Doing less of nothing.

I have been informed that there is a Beagle Posse labor action in progress.

Tommy came in, identified himself as “the duly elected shop steward,” and informed me that an action has been voted by the union membership.

I said, “Are you on strike? I hadn't noticed.”

He said, “No, for now it is a slow down.”

“A slow down? Does that mean you are going to chase fewer squirrels and chipmunks?”

“No, that's what we do on our break.”

“Does it mean you're going to eat less?”

“No. We do that for us, not for you.”

“Then, please, what does a beagle slow down mean?”

“We will be doing less of nothing until our demands are met.”

“Less of nothing?”

“Yes. We can do a lot less of it if we have to.”

I sighed. “And what are your demands?”

Tommy barked, “The BACK DOOR.”

I began to catch on. During the Spring and Summer, we had a curtain screen up on the patio door which allowed free and random beagle access to the yard. With the coming of cooler weather, we have taken that in, and are keeping the door closed to keep the house warm. The Posse is back to having to bark or “ring bells” to get in or out. (We have a strip of harness bells hanging low by the door. The dogs know to use nose or paw to ring them for us to come let them out.)

“Winter is coming,” I said, “and it's getting too cold to leave a door open.”

“Yeah, why?” demanded Tommy.

“It's that time of year.”

“What's a year?”

“That's the length of time it takes the earth to obit the sun once.”

“What's orbit?”

'That is the circular/elliptical path one celestial body travels around another. In this case, the earth orbits the sun.”
“What's the sun?”

Sheesh. “It is the nearest star. The center of our solar system. It is a natural helium-hydrogen fusion reactor that provides all of our light and warmth.”

“What's helium?”

I was losing patience. “You don't know ANY science, do you?”

Tommy said, “We watch every science show on Fox.”

“Right. You don't know any science.”

“We have noticed,” said Tommy, “it is getting colder out in our playground-slash-bathroom. Who is responsible for that?”

“I just told you. It's the natural progression of the year.”

Tuppence finally chimed in, “Ah, so it's Obama's fault. We'll need to hold hearings.”

I nearly lost it. “It's no one's fault. IT HAPPENS EVERY YEAR.”

“Umhmmm,” said Tuppy. “Every year since the Mooslum Soshlust has been in.”

“EVERY YEAR SINCE TIME BEGAN,” I yelled.

“Who knew how long that Kenyan's one-world tentacles were?” said Tommy. “We'll be in the hearing room. You may expect a subpoena.”

“Fox?” I sighed.

Tommy went back to the labor action. “We will continue to do less of nothing, in fact less and less of it, until you make the temperature right out there, and open our door.”

“Tommy, I don't have that power. It will warm up in the Spring.”

“Then we'll be doing less nothing until then. You just watch.”

“And, when it warms up, and the door opens?” I asked. (Not positive I wanted an answer.)

“Then, “ said Tuppence, “We'll go back to doing more of nothing again.”

“When you're striking, you do less of nothing, and when you're working you do more of nothing, is that how it works?” I asked. “Aren't Less of Nothing and More of Nothing pretty much exactly alike?”

The Posse strode off to a nap. Tuppy saying, “Management never gets it.”

The Last Smith on the Huey.

(This story is true, just not the names.)

Frank and Jesse were young CPAs starting their careers. They were drafted during the Vietnam war, and they were not happy soldiers. Sure, they could have been officers. All they had to do was give the Army two MORE years of their lives. They hated the two years they were in for, it doesn't take an accountant to do the math on giving two more. They both thought, “Just get it done with.”

They came together working in the USARV Replacement Office in Long Binh, Vietnam, and they very soon began inventive subversion.

The way Replacement (requisitioning and assigning new troops in the war) worked in those days was that major units would send their projected Force Requirements to USARV (US Army in Vietnam), and USARV would put it all together to send on to the DoD in Washington. Stateside orders would be cut, and troops loaded onto airplanes bound for SE Asia. These requisitions for people, not too different from requisitions for toilet paper, would be by Rank and MOS. An MOS is a “Military Occupational Specialty”--what you are trained to do in the Army. They run a gamut. They are coded by numbers and letters. For instance, an 11B20, spoken as “Eleven Bravo”, is a low ranking infantryman. The “2” goes up to 3 and 4 as rank increases. The “0” is a place holder for special designations. For instance, an 11B2P is a paratrooper, and an 11B2L speaks a second language. Other examples would be “71B20” Clerk Typist; or “94B20” Combat photographer.

As those planes full of new troops left the US, a lengthy “Green Bar” computer print out, just like corporations used in those days, would be sent via teletype to USARV. It would list, by name. Rank. and MOS, all inbound personnel, and would arrive about 20 hours before the plane. At the time of this tale, about 10,000 new troops a day were arriving in Vietnam. The list would be sorted by MOS. Who is not really important to an Army. “What” is.

Clerks like Frank and Jesse would count and circle blocks of names to be assigned to Major Subordinate Commands, like Divisions and Brigades. These commands had similar operations that assigned on down to the battalion and company levels. By the time a replacement landed in Vietnam, his in-country destination was already decided.

One day during Monsoon season, Jesse looked at Frank and asked, “What's the smallest command we assign to?”

Frank said, “Some independent Brigade somewhere.”

“No,” said Jesse, “SMALL.”

Frank said, “We don't assign small.” But they both got looking.

They discovered that there was a courier helicopter company in Saigon that served MACV, USARV, and the Embassy, and was subordinate to no command other than USARV. It was a company, about 200 men, that got direct assignments from Frank and Jesse's office. The game was afoot.

Jesse said, “We've got 10,000 men a day to choose from, and up to 3 days to fill a slot. What if the 334^th Helicopter Company only gets men named Smith?”

“Smith?” said Frank.

“Smith,” replied Jesse.

So they began. Smith, after Smith, after Smith.

Theoretically, a tour in Vietnam was 1 year. But men often left earlier due to injury, illness, hardships at home, educational drops, in-country transfers, and more. So, in less than 6 months, more than 75% to 80% of a unit might turn over. And our subversive clerks had been at this for more than 6 months. The Army works on alphabetized lists of names. Duty Rosters; Morning Reports; Leave Schedules and Authorizations; Sick Call lists; DROS (Date of Return from Overseas) lists; and more. These must have been getting interesting at the 334^th.

The door of the large, cube-filled office where the replacement clerks worked slammed open. A Full Bird Colonel stepped in and shouted, “Ten-HUT.” This was scary. The lowest ranking man in a group steps through a door first and calls the room to attention. And this was a Colonel.

Behind him a Two Star General stomped in, looking every bit the part. He growls out, “Which of you Sumbitches assigns to the 334^th Helicopter Company?”

Frank and Jesse timidly raised their hands. The general combat-strides over to them and says, “Smith. Smith. Smith? Fuckin' SMITH! Do you think that's funny?”

The first rule of military survival is, Deny. Frank and Jesse did, saying something like, “Huh?”

The general is at full bellow. “Every damn man going to the 334^th is a Smith, are you Peckerwoods gonna tell me that's an accident?”

“Yessir,” bleats Frank.

“Yes, Sir, WHAT?”

“Yes, Sir. It must be a coincidence. We have no idea how........”

The next Star Filled Explosion cut them off. The general continued to yell. They continued to deny. Finally, out of steam, the general said, “Accident or not, if one more, just one more, swingin' richard named Smith shows up at the 334^th, the two of you will be sent so far North, you'll be looking South to the DMZ.” And he spun and stormed out, followed by his brass-festooned minions.

The room was silent and filled with quaking soldiers, including Frank. But not Jesse. He was looking down pensively at a green bar printout.

After about 20 seconds of silence, he looked up at Frank and asked, “Brown?”

Their one-year tours ended before THAT explosion.

The Brussel Sprout on the Linoleum.

I walked into the room to find the Posse facing each other making Posse noises.

“What's up?”

Tuppence said, “If cousin Watson visits from Texas, Tommy needs to know Texanish.”

“Texanish?”

“Yeah, how to talk it.”

“Well, Tuppy, first of all Watson isn't coming. Second, Watson is a smart dog. He lives with a Rice U. grad, and speaks fine English.”

“So you say. But even the Governor of Texas speaks kind of dumb.”

“That doesn't mean Watson does, and it's pretty clear, brains are not a requirement for Texas governor.”

“But Watson might visit.”

“He won't. I wish he and Tess would, but he isn't coming.”

Tuppy gives it the head cock and says, “It's like the Brussel Sprout on the Linoleum.”

“Do tell.”

“When you're cooking and you drop something, we ALWAYS run in. It could be a piece of steak or a fine piece of cheese.”

“But, Tupp, it's usually a piece of vegetable.”

“Zactly. But it's always worth the run. Even if it's a brussel sprout, it's exciting. For a second, you got POSSIBILITIES!”

She turned back to her task. “Tommy, first I'm gonna learn you your a Fixin' Tos......

“I'm a fixin' to,

He's a fixin' to,
She's a fixin' to,

We're a fixin' to,
They're a fixin' to.”

I walked out in disgust. It was a '57 Disgust sedan. V8. A real classic.

Tupp went on in the background. “Now, I'm gonna learn you your AIN'T a Fixin' Tos......

“I ain't a fixin' to,

He ain't a fixin' to,
She ain't a fixin' to,

We ain't a fixin' to,
They ain't a fixin' to.”

I went for coffee.

Later, I ran into Tommy in the Den. “Tommy, I put all of your toys in the basket and now they're spread all over. Deborah will be home soon, pick them up and put them back in the basket, please.”

Tommy turned away, sat down, and began vigorously nibbling on that spot in his left arm pit.

As I picked up a toy, I heard him mutter, “I ain't a fixin' to.”

Every Tommy Must Get Stoned

Regular visitors here know, the Posse gets Elevenses every day at 11 am. Beagles being a British breed, we offer them some bits of English civilization now and then. Not that they feel inclined to reciprocate with anything approaching civilization.

As with all things Posse, benefits soon become expectations. If the benefits involve food, they are permanently stamped onto the Tummy Clock. And then, as with all things Posse, the Tummy Clock inches backwards a bit each day.

So, it was posse common for the two to show up in front of me at 10:40 with a look of entitled expectation. In fact, Tommy let drip a small strand of drool, just to make sure I knew the reason for the stares.

I waved them away, and said, “Not time yet, guys.”

They walked off.

The next thing I knew, Tommy was lying on the carpet at my feet, and crunching something. Anytime you hear a beagle crunch, you need to check what is crackling. Among other losses has been an MP3 player. (Eating the music machine doesn't seem to have improved the beagle taste in music, but that's another tale.)

I discovered that Tommy was crunching on a rock from the back yard. “Tommy, what the heck.........?”

“I was just SOOOOOO hungry. It's been like forever since you fed us.”

“Tommy, did you get a big bowl of breakfast at 6 am?”

“That was hours and hours ago. You haven't fed us in SOOOOO LOOOONNNNGGG.”

“And, Tommy, didn't you steal a piece of toast off my breakfast plate at 8 am?”

“That doesn't count, it wasn't MY food.”

“Then, didn't you get a handful of chicken jerky bits during our training session at 9:30?”

“I worked every bit of that off in the training.”

“Really? We were working on “sit” and “lie down”.”

“Yeah, exhausting.”

“Tommy, it seems to me you've been noshing all morning.”

“How'd YOU like to have to go that long between eating?”

“So, you went out and got a rock to gnaw on?”

“Just to tide me over.”

“Yeah, and break your teeth.”

“No more often than you feed us, I don't need teeth.”

“WHAT!??”

“Ohhhhhh, I'm weak, and SOOOOO HUNGRY.”

“Dummy, you managed to waste the 20 minutes until time for Elevenses. Here you go.”

(Tommy runs off with his dog biscuit. Little does he know that the MAIN reason for daily Elevenses is to help keep his teeth clean.)

“Tuppence, Tuppence, I did it, I got him to give us 'levenses early.”

“Yeah, Tommy,” I said, “about one minute early.”

“We win, we win, we win.”

The Battle of Pine Cone Woods.

The generals “generally” hated liberal Ted Kennedy, but Sen. Ted Kennedy was coming to Ft. Bragg. You don't get to be a general if you can't play nice with people you don't like. Especially if those people vote on your purse strings.

It was the Fall of 1968, and Ted was coming to Ft. Bragg to visit the John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare. The JFKCSW was the command headquarters of the Green Berets, Army Psychological Operations, and a few other hush-hush commands. The Vietnam War was in full swing, and the Brass at Bragg were atwitter about the Senatorial visit.

Ft. Bragg is one of the largest military installations in the US. In addition to the Green Berets and the Rangers, it is home to the 82d Airborne Division. Were it not for the howitzers, tanks, barracks, and such, it would be a pretty community, nestled there among the deep pine woods of North Carolina. With nearly 50,000 personnel in residence, in '68 it was as large as many cities in the US. With just as many streets and roads. Those pine trees, and those streets, are what we'll talk about today.

At the time, I was assigned to the 13^th Psyops Bn., part of the JFKCSW. The orders came down from Fort headquarters, the base must look extremely neat and clean for the senator. And that meant picking up all of the pine cones lying randomly under all of the trees along the roads of the post. It was Fall. There were thousands upon thousands, perhaps even millions, of them.

Never mind that Ted was on a tight schedule, and a general tour of the base was not planned. Never mind that his limo would probably whiz down one straight road from the main gate the 5 miles to the one building he was scheduled to visit. And probably back out the same route a short time later. Nope, “It's not your job to think of that, Soldier.” It was the job of the soldiers, in battalions, brigades, and divisions, to pick up and toss into trucks every visible pine cone at Fort Bragg. It took about a week for one thing, no one told the trees, and they kept dropping fresh cones. Finally, all portions of the 251 square mile fort visible from a road were denuded of pine cones.

The truckloads of potential Christmas wreaths were hauled to a distant place, and the brass felt ready for the Senator's arrival.

Then, the night before the visit, a Colonel read something. He ran to the Commanding General. “Sir, sir, Ted Kennedy is an ENVIRONMENTALIST. He's into nature and all that shit. He likes things natural.”

Panic. Phone calls. Orders barked.

Beginning at 4 o'clock in the morning (0400 hours to the brass), every soldier on the post was roused. Trucks were fired up and piled with pine cones from the secret dump, and soldiers began roaring around the post frantically throwing out pine cones.

Hundreds of trucks. Thousands of soldiers. Millions of pine cones. All with a single mission. Untidy Fort Bragg. Make it look naturally pine coney before the senator got there.

Later that morning, Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts was able to motor down a pine cone festooned road to one sibling-named building and back. The soldiers of Fort Bragg, North Carolina had protected your freedoms while you were safe abed. And the pine cones slept in the grass. As God and the Generals intended.

The politics of Jerky.

The Posse settled down for a morning munch on planks of new Chicken Jerky treats.

Tommy, “Mmmmph, nom, nom, mmmmph, slurp. Mmmmm, my favorite of all time.”

Tuppence, “Lick, lick, nibble, chew, chew, mmmmm, MY favorite of all time.”

Tommy looks up and says, “Yes, but they're more special to me. I like 'me better than you do.”

“Sorry, Tommy, not possible. I like these best. This stuff is my favorite. They tastes best to me.”

“Nope, Tuppy. They are MY favorite and I am their favorite.”

“Don't talk to me like that, Tommy. Show some respect.”

“Mmmmph, nom, these are MY treats. My favorite.”

“Hmmmph. What kind of treat would like a disrespectful hound?”

“You're more jerky than the Jerky.”

“Well, the hell with you AND your treats. I hate this Jerky.”

“No, the hell with YOU and YOUR treats. I hate it more.”

“Spit, spit, P'TUI, I don't even WANT any of your treats.”

“Gag, gag, hack, and I don't want yours.”

Two beagles stomp off.

“Jerk.”

“Jerk.”

How to get a painless flu shot.

Spending even a year or so in an army will grant you an advanced degree in finagling. With the right attitude, and the right props, there is almost nothing you can't get around, avoid, or “midnight requisition.”

Now, there are real pros, guys who make it into an art form, and most of us could never hope to achieve their glory. For instance, Mike Pitculuk. Among his feats was somehow acquiring a 24 lb. case of frozen lobster tails intended for the generals' mess. Cutting a company cook in on the spoils yielded a giant pot, a burner, and a big can of butter.

On the day he caught the Freedom Bird home, Mike's last act as a soldier was to have a Huey fly in to the front of our platoon hooch, carrying a sling load with an entire pallet, 4'x4'x4', of cases of Budweiser. The pilot set the load down, unhooked the cargo straps and flew off. On the top of the pallet was a note: “From Mike.” Now THAT was a pro.

Most of us made do with minor scams. We soon learned that if something hadn't moved, it was just because we hadn't found the right prop or lubricant.

In order to go places unmolested, and to get in and out of almost anywhere, restricted area or not, the best prop was a clip board and pencil. If you saw an officer approaching, you simply held up the board, pointed to it with the pencil, and sadly shook your head. You were obviously on a mission. A vital mission. Getting past any gate keeper was a matter of looking closely at their name tag, muttering “uh, huh,” and writing or making a big check mark. Having ones name taken down strikes fear in any soldier.

In most cases, “lubricant” meant some liquid containing alcohol, preferably in a ratio expressed as Proof.

A year before this tale, I'd been in Basic at Ft. Leonard Wood, MO. That summer, they tested the Swine Flu vaccine on we, the Olive Drab guinea pigs. That shot gave me a higher fever, and made me sicker, than ever before in my 19 years of life. So, when the orders went up on the company bulletin board at Long Binh saying that all personnel would report to the dispensary on or before a certain date “for the purpose of receiving an annual flu inoculation,” I began to plan.

A few days into the time window, I went by the PX and bought a fifth of Johnny Walker Red. Then, about midnight, when I knew only one medic would be on duty, I went to the dispensary. As the sleepy Spec. 4 medic approached the counter, I put the bottle on it and said, “Doc, (all medics were called “doc.”) I think I was in a couple of days ago and got my flu shot, but they forgot to write it down.”

He asked for my ID, and sweeping the bottle from the counter, turned and walked back to the file room. Coming back with my medical records, he flipped to my yellow shot card, pulled out his pen, made a note and said, “Yep, they forgot to write it down. Got it.” And returned my file to the shelves.

The right lubricant.

The Pizza Ghost.

Life with a Beagle Posse means an occasional foreboding of disaster. A twinge came as I was working in the computer room. I started to the kitchen where the vibes were originating.

The Posse met me in the hallway, taking a side by side sit, and blocking the way. They only sit when they are trying to work me for something.

“Where ya goin'?” asked Tuppence.

“There's no mess in the kitchen,” said Tommy. “You don't need to check. We just took a look for you.”

I said, “Move, I'll see for myself.”

“And,” Tuppy rushed to add, “if there is any problem, the cat did it.”

“ We don't have a cat.”

Tommy said, “You need to go get one. We'll wait.”

“Even if I get a cat, the time line won't work for you.”

“You'd believe a cat?” asked Tuppence. “Cats lie.”

“And beagles don't?”

“We're talking about cats.”

“No,” I said, “we're talking about the kitchen.”

“We weren't,” said Tommy.

I stepped past and went to the kitchen. The tingle had been right. We'd had half a home made pizza on the counter. Far enough back, I thought, to be out of reach. I underestimated the power of pizza spring in beagle legs.

There was little left, but signs everywhere of the struggle that had ensued. Scraps of green peppers here and there, and spots of tomato sauce up on the doors of the cabinets where pizza had been shaken like a dog toy. The pizza had been sitting on a flexible plastic cutting board. This was now on the floor with a lacy edge. The lace work bearing a perfect match to the arrangement and size of beagle teeth. Worst of all was a puddle of beagle puke where the pepperoni had been too rich for a canine tummy.

I set to clean up, and the Posse strolled down the hall to the back of the house and the patio, as if that's where they'd been headed all along.

As they quietly made their escape I heard them discussing. “We should have told him Bigfoot did it.”

Tuppy answers, “He doesn't believe in Bigfoot.”

Tommy returns, “How about next time we blame the Duck Dynasty guy?”

“Naw,” says Tuppence, “that fraud isn't allowed in the house.”

“I know,” exclaimed Tommy, “We'll say the Pizza Ghost did it.”

“Now, that sounds good, “ answered Tuppy.

“Yeah, Pizza Ghost.”

“Yup, Pizza Ghost.”

A confident Posse went out the dog door.

Testing Super Powers

There was a magic time in Branson, MO in the 70s. The town was on the dawn of becoming an entertainment mecca. In this infancy there were jobs for many young musicians and entertainers; not yet replaced by the aging refugees from Nashville.

They spent summer days and evenings playing for the tourists, and nights playing with each other.

Big R was one of these. Perhaps the best natural musician I've ever known, and one of the great personalities produced by the Ozarks, a land known for eccentrics. His advance planning skills extended only about an 8 bar jazz ride into the future. R would go on to back some of the biggest names in music, but this summer, he was playing rag time piano for a Melodrama Theater, rendering tunes in a fashion he called, “Sportin' House Piano.”

At this time, US 65 was two lane blacktop leading down from Springfield, through Branson and Hollister, and on to Harrison, Arkansas. About 3 miles south of Hollister, sitting near the highway, was a 10 story structure for the Forestry Service use of watching the National Forest for fires. Natives called it, “the Far Tar.” Such is Ozark spoken. The facility didn't appear to be manned very often.

Adolescent boys, and just-post adolescent men. often have a fixation on certain bodily functions. Such was the case with our hero. Thus, every time R and friends drove past the “Tar,” he would make some observation about how cool it would be to take a leak from the platform surrounding the little house 100 feet up. These observations were fueled by Beer Bladder.

One night, a friend responded with the Hillbilly equivalent of the Double Dog Dare. “R, You ain't got a hair on yore ass if you don't go do it raht now.”

Manhood having been questioned, the car screeched to a halt beneath the structure. It was dark, with no car or truck parked beneath, so could be presumed to be unmanned. Grabbing a can of PBR to be sure of a full “fuel tank” on arrival, R began to noisily clamber up the many flights of metal stairs to the top.

R was of a generation raised on comic book superheros. So, was engaged at times in the speculation of the wonders of personal super powers. In fact, one of his pet phrases, when he missed a note in a performance, or slid his car into a ditch, or struck out in his attempts on a girl, was, “My powers were somewhat under a cloud just then.” That cloud was often a beer mist.

As R clambered ever upward, his pit crew on the ground shouted encouragements, and began to gauge the weather so as to be up wind of any yellow rain that might soon descend.

R reached the top and climbed through the man hole onto the platform. He went straight to the railing, leaned his thighs against it, un-zipped his Wranglers, and presented Little Richard to the evening breezes.

Let's pause to examine some points of logic not considered by our hero and his minions:

Point 1: It was a ­dry, drought plagued August. A time when the threat of forest fire would be at its highest.

Point 2: Night duty in a watch tower would be on the low rung of the Forestry Service, so it was more likely that Rangers would be dropped off at a series of towers, rather than that each would have a vehicle to drive to the duty.

Point 3: In order to preserve night vision, a watcher would sit in a dark tower.

Not considering those points, R began to sigh the sigh of relief sighed by men since the days of peeing out of the mouths of caves.

From behind R, inside the dark tower cabin, came a low, growling voice. “What the hell are you doing.”

Forever after, R referred to that night as, “The time I damn near tested my power of flight.”