July 4, 2020
I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the republic for which it stands
one nation under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.
July 4, 2020
I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the republic for which it stands
one nation under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.
USS Utah BB-31/AG-16
This is on my bucket list if /when I get to Pearl Harbor.
It is located on Ford Island. You need an ID card to get on ford Island. AMERICAN HISTORY!
SOMETHING YOU MIGHT NOT KNOW!
LITTLE KNOWN FACTS ABOUT THE USS UTAH!
Though the USS Utah BB-31 was reclassified and demilitarized into a target ship ten years prior to the Pearl Harbor attack, that didn’t save her from suffering the wrath of the Japanese.
In the early minutes of the assault, the USS Utah was struck by two torpedoes and started flooding. From a crew of 525…64 officers and Sailors were lost before she capsized.
Today, the USS Utah Memorial is open only to military personnel, making it difficult for the public to know about her history and sinking.
For a little insight into the USS Utah, here a few little known facts about the former battleship, her crew, and her fate during the Pearl Harbor attack.
THE HERO OF THE USS UTAH!
There were many heroes on 7 December 1941, but there are a select few who stand out among the thousands who experienced the attack.
On the USS Utah, one Sailor literally gave everything he had for his shipmates, he had lived with and served beside.
Peter Tomich served as A Chief Watertender on the USS Utah and during the attack was stationed in the ship’s boiler room. As the former battleship started to flood with water, Chief Tomich refused to leave his fellow shipmates behind, and he remained below to guarantee everyone made it out.
Sadly, his decision was made as the USS Utah was capsizing, and as the last of the crew escaped, Chief Tomich remained at his station. For his selfless actions, Chief Tomich received our nation’s most prestigious award, the Medal of Honor.
RECLASSIFICATION OF THE USS UTAH!
Ten years before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, the USS Utah was reclassified and turned into a target ship.
Once listed as BB-31, she was reclassified as AG-16, a training ship, and was equipped with antiaircraft guns for training purposes while her primary and secondary weapons were removed.
By 1 April 1932, after all of the modifications were made, she was recommissioned and returned to service. After several training exercises, by June of 1935, she was modified again, this time with 1.1” / 75 caliber antiaircraft guns for experimental testing.
Her last transfer occurred in September 1941, when she was moved from the Puget Sound Navy Yard to Pearl Harbor, where her remains still sit today.
Nancy Lynne Wagner may have had nothing to do with the attack on Pearl Harbor, but for over 70 years, her remains have been entombed within the ship.
Serving aboard the USS Utah was Chief Yeoman Albert Wagner, who prior to the attack had suffered the loss of a baby girl at birth.
Nancy died before she had the chance to live her life and to honor his girl, Chief Wagner intended to scatter her ashes at sea when the USS Utah left the harbor, but the attack took that opportunity away from him.
Though Chief Wagner survived the USS Utah’s destruction, he never returned for his daughter, instead choosing to allow the urn to remain in his locker on board the ship.
Though it wasn’t the beautiful Pacific, she was in a place that her father had appreciated and served courageously.
The Doctor and the Dog
By Garland Davis
During the wars of the late twenty-first century, the countries that had been the United States, Russia, China, and lesser countries that allied themselves to these nations suffered horribly. Large portions within their borders were left a radioactive hell. Groups of people who had survived the devastation lived a primitive hunter-gatherer subsistence lifestyle in the mountainous and prairie areas that had avoided or had quickly cleared of the radiation.
As the world entered the twenty-fifth century, as counted by the few followers of a now nearly defunct religion that counted time as the periods before and after its major prophets life and death, an alliance of the four autonomous areas of Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and Argentina ruled the world. A Utopia, of sorts, had been achieved. There were no wars. There were no weapons of war. There was no poverty,
The science of Repliology had made every person equal to every other person. The advent of the Replicator had made it possible for a person to create anything whose atomic description was stored in the central replicator files. Through complicated and highly secret machinations the replicator could rearrange any group atoms into the atomic structure desired. Weapons of war such as explosives, firearms, or nuclear tech could not be produced.
Every household had a replicator. They were created by, central, government-owned, and controlled replicators. Each household replicator was connected to a central replication library that held the replication atomic recipes of all items authorized for replication. There were unscrupulous individuals who attempted to “hack” the files and produce proscribed items. They were invariably detected and had their mental facilities reprogrammed.
The single person responsible for the replicator science and development of the replicators as well as the science and technology that permitted travel throughout the Solar System and soon interstellar and possible inter-galactic galactic travel was a teen-aged American refugee who had escaped from North America by traveling south through Old Mexico into the state of Columbia, Northern Argentina. The boy, although illiterate and uneducated, was a prodigy and soaked up knowledge as a sponge absorbs water. The boy proved the ability to describe scientific methods and procedures accurately without completing the experiments leading to his hypothesis. It was as if he could visualize the future. Many scientists conjectured that his phenomenal abilities were induced by his early exposure to the radiation of North America. He became known to all as The Doctor.
Almost two hundred years had passed since he had wandered out of the nuclear wastelands to the north. He had been given the yearlong rejuvenation treatments, which he had described in detail to the Med-Scientists, during his seventieth year assuming that he was twelve years of age when he crossed into Columbia and again at one hundred forty years of age. He was now approaching two hundred years. Many attempts had been made but no one had ever survived a third rejuvenation.
The decision had been made to transfer his mental capacity into computers to retain his knowledge and foresight for the future. Experiments had shown that memory could be stored but the reasoning and cognitive ability were lost. Thus, they began experiments with clones. The cognitive abilities and memory could be downloaded from a person while being simultaneously uploaded to an identical clone without loss of reasoning ability.
Cloning of The Doctor’s body proved extremely difficult due to the amount of radiation he had been exposed to. Many clones were attempted until finally an amount of radiation exposure left them with three viable clones. But The Doctor was failing and it was feared that he would die before the clones were advanced enough for the transfer of mental functions. The Med-Scientists began the search for a host to transfer The Doctor’s cognitive functions to while waiting for a clone to reach a level of maturity where The Doctor’s mind could be uploaded to it. At first it was thought that a primate would be acceptable but uploading human mental facilities into primates caused insanity and suicidal tendencies.
After much searching and many experiments, the Med-Scientists finally determined that a canine of the Retriever group could be suitable. Since canines acted instinctually and possessed little reasoning or cognitive ability, it would be simple to upload The Doctor’s mentality to the canine without affecting the involuntary control of breathing, heartbeat, and other involuntary functions. The Doctor agreed that the measure must be taken. His body was shutting down despite all efforts to prolong his like for even a few hours.
The doctor and dog were placed side by side and connections were made from the computer to the points previously placed in both patient’s heads, The senior Med-Scientist checked the connections for the tenth time and finally gave a nod to a tech to begin the procedure. After a tense half-hour, the tech indicated that the transfer had been completed.
The Med Scientist gave the order to begin the wake-up procedure of the canine. The dog remained connected to the computer and The Doctor could communicate to them by thinking a message onto a screen. As the tech injected the drug that would awaken the canine, he unconsciously reached out and rubbed the dog’s head. The group of Med-Scientists were shocked and immediately castigated the tech for disrespecting The Doctor by patting him on the head.
The canine, regaining consciousness, looked around at the group of scientists and wagged his tail. A sentence appeared on the screen, “Well, it looks as if the transfer worked so far. Another month and the clone will be ready. I don’t anticipate a problem with a further transfer,”
“It does appear successful Doctor. Is there anything you want or need.” The senior Med-Scientist asked.
“Yes, there is a particular jerky treat that I seem to have a liking for and would someone scratch behind my right ear, I seem to have an itch.:
Why a Good Tag-Out Procedure is Important…
We have a 6 ft. Square tube and welded wire fence in the front yard, and last Saturday, when I heard the Antifa Punks might be bringing their BS out to the country, I wanted to make sure they ran into a little resistance before meeting my Kimber 9mm, so I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence.
Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had, made for 60 miles of fence. I then used an 8 ft. long ground rod, welded a 1/2 masonry bit to a piece of round rod, and sunk the ground rod 7.5 feet into the limestone..The ground rod is the key, the more you have in the ground, the better the fence works.
On Wednesday my idiot neighbors hired another idiot to trim all their oak trees, yes in June, so now they will all probably die of oak wilt but that’s a whole other story, and one of the limbs came crashing down on top of my fence leaving the main wire down in the yard. So yesterday I’m mowing the yard with my old as dirt 5 hp Briggs and Stratton push mower that has the run bale tied back with a zip tie. Now..I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger so I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it, to throw it out of the way.
Well my sweet little wife had seen that the fence was unplugged and thought one of the dogs had accidentally done it, so she plugged it back in “for me”….How very thoughtful of her.
Now I’m standing there, I’ve got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the 1.21 giga-volt fence wire in the other hand. Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover. And, there is a ‘pulse’ or ‘continuous’ setting and of course I set it continuous because.. Antifa..right? Well….
The first thing I notice is my pecker trying to climb up the front side of my body. My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain. Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over, I could feel the spark in my head. I was literally at one with the engine.
It seems as though the fence charger and damn lawnmower were fighting over who would control my electrical impulses.
Science says you cannot poop, pee, and vomit at the same time. I beg to differ. Not only did I do all three at once, but my bowels emptied 3 different times in less than half of a second. It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement, where time is creeping along and you’re all leaned back and BAM BAM BAM you just shit your pants 3 times. It seemed like there were minutes in between but in reality it was so close together it was like exhaust pulses from a HEMI turning 8 grand.
At this point I’m about 30 minutes (maybe 2 seconds) into holding onto the fence wire. My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can’t let go. I grew up on ranches so I know all about electric fences … but Grandpa always had those piece of shit chargers made by International or whoever that were like sticking your tongue to a 9 volt battery and just kinda tickled.
This one I could not let go of. The 8 foot long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the solid limestone rock. At this point I’m thinking I’m going to have to just man up and take it, until the lawnmower runs out of gas.
‘Damn!,’ I think, as I remember I just filled the tank!
Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough. It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it. Covered in poop, pee, and with my vomit on my chest I think ‘Oh God please die …. Pleeeeaze die’. But nooo, it settles into the rough lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there, like a big bore roller cam engine waiting for the go command from it’s driver’s right foot.
So here I am in the middle of June, 104 degrees, 80% humidity, standing in my own front yard, begging God to kill me. God did not take me that day …. he left me there covered in my own fluids to writhe in the misery that I..myself…had created.
I honestly don’t know how I got loose from the wire ….
I woke up laying on the ground hours later. The lawnmower was beside me, out of gas. It was later on in the day and I was sunburned.
There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot where the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume I finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.
Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep I realized a few things:
1 – Three of my teeth seem to have melted.
2 – I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek (not the left, just the right).
3 – Poop, pee, and vomit when all mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.
4 – My left eye will not open.
5 – My right eye will not close.
6 – The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now. Seriously! I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something because it was better than new after that.
7 – My nuts are still average size yet they are almost a foot long.
8 – I can turn on the TV in the bedroom by farting while thinking of the number 4 (still don’t understand this???).
Yesterday changed my life.
I now have a newfound respect for things.
I appreciate the little things more, and now I will always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.
The good news, is that if someone does try to come over the fence, I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him, and THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, which will also remind me to triple check before I mow.
Where Do We Get Such Men?
In memory of SW2 Robert Dean Stethem, United States Navy Seabee diver, murdered on 15 Jun 1985 by Hezbollah terrorists during the hijacking of the commercial airliner he was aboard… Rest In Peace my Brother
“Where do we get such men?” ~ James A. Michener “The Bridges at Toko-Ri”
US NAVY UNDERSEA MUSEUM
“Today we honor the courage and ultimate sacrifice of Navy Seabee diver Robert Stethem. On this day in 1985, Hezbollah terrorists hijacked TWA Flight 847 and singled out 23-year-old Stethem for being a U.S. Navy Sailor. Stethem was beaten and tortured for 24 hours after he refused to denounce the United States. The terrorists then shot him and pushed his body onto the tarmac.
Five other Seabee divers on the flight — Stuart Dahl, Tony Watson, Jeffrey Ingalls, Kenneth Bowen, and Clinton Lee Suggs — endured brutal treatment by the terrorists for 17 days.
Stethem was posthumously promoted to Master Chief Constructionman, awarded a Purple Heart and Bronze Star, and was the namesake for an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer commissioned in 1995. In 2015, then-Secretary of the Navy Ray Mabus also presented POW Medals to Stethem’s family and five other Seabee divers held captive.”
Lt. Collins’ Flag Day Speech (from “The Sand Pebbles”)
As I’m sure most of you know, today is Flag Day, a day meant to honor the United States flag and to commemorate the Flag’s adoption.
Unfortunately, it is apparently more popular now to stomp on or burn the Flag, or not to fly it, because it may offend some fringe group or other…
The following speech from a movie is appropriate for today’s blog post. There are many Americans who respect and honor the flag, who get a tightness in the chest, and watery eyes when they see the Stars and Stripes proudly flying from the yardarm of a Ship of War, or raised on the flagpole in some foreign land.
This post is for those of you who are currently serving, have served, or who just respect and honor the Flag and what it stands for…
“Today we begin cruising to show the flag on Tungting Lake and the Hunan Rivers. I want all honors rendered smartly.
At home in America, when today reaches them it will be Flag Day. For us who
wear the uniform every day is Flag Day.
It is said that there will be no more wars. We must pretend to believe that.
But when war comes, it is we who will take the first shock, and buy time with
our lives. It is we who keep the Faith…
We serve the Flag. The trade we all follow is the give and take of death.
It is for that purpose that the people of America maintain us. And anyone of
us who believes he has a job like any other, for which he draws a money wage, is a thief of the food he eats, and a trespasser in the bunk in which he lies down to sleep.”—Lt. Collins
HMS Glamorgan and the Falklands War
At 06.37 hrs on this date (12th June) in 1982, the Royal Navy’s County-class guided missile destroyer ‘HMS Glamorgan’ was hit by an MM38 Exocet missile, fired from an improvised shore-based launcher on East Falkland.
HMS Glamorgan was positioned approximately 18 nautical miles offshore, and steaming at 20 knots. The Exocet was picked up on the destroyer’s RADAR, and realising it was an incoming missile, Lt. Cdr. Ian Inskip (C/O) ordered a rapid turn away shortly before impact. This action prevented the Exocet from penetrating Glamorgan’s side, and probably saved the ship; (no other British ship survived being hit by an Exocet during the Falklands Campaign).
Instead, the missile hit the deck coaming on the port side near the stern at an angle; then skidded along the deck before detonating and blowing a 10 ft x 15 ft hole in the hangar deck, and a smaller (4 ft x 5 ft) in the deck below, which started a fire in the galley area. The missile body penetrated the hanger door, causing the ship’s fully fuelled and armed Wessex helicopter to explode and start a severe fire within the hangar. Fourteen of Glamorgan’s crew were killed, but by 10.00 hrs the ship was underway again, with all fires extinguished. The following day, temporary repairs were made at sea, and following the Argentinian surrender on June 14th, more extensive repairs were made in San Carlos Water, before the ship could return to the UK.
HMS Glamorgan arrived at Portsmouth to a hero’s welcome on July 10th after 104 days at sea.
The Battles for Two Sisters and Mount Harriet:
Before the attack, Glamorgan had been operating overnight (11th-12th June) in support of Royal Marine forces atempting to take Argentine positions on Two Sisters Ridge, to the west of Port Stanley, East Falkland. A simultaneous attack took place against Argentine positions on Mount Harriet, to the south of Two Sisters. Both operations were successful, with the positions taken by dawn on June 12th. Three Royal Marines from 45 Commando, and a Sapper (Royal Engineers) were killed during the attack on ‘Two Sisters’, and two Royal Marines from 42 Commando were lost their lives in the attack on ‘Mount Harriet’.
Roll of Honour for May 12th 1982:
HMS Glamorgan crew:
Petty Officer Michael J. Adcock
Cook Brian Easton
Air Engineering Mechanic Mark Henderson
Air Engineering Mechanic Brian P. Hinge
Acting Chief Air Engineering Mechanic David Lee
Cook Brian J. Malcolm
Air Engineering Artificer Kelvin I. McCallum
Able Seaman David McCann
Marine Engineering Mechanic Terence W. Perkins
Leading Cook Mark A. Sambles
Leading Cook Anthony E. Sillence
Steward John D. Stroud
Lieutenant David H. R. Tinker
Petty Officer Colin P. Vickers
45 Commando, Royal Marines:
Corporal Ian Frank Spencer (26)
Marine Michael John Nowak (23)
Marine Gordon MacPherson (20)
42 Commando Royal Marines:
Corporal Laurence George Watts (27)
Corporal Jeremy Smith (23)
Sapper Christopher Jones (19)
Rest in peace brothers. Resurgam
By: Garland Davis
Subj: Entrance Policy
Hey Gabe, you gotta talk to the boss.
I know talking to all those open border socialists from Boston and San Francisco has made him rethink the concepts of heaven and hell. But since he opened the gates between us and them this place has literally been going to hell. The immigrants say they are cold and have started breaking the harps up to build fires and they keep poking the Seraphim with their pitchforks. Like I said, “going to hell!”
And giving in to all the pet owners and opening the gate to lesser creatures so they could have their doggies and kitties has become a disaster. We have serpents, water snakes in the fountains, frogs, and lizards crawling all over the streets. We have ants in the manna and sugar, stray dogs crapping in the streets, and feral cats digging up the flower beds. The bats are scaring the crap out of the winged angels. The Loch Ness Monster is ailing. I don’t know where we’ll put that big green asshole when it gets here
But the real disaster is the cockroaches. We are being overrun by fuckin’ cockroaches.
Gabe, you got to do something.
A Story of The legend that was Tomjack
By Jim Hampton
I met him in 68 although he was there in the late 50s on the Cruiser St Paul.
He Went to a Tender, Jason I think for about six months in Long Beach and Retired in 71 and got a divorce shortly after.
He married an English lady in San Diego.
When I transferred back to Sea Duty in 73, my family stayed with him and his wife until we found a place to live in Imperial Beach.
I was being transferred to New Zealand in 74.
We stayed with him so I could get my Household Goods shipped early.
I got a letter from his wife while in New Zealand telling us he got hooked up with an oil Drilling Company in the Sand Pit in Saudia Arabia. Big bucks as a Rigger.
I retired and got a computer.
I found him in Las Vegas.
The last time I spoke to him he was living fat dumb and Happy fully Retired.
He was 12 years older than me. The last time he made BM1 (his 3rd) I was senior to him. That was on the Sterett DLG-31.
He was a Legend.
On St Paul, he was piping the side in Kaohsiung.
He had all the side boys lined up and ready. He was a BM2 then.
The Chief of Staff for the Admiral came down and ask Tomjack if he knew what he was doing.
Tomjack was using the Fleet Commanders Direction on what to do for the Mayor of a Small Port City like Kaohsiung.
The COS said this is wrong Bla bla bla.
Yes, sir said Tomjack.
He then ripped the page out of the manual and threw it over the side.
That Was Tomjack.
l miss him
More Tomjack stories to come.
Rest in Peace Shipmate
They Say Exercise Helps
By: Garland Davis
♫“I ain’t as good as I once was, But I’m as good once as I ever was.”♫…Toby Keith
I tell you, getting old is a bitch. But it is preferable to the only other choice.
Things ache that you never knew you had.
Backache. Tried physical therapy, massage, muscle relaxers, pain pills. Finally just ignore it. Let the son of a bitch ache. They say you should exercise.
Enlarged prostate. Got to piss every two hours and don’t even have to drink beer. When I drink beer, I can probably get that down to every five minutes or so. They say exercise helps.
High blood pressure. Cut down on sodium, watch your diet and take pills. Here again, exercise is prescribed.
Parkinson’s disease. The shakes, muscles don’t do the things you want. Difficult to walk, feels like you are walking in water. Easily lose balance, sometimes reel around like you are drunk. Alcohol not recommended, it hastens the progression of the affliction. Parkinson’s sufferers sometimes fall down, if you drink, you fall harder. More pills. Incurable, you are going to live with it and probably die from it. Exercise again.
I wasn’t sure of obesity or just overweight. So I did some research. If you are a male, you are considered at a healthy weight if your Body Mass Index (BMI) is at twenty-five or below. There is such a thing as too low BMI, but no need to discuss that with beer-swilling sailors. Persons with a BMI of thirty or higher are considered obese. So those of us who fall in the area between twenty-five and thirty are just overweight. I calculated my BMI. I came in at 29.9. To get to a BMI of 25, I will have to lose thirty-five pounds. I estimate that I was about twenty-nine years old the last time my BMI was below twenty-five. The solution, you guessed it, more exercise.
I told my doctor that tossing and turning all night and dragging my fat ass out of bed every morning should be all the exercise I need. His answer. He says I need to walk at least thirty minutes per day.
I told him that I get up at four-thirty every morning, read my e-mail, and have two or three cups of coffee. The dog and I leave at about six. It is her walk. She is nine years old. She walks quickly and stops suddenly to enjoy a particularly enchanting odor. Probably where another dog pissed. I walk slowly because of my affliction. You know, this twenty-eight-pound dog can drag my two-hundred-pound ass along. But we get there. Most mornings it takes about thirty minutes for her walk. That is if my medications are working. Some days I have to cut it short. Just cannot walk very far on the days I am “off.” Then there is a fifteen-minute walk at three PM and another at seven.
I have one of those Bow Flex resistance machines. I work out with it every other day and ride my wife’s bicycle to nowhere for about half an hour an hour. On the other days, I walk around the block at about a two miles per hour pace. That is if I am “on”. If my Parkinson’s medicine is working and my muscles obey the commands I am sending them. If I am “off”, I usually go much slower for the evening walk if it is really difficult. Sometimes difficult is just too fucking mild a word.
And all these mother fuckers keep telling me to exercise. They have no idea what “exercise” means.
I subscribe to a number of e-newsletters regarding Parkinson’s disease. Interesting reading about current research and advice on living with the disease. I found a link to a Parkinson’s Support Group website. I thought that maybe I could learn some tricks to better help me live with the disease. I logged on but didn’t register. I just lurked reading member posts from the last few weeks. What a bunch of “Woe is me” fucking crybabies. I have heard less crying and bitching from a bunch of twidget strikers who were just told they were going mess cooking. I wanted to tell them to, “Man the fuck up.”
Conclusion. I didn’t write this looking for sympathy. My Company Commander in boot camp told me where I could find sympathy. Each of us has afflictions and crosses to bear. Play the hand you are dealt, the best way you can. It is called life, live it.