Red-Headed and Wrong-Handed
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MELONS AND MAILBOXES
After a hard days work on the packing sheds and pipeline construction crews, some form of entertainment for our group was in order. We discussed the many possibilities open to us in the small southern town. We could hang out at the Grill, a local drive-in where the kids gathered, cause it had the one and only jukebox in town and didn't close when the sun went down, and wait to pick up some girls. That was shelved for the earlier part of the evening, but would receive a high priority later that night. The one movie in town was open only three nights a week and this night wasn't one of them, so that was out. We could drive to the next town, ten miles away, and pick a fight with the boys there, which we did often. That too was discarded, as we hadn't made prior arrangements via taunts and threats. Without those prior formalities, the turnout wouldn't be as great and would detract from the activity considerably. We could drive to the state capital, thirty miles distant, and pick a fight cause there was a crowd available there at all times, on a minute's notice. But, the police there didn't understand that it was just a night out for us backwoods Rednecks, so we ruled that out also. A favorite sport was to go to Barron's swimming hole, but we needed to pick up some girls first - so that would come right after the Grill on our agenda. It was always fun to catch wild animals and put them into parked cars, then wait for the owner to return and open the door. But we were getting too old and sophisticated for that. All the news media and law enforcement, in the area, would no longer respond to a report of a flying saucer landing (we had overdone that one already). It seemed we were down to only one option - go steal something.
We monitored the local watermelon patches closely at all times, in order to know where the best melons were to be had. That particular night, we chose a patch about four miles out of town belonging to an ornery old cuss, as mean as a snake, Old Man Simpson. It was going to be risky dealing with him, but that's where the best melons were at the time. Besides, in an operation of such magnitude you have to expect some losses. We loaded up in a pickup and headed for the patch.
Being experienced in the art of watermelon acquisition, the headlights were turned out and the engine shut off as we approached the patch. We coasted in, blacked out and silent. That is until we ran over Simpson's mailbox, which we couldn't see in the dark. I had no idea the death of a mailbox could be so agonizingly noisy. The sound of knocking it down alone was enough, but the awful racket it made as it lodged under the truck and was dragged along the gravel road was unreal.
The only noise worse than the mailbox was our silly laughter over the mistake and anticipation of the event to come. All we had learned on stealth, from the numerous John Wayne war and western movies, seemed to be lost to us at that moment. John would have been quite disgusted with us. Our plan and organization was simple - we had neither. We were nine idiots creeping through a watermelon patch, giggling like Junior High girls in the presence of the football team.
There is a phenomenon about watermelon patches little known outside our elite circles, but most familiar to connoisseurs such as we. That is, that the best melons never grow near the road or on the side of the patch furthest from the farmer's house. The closer to the house, the better the melon. For that reason, and being wise in the many other ways of watermelons, we always crept through the patch to the corner nearest the house. Anyone could steal a second-class melon near the road, but we were the recognized authority of watermelondom and would not, indeed could not, settle for second best.
Animals of several types also favor watermelon patches and are likely to be encountered on a quest such as this. Primarily, you are most apt to run upon rabbits and snakes. In the event that our shenanigans with the mailbox and giggling hadn't been enough to alert Old Man Simpson, we had other methods to assure he heard us. Nubbin stepped on a stick or limb, which turned under his weight, causing one of its hard, dry twigs to stick into his leg just above the shoe. "I'm snake bit," he yelped and immediately sat down to examine his leg. Someone asked him if sitting on the snake would cause the leg to heal faster, making him realize that if it was a snake, he was about to be bitten in a much more serious anatomical area. He covered about half the distance of the patch in three steps. Stump found the stick that had bitten Nubbin and threw it at him.
While all that was going on, Bear had been thumping melons until he found one with a tone he liked. He was headed for the truck with his prize, when he nearly stepped on a rabbit frozen with fear. That motivated the rabbit to run, which it did frantically, right between Bear's legs, scratching him badly in its panic. Bear felt something hit his legs and still had Nubbin's snake on his mind. He threw the melon into the air and took off like a scalded dog. The large melon came down squarely on top of Nubbin's head, knocking him senseless (a poor choice of words - perhaps more senseless or affecting him physically would be more descriptive).
All that ruckus finally succeeded in arousing Old man Simpson, who came out of his house in a rage. "Y'all git outta my melon patch," shouted at the top of his lungs preceded the first shot by about three microseconds.
We lit out for the truck at what seemed like the speed of light. That was until the pellets from the second shot caught up with us. It felt as though a thousand wasps had hit you at the same instant. Bear, who had reached the edge of the patch by then, was even more inspired by the shots. So much so, he forgot about the three-strand barbed wire fence along the road. He hit it at top speed and came to a screeching halt - the halt was caused by the wire and the screeching came from him as the barbs penetrated and the three strands cut him across the knees, upper legs and belly. In his excited state, he was sure he had either been shot or had run into a monster snake, which had bitten him all over and thrown him to the ground, or both. He picked himself up, after being thrown back several yards, and immediately ran right back into the fence again. He was still fighting with it when we arrived.
Stud was running full tilt, when he stepped onto and into a large watermelon. His foot went into the melon enough to trip him, causing him to go head over heels with the heavy melon stuck to his foot. As he reached the apogee of the first flip, the melon flew off his foot like a cannonball and caught Flip right behind the head. The weight and momentum of the melon lifted him off the ground and drove him forward, head first. He executed a near perfect swan dive into the patch and plowed a four-foot long furrow with his nose and face.
Stump was carrying a very large melon, which slowed him down considerably. We were about to overrun him, so called for him to speed up. He replied he couldn't run any faster with the melon. He was told to drop it, but his answer was, "I can't, its too heavy." We never understood either.
We untangled Bear from the fence and piled into the truck. We stopped about a quarter of a mile down the road, to dislodge the mailbox, and noticed that Tool and Nubbin were missing. We snuck back with the lights out and almost ran over Tool, who had been thrown from the truck when we took off and had hurt his arm. We
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About the Book
When you look like Howdy Doody, talk like Huckleberry Finn and act like Dennis the Menace, life has many challenges and surprises for you. I was born and raised in a very small town, in the 'Deep South', with the distinction (or disadvantage - depending upon your viewpoint) of having bright red hair and being left-handed. I was awkward, covered with freckles, skinny as a rail, had big ears and a large gap between my two upper front teeth, with the red hair acting quite effectively as a beacon to attract attention to my faults. I stood out in any crowd, even when being perfectly still and not making a sound. That was a curse that would complicate my life more than seems possible. It caused many problems, difficulties and humorous events when growing up, in college, in the military and still affects my every day life. On top of all those obstacles, I was unfortunate enough to be left handed in a time and place where that was considered to be a curse or the work of the devil. I went through the first three years of school with teachers beating me and tying my left hand behind my back, forcing me to write with my right hand. To this day I am ambidextrous and use both hands almost equally well in most functions. That (in combination with my physical abnormalities) helped make me the odd ball, the one to pick on in school. I became quite accustomed to fighting and had a temper to match the red hair, so stayed in trouble constantly. I was also very curious and afraid of nothing (I didn't know any better), which resulted in trouble being my shadow and more broken bones than I can remember. I think that was the reason my mother lied about my age and put me in school a year earlier than normal. So, not only was I burdened by all my physical and mental afflictions, I was always behind the other kids in age, size and ability. Those were the conditions under which I grew up. I knew I was going to get singled out in any situation and blamed for everything that went wrong - so set out to justify all the grief and injustice that I knew so well was coming. My reputation preceded me wherever I went in the south. I got kicked out of all the best colleges, most before I even had a chance to prove myself, one way or the other. After three years of that, I found a home in the Air Force. My reputation had not preceded me and I finally had a chance to start over, in spite of the comical looks, pronounced drawl, wild spirit and constant grin. Those traits led to many unusual and interesting situations in the military - many of which are still talked about and held in awe by the younger airmen. What follows is a collection of some of my most memorable experiences from growing up in Crystal Springs, Mississippi and a career in the U.S. Air Force. Some I can't tell due to morality, security constraints or because no one would believe them. But, I'm sure you will enjoy what you read, and hear of some things you never knew existed. Y'all enjoy now, ya heah!
About the Author
The author was born and raised in a Deep South small town - looking like Howdy Doody, talking like Huckleberry Finn and acting like Dennis the Menace. His physical attributes made him the class clown, the one to pick on, the one to blame for everything and the oddball in all situations. He learned to fight and fear nothing out of necessity. He knew that he was going to be blamed for everything that happened in the area, so set out to deserve the blame. Trouble became his shadow, leading to a reputation that preceded him throughout the South. Upon entering college, he quickly established that he loved college but hated class. After being kicked out of the finest schools in the South, he found his home in the military. When he received his wings and completed Electronic Warfare Officer School, the young lieutenant was assigned to the 55th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing. It was a weird outfit flying very secretive missions in strange-looking aircraft - a perfect match. For the next twenty-two years he was deeply involved in what is now commonly referred to as the Cold War "Spy Flights". He flew and was assigned to the well-known spy planes, such as the RB-47, RB-57, U-2, SR-71 and RC-135 plus many one-of-a-kind and still unknown aircraft. He became known as 'the authority' on enemy capabilities and the methods for collecting the needed intelligence on them. His willingness to do the jobs others wouldn’t and his expertise and ingenuity in doing them, permitted him to get away with many stunts that would normally end a career or result in imprisonment. He spent an entire career working in buildings that had no windows or were underground and he was not allowed to have a picture of any of the aircraft he flew. Wherever his group went, they were isolated from all others and commonly referred to as 'Brand X'. After several reunions of his old outfits and hearing all the war stories over and over, he knew that some of those tales must be preserved. That led to his writing two military histories and numerous articles for aviation, historical and technical publications. Still a heavy veil of secrecy hung over all the cold war intelligence programs. He knew the time of disclosure was nearing, so prepared for it by writing "As The Crow Flies" and several other stories about those vital programs, which so greatly influenced our past forty years and are largely responsible for the peace and freedom we enjoy today. The lid was finally cracked in 1993, leading to special reports and documentaries by the major networks, CNN, A&E, BBC and others. He has appeared on many of those programs and co-authored eight books about the 'spy planes' and their operations.