Wie spat ist es?

Germany in mid to late 1980's was a fascinating place. The wall in Berlin had not yet come down. Change was in the air but no one really knew what that meant yet. Gorbachev was in power, Reagan was on the way out with and Bush Sr. in the wings as understudy.

The American Army along with the Bundeswehr were planning and preparing for a sudden invasion by the forces of the Warsaw Pact. As far as we knew the Soviet combat soldier was eight-feet tall, impervious to pain, and hungry to chew the tender meat from out delicate American bones.

A part of preparing the American soldier for combat with these behemoths was a week of instruction in the basics of the German language. There was no escaping this course. You had to attend, and attend you did.

The class I attended was taught by a small but lovely young lady with long reddish-brown hair. She was a good teacher who didn't brook nonsense and was fully capable of handling the wise-guys and lover boys that come with any group of young men.

We learned to count, einz, zwei, drei,  and so forth. The definitives were covered, Die, Der, and Das. It was interesting to learn that there was no system to assign one either of the others to a non-gender specific word.

Most everyone struggled at one level or another but for some reason I did not. German for one reason or another clicked easily in my head.

On the last day of class we walked to downtown Kitzengen as both a final test and as a social opportunity. Our assignment was to ask the local folks some basic questions  such as what time is it and where is the bakery, in German and to get the answers in German.

Once we had all done that, we would meet at a local restaurant where we would speak German to each other, order our food in German, and conduct the financial transactions in German using the German money.

As expected, the plan was good, but the actual execution did not go as expected.

I asked the first person I saw, "Wo ist die Backerie?", only to be told in accented English, "across the street young man." Sure enough, the bakery was across the street. I marked it as a win because she had understood the question.

I walked a couple of blocks to an intersection and approached an older gentleman, "Entschuldigen sie bitte, wie spat ist es?"

He looked at me with a smile, then laughed heartily and pointed to the large clock tower directly above his head. As he walked away he continued to laugh.

I do believe that both of those folks had seen this before and were having some fun at my expense.

Der salat und Schnitzel war gut, das Bier ist frisch, und das ist alles.

What Dreams May Come

"To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come."

What better way to start a blog post than with a little morbid Shakespeare?

It is said by those who profess to know that we all dream when we sleep. It is a function of the brain and perhaps natures way of aiding our mind in easing existential concerns. Maybe they reflect or ease what worries us, or are just natures way of entertaining in our slumber.

Seldom do I remember my dreams. Those who claim to understand the human mind have opinions as to why. Some say it because we choose not to remember. Others opine that the waking mind is just not programmed to remember them. Yet it seems that some people recall all or most of their dreams and others few to none of these nocturnal cinematics.

As I child I do not recall if I was an active dreamer. I spent most of adolescence under the influence of an anti-seizure medication that was basically a big-league sedative. That may have been why. My teen years were no different only without the medication. If I dreamed at all I seldom remembered details.

In my early twenties my dream life suddenly became vivid. A recurring dream introduced itself to me that to this day still affects me in odd little ways. You would never notice how, but the residue is there and seems that it always will be. This dream would cause me to wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat feeling desperate and lost. I would have to get up and take shower to basically wash it away and relax enough to get back to sleep. Whatever sleep I got afterwards would not be adequate.

As time passed this dream seemed to leave me, but still I would have nights where I awoke in that frantic sweat. The dream would not reveal itself completely, but small parts of it was still there.

Then one day it was gone until years later when I wrote a poem, an ode to those terrifying Nocturnal Trepidations. That poem can be found if you scroll back into the past of this blog.

Now another dream has allowed itself to find a place in my memory. It is a dream of the Salem Y, and features denizens of that facility who are no longer with us. It seems to have been a one time occurrence as I have not been allowed to visit with these memories again.

It did not have the feel of a dream at all. It was if I was taken to a place where that Salem Y, and those within it still exist. It had all of the elements of reality to include sounds and smells. I felt that I did not belong there but was welcomed by all who were in the dream as they expressed surprise at my appearance.

They all greeted me as an old friend who had not been seen in ages and did not expect to see for many more years. We shook hands, slapped backs, and there were even a few hugs. Those that did hug me laughed as they did so knowing that hugs are not my thing.

Conversations were picked up as if we had spoken yesterday. Maybe There had been another dream that I did not recall. They spoke to me of the distant past, the recent past, and of current events. Jimmy K. knew my favored locker number, Big Joe complimented my workout routine, Gordon thanked me for trying to find his wedding band in the pool's filtration system, Charlie Brown made some apologies and a young SSU intern of mine who died of a heroin overdose cried as he spoke of the people who were hurt by his death.

I went off as is my habit in a gym and started my workout as everyone else returned to their routines.

Finally I turned to no one in particular and asked if I was dreaming. Big Joe came over, put his arm around my shoulders as he walked me to the fitness center stairs.

"No Billy", he said. "This is not a dream, but you don't belong here, not yet. It was good to see you but there are things to be done and you should be where you are needed. When we are ready for you here, we'll come and get you."

"To sleep, perchance to Dream. Aye there's the rub,
For in that sleep of life, what future may come."                         

A Return To The Blog

This will be short.

Over the next few weeks I will be posting here again.

Since I left the Patch system back in January after joining the Salem City Council most of my writing has been of the "technical" kind. It is dry, boring and does absolutely nothing to keep the creative chops tight.

There will be no posts here of the local political type.

After a little bit of thought it has been decided to pick on the Red Sox.

Stay tuned.

Even The Best Are Vulnerable

Recently I ran into a friend of mine at a once favored watering hole. It was nice to see him. We said hello and then progressed into a conversation of a serious nature because that is what we do. Never in any of our conversations have we ever actually solved the worlds problems, but damn if we didn't talk as if we could do just that if motivated.

Kevin mentioned that he reads this blog which for some reason surprised me. I don't track who or how many access what I write here. I just write it, post it, and leave it for the blog historians.

"Why haven't you written on the deaths of those SEAL team members in Afghanistan", he asked.

I had no real answer for him. I have been busy, and in reality that is not the purpose of this blog. It was meant to be more personal, a way for me to put thoughts and ideas as to what my writing is or could be out there for others to see.

My earlier post about SEAL Team 6 seems to have resonated with him and a few others. Give them what they want is what entertainment is all about. If writing, even about serious issues is not entertainment then nothing is entertainment.

The military has training from the day you enlist and it never stops until the day you are separated. There are many levels of this training. At boot camp it is done at its most basic. You learn to listen as one in order to respond as a unit. Marching is the most elementary of the training methods and they march you until you don't even have to think about it any more.

As you progress in the military the training also progresses to higher levels while maintaining and re-enforcing the simple and basic. You never escape the marching, you just do less of it.

SEAL training is the peak of the training mountain. All of the Special Forces units are physically difficult and intellectually demanding. Air Force Combat Controllers, Marine Recon and the Army Special Forces demand all a warrior has to offer and more.

1-SFOD-D and the Navy Sea, Air, and Land Teams take it to another level.

A special sort of warrior is required. While physicality is desired, it is really intellect that is the difference between someone at that level and everyone else.

It's great if you can run three miles with a 40-pound rucksack over unknown terrain with nothing but a canteen, a compass, and a map. It's fantastic that you can go three days with only quick catnaps for sleep. It's wonderful that you can bring a man 40 pounds larger and six inches taller to his knees. You are a warrior of exceptional ability.

Can you emerge form the water after mile long swim, find many of your men and weapons lost, maps useless because the Navy dropped you at the wrong spot, communications cut off and still re-form what is left of your team and proceed with your mission? If you can you are that one in 100,000 that the SEALS are looking for.

The fact is you more than likely are not that guy.

The Navy spends a lot of time and money finding and training these warriors. It also spends a lot of money and effort trying to retain them. They are in high demand in the civilian world. there are many corporations that maintain quasi-military units in order to provide intelligence and security for their international business business interests.

Colonel Arthur D. "Bull" Simons is probably the modern prototype for this sort of military/civilian hybrid. He was what Blackwater looks for before Erik Prince was out of grammar school.

All of that money and when the time comes we sometimes choose to put these valuable assets (yes I called them assets) in a thin skinned, slow moving behemoth like a Chinook helicopter.

A warrior is never more vulnerable than when he, and others with him, are confined within a moving piece of metal and mechanical parts. Concerned citizens here express outrage that hum-vees and other military vehicles are without armor. Armor is wonderful in some situations but a hindrance to awareness and mobility in most situations.

While confined within a vehicle a warrior is useless. He cannot defend himself from many of the threats that he faces. All the training, toughness, and smarts in the world will not save him once that vehicle is compromised. All he has then is fate, the luck of the gods of war will either be with him or against him.

A lumbering beast like a Chinook is a death trap if they know you are coming, and it is not difficult to know that a Chinook is coming.

The Taliban either knew, or got very lucky.

I don't feel that luck had anything to do with it.

Ground Squirrels, small caliber rifles, large caliber pistols, and beer

PART 1:

It was the spring of 1983. Montana was warm and dry.

If you have never been to that part of the country it would be difficult for you to understand it, especially if your experience is in the northeastern United States. They call it "Big Sky" Country. That is no exaggeration. East of the Rockies it is all rolling or flat plains, with some buttes, mesas, valleys and small canyons. You can see for miles and miles.

I was in Great Falls, a big city by Montana standards and home to the 341st Air Base Wing at Malmstrom Air Force Base. Great Falls and Malmstrom were basically "Minuteman Missile Central" for the U. S. Air Force. North, east, and west of Great Falls sat 300 Minuteman III nuclear monsters. Each of these missiles sat in silos armed with three warheads ready to cause "the end of the world as we knew it." I should say "as we know it" because these deadly things are still there and still ready to go.

I shared a house downtown with another character, a Technical Sergeant (E-6) from Arizona. He was a bit of a gun nut as was I at the time. Gary was his name and he was a federally licensed class III arms dealer. That meant he could buy, sell and shoot just about any firearms or explosive that existed.

Gary had a little game he liked to play when watching Clint Eastwood movies. He would wear a flat, broad brimmed western hat, his serape, and smoke a thin cigar while wearing a single tied-down western holster with a .45 caliber revolver. The pistol would be loaded with what were called "hollywood" blanks. These blanks had a full powder load but were packed only with paper which would basically dissipate in the air on discharge. They were only dangerous at very close range, but you could still feel the concussive effect from the barrel ten feet away. He would, when compelled, help Clint shoot the bad guys. There were days when I was sure that Gary's elevator didn't make it to the top floor.

One day the Mormons, or maybe it was Jehovah's Witness came knocking at the door. Our house was on a corner lot where two main streets intersected. If my memory is correct it was 2nd Street North and 7th Avenue West. We did not have a lot of visitors. We were usually working, shooting, hunting, fishing or drinking. Guns and liquor went in and out on a regular basis, but we never mixed the two.

We were often seen loading and unloading his machine guns which we would fire down at Black Eagle Falls just outside of the city limits. Once a month or so we would mount his .30 caliber Browning air-cooled crew served weapon on his jeep (CJ-5) mount. Machine guns, after all like any machine need to be used. They do however, tend to make neighbors standoffish.

The Mormons knocked on the door while Gary and I were watching "For A Few Dollars More" and consuming copious amounts of cold beer. In this case I guess Gary was mixing firearms and alcohol.

I looked up from the couch and saw the dark pants, white shirts, and black ties. Gary got up to answer the door in all of his Clint Eastwood regalia. As he walked across the floor I told him who it was and he laughed a very odd laugh unlike any I had heard from him before. I sat up quickly and watched with a view that showed the Mormons through the front window, and the foyer where Gary would open the door.

I will stop and note here that Gary was a very good, nationally ranked, western quick draw competitor. He was also a multi-service pistol champion. As crazy and immature as he was, the man was exemplary with a pistol in his hand.

As he reached for the door handle, things from my seat began to move in slow motion. I saw the

Mormons look up and smile as they heard the door open. One reached out with his right hand while the other stepped back a bit and held up the good book. Gary opened the door and stood there, small cigar smoldering in his lips, a snarl on his face as reached for the .45. He  brought it up in a quick, smooth motion and pointed directly at the lead missionary.

The two Mormons froze, smiles in place and stared a look of stunned confusion. They did not comprehend what they saw. The delay was similar to what you see Wile E. Coyote do in a Warner Brothers cartoon. 

The pistol came up and roared once, sending smoke and bits of paper into the air. Two more roars followed in quick loud succession.

The poor missionary still not quite understanding what was happening, dropped their books and turned to flee the madman who appeared trying to kill them. Bumping into each other as they turned to go down the steps of the porch, one fell flat on is face while the other banged of the bannister, stumbled and caught himself on the stairs.

Gary continued to fire his blank ammo and was now bellowing unintelligible and probably profane noises.

The prone missionary was being trampled by the one who had bounced off the bannister. The second one stomped on his partners back and streaked down the side walk to the street. The other sort of crawled and scrawled down the sidewalk while attempting to pick himself up with his buddies footprint on the back of his shirt and blood on his face and hands.

Gary by now was on the porch, with an empty, smoking pistol in his hand, laughing in a way that by itself would scare any rational human being and most of the animals of the wild.

The last I saw of the two of them were their assholes and elbows as they fled desperately across the street and disappeared into the distance.

As Gary came back in, still laughing I brought him back to reality by saying we would certainly be getting a visit from the Great Falls Police and probably the Sheriff's Department.

No one came, no police, no sheriffs. No one cared, except of course for the two poor bastards who were victimized.

To this day the two of them surely tell the story of the "Madman of 2nd Avenue North." and how God saved them from certain death and martyrdom so they could continue to spread the word.

I wonder if the one guys recounts for his listeners how he ran up his pals back on on his way down the stairs.

TO BE CONTINUED

Every year I am fortunate enough to be able to host some fundraisers for the Salem YMCA. This started six years ago when I was still tending bar and taking care of business at the Lobster Shanty. In 2006 we raised $2,000.

Every year since then, even through a change an ownership at the Shanty and a change in my employment status there ( I must again be a prick and state it was not my choice to leave) the BaldBil's YMCA Day At The Shanty has taken place. It has become a small and anticipated annual tradition.

On Friday this week, June 24, I will close out the event by turning the cash and checks over to the Salem Y. It will be slightly over $3,500. When you consider the wet, cool weather that we had on the 12th of June that is very impressive. A little bit of sunshine and I believe we would have hit the "mythical" $5,000 mark. Maybe next year.

The entertainment was again provided by one of my favorite local groups, JT and the Hounds. These guys are basically a Salem/North Shore " super group https://www.facebook.com/pages/JT-and-the-HOUNDS/24714240941. My long time friend, Ronnie Deschenes leads these guys and they were just superb as is the norm. If you haven't seen them I would suggest that you do.

The generosity of the Shanty owners, Diane and Lee Wolf cannot be over stated here. They not only allow me to basically take over their business for the day, they also donate 5% of the full days receipt's to the cause. The bar tending staff, Sara, Ed, Betty (Dave), Sarah (Flooze), and Chrissy also donate ALL of their bar tips for the entire day. The wait staff, as usual, also rocked the house not only serving the customers but hustling to sell raffle tickets.

Raffle prizes were provided by a varied group of Salem businesses. The Morning Glory Bed & Breakfast (Bob and Marcel are dedicated and valued members of the BaldBil Fundraising Brigade), Victoria Station, The Adriatic, Cafe Graziani, The Salem Theater Company, Market Place Quilts, Engine House Pizza, Howling Wolf, Pampelmouse, The Trolley Depot, and Paul O'Donnell (Red Sox tickets).

The giant lobster was again provided by an anonymous donor and was won by Chuck, a charter member of the infamous and notorious "Chardonnay gang". They all gathered a few days later to dine on a huge lobster pie.

The six years of this event have been fairly successful. We have now raised just about $20,000 total for the kid's of Salem. I am proud of the fact that people in this town, and the Shanty crowd, support this cause every year.

Next up is the 5th BaldBil's Scotch & Cigar night. stay tuned.

Thoughts on Osama bin Laden and Seal Team Six

I felt no joy on hearing of this creatures death. There have always been and there will always be members of the human race who feel the pull of evil. Over the last hundred years we have seen our share of these characters. They all eventually come to their end.

When I first heard the news skepticism was my initial reaction. I had figured he was dead long ago despite the periodic releases of his video/audio tapes.

It did not take long to realize this was real.

What did I feel if not joy? It was not satisfaction. It was not relief. At first there there was no feeling at all, just an immediate desire for information. I wanted to to know who, when, where and how.

When the who was revealed, American warriors of Seal Team Six I felt pride. Pride as an American, pride as a veteran, and pride as a man who had a few small tastes of the covert world of the secret warriors. These men are a rare and special breed. You do not know who they are even when they are standing next to you unless you are supposed to know who they are. Do not be fooled by those you meet who boast and brag of heroic deeds. They are posers and nitwits.

There are a few like Eric Haney, who write books and make TV shows, but that is rare and in my mind shameful.

The when of the operation was no surprise. A moonless night with little overcast. Dark enough to create cover and assist confusion. No ground light bouncing off of clouds and increasing visibility. These conditions are perfect for maximizing night vision apparatus advantage.

Where. Well a bit of surprise there, but after a little thought it should not have been a surprise. Hiding in plain sight is an old and dependable strategy. The Pakistani government has made a lot of money off us by "aiding" in the decade long search. We admit to giving them a billion dollars a year. Accounting for all of the additional and publicly non-existent funds that are out there I would bet it was more like five or six billion a year. Hopefully that gravy train just ran right off the tracks.

The how is the best part. For far too long we have attempted to do our dirty work without getting down onto the dirt. Smart bombs and guided missiles are wonderful tools to have in your belt. They serve a purpose and can be very useful in the right circumstances. There are times however, when you need to put the tools down and use your hands directly. This was one of those times.

The warriors of Seal Team Six, just like the men of Delta Force who took out Pablo Escobar some years ago have already passed into legend and there they shall remain. That is where they belong and where they wish to remain. They will continue to shoot millions of rounds of small arms ammo every year as they practice and hone their deadly skills.

They will not be the drunken dunderhead standing at the bar regaling you with his tales of selection, martial arts exploits, or encounters with sexy and exotic female operators.

Thank you to the secret warriors and thank you to a President who had the sense to use them.