Compelling Interest

But You'd Be Wrong

I just did my Navy weekend, and on Sunday I got my heart torn out.

I was part of a work party on Sunday morning that was to go clean up some spaces for a cargo handling unit. When I pulled up to the building it became clear that the unit was getting ready to ship out on a deployment. A big bus idled in front of the building while families stood around and hugged their loved ones who would be leaving shortly.

The work party I was with comprised of only six sailors, and we stood in two groups of three chatting and waiting for our chief to show up and give us our orders. When he arrived he said we would simply stand by until the unit and their families had gone.

So, I stood there with a couple of my shipmates and made small talk, all the while observing the people around me. There were tears everywhere, and if I looked at these people for too long, especially at the children, I would start tearing up, too. I finally had to turn and take a few steps away from it all.

An announcement was made, and people began to board the bus. The tears began flowing anew. One man had his two boys with him and his parents. The older boy, who was probably seven, was crying softly. The younger boy was dry-eyed and just observing everything. A couple years younger than his older brother, he apparently wasn’t able to comprehend what was going on – just a little too young.

I was standing about 20 feet from the door of the bus, and a little forward of it. A few feet in front of me, a line of senior enlisted and an officer had formed a line to shake the hands of their departing shipmates and to wish them luck. Soon after the last couple of sailors had boarded, I saw one master chief lean over to another master chief standing next to him.

“It doesn’t get any easier, does it?” he said.

The other master chief replied simply, “No.”

The chiefs and the officers stepped back a little, and I got a view of a small family that had gathered at the side of the bus, about ten feet away, near the center: a mother with her two boys. I couldn’t really see the younger boy who was huddled up next to his mom; from his height I figured him to be about four. The taller boy stood a little closer to the bus and looked up into the dark windows. He looked to be 10 or 11.

The boy was crying some, staring up into the windows. Suddenly the idling engine roared a little to get the bus to move, and the wheels began to turn and the engine grew even louder. If you had seen a picture of the boy’s face at this exact moment from where I stood, and you didn’t know the context of what was going on, you might be fooled into thinking that he was grinning, but you’d be wrong. The boy was weeping.

Goddamn wars.

The Art of Self-Deprecation

Today's Guest Author is my brother, Karl Henning. No, seriously. You've got Mark Twain, Susan B. Anthony, and my brother, Karl. A logical progression, don't you think?

As we were growing up and soaking in the comedy of Dick Van Dyke, Tim Conway, Lucille Ball, Bob Newhart, etc., Karl discovered that strain of humor wherein one makes oneself the butt of the joke: self-deprecating humor. We practiced this technique all through school and, sure enough, it gets the laugh.

Shortly after I had joined the Navy Reserve four or five years ago, Karl sent me this e-mail. He artfully combines my military and piano tuning experience, and sets that against his FAA and musical endeavors. Ostensibly, according to Karl's narrative, we are both using everything we've got to help out in these uncertain times. Enjoy.

_______________________________

Two paths, a common goal.

Thousands of miles out on the rolling green swells of the Indian Ocean, the Aviation Structural Mechanic walks into the ship's galley for refreshment. At the end of a 12-hour shift, he wants nothing more than to get a quick bite and hit the sack. Four hours from now the treadmill begins afresh.

This is a world of nicknames - short, meaningful monikers given by your shipmates that tell, in a word, your story. The religious might be called, "Rev;" the blasphemous, "Satan." There's Knuckle and Scourge; Ripper and Hairball; Hammer and Dulcimer. And Gonorrhea. Lots of Gonorrhea.

The Aviation Structural Mechanic takes his tray of hash and makes for a table, any table. It doesn't matter - everyone makes room for him at their table. They all want to be near him - no - to be him.

Above the din, a new crewmember, a "swab," asks of no one in particular, "What gives? Who's the Messiah?" "Cookie" reaches a meaty fist across the table and grabs the swab's lapel. "That," he snarls, "is 'Maestro.' A musical theatre conductor back in 'the world.' Best mechanic on this tub - hell, probably the best in GW Bush's Navy." He lets go of the newbie who crashes back onto his bench. "It's unbelievable what that guy can do with an F100," Cookie says, reverentially.

"F100?"

"Engine on an F-15. Some guys'll take all week trying to get those things to light up properly. Not Maestro. Uses a wimpy looking socket wrench and some electronic piano tuning gizmo. Maestro says he only uses the gizmo to tune the fundamental pitch."

"Pitch?"

"Yeah," Cookie continues. "He says each engine has its own frequency. He tunes the fundamental electronically but does the harmonics by ear. Has it done in a couple of hours. Never looks at a manual. Word is that a couple o' fighter jocks turned in their wings after flying an F-15 worked on by the Maestro. It scared 'em." He looks around, then whispers, "Guy in the laundry told me they filled their flight suits with shit."

"You're kidding!"

"Honest engine! Pilots say it's like strapping a rocket to their ass! Not for the weak. Takes a real pro to fly one of Maestro's jets. Takes a fuckin' hero to use the damper pedal on one of those things. And don't even look for an una corda pedal. If any new F-15 comes in from the mainland with an una corda pedal, Maestro rips it out and calmly tucks it into the breast pocket of the pilot's flight suit. A real character, he is..."

Thousands of miles inland, in the rolling green hills of central Iowa, the Air Traffic Controller walks into the break room, sorting his change to see if he has enough money for his third package of Donettes. Four hours into his shift, he's been on position a total of 45 minutes. "When will it end?" he asks of no one in particular.

This is also a world of nicknames - witty and often insulting names that stick to you because of some infamous event or an embarrassing personal trait that you've spent your 40-plus years trying to overcome with varying levels of success and why can't people just leave me alone?! There's Crash and Mid-Air; Cupcake and Curly (the bald guys - and girls, for that matter - are always called "Curly." Get it?); Duck and Cap'n. And Halitosis. Lots of Halitosis.

The Air Traffic Controller is pleased to see the machine's been recently stocked. Nothing but Donettes. On this side, powdered sugar-flavored-powder Donettes; on this, Chocolate Donettes in all their waxen goodsomeness. "Wouldn't it be great if they just mixed the two and called it a 'Donette Swirl'?" he asks of no one in particular.

He asks a lot of questions of no one in particular because, when he enters a room, it empties. People suddenly remember that they have something really important to attend to - elsewhere. Against the current stream of evacuees, the supervisor walks in with a new controller. The new guy is getting his facility orientation. "Who's that?" he asks the supervisor, pointing to the lone Air Traffic Controller who appears to be writing music, of all things.

"Him?" replies the supervisor. "That's 'Faggot.' A couple of years ago he started going to college to learn how to write music - choral music, if you can believe it." The supervisor punctuates the word "choral" with his middle finger. "Wanders up and down the halls during his breaks babbling on about the effect of preceding a five-chord with a Neapolitan six chord versus an Italian augmented sixth chord."

The new guy shrugs. "Really? Why wouldn't he just use a two- or a four-chord like everyone else?"

"Cause he's a pedantic little puss, that's why! For crying out loud, he could precede it with a one-chord and save everyone the trouble! But no! He wants to be different. Says he really wants to 'give it to the Hun.'"

"'Give it to the Hun?'" the new guy repeats slowly.

"Yeah. He feels that writing choral music somehow contributes to the war effort. He feels this enemy can't be touched by traditional harmonies - thinks that chromaticism is the only effective way to topple an oligarchic regime."

"What a nance. Let's get out of here. He gives me the creeps. 'Faggot...' is that what you call him?"