US Army

Chapter Four

Wherein I am drafted, make the best of a bad job, learn some new skills (generally useless in polite society), help train US Special Forces in the North Carolina woods, whilst learning how to play Hearts and eventually spend my last Christmas at home for a few years.

1968 was a bad year. Richard Nixon won the Republican nomination for President and the November election. Vietnamese villagers were massacred at My Lai. Dr Martin Luther King was assassinated in April. Senator Robert Kennedy was assassinated in June. Jacqueline Kennedy married Aristotle Onassis, a Greek shipping magnate on the private island of Skorpios – ending the Camelot myth. Mayor Richard Daley opened the Democratic National Convention in Chicago and days of rioting followed.

My job at Western Electric in Lee's Summit, Missouri was just the pause before the storm. My local draft board reassigned me 1A quite quickly. It was just a matter of time until I was drafted. I went to work. I came home.

I opened an envelope on February 14^th – St Valentine's Day. It was not a card from a secret admirer.

The President of the United States

To; Malcolm Rodney Kauffman

Greeting: Your are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States and to report to . . .

My service would begin on March 8, 1968.

The OM drove me to the induction center near Union Station in Kansas City and gave me the benefit of his insight and advice. “Never volunteer for anything except get paid or go home!”

Not for the first time, I didn't completely follow his instructions.

Being inducted was an experience. Because it was you, if felt unique. Actually you shared the experience with hundreds of thousands, if not millions of your fellow citizens. The over-riding quality is one of dumb resignation. Everything was all so new and beyond everyone's experience. I had never before been away from home and family for more that a few days. Years stretched ahead. Uncertainty was the order of the day.

We had a physical examination. It was cursory. I distinctly remember a hippy type sitting on a bench in the middle of the large room. He was as naked a jay bird. He looked distinctly unhappy.

We raised our right hands. We swore the oath.

"I, Malcolm Rodney Kauffman, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

That's it. Your are in the Army. You are now subject to the UCMJ. The personal freedom you have long enjoyed is now subsumed in the greater good.

We learned the first maxim of military service. You spend most of the time standing in line waiting for something to happen. There is an over-whelming desire to get on with it. To get started. The sooner we get started the sooner we will get out! Years stretch ahead.

I think I had a chance to call home to tell them that we were being put on a train to Louisiana. Actually, It was quite a pleasant trip - considering what awaited us. We were fed in the dining car and had a sleeper to ourselves.

We arrived at the United States Army Training Center (Infantry), Fort Polk, Louisiana late the next afternoon. We learned the second rule of military service. You stand where you are told and get your hands out of your pockets!. It was raining. We got wet. It was all so odd. I'm sure not one of us had ever purposely stood in the rain for hours before. Now we did. Eventually we were shown to barracks. We made beds. Because everyone was at this stage a stranger there was little talking. We were fed. To enter the mess hall you had to shout out your Service Number. I was simply US 56429974. The first stage in making you a soldier had already happened and you hadn't really noticed. You were now just a number.

Time moved inordinately slowly. Stand around and wait was the watchword. Some things made an impression on me. Firstly, we could not wait to get out of our civilian clothes and into OD green. Without the uniform you felt an outsider and distinctly out of place. Within a few days we had our kit issued and we looked like soldiers – though we had little idea what that actually meant.

About this time, I took stock. Two things made an immediate impression on me. Firstly, at every opportunity trainees were confronted with the eventual destination of trainees at the US Army Training Center (Infantry). It was the Infantry. Walls were adorned with the unit shoulder patches of the combat infantry divisions. 82^Nd Airborne, 101^st Airborne, 1^st Infantry Div, 4^th Infantry Div, 25^th Infantry Div, 1^st Cavalry (Airmobile), 9^th Infantry Div, 173^rd Airborne Brigade, 198^th Light Infantry Brigade - the wall was certainly colourful. There was little doubt where the vast majority of trainees would be ending up – in the Infantry. Secondly, I observed trainees doing Infantry AIT (Advanced Individual Training). It did not look like much fun – anything but.

From Wikipedia - “In 1962, Fort Polk began converting to an advanced infantry training (AIT) center. A small portion of Fort Polk is filled with dense, jungle-like vegetation, so this, along with Louisiana's heat, humidity and precipitation (similar to Southeast Asia) helped commanders acclimatize new infantry soldiers in preparation for combat in Vietnam. This training area became known as Tigerland. For the next 12 years, more soldiers were shipped to Vietnam from Fort Polk than from any other American training base. For many, Fort Polk was the only state-side Army post they saw before assignment overseas. Many soldiers reported to basic training at Fort Polk and stayed on post for infantry training at Tigerland before being assigned to infantry line companies in Vietnam.” Nuff said?

Therefore, when after only a few days in the Army I was presented with an opportunity I had to consider it. If I would care to commit to three years instead of two, I would be able to choose a much more interesting MOS (Military Occupational Speciality – essentially a job description). It was a big decision and I had to make it on my own. I couldn't call my Mom and Dad, I couldn't see the Chaplain, I had to make up my mind right now.

I decided to accept the offer of the Signal Corps, MOS 72B20 – Communication Center Specialist. After basic training I would go to the Southeastern Signal School at Ft Gordon, Georgia. From there I had orders to go to Ft Meade, Virginia, though this did not, as it happens, happen.

The group I came down with on the train from KC and was with for two or three days, left for a Basic Training Company. I was delayed by paperwork sorting out my change of status. Eventually, I was sent to Co D, Third Battalion, Second Basic Combat Training Brigade.

Things began to happen fast. First our kit bags were unceremoniously dumped on the ground and all the cigarettes and candy bars confiscated. We repacked them. Next we went to the barracks where we learned to make beds (again) and clean the latrines. (Latrines are a big shock to the civilian system. For most of our adult lives when you needed to sit down and go to the toilet it was a rather private affair. Not in the Army. There were plenty of toilets with bowls, but no partitions between them. Get used to it!)

Training began. Because most newly inducted soldiers were overweight, the diet was designed to thin them out a bit. Before you could get to the mess hall door there were over 100 monkey bars to negotiate. Fall off and you start over. I soon learned to eat everything that was offered. And, I was still hungry at all times.

On day two I was in a meeting room learning that I had been selected as a squad leader. Explanation? I had finished two years of college. That was enough to make you a leader. (The bonus was as squad leader I was exempt from KP or Guard Duty.)

A typical day began with a five mile run in formation before breakfast. After breakfast some PT (physical training). Maybe an hour in the classroom learning first aid or how to strip a M14 was followed by more PT and then lunch (after negotiating the bars again).

Afternoon – more PT, more drill, some more PT and then go to bed – if you were lucky.

We learned new skills. How to march. How to shoot. How to fight. How to kill. All the training is easily conflated into these simple area. It lasts for eight weeks.

Highlights? CBR training – you get to smell tear gas and chlorine. Pugil sticks – you get to smash other people without really injuring them. PT test – our company averaged in the 480's – 500 is perfect. A cherry pie liberated from the mess hall by someone in our barracks who shared. Firing the M14 - ours were so old I swear you could hear the bullets ricocheting down the barrel as they left. Also, we got free haircuts (very short) and we also got paid. I just checked, it was $102 a month. That's about it.

After six weeks we got a weekend pass. I went with a buddy whose family had come down to Louisiana and got to stay in a motel in Leesville. Heaven. Real food. A Coke. Air-conditioning.

Finally, it was over and we were put on a bus to who knows where. The drill sergeant said not to say goodbye, just go -so we did.

We drove to Barksdale AFB where we were put on a plane. First time for everything. Uncle Sam transported us to Georgia – free of charge. I distinctly remember watching the rain pour out of the sky to the strains of Rainy Night in Georgia by Brook Benton – quite poetic.

The United States Army Southeastern Signal School, Ft Gordon, Georgia is near Augusta, Georgia.

The Communications Center Specialist course lasted, as I recall, about 12 weeks. I managed to skip two weeks of it because I could already type 35 words per minute. We learned to operate the Army's signal equipment – ranging from the PRC -25 radio -

“The AN/PRC-25 (AKA “Prick-25″) has a long and successful history. In 1967 General Creighton Abrams, deputy commander of the Military Assistance Command Vietnam called the PRC-25 “The most important tactical item in Vietnam today”.

to machines which encoded messages. They were old. Enigma old, and they worked on pretty much the same principle.

Ft Gordon was unexciting. I did manage to get into Augusta and hire a motorcycle for a bit of a ride. Why I did not make it anywhere near the Augusta National Golf Course is a never-ending mystery to me. Maybe it was the heat. Georgia is hot in May, June and July. - very hot.

I did my share of KP. It was quite an interesting system. You were rostered for KP and someone came to the barracks and woke you up at about 04:30. You raced to the mess hall so as to get the best job. It was first come, first served. I liked DRO (dining room orderly) best. You made sure the silverware was clean and stocked up, same for condiments. You cleared the tables and wiped them down between meals. If I was not quick enough for DRO I would choose Back Sink. Pots and pans, really. (Here my extensive experience as a “pearl-diver” came in real handy!)

Training took place Monday to Friday, so we had weekends “off”. Sort of. Saturday mornings were work details, i.e. policing the area. Litter-picking! Still we could laze about the barracks if we wished. You could also go to the movies on post. Magic. At the end of training I was promoted to PFC and given orders for Ft Bragg, North Carolina. (What happened to Ft Meade is an Army mystery) I was assigned to the 35^Th Signal Company, Third Army. Fortunately I got a three week leave to visit the home folks before reporting. By late August I was at Bragg.

I confess this was my worst time in the Army. We literally had nothing to do and nothing to look forward to. Most days we went to the motor pool and messed about with the signal vans. We did extensive guard duty. Something was drastically wrong with our mess hall. We almost never had decent grub and often had no milk for days on end. (Later, I heard that the mess sergeant was selling our grub off post, but I'm not sure if it was ever proved.)

The only excitement was in September when we were assigned to help train the U.S. Special Forces. An elaborate training exercise was planned involving us as pseudo-guerillas tasked with receiving a Green Beret team and planning and executing operations in the North Carolina woods. Units of the 82^nd Airborne from Bragg would try to find us and stop us from blowing up bridges, etc. (Not with real explosives I may add for the safety of the farmers of North Carolina)

We decamped to the woods, led by Sergeant Gamble – the most aptly named soldier I ever met. S/Sgt Gamble liked to play cards – particularly Hearts. So we spent the first week of the exercise messing about in the woods and playing cards. We had very old C Rations for grub. The weather was excellent and we were having a break from military discipline with only Sgt Gamble in charge. No officers at all.

Somehow we conned the Army into transporting us to the nearest town for a bit of R&R. Robins, North Carolina did, at least, have a movie theatre. Maybe a Woolworth's as well. The citizenry was ill-prepared to be “invaded” by some smelly soldiers in civilian clothes carrying M14's and bayonets. Someone told us of a party nearby and we got invited. After checking out the local talent we were brought back down to earth. Someone showed up with the news that two local lads had just been killed in a car accident. We left and returned to the woods.

It was too good to last, of course. The exercise started. We laid out a pattern of burning oil lamps in a field. We heard the drone of aircraft. We thought they had gone past the drop zone. They had but the fools jumped anyway. The Green Berets jumped and landed all over the place, in trees, in streams, in the swamp, on a road – one poor klutz broke his ankle. Anyway, we gathered them together and set off for the camp we had constructed deep in the woods.

We pretended to be interested in the military matters so beloved of the Special Forces. We mooched about in the woods for about two weeks simulating guerilla raids. We “ambushed” columns. We “blew-up” bridges. We “captured” installations. Great fun. Strangely, some Canadian Special Forces were participating in this exercise. Not a bad bunch compared to the gung-ho types in the green beanies.

We did obtain some insight into the difficulties encountered by our comrades in SE Asia. Despite having a whole division with air support, the 81^nd Airborne never got close to us. We could hear and see them over the canopy of trees but they never spotted us. We were visited and congratulated for not getting caught. Our Green Beret guests were super-pleased.

Too soon it was over and it was back to reality. For entertainment at Bragg we played football in the “company street” - that portion of sandy scrub between the barracks. I got whacked from behind whilst running a side-line route and was smashed into a bit of concrete sticking out of the sand. The edge of the concrete punched a hole in my left knee. I went to the company HQ. After some wrangling and nonsense about a self-inflicted injury they agreed to transport me to the base hospital. I got the wound cleaned and some stitches. Somehow I had to find my own way back.

I was tasked with returning to the base hospital in a couple of weeks to get the stitches out.

I messed up – as you do. After about ten days I decided to take the stitches out myself. It looked all healed up, so I cut the stitches and pulled them out. Next day I was playing football again and the wound opened up. I couldn't go back to the Company HQ and explain what happened, so I decided to sew it up again myself. I went to the PX and got some cotton thread, some hydrogen peroxide and some sewing needles. Applying a liberal dose of H₂O₂, I threaded the needle and began to sew. It didn't hurt. I kept applying liberal doses of Hydrogen Per and in about two more weeks cut the thread and removed it. Result – though I still have the scar!

1968 moved on. It got colder - even in NC. I remember huddling in the cab of a deuce and a half trying to keep warm whist pulling guard duty at the motor pool. By wedging myself in a particular position, I could just be woken up in time by the guard Jeep’s headlights as they approached, get out of the truck and look as if I had been assiduously doing my duty.

Sometime in November I was offered a transfer to Ft Hood, Texas. I volunteered, thinking that it couldn't be worse than Bragg. In some ways I was right.

The real bonus was I got leave over Christmas and did not have to report to Hood until the beginning of January 1969. Happy days!

More in Chapter Four – Part Deux

Western Electric

Chapter Three

Wherein I move into relatively well paid employment, discover what a chicken checker is and quite accidentally make some career choices

By 1967 I had moved one step forward and some steps back. I was no longer in full-time education and, therefore eligible to be called by my fellow citizens to swear to protect and defend the Constitution.

I had grown increasingly disenchanted with 7-Eleven. Following my adventures at the hands of Mr Robber, I felt that the HR section of the Southland Corp left a lot be be desired. Apart from having to undergo a lie detector test to ensure that I was not a party to the hold-up - little was done to get me back in the saddle.

When my sister Ruthanne said she could get me a job at Western Electric, I jumped at it. Western Electric make equipment for Bell Telephones. It's a big operation. (from the History of Lee's Summit: 1957 Western Electric announces it will build a $20 million factory for vacuum tubes in Lee’s Summit, if the city can provide sufficient utilities. The property has since changed owners and became Summit Technology Campus which today houses data and call centres. The plant, opened in 1961, employed about 3,000 workers and started Lee’s Summit’s transformation to a fast-growing suburb.”)

I was not blindingly excited by factory work. I did a bit at KC Booth Manufacturing. Western Electric was a different kettle of fish altogether. It was well paid and very secure employment. Although it was a factory, it was very clean and quiet. Making sensitive electrical components does not lend itself to dirt and noise. I managed to get on the evening shift – from 4 till midnight. I struck it lucky. I was in a department of one when the day shift logged off. I went in, saw the supervisor, got my instructions for the evening and that was it. No-one else about at all.

I know what you are thinking, “Why not just goof off or do a little bit of work and then have a nap?”

That's where the chicken checker comes in. The nom-de-guerre chicken checker was not official. Officially they were time and motion study operatives. Their job was to randomly check what you were doing and write a report. Essentially, it was a game. The word would go around that the chicken checker was about so you made sure – as far as humanly possible – that when he saw you you were doing something productive. This was difficult when you are working on your own, but I got quite good at it.

Western Electric had a complex bonus system in place. The basic salary was OK but each separate department was judged (somehow) on its performance every month and that judgement became a bonus paid in addition to the hourly rate. In some months it could be as high as 20% of your basic salary. The non-production employees (like me) contributed by scoring well in the chicken checker marks. Very complex but it worked.

I looked forward to lunch breaks in the canteen when I often met up with Ruthanne and Alan. Official break times (10 minutes) were signalled by a bell. Smoking was not allowed in the plant but at break times you could smoke in designated area. The whole plant was surrounded by a chain-link fence and you has to have a pass to get through the gate – which was permanently manned.

At the same time, although I was in full-time, relatively well-paid employment I was conspicuously not very well off. Looking back it's difficult to remember where the money went. I was driving an old Chevy. A good night out consisted of going to the Drive-In movies by myself and there seemed little incentive to do very much. I was, in truth, just hanging around waiting for Uncle Sam to send me an invitation to serve my country. My lot in life had become quite tedious and altogether unrewarding. That's the way I remember it.

One interesting evening did occur when I came home from the Drive-In movies and found cop cars swarming all over Hidden Valley Rd and a helicopter circling overhead. I was stopped and had to prove I lived there before they would let me go home. The OM explained that somebody had beaten up a cop and they were advising everyone to stay indoors and lock up whilst they tried to find the perpetrator.

Guns and gun control are always nowadays in the news. Down on Hidden Valley Rd in 1967 nobody ever locked their doors. The OM had a .22 rifle which he used as a bird scarer. He would sit at the kitchen table with the door to the adjoining garage open a shoot at birds – which he considered as pests. He seldom hit one. Nobody worried about a break-in or strangers shooting you.

When I was about 12 or 13 the OM would take me squirrel hunting with a buddy of his at the Dairy. Off we would go somewhere down in South Missouri, near the Kansas line, and shoot a million squirrels. Even then they were considered as pests and there was no limit to how many you could kill. So we killed them. Very occasionally, I would go with Stoner to Uncle RT's and shoot rabbits with the aid of his pack of beagles and a 410 shotgun.

Squirrels and rabbits are good eating. So is deer. I have no problem with using rifles to shoot them.

Neither do I have a problem with folks who enjoy hunting and fishing in the wonderful outdoors nature has blessed us with.

I just do not think that the Second Amendment gives Americans the right to obtain, store use and carry any weapon they choose.

The exception, of course, is in the defence of the country, so after spending the fall and winter of 67-68 at Western Electric I eventually received (on St Valentines Day 1968:

ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION

The President of the United States,

To _________________Malcolm____________Rodney____________Kauffman______________________________

(First name) (Middle name) (Last name)

Order No.______281_______

GREETING

Having submitted yourself to a Local Board composed of your neighbours for the purpose of determining your availability for training and service in the armed forces of the United States, you are hereby notified that you have now been selected for training and service in the___Army_____________________

My Dad took me down to the induction centre, quite close to Union Station in KC. He gave me some good advice (some of which I took). Never volunteer for anything except get paid or go home. I breezed through the physical examination and was very soon thereafter swearing the oath.

The put us on a train to Fort Polk Louisiana.

Seven Eleven

Chapter Two

Wherein I go to work full time, suffer an armed robbery and fall in love with an Austin Healey.

All good things must end and so I had to leave 70-Hi Drive In and get a full time job. Reason? No money and no prospects. I had to drop out of school in order to make ends meet.

I obtained employment with the Southland Corporation – they own the ubiquitous 7-Eleven stores.

In those halcyon day of yore every neighbourhood had a little store. Down on South Pleasant in Independence we had Wisemore's. That's where your Mother sent you for tea bags, sugar and stuff. There were supermakets but not many and most folks didn't do a weekly shop. Every neighbourhood had a little store.

7-Eleven filled the gap when the “Mom and Pop” local stores couldn't keep up with the big boys and gradually vanished. It's good to know that 7-Eleven are still going strong.

Before I left 70-Hi I managed to borrow enough money from Larry Titus and Bosco Cox to buy a beautiful Austin Healey 3000 Mk 111.

I always had English cars. I bought my first, a Old English White MGA 1600 when I was about 18. Some guy at school had it and wanted to get rid of it. I bought it for $100. It had no third gear in the tranny, no side windows and no radiator – oh yeah, and no brakes. Otherwise it was good. What do you expect for $100 – even in 1966!

I persuaded Stoner to help me drag it back from near Sugar Creek to our house on Hidden Valley Road. He had an old Ford and I had a couple of old tyres. We tied the front of the MG to the back of the Ford and we were good to go. We got it back with out any real incident.

Of course, I couldn't wait to fire it up and go for a spin – so we did. I figured that if I didn't run it too long it would not get too hot. No brakes? Heck, we're only going to go for a little ride; and it is uphill from the house, so we just go up the hill, swing it around and coast back home. Easy.

Rabbie Burns was right - “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]!

Off we went, got to the top of Hidden Valley Road, tried to slow enough to turn around, failed, went over the top, headed for a busy road, US 71 By-pass, managed to swing it around sideways and get it stopped, pushed it back to the top of the hill and charged back to the house – getting it stopped - somehow. Whew!

I fixed it up. It got brakes, side windows and a rebuilt gearbox. I drove it for quite a while – time passes slowly when you are 18/19. There was one very eventful trip to Trenton, Missouri to watch an American Legion baseball game with Stoner. Eventually I sold it to a dentist from Overland Park, Kansas for 400 bucks. I've had worse days.

By the time I was in training to be a 7-Eleven manager I was comfortably esconced in the Austin Healey. It was (as they still are) a gloriously beautiful car. Mine had a white leather interior and a light blue paint job. The 3 litre straight six would purr beautifully down the road – for about two months. Then it would run very sick indeed. It would hardly run and it lost power alarmingly when going up a hill. At such times, I would take it to a local specialist who would tune it and it would go swimmingly for the requisite two months and then start the cycle over again.

It was not designed for the Missouri climate. It would only start in the winter if you liberally sprayed ether into the carbs first. Even with the radiator mostly blocked off with cardboard the temperature guage would barely move in January.

It was too beautiful to last. I was doing my training for an exciting career in convenience store management out in Grandview. 139th and Grandview Road is where the store was, s far as II can remember. Way out in the sticks. (Just checked on-line and the only 7-Eleven in Grandview is now at 6506 E Main St -that's not it!) This store was run by a franchisee – but his name is too far gone to even think about. It was one of the larger stores, for it had it's own delicatessen counter. I learned about stock and such. It was neither exciting nor challenging. I remember the Manager was consumed by his pride in his store – to the extent that he never let an opportunity slip to extol its virtures. It was a good store and it turned over a tidy sum for him and the Southland Corporation. It didn't, in truth, do much for me.

Whoa! say that again, actually it nearly got me killed! I was doing a day shift out in Grandview and knocked off about 7 in the evening. (They were long shifts – about 12 hours!) I was in a hurry to get to a party – I think at Linda Hall's house. The Healey was in one of its sicker moods and I was struggling to make much progress down 71-Bypass. My technique involved risk. I would keep the revs up above 3000 and that would stop the thing from slowing down so far as to be crawling. This meant, of course, that I had to overtake anything doing less than about 65 so I did not have to brake and lose momentum. I was cheerfully weaving in and out overtaking slower cars until I chanced it once too often. Nearing the crest of a hill I found my self ovrertaking a Ford station wagon and as I hit the crest another car came at me from the opposite direction. It was something small. We went past – all three of us side by side at a closing speed of, say, 150 m.p.h. It happened so fast I didn't have time to be scared. It was only a few miles down the road that it hit me and I began to shake uncontrollably.

I slowed and crept down the hi-way. At 39^th and Lee's Summit Road I ran out of gas. I pulled it over as far as I could and luckily someone I knew was coming along behind me and recognised the Healey. I got a lift to the party.

I went to get it the next day and some drunks had come over the hill and plowed into the back of it. Cops nailed them but the insurance adjuster who came out said it was a write-off and they towed it away for silly money. I'd like to think it's still a cherished classic car somewhere.

Only a few weeks before, I was taking my Mom to the launderette at 23^rd and Lee's Summit. I loaded her in the car for the return trip to Hidden Valley Road. She was a typical mother – nosy. I had some papers in on the parcel shelf – Healey's had no glove box. She reached for one and dropped it. I leant over and put it back. I looked up, only to see that the whole line of cars in front of me had stopped. Somebody was making a left turn. I looked left – a line of cars was coming in the opposite direction. I looked right – there was a telephone pole. I stood on the brakes and jammed it into first gear. I stood the poor old girl on its nose and slid under the back of a big Chevy station wagon. I mangled the driver's side front fender and pushed the radiatior back into the fan blades. Mother bounced her head off of the windscreen but was not really hurt. Thank Goodness. The Chevy was more or less unscathed. Cops had a look and disappeared, but not before they loaned me a tyre iron with which I managed to pry the radiator mounts forward a bit so I could drive it home.

The OM had a look at it. The headlight was almost detached but, as the OM said, the law says you need two headlights – it doesn't say where they have to point. (Those were the days!) So we bolted it to what was left of the front fender and it worked! Pointed up into the trees, though.

The radiator was more difficult. We got it out with a bit of fiddling about, finally. The OM had a brain-storm – right then the little light that goes off when things are about to go belly-up should have gone off in my head, but it didn't.

We tied one end of a chain to the radiator mounts and the other end to the back of the milk truck. The idea was – we start the engine – sans radiator – put it in reverse and pull the mounts out a bit. Sounds so simple.

I was in the car. The OM was trying to tie the chain on. I swear he said, “Start her up!” So I did. The fan blades caught the ends of his fingers neatly lacerating them to a depth of about half an inch. He screamed. I laughed.

This was my big mistake. I couldn't help myself. He had done the same thing to the other hand without any help from me just a week or so before whilst messing about with the milk truck. Now he had a matching pair.

I got out. He screamed, “I'll kill that kid!” I believed he meant it. I ran as he picked up a two by four to hit me with.

I stayed away for three days – sleeping in the woods. I went home in the morning after he had gone to work and Mom would give me something to eat. Happy days!

Meanwhile at 7-Eleven I had become a fully-fledged retail operative. Time to strike out on my own – retail-wise. I began by doing relief shifts at stores who were short of staff. I had a shift at the 7-Eleven at 87^th and Raytown Road. According to the 7-Eleven website there is no store there now. Good old USA.

It was a small store with not too much turn over. I met the manager and did the tour – thought all stores were basically the same layout. He gave me instructions for the evening shift, left me his phone number and he left. There were some customers in the evening, but I was by no means rushed off my feet. By about 22:30 it was so slow that I took the time to stock up the coolers for the morning – maybe gaining a few brownie points in the process. It got to be 22:50. I decided to close early. Heck – I was in charge!

So I locked the doors and went back to the cooler to do some more stock.

There was a knock at the front door. I assumed it was a customer who thought closing time was 23:00 and fearing I might get into trouble for closing early I went to the door. Through the locked door, some guy was asking if I had any change. I said no but stupidly unlocked the door at the same time.

He pulled gun and sort of pushed me back inside and to the island in the middle where the cash register and counter was. He told me to take off my shirt. I did. He put it on. He told me to lie face down on the floor Oddly, despite the gun, I never had the feeling that he was going to harm me. Stupid naivety?

He told me to open the safe.

(Explanation – 7-Eleven had a floor safe. It had two compartments. The top part could be opended by any employee and containted not much of value. Slot at the side enabled valuables, like cash and money orders to be pushed down inside the lower compartment, which could only be opened with a combination.)

Naturally, as I was just doing a relief shift I could not open the safe. I explained this. He asked if I could get the combination. I said I could call the manager. We went to the payphone and I dialled the number. It rang about twice and then Mr Robber hung it up.

I suspect he realised that me asking the manager for the combination to the safe would start the alarm bells ringing.

Instead he took my wallet – with about 5 bucks in it – the money order machine, which he had to cut free of the wire that held it to the counter, some loose money order receipts – which I think he thought actual real money orders – and my shirt which he was still wearing. Warning me not to call the cops, he told me not to move for 10 minutes and left. I heard the door close.

I was lying face down behind the counter. I waited about two or three minutes. I got up, looked around and could see he was gone. I had no money for the phone. I rummaged through the cash register and, very luckily, found a nickel. I went to the phone and called the cops. Thinking that the Raytown Bulls were likley to be somewhat trigger-happy since I was not wearing my 7-Eleven shirt, I went to the cooler, got a cold Dr Pepper, went out the front door and leant on the Coke machine to await their arrival. In the distance I could hear sirens. Comforting!

Not so fast. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr Robber reappear around the corner of the building. He shouted, “Get inside!” I did. (I wonder what I did with the Dr Pepper – I have no recollection of putting it down?)

Soon I was back face down behind the counter. He had the gun and was standing in full view of anyone who came through the door. This seemed silly to me until I remembered he was wearing my 7-Eleven shirt. The Bulls charged in.

They shouted, “Where is he?”

Mr Robber said, “He went out the door.”

So, off went my would-be rescuers.

I was flabbergasted, until I put two and two together – it was the shirt that threw them off the real scent.

Fortunately, the follow-up crew arrived a few minutes later. He tried the same trick but they were intent on surveying the situation. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Mr Robber had grabbed one of the cops and was struggling to get the gun from the cop's holster.

As they struggled I could see why cops have straps on their holsters. Mr Robber could not get the gun out. More cops arrived, there was a short stuggle of which I could hear more than see and then it went quiet as the action moved outside the building.

I just lay there not really knowing what the outcome was. Did the Cops prevail? Was Mr Robber holding them all at gunpoint outside? I had no idea, so I just stayed put. The door opened and I couldn' t resist having a look. As I started to raise myself to look over the counter a cop ran around and slapped the cuffs on me!

“Hold on, I'm the victim here!” I shouted.

He got me to my feet and explained that they thought I might be an accomplice. I explained about the shirt. They took the cuffs off. I went outside where the Bulls had roughed up Mr Robber a bit and handcuffed him. Eventually, they stuffed him in a squad car and disappeared. I drove home with an exciting story to tell the OM and Mom. I remember worrying that Mr Robber might know where I lived and come to the house intent on doing harm.

A few week late I attended the Raytown Police HQ to try and get my wallet and five bucks back. No such luck. They said they were holding it as evidence for Mr Robber's trial. I never saw it again.

The odd thing was the Southland Corp insisted that I take a lie detector test, said it was standard procedure. They wanted to make sure I wasn't in cahoots with the bad guy. As if!

My career in retail was just about over. My sister Ruthanne and her husband (remember the milk truck accident?) were working at Western Electric in Lee's Summit and somehow wangled me a job interview. I left 7-Eleven and became a floor hand in the Western Electric factory.

70 Hi Drive-In Restaurant

Work
Chapter One

Wherein I am persuaded that work is a good thing, I avoid being eaten by the dogs and learn how to fry burgers

Some time ago, I threatened to write a piece about various jobs I have had in my illustrious and varied career.

Time to get started before age and infirmity catch me up.

I did once deliver the Independence Examiner for one of my cousins who was on vacation, but I don't think that really counts. I was about 11 at the time.

Actually, the first paying job I ever had was working for the old man. - on the milk wagon, at 5 in the morning, in all weathers, for 50 cents a day (if you were lucky) and a sweet-roll at the coffee shop. I was about 13. The OM had a knack of teaching you things without really knowing what he was doing. He was way ahead of Apollo Creed's “be a thinker, not a stinker!”

From this early age, he impressed upon me that manual labour was for the birds. It didn't take long to sink in. It was hard work. And, more importantly it impinged dreadfully on my social life. It was Saturday's during school time and Monday to Saturday (inclusive) in the school vacation. It was - go to Myers Dairy on Dodgion (the loading ramp is still there, thought the building is used for something else), wrestle crates of milk and other sundries on the truck, go to the ice house up the road (in warm weather), chop up the ice to keep the milk from going sour, drive about 150 miles from down-town KC to the suburbs, hang out the door of the truck aiming kicks at any dogs who were chasing us, drag milk bottles up to doors, knock on doors and try to get money from customers who were dirt poor, avoid being bitten by loose dogs, shout back at the old man in the truck, how much did you say? and do this for a minimum of seven hours. Get home about two or three in the afternoon – if you were lucky.

I did learn some other useful lessons.

I would sit for hours in the truck practising shifting the gears. Occasionally the old man would let me sit on his lap in the driver's seat and steer as we were going along. Consequently, I was already able to drive at the age of 13. This, you may think, was a good thing, but this was not entirely so.

I also managed to wreck a perfectly good car and remodel the side of the truck. The OM decided that he would set up my brother-in-law, Alan, with a milk round and I was tasked with showing him the route to riches in the milk business. I decided that he needed to deliver the milk and meet the customers. So, I drove the truck whilst he carried the milk. A good result from my perspective.

Unfortunately, the truck the OM had us using had defective power steering – defective as in it didn't really work. You could turn a corner but it was really difficult, especially for a weak young lad. I was driving and swung out wide to make sure I had a good chance of making the left turn. There was a car parked on the road. I side-swiped it. I was about to slam it into second and put my foot down when Alan advised that the lady who owned the car was shouting at us. I stopped.

We went in her house whilst she phoned Myers Dairy to report the accident. She was upstairs on the phone when she shouted down, “What was the name of the driver?” I looked at Alan. He looked at me. He shouted, “Alan Austin!” Good old boy. I eventually told the OM the truth, but not until 40 years had passed.

Not much else eventful happened on the milk round.

I also managed to work one summer at the Kansas City Booth Manufacturing Co up in North KC.  My buddy Bobby Lawless worked there and he got me in.  I swept up.  It was mostly Hispanic Americans who did the skilled work making beautiful booths for high-class restaurants.  I wandered around all day sweeping up and learning how to swear in Spanish - a very useful skill!

By the time I was turning 16 it was time for a real job. We were living on East 39^th Terrace not far from Noland Road. On the South-east corner of Noland and 39th was a drive-in restaurant called the70 Hi Drive-In. It was ahead of its time in that respect, for Interstate 70 would not be built for a few years yet, but the owner was clearly thinking ahead. They must have had a Help Wanted sign in the window. I can't think how else I would have found out about this employment opportunity. I asked for the job and I got it. This was a big thing for me. I was very shy as a 16 year old. Among friends I was lively and out-going, but with strangers I was shy and reserved. Somehow I overcame this and it was a good thing too. Reason? The school holidays had about a month to run and my Mother calmly informed me that we had no money for school trousers. A full blown crisis at that time. (I remember that dummy Stoner deciding one bright day that he would wear red trousers to school. Gutsy. He was send home. You had to wear dark trousers. Full stop.)

70 Hi was owned and operated by Sam Lerner. Almost everything I know about the world of work I originally learned from Sam and many, many other things as well. He was a great man.

I was employed at the princely wage of 75 cents an hour. When I was completely trained as a fry cook I would get a raise to 90 cents an hour. To take account of the need to go to school we worked a complicated shift system. One week you worked Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday and the next it would be Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. We did day shifts when school was out and evening shifts from four o'clock during school time. Sam did the day-time cooking when we kids were at school and we covered the rest. My first week I made 18 dollars. I bought school trousers and had money left over. Happy days.

Over the years I got jobs at 70 Hi for a multitude of friends. Most of my oldest friends worked there at one time or another. That was Sam all over. You only needed a vacancy and my recommendation and you were hired.

The Drive-In had a hierarchy of sorts. At the top were the fry cooks. Each shift also had a bun boy. One or two ladies were at the windows taking orders. Unlike McDonald’s everything was cooked to order. The ladies took the order, wrote it on a slip, shouted out the order, pinned the slip to wire at the hatch, and rang the bell, the bun boy warmed up the buns on one side of the grill (and looked after the deep-fat fryers where the french fries, pork tenderloins and onion rings were cooked) the fry cook cooked the burgers and added the various condiments (mustard, ketchup, diced onion, lettuce, tomato, cheese as required, the buns and burgers were reunited, a toothpick was stuck through the grease-proof paper used to wrap the burger, and the ladies bagged it and served it. On a good day, time from order to serve for something simple, say a cheeseburger, was about 3 minutes. Sounds simple doesn't it?

Not quite.

During busy periods (as Sam always said the problem with the food business is that people only eat three times a day) the ladies would be shouting out the orders at the hatch and the cook had to remember the order whilst cooking them and adding more burgers as required. Also, we catered for every taste and requirement. You might have some burgers on the grill with no onions, some with extra onions, no ketchup, no mustard, the possible permutations were much larger than a simple McDonald’s menu that's for sure! All of this had to be kept in your head. Simple when orders came in at regular intervals. Difficult when six or seven, or more came in at once. Pressurised is the word. One famous lunch-time session I remember cooking over 200 burgers in about two hours. That's more than one a minute. Not bad going!

It was not all cooking. At the start of the evening shift, before the real rush at tea-time began, there were some unpleasant tasks to perform. Chopping onions was the worst. First you took a bag of onions and empty them into a large sink. Using a sharp knife you remove the outer peel. The results were taken to the slicing machine where they were prepared for chopping. Then the fun began. Placing the onions on the chopping table and using two meat cleavers the onions were chopped into small pieces, bagged and put in the cold store for use as required.

There were some finesse precautions you could use not to be completely overcome by lachrymal overload. Firstly, the skins were removed under water thereby trapping the juices. Likewise when chopping you took a wet towel and used it as a bandanna. Fine for keeping from crying but useless for seeing what you were doing. Result? You chopped blind.

These jobs were accomplished in the back room – behind the grills. Also, there was a back door where you could sit outside on warm, quiet evenings and down a cherry coke, or even better, a Dr Pepper. When working, all drinks and food were free and some interesting concoctions were invented by the staff. My favourite was a triple cheeseburger – but I have seen deep-fried burgers (a long time before deep-fried Mars bars) and overloaded pork tenderloins with onion rings inserted strategically.

Sam, bless him, used to cook fried eggs on the grill for his breakfast. These were not on the real menu.

At one stage, my opposite number was a kid call Ronnie Ford. He had the shifts when I was off. Sometimes I used to wander down in the evenings to see what was going on. We only lived about a block away on East 39^th Terrace. One evening, say about 8, we were outside shooting the breeze when two beautiful Aberdeen Angus bulls came wandering down 39^th street. Needless to say we decided to try and corral them – thinking that they must be worth a reward - or perhaps a good wad of dough from a slaughter house.

Of course, Ronnie was supposed to be working, but he just lost the plot. We chased them behind the drive in and they set off down the valley between 39^th and Wild Woody's Bargain Basement. Observant readers will note that this area is currently occupied by Interstate 70. I 70 was not completed until the late 60's, so there was nothing between the 70 Hi and Wild Woody’s' but grass, scrub and a small creek. We chased the bulls all the way to Woody's where we cornered them in the parking lot. Some guys arrived and persuaded us (we were just dumb kids at the time) to let them take charge of them and we would meet up in the morning to see what was what. Needless to say we never saw the bulls or the guys again.

All this time Betty Rollo was left all on her own at 70 HI. We must have been gone a good hour and a half. I wish I had a photo of the look on her face when we got back. It could curdle milk at 100 yards. She had tried to take the orders, cook the orders ( I don' think she had ever done any cooking before) serve the orders, etc. all on her own. She was, quite rightly, fuming. For some reason, I don't believe she ever told Sam.

If Sam has a weakness it was gambling – particularly horse racing. In that distant, halcyon past to see a horse race you had to go to Omaha, Nebraska. Very occasionally Sam would go to the races and leave me or one of the other kids in charge for the whole weekend. It never occurred to us to take advantage of his trust and faith. It would have been unthinkable.

I have to leave out some of the more unsavoury moments – like the time my bun-boy Stoner, whilst sweeping up, found a ladies (and I use the term loosely) sanitary item in the car park. It remains one of his favourite stories.

Various friends could easily be identified by the order being shouted out at the hatch. Bobby Lawless and his Cheryl were regulars identified by their order – but I can't remember what it was! Robert Taylor was also known by his food order.

Eventually, after some years I had worked my way up to $1.10 an hour. My sister Ruthanne was working in an Italian restaurant up on 71 By-pass. I was going to CMSU during the day. She said could get $1.25 to wash dishes at the Italian, so I had to jump ship. I became a member of the honourable company of pearl divers.

Through some convoluted reasoning and no little soul searching on my part I did eventually go back when Sam offered to match the money I was getting for scraping the encrusted spaghetti sauce from pots and pans. I jumped at it. I was there until the money ran out and I had get a job that paid some kind of a full time wage.

Next chapter, I work for the Southland Corporation.

M25 Here We Come

South of Thickthorn – the Finale

Well, despite all the years of frustrated queuing, the millions of pounds of wasted money, the disillusionment of the masses and the crazy delays down the final stretch, the Thetford to Five Ways dualling on the A11 finally opened.

Whoopee do dah!

I tested it. From Thickthorn to the M25 in an hour and a half, and I don't drive very fast. Gone is the feeling of absolute dread as you approach Elveden (now a pleasant diversion from the new carriageway with quaint shops and eateries); gone is the steam from the bonnet of your over-heating vehicle, gone is the possibility of dying of thirst before you get to Five Ways roundabout.

Excellent.

All, of course, is not entirely rosy in the garden. I was thinking that the roundabouts at either end might get clogged up with folks tearing down the road to get queue to go around and around purposefully. So, far this has not happened. But, I'm not entirely sure it's all plain sailing. Time will tell.

Then there is the money. And, I mean a colossal amount of it. Will it be worth it? Will Keith Skipper have a heart attack at the thought of the hordes descending on rural Norfolk? Time will tell.

Let's enjoy it while we can and get ready for the fiasco that is the NDR. It's coming to a village near you, so keep an eye out for it!

For those not in the know, the NDR (Northern Distributor Road) is Norwich's answer to the M25 – well not quite. The M25 is circular. It scribes a complete circle around the capital. The NDR will not do the same for Norwich.

We already have the Southern Bypass which takes traffic from Postwick to Easton. The plan is to build the NDR going north from Postwick via Plumstead, Rackheath, Hellesdon and join the Drayton Road. This is, then, a 2/3 NDR M25-look-a-like for there will be no joining up at Easton.

Reason? Can't cross the Wensum valley – a site of special scientific interest.

Cars will pile north to Drayton and then somehow rat-run themselves back to the A47 at Easton.

2015 General Election

Scrotland scuppers Labour attempted surge

I've been waiting for the dust to settle on the General Election before making any judgements.

Since the poll all we have heard from the pollsters is how the electorate got it wrong, or were lying, or forgot how do a ballot paper.

Despite all the rhetoric, the truth is far more pragmatic. The English voters, faced with the prospect of hordes of ginger-headed Scottish scroats surging over the border, decided to stick with the devil they knew and not risk the Ed Miilband led Labour/Scottish Nationalist coalition. As usual the voters probably got it just about right.

The Tories gave it full blast in the last few days and it worked. Nobody thought that bringing the Scots into government even in a supply and confidence arrangement would be palatable in Milton Keynes. It just seemed too woolly and far too risky. The voters agreed.

So, what have we to look forward to in the next five years.

Well the Scots did rampage into the Commons upsetting the Speaker and, heaven forbid, Denis Skinner in the process. Short of being a pain in the bum that's about all the good they will do in their tenure at Westminster. Cameron will not give them anything: he has much larger fish to fry in Brussels. We can discount their efforts until the Conservative majority is whittled away – a prospect that might not be too distant.

David Cameron will focus on Europe until the referendum in 2017. Everything else will be business as usual.

The Labour party will do a lot of soul-searching and faffing about, but unless they try to seal the Emperor's clothes will find regaining power difficult. The have five years to counter the nationalists in Scotland or they have no chance of unseating Dave.

Whatever happens, it will be interesting.

Chiefs - Moving Forward?

Chiefs Draft/Free Agency Analysis

Time to un-mothball the pigskin chatter and find out where the Chiefs are now – and, more importantly where they are going.

First the moves in free agency.  The tribe were winners and losers.  They grabbed Jeremy Maclin, a proven NFL receiver. This addresses need number one.  The signed Ben Grubbs, another NFL proven talent.  The also added OL Paul Fanaika.  The is a solid base of new talent to add depth, provide some kind of a passing threat and get the O-line moving in the right direction.  Overall a B or B - is my verdict.

In the draft, the Chiefs look like making an already sound defence better.  First round, a cornerback from Washington, Marcus Peters.  As with all first round picks, you need them to make the team, make an immediate impact and be a starter for years to come.  On this basis, the Chiefs record is patchy at best.  Remember that great wide out Baldwin?  I do.

They added Missouri guard Mitch Morse in Round 2. Georgia wideout Chris Conley and Oregon State cornerback Steven Nelson were selected in Round 3.  These are solid selections addressing the needs of the team.  Good.

Later round picks:  the Chiefs kicked off Round 4 by selecting former Georgia linebacker Ramik Wilson and added guys like D.J. Alexander and James O'Shaughnessy later in the day.

Overall a solid, if unspectacular draft.  But, when free agency is added into to the mix, things look a lot better.  The two things must be seen together as the team moves forward to 2015.

I particularly liked the analysis of where the Chiefs are in relation to the division done by Arrowhead Pride.

They say:

1) Does this team have a great quarterback OR a way to neutralize a great quarterback?

Good question.  The verdict on QB Alex Smith is still out.  This year should provide him with the tools he needs to do the job - a better offensive line – better receivers. Can he move up to the next level?  Does he have to?  Remember, it's defence that wins Super Bowls and the Chiefs should be better on that side of the ball.  Can Smith get enough production out of the offence?  I think he can.

2) Does this team have any glaring weaknesses good teams will expose in the playoffs?

Another good question.  Last season the run defence failed miserably at critical times.  Will it be better?  It depends on a large number of variables.  Will Eric Berry be back, fit and able?  Will Derrick Johnson be back and as a solid LB?  Mike DeVito, returning from injury, competing?  This could be the crunch topic.

3) Does this team show the ability to beat other playoff-caliber teams?

I was happy to be at Arrowhead to see the boys demolish the Pats.  The big question is can they find a way to beat Peyton and the Broncos?  They may.  That will be the crunch for the season and this topic.

Oh to be in England!

This other Eden, demi-paradise

I am more than ever convinced that I have too long resided in this island.

As my old buddy Bill Bryson is fond of reminding us, we are not just separated by a common language but are actually more exasperatingly separated by language, custom and mores (apologies to Caesar for paraphrasing his Commentaries on the Gallic Wars).

I must be getting old. The daft things that you have to put up with in order to live in England are beginning to get to me.

I was in Roys supermarket (the largest village store in England, so they proudly boast) – though this experience is equally frustrating in almost any shop in the land. English people wander about in shops seemingly without any sense of purpose and completely oblivious to anyone or anything around them. They stop right in front of you for no discernible reason. They cheerfully block an aisle, or even a clearly-marked exit, whilst they have a chat with someone or anyone about nothing. They will stand in front of a display case preventing anyone else from examining the wares. They will seemingly puzzle over which brand of shoe polish to buy so you cannot just reach in and get the one you already know you want.

Then if you are truly lucky enough to reach the checkout your problems are just starting. The English can't handle paying for goods at the checkout. You may well think they have all sprung fully grown from the head of Zeus and; therefore, have never shopped before. This is the only logical explanation. They are unable to position their loaded trolley so as to enable it to be easily unloaded. They cannot load their purchases onto a moving belt. Even though the checkout aisle is clear ahead, they cannot (or more likely will not) move forward to where the unloading can start. I would rather have an impacted wisdom tooth extracted with a pair of needle-nosed pliers without anaesthetic than watch them trying to pack a shopping bag.

Having already established that the physical effort of getting the goods ready is beyond them, we come to the paying. No English person has ever done this before. They are to a man (or woman) all paying-virgins. For each and all – it's a first. It must be, because they stand with the “open-mouthed-guppy expression” on their face when the cashier says, “That's 42 pounds and 68 pence, please.”

They are truly astonished that they have to pay. They root about in their handbag for their purse. They cannot get it open without some extravagant effort. They are unable to find their credit card without searching every available nook and cranny and examining the old bus ticket they find instead.

God forbid that they are paying with cash! Wait! I hear the reader cry, surely cash is easier! (Not so, you foolish, silly ones.) When paying with cash they examine every note even though all the notes are different sizes and colours to aid in identification. Then the fun really begins. Instead of handing over 43 or 45 pounds and waiting for the change, they fumble about trying to find the exact combination of notes and coins to settle the bill. All the while they are convinced that they are doing the shop, the general public, the bystanders, Uncle Tom Cobley and All a great and wonderful favour. Get on with it you gherkin brains!

Finally the paying process is over. Those in the queue who have not become terminally ill or incapacitated in the wake of this excruciatingly long process begin to dribble with the excitement that they might be about to move forward. (Hold you hard – not so fast!)

Now the bags have to be adjusted in the trolley. The purse has to be replaced in the handbag. The inane chat with the checkout assistant has to be concluded. (Sorry did I not mention that throughout the paying process the shopper is carrying on a running commentary with the cashier including tales of past exciting things that have happened whist shopping, the health of various family members, the outlook for the General Election, the fortunes of the local football team and other even more interesting trivia?) All this has to happen before they can move the foot or two from the end of the conveyor so the next person can move forward. (No, I am not making this up!)

What is truly amazing to me is the on-lookers do or say anything. I am often tempted to forcefully, yet politely, say something like. “Excuse me, could you please move/hurry up/get on with it/stop scratching your bum, etc.” Somehow I never do. I am more than ever convinced that I have too long resided in this island.

Down to the pub last evening for the quiz – during which I remembered another thing that drives me nuts about England. My team-mates are both driving instructors. Great! I'll ask them about the driving habits of their countrymen.

Driving is a complex activity. The cognitive and motor skills required are more than complex. So, why do people make it more difficult? Have they been taught to be ignoramuses or did it come naturally?

Somehow after passing their driving test people learn bad habits. Or, is it the way they are taught?

I asked. Tell me this: “On the driving test you are, quite rightly, penalised for “”not making progress””, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, why do people stop in the middle of a main road to let some twank pull out from a side road?”

“No idea.”

“Where, then did they learn this crazy manoeuvre?”

“No idea.”

“Am I then free to shoot them for being gormless idiots?”

“No comment.”

Do the folks who do this realise that they are quite likely to cause an accident? Do they care? Are they sub-normal?

There you have it – two reasons why I need to keep myself deeply rooted in Missoura!

Germanwings

Mad as a March Hare

Alpine tragedy. 'Nuff said?

Actually, no, that is not enough said.

Airplanes falling out of the sky for no apparent reason is quite a rational fear. It harks back to our ancestor's earliest days. The main reason we have stereoscopic vision is so we can accurately judge how far away that next branch is; because we all instinctively know that if we miss it we are going to fall and the fear of falling is inbuilt. It's in our genes.

When we get on a plane that genetic fear is triggered again. We are afraid of falling. No matter how many time we are told that flying is safer than crossing a road, we still feel instinctively frightened. There are, of course, some people who insist they love flying. They are called idiots or downright liars.

Still, we all need to fly sometimes as the alternatives are either too inconvenient, too expensive or just plain not there. (I did see the other day some crazy idea to make a land route from Europe to Canada/US via the Bering strait – this I've got to see! In my lifetime? Not likely.) Check out: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travelnews/11493681/Plans-for-superhighway-linking-Britain-and-America.html

We get on the plane and we not only overcome our natural fear, but our problems are compounded by putting our lives in the hands of a large number of strangers – and the pilots are only part of it. There's the ground crew, responsible for seeing that our plane doesn't run into something whilst still on the ground (you may think this is much preferable to crashing, but the result is about the same – a plane full of fuel is likely to explode on the ground if you run into something), the air traffic controllers, the maintenance crews, the refuelling crews (remember the guys who didn't put enough go-juice in the BA flight that just made the runway at Heathrow a few years ago?). The list is long. And everything has to function perfectly for us to safely arrive at our destination. No wonder most of us are not all that keen.

All this becomes irrelevant if just one of the links in the chain becomes broken.

This is what seems to have happened to the Germanwings flight. The pilot crashed the plane, deliberately.

This is not in the script of possible frightening situations. Should it be? Probably yes, but no amount of pre-flight checks are likely to have had much chance of picking up this scenario. In the old days we would just call it an Act of God. Perhaps that is the best phrase for it.