THE THING ABOUT TRAINS

On Sunday night, March 6, 2016, I was blessed to be on board the AMTRAK Crescent train hurling its way north from Georgia to Washington, DC, Beloved. Have so much to tell you to catch you up on how things have been going. 

The red buds are blooming in northern Georgia, in the Cherokee Foothills and up through the spines of ridges of the Appalachians bringing with them memories of other mountains, of other train trips, of other blessings, of other springs. 

One long extended vernal journey stretched from Anchorage to Shemya to Tokyo to Seoul to Kwang Ju and up and down and around again . . . ice and snow and freezing and dark and long to the bright triangle set amid the North Pacific to edges of coasts to nearly endless oceans to crowded air terminal noodles to karsh hills and tents with stoves and stove pipes and .. . Yes.

Just like M.A.S.H.

And my tactical call sign was Chattermark, the code for skipping through pre-arranged radio frequencies if jammed and I threatened those wise guy fighter pilots that it had better NOT devolve into "Chatty Cathy."

And the delicate beauty of the "Land of the Morning Calm" gave way to darker grey, then a hint of pink then reddish, then some orange and maybe fuscia and then bright sunshine and loud jet noise and the acrid smells of JP-5' aircraft fuel mixed with kimshe.

Then rides in C-130s, fat-belied, sturdy and ups and downs hitting each coastal defense town . . . Not in this order, but waking and sleeping . . . Pusan, Kunsan, Osan . . Because all the wives wanted eel skin purses and wallets and silk shirts and dresses with beautiful embroidery. So I was also CINC shopping. (Commander in Chief)

And the cold gave gradually and grudgingly away to a round of colder and damp . . . and rain and warm . . . Watch what you eat, what you drink, and especially with whom you play . . !
Serious days with gas masks. . . Jets bumping wings, talking dogs; and dog and pony shows; and dogs on the menu. And the Imperial Blue party suits like flight suits but with a map of Alaska embroidered on the back with our operating bases . . . And who wants some mink blankets, silk beads, amethysts, jade, . . And why in the world did they all like to dress the same anyway? Guys!
The trees over the open benju ditches began to bud and bloom along with reports of carrier activities, helo ops, fighter escorts, planes "painted" by radar. . . Who wants more squadron patches?

Who wants to phone home?

Prep and brief and launch and new message traffic and changing battle lines and changing orders of battle and battling sleep and combat naps.

And the smallest flowers started to bloom and the plum trees, too.

Seriouser and seriouser . . . Curious and curiouser . . . Tunnels and caves and triple "A" and SAMs and bomber groups and then our commander flew into the Yellow Sea. Lost and gone. Too sad, but had to get over it, or shove it down and keep going.

I've mentioned it before this.

Fighter pilot wakes are amazing to behold but we couldn't fit it in . . .just a memorial service in the hangar and we knew the agony of exactly what rituals and ceremonies and missing man formations were going on back home in Alaska where it was still dark; and still cold--and still six to eight inches of ice piled up everywhere there was not salt or sand. Layers of that, too.

We pressed on.

The rest of the exercise lasted almost a month because he died on the third day . . . And the first Jolly Green Giant rescue helicopter from the Air Force was piloted by a friend I had flown with in Florida, amazingly enough. But the very first rescue helo was a US Navy bird off our closest carrier.
Not much sleep . . . Young airman in my charge. Changing lines on maps, reflecting changes in force positions, and all very reminiscent of the last test exercise in intelligence school, the one with the Marine gunny sergeant on his reserve weekend playing with us.

And then another round robin on the edges of the coasts to get the party suits, to have the eel skin stuff sent back. . . So the next stop was a week playing with Japanese Self-Defense Force fighter pilots and a lot of debriefings with arguments that really just amounted to, "No. No. No! I shot YOU first." 

(You can just imagine, can't you?)

So I was a day and a half late getting to Komatsu, but in time for the welcome party, the trip to the 600 year old castle, to the village set up as if it was 300 years ago,

And not only were the plum trees blooming by then, but the cherry blossoms, too. Of COURSE. And little kami palaces and the voices of my children's Japanese ancestors whispered as I dozed off on the bus to the mountaintop radar site across from Vladivostok that I wouldn't see from the other side until 25 years later.

What views!

And more parties . . . Welcomes, farewells. And even honoring my children's shogun great uncle and his father-in-law and two cousins my kids' father had grown up with until he was seven in his grandfather's samurai shogun mansion.

Then flying home in the cabin of the combat transport Starlifter with an F-100 engine almost in my lap, Leaving an three in the afternoon and arriving in Anchorage at about 6 am earlier that same day or something. That International Dateline has a LOT to answer for.

Nodding and bowing and saying kamsamedah and arrigato the 123 or so of us, all out of sync and still having to recover, facing wives and families and kids.

But we were after all back home in Alaska and the ice was slowly breaking and melting, the snow being run up and turned out to the tops of the mountains and more green coming back.

Time to get ready for hunting and fishing and trapping. Again.

And flying

Memories we did and didn't talk about because the edges of the terrors of war are more unimaginable than you might think.

Then four guys almost made th summit of Denali and one fell to his death in the deep ice and snow. 

Oh, no . . . !

And then his first and only kid, a baby girl was born not long after . . . But there were two crashes in Alaska before we got to Korea and three after we returned. Two guys bookended the whole thing by ejecting from their aircraft and getting rescued, but all the rest bought the farm. Too many, too young . . . All in eighteen months. Saw my closest friend right before he went to fly . . . And two of the others, too.

I loved them all and still do.

(Thank you Lord for them and for all.)

Ghost riders in the sky on their chariots of fire.

You might think the northern lights would compensate for all that, but I am not always so sure.

(So good night Mrs Calabash, wherever you are.)

And oh, yeah.

Thanks for the memories, Bob.
 
(Please excuse the typos, Beloved. I'll do my best to fix them in the morning.)