Author: srj641

For me it began on the 23d of June, 1969.  The Kent State shootings were nearly a year away and the country was rocking with protest centered around our military and the war in Vietnam.  I had entered college in Kansas City with aspirations of working in the medical field.  The son of an Army officer, who wore his hair short and respected authority was clearly out of his element.  Patriotism had been pounded into my very being.  It was time for a change, a dramatic change and change I did!

On that warm June day, I checked out of the life I knew and entered the US Army.  I quickly realized that being AROUND the Army, as I had been all of my life, did not equate to being IN the Army.  For the first time in my life, I was in a line that I could not get out of, and my journey began.  When I think back to that day, I stood in a line with 30 or so young men who arrived at this point under a variety of circumstances.  There were draftees, National Guardsmen, and volunteers, with backgrounds as varied as the points on a compass.  We raised our hands, swore allegiance and began the experience that would give us standing to comment on the fortune or misfortune of our country until the day we make the last trip under our country’s flag.  The beginning was marked by the Oath of Enlistment…..the ending, for most, involved clearing your last duty station, a cold beer and  an unbelievable feeling of freedom earned and enjoyed.  For some, the ending was quite different.  Grieving family members and friends, a wonderfully poignant ceremony, and the presentation of the flag that covered the soldiers casket with a short, branch specific speech, acknowledging the appreciation of a grateful nation.At the center of these solemn occasions is the flag.  When you swore allegiance it was the focal point of the ceremony as it is in the ceremony thanking you for your blood in the name of America.  We just celebrated Flag Day, and to those who have served in our Armed Forces, this day is special in ways that many are not fortunate to experience.

Our marked inability to adapt to the new order in 1968 was the catalyst for entry into a great adventure for many young men.  For me, given my background and strong patriotic feelings, it made perfect sense.  I was one of the fortunate many who cleared the base at the end of this journey…….thus avoiding the speech reserved for those who paid in blood.  The 4th of July is bearing down on us…..raise your glass and offer a toast to those who have underwritten America’s birthday.  There will be more oaths of enlistment, blood spilled and offerings of appreciation in our future.The debt to those who have served, and will serve, is enormous.

Leonard was the son of a doctor, born in in 1860 in Winchester, New Hampshire. His father insisted he pursue a medical education and so he did, graduating from Harvard Medical School and entering a surgical residency at Boston City Hospital. He was competent but insubordinate which led to his being booted from the program after repeated warnings to adhere to the training protocol.  This penchant for insubordination and the loathing of established policy became his calling card for his entire career.

Leonard, with his questionable medical credentials, soon entered the Army and where he became enamored with the tactics and excitement of field duty.  He was tough, fearless and still remarkably insubordinate.  He was accepted as a regular officer and given field command responsibilities.  He quickly capitalized on the political aspects of the officer corps in these days and began working his way up the command structure of the Army.  He made many key political friends in Washington and a comparable number of political enemies.  He became fascinated by and very adept at training soldiers, with a keen understanding of the tasks necessary to turn raw recruits into warriors.  While acknowledged as a credible military asset, with a demonstrated capacity for politics, he was viewed as an insubordinate self promoter by his colleagues in the War Department.  Leonard was skillful in the management of his military career and was elevated to the position of Army Chief of Staff.  Such a prestigious appointment required the attention of the President and approval of congress…….no problem for this doctor named Leonard.  Missouri native son, John Pershing, described Leonard as hostile to the Wilson Administration with an inability to control his overwhelming ambition for notoriety.  President Wilson described Leonard as a man of unusual ability who cannot conform to the judgement of those who are superior to him.  Finally, Leonard mounted a campaign for the Presidency in 1920, but was unsuccessful in this, his final endeavor.  He died in 1927 with the concept of ROTC, an efficient National Guard and standing reserve military as his legacy.

So it was that on January 8, 1941 a newly formed military base in central Missouri was named Ft. Leonard Wood.  General Wood was a deeply flawed officer who accomplished many things in his lifetime, rising to the top of the Army hierarchy. The War Department chose Wood over Pershing for the name of this new installation,  an interesting but not surprising choice.  There is a lot of room under the rug for the transgressions of politicians.

Ft. Pershing has a nice ring to it…………

Everything happens fast in a jet fighter that is capable of in excess of 1000 miles per hour and altitudes of 50,000 feet.  The F-18 Hornet can escape the bounds of earth at a incredible 1,000 feet per second, not bad for an aircraft that weighs more than 10 tons, empty.  Around 3 PM, this past Thursday, God welcomed one of his Angels home, Captain Jeff Kuss, 32, a native of Durango, Colorado. Cpt. Kuss is now sitting in a squadron meeting with some of the finest pilot/warriors to ever strap on a fighter in the name of America.  It must be quite a meeting.

The Navy, to the extent they can, will determine what happened as the Captain rotated his Hornet.  All Blue Angel pilots are experienced airmen, super pilots actually, who are among the 65 or so super pilots who apply for a couple of annual vacancies on this team.  The Captain, a veteran of in excess of 175 carrier landings, was one of two solo pilots on this Angel team.  By every account,  Cpt. Kuss was a terrific husband, father, son and Marine.  When he graduated from high school in Durango, Co., he knew he wanted to fly…..and quickly reached the pinnacle of piloting  when he was accepted into the Blue Angels.

The Hornet is said to possess excellent low speed flight characteristics, a lesson in physics that easily exceeds the reasoning ability of most of  us.  When you think about the controlled crash that constitutes putting 10 tons of steel onto a carrier deck, maneuverability is a definite asset.  With this being said, it is still an airplane, and an airplane’s best friend is altitude and airspeed which makes them and their pilots particularly vulnerable when taking off and landing.  This terrible crash, two or so miles from the end of the runway,  provided little in terms of altitude and speed………

Someone, in this horrible moment, took a picture that reminds us of the incredible strength of these exemplary pilots, a picture of the Angel formation flying over the smoke and fire they knew marked the loss of one of their own.  We can only imagine their feelings as they overflew the crash site, still maintaining the integrity of the formation.  It is the risk they accept to be one of America’s finest defenders of all that we hold dear.  Thank you Cpt. Kuss, and may God watch over your family and the Angel extended family.

Things happen fast in a fighter jet. The concept of “fast” we are told, is not a concept that applies in Heaven.  You now have the opportunity to talk flying with those who have gone before you.  You are a Marine, sir, and will quickly adapt……..

It started on a Saturday evening in a small town in South Carolina.  The local constabulary grabbed two young men caught raising hell on the streets, landing these young men in front of a Justice of the Peace who gave them a choice…..the military or a stuffy cell in the local lock-up.  Junior Johnson, as he was known then, chose the military and the country benefitted immensely by this decision.

This photograph of my father, taken just before he shipped out to the Republic Of Korea, says many things.  It reflects a young man who was ideally suited to the rigors and challenges of the US Army.  Rather than blend in he became a leader.  He wears the stripes of a First Sergeant, unusual for such a young trooper, tiger stripes he called them.  Specifically, he was a young Airborne First Sergeant.  I have previously written about his record in Korea where he came home a young battlefield commissioned Lieutenant after earning a handful of decorations for valor.  Behind the boyish countenance in this photograph was a warrior who didn’t understand the concept of fear.  He loved the Army…..and the Army needed folks like him to accomplish it’s mission…..

Our father was taken too soon. Although wounded, earning a Purple Heart and several clusters, our enemies failed to kill this soldier.  From experience, I know that luck is critical to surviving combat…..but survive he did.  Lung cancer, likely acerbated by his smoking, ended his tenure on this earth.  Calculating to the end, when confronted by his eminent demise, he bought a new luxury car and took credit life insurance, knowing full well his exit had been assured by the doctors within just a few months.  His courage was such, that after the very poor prognosis, he personally called each of his pall bearers to be sure they would be available.  He selected his own casket and carefully briefed the funeral director in regard to the full dress uniform he was to be buried in, with a Green Beret near his head.

Our fathers Achilles’ tendon was his regard for the troops he commanded.  He was tough, demanding and mission oriented, but never lost his love for the troops.  When we arrived at Ft. Leonard Wood, where he became the installation operations commander, I can remember him stepping out of the guest house on a sleeting, cold, early March morning to the sound of troops being marched in cadence.  He choked just a little, turned to me and said, “that, son, is the sound of freedom”.

Memorial Day is a day of reflection.  Thanks, dad.  You left one hell of a wake and your family will always be grateful.  Tiger stripes………..

In the end, it is all that is left to memorialize our passage through the world we live in.  For a few generations, there will be  personal things or a document or two in the hands of family members or friends, but over time they lose their significance.  I am speaking of the granite and stone that permanently reflect our very existence.  As a trooper, I was faced with irrational, puzzling and sometimes infuriating behaviors, with the destruction of property or vandalism at the top of my list.

Memorial Day, a day of remembrance originally established to commemorate the bloodiest war in our history, the Civil War, is upon us.  Depraved, simple minded folks, the kind that give mankind a bad name, have chosen this day to vandalize a Vietnam-Nam War Memorial, a memorial to the veterans who have fought in wars dating back to the Revolutionary War and a Civil War National Battlefield where more than 1,000 soldiers died, fighting on both sides of this great conflict.  Rational people, when they consider this aberrant behavior, shake their heads at such conduct, disgusted but resigned to the acceptance of such bone headed behavior by the miscreants who must get something out of their destructive behavior.

What possesses folks to vandalize?  I am not trained in the psychological aspects of vandalism.  I don’t need to be.  Folks that destroy property are simple minded, self loathing cowards who elevate their stature by defacing or destroying the monuments to others.  I am trying to be civil here, but believe me when I tell you how despicable this behavior is to me.  When I walk through a battlefield cemetary, I see more than a name chiseled into stone.  There is a story behind each name, in each mass grave, and each marker that stands against time and the elements to note something or someone who contributed to our great republic.

I have been involved in the rehabilitation of kids who spent an evening or two laughing their way through a nite of “wilding”, driving about and defacing or destroying property.  It was immensely satisfying to watch them wax patrol cars or reset mailbox posts, replete with new mailboxes paid for out of their own pocket.  Interestingly, time has dulled the memories of burglars that I was fortunate enough to grab, but the vandals still resonate in my mind.

Even skulking cowards, under the cover of darkness, enjoy Memorial Day…..but don’t look for them at your barbecue.  They will be sleeping in to be fresh for their late night crawling about, defacing the memories that will become a part of your legacy preserved in stone.

Mr. Trump is now the presumptive nominee and has moved squarely into the crosshairs of the most active component of the Democratic Party, the media.  My readers know that Mr. Trump was not my choice from the huge slate of Republican hopefuls, however I sensed early on that he was on a winning trajectory.  Mr. Trump correctly read America’s anger and tapped squarely into it………

Is he the perfect candidate?  Of course not…….let’s have a look.

He has allegedly alienated the Hispanic vote.  He has or will alienate the women’s vote.  His foreign policy positions are not grounded. He tends to bully.  He is publicly profane.  He references his endowment.  He is blustery.  He is belittling.  He has been inconsistent on the 2d Amendment.  He is insulting.  He is going to “make” Mexico pay for a wall on our border with them.  He touts his charm with women.  He brags about his personal wealth.  He has bragged about his IQ.  He has threatened other candidates wives.  He can be publicly obnoxious. His negative rating is sky high.

However………

He is a winner.  He genuinely appears to love our military and other uniformed services.  He obviously knows how to select a winning staff.  He has business acumen.  He appears to be fearless.  Barring a historical political tsunami, he will be the Republican nominee.  He is not a jaded insider and has skin just a little thicker than an elephant’s.  Most importantly, he is not Hillary Clinton.

Good luck, Mr. Trump.  Your formidable list of negatives makes you look like a Jesuit Priest compared to Hillary.  I am certainly willing to give you a chance…something I will never do for a Clinton….never.

It should come as no surprise that I enjoy reading.  I have a marked preference for non-fiction work, which of course spares me the burden of reading about the Clintons.  A reader asked me who my favorite writer is, and after much careful consideration I have narrowed the list to a fellow who knows a lot about a lot of things as opposed to my personal philosophy of knowing a little about some things, mostly inconsequential at that.  I am referring to the incomparable David E. Petzal, a writer for Sports Afield.  Mr. Petzal writes about guns, hunting, politics and the business of killing or “blood sport” to my liberal friends, (all both of them).  He does not suffer fools and is capable of answering a technical question with dexterity, clarity and a throat punch to anyone who might need this reality check.  When you have the time, Google Mr. Petzal and read his work.  You will be entertained and, I promise, informed.

Mr. Petzal is a realist.  He speaks glowingly of folks like Boxer, Feinstein, Schumer and Clinton, the folks who have never really gotten it.  Of Schumer he mentions a little known study by the Insurance Underwriters of America that revealed the single most dangerous act in the world is to get between him and a television camera……and you probably thought it was dispatching a wounded Cape Buffalo in the African bush!  Stupidity irritates Mr. Petzal, like the stamp on gun barrels: “Warning: This Firearm Is Dangerous”, yet another red flag for the PETA folks who may not have figured that out.  Mr. Petzal writes of the real code of the west, where Cowboys settled their differences just a tad differently than depicted in the movies.  This may be traumatic for those that read fiction, but real Cowboys shot the hell out of each other in the back……they weren’t stupid enough to square off in the street, thus practically guaranteeing their mutual demise!  These are but a precious few indications of the man’s genius.

David E. Petzal is the kind of writer that I would love to enjoy a summer evening on the deck with, sipping something long aged in a wooden barrel, soaking up his practical wisdom.  You would had to have a few too many of these libations to challenge him on his real business, guns and hunting.  I can only imagine his steely stare just before the throat punch…

Talent, knowledge and courage.  Mr. David E. Petzal.  Google him, he is that good.

Americans understand waiting in line.  There are a lot of us who have many interests resulting in our congregation at various “choke points” through which we pass after waiting in line.  I suspect we do not have the market cornered, internationally, on this phenomenon.  So please excuse me if I take exception to the commentary by the Secretary of Veteran’s Affairs relative to the wait at VA Hospitals for medical care by our veterans.  My contempt for the opinion of Mr. Bob McDonald, the aforementioned Secretary has not been tempered by a day or two wait to frame these issues.  Mr. McDonald, a West Point graduate and five year Army veteran, is a horse’s ass.

The quote.  “When you go to Disney, do they measure the number of hours you wait in line, or what is important.  What’s important is what is your satisfaction with the experience?”  This in response to veterans who have extraordinary waits in VA facilities for medical care……an issue I have written about before.  This from an individual charged with improving the timeliness and thoroughness of care to our veterans.

Wait lines, Mr. McDonald, can be characterized in several broad ways.  There are lines you “want” to be in, such as a concert or a ride at Disney.  There are lines you “need” to be in, such as applying for unemployment or obtaining a license for your vehicle.  Finally there are lines you try to “avoid”, such as a line at Auschwitz where you were graded for extermination……or laying on the floor of a VA facility too sick to finally hear your name called for care.  Mr. McDonald’s attempt at blurring these distinctions, relative to the life and death care of our veterans reaches new heights of callousness and flippancy.  Again, from a man who was specifically selected to reduce these waits, improve care and send a message of genuine concern for his responsibilities.

A last point.  Veterans are all honorary Missourians in that promises are viewed with skepticism.  They are, deep down, conditioned with a strong “show me” attitude, believing it when they see it.  In our history, well over one million veterans have required no follow up medical care as they died protecting this country.  Many more, in numbers, carry the physical and emotional scarring that accompanies this deadly business of protecting America.  Mr. McDonald’s remarks should earn him a one way trip back to Procter and Gamble, selling soap.  There are very few lines in the soap peddling business.

Cpl. Maxwell Q. Klinger was no stranger to the intracies of the United States Army.  In the Army of old, in his case the Korean War era, there was no room for folks who had a sexual identity issue.  Max Klinger was an elaborate cross dresser and spent his discretionary time trying to convince the officers in the 4077th surgical hospital to muster him out over his humorous attempts to convince them he was a transgender person.  We all sat back and laughed at his antics.  Few are laughing today.

As a rule, I seldom comment on matters of sexual preference, confusion or related issues.  I suspect most Americans are reasonably tolerant of these aberrations, choosing to ignore them as long as the issues aren’t forced into their living rooms.  While it is difficult to quantify, the best estimates are that about 0.03 percent of our population identifies as transgender.  If you’re into numbers that translates to around 700,000 folks out of 319,000,000.  Klinger wouldn’t make the list, his motives were rather obvious.  Had Klinger breezed into the ladies shower on MASH, it is likely the nurses led by Margaret Houlihan would have broken his obsession with an epic response.

What are we thinking?  I am long beyond being stunned by this President’s social engineering by executive fiat.  Are we going to disrupt our generally quiet tolerance of such personal issues by mandating the acceptance of the aberrations of a few folks who are genuinely struggling with a sexual identity crises?  Most importantly, how in the name of God are you going to manage this issue?  There are any number of creeps stalking our country fixing cameras in the furtherance of their voyeuristic inclinations……creeps that when caught, go to jail.  No need to sneak around now, just self identify as transgender and walk in to a public restroom…….the sign over the door indicating  gender means nothing.

The architects and builders will see green in the pursuit of this issue.  If I were building a new school today, I would construct a series of one user restroom facilities rather than large communal restrooms as is the custom today.  Expensive?  Yes.  It would not be as expensive as the societal costs associated with a cross dressing man entering a women’s communal restroom and walking out to the greeting of her husband, father or boyfriend who, in all likelihood, would respond with a different kind of “social engineering”.

Max Klinger, in later episodes was promoted to Sergeant and replaced Radar as the unit clerk.  He gave up on his attempts to earn a Section 8 discharge and returned to some degree of normalcy.  He famously quipped that it was useless to attempt convincing the Army he was crazy, as they were ALL crazy around him.  The characters in MASH were, indeed, goofy, however; America , as a whole, is not.  Again I ask, what are we thinking?

I was not raised in a sterile environment, with a mom chasing me around with an antibacterial wipe, ready to pounce on my face and hands in an effort to keep me from succumbing to a dread malady contracting by touching something “nasty”.  Indeed, as a kid, it was mandatory that I scrub my face and hands before taking my seat at the table, probably more from an aesthetic viewpoint than hygienic standpoint.  Yet, here I am, having survived thus far with only a isolated cold or case or two of flu on my record of pathogenic disease.

I will be the first to say that good fortune has been my co-pilot more often than not.  I vividly remember walking a line in Basic Training while medics, bathed in the July,  Ft. Polk, Louisana heat,  used pneumatic guns to inoculate us against typhus, malaria and God only knows what else we might encounter when  traveling abroad pursuing our soldierly obligations.  As I gain experience in the world, ( grow older) I make it a point to be very careful about tempting fate.  I keep alcohol gel in the door of my vehicles and am careful to liberally rub a glob into my hands after engaging in a variety of everyday tasks that involve touching stuff that less careful folks have handled.  Gas pump handles, grocery cart handles and bathroom door handles are on my list of prime locations for an errant flu bug or rhino virus to be lurking.  Bathrooms, in my mind, are wonderful incubators for any and all sorts of critters to live, all bent on adding me to the list of unfortunate souls who have died from things that are not usually fatal.  The gel follows a thorough hand scrub.

The cardio rehab facility that I visit daily during the week is located in a building also occupied by several physician offices.  They almost always are, there may even be a rule that a doctor’s office must be located near where folks who have suspect hearts go to strengthen these same hearts.  When I walk through the lobby of this complex, I note the miserable folks who are awaiting either a merciful death or timely intervention by the doctors occupying these offices.  They aren’t really interested in  where the various maladies plaguing them go from here.  They touch things;  doors, tables, magazines, pens and in the case of children, floors, walls and each other.  When I walk through, I smile and nod sympathetically, and stop just short of taking a bath in the hand sanitizer at the door.  I am too damned old to tempt fate around places where sick people congregate.

Deductive reasoning has led me to the conclusion the touch pad that opens doors for those who are honestly too infirm to pull or push a heavy door open alone is the location for a huge reunion of every vicious germ inhabiting our part of the world.  I don’t use them.  In fact I thank the Lord that I still have the strength to open the door, usually by leaning into it with my elbow or back……remember the handles are kryptonite for healthy folks.

This morning, I watched in shock, as a member of the staff in this clinic,  jabbering away on the cell phone, arms full of the armaments that staffers need, opened the door by kicking the pad with the bottom of her shoe!  Score one for the callous disregard for the norms of civility and a wasted education on the peripheral of medicine.  Pity the poor, miserable folks who have come seeking relief from a pathogen induced misery that must now contend with smearing their hands with the residue on the bottom of a shoe!  Nice touch……

Laugh, if you will, at my “alcohol gel in the car door”  fixation!  Today I am vindicated…….