The True Adventures
of a FOP
(FRIEND OF PURESOME)
SEAGULL-O-RAMA
by
Jack Woodul
Naval Aviator's Dictionary:
"Seagull: he who hates to fly and squawks like hell when he has to, especially at night."
The only thing the R.J.O.A. (Reserve Junior Officers Association) enjoyed more than a really good bolter, seen from the vantage point of the P.L.A.T. in the ready room, was to have some poor soul down an airplane before a launch without a really good reason, i.e, aircraft suffered unexplainable thermal melt-down right there on the flight deck before the preflight... Since everybody knew that all an A-4 needed to launch was a motor, a wing, and some wheels, anybody actually downing a plane was tried and convicted of Seagullismo.
Especially on your dark and stormy nights, those R.J.O.A. safely in the ready room saw to it that some sort of cartoon questioning the downer's masculinity graced the blackboard. When the downer either slunk or blustered in, he was pelted with popcorn kernels from the fifty pound bag by the movie projector and assailed with "Bock! Bock! Bock!"-- The cry of the Seagull. Of course, if it was someone who could really have your ass like the Skipper or X.0., The R.J.O.A. was usually less overt.
So it was that on this cruise, the Airwing was joined with a squadron of Jarheads so top-heavy in rank that their skipper was actually senior to the Cag. Their heavies, the Colonel, his X.O, and the Ops officer, Major Mother, were showing the way to rest of the squadron, who were just shinier versions of the Navy junior officers, before they mucked off to Chu Ly or some other garden spot.
So it was that Puresome was not on the night schedule, but his pals Weed and Worm were. That suited Puresome, because it was not nice out, and because Ready Six was supposed to be screening "Bike Dykes from Hell," one of his sentimental favorites. Thus was he spared.
Aircraft had been manned for the launch and had turned up. In the red gloom, aviators ran through their post-start checks. As they finished, they checked in to Pri-Fly with their status.
"Sidewinder 411, on deck and up."
“Jolly Roger 203, on deck and up."
"Sidewinder 409, on deck and up." And so on.
Then, "Guntrain, Jarboon 301, I think I'm gonna be down..."
"Roger, Jarboon 301, keep us advised."
"Guntrain, Jarboon 301, probably maybe gonna be down, bubbles in the wet compass....."
"Roger, Jarboon."
"Guntrain, Jarboon 301 is definitely down."
"Roger, Jarboon 301, understand....
"Bock!.Bock! Bock!. Bock!" interrupted the radio.
“...You're ("Bock! Bock! Bockedy bock!") down," Guntrain doggedly replied through the bocks.
"Bockeddy bock bock bock!"
"Who said that? Whooo said that," came the Colonel's voice from Jarboon 301, "I want to know who said that right now!"
"Bock!" came out of the ether.
And so the launch launched without Jarboon 301, and the Col. bee-lined it to the Cag office and YOU WILL'ED the Cag that he (a) find (b) eviscerate (c) desecrate the Phantom Bocker to restore the honor of the Corps.
The Cag had been a Phantom puke in his previous life, and all those hours squinting at his scope had given him a devious slant on situational awareness. Looking at the squadrons involved in the launch, he quickly eliminated everyone except the Sidewinders, who were known to have an unruly element. It was child's play to see which Sidewinders were flying and quickly settle on either Worm or Weed.
Both Worm and Weed, it turns out, were bockers. Secure in the anonymity of the airwaves, their strength was as the strength of ten as they successfully completed their practice CCA's and trapped back aboard.
Weed repaired to the dirty shirt wardroom, downed four or five Sliders and a quart or so of bug juice, and so repaired to the rack.
Worm, however, was a restless night stalker, and, being an LSO with Cag office privileges, was there reading messages when Cag walked in. Military courtesies were rendered. Cag acted if nothing was amiss and started doing Cag stuff, though actually positioning himself for a down-the-throat Fox-one. Worm, however, with ex-Navcad cunning, realized he was being stalked, and was ready when the shot came.
"Nossir, I don't know anything about any bocks. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it," Worm smoothly lied through his even, white teeth.
Though physical torture wasn't out of the question, Cag tabled that for later, since he still had one suspect to go. He resolved that, since direct frontal assault hadn't worked, to sneak in from six o'clock.
Came the dawn, and Weed was up and at 'em only in name. Being only truly happy in the air or in the rack, Weed was in neither state since he had to wave an early launch. So it was that his mind was clouded when he wondered into the Cag office. Nothing seemed amiss. Yeomen scuttled about, staff pukes were doing staff puke stuff, and Cag was administering. Weed bumbled about looking for the LSO book.
"You were pretty funny with them bocks last night," Cag slyly addressed Weed from over the tops of his granny glasses.
"Yup, I sure was," absently replied Weed, whose considerable intelligence was temporarily on sabbatical to the University of Mars.
"Gotcha!" Exclaimed Cag, as his missile tracked and flew up Weed's tailpipe and exploded.
It may not have been darkness, decay, and the Red Death that descended on Weed's dominion, but it was close. It was junior officer Fu.
But as usually happens in such cases, in the ages since, the legend has been passed on by the R.J.O.A. that the Phantom Bocker did not die, but escaped into the voids of the ship, to awaiting dark and stormy nights as the Seagull's worst nightmare.
|