06 Dec:

Up early, hangover not withstanding, to read the message boards and plot our escape. Not to be. DCAG insisting we stay to support the possibility of a Distinguished Visitor Visit, which didn’t occur.

Biding my time, I watched Star Trek in my stateroom until 1430, when I finally wandered back up to CAG Admin to find out what was going on only to find that Scooter had told us we could go away an hour before only he hadn’t looked that hard to tell us.

We escape on the utility boat and embark on the torture bus for a crowded nightmare at NSA. Attempting to get back to Pozzuoli to see the Stadium- it is a big deal. It is the third largest remaining, with only the Colosseum in Rome and the Capuan Amphitheater being bigger. The Judge says it is in good shape, and some of the gears that raised the wild beasts from the galleries below still extant. Emperor Vespasian commissioned the place, and twenty thousand fans could pack the seats to watch things like the the persecutions of the patron of Pozzuoli, Saint Proculus, and that of Naples, Saint Januarius. They survived being thrown to the animals, who were apparently having an off day, and were beheaded (the Saints, not the beasts) at nearby Solfatara.

It was a shame. We had a confrontation with the taxi drivers near Fleet Landing:”30,000 liras to the Amphitheater Flavio? You guys are crazy.”

“Wella, whaddayo wanna pay?”

“Nothing to you, thanks”

So, rather than a cultural adventure, we took a different one on the strange walk up Whore Hill to AFSOUTH and experience the Italian reality, a Fellini movie that is life. The fat whore sitting on the wall- is she related to the legendary Humpty Dumpty of song and story?- the middle-aged man with long blonde hair and pink lipstick, the hundreds of pink condoms that litter the sidewalk. I’m happy we are walking up the hill with C-Gull and Cone from the fighter Kitties. There is safety in numbers.

Safe at last on the NATO compound, we find wonderful surprise shopping at the concessions at StrikeForce South. I buy strange things: a pepper grinder made from an Italian Tuna can and plastic imitation Lira; model cars and stuff for the boys.

Later, we enjoy deep beers at the AFSOUTH club, and, consciousness waning, the wild excitement of a ten man ride in the rental Peugeot back to Napoli with Skipper of the Red Lions at the wheel. I tour the Gut with Lutt-man and Josh, equipping the lads with blue berets before a last prosciutto sandwich and joining a very dapper CAG and DCAG for the boat ride home.

Farewell, Napoli you bizarre town. We are in bed by midnight……

07 Dec:

Only to awake to awake to disaster. I’m in my room, picking up my clothes and filing them away. Flight schedule doesn’t start until 1300; first brief at 1100. Except things are horribly screwed up and nobody knows why. The phone rings at 0800. “What nine o’clock brief?” I ask Charlie cleverly, dropping a folded set of underwear.

Apparently the entire Air Wing was tuned into CVIC channel 2, expecting some sort of coordinated presentation on EMCON Recoveries and Rules of Engagement. Instead, we started a tape and canceled it when we realized there was an alert being set and they required a brief. Bottom line was that we were appallingly uncoordinated and tremendously embarrassed in front of everybody. DCAG is pissed and I am bagged and thoroughly had by somebody.

Who did this to me? I will have my answers. I do not like getting humiliated like this but I do not whimper. I harbor dark suspicions. I will launch an investigation. Later that day, the Campaign Brief goes well, except John S’s mother is dying- he is the Assistant N2 on the CARGRU Staff- and he is gone, suddenly, and CDR Horton is helpless and my hip joint is killing me and I can barely walk and this sucks I hate it I hate I hate it.

This must be the first time this ship ever left port….

08 DEC:

Big day in West Med. Eight cycles of flight operations with 134 sorties. Upon consideration, I think Scooter was the one who bagged me. I think the Deputy tasked a major presentation involving my television station and didn’t bother to tell me or my duty officer. We toyed briefly with the idea of crucifying IS2 Jonesy, who is nearly beyond help, but that would have achieved nothing. The problem is that OPS isn’t talking to anyone.

It ain’t that hard; shoot, he doesn’t even go ashore. I don’t know how to fix this without digging the hole around him deeper, which I don’t want to do.

He is a great guy and besides, we have to work with him win lose or draw the rest of the cruise. I explain my deep concerns to Mark and he will sidle up to DCAG and attempt to brief the Deputy on the fact that for us to give an effective presentation we have, at a minimum, be told what it is we are supposed to present.

The hell with it. Perhaps a visit to Spain tomorrow will clear things up.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com