If you follow our humble fish fry journeys, you know we do actually get out of town now and then. On a mission to resurrect our interest in all things Wisconsin, we have started to revisit our love of road trips around said state. Back a decade ago, an annual trip to Door County was always on the calender. I remember one restaurant with a stunning sunset over Lake Michigan. Through the marvel of the latest media technology it was not hard to find directions to the place again.
We left Janesville around noon-ish and took a slow ride toward "up-nort." After a couple stops along the way we arrived in the Sturgeon Bay area in the late afternoon. We veered off Highway 57 and headed into the lake roads that would eventually lead us to our fish fry outpost. We needed to get to a juke of land called Riley's Point that protrudes out into that part of Lake Michigan known as..., Green Bay. We often forget there is a body of water called Green Bay. One usually defers to the city and team with said moniker.
We did indeed get to the Sunset Grill in perfect time to actually see a beautiful..., sunset over the bay. The joint sports the consummate pine wood and cabin-esque interior - wood, wood, and more wood. And, lots of taxidermed seafar'n critters are mounted about the place. We planted ourselves in the smaller eating room - about six tables. On the other side of the bar is the bigger dining room. Both rooms have an abundance of picture windows that look out over the bay. And of course, the sunset was indeed spectacular.
Heide was served up a big slab of pan-fried White Fish with paprika and lemon. She chose German potato salad as her side. I went for the two good hunks of deep-fried Walleye. And, I never pass up red potatoes as a side when offered. We cleaned up every crumb.
The tarter sauce was soft and smooth. The cole slaw had a hint of vinegar and a greener texture to it. The whole deal was sealed with soft salt rye bread with real butter. We ran into a lot of RC Cola up in those parts so Heide choose that as her drink. And, of course they serve Miller Lite up that way too.
Sunset Grill is cool with Cool Dadio. Find them after about seven miles or so of winding lake roads heading west of Sturgeon Bay. The official address is 3810 Riley's Point Road, Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. Call (920) 824-5130 for more information; or, visit their humble Web site at www.sunsetgrilldoorcounty.com .
Note: You can find a chronological list at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page of these fish frys as we have visited them. The list presents the most recently visited fish fry at the top, in lieu of alphabetical order.
Wisconsin Military Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person or military connected person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Army National Guard Private First Class Kyle Matthew Hemauer, 21, Manassas, Virginia (he was a 2002 graduate of Chilton High School in Chilton, Wisconsin), died on Monday, May 23, 2005 in Zabul Province, Afghanistan. Private First Class Hemauer was assigned to Company A, 3rd Battalion, 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, Army National Guard, based out of Manassas, Virginia.
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel mentioned Kyle grew up in Chilton, Wisconsin, and played football for the Chilton High School Tigers where he was named to all-conference status and remembered as a football standout. He is a 2002 graduate of Chilton High School. Chilton is a city of about 3,800 in Calumet County, Wisconsin, about 30 miles south of Green Bay. Hemauer went on to play punter for the Northrop Grumman shipyard Apprentice School football team at Newport News, Virginia. There he studied sheet metal apprentice. He was named to the second offensive team of the All-Atlantic Central Football Conference. Kyle was the middle of three sons.
The Washington Post noted that by 2003, Hemauer was in the apprentice program at the Northrop Grumman Newport News shipbuilding company. The apprentice program can last four or five years and gives training in shipbuilding via both classroom work and experience. They also offer college-level sports.
The Web site freedomremembered.com notes Kyle Hemauer was born on February 4, 1984 in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. He was remembered as a gentle giant, quiet, easy-going, and soft spoken. The Kyle Hemauer Scholarship of Honor was established after his death and is awarded each year to someone graduating and that is going into the military or to college for a field of public service. Kyle Hemauer is laid to rest at Saint Mary's Cemetery in Chilton, Wisconsin.
At the time of his death Private First Class Kyle M Hemauer was survived by his mom and dad Andy and Ann (Schmitz) Hemauer; and, his brothers Brad and Lucas.
Information for this short biography about Private First Class Kyle Matthew Hemauer was pieced together from the following sources: Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Obituary: Chilton shaken by death of soldier in Afghanistan," May 25, 2005; washingtonpost.com, "Va.-Based Guardsman Dies in Afghanistan," May 25, 2005; freedomremembered.com, "Spec Kyle Matthew Hemauer"; Wisconsin Department of Veteran Affairs "Fallen Heroes Page"; and, CNN.com "War Casualties Page."
As of this blog entry's posting date:
106,699 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,488 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1974 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1029 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
1 American/Coalition casualty in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,226 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
592 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Iraq since Spring 2003.
15,950 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
42 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
4 Wisconsin military contractors have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1 Wisconsin military contractor has been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
9 journalists (American, French, UK, freelance) have been killed in Syria since January 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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abcde
Crazy Jimmy bought another car. He had made Buck Sergeant - this fact un-and-to-itself should have made me take pause. I should have tried harder to make sergeant, how hard could it have been? To Crazy Jimmy's credit he was on his second enlistment. He had been in the Army about five years then. He must have found some cash somewhere, perhaps from a reenlistment bonus. He bought a little two-door, stick shift, European Dodge Colt from the Post Exchange. Don't laugh; my lieutenant bought a Harley. I believe the cost of big items was cut by Uncle Sam's benevolent subsidizing. Non-coms and officers seemed to be able to make better use of the benefit than rabble like me did.
Jimmy loaded me up one night and we headed out on a drunken expedition around Nuremberg in the little bullet car. Sorry, I can't possibly remember where we ended up or what we did. My memory kicks back in with two Polizi squad cars in hot pursuit of driver Jimmy. I will say this, it was like actually being in the movies. I remember going down countless alleys, and down several wide sidewalks. Every so often, another Polizi car would join in chase.
As buildings whizzed by at 65 miles per hour in 25 mile per hour zones (of course Comrade used kilometer per hour), the neighborhood seemed to get familiar. Soon we where heading straight for our Merrell Barracks barricade gate. The poor schlep on duty that night got the gate raised just in time as a flotilla of German Polizi blasted through the ancient Roman arch at the entrance into the old Nazi complex in hot pursuit of the Crazy Jimmy.
"Duck down and lie on the seat," Jimmy explained as he ducked the Colt into a gaggle of several parked cars in a dark area of the private vehicle lot.
Ya, what ever Crazy Jimmy.
I will never forget the sub machine gun tapping on Jimmy's passenger window and pointed straight at...me! A couple of the Comrades had their jack boots on the bumper, others had the little car surrounded. The word repeated was, "Aussteigen." "Get out!" There was probably the word Dummkopf - "idiot" - added in there somewhere.
In the local German jail I had to laugh to myself as I wondered, "Am I arrested for riding along drunk?"
After getting acquainted with fine German jail accommodations, finally, Jimmy pointed to me in the opposite cell from him and said to the guard, "Help me sir, that man is a gangster and forced me to drive him around to attend to his nefarious business. It was a horrible thing to go through sir and I am very distraught and psychologically damaged by the experience."
The German guards gathered around for a second and pondered the proclamation; one even glanced at me and then to the mug shots of "most wanted" posted on the wall.
I glowered at Crazy Jimmy and said, "Shut up you snitch; you know the penalty for snitching. When we get out of here, you know what's coming for a Stole Pigeon like you."
"See, my life is in danger from this gangster." said Jimmy. "I want political asylum in your country."
Then one of the guards finally said, "Was ist los mit dir?" And then in broken English, "Was ist you fucking problem? You Americans machen bekloppt (looney)."
A few hours later our sergeant and first sergeant came down to pluck us from the clutches of Comrade. Somewhere in the depths of Army paper work in some records tomb in Kansas City is a notation scolding me for being an...idiot.
As for Crazy Jimmy, he knew where all the skeletons were buried in our little corner of Uncle Sam's Army. I believe he got the same scolding, but with just a bit more crescendo.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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abcde
Written November 30, 2010 for jobs of bob
I wrote about this experience before when reflecting on close calls in my life. It is also posted in my "Date with Fate" Category. It was posted a while ago before I started to really organize my foray into writing about my various jobs in life. This experience with blood poisoning would seem to need to be also planted firmly in my Army experiences.
When I think of what one soldier probably faces in on afternoon in Iraq or Afghanistan, my life's quirky twists of fate are probably rather lame-and-tame. None-the-less, my stories are all I have. We are not all in combat all the time. Hell, on second thought, some of the crap I have lived through in America, makes a couple of cities I visited in Iraq look rather normal. That all being as it may, when I was in the Army back in 1975, I managed to step on a sharp object on the artillery range in Grafenwoehr, Germany and got a good case of Septicemia. At least that is the conventional wisdon. Back home we used to call it blood poisoning. Being 19 years old, I had know idea how sick I was becoming. I just thought I had a good case of the flu. My leg hurt a bit, but I did not make the connection.
On reflection, perhaps it was something else that ailed me. The doctor never showed me any object removed from my foot. Nor, I don't remember any specific moment of impact. Only, that after wandering around on the artillery range recovering massive piles of brass, I began to have trouble with my right foot. Then I got flu symptoms.
For clarification, Cobra helicopters firing their rapid-fire weapons at targets released streams of brass from the bullets. That brass was recycled. Us Engineers often got the nod to round it up. Just a caveat: You don't want to be underneath them when they fire; the brass is red hot.
As my Combat Engineer unit plodded through the drudgery of an assignment up by the Czechoslovakian border, I got sicker and sicker. Eventually, unable to even hold my head up, my Lieutenant said, "Keith you fool, take your sick ass to the Medics." My friend Crazy Jimmy from my squad drove the bumpy route to the MASH unit. Yes, up by the border they had a mobile clinic set up. It was surprisingly just like the TV show - minus the combat wounded soldiers. Most of the patients had suffered injuries and pneumonia et cetera.
"You ain't got the flu son," the Doc said. "Drop you pants, something else is wrong."
When I revealed my right leg, the Doc said, "Damn, boy. Do you realize how close to dying you are. The infection is clear up to your groin."
He found the epicenter of where he thought some tiny shreds of the artillery shrapnel still were lodged in my foot. But he never seemed to take anything out. Perhaps it was something else, perhaps nothing at all - just a puncture or cut. I was so sick, the conversation is lost. Being from the farm, I guess I certainly did not have very good self diagnosis ability. And in those days I had little medical training. If you had a pain on the farm, you just toughed it out.
The back story was that while I spent two weeks in the field hospital, Crazzy Jimmy never relayed my situation to my unit. And in the mean time, my Lieutenant had been called back to head quarters in Nuremberg. Subsequently, I was listed as AWOL for two weeks. My friend thought that was the biggest funny deal.
On release from the field hospital, the Doc said, "No walking for a couple days." But, when I called my unit to come pick me up, the duty sergeant called me a "pussy" and said no Jeep was available. Besides, he claimed I was, "A malingering sissy," and, "Malingering sissies don't deserve a ride." I walked the three miles back to camp on my bad leg.
Three days later I was back in the field hospital, this time for three weeks. The Doc was not happy and apparently some shit hit somebody's fan back in my unit - a certain duty sergeant I heard. At any rate, Ol' Sarge never spoke to me again.
Now after 35 years of reflection on the subject it all melts together as I have a terrible blood clotting disorder that has haunted me most of my adult life. It either clots to much, or not enough. You can imagine the catastrophes that may have triggered over the years. I now ponder if that incident in the Army may have been connected in some manner - not the cause, but a related, early episode. Back in my early struggle with "the condition," the medical profession had different takes on the condition. They often accused me of causing it.
Thank God - any god you may bring with you, a few years ago, the Docs at the University of Wisconsin Hospital decided it was genetic and I was born with it. That would explain a lot of problems I had in my youth. Go figure. I played four years of high school football, and of course, Uncle Sam let me in the Army. Not necessarily two places you need to be if you have a propensity to bleed to death off and on. [or clot to death]
Written October 31, 2007 for original fate fairies
When I think of what one soldier probably faces in on afternoon in Iraq or Afghanistan, my life's quirky twists of fate are probably rather lame-and-tame. None-the-less, my stories are all I have. We are not all in combat all the time. Hell, some of the crap I have lived through in America, makes a couple of cities I visited in Iraq look rather normal. That all being as it may, when I was in the Army back in 1975, I managed to step on a sharp object on the artillery range in Germany and got a good case of Septicemia. Back home we used to call it blood poisoning. Being 19 years old, I had know idea how sick I was becoming. I just thought I had a good case of the flu.
As my combat engineer unit plodded through the drudgery of an assignment up by the Czechoslovakian border, I got sicker and sicker. Eventually, unable to even hold my head up, my Lieutenant said, "Keith you fool, take your sick ass to the Medics." A friend in my squad drove the bumpy route to the MASH unit. Yes, up by the border they had a mobile clinic set up. It was surprisingly just like the TV show - minus the wounded soldiers.
"You ain't got the flu son," the Doc said. "Drop you pants, something else is wrong." When I revealed my right leg, the Doc said, "Damn, boy. Do you realize how close to dying you are. The infection is clear up to your groin." He found the epicenter of where some of the artillery shrapnel still was lodged in my foot. Being from the farm, I guess I did not have very good self diagnosis ability. If you had a pain on the farm, you just toughed it out.
The back story was that while I spent two weeks in the field hospital, my friend never relayed my situation to my unit. And in the mean time, my Lieutenant had been called back to head quarters in Nuremberg. Subsequently, I was listed as AWOL for two weeks. My friend thought that was the biggest funny deal. On release from the field hospital, the Doc said, "No walking for a couple days." But, when I called my unit to come pick me up, the duty sergeant called me a "pussy" and said no Jeep was available. Besides, he claimed I was, "A malingering sissy," and, "Malingering sissies don't deserve a ride." I walked the three miles back to camp on my bad leg.
Three days later I was back in the field hospital, this time for three weeks. The Doc was not happy and apparently some shit hit somebody's fan back in my unit - a certain duty sergeant I heard. At any rate, Ol' Sarge never spoke to me again.
Written November 8, 2011 for fate fairies book version
When I think of what one soldier probably faces in on afternoon in Iraq or Afghanistan, my life's quirky twists of fate are probably rather lame-and-tame. None-the-less, my stories are all I have. We are not all in combat all the time. Hell, some of the crap I have lived through in America, makes a couple of cities I visited in Iraq look rather normal. That all being as it may, when I was in the Army back in 1975, I managed to step on a sharp object on the artillery range in Germany and got a good case of Septicemia. Back home we used to call it blood poisoning. Being 19 years old, I had know idea how sick I was becoming. I just thought I had a good case of the flu.
As my combat engineer unit plodded through the drudgery of an assignment up by the Czechoslovakian border, I got sicker and sicker. Eventually, unable to even hold my head up, my Lieutenant said, "Keith you fool, take your sick ass to the Medics." A friend in my squad drove the bumpy route to the MASH unit. Yes, up by the border they had a mobile clinic set up. It was surprisingly just like the TV show - minus the wounded soldiers and the hot war.
"You ain't got the flu son," the Doc said. "Drop you pants, something else is wrong." When I revealed my right leg, the Doc said, "Damn, boy. Do you realize how close to dying you are? The infection is clear up to your groin." He found the epicenter of where some of the artillery shrapnel still was lodged in my foot. Being from the farm, I guess I did not have very good self diagnosis ability. If you had a pain on the farm, you just toughed it out.
The back story was that while I spent two weeks in the field hospital, my friend never relayed my situation to my unit. And in the mean time, my Lieutenant had been called back to headquarters in Nuremberg. Subsequently, I was listed as AWOL for two weeks. My friend thought that was the biggest funny deal.
On release from the field hospital, the Doc said, "No walking for a couple days." But, when I called my unit to come pick me up, the duty sergeant called me a "pussy" and said no Jeep was available. Besides, he claimed I was, "A malingering sissy," and, "Malingering sissies don't deserve a ride." I walked the three miles back to camp on my bad leg.
Three days later I was back in the field hospital, this time for three weeks. The Doc was not happy and apparently some shit hit somebody's fan back in my unit - I am thinking a certain duty sergeant's.
At any rate, Ol' Sarge never spoke to me again.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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abcde
The folklore about mysterious pissers or in my case, shitters, seems to go hand-in-hand with military reminiscing. Back stories about someone pissing in the commander's coffee cup have even preoccupied major war motion pictures. I would be remiss if I did not mention my brush with my platoon's, intestinal specter.
Along the way I traveled through Army time with a couple of New Yorkers named Dep and Hutch. They were a couple of dudes that signed up for the Army under the guise of one of those recruiting schemes - "The Buddy System." And, they actually made it to the same duty station together. Very few of these arrangements ever panned out to fruition. But my two chums from Queens were survivors. And, it just does not seem right to talk about one without the other. In fact, us guys often referred to them as "Dep and Hutch." They just came as a packaged deal.
They cut a strange profile together. Dep was a tall, dark, solid, and lanky Polish fellow. Hutch was a little Irish guy with red hair. I remember Hutch seemed prone to colds and flu. One time in particular I recall him getting pneumonia and spending a long bought in the Army hospital - long enough where we had to go see him because at one point his situation looked pretty grim.
Dep always told me his own capstone event in life was being told by a New York judge he had two options: be a guest of the State of New York; or, join the Army. I remember him showing me a picture of himself standing in front of his ranch-style house with his dad in New York. As a naive farm kid from Wisconsin might do, I said, "You live in a house? Where's all the sky-scrappers?"
"You dumb ass," Dep said. And then he continued, "We live in houses you idiot."
A year or so later, I got Dep back. We were on patrol on the border of Germany and Czechoslovakia near the Demilitarized Zone between the commies and our side and out in the middle of no where. We happened on a village with three houses, a church, and two guest houses (taverns). Ol' Dep said, "Damn, who the fuck could spend a lifetime in a fucked up place like this?"
I looked at him and seized the moment and said, "Hey asshole, I grew up in a village just like this. My parents still live there."
Ol' Dep relaxed his M-16 rifle and paused out of his constant hyper New York character for a moment, lit a cigarette and said, "Sorry Bob, I did not mean to offend your background." That was Dep, he could disarm you in a second.
Back at the old Nazi compound we lived in, a recurring annoyance began to sprout. Every day we would meet for our morning roll-call in the quadrangle in the middle of the creepy compound parade grounds, but every few weeks or so, a big meadow muffin bowel presentation would be waiting for us near the wall next to where our platoon and company assembled.
The brick and marble structure took on a haunted and bleak Nazi aura. Mist and fog often swirled through the nooks and crannies in the early morning. The place was about five or six stories high, and, the big room windows had large German-esque marble frames and ledges - perfect to hang one's ass off to launch a good..., dump. In the winter you could set a couple of cases of beer out on the huge ledge and use it as a refrigerator. Just about the time the Ol' Company Commander du jour was heading for his breakfast chow in highly polished, shinny boots, the swirling mist and fog would give way to a massive masterpiece of human..., how do you doo-doo.
I had my suspicions about who the intestinal vigilante perp might be, but I could not corroborate my hunches.
For a time, Dep and I were roommates. So I saw his comings and goings all the time. He eventually made Buck Sergeant. This always surprised me because he was a notorious drunk. Along with Dep and living with him, came a crawling house plant inherited from a long discharged squad member. I saw him trash the room in a drunken stupor from time to time, but never even disrupt a leaf on that giant plant. Drunken brawls aside, Dep had an Eddy Haskell (that guy on the old Leave it to Beaver tv show who was just way too polite and full himself) quality about him and he often knew just what to say to which antagonist - must have been an acquired Queens skill.
For one reason or another at certain times of the day people just said, "Fuck-it" and left their room doors open. I could tell that who ever it was who was doing the evil excrement deed, they were using different windows to facilitate their shenanigans. Conventional and prevailing wisdom by our many offended leaders, assumed the offenses were being facilitated by the perp leaning against the building down on the assembly grounds. But most of the officers and non-coms who took the deviant deed personal, lived off post. I however, knew the logistics of the place. Because, no pun intended, I had to live in the damned..., old shit hole.
I lived in the belly of the beast. If indeed we were back at our home duty station (which wasn't too often), by the hour of 7:00 p.m. the Dr. Jekyll - Mr. Hyde nuance of the place kicked in. Once the leaders were gone for the evening and back in their comfy off-base housing with their wives, kids, and dogs, except for the over-night duty sergeant in the office (who usually seemed to disappear), we were on our own in the building from hell.
Finally, one night around 2:00 a.m. in the morning, I weaved out to the hallway with a beer bottle in tow to head for the bathroom. The place looked like a cross between an opium den, college dorm, half-way house, and Nazi museum minus the real Nazis. As I made my way to the latrine through the smoke, beer bottles, cigarette butts, trash, and loud music, I glanced through the open doorway of one of the rooms. I had to stop and back up and take another focussed look.
There on the huge ledge of the window hung Dep with no pants on and ass extended far into the quadrangle. The occupants of the room slept like babies on their bunks in drunken or dope induced dishevelment - or both. Dep took a second to glance up at me through the smoke and dim light and he cracked a serious smile. He grinned like a guy shutting the hood of a car just after getting that ol' fuck'n engine running again and now about to head on down the road to pick up his favorite chick.
I lost track of Ol' Dep after the Army. I did a Google, but to no avail. He called me a couple of times after I got back to Wisconsin in the mid 1970s. He even hunted me down at work once. It was the last time I ever talked to him. I remember the waitress at the place were I used to bartend and bounce at, handing me the phone at closing time and saying, "Some guy with an East Coast accent on the phone, Bob."
"Bobby, you ol' fucker. How the fuck you do'n you fuck'n motherfucker?...Fuck'n A..., you fuck. It's Dep, I found ya, yuh fucker."
Dep, I hope that where ever you two ended up, you and Hutch are well. We are all getting older now. I hope if you are still shitting, you are not yet shitting in nursing home diapers. Current leaders have fucked up our economy and lives so much I feel like shitting on some perceived sacrad parade grounds myself from time to time - but now at my age I would probably fall out of the window or break a hip trying to hang out it - or both.
Here's to you ol' buddy!
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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Army National Guard Private First Class Kyle Matthew Hemauer, 21, Manassas, Virginia (he was a 2002 graduate of Chilton High School in Chilton, Wisconsin), died on Monday, May 23, 2005 in Zabul Province, Afghanistan. Hemauer was assigned to Company A, 3rd Battalion, 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, Army National Guard, based out of Manassas, Virginia.
The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel mentioned Kyle grew up in Chilton, Wisconsin, and played football for the Chilton High School Tigers where he was named to all-conference status and remembered as a football standout. He is a 2002 graduate of Chilton High School. Chilton is a city of about 3,800 in Calumet County, Wisconsin, about 30 miles south of Green Bay. Hemauer went on to play punter for the Northrop Grumman shipyard Apprentice School football team at Newport News, Virginia. There he studied sheet metal apprentice. He was named to the second offensive team of the All-Atlantic Central Football Conference. Kyle was the middle of three sons.
The Washington Post noted that by 2003, Hemauer was in the apprentice program at the Northrop Grumman Newport News shipbuilding company. The apprentice program can last four or five years and gives training in shipbuilding via both classroom work and experience. They also offer college-level sports.
The Web site freedomremembered.com notes Kyle Hemauer was born on February 4, 1984 in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. He was remembered as a gentle giant, quiet, easy-going, and soft spoken. The Kyle Hemauer Scholarship of Honor was established after his death and is awarded each year to someone graduating and that is going into the military or to college for a field of public service. Kyle Hemauer is laid to rest at Saint Mary's Cemetery in Chilton, Wisconsin.
At the time of his death Private First Class Kyle M Hemauer was survived by his mom and dad Andy and Ann (Schmitz) Hemauer; and, his brothers Brad and Lucas.
Information for this short biography about Private First Class Kyle Matthew Hemauer was pieced together from the following sources: Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Obituary: Chilton shaken by death of soldier in Afghanistan," May 25, 2005; washingtonpost.com, "Va.-Based Guardsman Dies in Afghanistan," May 25, 2005; freedomremembered.com, "Spec Kyle Matthew Hemauer"; Wisconsin Department of Veteran Affairs "Fallen Heroes Page"; and, CNN.com "War Casualties Page."
Note: This "Wisconsin Military Casualties Afghanistan Iraq Compilation" Daily Dadio blog Category is under construction. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Wisconsin War Casualties Page for a list of names noted by date of death. ( If readers know of other military service persons with Wisconsin connections that are not on the Web site comprehensive list of fatal casualties, or notice errors, please email Bob Keith at keithrg13@cooldadiomedia.com ).
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Just seven miles or so south west of Fond du Lac and set back a bit from Highway 151, you will find the unincorporated community of Lamartine. We would have missed it for it not for the small sign encouraging us to eat "food" at said community. It was not hard to find the only watering hole in town. Aside from the newish fire station, Lori's Bar and Grill is the focal point of the whole place. And, the big yellow goal post drew us right in.
Funny how life works. We have traveled Highway 151 many times - to Door County; to the Experimental Aircraft Association (EAA) air show in Oshkosh; and, to Green Bay for anything Packers. And, we have never noticed Lamartine.
From the get-go there was a prominent Packers theme. And being from the state-line area, I immediately noticed the conspicuous absence of all things Bears, Cubs, and Sox. Down our way, the bar owners walk a fence line of loyalty, often displaying Bears, Cubs, Bulls, Blackhawks, White Sox, and Wild Cats' logos and pictures right along with the Packers, Bucks, Brewers, and of course..., Badgers.
Lori's not only has the Packers' football theme, it is a "neat and tidy" mostly Packers' football theme.
"Attention to detail," was what kept going through my mind. Every display obviously had meaning. The same attention to detail spilled over into the menu.
Twenty types of burgers are offered up - all with Packer names - from the "Punt Burger" with mushrooms and Swiss, to the "Jim Taylor Burger" with peanut butter and dill pickle spears.
For our purposes we where hunting fish. We tried the four-piece fried Perch lunch. The fish was the butterfly cut and prepared way beyond the usual tavern offering. It came with some dandy homemade tarter sauce and cole slaw. I could have made a whole meal out of the potato salad. A fresh piece of buttered marble bread topped off the deal.
Heide had her Sprecker's Root Beer and I..., well a Bud Light just jumped out from behind the bar and it had to be drank.
We were a little early to partake in the evening fish fry. The bartender reminded us that for that presentation they also open up the soup and salad bar.
If you are on the way up Oshkosh or Green Bay way, be sure to stop for a break in Lamartine at Lori's.
Lori's Bar and Grill is cool with Cool Dadio. Find them in Lamartine, Wisconsin, off Highway 151 just south west of Fond du Lac. They are actually on County Road Y. Call (920) 929-4041 for more information; or, visit the humble Web site at www.lorisoflamartine.com .
Note: You can find a chronological list at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page of these fish frys as we have visited them. The list presents the most recently visited fish fry at the top, in lieu of alphabetical order.
Wisconsin Military Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person or military connected person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Blackwater employee Eric Smith, 31, Waukesha, Wisconsin, died on Thursday, April 21, 2005, in Iraq. He was killed while serving as a security officer for the United States Department of State when the Russian-built helicopter belonging to a Bulgarian subcontractor in which he was being transported in was shot down by an insurgent Surface-Air-Missile. Smith was one of six Americans, three Bulgarians, and two Fijians working under contract for the Department of Defense that were killed in the attack. The crash took place 12 miles north of Baghdad while they were enroute to Tikrit, Iraq.
The Web site findagrave.com noted that Eric Smith was born on September 11, 1973. The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel said Smith had been in the U.S. Marines for at least five years and had been honorably discharged in 2000. He also had served as a security guard at the U.S. Embassy in Israel. The Journal Sentinel also noted Smith had worked for the Secret Service before working for Blackwater.
In a subsequent article, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel said Eric Smith was a 1992 graduate of Waukesha South High School. After the Marines, he attended Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He then moved back to Waukesha and earned a degree in criminal justice from Waukesha County Technical College in 2003. Smith had also worked as a guard at the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi, Kenya. He was in the Secret Service in 2004. Smith had been employed by Blackwater Security Consulting in Iraq since February of 2005.
At the time of his death Eric Smith was survived by his father and stepmother Tom and Signy Smith; his grandmother Nonabell Davies; sisters ReAnn (Scott) Holmes, Sue (Chris) Chier, Marjorie (Tony) Suto, Sandy (Tom) Wypiszynski, Joyce (Gary) Kammerzelt, Shaun (Bill) Tofson; and, brothers Buddy Cook, and Jerry (Jennifer) Cook. Eric Smith was laid to rest with military honors at Arlington Park Cemetery in Greenfield, Wisconsin.
Information for this short biography about Blackwater Security Officer Eric Smith was pieced together from the following sources: findagrave.com, "Eric Smith," May 8, 2005; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Attack on helicopter in Iraq claims Town of Waukesha man," April 23, 2005; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Service to honor former Marine Waukesha man killed in helicopter crash in Iraq," May 5, 2005; and, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Former Marine recalled as man unwilling to sit by," May 8, 2005.
As of this blog entry's posting date:
106,612 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,488 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1968 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1029 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
1 American/Coalition casualty in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,226 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
592 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Iraq since Spring 2003.
15,858 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
42 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
4 Wisconsin military contractors have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1 Wisconsin military contractor has been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
9 journalists (American, French, UK, freelance) have been killed in Syria since January 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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If you hang around long enough in life, the human condition at large lends itself to countless priceless ironies. I met a guy in my Army unit in Germany named George Archer. As I recall, he hailed from out in one of the Virginias. Bear in mind the context of the military environment we all lived under. My roommate Dep, at the time was given the option of jail or the Army by a New York judge. In kind, Ol' Archer had been in the National Guard. The glitch came went George came up missing for a time. Uncle Sam punished him for his delinquent indiscretion by sentencing him to...service in the Regular Army - kind of like fining someone more money for writing a bad check; you know, fining someone something they do not have in the first place. But I digress.
George or "Arch" as we called him was an amiable chap. He was about five-foot eight, not a big guy, but I would not like to ever have had to fight him. He had wavy blond hair and a rugged yet almost handsome face. I never saw him angry. He was infamous in our unit for having that famous poster of Farrah Fawcett on his room wall back at our base station. Once I made a snide comment about a bar-room brawler of a guy from our unit who was notorious for unapologetic bad behavior.
"Good riddance," I had said to our group regarding the brawler guy named Max that was such a hard ass. Max was shipping out.
Ol' Arch said in his Virginian accent, "Well Bob, wait now a second; I think I would have to have at least one beer with Ol' Max if I ever see him again."
That was Archer, he always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.
Arch joined us on one of our weekend jaunts. We ended up down near the Bavarian mountains. There is a picture somewhere of a bunch of us camped out by a mountain lake some damn place in the foot hills. When the car broke down in the mountains on a narrow road on the edge of a thousand foot drop, George did not bat an eye. He just raised the hood and started to tinker - "Appalachian mechanic," Ol' Smitty said and laughed, "He can't fix anything unless its in the mountains."
Smitty nicknamed the little cobbled VW Bug "Sunshine." Once in a drunken weekend in the Bavarian farmland, we took off down a dirt farm road; then I hopped into a harvested corn field at 75 miles an hour. A minute later, in the bumpy rubble, one of my hub caps passed the car. It is still in that field most likely.
Back in the urban setting in Nurnemberg, one weekend Roache dropped a cigarette between the seats. The car started on fire. As we were trying to beat out the flames, two German Polizi pulled up. As they came to my car door, I opened it and a cloud of smoke billowed out. Smitty grabbed a couple beers from the back seat and poured them on the fire.
"Crazy Americans," one of the cops said as they got back in their patrol car and sped off. "Verrückt Amerikaner."
Archer's sentence among us rabble was for one year. That thought in itself should inspire an essay. Some judge thought so poorly of the American Armed Services, he deemed it appropriate punishment for a perp to be sentenced to living among, well...American soldiers abroad.
Of course we had a party when it came time for Arch to go home. There was an Italian guy named Bono down the road from our barracks in Nuremberg that operated a Guest House (tavern). After a night of debauchery, the guest of honor found himself riding up in my sunroof. Like a gunner on top of a tank, Ol' George Archer rode in style as I sped up and down the late-night empty boulevard near our barracks. As I squealed into the barracks archway past the guard (who just shook his head) Archer's legs disappeared behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and McAmmis (who was a nudist from California, and should probably have his own story some day) was holding on to Archer's foot as he dangled over the side - his head bobbing off the coble stone driveway.
Long story short - George Archer went home with one hell of a knot on his head. I must invoke the cliche, "There but for the grace of god go I." I am thinking of countless legal cases where kids, (we were just kids in retrospect, except we carried machine guns unlike our civilian college counterparts back in America that carried books), I can think of countless examples of someone dying from falling off a car during a drunken foray.
"I'm sorry, Arch," I said to him as we shook hands the next day at the airfield.
"Don't worry a bit Bob," Archer said. Then he smiled and said like a Wall Street attorney, "Bob, I know you are a drunk and I crawled in to your car with no illusions. Nobody forced me at gun point to act like a fool. You take care Bob, it was a pleasure serving with you."
It was the last time I ever saw Ol' Arch. Another Army buddy of mine from West Virginia tried to find Archer after we all got out of the Army - to no avail - Arch disappeared back into his Appalachian Mountains.
George Archer, I hope you have had a good life in your beautiful mountains; and, I hope you do not think too ill of me now after all these years to reflect on that short time when we were all so young and invincible - I hope you do not get too mad at me each time you look in the mirror and see that damn scar on your forehead.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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I don't know how the ranking system works in the military any more. I do however these days, see a great deal of National Guard and Reserve personnel being used in Iraq and Afghanistan. Which means I believe, Uncle Sam is relying on part-time military people to do a lot of jobs that full-time people did back when I was in the military at the end of the 'Nam era. The next obvious thought might be...should be, well, part-time people get paid less - Bingo!
Anyways, back during 'Nam, the prevailing wisdom was that if you stayed in the service for three years and maybe did a tour overseas some where, you should be able to become an E-5 pay grade by the time you arrive home. An E-5 was the equivalent of a three-stripe Buck Sergeant. Back in my day they also had the rank of Specialist-Five (Spec-5). Specialists were usually in technical roles in lieu of leadership positions.
You basically rose up to E-4 fairly routinely, provided you stayed out of jail and refrained from telling your Sergeant to go fuck off too many times. An E-4 was either a Corporal or a Specialist-Four (Spec-4).
A few months before my service obligation was to be over, my old Platoon Sergeant came to me and reminded me it was time I thought about bumping up to E-5. It would require a bit of tuning up and extra good behavior. It should also require some simple things like taking a bit of responsibility now and then and wearing proper uniform and the like.
Ol' Staff Sergeant Jackson had 23 years in the Army. He been in the Army at the end of the Korean War era. When asked, he would tell you he was in just in time to help clean up after that war. Viet Nam was a different story. He had pulled a couple tours over there. I remember one story he told more than once, about recovering a Viet Cong rocket that was unexploded and stuck in a tree top near their base camp.
Jackson told it like this: {First Sergeant Davis came to me and said, "Jack, I need that fuck'n bomb out of that goddamn banana tree, and your the man who will do it." Keith, I shimmied up that tree, tied a rope to that fuck'n Commie bomb and had Ol' Jimmy Jones help me lower it down.} Then he would always laugh with a faraway glance.
Sergeant Jackson was a good guy and could retire any time he wanted being in the military longer than 20 years. "I'm just a visitor here Specialist Keith; I am just waiting for my fishing boat to be delivered from Montgomery Wards and when it gets here, you will catch my black ass out on the lake in a fuck'n Hawaiian shirt."
During a time when I was assigned as the driver of a Rough Terrain Scoop Loader for our platoon a punctured tire simply went flat in the motor pool parking area. For those that do not know heavy equipment, the tires on this thing are hugh. And, we frequently had to fix a flat on our own as the operator. I pulled the tire off the hub, let it drop to the ground, and then pulled it off the rim to plug the puncture. After plugging the whole and checking the inside for damage, I got the tire back on the rim, but it had to be lifted and bolted back on the hub and then wrapped with a strap to inflate it - the tire was tubeless. Sergeant Jackson was strolling around the motor pool and noticed my dilemma. I could not lift the large tire assembly myself. Sergeant Jack took off his fatigue shirt so he was only wearing his t-shirt. He was obviously a large man, but I never paid much attention other than thinking he was a guy in his early forties getting a paunch. Not so, I noticed right away. He was just a big guy and his stomach was mostly solid - and his biceps looked like bowling balls. He wrestled that big tire around like it was a pillow. Reflecting nowadays that when I was in my early 40s, I was often a train wreck and in and out of he hospital from time to time, I am embarrassed. I've had a couple of good runs with regimens of weight lifting to try to bring my aging body back in gear, but Sergeant Jackson was just in shape at 43...just because that's the way he was.
Now decades later, Sergeant Jack might be one guy I have in mind when I came to the conclusion there are only two types of people in the world. Those that get you killed in a war zone; and, those that do not. In retrospect I would error on the side of Sergeant Jackson keeping me alive before 99 percent of the whole of the Earth's inhabitants - former and present.
But back in that same motor pool one day when Sergeant Jackson came to Ol' Bob to remind him to tune up for the next step up in rank promotion, Spec-4 Hardhead, Mister sanctimonious-smug-prick 20-year-old, E-4 Bob, told Sergeant Jack that the Army sucked and that he and his Army should...basically...in short order...fuck off.
I remember he took it well but looked just a bit tired just then, and maybe even a bit hurt. Unbeknownst to my ignorant ass at the time, and something I would find out years later, if your underlings do good on the job, it makes the boss look good too. I would painfully find this out when 10 years later I myself would be a supervisor at the City of Dallas over a diverse group of crass, blue-collar workers. And, I was told from time to time by someone who I thought was a promising employee that I and my City should...basically...in short order...fuck off.
I arrived home in Wisconsin unceremoniously just a few months after my conversation with Sergeant Jack, forever recorded in some dusty records' building in Kansas City or some other god forsaken place as, Specialist Fourth Class Robert G. Keith.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Some time after New Year's 1977 and I had returned to Nuremberg from Spain, the yellow Bug pretty much kicked the bucket. But, to it and its creator Crazy Jimmy's credit, I had driven the shit out of it for a year and a half. Dad got his 400 Bucks worth and then some.
I had one 30 day leave left before my discharge time in November of 1977 (Estimated Time of Separation - ETS they called it.) In fact as your time grew near, a guy might put a rolled up cloth 100 centimeter tailor tape measure in his chest pocket and once under 100 days left to go in Army, you pull the tape end out of your pocket, cut off the excess tape numbers, and let the "days short" number hang out for all to see - Short Timer. Each day you cut off centimeter working down to number one.
Over the year of 1977, I had befriended a guy from Cortland, New York named Dave. He kind of filled the void when my two chums from my first leave-time moved on as soldiers do - Smithy to be stationed in Berlin, and Roache served his time and went home.
Dave was a bit younger than me by a couple years and had a sharp, cynical jib on life that probably was acquired from coming of age in a society that had just lost a war, had a President quit, and now provided no jobs for its high school graduates after having told them for 12 years how wonderful America surely was.
My Scotish father handed me down a cautiously patriotic world view; from my flaming red-haired Irish mom I inherited an empathetic stand point for all worldly creatures, embattled, beleaguered, cast off, or otherwise - but, the caveat was, if one is ever doubled crossed by any of said creatures, holy war must be declared. I suppose it was not a coincidence Dave and I hooked up for a year before I left the Army.
I pretty much talked Dave into taking an extended trip to England and Ireland via train and back pack. Dave contributed by offering relatives to stay with in Belgium. Dave's mom was from Belgium and had married his dad just as World War II ended. Interestingly, Dave's mom's sister - Dave's aunt - had married a German during the war. We met her once in Fulda, Germany. I don't remember the German husband, maybe he was dead by then. Anyway, Dave's family reunions must have been...edgy at best.
On the way to England we did indeed stop over in Brussels to see his aunts and uncles. They were nice people who fed us and gave us a nice place to stay over night. They lived in an old house in a connected row of houses that reminded me of something out of a World War II movie. There was a big dinning room with an old chandelier type light fixture hanging over the big wood dining table.
Straight off, It became obvious we were moving slower because of using the trains and walking. The VW Bug had been far more efficient. But beggars can't be choosy. We just had to give extra time for every movement. And, somewhere I still have a copy of the youth Euro-train-pass I was able to buy.
We could not always afford a cab to get to a Bed and Breakfast or cheap hotel and sometimes we slept outside. I remember sleeping in a sidewalk tunnel, a cemetery, and most notably in Ireland waking up with cows looking at us in a pasture. Once a bartender in Scotland felt sorry for us and let us stay on the floor in his big old apartment that was in some big crumbling old building. "I am going to get a stereo system one of these day like you Yanks," I remember him saying over and over again. I also remember the dude spoke the Scotish language to his countrymen.
There were many train rides. I remember getting on the wrong train (bullet type non-stop train) in France and ending up 200 miles off course at 150 miles per hour.
Ireland was a departure. The trains ran about 30 miles per hour and they ran when they damn well wanted to. Ireland, England, and Scotland were a bit easier to negotiate than mainland Europe because Bed and Breakfasts were ubiquitous and the going cost was about five Bucks. They were actually in people's houses, not like the expensive few and far between tourist constructs here in America.
There was much drink taken, a wall climbed over to get back into a cheap hotel in Ireland after they locked the gate for the night. I have a picture somewhere of a cat siting in the hallway of the same hotel. I remember in those days, my wisdom teeth bothered me the whole trip. More drink was taken as medication.
I remember renting rooms with one bed and flipping a coin to see who would sleep on the floor. It's a hetero guy-thing.
One instance stuck in my brain over the year. We found a dance club in Glasgow, Scotland. Upon picking out a couple of blue-collar girls, we tried to lay on the world traveler line.
"You ladies ever been to America?" I asked.
They both looked at me none-the-least impressed and one frowned at me and said, "We've been to Blackpool!"
Blackpool is just down the road a ways from Glasgow. She cut my world traveler legs out from under me like a rhetorical chain saw - short, sweet, and lethal - my ego handed to me in shreds.
I seem to remember leaving Dave in Brussels on the way back to Germany so he could catch up further with his long lost relatives. I headed back to Nuremberg to pick up my new bicycle I had double locked with a chain to the heating radiator in my room. My original bike I bought from Crazy Jimmy had been wrecked by an Army colleague while I was on one of my other leaves. They had taken the bed apart (which I had locked the bike to) to undo the lock to basically steal the bike for a time...seeing as how I was not going to need it for a month. This time my new bike was still waiting faithfully for my return.
I still had a week of leave left so I hopped on a train and headed south to Austria. I remember the train conductors always gingerly stowing my bike in the cargo car of the many trains. It was a nice little journey. I got back late at night and I still had a day to kill before I was due back to duty.
Suffice it to say I found myself down at..., "The Wall." After some nefarious encounters that good night with the dark side of the German culture and what I thought was a splendid evening with a German chick, I came out to the sidewalk with a bit of a cocky swagger to find my new bike..., stolen. The cable lay on the ground next to the bench it had been cabled to; and even a hammer with a sharp cobble stone cutting end, requisitioned from a street repair tool shed, lay next to the scene of the crime.
That turned out to be a bit of an expensive foray. Not swaggering now are you dumb shit?
I remember showing up to roll call that first morning back..., with a month's growth of beard. It was priceless. But Ol' Uncle Sam demanded his faithful be clean shaven. I was summarily sent to the latrine to, "cut'er off."
I did catch up with Dave after the Army. He had moved to Loveland, Colorado and I made a motorcycle ride out to see him. He was delivering milk. I was even offered a construction job out there but declined. Wounder where I would be now?
My old backpack and sleeping bag still sits on a pile of boxes in the basement. Tried to Google Dave, but he seems elusive nowadays.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Blackwater employee Eric Smith, 31, Waukesha, Wisconsin, died on Thursday, April 21, 2005, in Iraq. He was killed while serving as a security officer for the United States Department of State when the Russian-built helicopter belonging to a Bulgarian subcontractor in which he was being transported in was shot down by an insurgent Surface-Air-Missile. Smith was one of six Americans, three Bulgarians, and two Fijians working under contract for the Department of Defense that were killed in the attack. The crash took place 12 miles north of Baghdad while they were enroute to Tikrit, Iraq.
The Web site findagrave.com noted that Eric Smith was born on September 11, 1973. The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel said Smith had been in the U.S. Marines for at least five years and had been honorably discharged in 2000. He also had served as a security guard at the U.S. Embassy in Israel. The Journal Sentinel also noted Smith had worked for the Secret Service before working for Blackwater.
In a subsequent article, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel said Eric Smith was a 1992 graduate of Waukesha South High School. After the Marines, he attended Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He then moved back to Waukesha and earned a degree in criminal justice from Waukesha County Technical College in 2003. Smith had also worked as a guard at the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi, Kenya. He was in the Secret Service in 2004. Smith had been employed by Blackwater Security Consulting in Iraq since February of 2005.
At the time of his death Eric Smith was survived by his father and stepmother Tom and Signy Smith; his grandmother Nonabell Davies; sisters ReAnn (Scott) Holmes, Sue (Chris) Chier, Marjorie (Tony) Suto, Sandy (Tom) Wypiszynski, Joyce (Gary) Kammerzelt, Shaun (Bill) Tofson; and, brothers Buddy Cook, and Jerry (Jennifer) Cook. Eric Smith was laid to rest with military honors at Arlington Park Cemetery in Greenfield, Wisconsin.
Information for this short biography about Blackwater Security Officer Eric Smith was pieced together from the following sources: findagrave.com, "Eric Smith," May 8, 2005; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Attack on helicopter in Iraq claims Town of Waukesha man," April 23, 2005; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Service to honor former Marine Waukesha man killed in helicopter crash in Iraq," May 5, 2005; and, Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, "Former Marine recalled as man unwilling to sit by," May 8, 2005.
Note: This "Wisconsin Military Casualties Afghanistan Iraq Compilation" Daily Dadio blog Category is under construction. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Wisconsin War Casualties Page for a list of names noted by date of death. ( If readers know of other military service persons with Wisconsin connections that are not on the Web site comprehensive list of fatal casualties, or notice errors, please email Bob Keith at keithrg13@cooldadiomedia.com ).
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The sign on the front of the humble building has in red letters the words "Ristorante" and "Pizzeria" placed to either side of the name Anna Maria's. This is a well known eatery to the faithful in South Beloit, Illinois, and Beloit, Wisconsin. Just a half hour jaunt from my house in Janesville, I can head down Interstate 90 to the Highway 75 exit just over the Illinois border and then head west into town; the boulevard is also known as Gardner Street. After a couple miles you will find Anna Maria's on the right. Look carefully or you may miss its subtle storefront. But once inside, it is as comfortable and welcoming as sitting in your own dining room.
We have partaken in Anna Maria's Italian and pizza menu in the past. They put on quite a feed. And to our pleasant surprise, they put their special culinary skills to work on Friday fish fry night as well.
After a long journey from Texas, mother-in-law Chris decided to go beyond fish and tried the Tour of Sicily. This presentation is a cacophony of entrees including Fettuccini Alfredo, Chicken Parmigiana, Lasagna, and Mostaccioli. It was served on a plate the size of a turkey pan and needless to say the to-go box will provide a couple lunches over the weekend. She opted for a Bud Light after her long journey and big meal.
Heide went for the baked Cod with a baked potato. There came a huge swath of fish cooked with parsley and paprika. Of course a cup of melted butter accompanied the affair. She washed it down with a Canei Lambrusco.
I gave their deep-fried Cod a try. It came in a four-piece dinner. And, considering the portions the ladies were presented with I was not surprised the Cod hunks were huge. And too, they were prepared in my favorite church Cod style of slightly crispy breading on the outside with tender fish on the inside. The tarter was the necessary smooth blend for said recipe of fried Cod. This night I had a Bud Light.
The salad bar came with all our meals. It included a prepared traditional Italian salad with tomatoes, onions, olives, zuchini, and peppers all in an oil based dressing. And there was also some finely cut lettuce, tasty potato salad, a type of small noodles, and boiled eggs chopped in smaller pieces. And a benefit of eating fish fry at an Italian restaurant was the freshly baked, warm, Italian bread that came with the whole deal.
Heide splurged and sprung for an order of Tiramisu. And by now considering the portions mentioned in this posting, we could only smile at the size of the aforementioned decadent dessert.
If you're heading to or from Chicago / Rockford on Interstate 90, time your chow break and veer over to Anna Maria's.
Anna Maria's is a well kept secret in these parts for well over 30 years, and they are for sure cool with Cool Dadio. Find them at 823 Gardner Street in South Beloit, Illinois. Call (815) 389-2645 for more details.
Note: You can find a chronological list at the Cool Dadio Media Fish Fry Page of these fish frys as we have visited them. The list presents the most recently visited fish fry at the top, in lieu of alphabetical order.
Wisconsin Military Person Special Mention of the Week
(each week Cooldadiomedia mentions a Wisconsin service person or military connected person killed in Iraq or Afghanistan)
Blackwater Security Officer Robert Jason Gore, 23, Nevada, Iowa (formerly lived in Sheboygan, Wisconsin), died on Thursday, April 21, 2005 in Iraq. He was killed while serving as a security officer for the United States Department of State when the helicopter in which he was being transported in was shot down by an insurgent Surface-Air-Missile. Gore was one of six Americans, three Bulgarians, and two Fijians working under contract for the Department of Defense that were killed in the attack. The crash took place 12 miles north of Baghdad while they were enroute to Tikrit, Iraq.
A posting on the Web site wisconsinmedicalsociety.org states that Robert Gore had completed a full tour of duty in Iraq as a member of the Iowa National Guard’s 186th Military Police Unit and was a sergeant. After returning to the States he went on inactive status from the Guard to work as a security officer in Iraq providing security for the diplomats of the U.S. State Department.
The Wisconsin Medical Society Web site went on to note that although Gore was living in Iowa, he had also formerly lived in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He graduated from Saint John's Northwestern Military Academy in Delafield, Wisconsin. There he received his pilot's license, competed at the state wrestling tournament, and swam for the YMCA. He had worked several summers at Camp Y-Koda. Gore was also an accomplished skier: and, he was an avid fisherman, an activity which he shared with his grandfather.
The Web site rofflehaus.com notes that Robert Gore was born on February 11, 1982, in Vail, Colorado . He had enlisted in the Iowa Army National Guard in June of 2000 before attending Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa. He completed his 2001-2002 freshman year studying physics at Iowa State University before leaving school after being activated with the Iowa National Guard. Gore had been in Iraq with the Iowa National Guard from February 2003 to May of 2004. He returned to Iraq in 2005 for a six-month tour as a private security officer.
A Nevada Journal article found on nevadaiowajournal.com and freedownload.is notes Robert Gore attended Nevada High School in Nevada, Iowa, for his freshman year, but transferred to Saint John's Military Academy, in Delafield, Wisconsin where he graduated in 2000. The article went on to say Gore was an avid weightlifter as well as a skier and fly fisherman.
An article from the Iowa State Daily found on homeofthebravequiltsiowa.org notes that Gore had worked as a security guard at North Grand Mall while in college. He had planned to return to Iowa State at some point and then later return to the military and apply to become a member of the Green Berets.
At the time of his death, Robert Gore was survived by his mother Sue Selby-Gore; his brother Sean Gore; his father Donald Gore; his maternal grandparents Bill and Karen Selby; his paternal grandparents Doctor Donald R. and Mrs. Jacquelyn Gore; Uncles Scott (Julie) Selby, and Daniel (Charlotte) Gore; Aunts Jennifer Gore-Lucier (Gary), and Elizabeth Gore-Wong (Stuart). A private family burial ceremony was held at the Nevada Municipal Cemetery, in Nevada, Iowa.
Information for this short biography about Blackwater security officer Robert Jason Gore was pieced together from the following sources: wisconsinmedicalsociety.org., "Robert Jason Gore Scholarship Fund"; rofflehaus.com., "Robert Jason Gore"; freedownload.is., nevadaiowajournal.com., Nevada Journal, "Local soldier honored at weekend memorial service," May 12, 2005; and, homeofthebravequiltsiowa.org., Iowa State Daily, "SGT Robert J. Gore."
As of this blog entry's posting date:
106,532 Iraqi civilians have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003 (actually documented).
10,125 Iraqi Security Forces have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
4,488 Americans have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1959 Americans have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
318 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1029 Coalition soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
1 American/Coalition casualty in Libyan "Operation Odyssey Dawn" since March, 2011.
32,226 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
592 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Iraq since Spring 2003.
15,786 U.S. troops have been wounded in action in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
192 Wisconsin military service persons have been wounded in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
107 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
42 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001.
4 Wisconsin military contractors have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
1 Wisconsin military contractor has been killed in Afghanistan since October, 2001
3 Wisconsin military service persons have been killed in the U.S. related to "The War on Terror" since September, 2001.
151 journalists (several nationalities) have been killed in Iraq since Spring, 2003.
22 journalists (various nationalities) have been killed in Afghanistan since September, 2001.
5 journalists (regional and independents) have been killed in Libya since March, 2011.
9 journalists (American, French, UK, freelance) have been killed in Syria since January 2011.
Wisconsin military service person special mention of the week, military casualty, and journalist casualty information sources: Committee to Protect Journalists; cnn.com; Milwaukee Journal Sentinel; washingtonpost.com; thehighground.org; Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs; iraqbodycount.org; www.defense.gov/news/casualty.pdf; and, icasualties.org.
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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"You have been at the computer typing for three hours," complains my wife.
"You have been telling me for years now to write a damn book," I always return. "Be careful what you ask for."
"You ought to write a book," I have heard from more than one person over the years. Persons of course who have never...., written a damn book. Writing a book is one of the hardest things I have ever done. This book, "Jobs of Bob" is almost finished. I have four other books well under way; and, eight more books in the early staging process. Because my bill-paying job is a dead-end, benefitless, low-paying poster child for our current misery economy, nowadays when asked what I do for a living, I have taken the liberty to self defining myself as, "fuck'n writing books."
Don't think the endless "misery economy" and its facilitators has been overlooked on my book-writing hit-list either. Like I said, "Be careful what you wish for." But I digress.
Some of these recent reflections going so far back and at such a then active time in my life, got me to thinking how memories settle out in your mind after a good chunk of time passes. This following memory about dumping a load of sand on a busy German street seems like it should already be written down somewhere, but no, I never jotted it down anywhere. But, for years after I got out of the Army, I would tell it once in a while. I told the experience enough that it now seems like it must have indeed been written down some place.
Then years went by where it no longer maintained a spot on my story-telling shelf. I quit bringing up Army tales for years. Now as I try to do this job chronology, I almost have forgotten a few of these vignettes. Go figure. In fact, stories I would have told with easy enthusiasm years ago, I now find painfully hard to recollect. So goes the art of writing about the past.
Some brain surgeon got the bright idea to place an athletic field in the middle of our home military complex in Nuremberg. The odious Merrell Barracks. The whole of the interior of the place was asphalted over - with a smattering of cobble stones - in the days I was stationed there, it was mainly used to park our Army equipment and our privately owned cars.
There was an abandoned horse stable in one portion of the facility. I suppose at one time much of the area was an equestrian parade grounds. Enter the mobile Germany of the 1960s and 1970s - asphalt and cobble stones ruled. Besides, we used the old Nazi rally grounds down the road for our sports activities. The German girls loved to watch us play American baseball and football. Poetically the incredulous chickies parked their little tookuses on the same stone seats the masses adored Adolf from when he ramped up the hype in his speeches to the home of the Nazi party.
None-the-less, there would be a football sized grass area resurrected in the middle of the Merrell complex. I remember the oily piles of asphalt during the excavation process. The ground underneath looked dead and contaminated to some depth. I remember thinking how creepy it looked.
We Engineers got a nod to do most of the work - we of course had the correct equipment to tear up shit. At that time, I was still driving my dump truck - the dandy M-51 Cold War era armored plated dump truck. We had three of these beasts and would haul the old asphalt to the land fill, and then swing by a nearby air field to pick up a load of sandy loam from a stash of ballast they kept out there. Then I would haul the load of sand to the new athletic field back at Merrell.
The amount of earth to be moved in and out of about a two-foot deep area the size of a football field is stunning. The project took awhile. Back and forth I traveled. I would take a detour through the city park area and stop at the bratwurst vender for a brat and beer. It was right up my Wisconsin alley.
I never thought of it much at the time, but I repaired a shit load of tires in those days. What with all the junk that Engineers run over in the course of their work on target ranges and the out-back at large, flat tires where just part of our culture. I doubt if I could even lift one of those big tires upright nowadays. We had air tanks on the dump trucks so we could air up tires we repaired on the spot. The big trucks also had a spare tire between the cab and the wall of the dump bed. There was a armor plated extension on the dump bed that angled over the top of the cab consummating the locking in so to speak of the spare tire. The dump bed had to be lifted a bit to get any spare tire out of its nest or put one back in.
We were on our way back from the air field with a load of sand. For some reason I was giving Ol' Sergeant Shocky a ride back to Merrell. He was given some oversight of the project - most likely because it would get him out of sight. He was a small fellow with a big whisk broom mustache and a soft-spoken demeanor. Sergeant Shocky had the distinction of being one of the only guys that had been stationed in the 84th Engineer Company twice. In those day, you usually rotated around to different units every 12 to 30 months. If you spent twenty-five years in the military, you could have quite a portfolio of duty stations - very few of them would be repeats. Shocky was up to his ninth year in the Army if I remember. He had been in 'Nam a couple of times too. Ol' Sergeant Shocky had another distinction although not so distinguished. He was a notorious drunk - hence the special assignment watching dirt piles.
At any rate, I was well into the city and perhaps a mile from the barracks. It was rush hour in the afternoon. There was a little congested bypass I had to negotiate before I hit the main boulevard to home base. Boom! Out goes a front tire. Had I lost one of the eight rear tires I could have limped the last mile with out even much notice of the flat.
I pulled the truck part way up on a side walk to stay out of Comrade's busy traffic. I pulled the lever to raise the dump bed a bit to be able to remove the spare tire. Despite the industrial-esque size of the jack, lug nuts, and tires, I must say I do remember getting it all changed rather quickly. To only have that farm-boy energy back again. Anyway, Shocky disappeared into a nearby mom and pop grocery shop which were ubiquitous in Germany. Before I could even get the lug nuts off he was downing his second beer, standing on the sidewalk watching me.
As we hopped back up into the truck after completing my task, Shocky handed me a beer and was downing his third. "Gun'er," he said, "Or you won't be able to merge back into the traffic."
I fired up the big truck, looked for a momentary break in the traffic to jump back on the road, and pushed the accelerator to the floor. I felt a double jolt, once as we left the sidewalk curb, but what the hell was the other noise? Something was wrong. I looked in the side mirror and said, "Oh, shit!"
I had put the flat tire up in the spare tire rack before tightening the good tire lug nuts. In the mean time the heavy load of sand caused the dump bed to slowly sink back to normal. Problem with that - the lift lever was still engaged. When I hit the accelerator, the bed shot up like a rocket. I dumped the whole load in the middle of the busy intersection.
Ol' Shocky shrugged, got out of the truck, and strolled back in to the shop to get another beer. I flagged down a jeep from another unit and asked them to take me out to the air field to get one of our scoop loaders. Knowing Ol' Sarge would be alcoholically indisposed on my return I commandeered one of our guys from the air field to drive the scoop loader and I rode on the side back to the crime scene.
When I got back to the pile of dirt with the loader about a half hour later, Sergeant Shocky was drinking a beer and joking and laughing with the traffic cop that had stopped to block the sand pile with his squad car. Ol' Sarge must have been well into his seventh or eighth beer. The cop seemed not the least concerned about the GI holding the beer or the pile of sand or the fact Shocky handed me a beer when I finished sweeping up the mess.
Now there's a guy that it might be interesting to know what happened to after all these years - I suspect a few more beers have been consumed since I saw him last. He was in a mom and pop grocery store a block from Merrell. Ol' Shocky was back by the beer cooler putting one down and reaching for another. It was two in the afternoon on a Tuesday I think.
But then again, what the hell was I doing in there too on a work day? Oh ya, I must have been hunting down a candy bar.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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After recounting some of my military experiences, it seems more than a few of the shenanigans took place at the odious Grafenwoehr military complex near the then border with then communist Czechoslovakia.
"Graf" as it was called by us guys, was an Orwellian moonscape made so by generations of military troops training and basically...blowing the shit out of everything in site. There was even thick bunkers left over from Nazi days. Hence, unexploded ordinance (stray explosives) could be collected like sea shells on the shore line at low tide. Again, the Engineers got the nod. We would scour the landscape of the massive military reservation picking up dangerous shit. Then we were to detonate it. Safely...of course.
A guy, a sergeant, joined my unit - we will call him Baker; every unit has a guy named Baker. Ol' Baker was probably 23 years old. With his glasses and boyish face, he looked more like a new high school English teacher than a Combat Engineer. I believe he came our way from duty in Korea. But - that odious "but," - but, regardless of his youthful demeanor he had that, "Fuck with me and you will be sorry" aura about him. Them Demilitarized Zone Korean duty veterans often had a harder swagger than some of the 'Nam-vet guys. He was on his second enlistment.
Anyway, I was to drive the five-ton dump truck we would put the "dangerous" and loose, ferrel explosives in. Baker was in charge. Dep The Mad Shitter talked about the art of derfrocking German frauleins. And a couple other guys rounded out the squad.
I remember the famous last words by the Platoon Sergeant, "Baker, this is your first assignment in my unit. Don't fuck it up...and don't use gasoline to enhance the demolition of the stray ordinance."
After we had easily picked up enough stray explosives and put them in a pile to detonate or blast a small satellite to the moon, and Dep was well into his one-hundredth vignette regarding the conquest of German tail, Baker promptly directed The Ol' Mad Shitter to fetch a can of gasoline to..."enhance the demolition of the stray ordinance."
When all was ready, ordinance neatly piled, gasoline generously applied, and final details of detonation devices being secured by Baker, the "Fire in the hole," warning was about to be shouted.
Whizzz! It was a strange sound. Not loud at all. I was only a few feet away, the closest guy to Baker. Had the whole pile ignited, both Baker and I would be only distant memories to our high school classmates now almost 60 years old.
I can hear in my mind the chit-chat at a 40th class reunion:
"Bob Keith, I think I remember him, wasn't he the one who drove that '66 Fairlane around on a relentless crusade trying to get his winky yanked by nafarious chicks? Ya, that was him; he done blow'd himself up in the Army as far as I remember - Ol' winky yank'n fucker."
The letter from Uncle Sam to my poor Irish mother might read:
"Dear Mrs. Keith, we regret to inform you that although your son Robert performed his orders admirably, he was killed in the line of duty. You see Mrs. Keith, while Dep the Mad Shitter prattled on about slipping dick to German chicks, Robert and his Sergeant blew the fuck out of themselves while disposing of unused explosives using gasoline to make the shit blow up better. Actually Mrs. Keith, somebody really fucked the dog on this one..."
I don't know what Baker did to ignite only some of the ordinance. It appeared to me, his detonation device ignited prematurely but the pile of explosives did not.
Baker hesitated for a second in a shroud of smoke and emerged with face burned. His hair to the front, eyebrows, and mustache were gone. His classes were cracked and crooked on his face, but they probably saved him from being permanently blinded. I could see his arms, hands, and various parts of the front of his legs and body where badly burned. He began to wander around blinded and the pain must have started to kick in.
"Bob, are you there, get me some help," I remember him saying over and over.
Dep finally figured out we were...in deep shit, but stood and stared for a moment - years later I learned it is called "bystander syndrome."
We finally had enough sense to put out the fire of Baker's smoldering fatigue uniform.
The only thing I could think of was to load Baker in the front of the dump truck and drive to the helicopter tower a few miles away. Of course Uncle Sam sent no two-way radio with us. And it was 30 years pre-cell phone era. Dep and I hoisted him in the front seat. Dep hopped in the open bed of the truck and I drove like a, well, like a mother fucker.
I remember driving the dump truck at 60 miles an hour through restricted areas reserved for "The Brass." At least I had been to Graf enough to know all the nooks and crannies and short cuts.
Dep rode in the back of the truck and shouted like a mad man for anyone and everyone who happened in our way at 10 miles an hour to, "Get the fuck out of the way, assholes!"
It probably only took five minutes to get to the tower. It seemed like an hour. Baker's cries got worse and worse as I approached the runway and luckily, one medical Huey helicopter waited patiently near the tower.
I had little useful medical training in those days, but I knew an emergency when I saw one, having been raised on a farm where only the most egregious injury was considered a cause for notice.
I drove at an angle across the huge concrete landing zone toward the tower. Dust flew up behind the iron clad truck now screaming at 70 miles an hour; a hulk of a beast meant mostly to lumber slowly around and carry dirt and junk.
"What the fuck is your problem, asshole?" I remember the tower officer, a Captain, shouting at me as he bolted down the tower stairs skipping steps. "I will have your idiot-driving-ass finishing your enlistment in the brig, Fuck Face!."
Then the Captain who tied into me saw Baker.
"Well don't just stand there, load the Sergeant in the bird, Hot Rod," he said with a bit of a smile then. It was like the movies I would see 15 years later with a medevac chopper lifting off at a hostile angle and disappearing behind the low trees - patient safely on board. Nothing ever came of my driving antics. Baker got a transfer; at least he disappeared. The last time I saw him was a couple weeks later in the hospital in Nuremberg - he was getting better.
Years later I would sometimes think of the experience as I drove ambulance for 10 years in rural Green County, Wisconsin. Baker, I hope you were able to have a full recovery and to grow your mustache back; and, I do not begrudge you for the experience that almost got us all...all fucked up. I was there too. What was I thinking? Shit like that happened all the time in that fuck'n place.
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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In the winter of 1976, I put in for another leave. This one would be around two weeks over the Christmas holiday. To further belabor the poor time and personal life management skills of my Army colleagues, I could find no one to travel with me.
Look, I know what you are thinking. You are saying, "Well Bob, maybe you are just an ass, and no one cares to travel with you."
Remember, I had something no one else in my social strata had...a fuck'n car. Most people would ride with the devil, to get out of the barracks. It was cheap to drive, even though there were so many public transportation options in Germany. You see, as cheap as trollies and trains were, once the train got you somewhere, you had to find a place to stay. As young guys, we could always sleep in the car...for nothing.
Regardless of going solo, I headed out to retrace the steps of mine and my two chums' earlier exploits in Sitges, Spain - the place we had the most fun in and at, on our leave that past summer.
This time round I decided to ride through the tiny mountain country of Andorra. I remember it as mountain-rural and majestic with farms planted on the sides of the Pyrenees Mountains. Staying true to my form of seeming to attract the quirky side of planet Earth, I met two German dudes whose mission they claimed, was to pirate old junk left in mountain barns. There seemed to be a lot of barns without houses dotting the hillsides. The barns probably were build over the centuries to accommodate supplies, animal food for certain seasons, hunting, and mountain crop harvesting. Non-the-less, Uttee and Ottee were on a crusade to rip off every old hunk of carved wood they could pilfer. I declined their invitation to join in the looting. I envisioned myself being thrown in a mountain prison never to be heard from again. They did give me the name of a cheap hotel in Sitges that served up a meal or two for those that rented a room.
When entering Sitges on that first bleak Mediterranean winter day, I became disoriented. Surely it could not have been due to the recent break I had taken at the previous town back up the coast a ways. There were dandy little cafes and taverns at my every turn along the Mediterranean. Anyway, I was looking at my directions to the hotel that Comrades Uttee and Ottee had given me and I ran a stop sign at a four-way intersection.
Boom!
A car to my right was rear ended by another car as they tried to avoid my poor driving.
"Christ," I thought. And, I kept going.
Yet, I was still lost as can be in a town then the size of Delavan, Wisconsin. I rode round and round expecting to be assaulted by the Spanish military police at every wrong turn. About 15 minutes later, I came around a corner and things looked familiar.
"Woo," I thought. "Hey, look, a car wreck. Wonder what happened?"
There were two cars jammed up against each other at an intersection and the drivers were arguing. There were a couple motorcycle cops and a couple squad cars. One car had rear ended another and the cops were trying to sort it out. One the cops had jackboots, helmet, and submachine gun. He gave me a glower as I slowly passed the mayhem.
"Holy shit!" This was the wreck I caused. Again, I kept right on going. When I got to the hotel, remarkably, there was Ol' Uttee and Ottee. Low and behold, there they were, just sitting at the dinner table when I arrived - they were not the least bit concerned about their exploits and, apparently had avoided Andorrian officials without much effort. I was never so glad in my life to see a couple of schleps like Ol' Uttee and Ottee. Pyrenees pirate bastards!
The guy who owned the hotel joint was a Belgium expatriate. He invited us to spend Christmas dinner with him and his family. I remember how kind they were, but as I recall, I did have to chip in money for some of the expense for the dinner. He also had a cute daughter about my age.
A day or so later, I had a New Year's buffet dinner at a tavern we had befriended on our earlier trip to Sitges. My dinner at the tavern was spent mostly trying to fend off the tavern owner and his suggestion, or rather insistence, that I enter the nefarious world of stolen goods, under his guidance, of course. And, it took about a half dozen declines to stave off two muscular gay Spaniard guys who invited me to dine at Christmas dinner on a U.S. aircraft carrier docked off Barcelona at the navel base. They could not quite explain how they had special privileges to enter a nuclear aircraft carrier for a snick-snack on Christmas day.
Yikes! This old country boy did not just fall off a turnip wagon fellahs.
The Riviera was glum and cooler in the middle of winter, like Texas in the winter. It is still nice during the day, but cool at night, and it was too cold to swim in the Mediterranean. And for the most part, I had the place to myself in this tourist off season time.
I remember spending a good deal of time sitting at a cafe on the beach of the Mediterranean Sea that I would then think of years later when Don Henley's song "Sunset Grill" came out. Nowadays should that song happen in my ears I still think of that cafe in Sitges during that Christmas in 1976.
And drinking..., and drinking..., and drinking.
"Let's go down to the Sunset Grill..., We can watch the working girls go by...,"
Note: This blog "Jobs of Bob" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Jobs of Bob Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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Blackwater Security Officer Robert Jason Gore, 23, Nevada, Iowa (formerly lived in Sheboygan, Wisconsin), died on Thursday, April 21, 2005, in Iraq. He was killed while serving as a security officer for the United States Department of State when the helicopter in which he was being transported in was shot down by an insurgent Surface-Air-Missile. Gore was one of six Americans, three Bulgarians, and two Fijians working under contract for the Department of Defense that were killed in the attack. The crash took place 12 miles north of Baghdad while they were enroute to Tikrit, Iraq.
A posting on the Web site wisconsinmedicalsociety.org states that Robert Gore had completed a full tour of duty in Iraq as a member of the Iowa National Guard’s 186th Military Police Unit and was a sergeant. After returning to the States he went on inactive status from the Guard to work as a security officer in Iraq providing security for the diplomats of the U.S. State Department.
The Wisconsin Medical Society Web site went on to note that although Gore was living in Iowa, he had also formerly lived in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He graduated from Saint John's Northwestern Military Academy in Delafield, Wisconsin. There he received his pilot's license, competed at the state wrestling tournament, and swam for the YMCA. He had worked several summers at Camp Y-Koda. Gore was also an accomplished skier: and, he was an avid fisherman, an activity which he shared with his grandfather.
The Web site rofflehaus.com notes that Robert Gore was born on February 11, 1982, in Vail, Colorado . He had enlisted in the Iowa Army National Guard in June of 2000 before attending Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa. He completed his 2001-2002 freshman year studying physics at Iowa State University before leaving school after being activated with the Iowa National Guard. Gore had been in Iraq with the Iowa National Guard from February 2003 to May of 2004. He returned to Iraq in 2005 for a six-month tour as a private security officer.
A Nevada Journal article found on nevadaiowajournal.com and freedownload.is notes Robert Gore attended Nevada High School in Nevada, Iowa, for his freshman year, but transferred to Saint John's Military Academy, in Delafield, Wisconsin where he graduated in 2000. The article went on to say Gore was an avid weightlifter as well as a skier and fly fisherman.
An article from the Iowa State Daily found on homeofthebravequiltsiowa.org notes that Gore had worked as a security guard at North Grand Mall while in college. He had planned to return to Iowa State at some point and then later return to the military and apply to become a member of the Green Berets.
At the time of his death, Robert Gore was survived by his mother Sue Selby-Gore; his brother Sean Gore; his father Donald Gore; his maternal grandparents Bill and Karen Selby; his paternal grandparents Doctor Donald R. and Mrs. Jacquelyn Gore; Uncles Scott (Julie) Selby, and Daniel (Charlotte) Gore; Aunts Jennifer Gore-Lucier (Gary), and Elizabeth Gore-Wong (Stuart). A private family burial ceremony was held at the Nevada Municipal Cemetery, in Nevada, Iowa.
Information for this short biography about Blackwater security officer Robert Jason Gore was pieced together from the following sources: wisconsinmedicalsociety.org., "Robert Jason Gore Scholarship Fund"; rofflehaus.com., "Robert Jason Gore"; freedownload.is., nevadaiowajournal.com., Nevada Journal, "Local soldier honored at weekend memorial service," May 12, 2005; and, homeofthebravequiltsiowa.org., Iowa State Daily, "SGT Robert J. Gore."
Note: This "Wisconsin Military Casualties Afghanistan Iraq Compilation" Daily Dadio blog Category is under construction. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Wisconsin War Casualties Page for a list of names noted by date of death. ( If readers know of other military service persons with Wisconsin connections that are not on the Web site comprehensive list of fatal casualties, or notice errors, please email Bob Keith at keithrg13@cooldadiomedia.com ).
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| Posted by Bob Keith at | | | |
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