Burn Shine

Boudhanath - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

My daughter is getting married this weekend and insists I wear dress shoes with my tuxedo.  This may seem like a reasonable request, but for a man who has been able to spend his entire professional career wearing only running shoes or Chacos, her concern is not to be under estimated.  In the closet behind some old suits that have not been worn for decades, I found my black, scuffed shoes covered with dust.  They are home to my feet once or twice a year, when my wife insists I dress for a formal occasion.

For four years and particularly the first of these, I spent many hours shining shoes at the Air Force Academy.  It was not how I intended to wile away spare time during my college years, but shoes shined to such a luster that they resembled black mirrors were the expectation.  A smudge or infinitesimal defect was enough to bring unwanted attention from hounding upper class cadets.
 
Fresh out of high school and oblivious to military life, my first day at the Academy passed in a daze–head shaved, each arm vaccinated a half dozen times, and enough clothing issued to fill two large laundry bags.  At the end of the day I staggered into my dormitory room and saw Jack, my new roommate, with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth and apparently lighting his shoes on fire.  Or so I thought.  At nearly twenty-two Jack was as old as one could be to be enrolled as an incoming freshman.  As a prior Air Force sergeant and Prep School graduate, he was wise to the ways of the military.

“Hi, I’m Jack. I’ll be your roommate for the next month during First BCT.”

“Good to meet you.  If you don’t mind me asking, what are doing to your shoes?”

“Burn shining them–you put on a thin layer of shoe polish then heat it with a cigarette lighter.  After it softens, you take a moist cotton ball and rub the shoe in a circular motion until the polish clears.  Do it thousands of times, and you’ll be wearing mirrors rather than shoes.”

It was going to be a long summer for me, but Jack was gone within a week.  Immaculate shoes and all, he was unprepared for the vicious hazing from the predatory cadet trainers, who were more inclined to put the soles of their shoes on the top of his than pay him a compliment.

Yesterday I went to the drug store and bought a can of Kiwi black shoe polish–the first in over forty years.  I thought about buying a cigarette lighter to burn shine my shoes for the upcoming wedding, but decided against it.  A couple quick applications of polish were quite enough.  No one ever looks at your feet unless they are afraid to look you in the eye.  Besides my daughter inadvertently might step on them during the wedding dance, and all that work would be for naught. 

Too Many Roses

Pavers at USAFA - Photo by JoAnn Sturman

by Scott Sturman

Every five years the class of 1972 meets at the Air Force Academy to spend an extended weekend with long time friends.  It is a festive occasion with numerous social events, but there does not seem to be enough time to greet, much less talk with everyone.

There is a solemn side to the reunion as well, when members of the class meet to pay their respects to classmates who are no longer with us.  The ceremony is conducted outdoors near the Association of Graduates Building, where one is able to view the Rocky Mountains to the west and the Black Forest to the east.  In the courtyard 750 odd bricks or pavers are laid in a rectangular grid each having the name of an individual class member etched deeply into the surface.

Members of the class preside over the ceremony, and after an opening prayer, the name of each deceased classmate is called.  At this point close friends and family members approach that person’s paver and lay a rose upon it.  This year thirty-nine names were honored by tearful widows and grieving classmates.

Printed in the event program are pictures of each deceased classmate when they were First Class Cadets and short personal history, including the cause of death.  Those who passed in their twenties and thirties often died in aircraft accidents or at the hand of aggressive cancers for which there was no cure.  Now in our early 60s a more insidious cause is beginning to take its toll: cardiovascular disease.

Some of us picked our parents right and are blessed with the genes of long life.  No unhealthy habit seems to speed up the time clock.  Others are not so fortunate.  Yet there are ways to hedge one’s bets to enjoy a prolonged retirement: weight control, no smoking, moderate drinking, some exercise now and then, and having a high index of suspicion if something seems amiss.  These are the best life insurance policies.

It is extraordinarily difficult to lose a spouse or friend of over forty years.  Remembering their impact on one’s life, why did they have to depart so soon and leave us without their company?  When we return in 2017 and again in 2022 to celebrate our friendships and honor the dead, hopefully, like Jack Benny, we will be stuck on the number thirty-nine when the time comes to lay roses on the pavers. 

Mrs. Brush and the Seven Dwarves

Tibet - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

fliesinyoureyes.com

During June Week festivities at the Air Force Academy, it was customary to invite a nationally known celebrity to give a speech in Mitchell Hall at a formal dinner hosting perhaps 3000 participants including graduating cadets, their parents, family members, and visiting dignitaries.  One of my responsibilities, in addition to contracting the rock and roll band Sugar Loaf to play for the graduation dance, was to contact and invite a suitable speaker.  Traditionally, those who agreed to participate were politicians, entertainers, or academics who enjoyed a healthy relationship with the military.  The list of candidates varied, but without exception each was a famous person whose name was recognizable to the general American public.

Along with my roommate Mark Kuno, we compiled a list of dignitaries according to category.  Politicians: Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, Gerald Ford, Barry Goldwater, Alexander Haig, George Schultz, Secretary of Defense Melvin Laird, and Henry Kissinger.  Movie stars: Bob Hope, Ann Margaret, Jimmie Stewart, and Lucille Ball.  Military: Astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, Generals Curtis LeMay and John Ryan, and Secretary of the Air Force Robert Seamans.

In an era before email and faxes I began sending invitations by mail in the autumn of 1971 to insure those attending the ceremony would be entertained by a memorable celebrity.  Since this form of communication was relatively slow by today’s standards, I sent more than one invitation at a time.  I thought naively multiple acceptances would come pouring back through the mail, and the major problem would be to renege on someone who was not used to taking no for an answer.  Bob Hope or Alexander Haig?  Let me see.  “Secretary Haig, we regret to inform you....”

I mailed the first set of invitations and within a month or two the responses began to appear.  All began, “So and so regrets to inform you ...”  Oh, well, these were busy people and this was understandable, so on to the next batch of potential speakers.  I sent a second mailing and received the same discouraging responses; the third attempt yielded similar results.  

It was now well into April, and time was getting short for anyone of any importance to take time from a busy schedule to speak to our graduating class.  In fact the list of possible speakers was exhausted.  I asked my friend,  “Mark, any ideas?  Not one invitation was accepted.”

Having been raised a Catholic, he replied, “You could always ask the Pope.”

A desperate invitation began, “Your Eminence Paul VI:  This letter may come as somewhat of a surprise, but what are you doing on June 7 of this year?”

Since a response from the Pope, let alone a positive one, was remote, extreme measures were required.  It would be a break in protocol, but after so many denials, I decided to give the speech myself.  The subject:  A parody of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and a description of the manner in which each dwarf depending on their personalities turned down the invitation to speak to the graduating class of 1972.  Sleepy fell asleep while reading the invitation.  Dopey thought Doc was playing a trick on him, as so forth.  Simple stuff, but hopefully the audience would be plied with so much alcohol by this point in the festivities they would be amused at the amateurish effort.

From the podium I recounted all the dignitaries who refused to speak including Paul VI and then extended this litany to the dwarves.  In all it was an unorthodox but surprisingly funny speech.  As laughter from the audience increased, I knew the Mateus was working its magic.   After the presentation some of my classmates and even some adults congratulated me on a most entertaining graduation talk.

Yet one member of the audience was not impressed.  Mrs. Brush, wife of my nemesis Lt. Colonel Brush, was the mother of seven children and saw some nefarious parallel between her family and the Seven Dwarves.  

The Brush began, “That was comical of you, Mr. Sturman.  I always thought Hollywood was more your style than the Air Force.”  Then he winked and added, “That was funny.  How did you ever come up with that?”

Mrs. Brush didn’t think my antics were as amusing as her husband.  She thought I was lampooning her, the Brush, and their seven children.  It was a lucky stroke, for although I was oblivious to the Brush’s family life, perhaps she would give her husband an ear full later that night when they returned home.  I didn’t deny her accusation.  It seemed a small consolation for him restricting me to my room during the last semester and making many of my classmates miserable for much of their Academy experience.      

Now forty years later my conscience has gotten the better of me.  I offer my apologies to the Brush family.   Hopefully, she didn’t leave the colonel with too many bruises that night.  If only John Paul VI would have said "yes," this never would have happened.      

Brushing Up

Fez, Morocco - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman
fliesinyoureyes.com

The lieutenant colonel’s thick, black hair was cut so short on the back and sides of the head that it resembled a five o’clock shadow, but he let the hair on the top grow to what seemed six inches long.  Rather than relax and lay flat, the follicles grew vertically skyward, and were then buttressed with hair gel and mowed parallel to the ground giving their bearer the ultimate flattop and the appearance of a Fuller Brush.  In the civilian world it was a look more apt to be found in a circus, but to his peers the style epitomized an officer destined for greatness.  One clever classmate coined the apropos moniker, “The Brush.”

“Mr. Sturman, drive yourself over here,” The Brush commanded in his staccato voice.

As was often the case, he had been hiding behind one of the stairwells of the dormitory, waiting to pounce on soon-to-graduate cadets, who might lose their military bearing.  The last few months The Brush was on a personal crusade to prevent me from falling into this trap, but by this point it was hopeless.  On this occasion I had decided not to march to the evening meal with my squadron but join my good friend Doug Goodman and the gaggle of intercollegiate athletes who were excused with these tiresome formalities.  It was a harmless gesture, but in The Brush’s eyes there was no such thing as a trivial disregard for regulations. 

“Yes, sir,” I grumbled, as I sauntered toward another reprimand.

“Mr. Sturman, I’m not sure there is room enough in my Air Force for you and me.  You’ve made some bad choices lately, and one of them is hanging around Mr. Goodman.  His hair is too long.  He has no military bearing and displays a horrible attitude.  Can you imagine the terrible impression, if a parent or VIP saw him strolling around the terrazzo?”

“He’s one of my best friends, and an intercollegiate athlete who happened to score 1600 on the SAT.  I could do worse for friends, sir.”

“Goodman and those friends of your’s in the 40th Squadron have ruined you.  They’re losers!  You’re as bad as the rest of those renegades.  Even your squadron patch, “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” designed by your classmate Borenstein is an embarrassment to the Academy.”

I had begun the semester as a Cadet Lt. Colonel and squadron commander of the 40th but fell afoul of The Brush and demoted to Cadet Warrant Officer and confined to the cadet area until graduation. The 40th were indeed renegades, the most unmilitary of the Academy’s forty squadrons.  Between a cheating scandal two years prior which decimated the pool of underclass talent and voluntary and involuntary resignations from my class, the squadron had been gutted of the manpower needed to compete against other squadrons in the Cadet Wing.  What remained was a hard core of closely knit cadets who would rather march tours and suffer confinement than comply with nonsensical rules.  We finished near the bottom of virtually every competitive category except marching to meals where we placed third.  What a joke!  Some of the guys had purposely marched out of step to torment Captain Dephwad, the unpopular Air Force office in charge of the squadron.  How could we score so high in something we didn’t care about?  Maybe some other squadrons had the same idea and were more out of step than we were.

The Brush went on to have an extraordinarily successful Air Force career, and from what I understand conducted himself in a totally different fashion than the picayune fanatic who terrorized cadets.  We met briefly six years later when I was being discharged from the service, and he was beginning to pin stars on his shoulders.  He recognized me sitting with a group of other captains in the Davis-Monthan Officers’ Club and approached our table. During our conversation, he was charming and affable, in short a perfect gentleman.  The general wished me good luck with my new career, and I am certain he meant it. 

Why the one persona for the Air Force and another at the Air Force Academy?  In my squadron alone four of my classmates either resigned or were dismissed prior to graduation, in large part because of officers who would rather haze than lead.  All the departed were the type one would want as a wingman.  Two became successful businessmen, another an attorney, and the last earned a PhD from Princeton University in nuclear physics.  There was plenty of room in The Brush’s Air Force for them; all they asked was to be treated like adults after completing Fourth Class Year. 

Bone Crushers

 Cape Buffalo in Tanzania - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman
fliesinyoureyes.com

The summer temperatures are torrid in Arizona’s Sonoran Desert, and to escape them requires traveling to the mountains and cooler temperatures.  Tucson is surrounded by 9000 feet high clumps of peaks separated by the desert: the Santa Catalinas, the Rincons, and the Santa Ritas.  Only the high elevations of Mt. Lemon in the Santa Calatinas are accessible by automobile, but they are inundated with people due to the proximity to Tucson; the other areas require a backpack and a strong pair of legs.  Real relief comes from avoiding crowds as well the heat.

When my friend Jeff sent me an email advertising the lodge at Hannagan Meadow in Arizona’s White Mountains, it brought back memories of our group’s favorite retreat.  Near the central Arizona-New Mexico border and 275 miles east of Phoenix, it rests at over 9000 feet with summer daytime temperatures in the 70’s.  To get there required effort, a six hour 240 mile drive, with much of the route north of Morenci along curvy mountain roads.  It was worth it to be in a quiet place among the tall trees far away from the desert.

In the 1970’s Hannagan Meadow consisted of one rustic lodge with a bar and pool table and a few primitive one room cabins.  Our group of 8-10 was frequently the only ones at the Meadow, and we pitched our tents in the campground a short distance away and walked to the lodge to have dinner, play pool, and drink a few cold ones.  Every summer morning began clear and cool, but by the afternoon huge thunder clouds would form over the mountains and bring afternoon showers.  It was a good time to crawl into the tent and take a nap for a couple hours until the clouds dissipated and the sun returned.  Life at Hannagan Meadow was peaceful and very slow paced.

One August of particularly unbearable heat, my girl friend and I decided on the spur of the moment to spend the weekend at Hannagan Meadow.  We left late Friday afternoon and arrived at the campsite after midnight.  That next morning we hiked around the area and found we were the only visitors.

We walked downhill to the lodge and sat at one of the empty tables for lunch; only a bartender and the cook/waiter/manager were working.  The waiter approached our table, “Howdy.  Would you like a hot dog or a hamburger with fries?”

No sooner did we finish lunch and start to play a game of pool, when we heard the roar of Harley Davidson's approaching the lodge from Highway 666.  Eight motorcycles ridden by huge scruffy men screeched to a stop in the parking lot.  Each was adorned with leather pants, sleeveless T-shirts, a large caliber pistol on the belt, and innumerable skull and cross bones and other anti social insignia.  This was Phoenix’s Bone Crusher motorcycle gang out for a weekend search and destroy mission.

They barged through the door like a German Panzer division.

“Bar tender, you got anything to drink?” shouted the leader.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Give me a whiskey and put it in a mug.  I wanna get drunk, and if I don’t, you’ll be one sorry mother fucker.”

“Yes, sir.”

He took the mug of whiskey and drained it.  “Not bad, bar keep.  Give me another.” The others followed suit, ordering enough alcohol to put all of Phoenix into a coma.

After his thirst was quenched, the leader asked the bar tender, “Where are the wild women in Hannagan Meadow.  We want to get laid.”

“Ain’t no women here at the Meadow, sir.”

“Well, what do you do for fun here?”

“I like to sleep, sir.  I come here to sleep sixteen hours a day.”

“Holy shit, boy.  You’re a regular Rip Van Winkle.”  His partners laughed at their leader’s witty remark and impressive knowledge of American literature.

“If there ain’t any women here, then where can we get in a fight?” he asked, as his eyes gazed toward the pool table.

“Ain’t nobody here who wants to fight you, sir.  Would you like another drink?”

“You’re damned right I do and this one better be strong, real strong.”

“Hey, you, playin’ pool.  That’s a good lookin’ woman you’re with.  I bet she’d like to be with a real man for a change.”

“Yeah, she is pretty.  Look, we don’t want any trouble.  We’re here for lunch just like you guys.”

“What makes you think we’re lookin’ for trouble?   Me and the boys are just out for ride and some clean mountain air.”

Who was this clown trying to fool?  Intimidation was life’s blood for him and his stooges.  They would ride en masse into these isolated mountain retreats where there was no law enforcement, brandishing more arms than a special forces unit and have their fun.  Woe to any woman who caught their attention or man fool enough to tangle with them.

“Like I said we’re minding our own business, but in case you don’t understand, my girl friend and I are both Air Force officers.  She’s a nurse and I’m a pilot.  If anything happens to us, Arizona cops don’t like it when bad things happen to people serving their country in the military.  They’ll hunt you down like animals and ask questions later.  Now we’re going to pay our bill and be on our way.”

We passed through the gauntlet of drunken, reeking bikers, left the bar, and headed in the opposite direction of our camp.  Once we were out of sight of the lodge, we doubled back through the woods and found our camp.  An hour later we heard the motorcycles leaving Hannagan Meadow in search of wild women, fights, and more good old fashioned fun.   





      

La Cebolla Verde

Concert in Buenos Aires - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman
fliesinyoureyes.com

“Scott, we just got a call from La Cebolla Verde.  He wants to see you in his office ASAP,” the cadet in charge of quarters informed me.

“You’ve got to be kidding.  It’s after nine PM, and I’ve got two aero finals tomorrow.  This is call to quarters during finals week, study time.  He’s not supposed to hassle us about military training.  I can’t wait for graduation next week.”

“He insists.  You better report to his office.”

Lt. Colonel Coeur was a marine pilot who was serving as a liaison officer at the Air Force Academy.  He was old school with a shaved head in a time when it was not fashionable, immaculate uniform, rigid posture, and an equally rigid mindset. In short he was just the type young men in their late teens and early twenties like to ridicule.  A combat injury in Vietnam left him with a limp, and despite his intimidating bearing he spoke in a higher pitched voice than one would expect.  One of his many duties beside Fourth Group Air Officer Commanding was the Commandant’s officer in charge of our class graduation activities.

The colonel was still in his office at 9:30 PM when I knocked on the door. 

“Come in, Mr. Sturman, and have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.  Is there anything I can do for this evening?”

“I’m worried the rock band your class hired to play at the graduation dance will be smoking marijuana.  I want you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Several months beforehand the class graduation committee contracted with Sugar Loaf, a Denver based rock and roll band.  Their one hit, “Green Eyed Lady,” made it to the charts and gave the group national notoriety.  For $2000 it seemed like a bargain to nab a group like this to play at an armed services academy, even if they did smoke dope.  This was, after all 1972, and every band cultivated the image of bad ass iconoclasts, who used drugs, bashed authority, and slept with anything that had a vagina.  There was bound to be a conflict when these renegades visited a bastion of the military establishment, but for $2000 cash even Sugar Loaf could push their morals aside and make the trip to Colorado Springs.

“Sir, I can’t promise that.  I’m not a military policeman, just a cadet.”

“I’m holding you personally responsible for this, Mr. Sturman.  If you want your Air Force career to get off to a good start, then you better not disappoint me.”

I walked back to my dorm room, where my roommate Num was studying for his final exams.  “What’s up with La Cebolla Verde?  Did he help you with your aero finals?”

“He’s crazy, Num.  He wants me to insure him no one in Sugar Loaf smokes dope before, during, or after the graduation dance.  These rock and rollers can’t play if they’re not high.  The only way to keep them from indulging would be to cancel the whole affair.”

“Good luck with that, my friend.”

Finals were finished and it was time to dance.  I thought a flexible approach to the Sugar Loaf crisis would be the best way to handle it, an older version of the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.  Before the party, I took the $2000 with me back stage to meet the group and pay them.  I found them all huddled in a dark room filled with blue air from the  reefers which would be the envy of Cheech and Chong.  Evidently, this experience was as stressful for them as it was for me.

“Hi, I’m Scott.  I talked to your manager a few months ago.  Thanks for coming.  I have your $2000.”

“Cool, man.  I’ll take the dough,” was all I heard from the only member of the band who could talk.

I shut the door behind me and joined my friends for a couple of beers, while waiting for the band to begin.  Everyone was laughing, drinking, and anticipating a fun filled evening.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lt. Colonel Coeur walking through the throng attired in his formal, full dress Marine uniform with a ceremonial saber dangling from his hip.  He made his way toward our table, “Everything in order, Mr. Sturman?”

“No problem, sir.  Everything is going as expected.”   

Hi Ho! It’s Home from Work He Goes!

North Rim Grand Canyon - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman
fliesinyoureyes.com

One morning about fifteen of us were listening to a lecture at in a mid level aeronautical engineering class, when we were interrupted by the department chairman and his guest, a sandy haired major with a goofy smile and a bunch of combat decorations on his uniform.

“Sorry to barge in like this,” the colonel declared, “but I want to take this opportunity to introduce Major Rick, a new member of the aeronautical engineering department.”

I remember thinking, “Who is this guy?  Probably some fighter pilot who got his master’s degree from a correspondence course, then one of his general officer buddies assigned him here to teach introductory classes.”

Major Rick gave us a big, toothy smile, a couple of guffaws, and a forgettable wise crack about being here.  He did seem like a nice guy, but...... 

When the smoke settled in turned out Mr. Rick was a Naval Academy graduate, who later earned his PhD at Massachusetts Institute of Technology.  Within academic and technical circles he was renown for developing the guidance system for the United States manned space program and the highly accurate and efficient gunnery protocols for the Specter gunships.  Due to the cover’s unconventional appearance, we judged this book badly.

Major Rick was a brilliant intellect, who was accessible to his students, and on more than one occasion invited them to join his family for barbecue and beer when the Colorado weather cooperated.  He was one of the few Air Force officers who understood complex technical and engineering problems and able to determine whether defense contractors were selling the government treasure or garbage.   His expertise saved the Department of Defense millions of dollars.  Although he was promoted to Lt. Colonel shortly after his arrival, the salary paled in comparison to that which he could earn in the private sector.  Money and its trappings meant little to him; he was driven by patriotism and a desire to prevent contractors from cheating the armed services by selling them expensive products that did not function as advertised.

One spring a ferocious snow storm struck the front range of the Rockies.  Traffic came to a standstill, and authorities at the Academy forbade all staff from leaving the base.  If officers or enlisted personnel lived in the outlying community, they were obliged to remain on the Academy premises until the weather improved.  Lt. Colonel Rick struggled with categorical nonsense.  His family was alone in the Black Forest area east of the Academy, and he owned and routinely drove a specialized four wheel drive vehicle, which to hear him tell “could make it to the top of Mt. Everest.”  The weather proved no match, as he drove on roads and off of them to arrive at home without incident.  That was all there was to it, or so he thought.

A few days later when the weather abated and the roads cleared, Rick returned to work and found an Article 15, a form of non judicial punishment, and a letter of reprimand on his desk.  He had disobeyed orders, and evidence of this transgression would be placed in his permanent record.  Even minor offenses play havoc with military career progression, but Rick saw his commander’s response to this minor dalliance as an insult.  He had driven home safely to care for his family at a time when all classes at the Academy were cancelled, and for this non incident he received a blight on his record. 

Rick’s bosses learned too late they should tread carefully when a talented subordinate has options.  Several months later those generous defense industry salaries proved irresistible.  He resigned from the Air Force and found his new bosses couldn’t care less whether he drove home in a snow storm.  He was an adult, and a exceptionally gifted one at that.  In retrospect was that Article 15 worth millions of dollars just to make a point?



    

Boxing, the Manly Man Sport

Sheep Dogs in Patagonia, Argentina - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman
fliesinyoureyes.com

How difficult can it be to box three, one minutes rounds with 16 ounce gloves and full headgear? Very, especially if one doesn’t know what one is doing, but every freshman at the Air Force Academy had the mandatory opportunity to experience it first hand.

Some guys are naturally good fighters and not afraid to take a punch to give back two. They come in all shapes and sizes, but they all have the killer instinct. When they smell blood, look out! They’ll try to knock your head off of your shoulders.

I had none of these attributes, so I was not particularly keen to participate in a sport where my head served as target practice for someone who wanted to separate it from my body. Boxing was taught in physical education class where we were exposed to the rudiments before having to spare with other cadets. The guys with last names that started in Mc or O’ learned quickly, and they liked to give and take punishment. When they saw blood, they were piranhas in the ring.

Our instructors matched us with classmates who were more or less the same weight. A twenty pound difference was close enough. I wasn’t enthusiastic about my first match and hoped I would draw another prepubescent, hairless wonder without many muscles. Some of our instructors had a sadistic bent and were not careful about matching opponents, or maybe they were looking for carnage. They knew how to unleash the piranhas on the minnows.

When the time arrived, my heart rate was clipping along at 200 beats per minutes as the flight or fight reflexes took charge. The instructor didn’t pick a pugilist with a Mc or O’ name but rather a classmate who was a legend for being able to do a hundred chin ups - one handed. With that my heart rate soared to 240, when I took a look at my would be executioner. He had muscles on muscles and moved like a cat. Anyone could see we weren’t even close to the same size, but maybe that was the point or my imagination was getting the best of me.

Before the bell rang I was scared to death but set a goal. He would probably beat the Hell out me, but I couldn’t let him knock me out. As soon as the bell rang, there was no time to think. I ran into a buzz saw coming from all directions. All I could feel were the lefts and rights battering my head and body. I could hear my concerned instructor yelling, “Protect yourself, Sturman!” I threw a few wild punches that missed the target as the bell rang to conclude the round. I was still on my feet and hoped my “sparing” partner would be exhausted from throwing so many punches, or his hands too sore to continue from hitting my head so many times in such a short period of time.

The bell rang to start the second round. It was more of the same, as the instructor shouted more advice, “Finish him off! Hit him harder!” Towards the end of the round I got lucky. It was a right hook, as hard as I could throw under these desperate circumstances. But rather than swishing harmlessly through the air, it connected squarely on a jaw. The pummeling instantly stopped as my opponent stepped back and looked at me with a pair of glassy eyes. I was just as shocked as he was, as we both stood there with our arms to our sides. The bell sounded to end the round.

During the third round neither one of us could muster much of an effort. When hit there was no sting, and I responded with the customary wild blows that were ineffectual or off target. The final bell sounded. I lost the match but stayed on my feet. I was clobbered hundreds of times, but that one lucky round house right hand saved the day. Maybe I have a little Mc or O’ in me after all!

Call in the Napalm, Mr. Spring!

Bridge on the Nile in Cairo, Egypt - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

Among my fourth class classmates at the Air Force Academy, Cadet Kirby Spring was truly exceptional. While the rest of us minions could do no right for an entire year, this frail, nondescript cadet with ashen skin hovered above the fray. The difference lay on his uniform which was adorned with more medals than a Russian Field Marshall. The ribbons started at this belt and ended slightly below the shoulder; Kirby was a bonafide war hero, and we were lucky to have him as a member of our class.

All basic and fourth class cadets were held to rigid standards and nothing was more rigid than the ramrod straight posture required by the upper classes. Yet every once in a while one would get a glimpse of a basic cadet whose decidedly more relaxed appearance did not bother the upperclassmen in the least. War hero we heard, a prior U.S. Army enlisted man who killed a lot of Viet Cong in Vietnam and was wounded in the process. While our tormentors were screaming their lungs out at us, Cadet Kirby Spring was having dinner at officers’ homes.

Basic Cadets wear fatigues, so military decorations are not worn. However, when basic training ended at the end of the summer, fourth class cadets were required to wear the formal service alpha to all evening meals and inspections. Service alpha is made to display decorations, or “fruit salad” in military vernacular. The vast majority of cadets wore only two ribbons: one for marksmanship and the other for having been on active duty while the United States was fighting in Vietnam. Kirby had Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, Purple Hearts, and a lot more. His "fruit salad" put most combat soldiers to shame.

War heroes come in all sizes and shapes; there’s not a correlation between physique and bravery. I remember remarking to my friend, Steve Oberst, “Just looking at Spring you’d never know he could cut your heart out in a second.”

“Those are the ones you got to worry about, W.R. Look at him wrong and you’re a dead man.”

Rumors abounded about Spring’s exploits. With his platoon pinned down he charged an NVA machine gun nest single handedly with only a bayonet between his teeth and a pistol in hand. He slaughtered all of the enemy and saved his unit. How could such a meek looking man reek so much havoc? His testosterone level must be off the charts, too high to measure.

When fourth class year came to an end we morphed into third classmen and were treated to a trip around the country to visit five air force bases on the ZI Field Trip. One of the stops was Cannon Air Force Base, New Mexico, home of tactical fighters which strafed and dropped bombs and napalm in preparation for combat in Southeast Asia.

One morning all four or five hundred of us were brought to an observation area to witness what air power could do to a variety of targets on the ground. The Wing Commander, a battle hardened fighter pilot, spoke to us over the public address and prepared us for the fireworks. As the show was about to begin, he announced, “Gentleman, one of you has looked at death in eye and not blinked. It’s usually my duty to call in the fighter strikes, but in this case it is only fitting that your classmate, Cadet Third Class Kirby Spring do the honors!” Bedlam erupted, as we screamed Kirby’s name and clapped until our hands were sore. The guy was barely twenty but already a legend in the Air Force.

And then later that year, we were shocked to hear that Kirby Spring was leaving the Academy and not by choice. Apparently, some of Kirby’s stories did not jibe with some of the army officers who had served in the same areas of Vietnam. As one thing led to another, investigators uncovered the real story of Kirby Spring. Far from being the nemesis of the Viet Cong, he had been a lowly personnel clerk serving at a U.S. Army base in Germany. Being a bright fellow, he invented a new persona and with access to all his military records was able document an illustrious but fictitious career. It opened all sorts of doors: entrance to the Air Force Academy, wining and dining with the Air Force’s elite, and dating their daughters, but it closed some doors as well. The last we heard Kirby was spending most of his life in Leavenworth Penitentiary, and as far as I know he is still there.

Yo Yo

Bright Angle Trail, Grand Canyon - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman
fliesinyoureyes.com

The second or instrument training phase of helicopter flight school was located at Ft. Rucker, near Enterprise, Alabama. This was a very, very conservative part of the country and made Mineral Wells, Texas, home to the first stage of helicopter flight training, seem like Manhattan. It may have been 1972, but culturally the area was living in the 18th century. In fact Enterprise was known for its statue of the boll weevil in the city center which commemorated the destruction of the cotton economy and gave rise to the more lucrative peanut industry. I had seen statues honoring men, women, and even horses but never an insect.

Five of us, including Num, my roommate from the Air Force Academy, and our mutual good friend Dan Summer, rented a house several miles from the base in a county where possessing or drinking alcoholic beverages was illegal. It was a melancholy time of year in the Deep South with gray skies and grayer dispositions. Other than fly, watch television, or get a haircut (the local barbers offered only two: buzz jobs and flat tops), the only other social outlet was the Officers’ Club where the social dynamic was highly charged, but bizarre. It swarmed with the wives of pilots who were flying in Vietnam for a year, if they survived the tour. Maybe the women expected their husbands to be geographic bachelors in Southeast Asia, because they were exercising the feminine version in Alabama.

Instrument flying requires anticipation and precise movement of the flight controls. While flying under the instrument hood, my technique was more like fiddling with a yo yo, as the helicopter flew a sinusoidal pattern across the sky. Out of desperation my instructor pilot (IP) recommended I be transferred to a new IP with a different teaching style, who also happened to be Num’s instructor.

“Lt. Priskna, watch the way your friend Lt. Uno flies. The secret is not moving the controls. Think ahead, and make subtle changes.”

Never had I thought of flying as an exercise of not moving the controls, but since my problems stemmed from over correction, his point made sense. During our first flight my new IP made me watch Num to get an idea about the meaning of refined movements. The altitude, heading, and airspeed never varied unless he chose to make them do so. A few more days of practice and talking with Num did the trick; observing someone who flew skillfully was a “eureka” moment.

My newly found success called for a celebration. These impromptu larks were boisterous affairs and without Dan to arrange them, it would have been a bleak five months in southern Alabama. Having access to a large house, made our residence the logical spot for most of the group’s weekend parties. There were a few rules about drinking alcohol in dry counties: keep the doors and windows closed and never throw the empty bottles and cans in the outside trash. The garbage collectors made note of what they collected, and on Monday morning there would be a rap on the front door by the local authorities. No, the prudent reveler placed the discards in bags, put them in the car trunk, and took them to the adjacent county.

It’s fun to reminisce about adventures of 40 years ago and to be thankful for making so many good friends along the way. Military life is both rewarding and frustrating, but it attracts bright and adventurous young men and women who become life long friends. With so few of our leaders having military experience it's easy to see why they never learned how to dispose of beer bottles in Alabama or stay away from the Officer's Club at Ft. Rucker, but they run the country like I used to fly: like a yo yo.

The Texas Lifeguard

Bright Angel Trail, Grand Canyon - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

In 1972 Mineral Wells, Texas, the site of the first phase of helicopter pilot training school, did not conjure visions of a choice military assignment. It’s remote, fifty miles west of Fort Worth, near Possum Kingdom Lake, but also home to some the planet’s most pleasant people.

Several months ago I was looking at some old flight school records and found the graduation order of merit. The class consisted of both U.S. Army and Air Force junior officers and four foreign pilots, and with few exceptions the top graduates were all married. There was a good reason for this.

After the day’s flight training some of us single officers went to the base gym, but most invariably ended up at the Officer’s Club eating and drinking with abandon. My roommate Num and I soon met Lt. Dan Summer, a polished and fun loving National Guard officer from Connecticut, who was assigned to our class. Unlike the simple tastes which Num and I cultivated, Dan had been exposed to life’s finer edge and took it upon himself to teach the class to drink scotch. “It’s an acquired taste,” he advised, as we sipped the corrosive liquid. So with these nightly activities, studying and a restful night’s sleep took a backseat to laughter and camaraderie.

Besides the Officer’s Club, the base swimming pool was one of the few diversions in Mineral Wells, and it was here during my first week on the base that I met Royleen. She would later tell me her father wanted a son named Roy, so when Royleen was born, the “leen” simply was added.

Royleen was beautiful and vivacious. I tried to study at poolside, but it was hopeless. Who cared about grades? A passing grade would do just fine. We talked during her breaks, and a few days later I asked her to go on a date. She gave me her address and told me to pick her up at eight.

Mineral Wells is a small town, and I found Royleen’s house which she shared with one of her parents in a ramshackle neighborhood. Considering the way she spoke and carried herself, I thought there must have been some misunderstanding, and I had come to the wrong address.

I walked onto the porch lit by a tiny light bulb surrounded by thousands of insects, and not finding a doorbell, knocked on the door. A few moments later a tall, gorgeous woman answered. She was dressed immaculately with her blood hair permed and makeup meticulously applied to her face.

“Excuse me, madam, there must be mistake, but I’m looking for Royleen, the life guard who works at the base pool.”

A big smile erupted over her face, “I am Royleen, you silly boy.”

I had found a goddess in the most unlikely place, and considering my good fortune, earning a passing grade in flight school might very well be out of reach.

On the Fields of Not So Friendly Strife

After a rainstorm on the Inca Trail - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

On the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that on other days and other fields will bear the fruits of victory.
General Douglas MacArthur (1880 - 1964)


Intramural sports play an important part in cadet life at the Air Force Academy. Throughout the academic year there is intense competition between the squadrons of the cadet wing to determine which one will be crowned overall champion. In the 1960s and 1970s handball, a sport which requires ambidexterity, quickness, and stamina, was a very popular, high profile intramural sport.

In high school my partner Dave Sundin and I played one-wall handball. Although the one-wall game does not have the angles and variety of shots of the four-wall game, players must use both hands and learn to hit the kill shot, where the ball strikes close to the junction of the floor and wall, making it difficult for the opponent to reach the ball before bouncing twice.

As a freshman or Fourth Class Cadet, I tried out for the 23rd Squadron handball team, made the team, and became the #1 singles player. All Fourth Classmen at the Academy were exposed to relentless hazing by the upper classes, but theoretically on the athletic field there was no rank. Everyone competed on an equal footing, and upperclassmen were in some cases addressed by their first names rather than “sir.”

Near the end of the intramural handball season our team was undefeated but still had to face the tough 26th Squadron team. Their #1 singles player, Cadet Second Class McBride, an intercollegiate football player, had been a member of the 23rd Squadron for the prior two years. To say he was disliked by those in the 23rd was an understatement. He was arrogant, ambitious, and boisterous with an ego which knew no bounds. He was Napoleon in a 6 foot 2 inch, 230 pound frame.

On the day of the match I arrived at the handball court to warm up and was surprised McBride didn’t do the same. A few minutes before game time he sauntered onto the court and nodded his head in acknowledgement without saying a word. It was not surprising he took the match lightly. He was one of the best handball players in the Wing and wasn’t overly impressed by his younger opponent who weighed 140 pounds and didn’t shave. He hit a couple practice balls and then declared he was ready to play.

To determine who serves first, it is customary to lag the ball against the front wall to see which player can bounce the ball closer to the service line.

Realizing it may not be the best idea to use his first name, I asked, “Would you like to lag first, Cadet McBride?”

“That’s okay. Forget about lagging. Go ahead and serve first, Priskna.”

Obviously McBride expected to finish me off quickly, so why not let the little guy serve at least once during the first game.

I walked to the service area and glanced over my shoulder to the spectator area high above the court which was packed with upperclassmen from my squadron. It would be humiliating to get slaughtered by a jerk like McBride but worse if it was witnessed. I gave McBride one last look. He was on his heels, nonchalant, and gazing around the court.

“Ready, sir?”

“Any time.”

I drove the first serve low, hard, and with some side spin to his left hand. He couldn’t touch it. This was followed by a variety of serves to both sides: high, low, angled, with spin, and without spin. When McBride was able to return the ball, I usually was able to kill it after a short rally.

At 8-0 in the first game McBride became all business. He was on his toes, moving like a cat, and concentrating intensely but helpless. I was having one of those out of mind experiences where I could put the ball wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. There was nothing McBride could do, so he just gave up. He got his wish, a twenty minute best-two-out-of-three match. As we shook hands, I gazed at the viewers’ gallery, which now was filled to over capacity with cadets from other squadrons who wanted to see McBride’s trouncing.

That night at the evening meal I sat at attention eating another “square meal.” This was the routine. Eat in silence and hope the upperclassmen would not bother you, so you could finish your meal.

Suddenly, the Table Commandant, Cadet First Class Richardson barked, “Priskna!”

I dropped my fork and lifted my eyes from my plate to look at him. I couldn’t believe it. Rather than the usual upperclass scowl was a smile. “Yes, Sir!” I responded.

“Sit at rest, Priskna. Good job today.”

Sitting at rest was the ultimate kudos for a Fourth Class Cadet. I wasn’t allowed to talk unless addressed by an upper class cadet, but for this one meal I could eat in a normal fashion. After six months of eating every meal at attention, it felt strange to relax, look around the dining hall, and use a fork, knife, and spoon in the usual manner. It was simply one of the best moments of my life.

That evening the Cadet Wing left the dining hall and returned to the dormitories and with it my short reprieve from the fourth class system. However, the victory over McBride changed the way upperclassmen in my squadron treated me. Sometimes it takes years to make a difference, but in this case twenty minutes on the handball court was sufficient.

The Linear Accelerator

Egr Chebbi, Morocco

photo by Susan Owhadi






Scott Sturman


It's not Mt. Everest or CERN's particle beam accelerator, but it was the site of some ground breaking scientific discoveries in the early 1970s.  Could a boulder of sufficient mass be dislodged from the summit of Colorado's Eagle Peak and mow down every tree in its path until coming to rest?

Eagle Peak soars 9368 feet above sea level and is located in the Rampart Range just west of the United States Air Force Academy campus.  Its eastern face is quite steep but technical equipment is not required to access the summit.  One autumn day a select group with ample liquid refreshment hiked 2000 vertical feet from the campus to enjoy the view.  Along the way we pushed some rocks weighing less than 100 pounds down the slope to see what would happen.  Accelerating rapidly down the 45+ degree incline, they began to bounce like rubber balls as they repeatedly struck the uneven ground beneath them.  Every so often one of the projectiles would strike a massive granite outcropping with a violent smash.  It was pulverized into gravel sized fragments and emitted a distinctive, acrid odor which we could smell after impact.  Rocks that passed through the granite section entered the tree line and caromed off large tree trunks and came to rest nearby.  Inquisitive minds wondered what would occur if a large group of "scientists" returned and placed some really large boulders in motion.

At the dormitory that evening we organized a team for the following weekend.  My classmates S.R. and Mark, both mechanical engineering majors, and Goodie, a physics major, volunteered to consult on technical issues, while seven or eight liberal arts majors were recruited to dig, lift, and pull. As long as there was free wine and a lot of it, it didn't take much to entice a history, political science, or economics major to join the expedition.

Next Saturday afternoon after completion of military training lectures, twelve of us grabbed a couple of shovels and headed toward Eagle Peak.  Along the way we found several logs about ten feet long and a foot in diameter and hauled them with us. As we neared the top, we saw a number of huge boulders weighing by our estimation several thousand pounds apiece perched above a steep incline which extended uninterrupted to the tree line below.  While S.R., Mark, and Goodie supervised launch preparations, it was my job to keep the liberal arts majors from drinking all the wine.  Archimedes would have been proud.  Using (F1)x(D1) = (F2)x(D2), we set a fulcrum and placed the end of a log beneath the uphill side of a relatively round boulder, which would roll easily once put in motion. With ten of us pushing down on the lever and the other two undermining the downhill side of the boulder furiously, it started to move.

As soon as the boulder's center of gravity extended beyond the ground supporting it, its mass and acceleration produced an imposing force.  No one knew what to expect, but within three seconds it was traveling nearly 60 miles per hour and bouncing 10 feet into the air.  Suddenly, it impacted an enormous rock embedded in the ground on the canyon floor. There was a massive explosion sounding like a howitzer as the boulder disintegrated. We started laughing, screaming, and slapping each other on the back and began looking for a bigger boulder.

The next candidate was larger and rounder than the first but its base was buried deeply in the ground. After what seemed like hours of digging and prying, we dislodged and sent it down the canyon. This time the boulder avoided the large rocks lining the canyon and entered the tree line.  It hit the base of a giant pine tree and snapped it like a match stick.  If the collision slowed the boulder's progress it was not apparent as it continued down the mountain mowing down every tree in its path.  As the bounding mass passed out of sight, all we could see were the tops of trees disappear from view.

As we returned home and descended along the boulder's path, our mood changed.  The power of the falling boulders and potential danger to anything in the way was a sobering thought.  Young men with time on their hands and much to drink do crazy things, and we were relieved our antics had not caused any permanent damage.  To mark the occasion the canyon was renamed the Linear Accelerator, but it was the last day a physics experiment was conducted in this unusual laboratory.  

Rough Men

Khasa, Tibet - photo by JoAnn Sturman

by Scott Sturman

People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf. --George Orwell

After reading S.R. Oberst's tale of his and Marty's altercation in Acacia Park in 1970, it brought to mind the next summer, which I spent with Marty at the Test Pilot School.  He was one of those rough men of whom Orwell speaks–difficult to understand, but without them we would know no peace.
 
“Welcome to the Mojave Desert and the United States Air Force Test Pilot School, gentlemen.  We hope you enjoy the experience and have the opportunity to fly in many of our aircraft,” said Colonel Buzz Aldrin, former astronaut and now Commandant of the school.

The pilots assigned to the test pilot program were among the best in the Air Force.  They flew experimental airplanes or traditional aircraft that were uniquely configured for specialized missions.  As cadets we were temporarily stationed at the base to interact with as many operational units as possible.

The first unit we visited conducted low level night flights in the B-57.  Our officer sponsor, Captain Dave Diefenbach, a 29 year old class of 1964 Air Force Academy graduate, was a terrific pilot, a great guy, and about the best in anything he tried.  All too often cadets were treated like an annoyance by their officer sponsors, but Dave was different.  He patiently explained the missions thoroughly and treated us more like peers.  He even invited my friend Marty and me to his home for dinner with his wife.  He was a natural leader and role model.

On the third day assigned to the squadron Marty and I reported for the morning flight briefing.  The squadron commander stood behind the podium and announced, “Last night Captain Diefenbach and his crew were killed when their B-57 flew into a mountain side while conducting tactical operations.  The cause of the crash is being investigated. Now for today's missions...”

That was all he said.  The pilots resumed their duties, and although they must have felt a sense of loss, they carried on as if nothing happened.  Many were combat veterans and accustomed to a job which involved great risk.   Marty and I, on the other hand, were naive and ill at ease with death unannounced.  Although we knew Captain Diefenbach for only a few days, we felt a profound sense of loss and misinterpreted the pilots' professionalism as callousness.   His death showed Marty and me that even in peacetime flying is serious business, and despite the risk, pilots must be able to compartmentalize events that interfered with mission success.

Marty was an Air Force Academy cadet but longed to be a Marine officer.   He wanted to experience close quarter combat and often expressed his concern that the Vietnam War would end before he could be trained and deployed.   He was powerfully built and perceived himself as indestructible, which I firmly believed.  The previous summer he earned his parachute rating at Fort Benning, Georgia. 

Evenings after work at the Test Pilot School he would put on his fatigue trousers and a skin tight USAFA white T-shirt with blue trim and ask me to help him practice his parachute landing falls (PLFs), a technique used to avoid injury when parachuting onto hard surfaces.  The feet hit the ground with the knees slightly bent, and one's body absorbs the energy from the impact by collapsing and rolling to the ground.  I drove Marty's van on a dirt road at 25 miles per hour, and while standing in the back near the sliding side door he would tell me to adjust the speed depending on how impervious he felt that day.  When I said “jump,” he threw himself out of the vehicle and onto the concrete hard Mojave, where he performed the PLF.   He practiced this stunt throughout the summer and with the exception of a few scratches on his massive arms was never injured.

The most memorable experience of the summer involved collecting aeronautical data for the conceptual stage of the Space Shuttle program.  In 1971 all United States manned space craft were Apollo modules which landed by parachute in the ocean after reentry from space.  At that time NASA and the Air Force were working together to devise a space vehicle which could land on a runway without the use of a parachute.  The problem involved designing a space craft which could withstand the thermodynamics of reentry, yet have a suitable lift and drag profile to land like a conventional airplane.  The operational aircraft most closely suited to the low lift, high velocity, short wing Space Shuttle was the F-104 Starfighter with its stubby wings and cylindrical fuselage.

The question confronting the engineers was whether a powerless shuttle could trade kinetic and potential energies to safely land at a predetermined location.  The F-104 was used as a prototype to simulate the landing phase of the shuttle.  The mission profile required the test pilot to fly the F-104 to 50,000 feet above the airfield at Edwards Air Force Base, idle the engine, and point the nose in a near vertical angle to the runway below.  As the aircraft approached the ground the pilot pulled back on the control stick to slow the rate of descent and place the aircraft into a position to make a power off landing.  Prior to contacting the ground the pilot throttled the engine to full power and directed the F-104 skyward to repeat the maneuver.

We sat in the co-pilot's seat immediately behind the pilot and recorded flight data on each practice approach to the runway.  Writing on a notebook pad with a pencil, we listed the airspeed, altitude, temperature, weight, and angle of attack of the fighter every minute during the test.  At day's end the information was taken to the base computer center where the data was punched on cards and fed into what was at that time a world class computer.  The computer filled two large trailers, but its computation power was probably less that what one can buy on sale at Best Buy. 

From flying unusual missions with some of the Air Force's best pilots, helping Marty practice his PLFs, and learning to cope with the death of a great man, it was a summer few college age students experience.  Most go about their lives and take freedom for granted, unaware Orwell's rough men and women make it possible.

Our Friends from Across the Sea

Photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

Each summer while attending the Academy I received three weeks leave and returned to Cheyenne to visit my family and have some fun during Cheyenne Frontier Days, “The Daddy of 'Em All.”  The local merchants lived for Frontier Days, which was held the last full week of July.  The city doubled in size as rodeo fans came from all over the country to enjoy the festivities.  Only pedestrians were allowed downtown, where the bars never closed and drinking was allowed on the streets.  The cowboys from Texas and Oklahoma were particularly unruly.  They came to fight over women and the slightest provocation. 

The roughest bar in town, The Blue Bird, was a favorite haunt for out of state cowboys, whose definition of a perfect evening was to hook up with a cowgirl and put a fist through the face of a local.  Wouldn't it be a lark to walk into their lair and have some fun at their expense?  Cleverness was the key, so rather than be confrontational, some old high school friends, Larry and Danny Garrett, Lester Peters, another who escapes my memory, and I decided to dress as tourists and spend an evening at the Blue Bird dancing with as many of the cowboys' girlfriends as possible.  No ordinary tourist disguise would do.  We needed to be exotic by Wyoming standards, or otherwise there would be trouble.  We'd have to look foreign and completely non threatening, so we donned cowboy hats and boots, but added Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts, a camera around the neck, and British accents.

As I was getting dressed at home for the fun, my Mom remarked, “Scott, why are you dressing like that? This isn't Halloween you know.”

"Oh, we're just going to the Melodrama, Mom.  For some reason the entertainers prefer the audience wears costumes to add to the excitement."

Five of us met for a few pregame beers and whiskey shots before visiting the Cheyenne Melodrama. It was a good place to waste time before things started getting crazy at the Blue Bird later that night. We went to the late show, and like good customers drank a few more beers, before we were escorted out the door for excessive enthusiasm.

It was a short walk to the Blue Bird, a small bar located on a street corner in the middle of downtown.  The tavern was thick with cigarette smoke and crammed with revelers, who were drinking heavily.  Many had collapsed on the floor only to be hoisted to their feet to have another drink. The band was perched on a platform above the dance floor and playing all the favorites. It was pandemonium – just what we had hoped.  When we entered the bar, the band stopped and all eyes were upon us. I yelled out in my best English accent, “Evening, mates!  Could a bloke get a cold beer here?” 

“What's your pleasure, boys?" the bartender asked, not knowing what to make of such oddly dressed strangers.

Realizing this was time for bold action, I responded, "We've come all the way from Jolly Old England to see a rodeo.  Whatever you Yanks drink is fine with these chaps and me. And by the way, why don't you let us buy a round for house!”

The act of generosity made the evening a lot more expensive for us, but it put us in good graces with the crowd instantly. The band started again and the dance floor became an inferno.  The atmosphere was electrifying–the deafening noise, the constant motion of drunken people, and the fights which would end just as quickly as they began.  While on the dance floor, I looked over my shoulder to a table in the corner to see one of the patrons cold cock a man seated with him. After knocking out his front teeth, he picked him off the floor, and they gave each other a big hug.  Now that's forgiveness.  Someone does a major dental extraction on you, and there are no hard feelings.  These Texans were a different breed.

My friend Larry yelled in my ear, “We better pull this off, or we'll have more than missing teeth.”

And pull it off we did... As the hours rolled by, we danced with every cowgirl in the joint. We'd tap a cowboy's shoulder during a slow dance with his girlfriend and ask, “Excuse me, mate. Mind if I have a dance with this little filly?”

The answer was inevitably, “Sure enough, partner.”

The crowd loved us, and the drunker we got the better our accents became.  Throughout the evening a good citizen would approach us and recommend in a polite way how we should change our western dress. “You know, partner, if you just got rid of them shorts and put on some Wranglers, it would look a whole lot better.”

“Thanks for you advice, mate. Do you think the shirt is alright?”

“It's not bad. Just get rid of them shorts.”

As 4 AM and closing time approached, the band stopped their routine and the lead singer got everyone's attention. “Y'all, it's been a great night. Especially to have visitors from such a far away place. In honor of them we would like to dedicate the last song to 'our friends from across the sea'.” The bar erupted in applause as we once again raised a glass, danced with every girl in the bar, and thanked our lucky stars we did not end up in the morgue that night.

 Water Lilies in Hoi An, Vietnam - JoAnn Sturman