crosshdw.gif metal_12.gif

Here we go again!

I've heard some new ones lately, so here goes.


This first one is about a Yiddish Physician I know who has been taking care of the needs of his favorite Rabbi for a long time.

The Physician was cleaning out his office preparatory to his retirement; and realized he had a large bottle of foreskins from all the circumcisions he had done in his lifetime. The Doctor was the type of man who kept everything. His personality was really struggling with him this time. What could he do with them? He couldn't just throw them out. That was unthinkable.

So, he prayed about it. Then, it was like a message from God. After all the strange things of his past, he remembered about the personal things made from the Jews during the war. For some reason; he found forgiveness about those abominations. Then, he got the giggles thinking about what he was going to do.

First, he called up his friend, the tanner. "Moshe", he said. "I need a favor".

"Sure", Moshe the tanner said: "You know that. Anything."

So, he explained to his friend Moshe, the tanner; and Moshe got the giggles too.

"But, my friend"; Moshe said. "Some people don't have your sense of humor. You're going to make some enemies from this. Oy, Veh; what a mess."

"Well, I've got to do something. OK, on to business. Tell me, could you make me some luggage to take on my retirement cruise? I'd really appreciate it. I need a full set for me and my wife."

"OK," Moshe said. "You'll have them in about a month."

"Hey, that's great. Mazoltof to you, my old friend."

"By the way," Moshe said. "I'll dispose of those things for you. Bring them over." So he did.

A month later, to the day; the Doctor picked up his luggage from his old and dear friend; Moshe.

"Doctor, I have a surprise for you. Look at your beautiful luggage!" Moshe put a small, beautifully tanned; silky feeling briefcase on the counter between them."

"My, that is beautiful work, Moshe. I don't know how you do it!" The Doctor exclaimed. "But where is the rest of the luggage?"

Moshe laughed out loud, until he had to hold onto his sides. "You won't believe it!" He finally gasped. "All you have to do is rub it."

The doctor did, and there was his full set of luggage. Instant luggage via his foreskin collection.

{My apologies to any of my Jewish friends without a sense of humor. I've often found the best ways to release things to God is with humor.}


Excerpt from: Love, War and Peace Stories.
Presented by: Searcher Publications Home
Medics, Vietnam

Before this gets totally confusing, let me explain these stories are a collage of selections, picked by me from conversations with other Medics and my own experiences. They're not specifically accurate. What they really show is an attitude, a positive attitude of trust and caring about each other.

The experiences are common to us all. We are a very tight band of brothers. When one medic meets another, many things are left unsaid; because we know each other. Some have known no official war. Some have. It matters not. Our war is with the ignorance of man, and trying to fix them after they mess up. The language is slangy, idiomatic and expressive of our mind sets. Most of it is situational explanatory. If not, ask any Medic. He'll tell you if you ask, usually.

Throughout, everyone looked for meaning. "Why me, Lord?"; was the supreme question.

If you have sensitive ears, look elsewhere. This is raw, and immediate; exhilarating, and explicit. You will laugh one moment, and cry the next. We had to laugh, or cry. It was easier to laugh. But, our sense of humor took some weird directions.

Underlying it all was the unspoken; the love we had for each other. I am not talking about anything other than we ultimately trusted each other with our lives. There is no greater love than that, except the master teacher.

Epiphany in a fox hole: "Hey, Doc, man? What does all this mean, man? Do you know?" What can I say? I didn't get the psych course. I could only remember what The Bible said about making war no more. Who the hell knows what it means? I could only shake my head, and start something. A remark I would hear over and over. Everyone picked up on it until it became a litany, a rosary; or an epiphany.

"Hey, man. It don't mean nothing. Live one moment at a time. Forget about the girl back home. Consider it all gone. Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow isn't here yet. The only thing we got is right now; and staying alive. It don't mean nuthin'."

Hey! Gonna get a medal for rescuing a kid and his mother. How about that? I can't have it? Why not? Yeah, right. My bunk wasn't tight enough. "So what if they were slopes? They're human, ain't they?" It don't mean nuthin'.

Gunship version pilots made Psywar into a fine art. They'd mount huge speakers under the skids; and make a firing run playing Aretha Franklin's "I can't get no satisfaction." The other favorite was the Door's "You can run, but you can't hide; baby." Who's playing what for who?

"There's a hard rain coming." Yeah, and who can tell me from them when the rain falls? It don't mean nuthin'.

The highlands. They made you rethink jungle forever. Three layers of canopy. Tigers, and other stuff you knew was there, but couldn't see. Oh, man; I didn't like this. The word was we were a rescue team for a Special Forces Base way up near the border. The Sarge told me the VC wanted it real bad. We had lost radio contact an hour ago. You could tell by the sounds of the rotors as we came in; the pilots had it to the walls, every rivet straining.

"Puff understands, man". The Beret NCO said as the gunship prepped the LZ with one round per square inch from a thousand feet. Looked like a steel mill on pouring day. Massive cosmic fire. Hard rain.

He was the only one still alive from two days of human wave attacks when we got there. I kept trying to get him to sit or lie down so I could work on him. Wounded in more places than I could count, so I put him on some plasma. We waited until this officer showed up. Iron gray hair. Piercing blue eyes. Every one there stopped when he walked up. Command presence in spades.

The officer, a full bird [Colonel] with the Beret; touched him very tenderly as he lay there. "You're it, son." He said. Then, he handed him some new Lieutenants bars. My patient just looked at him. I later heard he got the big one, the CMH. [Congressional Medal of Honor, the highest award.] My patient saluted him with tears rolling, from the stretcher. "Sorry, Sir." He said. "Nothing to be sorry about, son. You did good." The Colonel stepped back, very properly and saluted my patient. Then, he whirled around and got back on the chopper. I'll never understand these guys. My patient would not take the medevac bird back. He totally refused. Trying to treat him there was a real bitch.

"Puff the magic dragon, lives by the sea." From the music. About a fantasy dragon. Children's story. Our 'Puff' was usually a converted cargo plane, full of mini-guns and ammo. They could loiter around areas where the enemy got massed together and put some real fire power on any situation. Trees, jungle, rocks, buildings, anything. Nothing left at all. If some over-eager officer called in Puff, and then expected to get a body-count, he could forget it. Bare earth policy, writ large.

A word about body count. How can we possibly consider success by the number of bodies? It has been said: If you line orientals up 1,000 deep and start them marching forward, it's impossible to run out. After the war, the estimates were for 500,000 enemy dead. Look up our numbers. Who won? You tell me. Is one death worth it? If not, how many? If so, who decides? Well, I didn't have the "Big Picture". Trust again. Choose again.

Most importantly, what goes around comes around. Can you hear the train coming down the track? Don't stand too close. The karmic suction will take you, to the bone. Listen. Can you hear the whistle?

Now, the ones who yelled: 'baby killers' to us are now killing babies, through abortion. Looks like the train is in the station. One finger pointing always has three pointing back at you. I wonder how many they're going to kill before they wake up?

God didn't do it. We did it. Everyone who says they should have a choice: Choice is like hard rain. It falls everywhere. What goes around comes around. You kill something. Something else kills you. What don't you understand about "Don't Do It"? OK, read my lips, then. War ain't no excuse.

There is a very famous story about the door gunner who was asked by a reporter: "How can you possibly shoot women and children?" The door gunner grins, spits tobacco juice and says: "I just don't lead em quite as much." "Hey, you watch out now." He tells the reporter. "Gonna be some heavy rain out tonight, man."

Nobody I knew liked reporters. Yeah, we got the newspapers. We knew they were trying to get us killed by collaborating with the North. Most considered them fair game. They'd rather off a reporter than a dink. All the reporters want is to sell papers, so they can buy some more white hunter suits. 75% casualties. Hey, here comes another Pulitzer! Who started this? Why? I didn't know.

The Sarge summed it up. "A dog can't help being a dog. Just don't be the tree when he needs to take a piss."

On Hamburger Hill, the NCO tells this reporter if he sees the reporter on the Hill any more, he'll carry him off; personal; in his own bag. It was a promise, and prophecy, not a threat. The reporter got the message, and split.

At the end, they found a handful of VC bodies on Hamburger Hill to count and kick. The rest escaped through the tunnels. The airborne had near 75% casualties. Why didn't they take the damned hill from the top? The eternal question. Glory. It sure killed and maimed a lot of good men. Don't mean nuthin'.

In the movie; the Sarge tells about going on leave. "Yeah, man. I got home. Had to go to the john. Well, there was a hair head with beads in my john, man. So, I decided that wasn't home anymore. This is. Hello, family." It don't mean nuthin'. He got wasted the next day.

A word about this term: Wasted. Every GI used this word. It often meant anything you couldn't describe with another word. 'I wasted my lunch on a gook kid.' 'My buddy got wasted when the medevac was shot down.' 'That beer wasted me, man. I was beacoup fucked up.' My definition: Eternal Genesis.

Flip side of the movie. The black medic is gutshot. He was a real activist for black power until now. The only ones left are the guys he gave lip to about black power. They gather around, trying to keep him alive.

He looks at them for the last time, and says: "There ain't no niggers on this hill, man. Just us." He tries for a dap. "Blood and soul, brothers." They cover him with their bodies as the medevac comes in. His eyes start to fade. His biggest protagonist has tears rolling down his face: "You hang in there man, come on. The bird's here! Hang in, dammit!" He smiled, very tenderly, then he was gone. Sometimes, it's too much truth; but he got it out. Don't mean nuthin'.

The very strong rumor was out that the 1st Air Cav had a bounty on reporters: a four day weekend at China Beach. An old legend tells of a grunt cleaning his M-16 when a reporter walked by. He let one clip of 20 rounds go. It sounded like ripping paper fired into water. "Hey, Sarge; go tell the CO he owes me a long weekend, man." It don't mean nuthin'.

And the real rot set in when Second Lieutenants couldn't make it through one tour. That was about 1970, when everybody was going home. "Did somebody call a war, man?" Was the favorite refrain. "Looks like nobody came."

The new young LT's would order a short time grunt down a jungle trail; and nobody would say a word, but you could feel it in the air. The new LT's always lead off. Miraculously, a grenade would roll between his legs with the pin pulled. Instant medevac. "Evidence? What evidence?" You'd look in his eyes. He knew you knew; and you knew he knew you knew. But, there wouldn't be anything in his eyes at all. One more day in the 'Nam. It don't mean nuthin'.

A word about drug use. Now, I won't tell you guys in the rear areas didn't get high. Many of them did. Most drank, beer usually. Anyone caught out in the bush who was high or fucked up usually didn't make it back. If the VC didn't get them, we did. The whole thing made for some hard people. We had to depend on each other to stay alive. Those we couldn't depend on, didn't go home.

On the long patrols, and at night; every sense was heightened. "Hey, man? Which type of bug is that breathin' right now?" At night, it got worse. A lot of wildlife got wasted for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most were good to eat, especially the wild pigs. Snake ain't bad, either. Sure beats C rats.

And then there was the 'weatherman'; tuned in to something. This one guy who could call it so tight; he'd wander out in the middle of a clearing; turn around and point his finger in the air. It would pour down for days. Right then, Right now. Spooky. It don't mean nuthin'.

But that was nothing compared to the Psywar bird, rattling loud vietnamese in their atonal music: "Come in now, your baby is with us." Sick. Just sick. It don't mean nuthin'.

I don't think I'll ever forget the story about the two buddies. They went through basic, then over to the Nam together. They made an agreement none of us knew about. One day, the youngest was messed up on a jungle trail, with the VC shooting pieces off him so he would scream. They were trying to lure the rest of us out into the clearing. He was looking around frantically for his buddy, who was being held back by his friends. The wounded one pointed at his own temple; as a reminder, I guess. Somehow his buddy got loose from those trying to hold him back and he put one round; right where his buddy was pointing; then turned around and shot himself. Love does strange things, sometimes. What is the truth? It don't mean nuthin'.

Despite what you heard, GI's love kids. The story goes about the little girl who ran up to her friend, a new GI. She had a grenade strapped to her. It blew. Who killed who? He knew better. He had a new little girl at home, now minus her father. It don't mean nuthin'.

Short timers. It means what it says. In most units, your last few months were spent out of the bush, so you could unwind before you went home. Some didn't go home. Some are still there. There were rumors all the time about white and black soldiers leading VC patrols. I never saw any. Getting short for most guys meant looking into your soul, trying to stay sane. Being drunk or stoned nearly all the time. Oh, man; your fear would get so strong, you could smell it. Guys on guard duty would shoot up all their ammo when leaves rustled. Massive piss-off.

Everybody waited for the freedom bird. 365 days and home. Get off the plane, and a little old lady spits on your nice green uniform. The spittle never came out of the cloth. Like acid, it was. Made a nice fire, too. It don't mean nuthin'.



Stories from 'peacetime' West Germany are difficult come by. These stories may be unique. More would be welcome.

The first takes place before the Berlin Wall came down; and immediately after the Vietnam War. Tensions were high on the European Continent and in the U.S. Many in the military thought the Vietnam War would extend into Europe and we would have a Civil War in the U.S. It came very close. Far closer than most realize. The best had gone to 'Nam and most of them didn't make it back. Somehow, the remaining Officers, NCO's and EM held it together. This story demonstrates the miracle which turned the tide.

At one point in 1974, American and Russian Armored Divisions were eyeball to eyeball at the Fulda Gap on the common border between east and west Germany. A prominent American Officer with a reputation among the Russians stood up on his command tank, and proffered a vertical extended finger of greeting to his opposite counterpart. I was there, with my heart in my mouth. We were on a training mission, with no live ammunition issued.

The Russian Divisions retreated. I'll never forget the grin on our Officer's face. What was that clanking noise as he turned around? We knew. He redefined 'Brass' for all time, with us.

It never got in the media. The media were only around if they could smell something sensational. We didn't share much with them, because they never seemed to understand what was coming down. Training missions were not sensational. This day was different.

It was a personal gift he gave us, without planning. Anything he asked he received; but seldom asked. From our view, he could have ordered us to hell, and we'd have brought our own water to put the fires out. After the apparent poor showing by the Officer Corps in Vietnam, he was a very bright light, coming out of the darkness.

His father commanded the unit in WWII. A hint to his identity: Does pearl handled pistols ring a bell? The son assumed command after his service in Vietnam. That's right. George S. Patton, Jr. His Father would have been proud. I certainly am.

He is retired. A special salute to you, Sir; from a Medic with a touch of hero worship. I can still hear him, laughing.

A question to consider? What will happen to us when we run out of officers of this caliber? Vietnam lost us a whole generation of the best this country had. How long can we continue? They seem to show up when we need them most. Only God knows. If we ask, sometimes we sense something more. Our country is still trying.

I woke up on the ward. There was a very senior sergeant looking at me from the foot of the bed. Don't remember seeing him before. Then he spoke: "Specialist, I'm with CI. We think we caught your perps. Don't worry about a thing now. They're taken care of." I nodded, not knowing what the hell he was talking about. "Thank you, Sarge." I said. "Appreciate you taking the time." He smiled back, and I went out again.

I woke up wondering what the hell Counter-Intelligence wanted with a simple case of assault. They worked with high-level spook shit. And I wasn't involved with any high-level spook shit. Then it hit me. I didn't have any memory at all of anything before the accident. Not even my own damned name! Then, the sweat started. Let's face it, I was scared right out of my gourd. What the hell happened? I had to get some answers, fast! I punched the call light.

She was cute, red-headed; built like a brick outhouse in a snowstorm and not very happy with me, by her expression. "What is it, Specialist?" Her voice was like angels talk; but her tone was official. First Looie. Well, she outranked me.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Ma'am." I said. "But, I don't have any memory before the accident. I need to talk to someone about this, quick."

She frowned, deliciously. "Why the rush? You're safe here. You've got a big MP right outside the door. I don't know what happened to you. Maybe you can talk to him. Wait a minute." She rushed out the door, and everything moved just right. She came back with Man Mountain Dean in an MP uniform. .45 auto, spit-shined boots, and all. Well, with him here; I could relax. But, why was he here?

He stood there, while she left. I hated to see her go. I noticed his rank, an E-6. This guy certainly has the experience, but why someone so senior? Well, nothing lost for trying. "I'm sorry to bother you, Sergeant; but I don't have any memory of what happened, and I'm frankly scared spitless. Can you help me?"

He stared at me for a minute, with that typical cop stare. Then, he made up his mind and took his hat off; a signal he had decided to talk to me. "Well, Son. I was told you were assaulted by some druggies, looking for some on you. Do you know why they might think so?"

"Well, that's bull." I said. "I don't use anything but good cognac, and everybody knows it. You're going to have to do better than that." I was pissed, now; added to being scared. How the hell did I remember that? My memory must be coming back. My name? Oh, Yeah. James.

He laughed, and nodded. "Yeah, we know. Just testing. I understand some very bad actors raised some hell downtown; and took you out, all in the same night. We caught them. They're on the way back to the states, under arrest for Court Martial. Like I said, don't worry about a thing. Take it easy now, and heal. That's all you got to do right now."

"OK. Thanks, Sarge. Sorry to have bothered you". He winked, and out he went. He still didn't tell me why he was here. I felt like a tethered goat, waiting for the guy with the knife. How the hell am I going to get any straight answers? What did he mean: "Like I said"?

So, I did it. I healed. Still scared. Still worried, and no way to get any answers until I got out of there. A week later, I was back at work. Dizzy as hell, but my memory kept coming back in bits and pieces. And, it looked like I had grown a tail. CID in a red 911 Porsche. I grinned. Not very subtle, was he? Like hanging out a sign to everyone. 'We're watching you'. Yep. Very funny.

I ducked the Porsche, went to my apartment, and my German friends. Everybody very happy to provide solace, physical and otherwise. I went to sleep, a very happy man.

Back to base. Now I spotted all the tail. Not just the CID stooge, but Germans on all the gates. Real pros. A six man team. What the hell is going on here? So, I decided to test them. Enough of this bullshit. I took my camera bag, two throwing knives and a captured Russian Tokarev pistol, with full loads. My buddy in the arms room looked hard at me, but didn't say anything. Time to have some fun, so I took a long walk in the woods; my element. They had one hell of a time keeping up the tail.

I kept pulling them past any roads, paths or otherwise. Finally, I was down to two city clowns on foot, trying to keep up with me in the woods. They blundered around for awhile, then split. So, I sat down to wait them out. Four hours later, near sundown; and nothing. No one. So, I walked out, the other direction from where I came in.

Finally, many hours after dark, I found a well traveled highway. Like any innocent GI, I stuck my thumb out. I didn't have long to wait. A tweedy gentlemen with pipe and Tyrolean hat pulled up in an old gray Mercedes. He opened the door on my side. I peered in, and liked his looks; like a college professor. "Guten Abend, Meine Herr, Wo bist du gehen; bitte?" - " Good evening Sir, Where are you going, please?"; or close enough.

"That's a little too familiar, Specialist. Most German Gentlemen will not authorize the familiar 'du' without permission." My jaw dropped to my knees, it felt like. "Get in". Perfectly good English. American English. OK. Time to get some answers.

"Hand me the camera bag, if you would?" If he knew that much, it wouldn't help me, anyway. Spook city. Too smooth for anything else. So, I handed it over, and he threw it in the backseat. It clanked.

I got in, he grinned around the pipe and we took off. I looked over my shoulder, and my old buddy in the red Porsche was right there; on our rear bumper.

"Specialist, you deserve some answers. You see, you were hit by some pros; to set you up. They wanted some info from you, about the base; and blackmailing you was the easiest way to get it done. Their next move was via one of your young ladies; who by the way; is under age. So, we used you for a stalking lamb, to identify them. And, we ID'd all of them. They noticed you moving in to that apartment, and your German friends. They thought you were one of us. Interesting, what?" He was grinning, the whole time he was feeding me this fertilizer. I didn't believe a word of it.

"If you say so, Sir." I said, very formally. "Now, what?"

"Well, son. Now you go home. Your time has been well served in this country. Your record will so state. You're going to a quiet state side base, where we can keep an eye on you, and them; if they try this again. Your gear is packed, and we're headed for the airport, right now. We're very efficient, when we have to be. You've got another chance. Don't blow it." Yeah. That apartment was sure expensive.

I didn't say anything. What could I say? I did notice my friends, all of them; waiting for me in front of the apartment as we cruised by. With the six man team, of course. A nice touch, that. The CI guy didn't say anything. He didn't have to. How long had they been in on it? Who were they? Life doesn't have pat answers, some times. Dad used to say: "What you got is what you gave." I hope not.



By John Gillespie Magee Jr.

I'm sure you have seen this famous poem, "High Flight " before...most pilots have.

It was written by RCAF Flight-Lieutenant John Gillespie Magee Jr. (1922-1941).

According to speculation, he died in the Battle of Britain.

The poem then becomes near prophetic.

He went Home, where most of us will only speculate.

Oh, I have slipped the
surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies
on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed,
and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds –
and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of –

Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence.

Hov'ring there,
I've chased the
shouting wind along,
and flung My eager craft
through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long,
delirious burning blue
I've topped the
windswept heights
with easy grace
Where never lark,
or even eagle flew.

And, while with silent,
Lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed
Sanctity of space,

Put out my hand,
And touched the face of God.


I have no big message. I let the message speak. But, I would like to share some beauty with you. For a long time, I couldn't find it. It's like losing your sense of humor. Real bad news. Then I did. I found the beauty again. Here it is.

I asked myself: Who are you? Have you ever done the same? Sometimes, we have to define who we are, what we do, when we're going to get there; and where we're going. Basic maintenance.

The beauty I'm sharing with you is part of this maintenance. Maybe the tools of understanding will work for you, too. If not, enjoy the warm fuzzies, and the photography. For those of us who have been there; it's war stories. War stories are how we define each other.

For those who have not shared the experience; enjoy them anyway. That's the biggest problem I have sharing stories. We have to find something which we both know, or both are; then proceed from there. I promise I will try to do that, for all of us.

As a Medical Specialist who monitored Pilots Flight Physicals in the USAF; I had a difficult time understanding them, until one was kind enough to share this poem with me. Then, we knew each other. We found a very deep commonality; which was anything but common. I partied with them, told jokes with them; got sorrowful when we lost someone and watched the process of them girding their courage to go out and do it again; facing their mortality.

The American soldier is no different from their civilian brothers and sisters; but for a very elusive thing: an underlying pure nobility which only comes from placing yourself in harms way. I thought for a long time they were going out for "Mom, and apple pie". No, it goes much deeper than that. They went out time after time, under tremendous odds; often without recognition - for love.

Oh, you can't talk about it. That's part of the code. Loving was defined in the physical, apparently. I've watched them drink until they had to be carried to their rack; chasing every member of the opposite sex in single minded devotion. But no, none would talk openly about how much they loved their 'birds', or their family, or those they worked with every day. It was demonstrated in little ways: In the soft caress along the wing, as they checked the aircraft before 'strapping it on'. In the salute they gave the mechanics, as they 'lit the burners'. In the thumbs up and grin I would get when the paperwork was cleared for another 'day at the office'. In the protective pride they showed, walking their family to the commissary.

Nobody died. They 'augured in'; or 'screwed the pooch'. I listened once to a young pilot who was out: out of everything. Out of power from a flame out. out of control through no hydraulics. Out of everything but an absolute dedication to trying to understand why, and communicate it. As I recall it, his last words went like this: "I've tried A, and B, and C. Is there anything I haven't tried?" The CO said: "Bail, dammit!" We heard a 'crump' from the speaker. That was the last we heard from him. As the CO walked out he muttered: "Dumb Bastard!" But, tears were rolling down his face when he said it.

I've also watched some members of the public treat these people as pariahs. Something to be vilified; because they 'lost' a 'conflict'. I watched the statistic climb from suicide. There were more dead from suicide after coming 'home' to this treatment than were lost in the 'conflict'. War is not a sports contest.

What is the answer? Could I share some?

We have developed a science for everything; except loving each other. We get the physical confused with the real thing. We vilify the messenger, when we don't like the message. We treat 'politics' as something real, when it is not. Real politics is loving each other. Then, we have no need for our current definition. Most of the current politicians should wash their hands, often. The media should be holding the soap. Then, they should change places.

Finally, there is only one solution: forgiveness.

All of us to all of you: We forgive you. Now, forgive yourselves. Then, we are healed together; because truly - we are not different at all. If you can find it in your hearts; forgive us too; for being human. I tell everyone: "Have you seen my perfect pills? If you have, please return them."

Please enjoy this collection of communication and love. I have combined the military mind at its most intimate; not as 'baby killers', but as your brothers and sisters. The first is prophecy, but not military. The second is reality.

Do we need to define reality for each other? If so, let's begin with something we can agree on. To most pilots in training, it was: "Let's begin with level flight." Please accept this, your first lesson in flight.

OK, if you weren't there, it looks like we're there to kill other people. I can assure you, that's not true. The pilots tried hard to pretend the targets were inanimate. In their hearts, they know that's not true. Most of the time, it's not talked about. All of us help each other. Despite all the training, thinking about it any other way will really mess up your day.

We know how mortal we are. By corrollary, we know how mortal all are. We're here to obey the politicians you have appointed as the definers of our reality. If you want to change our mission, tell them. That is the chain of command.

For you, the flight starts with your elected representatives,and goes up from there.

For us, it starts from the Commander in Chief. The President of the United States. Then, like all round things, our orders roll downhill to us. {Mathematicians consider the sphere perfect form.} When we receive the orders, only then can we take off. You set it up. Use it, or change it. Blaming us is blaming the messenger. We are not the message, nor do we make the message. I quit voting when I entered the military. I vote with my feet, for you.

Who's in control? God is. Level flight. Anything else is an illusion.

Oh, I'm sorry. For some people, that much truth is hard to take. I've been told before my lessons are sometimes too blunt. I'll try to be more subtle. No intention is present here at any time to hurt your feelings. Please forgive me, as I forgive you.

Recently, I had a conversation with a Minister; who asked me to justify myself for being a Vet. There is no justification. I am not responsible for this Minister's apparent perception that I am 'guilty' for being a Vet. He is responsible for his thoughts and actions, as I am; and you. Those who have not placed themselves in harm's way should pass on the love we gave you. If you're not a Minister, pass it on anyway. It will come back to you.

They loved you. They showed you how. What is there you don't understand? You do? Great! Welcome! Consider yourself hugged. We are One. Welcome to your first lesson in flight.


Return to The Directories.


This document was created using FlexED