31 May 2016
Editor’s Note: Yeah I know. I hate going back to work the day after a long weekend. The pile of stuff that needs to be done….oh well. That included feeding some old papers through the scanner to retrieve the end-bits of that story about the Med Cruise that spanned the end of the Cold War, when we thought we had beaten the Marxists into submission. Oh well, you live and you learn, I suppose. I was going to give a tip of the hat to Annie out in the Shenandoah who recommended “White Trash Cooking,” a marvelous compendium of country recipes by Ernest Mathew Mickler, and will, anyway, but there is much more to the volume (it conveniently comes in a wire binding so it will lay flat on the prep table) than just recipes, so we will have to return to that later. And in fact, I am going to slide all the way back to the TRANSLANT toward home, in the Spring of 1990. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesterday in:
Going Home
06 APR 1990:
The unaccustomed fresh air on deck during the no-fly period drove me to nap through the dinner hour, and was blinking when Chop came in and started to do his taxes.
I discovered to my horror that this personable young man whose normal form of address is “Hey, Dude” was an accounting major! He even claimed it was a “cool” degree that the chicks really dug. How the world has changed from my days rioting in Ann Arbor to impress the ladies!
I managed to get up and return to the office shortly after the time zone change and got the consolidated reports from the guys sitting around the planning table playing cards. We conformed to customs regulations and got rid of the last Cuban cigars by burning them slowly.
The consensus is that everyone is getting goofy at the prospect of returning to real life, like when the Santa Anna wind blows through Raymond Chandler ‘s LA. When meek housewives look at the steak knife in their hands and think of their husband ‘s throats .
Down in LTJG Murphy’ s bunkroom, one of his roommates threw a real live punch at him for bouncing a Nerf ball off his noggin.
Everyone is tensed up and anxious for this cruise to be over. The marathon rack sessions are starting to pale. Some of the professional rack monsters are so far out in front that the Battle ‘Z’ for meritorious unconsciousness is now an unattainable goal for most of us mortals.
If today was strange, I wonder what the next seventy-two hours have in store’?
07 APR 1990:
We are steaming west across the Atlantic and into the dawn. Despite not going to bed until 0400 this morning I am unaccountably up and chipper at around 0730. I start cleaning up the room in preparation for leaving the ship. Chop is dumfounded by my activity level. I sense the beginning of Channel Fever. I putter heavily until my rack is neatly made and I can actually see the surface of my desktop. After a shower, I stop by CAG Admin to read the message boards on the way to work.
The issue of the moment is that AIRLANT never got our message requesting redistribution of our remaining OPTAR and they have therefore disallowed the financial legerdemain by which Chop balanced the second quarter accounts. He is going to be a busy camper today.
In Mission Planning I find the quarterly OPSEC meeting in progress, so I duck down to Special Services to get my partial rebate on the Rota liquor buy. The kick-back comes to $43, which means my twenty bottles of vodka, Fino and french wine are lurking down in the magazines somewhere. Some of the guys ordered Beretta shotguns at a discount rate. I think the liquor was the better buy.
On my way back to the office I stop by the Flag spaces · and discover they require a representative to attend a critical TAMPS (AN-SYQ-21 Tactical Automated Mission Planning System) conference at Miramar Naval Air Station in magnificent Southern California in early May. Throw me in that briar patch.
Lunch in the Dirty Shirt Wardroom was a wonderful BBQ pork sandwich and salad. I could get used to just cruising around the Atlantic if it was like this all the time.
The major portion of the ammo offload is going on throughout the day; there are bombs and rockets dangling off dancing helicopters. The word is that they will transfer some 1,000 pallets of ordnance before sundown. It is a lovely day and I would like to jog but Steel Beach is closed until the ammo goes away. Examining a chocolate chip cookie, I pondered my options. I could go back to work or I could take a little nap…
When I wake up an hour and a half later I banter with Chop and then cycle back through the office. Flaps de jour include a crisis in the amount of slide film left in the Photo Lab available to complete the End of Cruise Brief; two more changes to the absolute final version of the same immortal opus; completing the cover graphics and delivering same to the print shop and helping Denger put together a brief for his ready room explaining the Attack mission so that even Fighter guys can understand it.
The ammo off-load is complete and a scan of the Air Plan reveals that sunset will not occur until 1952Z. I duck a phone call from Strike Ops and go up to the roof in my jogging togs and run for twenty minutes.
It feels great: no wind and clear skies . There is a carnival air on deck. People are skylarking and strolling about and there is even a clear lane in which I can run from the bow all the way back to the round-down in a straight line. I cool down watching the sun set ahead of us, over home, and shower in preparation for the 2100 Staff meeting.
Topic is the Commander’s Evaluation of the Wing and individual Squadron performance during the deployment. We bat that around until 2230, hit Midrats and then return for another triumphant four hours in the office. The late movie is The Untouchables, featuring scenes of great violence. The movie is an interesting contrast to the carousel of VD case-study slides the Flight Surgeons are reviewing on the screen in the front of the room.
Looking at some of the grotesque problems depicted on the slides, I am pleased we have all been good boys over the last six months. There are two flight events tomorrow in preparation for the Fly Off, which if memory serves me correct, is exactly 56 hours away.
Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com