by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow
by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow
The four mighty reciprocating engines of the Navy R5D transport aircraft changed their thrumming, and Puresome woke with a start. The vibration had not quite shaken the fillings out of his teeth and, like any good ensign or a puppy without anything exciting to do, he had properly gone to sleep. With the rocky shores of Maine sliding now under the wing, a week in the north woods waited. Surely, lobsters lurked around NAS Brunswick, and Puresome, who never met a crustacean he didn't like, was ready to say howdy.
The airplane was full of pilots going through the various East Coast attack and fighter RAGs (replacement air groups), all of whom needed to get their survival school qualifications. There was a scattering of ranks from shiny-winged ensigns to several gnarly commanders on their way back to squadron XO positions. Puresome had fellow brown-bar pals "Future Blue Hawk" Carl and "Former NavCad" Glen along for camaraderie and to distribute the juniority. And, since Puresome had really enjoyed stomping through the palmettos during preflight survival training and had actually attained leadership of the Flying Squirrel Patrol, he had fantasies of moose roasts and other delights.
The group spent an eventful night on the Naval air station, and soon an expedition to town was organized during which mass quantities of lobster were had. Puresome figgered that, if he were going on a weeds-and-seeds diet for a week, he'd do it on top of a drawn-butter base.
Morning found a load of pilots ready for adventure. They loaded on a battleship-gray version of a Yellow Dog school bus and ground off into the deep, dark woods. Once at the survival school headquarters, they piled onto bleachers to receive "the word." Each day, they were told, the students had to navigate through the tules to a given point. Along the way, they had to collect whatever they could find to eat using only a survival knife, parachute shroud line and whatever else they might have on their persons in a survival situation. To Puresome's sorrow, moose and deer were verboten.
Fortunately, the Maine woods had grasses and ripe berries in early October, and trout could be fished. During the daily treks, the students had to sneak by survival instructors acting as Bad Guys, and it was suggested to hide away from nightly camp sites -- the Bad Guys would come looking, and they had a nasty habit of sloshing water on obvious folks. Oh, yes, they were told -- everyone would end up in a POW camp on the last day, but it would be very much nicer to avoid that pleasure as long as possible.
And so the big adventure began. Puresome paired up with Former NavCad Glen, another country lad who had spent lots of time outdoors. It was red raspberry season, and Youthly ate so many of these delicacies that evil things happened in his nether regions. But there were cereals made of toasted grass seeds, and tiny brook trout rounded out the menu.
But Former NavCad Glen wished for the giant frogs of his Southern youth. "I can cook frog legs so they don't even twitch!" he promised. It was great fun sneaking by the Bad Guy instructors every day, and Puresome never got routed out from his nightly hideouts and sloshed.
But Puresome, who liked mass quantities of edibles, got emptier and emptier. He didn't mind both he and his flight suit getting progressively funkier, because he knew the truth of the Spanish proverb that "the bark protects the tree." But when the sun disappeared and it started raining, the cold and mud weren't nearly as jolly. Lying under a shelter half one night, trying to use a candle to warm up a canteen cup filled with a tiny packet of instant creamer and water, Puresome had an epiphany: Since he did not really enjoy being wet and cold, he would leave such things to the Jarboons and Snake Eaters who liked things that way.
The last day's problem was how to make it to a rendezvous with the "Partizans." The Bad Guys were surely lurking along the shortest, most obvious ways, so Puresome and Former NavCad Glen figgered out a long, circuitous way that, though involving humping over a ridge, would surely get them in "alle-alle-in-free." It was inspired sneaking, but it involved steep climbing. Finally, the two found a tree that had tumped over, and they sat down for a rest in the crater left by the pulled-up roots. It offered some concealment, and they were far enough off the beaten path that Former NavCad Glen chanced a smoke.
Puresome was tired and empty enough to wish he smoked or something. He was staring off into the falling drizzle and dreaming of chili cheeseburgers when, out of the dirt clods, bounced a tiny frog! Former NavCad Glen swept off his cap and plopped it down on the green amphibian. "Looky what I got here!" he said, holding the minifrog up by one of its wee limbs. Puresome watched, fascinated, as his partner pulled out his enormous Kabar survival knife and began operating. "Well, I guess it's him or us..."
The operation was successful, except Former NavCad Glen dropped one of the tiny limbs irretrievably down the clods of dirt under the tree. That left one little frog leg, which Former NavCad Glen set to roasting with his cigarette lighter. Sure enough, the leg didn't twitch much, but Puresome was happy to concede the lighter fluid flavored delicacy to the cook.
Eventually the two made it to the rendezvous point with the Partizans, along with a few others. Most folks had already been captured and were interned, so Puresome kind of expected a "Distinguished Evading Cross" or something. But they had only been on the Partizan's truck for a short time when it stopped, there was a great deal of pounding and shouting, and they were well and truly busted by the commies. It was time for the Great POW Camp experience.
Stalag Luft Brunswick looked very much like such camps in World War II movies, with machine gun towers and barbed wire. What Puresome didn't expect was the loud propaganda that blared continuously from speakers all around the compound. The camp goons did the expected yelling and shoving, and Prisoner Puresome was soon isolated with his own camp guard who wanted him to ... strip! They had already taken Puresome's survival stuff away from him, but not before he had the opportunity to hide a pocketknife within the darkest part of his jockey shorts.
Getting nekkid was not expected, but Puresome started to strip. When it came to his shorts, Puresome managed to put them down in a wad that he hoped didn't decant the knife. The guard didn't have tongs or anything, so the underwear didn't get examined.
Satisfied, the guard started yelling at Puresome to pick up his clothes. Real good. Puresome reached down and picked up the bundle, but the knife wasn't there! Yaaa! It had to have fallen out of his skivvies into the rocks! So Puresome dropped his bundle of clothes. This made the guard real happy, and he started frothing at the mouth some. But this time Puresome groped around while picking up his clothes and found the knife! Little did the Rat-Eating Commies suspect that it would be the instrument of all the "Frabb Commies!" that got carved into the compound wood.
The enlisted men who got to play guards enjoyed their work. When it came Puresome's turn to get locked in the box, he found it restful, and being called a "slimy ensign" was certainly not all that harmful to his self-esteem.
The prisoners organized themselves into a military chain of command, and it was Puresome's great disappointment that he could not talk the organization into letting him escape. So he busied himself with his knife and puttering around the compound yard, arranging rocks into "Frabb Commies!" text.
The Snuffy who was the commie sergeant major played his sadistic part with a good deal of enthusiasm. The final act of the POW Passion Play was that the goons had to separate out one poor sort and wail on him in front of the whole yard of prisoners. This scenario was well understood. Sure enough, a wee F-4 Scopie was selected, and the sergeant major started doing some enthusiastic smacking. Puresome stood there among the rest of the prisoners, and an electric current seemed to go through them all, a collective vision of the mouse giving the hawk the holy mystic sign as the Ultimate Futile Gesture.
Somebody hollered, "Let's go get 'em!" And all the prisoners converged as one on the sergeant major, doing their own whacking, while the machine guns in the tower fired away with blanks. When some order was finally restored, everyone knew they were dead, but it sure felt good!
There was some talk about having to repeat the experience, but in the end it was decided it would be better for this bunch to go away. The simulated guard brutality would be modulated back a couple of notches and all the former prisoners reminded that real Bad Guy machine guns would not be shooting blanks.
So Puresome returned to Tunita, who burned his fuming flight suit and silkies. When she asked him what he wanted for his homecoming feast, she truly expected he would order up an entire cow haunch. But with his stomach all shrunk up, all Puresome wanted were brown beans and cornbread. And he knew he would never again look at a raspberry in the same way, and that Former NavCad Glen could keep all the frog legs in France.