SWOOP'S ON!

For those of you who have had the pleasure of wasting, er, I mean, serving several years of your youth in the marine corps, the following may mean little to you. For those of us that have, and you know who you are, the phrase "swoop's on" has instantaneous recognition especially those that were in during the late 60's and early 70's. As I understand from a comment I posted at "military.com" the practice still exists, which speaks volumes, if you ask me, or even if you don't, for the enlisted man's mania to absent himself or herself from the vicinity of their duty station at any available opportunity.

For the unknowledgeable, swooping was a Friday afternoon ritual starting around 4:00 and sometimes earlier. Picture if you will, hundreds of 19 - 24 year old marines milling around the grounds of the main chapel at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, most in civilian clothes and likewise for most, this would be as close as they would come to actually being at chapel for the majority of their stints at the base. Although, as I understand it, attendance rose markedly whenever there was an imminent deployment of troops to Vietnam. As these Marines stood around, smoking, chatting and believe it or not, some were actually reading something. True, for the most part the reading material consisted of what passed for pornography in those days and thereby consisted of very little actual reading per se. At various times throughout the afternoon a car would pull into the chapel parking lot, the driver also a marine, would hang out the window of the car and shout out the name of a major city somewhere, anywhere east of the Mississippi. At that point several young men, the number depended on the popularity of the city and/or points between, would detach themselves from the masses and sprint toward the car and, every man for himself, try to sit, wedge and sometimes pile themselves into the vehicle.

Whether or not one made it into a particular vehicle depended on a variety of factors, first and foremost being the price the driver was charging each passenger for the privilege of being crammed into a car with several other in marines in various stages of gaminess, for what could be a lengthy drive to the city in question, usually at breakneck speed and with very few pit stops. With swooping, time was of the essence and everyone wanted to spend as much time with ma an pa, or Mary or perhaps a women of questionable morals, as possible. This meant that drivers generally obeyed traffic laws as much congressmen obey rules on graft.

For those, such as myself heading toward Cleveland the swoop was not so much a leisurely drive in the country, as it was riding "The Beast" or any one of today's behemoth roller costers. Assuming of course, that roller coaster was on industrial strength steroids. The reason for this characterization is that when driving to Cleveland from Lejeune, the driver had to make a choice between two travel routes. The first was to drive through the Norfolk, Virginia area and along the Pennsylvania turnpike to your destination. For those that haven't had the pleasure, driving along the PA pike in the small hours, consisted of navigating such obstacles as hills, "s" turns and various drivers traveling at the actual speed limit, all of which will put a damper on the high speed travel so necessary to getting to your destination as quickly as possible. In other words, a real pleasure.

The other choice was to travel through West Virginia north on their version, at that time, of a turnpike, Interstate 77, or as we liked to call it the "River Styx". In those days I 77 was not the streamlined, snaking and winding 4 lane highspeed super highway of today. No, it was a snaking and winding 2 lane highspeed back alley that ran the length of "West By God". A normal swoop via this route consisted of over one hundred miles of twists, turns and dives along a roadway littered with the corpses of the previous vehicles that had the misfortune of traversing this particular disaster. Cars, trucks, motorcycles and wagon trains dotted the roadside every couple of miles or so, and the West Virginia road department had, in a rare moment of governmental foresight, constructed ramps of dirt and sand near the bottoms of the many Alpine "hills" to catch and stop vehicles, usually 8 million ton coal trucks, whose brakes had been fried to a crisp trying to keep their vehicles from exceeding the sound barrier.

So it was always with some trepidation that I got into a car that had anyone going to Charlestown or any other town along the West Virginia pike. But I, like so many others had to get home to spend several minutes seeing my family, talking to my girlfriend (if I had one) and spending the remaining 12 hours or so before I had to catch the swoop back to base, enjoying liquid refreshments or experimenting with any of the other "ice breakers" rapidly becoming available in the midwest at this time. If you get my drift. Thank God I didn't inhale.

While most of the swoops were memorable in terms of sheer terror levels, one particular trip was a little more unusual than the others. On this particular trip, of course it was through West Virginia, and I and roughly 36 marines had crammed into the seats of a beat up early 1960's Pontiac designed to hold 4 people. The trip was uneventful enough, but, as usual several people had been dozing off and I somehow had managed to get the passenger door front front seat. Between myself and the driver was a huge marine about 8 feet tall' with about a size 42 neck and an IQ to match. While he was awake, which lasted about 90 seconds, we had engaged in some small talk and he had told me he was going home to Pikeville to see has fiancee. "Lucky girl" I thought but of course kept to myself. I was between girlfriends (way between) myself, so I told him I was just going to relax and party a bit. Anyway, somewhere between Raleigh and Blue Ash, as I was drowsing off myself, I had this unusual sensation coming from the direction of snoring Mensa candidate next to me which was starting to make me very uncomfortable. At first I thought Godzilla was having a seizure of some kind but quickly realized he was having what I think is called, in polite society, nocturnal emissions. Evidently the talk of his fiancee had gotten to him. Anyway, as it dawns on me what is going on, I realize that calling anyone else's attention to the spasmodic marine could cause serious repercussions, not to mention serious bodily harm to myself. So I devised a plan, which was not without considerable risk, but fortunately I thought I could get away with it. All the other marines had dozed off. Including the driver. So, I went into action. I made myself go into fake a coughing spell, while at the same time whomping the dreaming marine upside the head. As he and the others stirred awake, I mumbled something about being sorry, and proceeded to desperately plead with one of the guys in the back to change seats. I think that was my last swoop for some time.

Anyway, I'm sure my tale doesn't hold a candle to some others that are out there, and I know some ex-marines that might be reading this have swoop stories of their own. I encourage you to pass this on to any service members you know and to put any experiences they have had in the comments section. Come on Duggan and Doughty, don't let me down.

Love
Dad

How to Destroy a Friendship in One Easy Lesson or Off With Their Steering Wheels

This post is a direct order from another of the many people that totally control my life. My daughter threatened to boycott my blog if I didn't tell you the story of the magic disappearing car from my days in the service. It is the story of the American male. Of friendship, betrayal, love, lust (well, OK no love and definitely no lust), danger, intrigue and finally tragedy. It is a story, like so many otheres, with heroes and villains, saints and sinners, and very nearly, Smith and Wesson. Our story takes place in 1971 on the war torn shores of Pensacola, Florida, motto "If the navy ever leaves we're screwed." 1971 was a year of golden memories. I wish I could remember them. Well, I can remember just enough to do some real damage.

In an earlier post (the last one, I believe) I mentioned in the early 1970's I found myself in the U. S. Marine Corps, and true to the long line of patriotic military men in my family I volunteered for the service. When I signed up my recruiter promised excitement, travel, great career training and a uniform guaranteed to melt the bloomers off any mid-western lass of my choosing. I of course, recieved none of it, and, were it not for the fact that my number in the draft was 35, I might have complained to someone.

After nine fun-filled, leisurely weeks at the Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Resort and Spa, I learned that I had been chosen for "special" training. We learned all of this in one of our final meetings in the barracks with the DI's who told everyone what their Marine jobs would be. I was assigned to something called the Naval Security Group, with training to be held at the Naval Communications Training Center (NCTC, pronounced "nitsy titsy" by the Mensa candidates in our platoon). The other 75 privates got "surprise" the infantry, or grunt duty. I was also told I would need a security clearance which consisted of a thorough, detailed and expensive FBI investigation of my past to make sure I wasn't a commie or "gook sympathizer" according to my DI. I found out later that the investigation consisted of a couple of Lake County agents (imagine the agent's excitement at that duty) going around and asking several of my neighbors what kind of person I was. Thankfully they all lied and I got in. I don't shoot a rifle well.

My DI wasn't too sure, but he figured that I was going to become an investigator for the Navy and would come back and investigate him for abusing privates (in a nice way, I mean) and with that the DI laughed and then the rest of us realized we could laugh too. That DI, what a great kidder. Actually it turned out it was a job in communications and cryptology and fortunately for me, it meant not going to 'Nam.

Anyway, back to our real story. I arrived at the base in Pensacola at the same time as some other privates who had gotten the same designation and had gone through boot camp the same time as I did, but in different platoons. I'm not sure why, but I became pretty good friends with a guy from "Bah-ston" after awhile and we took to going into town and partying on occaision at the places that tolerated military personnel. His name is Bob Duggan and he had another buddy from his own platoon at Parris Island he had gotten to know from the New England area named James Malgano, I believe it was. They had become pretty good buddies at boot camp and I knew virtually no one, so was happy to hang out with some of those guys. Bob and James got to be so close that they actually decided to split the cost of a car together, so that they would be better able to get around, as there was very little (by very little I mean none)in the way of public transportation.

They bought a great car. It was a cool looking, I would say 1964 or 65 yellow Chevy Nova with black racing stripes, jacked up rear end, four speed stick on the floor and a customized wood grain steering wheel. It also had black intereior and a custom 8 track stereo system. In short it was "one sweet ride."

I would say that the amiability of negotiations for scheduling use of the car lasted about 3 nanoseconds. And within days the two virtually despised each other, threatened physical violence and whose greetings in passing consisted solely of four letter words.

Then things got rough. In order to try and control the car and keep the other from driving it, they took to hiding various small but necessary components to the engine. Things like the distributor cap or the pistons would mysteriously vanish only to magically reappear when the culprit wanted the car. This was pretty common as our training consisted of working swing shifts at the communications center and Bob and James were on different shifts (Another good reason for getting the car together right? No conflicts).

One day Bob and I decided to get away from the Pensacola area, where the women treated military guys like most people treat lepers, only from a greater distance. We lit upon the bright idea of driving to Panama City, a small resort area maybe 100 miles down the road on the Florida panhandle. We decided to go that very weekend as we were both scheduled to have our 72 hours off work come up on that Friday. Now, when Friday arrived, I had to work later than Duggan and so he spent the time waiting for me, doing something constructive, like getting liquored up at the local nosepaint emporium. So he was in peak driving condition around 11:00 p.m. when we finally got together to set out for paradise. I, being the sober one for a change might have volunteered to drive, but these were different times. Things were a little more lax about DUIs and I was young, immortal and stupid. So when Bob told me he was able to drive, I felt like I was back in my mother's arms.

Now relations between Duggan and Molgano had, by this time, reached a level akin to the Arab-Israeli conflict, only more civil and when Bob and I got into the car that night, we breathed a sigh of relief as the mighty Chevrolet 4 cylinder purred to life when Bob turned the key in the ignition. Bob got her into reverse in a reasonable amount of time, turned to look out the rear window so he could back out and slowly inched backward turning the steering wheel to maneuver out of his parking spot. He had gone about 3 nano inches when the beautiful, wood grained, cusomized steering wheel came off of the column and into his left hand. Turning back to face the front, Bob stared uncomprehendingly at this foreign object that had materialized, now in both of his hands. Time froze, somewhere CSN&Y sang "Teach your children well...", I think it was the 8 track but couldn't be certain, as we both gaped at the now useless steering wheel clutched in Bob's hands. After what seemed an eternity, Bob's face drained of color, his rage visibly building, now squeezed the wheel in a death grip, until finally as the tension inside the car reached its zenith, certain events followed,which must have happened in a heartbeat, but seemed to evolve in slow motion at the time

An enraged Duggan, raised his right fist, preaparing to pound it on the dash. He slowly raised that fist, taking deliberate aim and screaming, "That (insert very bad word indeed) Molgano. And as he screamed he launched that fist toward the dashboard. Now, I think I mentioned earlier that Bob had spent the better part of the prior 3 or 4 hours constructively consuming as much of the local hooch as possible, with the consequent result that his descending fist completely missed the dash board, but squarely found the tape in the 8 track player and we both gaped anew as bits of plastic and strands of magnetic tape flew in a thousand directions inside the little yellow nova likes something out of a Sam Peckinpah movie.


Now it gets funny. As we sat there in now stunned silence, the realization that the lack of a steering wheel might make driving anywhere a tad tricky, I uttered the words that would become a portent of the mechanical and technical disasters that would plague me the rest of my adult life, when I said, hopefully "No wait, I can fix it...". Now remember... I'M the sober one!

Such is my mania to get away from the brutal boredom that is a military base in the early 1970's I began scheming. My hillbilly problem solving brain ,with smoke literally coming out of my ears from the strain, hit upon a solution brilliant in its simplicity. "I'll tie it back onto the steering column," I proudly announced.

By now, Duggan, who had been utterly drained by his explosion of rage and his gargantuan effort to take in the carnage that had once been his pride and joy, could only nod weakly as though this solution was not only obvious but sound. Such are the ravages of alcohol. At this point the plot ran into a small snag. What do I tie the steering wheel onto the column WITH? No problems, mate, I'll just use my handy dandy t-shirt. Yeah, that's the ticket. And so, after several trial and error attempts, I finally had the wheel tied to the three chrome spokes attached to the column, somewhat securely. By this time, Bob had changed to the passenger side and was passing the time in a coma. It was roughly 4:00 a.m. and still dark by the time we finally hit the road and set out for pristine, x only chromosome laden, civilian shores of Panama City.


All things considered, I would have to say the drive went pretty smoothly. For about 30 miles or so. I was driving east down a stretch of some road at about 50 mph when, SURPRISE, the steering wheel comes off the column into my hands. With cat like dexterity I immediately dropped the wheel into my lap, a strand of t-shirt still tied to the wheel on one end and the spoke of the column at the other. Normally I don't think this would have been a problem except, that because of the configuration of the Nova's interior and its accessories, the wheel became pinned between my legs, and no amount of struggling, cursing or pleading to God above could budge it. I am thinking that Mr. Duggan was still napping, but I'm not sure as I struggled with the wheel, feverishly tried to direct the car with my knees (no easy task I want to tell ya!) while trying to gauge my immediate topographical options. Fortunately, that particular stretch of Florida highway was relatively straight and though the car drifted to the right slightly, I was able, by some miracle or the grace of God to coast to a stop to the side of that highway. Thankfully there had been no traffic, oncoming or following, it being very early in the morning.

That is the last I remember of our attempt to reach Panama City, as the ravages of time and maybe a couple of beverages have erased any memory of getting back to base at Pensacola. We must have tied the wheel back in place or rigged it up somehow to get the Nova back. I know this because several days later, I had borrowed the car (Duggan and Molgano were fast losing interest in the magic disappearing Nova and gladly loaned me the keys) to go into town to see the newest Woody Allen movie "Play It Again, Sam". Whilst I was making a left turn across oncoming traffic, guess what? The steering wheel again came of in my hand, but this time since I had the wheel fully turned the left when it happened, the car essentially circled continuously in and out of traffic through a gas station back onto the road and back into the gas station before I could reach the brake. Having finally learned my lesson (you can only fool a marine four or five times) I parked the Nova in an adjacent lot and went to the movie.

I never saw the Nova again, or what was left of it, and that suited me just fine. It may still be sitting on some corner lot in Downtown Pensacola for all I know, and now being called "Retro Art". Maybe Bob remembers, I did copy him on the blog. Last I heard of Molgano, he was trying to become a republican lobbyist for General Motors.

I hope you're happy Melanie. You certainly have become quite sadistic since you took up "Roller Derby". Be careful out there don't skate over any land mines or anything.

Love
Dad

That's not a stain on my dress blues, Sarge, that's ART!

Hello again, friends and neighbors. Time once again for a venture into uncharted territory. The "war story". By war story, I mean noncombat war story, thank Christ!
"What did you do in the war, Daddy?"
"I don't want to talk about it! Well, OK, let me have another Stroh's and I'll tell you. You know son, I slogged it out, toe to toe with the commies of Cuba, in a little backwater hell hole called "GITMO."

Yes, I was on "The Rock" in the bleak, dark days when the only torture going down was the chow we Marines, in moments of desperation (the day before payday usually) were required to ingest lest we starve, which on second thought was probably a decent alternative. Being on what is technically known in geographic terms as an "island" and being restricted to about 2 square miles of that island, opportunities for entertainment in our off time were a tad limited. I mean, how many quarts of whiskey can one man ingest in 72 hours? Well, quite alot it turns out.

First, a history lesson on how America (motto "We never a met a third world country we couldn't kick the crap out of, at least not until 1953") obtained the base to begin with. In short, I wouldn't know, but I have heard it had something to do with Teddy Roosevelt rough riding a seniorita known San Juanita Hill after war had been declared following a suspicious explosion on the USS Maine which was attributed by American zealots to Cuban rebels, but which in fact had been caused by the accidental ignition of methane gas which accumulated in the sailors quarters following a night of Dos Equis and burrito supremes from the local Taco Bell. The resulting loss of life (apparently one dozen sea anemones gave up their ghosts) inspired the iconic American publicist, William Randolph Hearst, already in pique due to the kidnapping and conversion of his granddaughter to a notorious gang of Democrats, drummed up false charges against the Cubans as being the miscreants responsible for the Maine's destruction. Thank God we've never gone to war on trumped up charges since!

To make a long story a bit longer, the Americans whomped those little godless Cubans and at the surrender table the following exchange took place.

President McKinley "We want that port down there at Guantanamo Bay for a naval base. We'll sign a 99 year lease, with an option to renew, so nobody can say we took advantage."

Cuban Leader "Well, it has a lot of value for our country, it is the main trade route for our cigar and Cuban sandwich trade and losing it will cause massive poverty in the region, not to mention the humiliation of an occupying force on our mainland!"

President McKinley "OK, We'll give you a buck for it."

The rest, as they say, is history. The United States became the proud owners of a Cuban port which had all the military strategic value of tits on a boar. As it turned out, Gitmo ultimately became the U.S. version of being shipped "to the Russian front" for Germany, or "to Siberia" for the Soviet Union. As a matter of fact, quite ironically, this is how I came to find myself stationed there. I had managed in some way, which is of no interest to my wife and children, to get sentenced, I mean assigned to duty at Gitmo by my First Sergeant, a great guy by the name of Brewington, a man who loved me like his own child. Ah yes, "The Brew" as we all called him. Wonderful sense of humor and would do anything for you. Ask anyone, (except Bob Duggan or Keith Doughty) they'll tell you. He just had unusual ways of showing it.

So, in the summer of '72 I found myself living it up in that Caribbean paradise, having beverages, eating, having beverages, standing guard duty and having beverages. This was interrupted only by my exciting regular 8 hour shifts in the communications center on "John Paul Jones" hill typing airplane coordinates, which consisted of 12 digit numbers and transmitting them to various other bases around the world and to Washington for God knows why! I really wondered if there was any reason for us having this base especially when I started reading the messages we were sent from all the other bases which consisted of reams of pages with, surprise, 12 digit numbers that were the same airplane coordinates I had so painstakingly spent hour typing and sending out. I finally realized the whole point was just to piss off Castro. Not that we hold a grudge or anything.

Anyway, what made me think of all this was that I recently read somewhere (possibly the stall of a toilet on the Ohio turnpike) that the Cleveland Museum of Art was going to host an exhibit that consists of the armor of soldiers from the middle ages. And I thought to myself, holy crap, they're calling old army uniforms and gear, "ART." Does this mean that there is a chance that all of my Marine corps uniforms and gear might wind up in an art museum somewhere in 500 years? Does that turn your stomach like it does mine? Naw, couldn't happen. They would have to go with some soldiers that were a little more spit and polish than me. I mean, I had a hat (or "cover" in Marine parlance) that I wore every day for 2 solid years and that by the end of my time little parts of cardboard had started poking out of the brim from the rips. I think the helmet I had issued to me (Hey, you never know) had something like "F*&%$ Nixon" written on the inside liner. My boots hadn't seen actual shoe polish since boot camp, and the belt buckles, buttons, ribbons and other little trinkets we were supposed to put on our uniforms had essentially started to oxidize and were losing all the princples of what would qualify as actual metal.

No, I think the art museums of the future will probably go with stuff from the TV commercials, shiny and crisp and military. That would be my guess, but I wonder...I think I'm going to go see that exhibit after all. I heard they have a suit of armor that has "F*&%$ Henry VIII" and "Anne Boleyn is a slut" etched on the inside.

Love
Dad