"Allen" wrote in message
...
| All,
|
| Swiped off of Airwarriors.com. Thought it amusing.
|
| This is the transcipt of a focsle follies skit from my last cruise. I
| apologize in advance for the all caps, that is how it was sent to me.
| Enjoy!
|
| THE PIECE IS ENTITLED 'DIARY OF A DAY ON THE ILLUSTRIOUS CHUCKY V' BY
| LIEUTENANT WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (STRIKE FIGHTER PILOT). THE NARRATIVE
| TAKES US THROUGH A TYPICAL DAY IN THE LIFE OF A JUNIOR OFFICER ABOARD A
| MODERN AIRCRAFT CARRIER ON A SIX-MONTH DEPLOYMENT. OF COURSE AS THE DAY
| BEGINS, THE YOUNG SHAKESPEARE FINDS HIMSELF IN THAT FAVORITE STATE OF
| JUNIOR OFFICER EXISTENCE, ASLEEP IN HIS RACK. AND I READ
|
|
snipping stuff that I'm still reading
|
| IT HAS BEEN AN UTTER PLEASURE SHARING THIS FINE LITERARY WORK WITH YOU.
| UNTIL NEXT TIME, I REMAIN J KINGSTON III. GOOD EVENING.
| __________________
Another fine work of the bard. No doubt, bard from every pub in
Manilla.
Word has a 'Change Case' function and a few strategic search & replaces
later, please find the following ...
--
Cheers
Dave Kearton
0930, February 10th in the year of our Lord 20 hundred and three. Bosun's
whistle:
Hark, what incessant piercing sound rips through my sub conscience like a
spear thrust through the heart of tranquility. It's that shrill and most
annoying wail of the boson's pipe announcing yet another man overboard
drill.
Thus begins my day on the illustrious Chucky V.
Would it were that this was the first such interruption of my blissful
slumber, my spirits would not run so foul. But alas, this is the third
consecutive attempt to muster the crew; where the two endeavors hitherto
have so miserably failed. How you ask, in the name of all that is sane can
5000 grown men and women trapped in the confines of this glorious vessel,
fail time and time again to account for themselves within one quarter of an
hour. ..... A mystery that will baffle the greatest of minds, and will no
doubt force the ship's 2nd in command to an early grave.
0933 much as I did thirty minutes hither and thirty hither to that I call
the squadron duty officer to inform him yet again that I am indeed alive
and yes I'm still aboard this dreadful ship. Lullaby
0933 and 30 seconds. My responsibility in this most trifling of exercises
complete, I resume my peaceful repose, for as a junior officer, my primary
duty is after all to sleep until the pangs of hunger arouse me and thence
to eat until the sand man once again guides me gently across the river of
consciousness to slumberland where I dream of the glorious day when this
six month long cycle of eating and sleeping will come to a merciful end.
1145 as they have countless times before, those most reliable pangs of
hunger force me to drag my lifeless carcass from my rack.
1148 I don my warrior's garb, a drab olive affair with far too many
zippers. On my left breast, my rank and name. On my right an obvious void
where my legion's crest must fit. But alas to which legion do I belong?
--HS-8 - the mighty eightballers?
Relentlessly beating the air into submission with their rotor blades,
tracing endless circles in the sky at cherubs 1.5 on the starboard beam for
hours and hour and hours on end? Noooo.
--VFA-147 Argonauts.
The argonaut, warrior of ancient greek lore. The crest, however an
obviously effeminate erstwhile sentinel in an orange skirt, gleefully
standing astride a twin tailed lizzard. Hardly the image for which very
much respect is garnered.
--VFA-146 Blue Diamonds.
Blue diamonds. That is gay.
--VMFA-314 Black Knights.
Now there is a warrior's crest if ever there was one, but alas I am not
worthy of such a crest, for the length of my hair exceeds two centimeters,
my IQ exceeds two digits and when in full state of arousal, my wedding
tackle exceeds two inches
VS-33 Screwbirds.
First, what in heavens name is a screw bird. Second, why would anyone want
to be a screw bird. Two questions for which I'm sure there are legitimate
answers, but for which I have neither the time nor inclination to pursue.
VAW-112 Golden Hawks.
The hawk, a noble bird of prey, with eyes as keen as any in the animal
kingdom. Ah, but I fear, these particular golden hawks are prone to
cataracs of the most severe nature. --for even in the most pitched of arial
battles wherein a veritable armada of enemy aircraft is bearing down on the
friendly air patrol, one is guaranteed to hear the unwaivering golden hawk
mantra cutting through the din
"ghost shows picture clean".
VAQ-138 Yellow Jackets.
The yellow jacket a formidable insect of prey with a deadly sting.
Promising, but if wearing this crest means flying around with your probe
fully exposed for all to see day and night I will take a pass.
VFA-22 Fighting Redcocks.
The redcock a ferocious combative chicken splendidly depicted here in full
fury. Note if you will, the non-standard elongated crest clearly designed
not only to stand out from the rest but also to hint of the phallic duality
of the very name red cock. No other crest can come this close to capturing
the fighting spirit and carnal essence of warfare as does this. And hence
it shall be my crest.
1210 I find my way to the eatery to take sustenance. But alas, the vile
nature of the rations leaves me to want of different fare. -- to
differentiate the rice from the pressed potatoes one is left with color
alone, for the textures of the two are one in the same. --the chicken is as
dry as the serengeti and the beef should feel privileged to be labeled as
such. --for dessert there are bricks of dehydrated cakes, much more suited
for masonry than human consumption. --were it not for the frozen cream
machine and speedway treats, this eatery would surly have been saked in
open rebellion by its violently disgruntled patrons. --nevertheless, I pick
through the offerings and find enough substance to whet my appitite before
gorging on three speedways and a glass of chocolate flavored cows milk.
1255 I am as satiated as a bloated tick
when the sandman comes to visit, reminding me of the need to begin my
obigatory afternoon rerack.
1310 I find my rack and begin the sleep phase of the never ending
eat-sleep-eat sleep cycle that is the essence of my existence here aboard
the illustrious Chucky V.
1525 I reawaken and after no less than 50 minutes of navigating through the
wet wax maze of partially and fully barricaded corridors, I find my way to
CVIC, where my brothers in arms are feverishly planning for war. --tonight
we will combine as a single legion pressing forth as a seamless fully
integrated force to rain flawlessly coordinated death and destruction on
the enemy. --of course, this time on the chuck v, the war and the enemy are
both imaginary, but no matter. As warriors, we would much rather pretend to
fight and watch from the sidelines as others throw themselves into actual
combat, --leaving actual battlefields strewn with twisted smouldering
chunks of the enemie's remains. Coming home as heroes to the adulations of
cheering crowds and grateful leaders who bestow heaps of medals upon their
chests. --why on earth would we want to indulge in such trifles? So instead
we carry on smartly in the land of make believe here on the illustrious
Chucky V
1800 I don by armor and set out to mount my trusty craft in the twilight.
1900 with fiery wind and a thunderous roar I fling my craft into the
darkening skies, leaving behind the safety of the illustrious Chucky V, and
plunging head long into mock battle with my brothers in arms.
1945 I'm anxious to join the fight, but to reach the battlefield we must
first find and then dance with the sadistic vixen known to all as the iron
maiden.
--there were to be three such maidens to service our lust for petrol on
this night, that was the plan, this is reality and 'tis common knowledge
that never shall the twain meet. On this night there is of course but one
maiden.
1950 the sun has long since set, leaving the moonless night sky as black
and foreboding as the inside of my one-month-old cruise sock.
1951 I don my magic spectacles turning night into day and look out at the
horizon and see the iron maiden in the distance. -- her twinkling beacon
fades in and out of view as she scribes a giant circle in the sky
painstakingly ensuring she traverses each and every thundercloud in the
firmament, dragging with her the dozen or so suitors clamoring for her
attention. --she is beset on all sides by the twinkling lights of those
desperate for her precious cargo and i, like the many others am attempting
to place myself in that same piece of space in the black of night, and wait
my turn to experience near death whilst mating with this merciless
wench. --i pray to the gods of big sky and little aircraft that I will live
through this night and return safely to the illustrious Chucky V.
2010 by some miracle of miracles I survive the iron maiden and press to the
fight. There I unleash hell's fury on the mock enemy, leaving the make
believe battlefield scarred with 500 pounds of inert blue death.
2105 I survive a second mating with the iron maiden and I press for home. I
am relieved that I have cheated death yet again and almost let out a sigh
of relief when I realize I'm not home yet. I have yet to survive an
approach and night arrestment on the illustrious Chucky V.
2122 I check in with marshal and receive the joyous news that the weather
is 500 overcast, two miles visibility with rain showers......
2130 I push from marshal at the appointed hour. Ever so diligent in
meeting, to within a fraction, the required parameters of the tried and
true cv-1 approach. ... Ah but how naive am I to believe that such a
standard approach is to be had whilst returning to the illustrious Chucky
V.
2131 much to my dismay and that of my brethren airborne, approach control
initiates its patented and seemingly endless volley of puzzling vectors and
airspeed changes, designed, I'm convinced!, to degenerate an otherwise
orderly recovery into a mad circus of bedlam and buffoonery. 2132 mother is
in a starboard turn final bearing 360. 2133 mother is in a port turn. Final
bearing 340.
2134 mother is yet again in a starboard turn, final bearing 010!
-- I look to the heavens and ask in the name of all that is merciful
--if the illustrious Chucky V is truly my mother and I her child, why then
would she swing her final bearing to and fro like a double edged sword
wielded by some demented knight of death!!? There is no answer forthcoming
from the heavens....and I press on with my approach.
2134 and 30 seconds the circus is in full pandemonium and I am but one of
many hapless harlequins trapped in a maniacal dance of death directed by
the wretched sadists who dwell deep in the bowels of the illustrious Chucky
V
2135 I've managed to close within 4 miles and am asked to say my
needles....
-a dastardly request from a heartless villain! Everyone, to a man, knows
that for the past week there were no needles to be had and why pray tell
should this night differ from the rest? "negative needles" is my restrained
reply
2135 and 30 seconds I'm told to fly the bulls eye. As fate would have it, on
this night, my otherwise trusty craft is failing to provide me with this oh
so basic of navigational needs. Negative bulls eye is the seething response
that escapes through my clenched teeth..
2136 I'm at two miles. "take cherubs 6 surveillance approach, mother is in a
port turn final bearing 350." --its oh so dark and only through the
incessant flashing of my strobes do I notice I have acquired an uninvited
wingman.
The grim reaper himself,
harbinger of death, has taken station just off my starboard wing. He's
flying in perfect parade position! ---his cloak is fluttering in the
blackness and the glint of my strobes reflects off the curved blade of his
outstretched scythe. --around his waist are the shrunken skulls of
countless aviators whose souls were reaped on just such a night . --"stand
back!" I cry, "o black angel of death! You shall not harvest this soul
tonight!"
--I push my craft to the very limits of its thrust, twisting and whirling
in a desperate attempt to chase that most elusive final bearing! --i'm like
the deprived infant of a teasingly cruel mother desperately trying to
secure a suckle on an ever so tantalizing and voluptuous lactating
teat! --it takes every ounce of my will to not key my microphone and
transmit to the entire world.. Stop......... "mama!" but I digress.
2136 and 30 seconds fate has smiled on me and I hear .... "lined up left,
well below glide slope three quarters of a mile call the ball." --i look
out at the ball through the breaking weather and note it is as crimson as a
setting sun; hovering ever so contentedly at the bottom of the lens. --i
say "666 hornet ball", for that is all that comes to mind and I'm met with
the reply.. "roger ball 28 knots axial.... You're low." --well no ****
Sherlock! Your grasp of the obvious defies comprehension. -- I add power to
lift that wily orb off its red duff and am rewarded with its amber
ascension to its rightful position on the green horizon of the
datums. --with that I breath a sigh of relief, forgetting for just an
instant that this is after all, the illustrious Chucky V and the battle to
survive a night approach is far far from over.
2136 and 40 seconds I'm in the middle, and well into my patented Stevie
Wonder impression to match the Chucky V Dutch roll, when the proverbial
rooster's tail of the burble takes hold of my craft and begins to lift it
well above glide slope. I watch the amber orb match my excursion and see it
rise to the lofty height of three and one half diameters above the datums.
I rap my throttles against the idle stops. Hi to low (hold lo note) and
hope against hope that that golden orb will begin to descend by the time I
reach the ramp.
2136 and 45 seconds my prayers are answered... In triplicate and that
golden orb begins a plummet from its vaunted position with a speed that
promises to have it and me rendezvous somewhere in the depths of hell.
The ball was falling faster than the proverbial **** off a tall moose. And
believe you me, on this night that wretched moose has explosive diarrhea.
But I digress.
2136 and 46 seconds I slam the throttles into afterburner, low to high
(hold hi note).
But the ball was falling, and no amount of ignited petrol forced into the
after section of my screaming engines was to stop its rapid descent.
2136 and 47 seconds as I watch in abject horror, the once golden orb again
turns an angry crimson and then disappears on its mad dash to Hades.
In my periphery the grim reaper begins tapping his cold bony finger against
the right side of my canopy.
Tap tap tap, tap tap tap. He is desperately trying to gain my attention and
I just as desperate refuse to give it.
2136 and 48 seconds fate smiles upon my wretched soul and, mercifully, by
the scantiest of margins, my craft clears the ramp and after a 130-foot
high-speed spark spewing taxi, my hookpoint finds purchase on pennant
number one! ...........
2136 and 52 seconds, after disengaging my craft from the wire, I taxi
forward for what seems an eternity and turn right out of the landing area.
My heart is still racing and the beads of perspiration dotting my forehead
have begun to merge in to rivulets of sweat trickling down my face.
2137 after dearming my pulse begins to slow. I'm alive. I have survived.
The grim reaper has been denied this night.
2137 and 10 seconds I am directed to taxi forward to park my chariot for
the night. My mind is numb. -- exhausted from the stress of the night's
ordeal I taxi mindlessly toward the yellow lights waving me to the extreme
forward end of the ship. --it is still oh so dark and my director's yellow
wands appear to be floating in the blackness of space. --somewhere out
there where the steel of the ship comes to an abrupt end leaving 60 feet of
nothingness to separate me from the murky depths of a briny grave.
2137 and 25 seconds I have reached what I am certain is the absolute
forward end of the ship and still the yellow wands coax me ever forward.
Against my screaming instincts I follow my director when I notice his wands
have the ominous black bands of a lowly trainee.
I strain to find his trainer, desperately seeking some scintilla of
reassurance that my very life is not solely dependant on the limited skill
of an inexperienced director whose single most memorable event of his
entire life thus far is his senior prom.
2137 and 28 seconds my furtive search for a trainer proves futile. I
resolve myself to the fact that I am indeed solely at the mercy of an
individual barley beyond the grasp of pubescence. I inch forward riding the
brakes of my chariot until my legs begin to shake.
2137 and 30 seconds the black banded wands still beckon me ever forward
when from the right side of my canopy comes that most dreadful of sounds
tap tap tap tap tap tap.
-- it's the grim reaper once again!
--he has returned and reluctantly I turn to gaze into the empty eye sockets
of his hooded skull. --through the canopy I can see that he is laughing and
through his lipless toothy grin he mouths the words,
hey buddy you're ****ed. Taxi on flyboy.
2137 and 33 seconds there is no doubt in my mind that I am about to die
when thankfully the trainee's left wand snaps toward the deck signaling my
long awaited hard right turn. --with my left hand clutching the ejection
handle and my right hand crushing the NWS button into what I call the extra
super hi-gain position.
I use the trembling quadriceps and burning calves of my right leg to push
the right rudder to its fullest throw and attempt to press the right brake
through the bulkhead.
2137 and 35 seconds as my chariot turns ever so sharply and swings me well
over the front edge of the ship. A bead of sweat races from the small of my
back down toward the crack of my arse.
Reflexively, I clench my sphincter.
To stem the flow of the wayward perspiration and inadvertently pinch my oh
so tender hemorrhoid. --already aggravated from my 3-hour flight, this
annoying swollen tissue has now become a pulsating blood filled sack
resembling a miniature version of a boxer's speed bag.
But I digress.
I stifle an intense urge to urinate on myself as my chariot clears the turn
and finally, I taxi to my designated parking spot.
2140 I dismount my trusty craft and scurry to safety below decks.
2200 I return to the eatery for midnight rations and there satiate my
ravenous appetite by gorging on a greasy cholesterol laden double
cheeseburger garnished with three fried eggs and a chocolate cow's milk
chaser.
2310 I retire to the sanctity of my primary duty station..namely my rack
whereupon I commence a spirited round of clown punching.
With the stress of the day effectively discharged, I fall into a merciful
long-awaited slumber so deep as to approach death itself.
Thus ends my day on the illustrious Chucky V.
Ladies and gentlemen, that was VFA-22's diary of a day on the illustrious
Chucky V.
Thank you for joining me tonight. My musical director has been Erik Otis
Anderson, on guitar Eric 'Snake' Venema, Rey 'Hadji' Molina and Jerry 'Dutch'
Tritz on the pipes, Peter 'Piper' Quinn.
It has been an utter pleasure sharing this fine literary work with you.
Until next time, I remain J Kingston III. Good evening. __________________
|