Chris Writing Anything

Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.

1996  Eilson AFB, AK

I guess this place is home.  I mean, I’ve been living here for two years.  So, yeah, that farm in Wisconsin, although I’ll always call it home, I’ll probably never live there again.

This hangar, full of concrete, steel and enlisted Airforce men seems like a torture device.  We’re being processed, meaning we’re getting the admin papers right, so we can hop on a plane…or jet…yeah, I’m a crew chief, I should speak the lingo.

Anyways, the C-41 refueler will take off, with most of my squadron in its cabin, once all the paperwork is squared away.  So, we wait…

I’m reading Rolling Stone magazine.  A bizarre new artist has hit the alternative rock scene.  I’m both rapt and repulsed by the man’s persona…yet, I know, even if I haven’t heard his music yet, that he has staying power. And though I’ll never be an ardent fan of Marilyn Manson, I find the article interesting…

A seargeant directs us  to the transport…we’re ready to take off.

Somewhere Over The Pacific Ocean

I think someone said this will be a 15 hour flight.  My head is in a novel, and, although I’ve tried, I can’t sleep.  It isn’t the novel that’s keeping me awake, it’s the monotonous drone of the aircraft’s engines.

  As we head west, towards the Far East…wait did that make sense?  It’s definitely an oxymoron.  And to heighten that point, the sun is somewhere on the western horizon,  we’ve been chasing an interminable sunset.

I’m approached by a seargent.  My buddy and I are allowed in the refueling pit.  I’ve never seen aerial refueling in action. So, this should be a treat.

My seat is a bench, which is solely black cushions, and it’s right underneath the boom operator.  At my feet, a glass panel provides a view of my F-16 fighter jet.

I feel my heart in my throat, as I watch the jet approach the boom, fearing that long pole will shatter the fighter’s dome cockpit.

Amazingly, the boom misses that glass casing, and, instead, slips right into the refueling door, which is just aft of the pilot. I know this maneuver takes place often, yet, witnessing this standard operation…I’m in awe.

Chitose, Japan

Last night, I guess it was last night, anyways, I helped reconfigure jets for today’s dogfights.  Later, because of our team’s efficiency, our squadron will receive a letter, one showing appreciation and grattitude, that letter is sent from the Taiwanese president. 

But, today, all duty aside, and many yen in my pocket, I’m in a digital playground.   I can’t believe my eyes, and I have to remind myself, as I only have so much money, that one yen coin equals a dollar.  These arcade games, all the products of one home video game brand, well, I have yet to see them in the states.

It’s the mid nineties, video games are all the rage and I’m in an arcade in Japan.  I’m not much of a gamer, but, man…who could resist?  There’s a four seat racing console, it’s titled Datona Racing USA.  I’ve never had so much fun.

Later…

  I’m at a classic Japanese restaurant.  My shoes are off, and I’m sitting on the floor. My meal choice, well, I’m very disappointed.  Come to think of it, damn, I could go for a hamburger, and not like the ones served here.  I want good American beef.

When I heard that we were headed to Japan, I was psyched for Asian cuisine.  Now…I can’t finish the raw squid on my plate. Don’t get me wrong, some of the food here is great…delicious!  But really…a steak would hit the spot.

Sapporo, Japan

On a day off, we’re searching for a train back to Chitose. This big city has been fun, yet we need to return to the air station. We had weaved our way underground. When we popped from those modern, subterranean marketplaces, we found a classic Japanese metropolis. The digital signs and super clean streets will last in my mind.

However this train station is horrifying, and everyone in my group reflects our terror. When in Chitose, every destination, written on a sign suspended from a pole, was marked both in English and Japanese. Here in Sapporo, emblazoned on small signs, we only see characters of the Japanese language…and there are a ton of trains.

One airmen takes charge, and we head to the security shack. None of the guards speak a lick of English, but one of my buddies is escorted into a the small room.

Next to me, sitting on a bench, another one of my friends is overwrought, “They’re going to arrest us.” I reassure the man we did nothing wrong, but I’m wondering if, when I wasn’t looking, the dude purchased some opium….or something.

After we wait on an ordinary park bench, my friend emerges, a relieved smile brightens his face. Turns out, one guard had an English speaking cousin, and that security officer is leading us to the correct train…none of us were patted down.

The Final Chapter

It’s a sunny afternoon. I can tell, because the large hangar doors are slid open. We’re going through customs, and I’m charmed with my memories of Japan.

How did the mission go? Well, when our pilots started out, and took on our Asian counterparts, every craft in the fleet, no exceptions, was the best jet our jockeys had ever flown.

Yet, later, well, after a few sorties, our jets ailed from phantom descrepencies…I think our boys were making excuses.

All and all, we really enjoyed our Japanese hosts. There was a dance at the end. Memories of a man with a thick Japanese accent, with the aid of his band mates, singing ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine‘, will live in my mind.

Today, Green Bay, Wisconsin

Reliving these memories, some of them rather faded, reminds me of a distant life. Man, how things change. Eilson, Chitose, heck, the Airforce, itself, will live with me…now until I die.

Have and Excellent Day!