Just posted a "link dump" covering the Trayvon Martin killing over at the Kook Blog.
It's amazing what an utter shitstorm of racism Martin's murder has brought into the daylight. Newt Gingrich and his fellow wingnuts used it as an excuse to attack and slime President Obama and even his Attorney General, Eric Holder.
The usual suspects jumped all over Trayvon, blaming him for his own murder (if he hadn't dressed like that, he wouldn't have been shot--standard conservative "victim's fault" boilerplate, echoing their reaction to women who are raped) and rushed to defend the shooter and his Dirty Harry approach to neighborhood protection.
This being Florida, I don't really hold out much hope for Zimmerman being convicted on the 2nd Degree Murder charge, not with the idiotic "stand your ground" crap ol' Jughead Bush gave us.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Hacker, Sham, Fraud: Neil Peart?
I've been reading Neil Peart's "Roadshow: Landscape With Drums", the Rush drummer/lyricist's memoir of the band's 30th Anniversary Tour in 2004.
The skeleton of the book isn't the concerts, it's the motorcycle rides between venues. Peart starts out leaving his Los Angeles home, pausing to gather up his co-rider for the tour. The two ride from LA to Nashville, Tennessee (where the tour will open), then on to each new city's amphitheater.
Along the way, Peart gives us little glances into his psyche. His most surprising revelation is in his self-confidence:
I've seen the guy play live twice and on tape or DVD many more times. It was his band that made me want to learn to play guitar (and, later, bass). If I have any idols in this world, people I look up to, these three guys would have to be in the top ten. He deserves heaps of praise, if only for setting a standard of excellence and living up to it.
But it's good to see a side of him that I'd never known, something that makes him just a vulnerable human being--not because it brings the Thundering Rock God down to my level, but because it reminds me that he's not a Thundering Rock God (he calls himself "a guy who hits things with sticks"). He got where he is by busting ass. He kept trying.
He's a good example of a line from a book I've kept in mind for a couple of years: "Play like you mean it." When I look back at how I was playing in 1995, I can see a vast improvement: I sucked then, I suck less now. I don't think 1995 me was playing like he meant it so much as just trying to keep up. I struggled through many of the songs we played in Soma Holiday.
There are still plenty of times when I'm playing a guitar and suddenly start wondering what the hell I'm doing--I'm a hacker, a sham, a fraud who should just put the guitar down, maybe sell it and all the stuff that goes with it.
Am I a musician? I don't know; I'm a competent technical player, but I don't write my own stuff and I can't improvise for crap--things I think are important for the answer to my question.
I can learn most songs pretty quickly; I just can't improvise on what's there, still have trouble with speed. I keep working at it, getting incrementally better, and something clicks, something basic that I'd missed like holding the guitar a certain way or moving the pick differently, and I find myself suddenly able to keep up with that elusive Metallica riff, but lagging far behind on the intro riff of "The Spirit of Radio" (that Holy Grail of Rush riffs!). I'm almost there, and it only took 23 years to do it. Equal measures (hah!) of frustration and satisfaction.
That's when I set the guitar aside and grab the bass for awhile, forcing flabby fingers to work harder, playing Nirvana's "Breed" or Stone Temple Pilots' "Wicked Garden" or "Vasoline," all of which feature simple but repetitive (and demanding!) bass riffs. No pyrotechnics, just fun and challenging to play. If I haven't been practicing (hahahaha...I'm really bad about that), the bass kicks my ass, leaving hands and forearms near-numb and tired the way you feel after good exercise. If it's really been awhile since I played, I rediscover the pain of building up new calluses and working tired fingers; then comes the pleasure of feeling the bass vibrating like a living, breathing thing, of knowing when I'm playing well, those giddy moments when I nail a riff, even the less-giddy moments when I make a mistake. From that book, that little paraphrase again: "play like you mean it." What the author said was more along the lines of "Play with authority. Play each note like you mean it--even if you screw up. Screw up like you mean it."
At some point, the mistakes and fatigue don't even matter because I can't stop. The song's in charge, I'm along for the ride, and goddamned if I'm hopping off. Maybe it's trite to compare it to great sex, but there's something to that, losing oneself in a moment, a rush, a high, wishing like hell you could have that all the time.
Before I started playing bass in 2003, that feeling was incredibly rare. It changed how I play, listen and react to music, the same way the guitar did in 1989. I got so into it that I hardly even looked at the guitar for several weeks. Too busy learning new songs, going for the next challenge, and enjoying that can't stop vibe. Once I did pick up a guitar, I had a "holy crap!" reaction and a valuable lesson. The song was "Down" by 311. My fretting hand held the strings down with little effort. The guitar itself felt strange, like a dinky toy after 5 weeks of a heavy bass with its bridge-cable strings. I tried STP's "Interstate Love Song" after that, amazed at this new ability. It came more easily than ever before (damn barre chords!). From there, had to go to Rush. "2112" has its share of demanding guitar parts--and for the first time in years, it was my picking hand playing catch-up. I played better than I had in years!
In the years since, I've played one or the other irregularly (I did say I'm bad about practicing), usually grabbing one when I'm bored or taking a break. Those can't stop moments come more frequently, almost regularly, but only if I'm playing like I mean it. Otherwise, I get the hacker, sham, and fraud feeling and know it's time to grab that bass and take my punishment.
The skeleton of the book isn't the concerts, it's the motorcycle rides between venues. Peart starts out leaving his Los Angeles home, pausing to gather up his co-rider for the tour. The two ride from LA to Nashville, Tennessee (where the tour will open), then on to each new city's amphitheater.
Along the way, Peart gives us little glances into his psyche. His most surprising revelation is in his self-confidence:
If I am uncomfortable with strangers making a fuss about me, and feel embarrassed by any show of admiration, people sometimes accuse me of thinking I am “too good.” In fact the opposite is true—I don’t believe I deserve that kind of attention. I have never thought I was very good at anything; I just tried hard. And nothing came easily. Having one’s childhood personality shaped by being inept at every sport is a cliché, but it had its effect on me.
...
Later, in my early teens, my first drum teacher encouraged me by saying I had a natural talent, and that meant a lot. But no matter how much I practiced and played and showed off, the more praise I received, the more I felt like a hacker, a sham, and a fraud.
...
Still do, sometimes, but the important thing was that I kept trying. After almost forty years of playing the drums, I had started to feel a modicum of confidence. Though even that still varied from night to night.
I've seen the guy play live twice and on tape or DVD many more times. It was his band that made me want to learn to play guitar (and, later, bass). If I have any idols in this world, people I look up to, these three guys would have to be in the top ten. He deserves heaps of praise, if only for setting a standard of excellence and living up to it.
But it's good to see a side of him that I'd never known, something that makes him just a vulnerable human being--not because it brings the Thundering Rock God down to my level, but because it reminds me that he's not a Thundering Rock God (he calls himself "a guy who hits things with sticks"). He got where he is by busting ass. He kept trying.
He's a good example of a line from a book I've kept in mind for a couple of years: "Play like you mean it." When I look back at how I was playing in 1995, I can see a vast improvement: I sucked then, I suck less now. I don't think 1995 me was playing like he meant it so much as just trying to keep up. I struggled through many of the songs we played in Soma Holiday.
There are still plenty of times when I'm playing a guitar and suddenly start wondering what the hell I'm doing--I'm a hacker, a sham, a fraud who should just put the guitar down, maybe sell it and all the stuff that goes with it.
Am I a musician? I don't know; I'm a competent technical player, but I don't write my own stuff and I can't improvise for crap--things I think are important for the answer to my question.
I can learn most songs pretty quickly; I just can't improvise on what's there, still have trouble with speed. I keep working at it, getting incrementally better, and something clicks, something basic that I'd missed like holding the guitar a certain way or moving the pick differently, and I find myself suddenly able to keep up with that elusive Metallica riff, but lagging far behind on the intro riff of "The Spirit of Radio" (that Holy Grail of Rush riffs!). I'm almost there, and it only took 23 years to do it. Equal measures (hah!) of frustration and satisfaction.
That's when I set the guitar aside and grab the bass for awhile, forcing flabby fingers to work harder, playing Nirvana's "Breed" or Stone Temple Pilots' "Wicked Garden" or "Vasoline," all of which feature simple but repetitive (and demanding!) bass riffs. No pyrotechnics, just fun and challenging to play. If I haven't been practicing (hahahaha...I'm really bad about that), the bass kicks my ass, leaving hands and forearms near-numb and tired the way you feel after good exercise. If it's really been awhile since I played, I rediscover the pain of building up new calluses and working tired fingers; then comes the pleasure of feeling the bass vibrating like a living, breathing thing, of knowing when I'm playing well, those giddy moments when I nail a riff, even the less-giddy moments when I make a mistake. From that book, that little paraphrase again: "play like you mean it." What the author said was more along the lines of "Play with authority. Play each note like you mean it--even if you screw up. Screw up like you mean it."
At some point, the mistakes and fatigue don't even matter because I can't stop. The song's in charge, I'm along for the ride, and goddamned if I'm hopping off. Maybe it's trite to compare it to great sex, but there's something to that, losing oneself in a moment, a rush, a high, wishing like hell you could have that all the time.
Before I started playing bass in 2003, that feeling was incredibly rare. It changed how I play, listen and react to music, the same way the guitar did in 1989. I got so into it that I hardly even looked at the guitar for several weeks. Too busy learning new songs, going for the next challenge, and enjoying that can't stop vibe. Once I did pick up a guitar, I had a "holy crap!" reaction and a valuable lesson. The song was "Down" by 311. My fretting hand held the strings down with little effort. The guitar itself felt strange, like a dinky toy after 5 weeks of a heavy bass with its bridge-cable strings. I tried STP's "Interstate Love Song" after that, amazed at this new ability. It came more easily than ever before (damn barre chords!). From there, had to go to Rush. "2112" has its share of demanding guitar parts--and for the first time in years, it was my picking hand playing catch-up. I played better than I had in years!
In the years since, I've played one or the other irregularly (I did say I'm bad about practicing), usually grabbing one when I'm bored or taking a break. Those can't stop moments come more frequently, almost regularly, but only if I'm playing like I mean it. Otherwise, I get the hacker, sham, and fraud feeling and know it's time to grab that bass and take my punishment.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Forte di Monte (Fort Mollinary)--Monte, Italy
One of the more eye-popping features in Google Earth is 3D terrain. I keep forgetting about it--and then I stumble over a place like this:
This little fort was built by Austrian occupiers (1849-1852) trying to block Italian attempts at independence. It's 410 meters up a spur on Mount Pastel. It went from Austrian to Italian in 1866, eventually modified in 1844 to point its guns north instead of south. If the Italian Wikipedia got translated right, there was a powder explosion in 1945 (maybe set off by retreating German troops?) that heavily damaged the place.
Forte di Monte is odd-shaped, with high walls along the north and east flanks as a landward defense. Two levels of rifle loopholes cover the switchback path coming up the mountain face to the north and the approach from a small village to the east. Going by Lynne Otter's picture of the sally port (2nd pic, from inside the fort), there's at least one flanking cannon embrasure to the right.
The western and southern walls look to be lower. It was built to hold 5 primary guns and 2 mortars when the fort was active, but there were actually 20 guns of various calibers.
The view from up here is incredible--photographer Lynne Otter has a few pics on her blog; lucky65vr has a few more.
Location: Northern Italy, southeast of Caprino Varonese.
LAT 45°34'1.24"N
LON 10°49'50.87"E
This little fort was built by Austrian occupiers (1849-1852) trying to block Italian attempts at independence. It's 410 meters up a spur on Mount Pastel. It went from Austrian to Italian in 1866, eventually modified in 1844 to point its guns north instead of south. If the Italian Wikipedia got translated right, there was a powder explosion in 1945 (maybe set off by retreating German troops?) that heavily damaged the place.
Forte di Monte is odd-shaped, with high walls along the north and east flanks as a landward defense. Two levels of rifle loopholes cover the switchback path coming up the mountain face to the north and the approach from a small village to the east. Going by Lynne Otter's picture of the sally port (2nd pic, from inside the fort), there's at least one flanking cannon embrasure to the right.The western and southern walls look to be lower. It was built to hold 5 primary guns and 2 mortars when the fort was active, but there were actually 20 guns of various calibers.
The view from up here is incredible--photographer Lynne Otter has a few pics on her blog; lucky65vr has a few more.
Location: Northern Italy, southeast of Caprino Varonese.
LAT 45°34'1.24"N
LON 10°49'50.87"E
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Google Earth, Basic Training: GRENADE!!
I always seemed to miss out on the "fun" days in Basic.
I was on KP the day our Company went into the gas room; we kitchen-cleaners were run out to the site about the time everyone else was staggering out of the building, a line of poor bastards with their gas masks off and snot, tears, puke and phlegm pouring out of them in varying amounts.
I got a whiff of the stuff, but for whatever reason we KP warriors didn't get to play. I don't feel bad.
I can't remember whether it was KP or Company Driver duty that nearly made me miss grenade day. If I wasn't enthusiastic about the instant sunburn and mucus overload, I can't say the same about the grenade range.
A handful of us were driven out to the range and given the sketchiest walk-through of the care and feeding of the various grenades. We could hear the efforts (BOOOM!!) of the group ahead of ours. Thumb goes on (BOOOM!!) the "spoon," pull the pin, throw (BOOOM!!) the damn thing and duck. They shuffled us out (BOOOM!!) to the range, where we lined up in a concrete (BOOOM!!) bunker, put on heavy flak vests, and led us (BOOOM!!) out in (BOOOM!!) twos.
Now I and my "buddy" were in a big concrete box taller than our heads (or maybe we were just ducking and covering?), open to the sky. The sergeant reminded us how to hold, how to pull, how to throw. My "buddy" yanked the pin and did a straight-armed John Wayne toss over the wall...BOOOM!!
My turn. Thumb goes here, pull the pin--
The impatient sergeant grabbed the baseball-shaped grenade (the "spoon" flew off...and now the damn thing was armed) and hefted it over the wall...BOOOM!!
It's not like I was taking my damn time with it. Maybe he just wanted to be done. *shrug*.
We were herded back to our jobs and that was that.
A few nights ago, spying on Ft. Jackson, I found a pair of grenade ranges side by side, one looking unused and maybe falling apart, the other much cleaner. The older one is scarred mostly by rain runoff from the higher ground surrounding the pit. The newer one is pocked with craters:
Haven't found the gas house yet.
I was on KP the day our Company went into the gas room; we kitchen-cleaners were run out to the site about the time everyone else was staggering out of the building, a line of poor bastards with their gas masks off and snot, tears, puke and phlegm pouring out of them in varying amounts.
I got a whiff of the stuff, but for whatever reason we KP warriors didn't get to play. I don't feel bad.
I can't remember whether it was KP or Company Driver duty that nearly made me miss grenade day. If I wasn't enthusiastic about the instant sunburn and mucus overload, I can't say the same about the grenade range.
A handful of us were driven out to the range and given the sketchiest walk-through of the care and feeding of the various grenades. We could hear the efforts (BOOOM!!) of the group ahead of ours. Thumb goes on (BOOOM!!) the "spoon," pull the pin, throw (BOOOM!!) the damn thing and duck. They shuffled us out (BOOOM!!) to the range, where we lined up in a concrete (BOOOM!!) bunker, put on heavy flak vests, and led us (BOOOM!!) out in (BOOOM!!) twos.
Now I and my "buddy" were in a big concrete box taller than our heads (or maybe we were just ducking and covering?), open to the sky. The sergeant reminded us how to hold, how to pull, how to throw. My "buddy" yanked the pin and did a straight-armed John Wayne toss over the wall...BOOOM!!
My turn. Thumb goes here, pull the pin--
The impatient sergeant grabbed the baseball-shaped grenade (the "spoon" flew off...and now the damn thing was armed) and hefted it over the wall...BOOOM!!
It's not like I was taking my damn time with it. Maybe he just wanted to be done. *shrug*.
We were herded back to our jobs and that was that.
A few nights ago, spying on Ft. Jackson, I found a pair of grenade ranges side by side, one looking unused and maybe falling apart, the other much cleaner. The older one is scarred mostly by rain runoff from the higher ground surrounding the pit. The newer one is pocked with craters:
Haven't found the gas house yet.
Friday, March 30, 2012
The Molly Ringwalds (Mar. 24, 2012)
When I got an invite to head down to the Capt'n Fun Beach Club on Pensacola Beach last Saturday, I had to think it over.
I'm not much for going out--not into the club scene, don't really want to be in the middle of a crowd. I'd rather have a book and a quiet spot in which to read it. I've only gotten more insular since Aorta Day--only now I don't read much. If I'm in that quiet spot, it won't be long before I'm asleep.
I finally decided to go just for the sake of being somewhere else. I brought a sketchbook and some pens.
I'd heard of the Molly Ringwalds, but never had an interest in seeing them before. About all I knew about them was that they're an '80s cover band.
Let's skip all the pre-gig stuff (dinner, hiking back and forth on the Boardwalk, trying to find a chair, sitting and sketching a nearby ice cream shop) that killed the few hours before 11:30 pm and get to it. I perched on a stool on the Boardwalk where I could see maybe a third of the stage (no seats where they were playing, unfortunately).
The Ringwalds' personae are easily recognizable 80s pop-culture icons:
--singer/guitarist "Devon" dressed as Adam Ant
--singer/guitarist "Randi" as one of the Devo guys
--singer/keyboardist "Dickie" as Pee-wee Herman
--bass player "Philip" as Dee "Twisted Sister" Snyder
--drummer "Liam" as Nikki Sixx
Over the next two hours, they kicked ass. Devon, Randi and Dickie traded off a lead singer depending on the needs of a given song. Devon did a passable Prince in the opening "Let's Go Crazy"; Dickie used his higher range for "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," screamed through "Cum On Feel The Noize," and Randi wailed through "Don't Stop Believin' ."
The band put as much effort into performing each song as they did in making it fun. Far from being a bunch of shoe-gazers, they cavorted on stage, took impressive slugs from a big Crown Royal bottle, got various drunk girls in the audience to sing along, and generally just played the hell out of it. They had their own sound guy off to the left of the stage and a professional lighting and sound setup. Very professional.
They kept it up for two solid hours. The audience--split between Spring Break college kids ("Wow! look at all the OLD people here!") and us 40-ish old farts who could vaguely remember when the songs were new ("You damn kids stay off my lawn!")--danced and sang along and generally had a blast.
The set list:
Let's Go Crazy
We Got the Beat
Relax
Faith
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
Goody Two Shoes
Walk This Way (Run DMC version)
Talking In Your Sleep
Personal Jesus
When Doves Cry / Sweet Dreams / drunk girl sing-along
Another One Bites the Dust (Pee-wee killed it on vocals!)
Tom Sawyer (Pee-wee again)
Separate Ways (Devo guy on vocals)
Boys of Summer
Don't You Forget About Me
Blister in the Sun
Push It (Salt-n-Pepa)
What About Love?
Hungry Like the Wolf
Sweet Child o' Mine
In the Air Tonight
Take On Me
Livin' On a Prayer
I Don't Wanna Lose You Love Tonight
Cum On Feel the Noize
Don't Stop Believin'
If these guys show up in your area, they're well worth seeing.
I'm not much for going out--not into the club scene, don't really want to be in the middle of a crowd. I'd rather have a book and a quiet spot in which to read it. I've only gotten more insular since Aorta Day--only now I don't read much. If I'm in that quiet spot, it won't be long before I'm asleep.
I finally decided to go just for the sake of being somewhere else. I brought a sketchbook and some pens.
I'd heard of the Molly Ringwalds, but never had an interest in seeing them before. About all I knew about them was that they're an '80s cover band.
Let's skip all the pre-gig stuff (dinner, hiking back and forth on the Boardwalk, trying to find a chair, sitting and sketching a nearby ice cream shop) that killed the few hours before 11:30 pm and get to it. I perched on a stool on the Boardwalk where I could see maybe a third of the stage (no seats where they were playing, unfortunately).
The Ringwalds' personae are easily recognizable 80s pop-culture icons:
--singer/guitarist "Devon" dressed as Adam Ant
--singer/guitarist "Randi" as one of the Devo guys
--singer/keyboardist "Dickie" as Pee-wee Herman
--bass player "Philip" as Dee "Twisted Sister" Snyder
--drummer "Liam" as Nikki Sixx
Over the next two hours, they kicked ass. Devon, Randi and Dickie traded off a lead singer depending on the needs of a given song. Devon did a passable Prince in the opening "Let's Go Crazy"; Dickie used his higher range for "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," screamed through "Cum On Feel The Noize," and Randi wailed through "Don't Stop Believin' ."
The band put as much effort into performing each song as they did in making it fun. Far from being a bunch of shoe-gazers, they cavorted on stage, took impressive slugs from a big Crown Royal bottle, got various drunk girls in the audience to sing along, and generally just played the hell out of it. They had their own sound guy off to the left of the stage and a professional lighting and sound setup. Very professional.
They kept it up for two solid hours. The audience--split between Spring Break college kids ("Wow! look at all the OLD people here!") and us 40-ish old farts who could vaguely remember when the songs were new ("You damn kids stay off my lawn!")--danced and sang along and generally had a blast.
The set list:
Let's Go Crazy
We Got the Beat
Relax
Faith
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
Goody Two Shoes
Walk This Way (Run DMC version)
Talking In Your Sleep
Personal Jesus
When Doves Cry / Sweet Dreams / drunk girl sing-along
Another One Bites the Dust (Pee-wee killed it on vocals!)
Tom Sawyer (Pee-wee again)
Separate Ways (Devo guy on vocals)
Boys of Summer
Don't You Forget About Me
Blister in the Sun
Push It (Salt-n-Pepa)
What About Love?
Hungry Like the Wolf
Sweet Child o' Mine
In the Air Tonight
Take On Me
Livin' On a Prayer
I Don't Wanna Lose You Love Tonight
Cum On Feel the Noize
Don't Stop Believin'
If these guys show up in your area, they're well worth seeing.
Google Earth and Basic Training
I haven't been back to Fort Jackson, South Carolina since I finished Basic in 1987. I've visited a few times via Google Earth, looking for memories. The barracks building was easy enough, and the site of the church we got frog-marched to because some zealous sergeant wanted to watch a holiday gospel concert. The church isn't there, anymore.
I didn't do it.
It was more of a challenge to find some of the firing ranges way out to the east, places where we spent most of our time when we were learning the M-16, M-60, LAW anti-tank rocket, and grenades. The basic rifle ranges are arranged in a loop. The last time spied around, Google Earth's low-altitude imaging wasn't very good. This time, though, I could see foxhole positions on each firing line, blasted cars and trucks, and bleachers where green trainees are taught the basics of killin' stuff.
But I hadn't been able to find the Big One, where we'd had our "live fire" exercise.
For this one, we had to sit in the bleachers after dark, waiting for our eyes to fully adjust to the night. Then we marched along a dirt road and found our way into a long trench. I was somewhere near the middle.
"You're going to climb this wall and hit the deck," we were told. "If you stand up, one of those M-60's at the other end of the course might take the top of your helmet off, so stay the hell down! There's a barbed wire obstacle--all you have to do is roll over on your back and shimmy under it. Just remember NOT TO STAND UP."
Right around then, the 60's started firing, every 5th round a tracer. A bright red flare rocketed into the sky and burst, casting its light on everything (so much for night vision).
Showtime! We went up over the wall, yelling and crawling in the dirt. I could see a low line of sandbags ahead of me. There was a flash and a gut-liquefying BOOOM that earplugs didn't do much about. Those of us near those damn sandbags crabbed sideways in case those ball-breaking bastards set off another blast.
Stay low, keep crawling, rifle slung across my forearms...there's the BOOOM barbed wire (shit! there's another sandbagged pit to the right, so the guys on that end of the line get to crap themselves this time). My knees and elbows felt sandpapered. Stay low...keep crawling. Damn helmet kept riding down my forehead.
No idea how long it took to negotiate the course. It always seems like forever. Everything distilled down to staying low and crawling, ignoring the sand working its way down my sleeves and grinding into my knees. I could see the towers from which the machine guns were firing--and then I was past them, getting to my feet and leaving the course.
I never laid eyes on the place again until last night, when I finally found it in Google Earth. Not as big as it had seemed from a worm's-eye view:
(click to largify)
It's only 200 feet wide and 600 feet long; the starting trench is about 200 feet up from a long, high pile of red dirt (the bullet catcher); the three sandbag-ringed pits, zigzagged obstacles, and machine gun towers stand out much better in daylight.
I got a chuckle out of one detail in the picture: from the trench line, you can clearly see a few dozen belly tracks. It looks like quite a few trainees headed for that middle pit only to have it blow up on them--you can even see where they damn near backtracked to get around the thing.
I didn't do it.
It was more of a challenge to find some of the firing ranges way out to the east, places where we spent most of our time when we were learning the M-16, M-60, LAW anti-tank rocket, and grenades. The basic rifle ranges are arranged in a loop. The last time spied around, Google Earth's low-altitude imaging wasn't very good. This time, though, I could see foxhole positions on each firing line, blasted cars and trucks, and bleachers where green trainees are taught the basics of killin' stuff.
But I hadn't been able to find the Big One, where we'd had our "live fire" exercise.
For this one, we had to sit in the bleachers after dark, waiting for our eyes to fully adjust to the night. Then we marched along a dirt road and found our way into a long trench. I was somewhere near the middle.
"You're going to climb this wall and hit the deck," we were told. "If you stand up, one of those M-60's at the other end of the course might take the top of your helmet off, so stay the hell down! There's a barbed wire obstacle--all you have to do is roll over on your back and shimmy under it. Just remember NOT TO STAND UP."
Right around then, the 60's started firing, every 5th round a tracer. A bright red flare rocketed into the sky and burst, casting its light on everything (so much for night vision).
Showtime! We went up over the wall, yelling and crawling in the dirt. I could see a low line of sandbags ahead of me. There was a flash and a gut-liquefying BOOOM that earplugs didn't do much about. Those of us near those damn sandbags crabbed sideways in case those ball-breaking bastards set off another blast.
Stay low, keep crawling, rifle slung across my forearms...there's the BOOOM barbed wire (shit! there's another sandbagged pit to the right, so the guys on that end of the line get to crap themselves this time). My knees and elbows felt sandpapered. Stay low...keep crawling. Damn helmet kept riding down my forehead.
No idea how long it took to negotiate the course. It always seems like forever. Everything distilled down to staying low and crawling, ignoring the sand working its way down my sleeves and grinding into my knees. I could see the towers from which the machine guns were firing--and then I was past them, getting to my feet and leaving the course.
I never laid eyes on the place again until last night, when I finally found it in Google Earth. Not as big as it had seemed from a worm's-eye view:
(click to largify)It's only 200 feet wide and 600 feet long; the starting trench is about 200 feet up from a long, high pile of red dirt (the bullet catcher); the three sandbag-ringed pits, zigzagged obstacles, and machine gun towers stand out much better in daylight.
I got a chuckle out of one detail in the picture: from the trench line, you can clearly see a few dozen belly tracks. It looks like quite a few trainees headed for that middle pit only to have it blow up on them--you can even see where they damn near backtracked to get around the thing.
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