Author: srj641

When you are a Highway Patrolman, you are going to become acquainted with folks from virtually every walk of life, some are outside of the law, most are well within the law and some, like veterinarians, are surely destined for sainthood. Over the years, I have relied on the local country vet to lend dignity to situations, almost always created by human error, that would tax the sensitivities of the most jaded officer. I thought I might share a few of those experiences with my readers.

I had just turned east on I-70 out of Odessa, Mo., on a very hot summer morning. Traffic on the Interstate was picking up and I had intentions of inviting a few “high rollers” to visit with our local magistrate judge. In those days, troopers were blessed with far more discretionary time than our officers today who are taxed with any number of obligations beyond working traffic. As I passed a state lettered road intersection, I saw what appeared to be a horse along side of the eastbound entrance ramp and I turned through the median to investigate. What I found was appalling. An otherwise healthy young pony, with a badly broken front leg had been tied to a reflector post and left there to suffer a terrible death from pain, shock and by now dehydration. I asked our radio folks to have the Odessa Police Department contact our local vet, Dr. Hanson, and send him out. They did so, and within a very few minutes the doctor arrived and began attending the pony. The doctor began preparing the euthanasia injection as I stroked the poor fellow, determined that he exit this world in the company of someone who cared. Dr. Hanson, a gentle man of even disposition was furious with the individual(s) who left this animal to suffer for what the doctor thought was several hours, and assured me that if I could find them he would be glad to draw up another injection for them. The little pony quickly sagged to the shoulder and was finally at peace as the doctor put his things away. The tears on the doctors face were as a result of rage as much as sadness. Predictably, we never determined who the callous individual was. I offered to pay for the call, and the doctor would have nothing to do with my proposition and our relationship was formed.

On yet another occasion, west of Odessa on the same road, I received a frantic CB call from folks who were transporting a very expensive horse through Missouri on their way to Kansas from Illinois. Their horse was down in the trailer and they were requesting assistance from the nearest vet. I quickly found them on the shoulder and the decision was made for them to follow me to, you guessed it, Dr. Hanson’s office, which was about five minutes away. I called and had the doctor alerted and he was standing out front when our entourage arrived. Before the trailer had come to a stop, Doc had the gate open and was in with the horse. The folks transporting the horse had far more money than sense, and had loaded this horse for long distance transport with a gastric tube to relieve bloat. The horse, jostled about in the trailer, had crushed the tube and died in our presence. Well, these well to do folks stood quietly as Dr. Hanson read them their pedigree and suggested they consider rocks as pets, as they had no business in caring for horses. His lecture was withering….

After retiring from the Patrol, we relocated to Warsaw, Mo., a move designed to facilitate my pursuit of crappie in Truman Lake. Another suffocating day found me leaving another retired officer’s house when I caught sight of what appeared to be a dog, in some distress, laying under a cedar tree along side of US 65. I stopped and found an old momma pit bull, battle scarred and obviously having delivered any number of litters in her day, laying under the tree in a great deal of pain, unable to use her hind legs. My attempt to help her was met with fierce resistance, as her pain was intense. The county did not have a catch loop, nor did the city of Warsaw, and I used my cell phone to summon the local vet, Dr. Anstaett, to help with the pup. He arrived, assessed the situation and used a shot stick to sedate the dog and retrieve her. We both knew where this was heading and after a three day wait for someone to claim her, the pup, who was not going to regain the use of her legs was gently eased out of this world. The good doctor and I had a rather energetic discussion over my paying for the call and euthanasia. In spite of his objections, I prevailed as I was intent on being a part of showing compassion to this old fighting dog. Before you ask, I have a remarkable aversion to shooting injured pets, having dispatched a number of deer and occasional cows at a farmers behest. Shooting a dog, for me, is a crushing consideration.

Will Rogers once remarked on the intelligence of vets as opposed to human doctors, saying that veterinarians were the smarter of the two, as they had to “know” what was wrong, the result of animals being unable to tell them. Mr. Rogers had it right. I have been privileged to know a number of great country veterinarians like these two doctors. Certainly, Dr. Jerry Robertson, recently retired from years of vet medicine in Sedalia, Mo. is one of them, as is Dr. Ray Alcantera in Warsaw, Mo. While they earn a good living, the work is hard, and the return, in most cases, does not compare to human physicians. This in spite of the arduous study inherent to this profession.

As a final note, a confession is in order here. I have stopped a number of these wonderful professionals, driving too fast, late at night, on a call to help a farmer or client who was desperate to save an animal in distress. I can assure my readers that I was always inclined to remind them of the law and to be careful……but saw little need to inconvenience them with an appearance in court. Critters and their doctors deserve no less!

Given the decidedly grey, depressed pallor that is gripping America these days, with tongue in cheek, I thought I would offer a thought or two about the unbelievably exciting sport of Curling! In the highly unlikely event you missed it, the US just won gold in Olympic Curling. I am stunned that network television did not interrupt regular programming to bring this fast paced, inspiring competition into our living rooms. Sure we have the Super Bowl, World Series and NASCAR to contend with, but Curling….wow!

Before we can appreciate this incredibly fast paced game, we must develop some understanding of the mechanics of play. Curling is a sport (they say) that involves very carefully sliding big granite stones on a sheet of ice toward a target that is segmented into four concentric circles. It is played between two teams, each with four players, who take turns sliding these rocks toward the aforementioned circles, referred to as the “house”. Each team has eight rocks, with each player “throwing” two of these across the ice at the “house” located at the other end. Be still, my beating heart! Surely, by now you are starting to feel the euphoria that accompanies such a grand sport. As they say in the infomercials, wait there is more!

This isn’t just any old rock and there is considerable technique and athletic prowess associated with this great competition. For instance, when the rock shooter (my vision) slides the rock, two highly trained teammates carefully accompany the stone with brooms to sweep the ice in front of the stones and thus alter the direction and speed of the stone. What a magnificent display of athleticism, that I was obviously lacking when my grandmother would dispatch me to the back porch with a straw broom. If this isn’t enough to peak your excitement, the rock thrower can subtly induce a curve in the path of the stone, thus influencing it’s ultimate stopping place. As you have surely deduced by now, the score is determined by the number of stones resting closest to the center of the house. One can only imagine the strategy and playbook attendant to this exciting sport. These rocks weigh between 38-44 pounds. It is no wonder they slide them as really “throwing” them is out of the question.

Curling is thought to have originated in Scotland in the 1500’s. This is the result, presumably, of the frozen nature of water in this region, during the winter, and nothing much else to do. I am told there are plenty of rocks in this part of the world, most of which are too big to throw, so; viola, we have Curling. Football was a distant thought but there is something inherently undignified in reaching under another man’s kilt to accept a carefully snapped ball……..anyway, to the uninitiated, casual viewer, there is much that escapes the eye. As an example, you may not be aware of the incredible technology that is employed in the selection of materials for the broom. While some synthetic material is in use, true curlers rely on horse hair, hog hair or some form of fabric. Fans of Duluth Trading Company attire are familiar with a style of pant they advertise as “ball room” pants, for rather obvious reasons. Curling pants, for men, are also carefully crafted so that when the thrower crouches into the position necessary to carefully begin his throw, his movement is not accompanied by a change of several octaves in his voice! No discussion about the dynamics of curling would be complete without mentioning the beautiful crafted, teflon soled shoes, designed to facilitate a controlled slide across the ice. Oh the beauty and majesty of it all! Think about this the next time you skip a rock across a frozen pond (or unfrozen for that matter). You could be planting the seeds of this majestic sport in the minds of your children and grandchildren.

So it is. America wins gold in another thrilling upset of our Scandinavian competitors. You would think by now, these countries would know it is difficult to slide anything past a determined American athlete.

Satire aside, congratulations are in order. Excellence in anything is beautiful to watch.

Just under two years ago, I wrote a piece about guns, specifically black rifles and illustrated my position with a story about a fellow named Carlos Hathcock. I have repeated the operative paragraphs in this writing, as they are still as applicable today, after the most recent slaughter, as they were when I originally penned them. With subtle edits, this was my point, then, and yet again today.

There is little need to weigh in on what constitutes an “assault rifle”. Progressives and our liberal friends love the descriptive “assault”. It is easy to say, catchy and takes little room on a printed page. To the less informed among us, they are typically black, polymer stocked and semi-automatic in operation, with a detachable magazine. They may, in actuality, be green, camo, brown or any color, are usually relatively compact and have far too many buttons, levers and attachments for gun controllers to wrap their minds around. They come in a wide variety of weights and calibers, although the venerable 5.56 MM easily predominates. A very popular squirrel rifle, the Ruger 10-22, by definition, qualifies. Folks who rail against these rifles remind me of people who come home and kick the dog because they experienced a flat on the way home. The dog did not cause the flat and these rifles are not fueling the homicidal, sociopathic rages we are seeing…..

During the Vietnam War, the Viet-Cong and North Vietnamese Army or NVA, placed a bounty on our most prolific sniper, Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, also known as “White Feather” to our enemy. This bounty was the result of the Gunny killing 93 enemy soldiers, confirmed, with perhaps as many as 300 unconfirmed kills. The bounty was $30,000.00 US, a princely sum in this era. He was a terrific shooter, having been raised in Arkansas, where he honed his skills with a simple .22 rifle. After the war, the Gunny said he never really enjoyed the kills, instead viewed each one as saving a fellow Marine from a deadly fate. The Gunny relied on one of the oldest, continually produced sporting arms, mostly manufactured in America. It was the reliable Model 70 Winchester, bolt actioned rifle, chambered in the very popular .308 Winchester round, a favorite of sportsmen (and women) today. By today’s standard, it was not an assault rifle. Now to my point.

The Viet-Cong did not place a bounty on the rifle, rather on the shooter. They understood that to attempt to deny the Gunny his rifle would not be productive. They needed to remove the shooter from their world. Interesting. Folks who ran around armed with cheap, stamped, poor quality arms, the result of the genius of Mikhail Kalashnikov, recognized the futility of attacking the gun, instead focusing on the shooter. Combat theaters are awash in firearms and, my dear friends, so is America. There is a lesson here.

We have co-existed with guns for centuries in this Republic. There is a likelihood that we are destined to do so in the future. After you work your way through the entirely justifiable rage associated with the latest mass killing, please take a minute to consider what has just happened. The beautiful children in this Florida community were destroyed by a system that utterly failed them. The sociopath that destroyed these kids was well known to local and federal law enforcement. The NRA, under yet again a full frontal assault, publicly endorsed the inclusion of folks like the Florida shooter on the rolls of those prohibited from purchasing firearms. The Executive Director of the NRA, Mr. Wayne LaPierre, met with Sen. Schumer several years ago, who promised to pursue this tactic and then failed to even address it. To add insult to injury, the officer assigned to protect these children, failed to respond to his most basic, sworn obligation, to place himself between them and certain death. A systemic failure….leaving 17 defenseless people dead. This being said, we should understand that even with enhanced background checks, you are going to miss any number of high functioning sociopaths who run quietly under the radar.

Sociopaths thrive in a free and open society, such as America. What is embolding them is a subject for the behavioralists and social scientists. Meanwhile, we need to take definitive steps to protect our most precious charges, and that my friends is as simple (and expensive) as denying access to our schools to folks who are intent on killing them. Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock’s first task was to get close enough to his targets to squeeze off the shot they never heard. Something and/or someone needs to be between our children and those who seek to destroy them.

It is time for our usual Veteran’s Day visit and there are many things happening in this great Republic that you fought so hard to guarantee.  I trust you are resting well among your fellow veterans in that special place in heaven reserved for those who have given their lives so that we may continue to live in the greatest country on this planet.  America has come to recognize that a veteran’s contribution may be a few short years or a lifetime, and is worthy of acknowledgement on this special day.  I know full well your preference for brevity in the delivery of a briefing, so, sir, let’s get to it.   

This morning, while enjoying  breakfast courtesy of a local eatery, I noticed what seemed like a dramatic increase in the number of female veterans in the crowd.  Women are increasingly involved in military roles that were, just a few years ago, reserved for the masculine gender.  They are serving in line combat roles, and are doing exceedingly well, to include flying some of America’s latest fighter jets.  Although not directly related to a military role, your grand-daughter is doing an excellent job as a Highway Patrol officer, something unheard of in your day!  I am confident these ladies would meet your very exacting expectations.

This year has seen new highs in patriotism as well as new lows.  We have elected a President who is doing precisely what we wanted him to do, but he has not engendered universal support, as a result of his style and public demeanor.  He is a tremendous advocate for military strength, thus serving notice to the rest of the world that America will not be bullied. I suspect you would not be a fan of his blustery style, as I recall clearly your preference for moving in closely and quietly guaranteeing to your adversaries their total destruction in an encounter.  I believe your advice to me was that talk is no substitute for action, and that too much talk was usually counter-productive.  As you know sir, the past Administration was all talk, something you loathed.  In keeping with your philosophy of quickly closing with an adversary and dominating them, the essence of your favorite sport, football, I have unsettling news.  The game is in decline.  The game, as we know it, is facing two obstacles.  First, we are now discovering that participants in this grand sport are destroying the parts of their brains that control behavior and emotion.  The NFL has long covered up the destructive aspects of repetitive head injury, and many folks who are in a position to influence the future of the game are rethinking their positions.  Secondly, Colonel, there is this business of kneeling during the National Anthem, allegedly protesting some great social injustice.  The participants in this disrespectful ritual argue that it is a response to police brutality, or a comment made by a team owner, black oppression and racial inequality.  Before you ask, sir, I too have no idea what the relationship is between respect for the flag and National Anthem and these perceived social issues.  It is good that you and I are spared from the spectacle of you tearing through the stands, climbing onto the field and attempting to beat the hell out of one of these morons with his own helmet that he is using as a chair during the Anthem.  I remember your position on such matters, which was simply “death before dishonor”.  Eternity is a long time, sir, probably not enough time to figure this stuff out.

The state of our military, today, is excellent.  I can report with absolute certainty that our armed services are populated with exemplary folks.  They fight hard and clearly understand the stakes involved in a stint in one of our services.  They, like us,  trust our national leadership to carefully consider the mission at hand.  Through a better education than we enjoyed in our generations, they understand that history has a way of redefining the merit of our action in a conflict.  Exceptions, of course, exist to my blanket endorsement of the folks in our military.  A soldier deserted his post in combat, attempted to collaborate with the enemy, and was rescued from his predicament after the enemy turned on him.  He subsequently pled guilty to desertion and was then freed with no confinement.  The Army is now deliberating as to whether he should receive back pay for the time he was AWOL.  No sir, I do not have any idea what in the hell is going on.  I know, it is the death before dishonor thing again.  You should also know that a veteran sniper is in hot water for allegedly peeing on the corpse of an enemy combatant that he just shot to death on the battlefield. Some General, somewhere, says this was disrespectful to the dead combatant, as if shooting him dead was respectful in some way!  I am smiling too, sir….”

Today, Colonel, many people will visit the cemetery where you rest among your troops.  I will be there sometime next summer to visit and again reflect upon our relatively short time together. Meanwhile, thank you for your leadership and unmatched patriotism.

Today, dad, is your day.

When you are a State Trooper, or any law enforcement officer for that matter, you become a known entity within the community that you live and work in.  The trappings of law enforcement, the uniform and the authority vested in that uniform surrounds you as you move about doing the things that are the substance of television and movies.  When you retire, suddenly your impact is diminished dramatically, and you begin that slow fade into the role of normalcy where you acknowledge your inability to directly influence the happenings of the day as they unfold.  Your family was always introduced as the wife of, son of, or daughter of (the law enforcement officer).  It is disconcerting, for awhile, and the reality, for me, sank in when I went from being Captain Johnson to being Mrs. Johnson’s (the elementary principal) husband.  As a new school year unfolds, I thought it appropriate to offer a glimpse into that role.  Although Sharon has joined me in retirement, leaving the classroom and corner office behind, her influence will be felt for years to come.  

Public Education has been crushed under the weight of beauracracy, funding cuts and the well intentioned criticisms of the folks who have not one clue what life as an educator is like these days.  The push for one size fits all, the clamoring for a trophy for every child and the utter nonsense of no child left behind has taken the breath out of  the educators who recognize the impossibilities associated with squeezing every child into one mold.  From my perspective, I can guarantee that a large portion of Sharon’s salary was in response to the demands and inordinate patience it took to deal with parents.  I was appalled at the numbers of parents who viewed education as a social platform, demanding parties for everything from Halloween to the birthday of a student’s pet hamster.  Parents often failed to recognize that when classroom gifts were involved, a less fortunate parent could ill afford to send their child to school with the beautiful designer candy box that other, affluent parents could easily afford.  I need not comment on the hurt feelings of those who received a handful of candy hearts while sitting next to a child opening a box of designer chocolates.  Never mind the hours of precious instructional time lost to such nefarious activities on a seemingly regular basis.

Mrs. Johnson’s husband made occasional appearances at school to share in Mrs. Johnson’s experiences in an effort to understand the exasperation of Mrs. Johnson when she had no appetite for supper after a vexing day.  I so enjoyed watching the children devour a balanced meal at breakfast and/or lunch, knowing full well this might be the only meal these children would enjoy this day.  I shared in her sadness in knowing that, in many instances, the buddy packs of food sent home with less fortunate children would be locked up at home or traded for cigarettes or other items when they got home.  I watched in horror as various children would model behaviors that were seen in the home, such as rolling, presumably marijuana, cigarettes or sexual conduct.  Parents who provide these types of environments were often the first ones to suggest that one of Sharon’s educators was incompetent to teach their child.

In this age of narcisstic indulgence, I felt great pride in Sharon’s assertive discipline approach to education.  Narcissism, as we know it, has it’s origins in early childhood, resulting in the necessity of “safe areas” for our college youth who gather at the flagpole because they have been offended in some fashion, where they can wring their unsullied hands in unified agony.  In this hyper competitive age, the fact that you were awarded a pink ribbon for finishing 38th in a class of 38 will carry little weight in a job interview.  Sharon’s children understood that when a direction was given, there would be no follow-up begging or threatened consequences, beyond the first explanation as to what was expected.  That, my dear readers, is what employers will expect of their employees.  

An important tool for folks in any learning environment is discipline.  In this case, I am not referring to corporal punishment, a consideration that my generation understood clearly, rather the establishment of rigorous academic expectations and the demand to accomplish the goals inherent to those standards.  We have strayed from the real world acknowledgement that some will excell, some will squeak across the line and some will fail, in spite of the efforts of our finest educators.  There exists today, an adversion to holding a child back when that action is exactly what the child needs.  In many instances, failure is a strong incentive to be successful the next time around.

Sharon can be a handful.  Her metamorphosis from the classroom to the corner office was not easy.  She recognized early on that her concerns had expanded exponentially from a handful of troubling parents and demands to the issues of every one of her staff members.  She worked hard to incorporate today’s expectations into the monumental demand that she provide the guidance and interpretation of new programs and methods into the common sense reality of public education today.  She made it a priority to recognize excellence in the classroom, however could be cat quick when her expectations were not met.  Perhaps this is why I refer to her as my bobcat, quiet most of the time but…….well, we all know what a bobcat is all about.  

I am closing this writing with a strong vote of confidence to those who are up to the task of stepping back into the classroom for another tour.  We are behind you.  In this household, you will ALWAYS get the benefit of the doubt!

It was kind of fun, being Mrs. Johnson’s husband………the guy who fried the fish at the staff fish fry.

A recent article in the Kansas City Star prompted a trip into research land to assess the validity of the information they offered as gospel as it relates to motorcycle mortality.  It turns out they were pretty well on the money with the data they cited.  America is mechanized, at virtually every turn, and life is all about finding that sweet spot that exists between risk and reward.  Like most things these days, that sweet spot is best expressed in some numerical fashion.  I ended my professional career as the enforcement chief in the regulation of casino gambling,  a place where numbers are the real game and the consequences of being mathematically challenged work to the distinct advantage of the house.  There were dollar signs behind every number in that environment, the reward…..as opposed to betting your life on some adventure, such as riding a motorcycle or flying an airplane for fun.  It is easy stuff when you take a minute to look at the realities. You are risking your life in mechanized adventures and risking your money in the casino.  Let’s take just a minute or two for a reality check.

There are folks who sit around in dark rooms with calculators and reams of information and assign a risk factor to virtually everything that moves, makes noise or creates some form of excitement.  These very smart folks are called actuaries, and their work has touched virtually everyone that is alive today, in some form or another.  If you own or participate in some aspect of life that touches the aforementioned categories, they have drawn conclusions that influence the thickness of your wallet and depth of your checkbook when you pay insurance premiums.  These good folks salivate when NHTSA or some other federal agency releases their latest compilations relative to driving, riding or flying something. They use, for instance, the 8.3% increase in motorcycle deaths from 2014 to 2015 in their calculations when assigning a risk factor to those of us who enjoy motorcycles.  This nominal increase in deaths represents 4,976 people who were killed on a motorcycle in 2015.  I have written before, in an offhand fashion, about the differences in motorcycles.  Loosely defined, there is the broad category of “motorcycles”, followed by a category cleverly referred to as “sport bikes” and a third category aptly named “super sport bikes”.  As a motorcyclist, on any type of bike, you are 29 times more likely to die in a crash than as an occupant of a car, and 5 times more likely to be injured.  This is where the types of motorcycles come into play.  “Standard” motorcycles result in a mortality rate of 5.7 deaths per 10,000 vehicles as compared to 10.7 deaths per 10,000 sport bikes and a whopping 22.5 deaths per 10,000 super sport bikes.  Traffic cops (yes, virtually every trooper begins life working traffic, a job that certainly isn’t as glamorous as solving homicides, but, for me, was tremendously rewarding and a hell of a lot of fun) all know that sinking feeling that swells in your belly when you meet a super sport bike who rings the bell on your moving radar.  The rider also knows he has caught your undivided attention and both of you know what it means when his dark visored helmet turns back as he looks to see your brake lights and you hear him downshift the screamer he is astride.  If the circumstances favor the trooper, you have a chance, but if it is open road with no aircraft around, throw him a kiss as you clearly understand his 150+ MPH super sport bike is going leave you wondering where to stop for lunch….

By now, any reader who can balance a checkbook understands the big picture.  We all know that “speed kills” and super sportbikes are all about speed, but those of us in the business of law enforcement  know that quickness also kills.  American drivers are conditioned to rock their vehicles around town and country somewhere between 20 and 75 MPH.  We condition our reflexes to anticipate and react to the unforeseen circumstances within these manageable parameters and are able to avoid most collisions.  Not only are the big super sport bikes capable of unholy top end speed, they can get there in a matter of two or three heartbeats.  Please accept as gospel my opinion that folks who buy, insure and ride one of these crotch rockets isn’t doing it because he or she enjoys laying down on a gas tank, holding your head up at an awkward angle and enjoying the vistas as they cruise our roads.  No Mildred, they buy them because they enjoy the thrill of raw acceleration and speed well beyond the limits established by law.  The only statistical positive associated with these machines is that you generally will not linger long as you await the peace associated with death at 100+ MPH on a motorcycle when a mistake is made.  I have officiated at a scene or two involving these exits from our world and can attest the riders didn’t have long to think about things before they slipped into the afterlife.  Judgement is an acquired attribute, and poor judgement lurks at the scene of serious motorcycle crashes, more often than not.

To wrap this all up, we should also understand how deep we are wading in the risk pool when flying.  Statistically speaking, driving is 6 times deadlier than flying, but only if you are in a common carrier, or airliner.  Outside of commercial flight there is another type of flying refered to as general aviation or GA for short.  This is the world of piloting a privately owned airplane or helicopter for all the reasons that we, as pilots understand. Flying is thrilling, fun and challenging. Your chances of killing yourself and your passengers in a GA crash is 19 times greater than driving or riding in a car.  These statistics are very  comparable to riding a motorcycle!  Again, the participant is wise to carefully consider the risk as it relates to the reward.  For me, I plan to continue riding and flying for awhile longer……

At my age, the sweet spot between risk and reward is shrinking, but not gone.  God willing, I plan on some day sitting around talking about the day when I “used” to ride a motorcycle or fly an airplane…….the memories will be my reward!

Good afternoon Colonel, it’s a beautiful day here in Missouri, a perfect day to honor the men and women who have gone before us, their work guaranteeing the sanctity of America, done.  I can only imagine the conversations between you and your fellow soldiers as you sit around the gilded barracks reserved for that special group of folks we call military veterans.  Knowing the tremendous value that you placed on intelligence, I know that you are aware of the acknowledgement of your efforts by America on this day we set aside for you and yours.

It doesn’t seem possible that 44 Memorial Days have passed since you lost the fight with cancer.  We still talk about the service that day, the crispness and respect shown you by the cadre of Special Forces troopers who bore your casket, each personally selected by you in the months prior to your death.  It was quiet at the National Cemetary, a quiet that was broken only by the rifle salute and playing of Taps, the precision of the troopers was moving……something I am sure you were proud of.  A review of your citations and awards, the airborne units you were most comfortable with and the various commands that you held, strongly support the notion that cancer was likely the only fight you lost.  I, for one, have not forgotten your innate ability to go from the smiling, affable fellow you were most of the time, to the narrow eyed, calm and calculated demon you could be.  I haven’t forgotten Uncle Herman’s, also a military veteran, description of you as the most dangerous man he has ever known.  These qualities served you well at the Chosin Reservoir and the highlands of Vietnam.  I recall a conversation at Ft. Leonard Wood shortly after our arrival there about the bitter cold.  My complaint about the snow and cold prompted a smile from you and the remark that cold is a relative thing and is never a problem when you can dodge inside and warm up….a luxury you did not have in the fight at the Chosin Reservoir where you earned your battlefield commission and silver star. I also recall your avoidance of air conditioning on Okinawa, where you began your tour as a Battalion commander in the 173d Airborne Brigade.  You were in between tours in Vietnam and had been acclimated to the heat of the jungle.  I can also recall you being delivered to our quarters on Okinawa, pretty well blitzed after attending a ritual referred to as “Prop Blast”, a particular right of passage in airborne circles.  I suppose the adage “fight hard and play hard” was in play here.

I only saw you cry one time in our short time together.  I will never forget your coming home and telling our family that “some sorry son of a bitch” just shot the President.  John Kennedy, another veteran of great accomplishment, is generally acknowledged to be the father, if not patron saint, of Special Warfare and, by extension,  Special Forces. You led a parade in the President’s honor, of which pictures still exist. Your emotion, in this instance, was reflective of your love for America and your incredible sense of duty.  I have to be honest here, your referral to President Kennedy’s killer in obscene terms was a true reflection of your rather profane way of conversing, a trait that I have carried on with little dignity and sense of decorum.  In fact, your diminutive daughters, on rare occasion, can also turn the air blue with a profane precision that would bring a smile to your face.  Apples falling close to the tree comes to mind.

Well, dad, excuse me, Colonel, a short briefing on the state of America is in order. We are still the finest Republic on the face of the earth and we are in a bit of a patriotic era.  We have a President who appears to be hell bent on restoring prominence to the military and a Congress that, for the most part, is supportive.  We are still turning out veterans who are willing to fight and die for this country, who are being led by mostly competent officers.  The ceremony today, at the Tomb of the Unknown, was moving and served to remind those who care about such matters, that blood must always be shed to protect this country. As I do every Memorial Day, I want to offer my deep appreciation to you and your troopers on this day.  Later today, as I enjoy a thick steak on the grill, we will raise a glass to you and the veterans you are with. Your ability to raise a particularly nasty kind of hell on the battlefield has guaranteed the peace we are enjoying.

I miss you…….

It was a beautiful day and my surgically repaired thumb was cooperating to the extent that Sharon and I spontaneously decided to hitch up our RV and head to the nearest campground for a night or two of on the job training in de-winterization and systems management.  We keep our RV at a facility north of town that is well managed, immaculately clean, and provides a covered pad for our unit.  As is our custom, we turned Tazzy out to look around and enjoy the safety of a fully enclosed area to stretch his legs before our hundred mile trip.  We came very close to turning Taz out to a slow and excruciating death……

I suppose I should alert the readers to the station in life that we accord our pets.  Tazzy is a 96 pound, yellow Lab, who is the acknowledged CEO in our household.  There was a time when I was emphatic, dogs stayed outside in a warm, insulated doghouse, and existed for my occasional entertainment with a game of fetch or a walk around the neighborhood.  My thinking, I suspect, was tempered by the pointers and beagles that I have been privileged to own over the years who were not particularly suited to the leather sofa….   In a 180 degree reversal, a big black Lab with the moniker Abraham then established residency in our home, a welcome and entertaining addition to the family……I drew another line in the sand, he enjoyed a comfy bed by the master bed, on the floor.  Finally, this big yellow master manipulator, Taz’m, his proper name, obliterated that line and enjoys the foot of our bed.  If we crowd him he unceremoniously kicks the offending leg out of his way, stretches out and snores unmercifully.  Our hardwood floors are slick, so we provide a special throw rug for Taz to sit on, at table side, while we eat…which of course keeps him close enough to enjoy a taste of whatever red meat we are sharing at the moment.  I am sure, by now, you get the picture.  Taz is a family member, accorded every privilege that a child would enjoy.  I make no apologies.

We hadn’t been at the facility very long when Taz sauntered over munching on something.  This boy is a canine vacuum cleaner and can scoop up a morsel of something truly disgusting in a millisecond.  His latest find was green and tasty.  Sharon, suspecting he had picked up a wad of discarded chewing gum gum, extricated the substance from his mouth and showed it to me.  I knew immediately what it was.  A quick examination of the substance confirmed my horror……Taz was eating D-Con, the premier rat poison.  I hurried over to where he came from and found the remnants of a block of D-Con, turned and immediately loaded Taz up for a trip to a vet, any vet at this point, as we were in deep trouble.  As providence would have it, a country veterinarian’s office was just across from the storage facility, and we were there within minutes.  The doctor, Melissa Smith, was no stranger to this emergency and whisked Taz into her clinic where he enjoyed a hydrogen peroxide and water cocktail, eliciting violent vomiting.  The sound of his wretching, under these circumstances, was music to my ears.  He gagged up several large chunks of D-Con, prompting the vet to acknowledge that had he digested this quantity, we would have endured an unthinkable tragedy.  Other than the effects of the hydrogen peroxide and wretching, Tazzy is fine, currently enjoying a 10 day regimen of vitamin K, a clotting agent, a precaution to offset any of the D-Con that might have gotten into his system.  We might never had known what happened to Taz, had Sharon not noticed his chewing happily on the pleasant tasting, cubed hell that he found in the storage area.  Why someone would place this stuff out, in a public area, where mice and rats have free reign from the surrounding woods, is beyond me.  Maybe I will have the opportunity to visit with them about their indiscretion……..

Today’s D-Con is not your father’s D-Con, which was comprised of Warfarin, in and itself bad enough.  This chemical causes a breakdown of the clotting mechanism, and the hapless critter simply bleeds to death.  They bleed through their nose, gums and lungs and die of suffocation and blood loss.  Today’s D-con also incorporates a chemical, brodifacoum, which intensifies the deadly mechanism and insures a quicker but still horrifying death.  The EPA has moved to ban 12 varieties of D-Con as it constitutes an unreasonable threat to pets and children.  Some of these varieties also contain a neurotoxin, for which there is no known antidote.  These chemicals also cause a break down of the capillaries within the circulatory system.  This poison is carefully prepared in a tasty mix so as to fool mice and rats into thinking they had stumbled onto a feast of epic proportions.  Dogs and cats love the stuff.

Our experience, potentially devastating, is a learning opportunity for folks who read this and love their pets.  Please carefully supervise your pets when you are out and about.  A surprising number of people will never enjoy the relationship that folks like us enjoy with the Tazm’s of the world, and we can be subjected to a terrible consequence when we drop our guard.  The capacity to love and care for a critter is a God given privilege……and tremendous responsibility.

I have never condoned the use of poisoned baits to control vermin, it puts tragedy on your doorstep.  The EPA got this one right……

Bob was emphatic.  Grab your morning cup of coffee and be at my place at 5:00 a.m., and we’ll be on our way.  He said it looks to be a perfect morning with just enough wind for the dog to catch a scent and a light frost.  “We should get in them”, he said with his clinched cigar grin. I jumped at the opportunity to enjoy a quail hunt in north Missouri with my early mentor and arrived on time.  We hopped in Bob’s Silverado and turned onto M-13 for the drive to the Bethany area, where his family farm awaited us.  

Money was tight in those days, and my bird gun was a newer 870 Remington, improved cylinder 12 gauge.  It may as well have been an engraved Perrazi, replete with knurled Italian walnut.  I was careful with the shotgun, keeping it cased until the dog was out and the hunt began.  When I arrived at Bob’s house, he instructed me to throw my shotgun in the bed of the truck, behind the dog box, and asked if I needed a coffee refill.  I accepted his offer and began nursing the strongest cup of black coffee I have ever drank.  I did not see Bob’s shotgun in the back of the truck, but was not concerned.  The bed was not the only place in the big Silverado to secrete a shotgun.  The conversation was as expected.  The sage old Zone Sergeant and his eager scribe engaged in banter about the things that were important in that day.  I became familiar with the differences between a Homelite and Poulan chainsaw, important as I was considering the Poulan’s price advantage.  “Poulan is a pulp wood chainsaw”, muttered Bob, “real good on pine in the Mississippi swamps, won’t last on Missouri hardwood”. We talked about patrol cars, and our affable and tough circuit judge, Roger Slaughter.  We talked at length about the Patrol, but I don’t recall the specifics of that conversation.  Bob was a country philosopher and a keen judge of people, you could take him to the bank when he talked about the personalities in Lafayette County, on both sides of the law.  Understanding people was his strength. 

We finally arrived at “the farm” and I immediately began sizing up the ditches and fence rows, taking judicial notice of a couple of particularly menacing, hulking Angus bulls that were eyeing us with suspicion.  We exited the truck and turned the dog out as Bob retrieved his shotgun, a battered old 12 gauge, Browning Automatic.  I was stunned to learn that I had been resting my feet on the shotgun as it was in the floorboard of the truck, under a half dozen paper feed sacks!  Bob blew the dust and grit off the shotgun and fed it three loads of 7 1/2’s.   He was grinning broadly as I carefully uncased the 870 and fed it.  I was grinning too, there was nothing to be said!

We hadn’t gone far when his long legged pointer locked solid at the edge of a ditch.  Bob sent me in to flush and I hadn’t taken ten steps when a nice covey exploded, the birds were jittery and in a hurry to avoid us.  Concentrating on a single bird when twenty are up is a skill that only good wing shooters have, but somehow I was able to focus and knock a rooster down.  The bird elected to glide a bit, with a leg down, before falling into the pasture where the aforementioned bulls were stationed. Nice.  Bob assured me the bulls were gentle and I slipped carefully under the electric strand that served as their temporary fence.  I walked gingerly over, picked the bird up and the show began.  One of the bulls took exception to me, my orange vest and/or attitude and decided that I would be fun to trample (I am guessing here on the bull’s intent).  A quick calculation suggested the electric fence was my best option and the race was on.  I made it to the fence with no time for the low crawl negotiation that got me into the bull’s paddock, and attempted to gingerly step over the strand. I would have been better off taking my chances with the bull.  I have never seen Bob laugh as hard as he was laughing as I was unceremoniously being electrocuted by the strand that I was straddling. My shotgun received it’s first scratches and my leg, as I write, is twitching just a little as I recall my brush with death.  Bob and his venerable old Browning had scored a clean double on the covey rise, both birds dropping in the lane adjacent to the ditch.  Bob was very measured in his gait but could flat out shoot.  We ended the day with 10 or so birds between us, enjoyed lunch at an eatery that has long since escaped my mind, and started back just before dark.  It was a tremendous day shared between two men with common interests who were both living the life we wanted to.  

It was our only hunt.  The Highway Patrol, in those days, was a cruel mistress.  We did not have the Fair Labor Standards Act to protect us from the inevitable overtime necessary to get the job done.  With absolutely no regret, I can remember many weeks that we worked 60 hours.  The unstated commitment that our generation made to the Patrol left little time to enjoy activities together in a zone beyond the occasional bar-b-cue or dinner.  I was fortunate to enjoy the guidance and friendship of Sgt. Robert (Bob) Plymell for 5 too short years before we drifted apart as our careers took different trajectories.  Bob Plymell was a credit to the Highway Patrol and the hard working farm culture of rural Missouri…….

……..and one hell of a wing shooter.  I wonder where that old Browning is today.

The first shot caught me just above the collar, on the right side of the neck.  The next shot struck my right hand, before a multitude of shots hit me in the back and the cheeks of my butt.  No, they were not rounds from an AK-47 or SKS, just BB’s from Daisy BB rifles and I was at Ft. Polk, La., not Cu Chi, Vietnam.  I was in the middle of Basic Training, participating in a course that was affectionally named “Quick Kill”, designed to prepare you for a fire fight in a village in Vietnam.  The BB’s stung like the devil,  and helped bridge the gap from the abstract concept of dying to a realistic impression of just how it happens in combat.  I have not been shot since, and owe the Master my heartfelt gratitude for my good fortune.  For those who relate to numbers, America has lost about 651,000 military personnel in all of our wars, out of approximately 42 million personnel who have served in wartime.  In Vietnam, we lost 58,220 of America’s finest….and today belongs to them.

Ft. Polk was a hot, humid sand trap in August of 1969, when I arrived courtesy of Trans Texas Airlines.  It was a stormy night, and a number of the inductees on the airplane were otherwise occupied with filling up the little sacks conveniently placed in the seat back ahead of them.  Beer, fear and a good deal of turbulence related to the pilot’s attempts at dodging the various storms along our route contributed to this rather unglamorous entry into the United States Army.  I volunteered for this and was seriously considering my flawed life plans as we touched down.  Basic Training was a character building experience.  My veteran readers can identify with this unique happening, although I am focused on a different time and place today.  For me, the next chapter began at Oakland Army Terminal a few months later, the beginning of my experience in a real war, where the BB rifles were replaced with far more lethal weaponry in the hands of either the Viet-Cong or the NVA.  

We were delivered to what can be described as a gigantic warehouse, where literally hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers were housed awaiting their assignment to a flight to Southeast Asia.  The lights were never turned off and you slept on any empty bunk you could find.  The PA system interrupted what little sleep you could get with announcements that “the following personnel are to report to section A for final processing and your flight”.  It was an Article 15 offense to miss your name, and we quickly formed buddy systems to avoid that unpleasant experience.  The warehouse smelled of sweat, new jungle boots, uniforms and fear.  It was chaotic and organized at the same time.  Character building, again, comes to mind.

My flight, on Global Airlines, arrived at Tan Son Nhut air base, not far from what will always be Saigon to me, at 3:30 AM.  When the cabin doors were opened we were greeted by a blast of humid and peculiar smelling air, and a young MP who provided instructions as to what to do if we received incoming fire.  In short order, you were conveyed to an inprocessing center where you were then assigned to a combat unit, based upon your MOS (military occupational specialty).  I was assigned to Division Artillery in the First Cavalry Division, in a scenic little village named Phuoc Vinh.  I was trained to compute the data for the various artillery pieces, thus insuring that we place our devastating artillery capability on the heads of the enemy as opposed to anywhere else in your area of operation.  This skill also earned me a trip to various fire support bases when a a fire control specialist was needed to fill the boots of a soldier that either rotated out, or no longer needed boots……I did my job, and had little time for the demonstrations and political considerations that brought this unfortunate war to an end.  We fought for the man next to us.

I survived unscathed and returned home, able to walk off of the airplane in St. Louis and see my daughter for the first time.  I was lucky, as were the other 9,000,000 or so military personnel,  who served in Vietnam without being memorialized on the wall.  To be sure, I was shot at and survived a ground probe or two while on a fire base, but we were ready and the enemy failed to grasp the significance of direct artillery fire when you are conducting that probe.  Character building, yet again, comes to mind.

I write to honor those folks who arrived home a different way, carried in a flag draped container to their final resting place.  I also write to honor those who served and survived, some scarred for life both physically and mentally, who still walk among us.  Someday, just as in previous wars, our numbers will diminish, and the Vietnam War will be just another chapter in our military history, however; not today.  

Brothers and sisters, bound by a shared experience with life changing implications.  It is a fraternity that I am immensely proud of…

..and the initiation was hell.