EXCERPTS FROM UPCOMING MEMOIRS BOOK

                                                          CARS

Being a military brat, at 14 our family moved to Tripoli, Libya in 1965. Some moments would stick into my head and produce a smile, and sometimes outright laughter. I was riding in a car with Italian friends cruising downtown Tripoli. My Italian was weak, but thankfully, their English was good. They had the Rolling Stones playing on their car speakers. After the third playing of the song, Satisfaction, I questioned how the song was repeating since the radio was off. Remember, this was 1966, the days before eight tracks, cassette, and indeed no streaming music loops. They gave me that “look what we did” shit-eating grin and preceded to open the car’s glove compartment.

  They had configured a sound system mounted within the glove compartment that would play a 45 RPM record. Configured with a floating base that would absorb any bumps, it had a small turntable with the record Satisfaction on it. It had an adjustable arm with a mounted play needle attached to the arm. The needle’s arm would lower and access the grooves on the record. Once the needle made contact with the record grooves, the song would play through the front and back twelve-inch American-made stereo speakers with the bass woofer pounding 4/4 time on the floor. 

  The music rocked, the volume was excessive, and the car vibrated. The locals appeared to find displeasure in our decadent behavior. Wow! As Tom Petty would later sing “It’s Good to Be King.”

  I lost touch with Tony and Marcello, my Etruscan pals, but assumed they were making lots of money somewhere with an internet startup company.   

                                                           IDENTITY

After finishing our operation in Norway, we left the lodge, packed our aircraft stuff, and flew back aboard the ship. We spent five days steaming to Southern England, where we had a port call in Portsmouth, 70 miles southwest of London, and home to the Royal Navy. We did the usual tourist stuff like visit the HMS Victory, flagship to Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, and some sightseeing in London. On our last day of port call, we visited the famous Nelson Pub to talk about our exploits in Norway and what great pilots we were. Of course, there was plenty of Guinness Stout imbibed that would amplify our aerial greatness.

  Known facts about most Brit beer, it had no carbonation and is served at room temperature. It goes down smooth, not filling. No buzz with the first four pints chugged. You’d then turn to your friend and mumble, “This shit doesn’t have any effect on me.” Suddenly your eyes crossed, your head spun, and words came out of your mouth all pixelated. Never underestimate the power of a good British Stout.

  On one such occasion, two other Marine pilots and I were sitting in a booth at Nelsons Pub with three Brit Airmen. We had just finished a joint operation in Norway with the English aircraft carrier Hermes. The Brit pilots at our table couldn’t outfly us but could differently out bullshit us. The stories became more aggrandized the more Guinness Stout we pounded down.  

  A Brit pilot named Andy sat right next to me. He and I were the unofficial captains of the us-versus-them teams debating (really drunken arguments) over aircraft tactics, maneuvers, and the better helicopter—the Marine UH-1N Huey or the British WG-13 Lynx.  

  The debate was contentious with the preverbal high five when either side scored a verbal jousting point. The climate returned to a jocular airing when someone at the table would order another round of Guinness. We went through these Don Quixote iterations for over an hour, with each pilot telling tales of their glory in battling windmills. The twenty-something Andy relished in these intermural games and seemed to buy most of the rounds. 

  As we began another segment of who had more of the “right stuff,” my commanding officer entered the front door of Nelson’s Pub. He noticed the six of us sitting in the booth and moved to our table. He gave the usual salutation, “Hello Jackal, how are you?” 

Before I could return the customary perfunctory, “Fine, sir,” he snapped to attention. Then turned to the occupant on my left and gave a “Good evening, sir, hope all my pilots are behaving themselves.” 

Andy responded, “They certainly are Colonel, have a good evening.” 

My commanding officer abruptly turned and walked out of Nelson’s Pub.

  Andy had a shit-eating grin on his face, and I sat momentarily befuddled. I looked across the table as the other Brits were laughing their asses off. I asked one of Andy’s companions, “What the fuck was that about.” 

The Brit pointed to the man sitting next to me and said, “Jackal, let me introduce to you your royal highness Prince Andrew, the Duke of York.” 

No screaming eagle shit! So, the man I had just spent the last two hours with, pounding down Guinness Stout, bullshitting and exchanging insults, was at the time, second in the line of succession to the throne of England. At that point, I noticed (or finally paid attention) to the Princes’ security detail, two inside at the front and back door, and two outside on the street.

  Now discretion and protocol would demand I politely excuse myself, gather up my two cohorts, and leave the table. But having drunk enough liquid courage and finding the episode pants pissing hilarious, I opted to continue this shindig. I turned to the Duke of York and irreverently said, “Andy, you gonna buy another round of drinks?” 

“Jammy! Another round on the Queen,” he accommodated jubilantly. 

We spend another forty-five minutes getting further liquored up, yakking about who could outfly who and who had more of the right stuff.  

  Andy and my paths didn’t cross again while in Portsmouth. As we were getting ready to pull out of port, The British Defense Ministry ordered an English task force to the Falklands Islands. The conflict was a 10-week undeclared war after Argentina invaded and occupied the islands. Over 600 Argentine military personnel, 255 British military personnel, and three Falkland Islanders died during hostilities. Lots of rockets, lots of bullets, lots of bombs during the 74-day battle. During the conflict, Andy, The Duke of York, second in line to the throne of England, flew numerous combat missions and was heroically aggressive. He was highly decorated and would prove to all that he did have more of the “right stuff.”