were also extremely disturbing
for those who were hungover.

The dormitory in which I lived was within close distance of the flight line. At oh eight hundred on "Warrior Weekend" the ROAR of the engines announced that F-4Cs were beginning there flights, and it was time for you to get up (whether you wanted to or not).

But that morning, the F-4Cs were mysteriously silent.

I got up, showered, and (needing a cup of coffee) went downstairs to the bar (yes, we had a bar in our barracks) where I helped myself to a cup of coffee. It was then that I noticed my friend and co-worker David "Mac" McLaughlin holding a cup of coffee, staring out the window. I poured my own cup of coffee, then went over to the window to see what he was staring at.

It was then that I learned why the Phantoms were silent:  

The base had been transformed into a winter wonderland!

I looked out the window to see what Mac was so intently staring at, and I saw the snow. And not just a little snow. Not a light dusting of snow. But lots of snow. Snow Miser (and his minions) dumped well over a foot of snow, not only on our lovely Air Base, but through-out Bexar County.

Mac, who had just transferred from Loring AFB (Maine) was in a daze. As he put it: "I was really looking forward to a winter where I didn't have to deal with @#$% snow."

Yeah, Mac. So was I.

So, as we stared out at the flight line and watch Red Horse (the base's civil engineers) pushing the snow off the runway with caterpillar bulldozers.

And the base was lucky to have those. Considering it had been almost 30 years since San Antonio had seen snow, you can be darn sure the nearest snow plow was hundreds of miles away, towards the north.

So as Mac and I were watching the snow, that's when Iggy came down, dressed in redneck winter appeal and began filling her 24oz travel mug with coffee.

So, what (you might ask) is an "Iggy"?

Scandihoovia

Iggy is (or was, at the time) an air traffic controller for the Air Force. Iggy's real name is Julie Ingerdahl.

Actually it was Juliette, but DON"T call her that.

Ever.

Everyone called her "Iggy" which was derived from her last name (Ingerdahl) and (as you might suspect) with a name like Ingerdahl, you would be correct to assume that she was of Scandihoovian decent.

A Scandihoovian, in case you didn't know, is:

a) someone from Scandihoovia, or

b) someone who is descended from someone from Scandihoovia.

When one thinks of a Scandahoovian, one thinks of a tall, statuesque Nordic goddess with fair skin, piercing blue eyes and golden hair. And above average breasts, at the very least D-cups.

This description did not apply to Iggy.

Juliette Ingerdahl was 5'2", 110# (wet), freckled face, hazel eyes, and mousy brown hair. And B-cups (maybe).

A counrty girl from Minnesota, she was the youngest of 5 children, and the only girl. Having grown up with 4 older brothers, she knew how to hold her own in an organization that was (and still is) predominantly male oriented.

She could also swear. Her favorite expression, especially when she was drinking, was @#$% you!!

I leave it to you to figure out what @#$% means.

1985 Ford F-250

Like a lot of servicemen... uh, servicepersons? Like a lot of military personnel, Iggy bought a new vehicle. In her case, a new truck - a Ford F-250, loaded with options and accessories. Including a C.B. radio.

This was, FYI, in the 80s. We didn't have cell phones back then, so if you wanted to talk and drive, you needed a citizen's band radio.

Iggy's truck is important to this story.

So, as I said, Iggy came down, dressed in redneck winter apparel and began filling her 24oz travel mug with coffee.

"You look like your going out for a drive."

"Yeah" Iggy said. "I am going get my hair done."

Iggy didn't got her hair done that day.

Like a lot of northerners, the sight of the snow registered in our minds of snow delays. But what we failed to realize at first was that San Antonio was not a northern town, and when it came to snow it was not snow delay but complete shut down. The locals couldn't get to work (or anywhere else) because the snow was blocking the roads. And as I mentioned earlier, the nearest snow plow was hundreds of miles to the north.

So, where as Iggy made it to the hair salon in her 4x4 truck, the stylist did not.

But at the time, us northerners weren't aware of this. So Mac gave her this warning:

"Be careful, Iggy. The snow is quite deep."

"I grew up in Minnesota" she replied. "I know how to drive in the snow." Famous last words.

For those who doubt, here is a picture
taken at the Alamo (in downtown San
Antonio) during the '85 blizzard. 

After a while, word reached us that the base exchange was finally opened, so Mac and decided to hike over and go shopping, as there was nothing else we could do, due to the snow.

I mean, other than drinking. But it just barely past noon-thirty, too early to start drinking. And with the snow, that was probably all we were going to be doing that evening, so it was best we not start too early and overdo it.

We decided to walk, mainly because it was easier than digging our cars out from under the snow. We hung out at the exchange for an hour or so, then returned to the barrack with our purchases.When we arrived at the barracks., we notices Julie's truck had return (and assumably so had Julie), and we could not help noticing it had a boo-boo that was not there earlier.

By boo-boo I mean that the driver's side door was pushed in several inch from the impact of a '72 Chevy El Camino, the front window was cracked, and where the drivers side window should have been there was only cardboard held in place by duct tape.

There was also some damage to the dash board, but we learned that was cause by Iggy repeatedly hitting it with her fist shortly after the accident.

"Where do you suppose she is?"

"Where would you be if someone T-Boned your brand new Ford Truck?"

The bar.

As expected, when we entered the bar, we found Iggy siting in her usual spot, drinking a beer which was probably not her first that afternoon.

Or her last.

And she looked mad. Beyond mad, she looked pissed!

Normal people would have left her alone. But Mac was far from normal. Mac had no fear. And Mac was going to tease Iggy.

"Hey Iggy! What happened to your truck?"

She turned towards us. She didn't say anything, but the look on her face spoke volume

"I thought you said you knew how to drive in snow. I guess the guy who hit you didn't."

She glared at Mac, and if looks could kill he would be dead. He face twitched. You could see it coming. She opened her mouth slightly, and words emerged:

"@#$% you!!!" she responded.

I'm Mister White Christmas
I'm Mister Snow
I'm Mister Icicle
I'm Mister Ten Below
Friends call me Snow Miser
What ever I touch
Turns to snow in my clutch
I'm too much!