"I'm Gonna Die…" Part I

Same bike at Ft Bragg - Post Beatles - Sans Peace Symbol

The first bicycle appeared in the garage of our quarters on Ft Sill. Red with white trim,  it had what might be termed today, "a hipster aesthetic" in that it was clunky, void of all frills and extremely utilitarian.  Which is to say, in 1962, it sucked.  What it did offer, on an army post,  was freedom and an extended range.

I was found on the business side of an artillery range by the MPs with a friend who showed the way. We were walking around mostly desert with tumble weeds when we saw a large unexploded round circled by white engineer tape.  And another and another. 

Even at seven,  I was thinking we might be in over our heads and was secretly relieved when the MPs showed up -- After a brief and friendly interrogation I would have the time of my short life riding home in an open jeep with the wind blowing through my pre-Beatles crew cut.  My mother could only say, "Wait until your father gets home" over and over.   

There is a unwritten law for military brats and it's this, "Whatever you do is a direct reflection on your father and his career.  Drugs, black market, shop lifting in the PX, wearing long hair & peace symbols…the list goes on.  This law eases up when living off post but when then neighbors see you being driven up to your home in a MP jeep…there's not much room to hide.  

I was in the tub playing with a battery powered scuba diver when I heard the front door open.  Until I heard the door, I was a blissful million miles away in a seven-year-old attention span.  The scuba diver in the tub.  The monkey banging cymbals in my head.  All of it came to a dead stop when the door opened and I knew…without any doubt, I was going to die.  

Don't Lose the Dignity of the Day

Photographer Unknown  US Air Force  ARVN Jump over Tay Ninh Province 

Denim & Supply - Ralph Lauren

SP/4 Salvador Romero 151st Infantry LRRP

Denim & Supply - Ralph Lauren

Photo by Mark Jury:  Fire Support Base Wood

Denim & Supply - Ralph Lauren

US Army Photo: Capt.  Gerald Devlin, 44th ARVN Ranger Bn.

Denim & Supply - Ralph Lauren

Marine Corps Photographer Sgt. David E. Weimer


Cheapen uniforms of those who served and died by the uneducable and characterless who dress up as a soldier one day and a cowboy the next.

Car Sales in the Army

Rightly or wrong, whenever I hear "…the VA," I cringe.  I entered the Army in 1976 for a four year stint as an airborne infantryman but I was an Army Brat and familiar with war stories of servicemen I knew at the Ft Carson Sport Parachute Club.  Gordie, a jump master, had 1st degree burns from napalm and I still remember him telling me how they rebuilt his ears.  And there were already issues with Agent Orange.

My father told me early in my enlistment that, "…you don't waste lives like they were office supplies."  That makes a lot of sense to me and pretty much anyone who has ever heard it.  But….

The Army is a big place.  In big places, people do things they wouldn't normally do for the sake of the institution.  I have no doubt working at any VA hospital is a stressful and an altogether sad job.  But they're not getting shot at.   Neither was I.  Getting out in 1980, I just missed Panama and was happy I did.  I had no desire to take anyone's life.

I did jump from airplanes, flip over jeeps, fall off a tank twice and came very close to shooting my squad leader who zagged when he should have zigged into my firing lane.  Twenty years ago I had a problem with my lower back.  I was x-rayed and the doc asked if I was a gymnast in high school or college due to repeated impact at L4/L5.  "I'm not gay,"I said.  The Doc laughed and I added, "I jumped out of planes for four years.  Could that have something to do with it?"

That doesn't bother me.  Mostly because I'm lucky and have decent health insurance.  I could afford to avoid the VA.  What has bothered me was the "Used Car Salesmanship" the Army and a doctor displayed during my ETS (termination of service) physical.  During a hearing test, "raise your finger when you hear the ping" the administrator looked at me and frowned, jotting down the numbers you see that were later crossed out by the doctor.  Oddly, a civilian.

The doctor tells me the hearing test results are wrong because, most likely,  the machine is screwed up.  I ask what that means.  The doctor, who looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a lab coat, creaks back in his chair and tells me my only option is to extend my service a week until the machine is fixed. I tell him I'm getting out the next day.  He tells me it's up to me.  So, numbers are changed and my only exception to my health, "My hearing" is scratched out.

Looking back, I was a kid hot to leave Army. I was not hanging around Bragg for another hearing test.    How's my hearing?  Ask anyone who knows me.  It's not Agent Orange but this Memorial Day Weekend, I often reflect on the history of using men, and today women,  like they were office supplies.  I've talked more than one kid outta joining.  In the end, I usually sum it up, "No matter what the Army says, they don't give a shit about you. If you're okay with that -- You're good to go."

Happy - You Don't Know Shit From Shinola - Memorial Day

Always a problem... shit from Shinola (shine-oh-la)

I heard it growing up but,  being an Army Brat,  I was exposed to a lotta confusing military metaphors.  A favorite of the Old Man's was, "He couldn't pour piss out of a shoe." When I joined the Army, a less elegant but still charming version was heard in Basic Training, "He couldn't pour piss out of a boot with a direction arrow on the heel."  As a kid, I wondered why anyone would pour piss out of a shoe much less,  how the piss got in the shoe to begin with. As a recruit, it quickly became obvious that, "piss out of a shoe (or boot)" was all about incompetence --Of which there was a great deal in Basic Training on behalf of myself, my fellow recruits and the US Army.

These logophile nuggets increased through training.  Drill Sergeant Hunt was fond of, "If your brains were gasoline there wouldn't be enough to power a piss ant motorcycle half way 'round a fucking dime." Or, "If your brains were cotton there wouldn't be enough for a piss ant tampax."  Obviously Hunt had something for piss ants.  My favorite was, "You people move like old people fuck."  Not sure why other than I'm very visual and any sexual fantasy in Basic Training was welcome.   

Infantry school introduced me to, "He couldn't piss up a rope."  Again, a perplexing statement when taken out of  Army context but eloquent in describing raging incompetence with so few words. By Jump School, things got strange with the 'Black Hat' from South Texas who called everybody, "Stevie Wonder." If he caught you chewing gum, he took it out of your mouth and put in his adding, "You chewed all the flavor outta this gum, Stevie Wonder. Why would you do that to me?"

Using expressions like these, once assigned to a unit, were frowned upon. They had become tired and over used -- Much like double monks.  Barrack's poets would take the stage and while the target was the same incompetence...be it the Army or a man other (than yourself), personal style ruled -- I'll never forget the bookish and frequently busted 30-something Spec 5 from Los Angeles who called the XVIII Airborne Corps G-3 Sergeant Major, "An unmitigated asshole." At 19, I had no idea what 'unmitigated' meant but there was beauty in the meter of it that I still find attractive today.

I drove for a colonel, later a general, who left a briefing, climbed into my jeep, turned to me and said, "Tinseth, I'm so confused I don't know whether to scratch my watch or wind my ass." I dunno...I think the Spec 5 has it over the colonel. 

When I asked my Old Man what Shinola was, he explained it was boot polish and the origin of the phrase went as far back as WWII.  I didn't say anything but all I could think of was, why did black boot polish look like shit?  Was everyone eating black beans and rice?  What it took years for me to figure out (piss ant brains) was that the Army of WWII wore brown boots and Shinola made a brown polish. So... now you know, Stevie Wonder.

'O-Dark-Thirty'

'Morning Prep' by Robert Bates, USMC

Ron Capps, retired Army and Foreign Service officer and currently director of the Veteran's Writing Project, asked if he could use my story, 'The Indian Chief,' for the Spring issue of the VWP's literary journal, "O-Dark-Thirty." Having no idea who Capps or the VWP was, I did some digging and was surprised by what I found -- An organization dedicated to publishing stories by military veterans, their family members as well as free writing seminars, many offering free travel to and from.  The web site is here and the Spring issue of the journal is here.

"This Must Be Your Lucky Day"

Infantry AIT, Ft Benning, GA

It was a hot Summer in Georgia. Thanks to an excessive heat, humidity and wind index the Army called, "Wet Bulb," our time in the field was mostly spent sitting around drinking water from canvas lister bags . The water had a tangy canvas aftertaste and was cool due to condensation and ice the drills sometimes added.

Infantry school was a vast improvement over basic.  We were still denied weekends off but the drills were focused on building us up rather than tearing us down which was the case in Basic. With rare exceptions, the drills were on our side. Always helping with tips, stories, and the occasional reminder to let you know they were still in charge.

 Drill Sergeant Nolan, far right
 

 "Private, what's the maximum effective range of the M-16?

 "500 meters Drill Sergeant Nolan." 

"Private, what's the cyclic rate of fire for the M-60?"

 Five to six hundred rounds per minute, Drill Sergeant Nolan." 

Private,what's my mother's name?" 

"I don't know, Drill Sergeant Nolan." 

"Her name is Mrs Nolan. Drop and give me 20."

Most drills went home at night but Nolan stayed in a private room on the second floor of our barracks. Occasionally, he would march my platoon to a trailer PX and instruct us to buy a 6 pack of beer. We'd march back and fall out into the woods where there was an abandoned concrete bunker we did our drinking in. We'd listen to Nolan tell stories of his year with the 101st Airborne in Vietnam, Pathfinder School and how much he loved the Army.  

On a Sunday march to the PX we were halted by a drill from another company.  He spoke to Nolan who laughed and  turned to me,  "Tinseth, fall out and report to Drill Sgt Ott."   Nolan marches away with the platoon as I stand at attention in front of Ott who asks, "Do you have a girlfriend, Tinseth?". I look at Ott and behind him I see a tan VW with my girlfriend in white shorts and a navy tank top. Her brown tan evidence of her Summer on a beach. She seems unreal standing next to her car parked in the POV lot. I watch my platoon and Nolan march by as they all stare at her gravity defying rear end and tube top.

Ott asks if I had anything to do with her driving up. It was understood no visitors were allowed until graduation.  I tell Ott 'no way.' Amazingly, he buys it and adds, "This must be your lucky day."  We're shown to a day room for visitors that I didn't know existed. I'm told we have an hour after which she will have to leave. Alone, we lock ourselves in a  latrine and make the most of our time. Over, with much of our hour to spare, I tuck my fatigue shirt into my fatigue pants, square my web belt with my gig line and ask my girlfriend  if she'll marry me.

We didn't get married but I don't remember being as happy as I was that Sunday afternoon.  Sometimes, when I'm feeling sorry for myself,  I think how unlucky I've been...but that picture of me, a few days after her visit, reminds me just how lucky I've been.   

"If You Don't Think You Can Cut It -- Don't Even Try..."

"We love it here, we love it here, we finally found a home.

A home - a home - a home away from home."
 Airborne Running Cadence

I recently spent three hours on the phone with an Army buddy I haven't seen since 1977. It was good to catch up and he told me about an airborne recruiting film from the '70s and asked if I'd ever seen it. It didn't ring a bell and, having just watched it, I still don't recall the video, but it does help bring back ground, tower and jump week like they were yesterday. 

16 weeks of basic and infantry prepared me physically for jump school but I'm not so sure about my mental condition. There was amazing freedom in jump school compared to infantry. Once Friday at 5PM rolled around - we were free to go where we wanted - just as long as we were in formation, and conscious, by 5AM Monday morning.

In order to hide shaved heads, a buddy and I bought hippie wigs in downtown Columbus and wore them to a disco at a Sheraton. Mine was blonde and shoulder length while my buddy donned a red 'Fro. I'm pretty sure we were both in leisure suits, of which, one was denim with white stitching. Maybe mine. Maybe not.

We sat at table between the dance floor and the bar and ordered beers. Feigning stoned absentmindedness, I pushed the long synthetic hair behind my right ear with the flick of a hand and with a twist of the neck, saw people at a table behind ours laughing. With unease, I turned to my buddy and saw people behind him laughing.

Someone pointed and it was obvious everyone in the bar was laughing at us. We left before our beers arrived and took a cab back to the barracks. I had every intention of chucking my wig out of the cab window, but it cost $30, and I thought I might be able to salvage it by having the length shortened.

In the barracks, we grabbed a couple beers from an old converted Coke machine and went up to our floor where I threw my blonde wig on my bunk in disgust. My buddy told those who had not gone out yet our tale of woe. Cromer, at least six-three and covered in black chest hair, headed toward us from the showers with a towel around his waist and cheap shower shoes snapping at his heels. He would wash out during tower weeek thanks to a severe case of shin splints, but get his wings in the following class.

Cromer grabbed the blonde wig, threw it on his head while dropping the towel and shoved his balls and penis between his legs revealing what looked like a woman's triangle of thick black pubic hair. Pigeon toed, to keep his privates concealed, Cromer ran across the barracks screaming, "Fuck me! Fuck me! Somebody give me some diiiiiiii..."

The barracks erupted in screams as Cromer was attacked and Polaroids taken. Needless to say, his simple   comic originality was immediately copied and my $30 wig disappeared for good into the the bowels of the 44th Airborne Company where men donned long synthetic hair and took turns running with their genitals tucked between their legs screaming, "Fuck Me!"  Never in the history of the Airborne was so much owed by so many to a wig. 

Big Jake Watch Review - How Big Is Yours?

As I pack away what's left of a 21 year insurance career, old pal, fellow infantryman and adult entertainment star, Jake Rhodes (his porn name)  volunteers to review the TSOVET SVT-AT76 --  Smoke 'em if you got 'em. 

Tinseth asked me to review a watch by a manufacturer that I'm not familiar with - "TSOVET." I google and discover a southern California watch brand (wait, sorry - it's a "Timing Gauges" brand) which smacks of in-your-face machismo. Words like "industrial" and "utilitarian" are heavily used in their marketing copy. Black and white images of vintage aircraft cockpits, combat watercraft equipped with .50cal machine guns fade in and out. Are you eyeballing me boy! Show me your War Face!

I'm getting pumped! My BDU camo boonie hat left over from days humping an M16A2 around Central America is around here somewhere. Ah, there we go, a little snug...Taking a look at the black box Tinseth handed over it says "Designed in America, Built in Switzerland". This is just getting better and better. Some of the great American design classics run through my mind - the 1940 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead, the P-51 Mustang, the '69 Camaro. However, as I pull out the TSOVET model SVT-AT76 I'm sadly reminded that we're the same shmucks that came up with the Pontiac Aztek, the Snuggie, and Hair in a Can. The size of this watch is RIDICULOUS!

This is an enormous hunk of gunmetal brushed matte 316L stainless steel, the same steel type utilized by many of the finest swiss watches (although Rolex switched from 316L in the late 80's to more expensive 904L) but simply way too much of it. Tsovet states a case diameter of 48mm and a thickness of 14.55mm. Just to give you an idea for comparison purposes, my  Rolex Sea-Dweller has a case diameter of 40mm. Now, I can appreciate that watch designs through the last 75 years have been getting larger and "the youth" of America prefer a super-sized watch, but where does the insanity end? Right here with the SVT-AT76 - knock it off kids, this thing weighs an exhausting 5.8 ounces.

The design of this watch is an homage to the aviation models of the great Swiss Bell & Ross brand and presents the square-ish aircraft instrument-like shape B&R made famous. Given it's massive heft Tsovet wisely chose switch the knurled crown from the traditional right side of the case over to the left in an effort to eliminate it digging painfully into the back of your hand. The crown and case back are a screw down type providing ample protection and a 100 meter water resistance rating should you attempt a challenging one armed butterfly stroke. There are four exposed screw heads on the front and back of this model further providing an industrial look to this "timing instrument". Opposite the crown the 14.55mm thick sided case has a small plate containing a faint engraving of the model number set flush into the body of the watch held in place by two small screws, a neat feature.

The dial is clutter free  in matte dark gray  (which I like quite a bit) displaying bold luminescent 2-4-6-8-0-12 numbers. (Did you catch that? Where the number "10" is supposed to be there is a "0" instead, you would think that given the goliath proportions of the dial they could somehow slip in an extra number). There is a small date window near the 4 o'clock marker and large sword-shaped hands with a great deal of yellow/green lume providing excellent low light visibility. An interesting note, the Tsovet name written small under the 12 o'clock marker although written white instead of yellow/green also contains luminescent material and glows well in the dark (another cool nerdy feature I haven't seen before). All this is covered with a hardened mineral crystal without an anti-glare coating, both of which is most likely a cost savings measure when compared to a more expensive and more scratch resistant sapphire.

The movement is quartz... whatever. This particular model comes with a soft thick  22mm tan leather strap with contrasting white stitching and a large stainless steel tang buckle laser engraved with the brand name. The strap appears to be held in place within the case lugs by two very, very small screws. If they are actually functioning parts rather than simply cosmetic I strongly advise that you don't take this to the mall jeweler to change out the strap as their size and positioning no doubt invite deep scratches and hurt feelings. 

In review, the box itself gave me a hint as to the dichotomy of the Tsovet brand - a watch "Designed in (a bloated) America, Built (quite well) in Switzerland". Would I wear this watch, let's just say I'm not a member of its intended target market... real men.

Thinking of Camouflage

Sicily Drop Zone, Ft Bragg, 1976

Solid Shield, Ft Bragg, 1980

Green Ramp, Pope Air Force Base, 1978


What's fascinating about the current trend in camouflage is how the original intent -- has been completely reversed.

Greenwich Village, NYC, Summer 2011 - Photo by The Style Blogger

Christmas Party Sport Coat...

With party name tag

From Friendly Ukranian Army Recruiter...

Veteran's Day

My Fantasy, Ft Bragg, 1979

His Reality, Vinh Thanh, 1967

My father sent small B&W Agfa prints home during the war. His comments from that time were written in ink. I wrote a screenplay based on his experiences in Vietnam and during a visit in the 1995, I gave him all the photos I had from Vietnam and asked if he would share any memories with me. We sat on my patio after dinner and smoked and drank. He flipped through the pictures saying little. The next morning at breakfast he returned the pictures with comments printed in pencil.

Ft Bragg to Chapel Hill

UNC - Chapel Hill Mid '60's

Dad, Sunchon Street, Ft Bragg, NC March 1966

Dad, Central Highlands, South Vietnam Summer 1966

Written earlier for my blog, "I'm Here to Leave." For a new Army Brat friend.


I remember my father coming home but rarely his leaving. Except once.

We took him to Pope Air Force Base. A short drive from our quarters. He kissed my two sisters goodbye. He kissed my mother goodbye. He turned to me, poked my chest with his finger and said, "You screw up once while I'm gone and I'll come back and kick your ass. You got that?" I nodded and he turned and walked away to Vietnam. I watched him swagger to a C 130 with a duffel bag on his shoulder, his green beret cocked at an angle.

Had he not come home -- That would've been my last memory of him.

I'm not sure any eight year old would understand him. I did. A little. I expected to be treated like a man when he said goodbye. We spent a lot of time with each other the year before he left. Racing slot cars at  Hay Hobby Shop. Riding in his Berkley at local SCCA events. Taking his dare and eating a sardine he held out as raw fish. He was never chatty but we had our moments. Now he was gone and I felt ease settle over our house on Sunchon Street.

The move to Chapel Hill took the ease and put it on an island in the Caribbean with palm trees, coconut drinks and ocean breezes. Everything about Ft Bragg disappeared and I saw that civilian life was not the pawn shops, strip joints, car lots and bars I saw on the other side of the main gate. The University of North Carolina looked like a giant officer's club and Carolina blue became my favorite color. I went into the record shops downtown where my mother picked out the latest Herb Albert and Tijuana Brass album and I lusted for Beatle's 45s with the yellow and red Capitol label.

I was enrolled in my first Catholic school in June but had three months of summer when we moved into a house in the country. Older grad students and faculty lived in the same small houses tucked away in the woods with long drive ways and a concrete storm pipe at the beginning of each. By the end of the summer I had crawled through every one.

There was an art class I attended with my sister. A student lived in an apartment in an old house on campus and gave classes in the back yard. We sat around a subject and plopped water colors on the spongy paper while the sun looked down on us. Color was everywhere. In the red brick of the campus buildings, the white of clap board houses and the green of pines everywhere.

And in 1966, there was khaki and madras as well. High water trousers, white socks and crew cuts were still in vogue although longer hair was growing in popularity with the Beatles. There was also talk of the Rolling Stones but they were associated with hoodlums and communists.

Our next door neighbor was in dental school. He was married and had a little boy who liked to drop rocks on toads and poke a wasp nest with a stick. The future dentist also had a Mustang convertible and a color tv where we all watched Cinderella. I thought it was a terrible waste of color.

Farther up the street were a Canadian couple who had a white Volvo 1800 and a West Highland Terrier named Donald Bane. He was getting his doctorate and she had her masters. He had something to do with English lit and I remember they were always laughing... a trait I associate with most Canadians today.

Behind us was a preacher going to Duke for his doctorate in something biblical. I never remember him laughing but his son and daughter were good friends and I told my first story on their door stoop. It was about the secret life of their cat. Gerald believed every word. The next day he told me his father said I had made it all up. I admitted I had and his sister asked me to make up another story. I did but it wasn't funny.

The drama teacher who had a parcel of kids and knew the writer Paul Green personally was the coolest dad. With longish hair turning grey at the the temples, he was a writer, an actor and looked like a cross between Peter Lawford and Johnny Carson. My mother only allowed tv on weekends and I remember Friday nights where all the parents got together for a party (except the preacher) and all of us kids were put in a house with a baby sitter, the Monkees on tv and a dozen hot dogs from a nearby drive in.

I wonder if it wasn't too much too soon. I was a successful story teller. I had access to sports cars, actors and color tv. I lived a Town and Country life. Campus book stores and record shops. Swinging on a massive vine in the woods. Pondering colors and shapes as I painted.  Life was good and one day I was met at the door of my house by a sunburned man wearing a madras short sleeve shirt and a sun bleached crew cut...high and tight.

No Horses - No Bayonets - One Bird

From left, MSG Ridout & Sgt Tinseth, Solid Shield, 1980

Belly Dancing & Plaid in 1980

Fayetteville, NC, 1980

It was a strange day.  I was about 30 days short from getting out of the Army.  I had just bought a plaid sport coat for college at the PX with the help of a buddy in G-2 who had worked in a haberdasher somewhere in Alabama.  I was asked to take pictures of my Sergeant Major's wife's belly dancing class.  I suppose they're all still waiting for prints.

One of the dancers, who was married to a huge MP, was having an affair with a buddy of mine. But he didn't have a plaid sport coat. It helps to have a plaid sport coat on a strange day.

Oy, Limey, I'm a Gimlet but I need a Canuck

Back in 1867, Lauchlan Rose patents a lime cordial for the British Navy in hopes of cashing in on a regulation requiring all British ships to provide sailors with a daily lime ration to prevent Scurvy. It's discovered, one assumes by the Anchor-Krankers nicknamed, "Limeys," that this cordial, 'Rose's Lime' goes well with a little gin and a splash of water.

When my grandfather was offered a highball by Uncle Tony, a gin gimlet on the rocks was pretty much what he got. Not sure if I associated gimlets with my elders or not but it's a cocktail I have when I'm hanging out with the seniors. Usually at a Supper Club in Door County, Wisconsin with one of those big horse shoe shaped bars and an all you can eat Friday Fish Fry. They whip up a decent Whiskey Sour as well but that's another post.

Troops of the 21st Infantry Division Regiment were nicknamed, 'Gimlets' back in 1921 after a tool used to bore through rock for placing TNT. Their motto was, 'Bore, Bother Bore.' Alain Sitbon, owner of Le Petit Paris in Chicago, nicknamed me 'Pepper Grinder.' When I asked why, Alain held an imaginary pepper grinder in both hands and twisted his fist, "Because, Johnny, you never stop with the criticizing." Alain twists his pepper grinder, "You go on and on and on..."

A gin Gimlet can pack a punch. 3 ounces of gin to an ounce of Rose's Lime in a shaker. A cup of ice, shake, until you think your gonna get frost bite, and strain into a martini glass. Some people garnish with a lime or mint. I'd use more Rose's if I could convince a Canuck to send me a bottle or two. US made Rose's has fructose corn syrup and it's very sweet. Brits and Canadians use sugar. Cleaner and brighter which is pretty much what Brits and Canucks think of themselves.

I recently tried a Bacardi Gimlet. Rounder and smoother than gin. More character than vodka. Use the same portions as gin and try to find the connection between this post and yesterday's Lolo & The Bar-Kays. There's another giveaway and test question next week.




And, if you find yourself in Chicago, check out Le Petit Paris. Tell Alain 'Pepper Grinder' sent you...and ask him why he's always out of Montrachets, when he's gonna stop comping Jesse Jackson, why he took my picture down, where's the Dover Sole...

I Miss My Enemies

I first saw the magazine, "Soviet Life" (1956-1991) when I was assigned to G-2 Intelligence at XVIII Airborne Corps. G-2 was filled with brilliant officers. A few spoke Russian and had been involved in covert operations behind the Iron Curtain. They were, in my estimation, the most rounded and interesting men and women I ever worked with. Ever.



I was trained in Soviet tactics and weapons at Aberdeen Proving Ground and in turn trained elements of the 82nd and the 101st Airborne Divisions how to kill Soviets and their Warsaw Pact brothers. I also became infatuated with Russia and Russians, as those who study their enemies sometimes do.


"Soviet Life" was a quid pro quo publication for the US propaganda magazine, "Amerika" that was distributed in the Soviet Union and seen, by last count, three people from the Soviet Union. Actually, I've never met anyone from the USSR who saw Amerika magazine. But then, they didn't have to. According to Niall Ferguson, we won the Cold War with blue jeans.



"Like ice melting in the stream- I can't hold on to how I used to be"

I miss "Soviet Life" and, to be honest, I guess I miss having an enemy. You know, without Grendel, Beowulf was just another Meade swilling Geat.

Conclusion of Hard-Ons for Hitler: NSFW or Brown Shirts

Rare photo of Sgt Nick (standing, far right) and his Brassball Battalion, somewhere (Top Secret) in North Korea, 1978