Riding Home In Winter

Evening on Campus.

Whoa! Winter showed up, Gentle Readers of This Blog! The day before rain and sleet--and sometimes snow fell. The wind was fierce and wicked cold too! After work today I came out, and the Sun was beginning to set and I wanted to get better shots for you, mes amis--because I thought it was kind of pretty. Only a bit of the snow could hang on as the wind was brutal all day!

Remember Your Relatives.

The Arch was built by Indian Veterans who donated money to honor their fellow soldiers--Indian, White, Black--all Americans--who fought in World War I.

Its symbolic of all the men and and women who have served in the military then and now.

Indian people have the Warrior tradition--its more like stepping up in a time of need--to protect and defend those who cannot defend themselves--being selfless--and if need be, fight to keep the people safe. Indian Veterans take this very seriously.

I believe that there's a feeling that the people of the past made sure that the people of the present--you and me--had a chance in this world. They gave up, some of them, everything--so that we could live to work, play, love, create, and be all that we are. Wouldn't you do the same for them?

We should take care of their memory just as we should take care of our vets coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan--no matter what we felt about the war and the mistakes that were made. What we have enjoyed, and what we will enjoy in the future has been solidified by their efforts and their blood.

Oh the times I have wished to trade places with Little Egypt--why her and not me? Why us and why this time?

Okay--well, I need to hit the sack. One week at the new job! That is a good thing!

Cheers! Bruce

War and Rememberance

Bobby, "M'am" and Frank, 1919

My Grandfather lied about his age to join the Navy in either 1916 or 1917--he was born in 1900. That's him on the left of the photo, standing next to my Great-grandmother, Rose--and oldest son Frank. The story of this photograph is that the Chandler Brothers--Frank and Richard, enlisted in the Army, but my Grandfather, Robert, was turned down because he was too young.

I recall the story my Grandpa told that he paid a stranger five dollars to tell a Navy recruiter, "Oh yeah, Bobby Chandler--I know him well--he's eighteen, sure..." and so that was that. Of course, my Great-grandmother was devastated--but it was too late, Bobby shipped out quickly.

My Grandfather was on leave, and had not been back to the farm for over a year or more. On the way home, in the train station in Kansas City, Missouri--he literally ran into his older brother.

Grandpa said that at the train depot there in Kansas City, there were probably about 100,000 soldiers and sailors going this way and that--it was madness. He accidentally backed-up into this tough-looking Dough Boy--it was Frank. They couldn't believe it! They were on leave at the same time. The photograph above commemorates that miraculous meeting in the depot that day.


Bruce Chandler, 1862 - 1946

My Great-grandfather and I were born 100 years apart. He was born in Kansas Territory right at the start of the Civil War. Years later Great Bruce and the family had a large apple orchard near the small town of Anderson, Missouri.

During World War II, several hundred German POWs worked in his huge orchard picking apples and working other crops. My father as a small boy recalled vividly riding on the backs of Babe and Pal, Great Grandpa Bruce's two gigantic draft horses, and picking apples with the young German prisoners. He said most of the POWs were just simple farm boys themselves.

Whenever my Dad visited the farm from Tulsa during the war (they saved gas ration cards so they could make the drive) he said my Great Grandmother Rose, "M'am" as they called her, always cooked big meals for all the men, the German POWs and the American soldiers that guarded them as well, and everyone sat together in the house and on the front porch eating lunch or dinner. He said Grandma Rose was kind-hearted and much loved by everyone, and that after the war many of the former German POWs sent her cards and letters on her birthday and at Christmas time.

Sadly, my Grandfather's brother, Frank, did not come back from the trenches of the First War unscathed--months of combat, wounded several times, he was, I believe, a changed person--very difficult to get along with and moody. My grandparents never spoke of him, nor did my father much either--only after my grandparents had passed away did I only pry bits of information about him from my father.

I knew he was the local sheriff in Anderson for awhile--a tough looking hard man the type that you didn't mess with. I suspect he committed suicide sometime in late 1940s--these matters were never discussed and my inquiries about him from old photographs were often met with a deafening silence--and the subject gently changed.

Little Egypt gets magazines and information from the Nat'l Guard and other military information intended as resources for soldiers coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan. A lot of these articles feature young people making heroic efforts to get back to some kind of normalcy after losing their legs from roadside bombs and other injuries. But the matter of PTSD is the hard one to put one's finger on--the struggle from deeper wounds, like the ones my Great Uncle Frank's generation suffered on their return from war.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Frank.

From Russia with Love

I took yesterday off—the 285th would be arriving in Tucson after a 22 month deployment. Wednesday after work, I sat at a traffic light (in my car) waiting for green—but before that happened, Bumphf! I was rear-ended, mes amis!

I pulled over as did the car that hit me. An older woman jumped out and I asked her if she was okay—and she was relived that I was polite, not angry and concerned more about her welfare over my car, etc.

My car as well as her car had no damage. She was from out of town, and the car was a rental—with quite a large engine and very powerful she said. Her foot slipped off the brake and the car, even in idle mode, lunged forward.

My neck is a bit sore—as it snapped from the impact. Should I have insisted on getting her “information” Nah. I’ll be okay. But my neck and shoulders do hurt a little.

Bev arrived safe and sound Thursday. There was not much fan-fare. The commanding General, realizing everyone had waited long enough for this day, cut the formalities short. They had been delayed a month returning home. Think of it like waiting for a flight at your local airport; the flight is delayed a few hours—Yeah, you bitch.

Imagine waiting for a month—in a tent—in a country having one the coldest winters on record. I can’t even pronounce Kyrgyzstan. This was the place where Bev’s month-long winter holiday ensued.

So Bev somehow was able to hide a bottle of Russian Vodka in her carry-on—bought last minute before leaving Kyr”plop”zsatn. She thought the bottle was ornate and kind of interesting.

And, Gentle Readers of this Blog—finally at home—Bev announced we would drink shots of this Vodka to mark the occasion of her return.

I suggested she go first—as far as I was concerned, this was probably a knock-off Kyrgyzstan rot-gut, made in a bathtub a few mud-huts down the dirt road.

O! How mistaken I was, Gentle Readers.

Let’s drink to our War’s end.
Drink yet again—to our fellow soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan.
And for a third time—to Russia! For this is the best Vodka I have ever known!

Cheers!

Got a Girl in the War

Bev called late last night. The Battalion’s flight has been delayed almost a month. This is because even after two years of deployment the chain of command still cannot pull its very large head out of its enormous ass; the task at hand to organize and schedule a flight out of Afghanistan home to Arizona.

The chain of command, Gentle Readers of This Blog, could not even organize a BBQ for family day at the Unit for a Sunday afternoon here in Tucson. The Cadre of officers remains indifferent to the men they are responsible for, and the 1st Sgt of the Battalion—on his return to the US of A, will go back to doing what he does best: being a drunk.

My Girl in the War is one of the sharpest people I know—her only fault is that she re-joined the Nat’l Guard with an ideal it would be as squared-away as her first Unit was back in Vermillion, South Dakota. The unit she joined, right before 911, she soon discovered, was populated by a sorry lot of worthless-fucks.

When the war started, and rumor of the Unit being deployed—the gun-ho Roger Ram-jet NCO-types found a way to get out of quickly. All the soldiers in the Unit who remained (they were ordered by the Commander not to try to get out) were actually happy these losers slinked into the shadows. Bev thought them cowards anyway.

I am not disrespecting the Rank and File, of which my wife is a member. She was in fact ordered by the Commander to be sure and be on that deployment roster—he told her the young, unmarried guys working in his command center were useless, and they would be left State Side.

I believe I should end this rant soon. But I will leave you, Gentle and Faithful Reader of This Blog, with one last account of my thoughts on the subject. You see, one Saturday I was out riding by myself, and on the road as well, was a fellow cyclist. We greeted each other and soon were in friendly conversation. To my amazement, this new found friend was one of the helicopter mechanics at the airbase, and knew my wife’s Unit quite well.

At 50 years old, he was ready to retire from the Nat’l Guard, but was now being told he could not—but somehow he was able to have the chance and really wanted to move on with retirement.

He told me in confidence that the mission of the unit was deeply flawed; a combination of political and military back-stabbing at HQ PHX. Besides this intrigue, the Unit, whilst in Afghanistan, would be fighting fanatics armed with sticks and rocks against our guys armed with photon torpedoes.

Imagine yourself working at the corner store. The locals come in to buy gas, maybe some chips. The neighborhood kids pour in after school to get candy bars and ice cream. One day some guy comes in and buys a six pack of beer. You know—nothing out of the ordinary.

What you don’t know is that Army Intel has pegged this guy as a member of the Taliban, and this very afternoon a squadron of Apache Gunships are choppin’ the blue and about to pay a visit.

Before you can even exhale your last breath—your store and half the block—and everyone and everything walking, sleeping, eating, playing, shitting, dreaming—are vaporized.

The morning of 911 I saw neighborhood kids come out to line up for the school bus—looking up at the sky with fear in their eyes for planes that would fall and kill them.

I see that same look in the eyes of Iraqi and Afghani kids on the TV sometimes.


Jesus Christ…