The Liquor Talking

It’s Tuesday, January 19, 2010 and Tuesday means:

This week: Destructor In Love

WARNING: Another long one.

A typical crew compliment for a Launch Control Facility was 6 cops, 2 capsule officers, a facility manager and a cook. Other than being posted with a bunch of retards, it was typically the cook who could make the difference between a tolerable tour and a truly dreadful one.

Most of the missile field cooks were adequate. I mean how hard can it be to open, heat up and serve food in frozen foil packs, prepared at F.E. Warren AFB and shipped to all the other missile bases? Some cooks were terrible, regularly serving either lasagna-sicles or turkey in gravy, a la cinder. They made starvation look like the coward’s way out. More than one inept cook found him/herself unceremoniously deposited outside the gate to await their replacement.

Others took pride in their craft and made extra steps to ensure your “dining experience” was as good as possible, under the circumstances. They brought their own spices, seasonings and supernatural incantations to magically transform an otherwise barely-edible substance into something worthy of being served in a commercial establishment.

Good cooks were highly coveted. The cops, facility managers and capsule crews all went to great lengths to ensure a good cook remained happy to be posted at your LCF. Having a good cook who was also an attractive female was the Holy Grail of missile field chow lore.

Such was the case with A1C Babs. (Not her real name of course) She was not only hot by any definition (I’m serious, she looked great, even in cooks whites) but was one who truly prided herself in her prowess with the hash. It was rumored that the senior capsule officer for our site paid regular tribute of 12 year-old scotch to the NCOIC of missile food services to ensure she remained assigned to our site. She was a rare one indeed. Upon being assigned to our crew, Amn Destructor immediately fell head over heels in love with her.

Always one for the direct approach, Amn Destructor had not even set down his bags when he first asked her out. A1C Babs was quite used to being hit on regularly by cops, facility managers, capsule officers and maintainers. She declines his initial overture with grace. Amn Destructor however, is convinced that he has indeed found the future Mrs Destructor and begins a campaign that by today’s standards would subject him to charges of sexual harassment, stalking and being one hell of a weirdo.

That evening, he presents her with a bouquet of wildflowers he picked while out doing orientation. She accepts these but again declines his invitation.

For the rest of the tour, Amn Destructor spends every spare moment in proximity to her. He helps her with her cleaning and as much as she’ll permit, preparing the meals. We all watch with some bemusement, but are on guard lest he says or does something to make her not want to be at our site any more.

During their conversations, he learns that Great Falls is her home town and that she lives off base with her grandmother. Unfortunately, her last name was fairly common, so his search of the phone book returns a dozen or so possible addresses and phone numbers. Once in from the field, he calls each number, hoping to find the one belonging to his true love. No joy.

Our next tour, Amn Destructor brings an offering of flowers and candy. She thanks him, but no, she doesn’t want to go out with him. He still follows her every move, during the tour. Seeing things heading for the creepy side, our crew chief conducts an informal counseling session with Amn Destructor, cautioning him strongly about aggravating a cook that the rest of us really like having around.

During our next break, Amn Destructor hits pay dirt. While enjoying the somewhat meager nightlife of Great Falls, he sees A1C Babs in one of the dancing joints. She dances a couple times with him and shares with him the only drink she’d let him buy for her. To his dismay, she leaves and gets in a car with some girlfriends and they drive off. Amn Destructor races to his car, fires it up and initiates a clandestine attempt to find out where she lives.

He loses her at a stoplight and spends the next half hour trying to locate the car. This he finds in the parking lot of a small diner. He parks and not knowing precisely what to do, decides to write her an anonymous love letter to leave on her car. The only paper he has is the wrapper from a hamburger, but it will have to do. He scrawls upon it attestations of unending love and the lengths to which is ready to go to win her heart. He stealthily places this under the windshield wiper of her car and returns to his vehicle to observe the results.

About an hour later, an elderly couple emerges from the diner and goes to what he thinks is A1C Babs’s car. The man sees the hamburger wrapper, removes it and gets in the car to read it. A heated discussion ensues between the man and his wife. He demands to know who her new suitor is and where he can be found. Such is their ruckus that the Great Falls PD is summoned. Wisely, Amn Destructor takes this as his cue to un-ass the AO.

The next tour, a sad and dejected Amn Destructor relates his tale of woe to us and we enjoy many a fine belly laugh. Seeing an opportunity for some sport, one of our crew later tells Amn Destructor that he has been to her house and provides him with an address. A1C Babs is out sick that tour, so we are spared another puppy love show.

Armed with her address, Amn Destructor composes yet another anonymous letter (this time on proper paper) and under cover of darkness tapes it to the screen door of the address he’s given. He rings the bell and hides in the bushes to witness its receipt. A young man answers the door sees the note and takes it inside. Amn Destructor waits patiently as the lights of the house all go dark.

The next tour, he is somewhat miffed at having been given the wrong address. Our crew chief repeats his warnings about aggravating a cook that we all like and he manages to keep his distance for the tour. A1C Babs seems relieved that his romantic interest have subsided and we enjoy a relatively good tour.

Realizing that the only way he’ll get his epistle of love to her is through official channels, he acquires what we called a “thousand miler” I believe they are called “Holey Joes” these days. He addresses it “A1C Babs, 341 SVS” and slips it into the base distro bin in our orderly room.

This arrives at the services squadron a day or so later. Since the previous address was that of the security police group commander, her supervisor is naturally curious as to what type of official correspondence an A1C cook would be receiving from a full bird colonel. He opens it and reads Amn Destructor’s clearly spelled out articles of affection. This raises some alarm in that it was anonymous and appears to have come from the police group commander’s office. He takes the letter and thousand miler to his boss, who forwards it to their NCOIC, who gives it to their OIC, then to their CC. Since squadron commanders aren’t supposed to communicate directly with group commanders other than their own, the services commander takes it to the support group commander who in turn pays a visit to our colonel who immediately comes uncorked.

So it was that every missile cop on break was recalled to hear their respective commanders rant and rave about the proper use of official distribution channels. Even cops who worked clear the other side of the complex and had never once lain eyes upon A1C Babs were made to listen to nearly an hour of yelling.

Once our commander ran out of steam and we were dismissed to our flight chiefs, a manhunt for Amn Destructor ensued. He eluded us and turned himself in to our commander. Our crew was then rounded up like so many escaped convicts and made to stand tall before the man to endure a point-blank lecture on how we’d managed to let Amn Destructor down and not properly teach his young ass how the Air Force worked.

For her own safety, A1C Babs was reassigned to the base chow hall. Amn Destructor was ordered to attempt no further contact with her and to report any incidental contact to our commander immediately. Needless to say, Amn Destructor was for many tours to come, almost as popular as a bastard at a family reunion.

Epilogue: Nearly four months later, we have a new commander. Amn Destructor sees A1C Babs at another night club. He dutifully digs out his recall roster and reports the contact to our new commander at 0100 in the blessed AM.

But that’s a different story.

In other news, voters in Massachusetts are heading to the polls to vote in a replacement for the late Ted Kennedy. As much as I don’t want to, I’m kinda seeing this as our “do-over” for the last presidential election. Yeah sure, it’s a do-over for us all, being done in one state, but if Massachusetts sends up a republican? Those are some pissed-off liberals! I’m trying hard to not get my hopes up, but a republican from Massachusetts?

The yuckers of FoxNews are already pretty much calling it, despite zero exit polling. Well, zero that’s available to the unwashed masses. I however have access to exit polling that I just made up that shows a total blowout, with Brown receiving a whopping 82% of the vote. I’m sure this will level off as real numbers become available.

And with that, we’re clear. More wonderful training!