1863

mrhtbd

mrhtbd

Space available travel was relatively simple. There were 4 levels: active duty orders, change of station, family of active duty member, and non-orders but possession of an 1863; Permission to Travel. The last category included retired Veterans wishing to travel. Categories 1, 2, and 3 could bump me off any flight. In category 4, one had to wear their dress uniform and could only carry one bag with a max weight of 65 lbs. I was in the terminal parking lot ready to go somewhere at 4:45 AM.
 
I checked the door of the darkened terminal: "Opens at 6AM." Great, so I went back and sat in my car, a 1973 Datsun 280Z, maroon and black, just like my mood, and waited. Not wanting to appear eager, I waited until at least 6 people went in. After all, I felt pretentious wearing my dress uniform, all those ribbons, crossed arms and brass, same as the Company Clerk had, although I think his numbers were fudged from all that erasing and "correcting!" I approached the terminal counter to an honest greeting, followed by, "What can I do for you?" I gave him my 1863 and asked, "What's the first flight out of here, that I can get on?" "That would be to Sacramento, California Staff Seegeant, with a brief stop-over at Kelley Air Force Base, 12 seats left, boards in 5 minutes!" "OK," I said, "I'll take it!" Done deal, early is better, and I was off to the West Coast, things were looking up, or so I thought...
 
And you lived off of cat tail roots and grub worms and had to filter water through your socks because you were ankle deep in water everywhere, until you were able to build a small platform where you made a mud base then built a fire on top of it to keep it from burning through the platform?
 
“The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one'.... (The man who first said that) was probably a coward.... He knew a great deal about cowards but nothing about the brave. The brave dies perhaps two thousand deaths if he's intelligent. He simply doesn't mention them.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
 
The flight was uneventful. It was a C-141, smooth, medical transport plane. Nice and steady, a prime mover, comfortable seats, but there were only a half a dozen windows and generally many people standing around. I had a book. Claustrophobic's had issues in a C-141 with its darkened tube. We made two stops to drop off supplies but we were told to "Keep your seats!" The unloading process can be daunting, and those inside the plane opened their air vents to feel some "action," while we waited onboard. In all it took us eight hours to get to Texas, but once there, at Kelly AFB, we were told to, "exit for a minimum of an hour layover, wait for instructions." At that moment, Sacramento seemed a pipe dream; a million miles away. The heat of Texas was stifling, almost drawing the breath of me." It didn't help being after 2 o'clock in the afternoon. "Deal wit' it son, you'll be gone in an hour!" Ha, not so fast, word got out and several new people showed up, in short, I was bumped at 3:15PM. Damn! Sitting there feeling like a fool in a monkey suit (my pet name for the dress uniform) I struck up a conversation with a Marine, also in his best dress. A Mexican fellow, but to me a man of dedication first, a Marine! Respect! Who was I, Army, Air Force M-60 Gunner lost in time... my trademark was being absent, unseen, just piercing blue eyes through the dark shadows left somewhere between vine and reason; a nothing. Some people disappear in plain sight. They don't presume, have no need to evade, yet can generally be found somewhere along the fine line between here and there. We tell them things about ourselves, open our souls yet they absorb the information with the sole intent of forgetting as soon as possible. We don't do Hail Mary's, don't converse in the confessional, and only feel cleansed wiping off a dirty knife. I digress, the Marine was from Texas, he knew things and I listened. He was also traveling for fun, an 1863 level 4, just like me. Ninety minutes later they called for the next flight and we both were bumped, bitch! Now it was getting dark, no flights for 2 hours, and the possibility of spending 3 weeks in Kelly Texas because a haunting reality. "Really," I thought, "this is it?" Ridiculous! He suggested we go to McDonalds and I was glad for a change of scenery so off we went on foot through a grove of trees. Not being a trusting soul I wondered if I was being drawn to quartering (so to speak) and in the height of my suspicion, something scurried across the pine floor. I'd never seen anything like it and asked, " what in the hell was that?" He laughed, "That was an armadillo, they're all around here!" I'm not the skittish type but that thing jolted my Johnson, so you can imagine how relieved I was to see the Golden Arches coming into view. So we ate then returned to the terminal. Every 90 minutes there was a flight, but each time I was bumped. The Marine took a flight North and was gone, but I held onto my "wayward West" fantasy, to the end of dawn. The "flight-no flight" charade went on past 10PM and I was exhausted. "Should've worn the clip-on tie," I thought. After getting bumped 7 times I got tired of the waiting and anticipation. Other than the three active duty persons working around the terminal counter, there was only me waiting to fly, feeling like a dressed up fool at the party with no date. Finally I just said, "Listen, I'm going over there to get some sleep, when there's a flight that I can actually get on then come get me, otherwise, just let me sleep!" He said, "OK, Sergeant!" Feeling very unimportant, ridiculous, and like a Court Jester, I receeded to the far part of the terminal, then laid across three pre-formed fiberglass chairs all bolted to a central rail. I was tired and eventually got to sleep.
 
mrhtbd said:
The flight was uneventful. It was a C-141, smooth, medical transport plane. Nice and steady, a prime mover, comfortable seats, but there were only a half a dozen windows and generally many people standing around. I had a book. Claustrophobic's had issues in a C-141 with its darkened tube. We made two stops to drop off supplies but we were told to "Keep your seats!" The unloading process can be daunting, and those inside the plane opened their air vents to feel some "action," while we waited onboard. In all it took us eight hours to get to Texas, but once there, at Kelly AFB, we were told to, "exit for a minimum of an hour layover, wait for instructions." At that moment, Sacramento seemed a pipe dream; a million miles away. The heat of Texas was stifling, almost drawing the breath of me." It didn't help being after 2 o'clock in the afternoon. "Deal wit' it son, you'll be gone in an hour!" Ha, not so fast, word got out and several new people showed up, in short, I was bumped at 3:15PM. Damn! Sitting there feeling like a fool in a monkey suit (my pet name for the dress uniform) I struck up a conversation with a Marine, also in his best dress. A Mexican fellow, but to me a man of dedication first, a Marine! Respect! Who was I, Army, Air Force M-60 Gunner lost in time... my trademark was being absent, unseen, just piercing blue eyes through the dark shadows left somewhere between vine and reason; a nothing. Some people disappear in plain sight. They don't presume, have no need to evade, yet can generally be found somewhere along the fine line between here and there. We tell them things about ourselves, open our souls yet they absorb the information with the sole intent of forgetting as soon as possible. We don't do Hail Mary's, don't converse in the confessional, and only feel cleansed wiping off a dirty knife. I digress, the Marine was from Texas, he knew things and I listened. He was also traveling for fun, an 1863 level 4, just like me. Ninety minutes later they called for the next flight and we both were bumped, bitch! Now it was getting dark, no flights for 2 hours, and the possibility of spending 3 weeks in Kelly Texas because a haunting reality. "Really," I thought, "this is it?" Ridiculous! He suggested we go to McDonalds and I was glad for a change of scenery so off we went on foot through a grove of trees. Not being a trusting soul I wondered if I was being drawn to quartering (so to speak) and in the height of my suspicion, something scurried across the pine floor. I'd never seen anything like it and asked, " what in the hell was that?" He laughed, "That was an armadillo, they're all around here!" I'm not the skittish type but that thing jolted my Johnson, so you can imagine how relieved I was to see the Golden Arches coming into view. So we ate then returned to the terminal. Every 90 minutes there was a flight, but each time I was bumped. The Marine took a flight North and was gone, but I held onto my "wayward West" fantasy, to the end of dawn. The "flight-no flight" charade went on past 10PM and I was exhausted. "Should've worn the clip-on tie," I thought. After getting bumped 7 times I got tired of the waiting and anticipation. Other than the three active duty persons working around the terminal counter, there was only me waiting to fly, feeling like a dressed up fool at the party with no date. Finally I just said, "Listen, I'm going over there to get some sleep, when there's a flight that I can actually get on then come get me, otherwise, just let me sleep!" He said, "OK, Sergeant!" Feeling very unimportant, ridiculous, and like a Court Jester, I receeded to the far part of the terminal, then laid across three pre-formed fiberglass chairs all bolted to a central rail. I was tired and eventually got to sleep.
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Can you please add paragraphs. This is more difficult to read than it needs to be. I'm sure that your draft has paragraphs. You also have a tendency for flowery language which adds length but little in content. Use of modifiers should be to add emphasis or specificity to a point, subject, or action rather than to use the modifier for modifier's sake.

What is the point of this passage? Your flight was fucked, you ate at a McDonald and you slept on the floor. You spent 700 words to convey those points. Now I may have missed some things here because I was so board with the passage. I am a scientific writer so my style may be different. However, it seems that the utility of language is to make points, sell the points, evoke emotion, lead to the next point, and convey a message. I am not seeing much of these in this work so far.
 
But if you're writing a novel you tend to add some stream of thought passages to convey and even evoke the mood; in this case one of obscurity and helpless acceptance of his status as unimportant and looked over.
 
Darkness said:
This thread reminds me of the time my cousin jerked me off under the table in drivers Ed class.
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:laugh:

Reminds me of the time in 7th grade my history teacher gave me 500 sentences to write, to be turned in the next day, so I used multiple layers of carbon paper, which didn't fly. :p
 
Gut shots are ugly. Sure they take up time and conflag the enemy but where's the precision? I used to like knee shots, which lead to stumbling fools, but after seeing several lay there seemingly forever, yelling incessantly and sending fire at anything I saw the error of my ways. It's better to aim high. A lung, neck or heart shot goes quick, not much noise and they usually are more concerned with the last gaping breath than to reload and unleash. A head shot is a quick out, but a slit throat, well, with your forearm over the back of their neck and hand over their mouth to silence their desperate attempt to make that last announcement to the world, as they bleed out, well, and then them spilling all over your arm, yeah, can be a bit disturbing. Good to keep an extra shirt around, or not. Oh, I just yawned. Must be tired...
 
"Sergeant, hey Staff Sergeant, there's a flight!" He knocked on the chair afore me. "Hey Staff Sergeant, there's a flight!" I woke up, it was 3AM, "Don't fuck with me," I said, my face towards the seat-backs. "No, yes there's a flight out and you're on it guaranteed, six seats and you're the only one to fly!" I peeked up and said, "Really?" "Yes but they are boarding now, so let's go!" I lay there, covered by my overcoat, then sat up and turned around to a stunning sight. The entire terminal was filled with G.I.'s, all in camouflage BDU's and their faces were all done in camoflage. "What happened here," I asked? "Let's go Sergeant." It was shocking, the filthy faces and haunting eyes. All other seats were filled, yet these fools let me sleep across three seats myself. I'll never forget those haunting eyes, "Grenada Eyes," they were all around; fearful, showing exhaustion, relief and shock. All eyes were on me walking through the terminal in a dress uniform. Surreal! As I approached the counter I asked, "What about them?" "Oh, they have a flight, their C-130 is being repaired." "What happened," I asked, "What is this?" "They came from Grenada, the plane didn't even stop. It dropped the bay door and they were ordered to run like hell and load as it taxied down the runway. The hydraulics were hit and the rear hatch didn't close all the way. Rough flight back." Damn, damn, damn... yeah, at that moment I felt lucky, nightmares are easy, if it's real bad you wake up, but these young green painted faces, running for their lives under fire into a moving plane, wow! Lucky bastards. The fear, shock and awe on those dirty faces will always be with me, just hanging on. As I nestled into my seat of the C-141 to Sacramento, staring off into space, an Airman asked, "Do you need anything Staff Sergeant?" Startled somewhat from my stupor I managed a response, "Oh, no, quite alright, thank you." As we left the tarmac and took to wing, I was back in the vines, moments in time..."
 
Sitting in the darkened tube of the C-141, I closed my book and let mind wander. Really, what the hell was I doing? Running from something, to something? Why Sacramento? What was I thinking? Was I planning to peruse the Redwoods, the Sequoiya, or traverse the Cascade Range? How lost was I supposed to be? A hundred miles was now over a 1000 miles, and wasn't Sacramento filled with people? Retrace the steps of the Mamma's and the Pappa's? Wake up in a stupor in Haight-Ashbury somewhere in San Francisco? Just where would this trip end? "Please take your seats and fasten your seat belts for our descent!" Oh, over so soon... thought I was just getting started, how far is too far from the ramifications of one's own mind? We landed and I was shuffled into the terminal, shortly to be joined by my one bag, I sat down and felt very alone. Almost on impulse I approached the Space A counter and asked, "What do you have going out the next few hours?" He was a bit too quick to reply, "San Diego, Honolulu, and Ankorage!" "What?" I thought, I can keep going, just fly and fly, waiting for three weeks to end, or maybe just never stop... I pondered... "Odds of Class 4 to Honolulu," I asked? "Twenty minutes to board," he said, "3 seats of 18 filled, unless we get swamped you're in!" So far all this flying had not cost me one dime, but I was suspicious. "How much to fly to Hawaii," I asked? "Ten dollars," he said. "Really, ten dollars, ll take it," I said. Easy queasy I was going to Honolulu, wow, best ten dollars I ever spent, and the plane was a C-5, the biggest plane in the US fleet; with wingtips that rise a full nine feet from tarmac to flight. Still no windows to speak of, but the albatross of the fleet. I was going to Hawaii... Bali Hai would welcome me with open arms, in technicolor, I couldn't wait...
 
When do people die and stuff explodes?
Tell me your plane is going to crash and you'll be stuck floating in the Pacific Ocean catching flying fish with your teeth to survive.
 
As a long term, hard core biker, I'm sure you have seen more near-death, death, and mayhem than me. I have seen some "things" but wish not to discus such "things" on this site. They will be denied, I will be "Found," and a straight-jacket or other form of silencer would be soon to follow. Officially, Baxter is a pseudonym of Walter Mitty. We landed in Honolulu, and as I made my way to the exit door, I was blinded by the brightness residing over the Pacific. I managed my way down the mobile exit stairway by holding tightly to my bag and the rail. Somewhere near the tarmac, life began coming into focus...
 
Gradually my sight returned as I approached the terminal. As I entered I was greeted by tropical plants and a large atrium. Not knowing quite what to do I approached the counter. "Staff Sergeant, what can I do for you?" Well, I didn't want to stay at a hotel to remain anonymous, so I said to the guy, "Listen, I'm between flights and want to get situated. What do people generally do?" "Well Sergeant you can stash your gear in an oversized locker, the facilities are on the left to freshen up, we have a mess hall here to use with military ID, then you can head upstairs to the USO (United Serviceman's Club) for coffee, doughnuts and to sleep, until your flight out!" Oh, I was home at last, invisible, just like I wanted...
 
Well Staff Sergeant...99.9999% of folks in the military will not address you as Staff Sergeant...you are just another Sergeant. And a Glyco said...your writing is difficult to read IMO this is harder to read than a Hebrew version of the Bible.
 
Glycomann said:
Can you please add paragraphs. This is more difficult to read than it needs to be. I'm sure that your draft has paragraphs. You also have a tendency for flowery language which adds length but little in content. Use of modifiers should be to add emphasis or specificity to a point, subject, or action rather than to use the modifier for modifier's sake.

What is the point of this passage? Your flight was fucked, you ate at a McDonald and you slept on the floor. You spent 700 words to convey those points. Now I may have missed some things here because I was so board with the passage. I am a scientific writer so my style may be different. However, it seems that the utility of language is to make points, sell the points, evoke emotion, lead to the next point, and convey a message. I am not seeing much of these in this work so far.
Click to expand...

I am a writer as well but GM makes a great point. This is why I cannot read a fiction novels. I read a book every 2 weeks but Fiction bores the hell out of me. I have the same "GET TO THE FUCKING POINT!" outlook on writing. I used to write for sporting magazines. I loved to do it but at a couple hundred bucks a pop and the number of times I write and then rewrite and then rewrite again I think I made about $2.14/hr.
 
Years ago there was shell shock, leading many into zones that only some were able to traverse. Then there was alcohol. Then there was AA. The tricky name psychologists' came up with as an umbrella for the condition of combat exposure is PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Long story short, the disease I came back from Central America with was a liking for cocaine. That's the point and everyone knew it. It was a last chance deal; get out of town, fix your shit, or don't come back! I woke up under the pool table at the USO Club in Hickman AFB in Hawaii the next morning. I had gone far enough away from my enablers to get a perspective and was faced with the choice: find some coke or start Jonesing... I took the low road, grabbed some gear and headed to the base gym (the only cure to coke I'd ever known).
 
After a good workout I showered, changed, then went for a meal at the mess hall. Free or cheap, free and cheap you might add, but to a coke head it's way too slow as many can attest. He's just holding before a score to then explode his mind, others would think, and anyone who knows then knows all to well, it's the struggle between slow moments and hyper speed. I went this far for a reason. I knew the only chance I had to straighten out was to get away, shake it up, and stop the wheel. That wheel keeps turning, and turn it does just providing "friends" to "help" along that endless turning. Yeah, maybe 2500 miles wasn't enough. This soldier was strong, he was going to ensue total self destruction one way or another, and why not? The memories alone were enough, but the dreams, flashes of thoughts and general desire for annialation were so great is it any wonder? Look at the daily suicides... is it any wonder? With me I embraced the slow world. What's the point in this drawn out tale? Simple... the slow way. It was a must do. After lunch I got a bag from my locker and waited at the bus stop. Waiting was a problem but I had to wait. I would have to embrace waiting if I ever wanted a chance. "Nothing happens now," I thought, "except for the unexpected." That's a razor's edge, and we all know that ends with severe braking; death, prison, or captivity. "No," I thought, "I need to pump the brakes, downshift, then brake again a few times!" Painful but necessary. Well, I got on the bus and found myself watching corner traffic. Not good as old habits die young. No, I stayed on the bus well beyond the tourist sites, then got off at the Turtle Bay Hilton at the North Shore. It was January and the Winter surfing season had ended a few weeks earlier, but the waves still crested at over 25 ft so there was plenty to see. With all the time in the world, I found a seat in the sand along a palm tree, watching the surf. I had all the time in the world!
 
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