When I was Young

Military Spouse Appreciation Day

Good Hearted Woman

♫” She’s a good-hearted woman in love with a sea-going man.”♫

by: Garland Davis

There has been much written about the Navy. About the men, the ships, battles, piers, WestPac, bars, hookers and heaven knows what else. Asiatic sailors spend an inordinate amount of time reflecting on and telling tales about all these things. But, we don’t talk a helluva a lot about those who really loved us. Loving a crazy-assed WestPac sailor took a Good Hearted woman. They are and will always remain among the greatest of God’s creations.

I know you have all seen them waiting on the pier whenever the ship returned to homeport, be it 0200, cold or wet, they would be waiting. Rain…Snow… Hell, alligators could have been falling from the sky and they would have been there. Waiting for what? Waiting for an unshaven, smelly, raggedy-assed idiot who hadn’t showered for three days because of busted evaporators and limited fresh water, hauling a sack of dirty laundry and reeking of sweat and fuel oil.

They couldn’t wait to embrace the smelly guys who poured off the gray behemoth that had just tethered to the pier or out outboard in the nest. Holding a baby their sailor had never seen in one arm and trying to keep track of a three-year-old waving a sign that says “Welcome Home Daddy.” She was an angel in a sundress from the mark-down rack at the Navy Exchange with a smile that dimmed the sun. These girls welcomed you when you came home and stood on that same pier with tears streaming down their face when you left.

Sit back and think about it. That lady in the kitchen doing the dishes was once, the barely out of her teens, girl who married a crazy assed Third Class North American Bluejacket. All he had to offer was E-4 pay and a few bucks sea pay, poor housing in even poorer neighborhoods, long separations and duty every third or fourth day. She put up with him when he showed up late with a couple of shipmates and two cases of beer. She made them sandwiches and made sure they were up and on their way the next morning.

Later when you were at sea, trying to keep up with the carrier in heavy seas, she was at parent-teacher meetings school plays, science fairs, little league games, and dental appointments; without you. She carried them to the emergency room and met with the principle when they got in trouble. She did it all without you when it would have been really great to have you there. When you got orders to Hawaii, she arranged for packing household goods and transporting the dogs all while you were at sea.

They should be eligible for sainthood. Think about it…they married guys who spent a good part of their time away from them. They had to play second fiddle to another lady that he had a love/hate relationship with. She was hard steel and gray and demanded much of him. She dined on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before the allotment check came in. Homemade Christmas and birthday gifts for the kids. Home permanents because the beauty shop cost too much. Unable to visit her Mom and Dad for years because there wasn’t money for travel.

Dude, do you know what a lucky bastard you are. Do you know what it takes for a woman to put up with the bullshit sandwich that a sailor’s wife is handed? Yet they were strong.

Yes they were special ladies who loved us. Welcome home with her arms around your neck. Hell, with the fuel oil smell and the sack of dirty laundry, you couldn’t have paid someone to hold you like that who didn’t love you. They actually ordered see-through pajamas and nighties that would make a stripper blush. Just to welcome you home.

They were our angels. Always will be. There should be a statue on every Navy Base of a beautiful young girl in a J. C. Penny’s bargain dress, holding a toddler in one arm and the hand of grinning snipe in greasy dungarees and a frayed white hat with the other.

This is for the ladies. God bless you. You supported us, you loved us, and you put up with us. We were crazy. Had to be to live the life and do the things we did. You were the sanity in our world. You are recognized and honored by all of us who stood topside and watched you as we entered and left port.

Your life was hard; it was a hell of a lot rougher than any starry eyed girl should have to deal with. Your sacrifices and personal hardships will be rewarded in the memories that all faithful and loyal women accumulate and in the deep regard and respect by which you are held by the men who stood on deck and regarded your bargain basement dress as a garment worn by an angel.

Brutus and George Wallace

By Cort Willoughby

Okay, here’s another story from my career as a Law Enforcement Officer after I retired from the Navy.

Dispatch sends me on a call at 0515. Always a pain in the rear since shift ends at 0545. You always have your mind on the clock at that time in the shift. We were pulling twelve-hour shifts, four days on and four days off. I enjoyed the schedule as did most of us who worked the road.

A call comes in for me to go to an address on 166th Avenue. They told me the lady had vague complaints. Which I took to mean that she was Bat-shit Crazy. Probably more fucked up than a port-sided football bat. The crazy calls were becoming a specialty of mine. The dispatchers had great fun at my reporting from the scene.

I ease into the drive and lock my PoPo ride. I knock on the door and a lady in her late middle ages opens the door. The aroma of Thanksgiving dinner emanates from the house on this early June morning.

“You cooking turkey, Ma’am?

“Hell yes, you smell it don’t you?

“Yes Ma’am, and I can also smell that fresh dog turd over there by the kitchen table.”

“Brutus, you son-of-a-bitch, I told you to stop shitting in the house!”

“Where’s Brutus Ma’am, I don’t see him. Is he a dog or a man?”

“He’s a fucking dog!”

“Sure he is Ma’am.”

“Well, he’s hiding ‘cause he knows I’ll find that pile of shit and whip his ass for shitting in the house.”

Yes Ma’am. Why don’t you take him out a couple of times a day and he won’t have to shit under the table.”

“You here to tell me how to raise a stupid mutt?”

“No Ma’am. You called and dispatch sent me to make sure all is okay. Are you fixing a big dinner for relatives?”

“Do you see any relatives?”

“No Ma’am, only you. I have yet to see Brutus.”

“How that little dog shits a turd like that, I’ll never know.”

“The next time you take him to the Vet, you can ask.”

“Why would I do that for?”

“Well Ma’am, it might answer your questions regarding the size of his turds.”

Hell no! I won’t do it!”

“Yes Ma’am, now what can we do to find out what is wrong and why you called? You have a turkey baking and that’s all. Just curious if it’s related to your calling us!”

“Well, it’s that damned George Wallace gang!”

“He’s been dead five years or so Ma’am.”

“HaHaHa, He’s got you sucked in like all the others around here. Turkey is done. I’m gonna take it out of the oven. Want to eat some turkey?”

Uh, no, Ma’am. Looks big enough to feed twenty-five people. Is George Wallace the reason you called?”

Oh hell yes he is. Every time I start cooking a turkey, that Bastard shows up with his crew and does all manner of shit.”

“You mean like the dog shit, Ma’am?”

“I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s gonna get snooping around here.”

Ma’am, what say I have an extra patrol on your residence and you can fly a flag with a turkey on it and we’ll know when to start looking for George Wallace?”

“Well, I figured you wouldn’t do a damned thing either.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Enjoy that big turkey, teach Brutus some manners and you will be fine.”

“Dispatch, 10-8. No report.

USS White Plains AFS-4 Fire.

On 9 May 1989, while underway in the South China Sea en route to Guam, the White Plains experienced a major Class Bravo fire in the main engine room while conducting underway fuel replenishment with the combat replenishment ship USS Sacramento (AOE-1). The fire resulted from the ejection of a valve stem on the fuel transfer system which sent a high-pressure spray of fuel over the boiler and consequently ignited into a fireball.

There were 6 fatalities and 161 injuries reported as a result of the fire.

Shipmates…We wish for you fair winds and following seas, deep green water under your bow, your main rifles trained in the posture of peace and a gentle breeze at your stern.

John Is My Heart

This is a well-written article about a father who put several of his kids through expensive colleges but one son wanted to be a Marine. Interesting observation by this dad.

John is My Heart

By Frank Schaeffer of the Washington Post

“Before my son became a Marine, I never thought much about who was defending me. Now when I read of the war on terrorism or the coming conflict in Iraq, it cuts to my heart. When I see a picture of a member of our military who has been killed, I read his or her name very carefully. Sometimes I cry.

In 1999, when the barrel-chested Marine recruiter showed up in dress blues and bedazzled my son John, I did not stand in the way. John was headstrong, and he seemed to understand these stern, clean men with straight backs and flawless uniforms. I did not. I live in the Volvo-driving, higher education-worshiping North Shore of Boston I write novels for a living. I have never served in the military.

It had been hard enough sending my two older children off to Georgetown and New York University. John’s enlisting was unexpected, so deeply unsettling. I did not relish the prospect of answering the question, “So where is John going to college?” from the parents who were itching to tell me all about how their son or daughter was going to Harvard. At the private high school John attended, no other students were going into the military.

“But aren’t the Marines terribly Southern?” (Says a lot about open-mindedness in the Northeast) asked one perplexed mother while standing next to me at the brunch following graduation. “What a waste, he was such a good student,” said another parent. One parent (a professor at a nearby and rather famous university) spoke up at a school meeting and suggested that the school should “carefully evaluate what went wrong.”

When John graduated from three months of boot camp on Parris Island, 3000 parents and friends were on the parade deck stands. We parents and our Marines not only were of many races but also were representative of many economic classes. Many were poor. Some arrived crammed in the backs of pickups, others by bus. John told me that a lot of parents could not afford the trip.

We in the audience were white and Native American. We were Hispanic, Arab, and African American, and Asian. We were former Marines wearing the scars of battle, or at least baseball caps emblazoned with battles’ names. We were Southern whites from Nashville and skinheads from New Jersey, black kids from Cleveland wearing ghetto rags and white ex-cons with ham-hock forearms defaced by jailhouse tattoos. We would not have been mistaken for the educated and well-heeled parents gathered on the lawns of John’s private school a half-year before.

After graduation one new Marine told John, “Before I was a Marine, if I had ever seen you on my block I would’ve probably killed you just because you were standing there.” This was a serious statement from one of John’s good friends, a black ex-gang member from Detroit who, as John said, “would die for me now, just like I’d die for him.”

My son has connected me to my country in a way that I was too selfish and insular to experience before. I feel closer to the waitress at our local diner than to some of my oldest friends. She has two sons in the Corps. They are facing the same dangers as my boy. When the guy who fixes my car asks me how John is doing, I know he means it. His younger brother is in the Navy.

Why were I and the other parents at my son’s private school so surprised by his choice? During World War II, the sons and daughters of the most powerful and educated families did their bit. If the idea of the immorality of the Vietnam War was the only reason those lucky enough to go to college dodged the draft, why did we not encourage our children to volunteer for military service once that war was done?

Have we wealthy and educated Americans all become pacifists? Is the world a safe place? Or have we just gotten used to having somebody else defend us? What is the future of our democracy when the sons and daughters of the janitors at our elite universities are far more likely to be put in harm’s way than are any of the students whose dorms their parents clean?

I feel shame because it took my son’s joining the Marine Corps to make me take notice of who is defending me. I feel hope because perhaps my son is part of a future “greatest generation.” As the storm clouds of war gather, at least I know that I can look the men and women in uniform in the eye. My son is one of them. He is the best I have to offer. John is my heart.

____________

Tu Do Street,Saigon

By: David Wright

AFTERWARDS, I SMOKE A CIGARETTE,

AND WATCH HER DRESS.

SHE DOES SO METICULOUSLY.

EACH MOVE IS DELIBERATE AND PRECISE.

KNOWING THAT I AM WATCHING,

SHE TURNS AND SMILES.

“YOU MAKE ME SHY”. SHE GIGGLES.

“I DON’T THINK SO”. I REPLY.

SHE SITS IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR,

HER SMALL FIRM BREASTS BOUNCE GENTLY,

AND BEGINS TO COMB HER HAIR.

HAIR THAT IS SOFT AS DOWN.

AND FALLS BENEATH HER WAIST.

SHE SITS STRAIGHT,

HER BACK ARCHED.

IT’S A GAME SHE PLAYS.

“HOW CAN SHE DO IT”? I MARVEL

TO CONTINUE LIKE THIS,

A FEW HOURS OR DAYS WITH ONE,

THEN ANOTHER,

AS IF NOTHING HAD CHANGED,

FROM HER SCHOOLGIRL DAYS.

OR DID SHE REALIZE TOO SOON,

LIKE I,

IN A CORNER OF THE EARTH GONE MAD,

WHERE TWENTY-FIVE IS OLD,

THAT NOTHING IS FOREVER,

AND NO ONE WAS EVER REALLY YOUNG.

Continental Hotel, Tu Do Street, Saigon, Republic of Vietnam

“Shit on a Shingle”

By Garland Davis

Maybe you know them by various names. Maybe you know them by their less savory name, Shit on a Shingle. But if you know these breakfast dishes at all, you know they are quite possibly the best way to start the day.

Especially if you’re having a rough start to your day.

Creamed Ground Beef is a stick-to-your-ribs, no-frills meal that’s been a military standby for more than a century. In 1910’s Manual for Army Cooks, you’ll find the dish described as a creamy blend of salted and dried chipped beef, evaporated milk, butter, and flour—all doled out over a few slices of toast (a.k.a. shingles).

If the meal sounds like the nutritional equivalent of eating a pile of bacon cheddar cheese fries, fear not. You can still satisfy your hangover cravings without busting your gut.

Creamed Ground Beef

What you’ll need:

1 lb. ground beef (80% lean)

1 Tbsp vegetable oil

1 small onion, diced

Salt and pepper, to taste

3½ cups whole milk

½ cup vegetable or chicken stock

1 tsp fresh sage, chopped, plus more for garnish

½ cup all-purpose flour

4 medium ¼-inch thick slices sourdough bread, toasted

How to make it:

1. In a large, deep skillet over medium-high, heat the oil. Crumble in the beef and cook, stirring frequently, until browned, about 8 minutes. Drain enough grease so that some still coats the skillet. Add the onions, and cook until translucent, about 4 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Pour 2 ½ cups of the milk and all of the stock into the pan. Using a wooden spoon, scrape up any bits from the bottom of the skillet. Mix in the sage then bring to a boil. Cook, stirring frequently, until slightly thickened, about 5 minutes.

2. In a small bowl, mix the flour into the last cup of milk until smooth. Slowly pour this mixture into the skillet, stirring constantly. Reduce the heat to low and simmer until thickened, 3 to 4 minutes. (If the gravy is too thick, thin with a little additional milk. If it is too thin, simmer longer, or add more flour.) Taste and adjust seasonings before serving.

3. To serve, place 1 slice of toasted bread or split biscuit on a plate and smother with the gravy. Garnish with sage. Makes 4 servings.

Nutrition per serving: 701 calories, 36g protein, 61g carbohydrates (2g fiber), 35g fat

Minced Beef is a red spicy, meaty gravy served over toast. A great start to one’s day.

Minced Beef on Toast (Train Smash)

• 1 1⁄2 lbs ground beef
• 2 medium onions, chopped
• cooking oil, if needed
• salt and pepper
• 5 tablespoons flour, approximate
• 1 (16 ounce) can whole tomatoes, diced
• 5 1⁄2 ounces tomato juice
• 2 cups hot water, approximate
• 1⁄2 teaspoon ground mace or nutmeg, to taste
• 1⁄2 teaspoon sugar, to taste

Directions

1. Crumble the ground beef into a skillet and brown with the onions.
2. If beef is very lean, add a tablespoon or two of cooking oil.
3. Salt and pepper to taste.
4. Add flour, one tablespoon at a time, stirring and cooking each spoonful, before adding the next.
5. The flour must be cooked to preclude a starchy taste throughout.
6. Add enough flour to absorb most of the oil.
7. Stir in the tomatoes and the tomato juice, followed by the water.
8. Allow to simmer on low heat to thicken.
9. Adjust consistency as necessary.
10. Add nutmeg and sugar and adjust to taste.

This is the original “Shit on a Shingle”

Creamed Dried Beef on Toast

Ingredients

· 5 cups Milk

· ¾ cup All-purpose Flour

· ½ tsp Salt

· ¼ tsp Ground Black Pepper

· ½ cup Butter

· 12 oz Dried Beef

Directions

· Whisk milk, flour, salt and pepper together until smooth.

· Melt butter in a large pot over medium heat.

· Gradually stir in the milk mixture until thickened.

· Rinse beef in hot water and cut into ½ inch strips.

· Add beef to flour and milk mixture and simmer for five minutes.

· Serve over toast or biscuits.

Creamed Eggs

Ingredients

• 5tablespoons butter
• 4tablespoons flour
• 2cups milk
• 1⁄2teaspoon salt
• 1⁄4teaspoon white pepper
• 1⁄8teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 3hard-boiled eggs, chopped
• 3 -4slices bread, to toast

Directions

1. Melt butter over medium-high heat.
2. Whisk in flour.
3. When bubbly, whisk in milk a little at a time.
4. Add salt.
5. Continue to whisk til thick and bubbly.
6. Remove from heat and add chopped eggs.
7. Toast and butter slices of bread.
8. Lay slices on individual plates and spoon on Creamed Eggs.
9. Serve.

USS Bunker Hill CV-17

This is a transcription of a newspaper article (from comments in the article, it is from a Chicago paper published sometime in 1945) that has come into my possession temporarily. — Garland

U. S. Carrier Hit, 373 Die;

Bunker Hill Survives Jap Suicide Attack

Flat Top Suffers 656 Casualties

Washington, DC, June 27 UP—Japanese suicide planes scored two direct bomb hits on the carrier Bunker Hill, causing 656 casualties, but the flagship of Vice Admiral Mitscher survived four hours of flaming death and will fight again.

The Navy disclosed today that the Bunker Hill, despite losses of 373 dead, 19 missing, and 264 wounded in the tragic episode off Okinawa May 11 is home under her own power for repair at the Puget Sound Navy Yard.

At least 14 Illinois men, nine from Chicago were among the survivors.

Daring Maneuver Wins

A daring maneuver which literally flung the fire from her hangar deck capped the heroic efforts of her crew and assisting ships to conquer the flames.

Three hours after the attack, firefighters were still waging a nip and tuck battle on the flaming deck.

Tons of water poured on countless gallons of flaming oil and gasoline were forcing the firefighters back against the bulkhead. The sheer weight of the water was causing a six-degree list in the ship. Below decks, men were dying from heat and suffocation.

The cruiser Wilkes-Barre had come alongside, placing her bow hard against the Bunker Hill’s starboard quarter, to add her hoses to the firefighting. With the Wilkes-Barre at her side, the Bunker Hill went into a wide 70-degree turn at 2 ½ degrees rudder. In turning, the Navy account said, she shifted the load of water across the ship and dumped the heart of the roaring inferno on her hangar deck out into the sea.

New Life for Ship

“Men with lips too burned to cheer rushed forward with their hose,” the Navy related. “Fresh air whipped across the deck at their backs, forcing the heavy smoke of burning oil and gas away from them. New life breathed through the ship. Men who were lying on blistering hot decks knew, even as they drew their breath of fresh air, that some miracle had saved them.”

Commodore A. A. (31 Knot) Burke, chief of staff to Adm. Mitscher, said the admiral was in flag plot when the attack came and escaped unhurt, altho three officers and 11 men of the staff were killed and about 20 officers and men were wounded and overcome by smoke.

Admiral Mitscher transferred his flag to another carrier after the ship was saved. Fire destroyed all the Admiral’s clothing except what he wore.

The 27,000 ton Essex class carrier was a proud veteran of every Pacific invasion and campaign since the opening of the Central Pacific offensive more than a year ago, Many of her planes were aloft, supporting ground advances on….. {Continued on page 4, column 2}

Unfortunately, I don’t have the continuation of the article…

All Dogs Have Fleas

By: Garland Davis

Time travel was developed over eight hundred annuals ago. The bureaucrats controlled the mechanics and physics that permitted the viewpods to travel thru time. They placed myriad rules and regulations on the actual travel thru time. They learned that the past could be observed without actually paralleling with the time stream. The time traveler could observe events without being observed.

Travel to historical events was limited to a single visit. Events were recorded as a holovid and could viewed as a three dimensional life size holovideo. Historicrats were reveling in their ability to see events unfold as if they were actually present. This permitted them to correct the historical record of mankind.

The entertaincrats/pharmicrats had gained ownership of the sciences and mechanics of time travel and edited historical events, creating sensational holovids to placate the masses. They were reminiscent of the “Reality” televideos of the, old time scale, twenty-first century. In the 14,000th annual hallucinogenic drugs and time holovids became the modern day “Bread and Circuses demanded by the masses.” Great battles, with blood and gore, were a hit with the brain deadened mass. A time pod had followed a twentieth century serial killer, John Wayne Gacy, and cataloged all his killings. This was on the most viewed list for over one hundred annuals. The destruction and horror of the religious wars of the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries almost brought mankind to an end. Weapons of mass destruction were used haphazardly and billions died from the atomic, chemical, and pathogenic warfare. Epidemics continued for centuries as the pathogens mutated. Over a thousand time pods had observed and recorded all the events of these wars and would provide subject matter for the holovids for many annuals to come.

A small number of twentieth century and twentieth-first century survivalists foresaw the coming calamities and prepared for the worst. They collected the seeds of plants and frozen embryos and the DNA of domestic animals used for food. They cataloged the knowledge and the arts of mankind electronically. These biological items and electronic treasures were duplicated and stored at over three hundred locations in remote areas of the planet. These survivalist’s preparations were the root of the resurgence of mankind over a period of ten thousand annuals.

As mankind slowly recovered from the devastation of the wars, tensions and religions began to cause problems hindering the recovery’s progress. Nations were forming and national boundaries were being drawn. A group of scientists and politicals had formed a cabal to prevent a recurrence of events that led to the wars of destruction. Their first act was to develop weapons greater that any others in the world. After two demonstrations the world bowed to their rule. They called themselves the Bureauracracy. They controlled every aspect of mankind’s resurgence and scientific advances. Immortality was the end result of eradicating the pathogenics from the wars. This led to an immediate and devastating increase in the world population and problems between various ethnic and religious groups. The bureaucrats mandated that all humans were to be sterilized to prevent any further increase in the population. Everyone would speak the same language. Religions of all kinds were outlawed and all persons professing any deity were mind probed and all religious inclinations eradicated from their thoughts. Any person critical of the Bureaucracy was also mind probed.

There was little reason for anyone to perform labor. Mechanicals did physical tasks. Food and medicinals were replicated from raw atoms by replicamechanical units. There was no longer a need to grow plants or animals. The only living entities on earth were some of the domesticated animals of the twentieth century and the plants they used for food. These were enclosed in hermetically sealed zoos and in parks. These were enclosed to prevent the escape of pathogenics. They were only available for viewing by holovid. There were also beneficial bacteria that were necessary for human life. The scientifichanicals and the scientificrats were working to develop nanomechanicals to perform their function so they too could be eliminated.

He was a low level bureaucrat and had been an historical collector for over three hundred annuals. He manned a time pod and recorded historical events for the holovid bureauracracy. At first he was fascinated by the events the time pod was recording. After watching hundreds of battles, murders and sex acts the task became drudgery. His only purpose for manning the pod was to override the auto return and return the pod if the autosystem malfunctioned.

Over two hundred and seventy annuals ago, he was tasked with cataloging Ernest Hemmingway, an author from the twentieth century, on a big game hunt for lions, a large feline that had been extinct for thousands of annuals. He was fascinated by the approach to the big animals and the shooting of a projectile weapon as the animal charged the hunter. He could hardly wait until the langaugmechanicals did the interpretations so he could follow the hunt and understand the hunters. He requested, and for over two annuals, was tasked with cataloging big game hunts on all the continents. Tigers, lions, wolves, elephants, buffalo, and moose were recorded by his pod. He was fascinated by the hunts for the beasts of prey, especially the lions and tigers. Unlike the herbivores, they were aware of the hunters and were wont to defend their territory. They would charge the hunters. He dreamed of hunting and slaying a lion.

Big game hunts lost favor by the masses and further cataloging of their hunts were canceled. His world returned to boring drudgery. He began to wonder if there was a way he could materialize a pod in the past and conduct a hunt of his own. He knew these thoughts could result in being mind probed, medicated and relegated to the mass of brain dead humanity. If he was careful, he could learn the functioning of the pods and possibly divert one. As far as the weapon, he was sure that the specifications for replicating a projectile unit and instructions for its use existed. All he had to do was locate this information without alerting any of the other bureaucrats.

He surreptitiously gathered information and studied the science that caused the pods to travel through time. Over thirty annuals had passed while he was doing this. He became friendly with historiotechnocrat who was an expert on handheld weapons of the twentieth century and a connoisseur of replicated twentieth century French wines. He was able to get answers to his questions about the projectile weapons while spending numerous hours drinking replicated burgundies and pinot noirs.

As he was formulating plans for a clandestine side trip, he was moved to the unit surveying periods before humankind. His first trip was to a period known by the ancients as the Jurassic. All his plans to hunt a lion were forgotten. He immediately decided that he would hunt one of these huge animals. It would take much observation to determine the most dangerous creature. He also determined that he would need a more powerful weapon if he hunted one of these great animals. At first they all appeared docile. All appeared to be herbivores and just meandered along in great herds eating the vegetation. He was disappointed.

On his second trip to the Jurassic, he found the creature he would hunt; a giant creature that walked on its rear legs. The animal had two very small front legs, which served more as arms. It had a huge head and mouth lined with giant teeth. He watched fascinated as two of these creatures attacked one of the huge herbivores and were ripping huge chunks of flesh from the still grazing creature. This was his target. He would hunt this one.

The projectile weapon that he had been planning to use would be useless against a creature this large. He recalled from his research that weapons which used explosive projectiles had been used in the twentieth century. Back to the wine.

Another seventy annuals passed before he was ready to implement his plans. It had taken over twenty annuals to replicate the varying components of a 20MM projectile weapon which could shoot multiple explosive projectiles. It had taken over five annuals to replicate five of the projectile units. It had taken over fifty annuals of study before he was sure that he could materialize the pod in the Jurassic. He had to spend ten annuals studying mathematics and the physics of time and create a complete new algorithm to control the actual time spent in the Jurassic without the pod keeping an actual record. He also developed a hidden system that would record his hunt.

The day was here! The parts of the weapon and the explosive projectiles were in the pod. He was confident he could program the pod to materialize at any point he desired, stay in the Jurassic as long as necessary, and return to the present at the prescribed time without any record of the actual time spent in the past.

He closed the pod, that’s all he had to do. The systems were preprogrammed to perform the prescribed mission with no input from him. He had loaded the new program into his personal computing unit. He attached it to the pod system and commenced the down load. While the download was taking place, he assembled the projectile weapon. He was surprised at the weight of the weapon. Now he understood the reason for the mounting stand.

The download finished as the pod reached the survey point. He observed the creatures on the plain. He took control of the pod and moved it toward the huge plants that made up the forest. He knew that the Tyrannosaurs, a name he learned during his studies, frequented the edge of the forests. He took the final step and materialized the pod into real time. He settled it to the ground and prepared to exit into the world. He would be the first time traveler in over nine hundred annuals to do so. He stepped out onto the vegetation-covered ground. He was surprised that it wasn’t solid. He sank into the plants. The top of the dark green plants reached to his knees.

He reached into the pod and brought out the stand for the weapon and then the weapon, which he quickly mounted. During his many observations of the Tyrannosaurs, he noticed that they were drawn by the cries of wounded prey. He had programmed the pod to broadcast the sound of one of the wounded herbivores that he had recorded earlier. He stopped the broadcast quickly. He wanted a single animal, not an entire pack.

Shortly afterward, he heard something tearing and grunting through the forest. A Tyrannosaur broke through the plants, stopped and surveyed the plain. He estimated that he would have to lure the beast to within one hundred meters to be sure of a kill. He had studied the anatomy of the creatures and felt that a body shot near the heart would ensure a kill. A brain shot would be less sure, since the beast’s brain was extremely small. He triggered the bleating of the herbivore again. The Tyrannosaur’s head swiveled toward him and the pod. The beast, with a horrible roar started a run toward the pod.

Since he had been unable to practice with the weapon, he had developed an aiming system that once set on a target, would track the animal and deliver the projectile to the preset point once he triggered the weapon. He had locked onto the point where the animal’s heart should be. He was surprised at the rapidity with which the Tyrannosaur moved. It was closer than his predetermined distance when he triggered the weapon. He was hoping that everything worked as designed.

There was a large explosion from the weapon and an instant explosion under the beast’s neck. The animal faltered for a moment but came onward. He triggered another projectile with another pair of explosions. The animal faltered and fell forward coming to a halt less than twenty meters from him. He screamed a cry of victory. He rushed to the animals head. He recalled images of Ernest Hemmingway, standing with foot on his prey. The Tyrannosaur was much too large to put a foot upon. But he decided to stand by the huge head and mouth while the pod recorded his image. As he approached he noticed that the beast’s skin wasn’t very smooth. It was covered with half spheres about size of a twentieth-century baseball. He placed his hand on the side of the head and turned toward the pod.

He heard a noise from behind him. He looked back to see a number of the half spheres moving. Suddenly the nearest one leaped toward him, bearing a circular mouth lined with sharp teeth. It landed on his chest. He immediately felt the teeth pierce his skin and then a sucking sensation. He screamed and ran toward the pod as a two more of the creatures landed on his back and sank their teeth into his flesh.

All dogs have fleas and bigger dogs have bigger fleas.

Archeological Note: The Archeological Bureaucracy in the 14,551st annual determined that the demise of the dinosaurs could only have been caused by a virus. The puzzle was how had a virus been introduced into the ecology?

Why Is A Ship Called She?