side, on the crying side.
Young student pilot Roger Mensink was my 'wing man' that morning. We took off together; five and six behind ready deck. Only two top student pilots of our now five (Harry Potter being dead), had been picked for the long bombing mission. Later, on board ship, I commended Roger on his flying skills. We two talked that night at length, about the mission and world events.
“What's all this about, Cornelius?” Roger asked.
“What is what, Roger?” I jokingly inquired.
Roger shook his head and spoke. “You know, Sir. Our targets, who are they? Why this bombing mission. What the hell are we doing it for?”
I answered softly. “You mean who's in charge? Who are we? Who's paying us? Who's on what side?”
“Yes sir! You're old Navy like my Dad. He says we must be the United Nations or something.”
I bowed my head and spoke. “Roger, I just don't know. We are not the United Nations, I'm sure of that. Roger, I believe we work for a private company with many countries owning stock. Who's paying the freight? Who's in charge? Wish I knew! That's all above my pay grade, Roger. Way above. I'm paid well and my expenses are small. My retirement is set now because of this voyage. I could go home today. I stay on to training you men for the money. Also, I love to fly! That may be wrong. I'm not proud of myself. This ship has been a good deal for me. I’m earning the highest pay of my life.”
Roger was a well read, yet still young man. This was rare in his 'idiot, brain dead' supposedly 'high-tech' generation. We talked about history back through the Romans to present day. Talking into the late night, sipping red wine that his Dad had 'shipped him' at great expense. I gave him my 'each western generation sends its young people on two year missions of bombing the poor, dumb bastards of the world' speech. Roger said maybe it’s in our blood. We've been doing the same thing over and over in history. Each generation asking, but not knowing the reason why. Roger then spoke my own words back to me about Afghanistan and Vietnam. One hundred years of western troops and now letting the Chinese control it all. When we look back through history and see decade after decade country after country, King after President after Queen. Why the blood? Why the money? Is there no apparent good or sane reason?
Roger started asking the 'wrong' questions, both in college and in flight briefings. Yes, Roger was, I am sure infected with my own skepticism about the worthiness and Godliness of our ship's mission.
Roger Mensink was the one and only pilot and first B44 lost during the soon upcoming 'Big Attack' by our unknown, unseen enemy. Was his loss fate? Could his B44 have gone down too fast to eject? Could small arms fire really have taken the plane down? Or was it Joe Coe’s doing? Or even Chief of Staff Friday? I didn't want to think so. I kept these thoughts to my self, but I knew Roger also had them when he died.
Another grueling two full months passed by after the famous 'Big Attack' before our deployment at Gumbo Station would come to an end. Gumbo was four full months of hitting Africa hard and ugly. We grew ever so weary of war, killing, destruction and blood. I knew the time partly because of my payments 'on line' to my ex-wife Patty back in Virginia. My Patty was the true love of my life! Oh, how I missed her! Each third night when going off duty, I'd call her before heading to the ship's Gospel Cafe, where I'd often stay late. My big, round table was comfortable and relaxed. I became known as the anti-professor or old school. I was soon nick-named by the students. Old school was their favorite.
This night at my table, Billy Cash and his date, Pretty Penny, both honor students, started off conversation about Osama’s economic stimulus policy. The latest being stimulus number seventeen. Their professor had a theory on his screen during class. His screen used digital chalk.
“Billy” I said.
Young student pilot Roger Mensink was my 'wing man' that morning. We took off together; five and six behind ready deck. Only two top student pilots of our now five (Harry Potter being dead), had been picked for the long bombing mission. Later, on board ship, I commended Roger on his flying skills. We two talked that night at length, about the mission and world events.
“What's all this about, Cornelius?” Roger asked.
“What is what, Roger?” I jokingly inquired.
Roger shook his head and spoke. “You know, Sir. Our targets, who are they? Why this bombing mission. What the hell are we doing it for?”
I answered softly. “You mean who's in charge? Who are we? Who's paying us? Who's on what side?”
“Yes sir! You're old Navy like my Dad. He says we must be the United Nations or something.”
I bowed my head and spoke. “Roger, I just don't know. We are not the United Nations, I'm sure of that. Roger, I believe we work for a private company with many countries owning stock. Who's paying the freight? Who's in charge? Wish I knew! That's all above my pay grade, Roger. Way above. I'm paid well and my expenses are small. My retirement is set now because of this voyage. I could go home today. I stay on to training you men for the money. Also, I love to fly! That may be wrong. I'm not proud of myself. This ship has been a good deal for me. I’m earning the highest pay of my life.”
Roger was a well read, yet still young man. This was rare in his 'idiot, brain dead' supposedly 'high-tech' generation. We talked about history back through the Romans to present day. Talking into the late night, sipping red wine that his Dad had 'shipped him' at great expense. I gave him my 'each western generation sends its young people on two year missions of bombing the poor, dumb bastards of the world' speech. Roger said maybe it’s in our blood. We've been doing the same thing over and over in history. Each generation asking, but not knowing the reason why. Roger then spoke my own words back to me about Afghanistan and Vietnam. One hundred years of western troops and now letting the Chinese control it all. When we look back through history and see decade after decade country after country, King after President after Queen. Why the blood? Why the money? Is there no apparent good or sane reason?
Roger started asking the 'wrong' questions, both in college and in flight briefings. Yes, Roger was, I am sure infected with my own skepticism about the worthiness and Godliness of our ship's mission.
Roger Mensink was the one and only pilot and first B44 lost during the soon upcoming 'Big Attack' by our unknown, unseen enemy. Was his loss fate? Could his B44 have gone down too fast to eject? Could small arms fire really have taken the plane down? Or was it Joe Coe’s doing? Or even Chief of Staff Friday? I didn't want to think so. I kept these thoughts to my self, but I knew Roger also had them when he died.
Another grueling two full months passed by after the famous 'Big Attack' before our deployment at Gumbo Station would come to an end. Gumbo was four full months of hitting Africa hard and ugly. We grew ever so weary of war, killing, destruction and blood. I knew the time partly because of my payments 'on line' to my ex-wife Patty back in Virginia. My Patty was the true love of my life! Oh, how I missed her! Each third night when going off duty, I'd call her before heading to the ship's Gospel Cafe, where I'd often stay late. My big, round table was comfortable and relaxed. I became known as the anti-professor or old school. I was soon nick-named by the students. Old school was their favorite.
This night at my table, Billy Cash and his date, Pretty Penny, both honor students, started off conversation about Osama’s economic stimulus policy. The latest being stimulus number seventeen. Their professor had a theory on his screen during class. His screen used digital chalk.
“Billy” I said.
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