Toenails…who needs them?

Toenails…who needs them?

by Wil Bosbyshell

There was a time in my life when my relationship with my toenails became very strained. They were not happy and let me know it. 

I am a shower man. I take very few baths, but this was an emergency. I was soaking in the bathtub and guzzling Gatorade to recover from the heat of the day. After an hour, I was beginning to relax and lifted my feet out of the water to prop them on the edge of the tub. Something felt strange; I looked at my feet and noticed that all my toenails were gone. 

Who was tougher, me or my toenails – that was the question. I knew exactly when I lost my toenails, but I felt nothing when it happened. Boy, I was in a tough spot….. that was for sure.

It was July 1984, and I was a 2nd Lieutenant in the US Army. Completing the Field Artillery officers’ basic course in Fort Sill Oklahoma, I had earned a slot to attend airborne School in Fort Benning Georgia. Army Airborne School is a three-week course where you learn how to jump out of planes in full combat gear. I was there now… in the bathtub. 

It was the first week of Airborne School and I was in the best physical shape of my life. I could do 80 pushups in two minutes; 80 sit-ups in two minutes; and run 2 miles in under 13 minutes in running shoes or combat boots. I could walk or hike in army boots literally all day with a variety of packs. Even at this level of physical condition, Airborne School was challenging. You could say it was kicking my butt. In South Georgia the temperature hovered at just over and under 100 degrees. It was hot! It was not dry heat; the humidity was 100%. 

The heat and humidity were a challenge, but they were not my main challenge. After all, I was a native Floridian and accustomed to this weather. 

My real problem was Navy Seals. My jump class was half full of them. Navy Seals have a reputation for being the toughest people on the planet. It's a well-deserved reputation; they really are very tough. Unfortunately, in Airborne School the Navy Seals ran into an in-movable object: Army Drill Instructors or DIs for short. If Basic Training Drill Instructors are super tough, then Army Airborne Drill Instructors are even tougher. Drill Instructors also have a reputation for being the toughest people on the planet. Their reputation is also well-deserved. At the time, before I began Airborne School, I thought that I was tough. Now judging myself wimpy, I was caught in the middle, between the two toughest groups of people in the world. Guess who was losing... me and my toenails.

The goal of the first week of Airborne School is to get everyone in shape and learn the basic skills required to jump out of a plane. (I will not debate in this story the mental state necessary to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. I will leave that to mental health professionals.) This involves a lot of running and calisthenics. The Drill Instructors were in charge. They wanted us to know they were tough. This rankled the Navy Seals who wanted to embarrass the Airborne Drill Instructors. 

The Drill Instructors and the Navy Seals locked horns early. 

When the Drill Instructors ordered us to do 20 pushups, the Seals upped the ante raising it to 40 pushups. In the first three days of this macho-fest about 20% of the class quit or washed out. After we ran two miles, the Seals would yell how easy it was, so we would run two more. 

The competition between the Drill Instructors and the Navy Seals reached a painful crescendo on the fourth day. Our company failed uniform inspection and were sent to the gig pit. The gig pit was a football filed sized area filled with saw dust.

I lost count of how many push-ups, sit-ups, squat thrusts and jumping jacks we did. Four hours passed in the gig pit. As mentioned before, it was around 100 degrees, so to keep us from dying, the DIs sprayed water on us with hoses. In theory this prevented heat stroke. Warped logic or Stockholm Syndrome caused me to think spraying us with water was nice of them. 

My toenails hung in there like champions for a long time. But wet army boots filled with wet sawdust and jumping jacks were a deadly combination for my poor toenails. I believe my toenails and I parted ways sometime around 600 jumping jacks that day in the gig pit. It didn't even hurt, or it didn't hurt any more than the rest of my body considering all my other pain. 

That evening as we did our post duties, all the Privates (and PFCs) who weren't Navy Seals came to me and begged me to do something. I agreed. None of us would survive this competition between the Navy Seals and the Army Airborne Drill Instructors. We would die, or worse, wash out of Airborne School.

The next morning, I pulled aside two of the senior Navy Seal Petty Officers. Not to put a fine point on this, I begged. I pleaded with the Navy Seals to let the Drill Instructors win the toughness competition. I told them that they were, indeed, the toughest people on the planet. Everyone knew this, including the Airborne Drill Instructors. They were unconvinced and stone faced. I had a few things going against me and my argument. First, I was a 2nd Lieutenant and 2nd Lieutenants are not held in high regard by anyone in the army. Second, the Navy Seals were just getting warmed up. They wanted to kick some Drill Instructor ass. I knew whose ass was getting kicked. 

I lied and told them that I was not worried about myself, but I was very worried about the non-Navy SEAL privates in the company. They would have a hard time graduating if they washed out. Some of the privates were on their third try at Airborne School, so washing out would end their chances of graduating. Three unsuccessful attempts would upset their new military careers. Then I pulled out all the stops. I mentioned that the group who was truly the toughest would show mercy to the less fortunate. The real toughest group would be confident in their toughness and not need to prove it to anyone. 

The Navy Seal Petty Officers walked away in discussion. I tried to look pathetic, worthless and weak, living up to the 2nd Lieutenant stereotype. They had not given me an answer when the Drill Instructors called the company to 1st formation. We fell into our assigned spots. 

After roll call and announcements, the Drill Instructor issued the first exercise command of the day. I could tell the Drill Instructors were geared up to continue the showdown with the Navy Seals. The company responded normally and started the exercise. No challenge came from the Navy Seals. 

I held my breath. Everyone, who was not a Navy SEAL, held their breath. I could tell that the Drill Instructors were a little surprised though they barely showed it. However, I believe they were also relieved …. after all they had won! I am not sure what the Navy Seals were thinking but I was thinking, hell, I won. I might now actually make it through airborne School.

I did in fact make it to jump week and completed my 5 jumps. Jumping out of a plane is truly amazing. You get a hit of adrenaline when you jump out. Figuratively, you have just killed yourself, so yeah, adrenaline is called for. Then you get another rush of adrenaline when your parachute opens, and your life is saved. It is wondrous to look up, past your feet, to see the giant tail fin of a C140 cargo plane pass closely over you. The plane seemed to move very slowly: time dilation. 

My parents and my sister came to see the final jump and graduation on July 5th. My toenails grew back by the end of October. It was nice to see them again. 

Epilogue

I thought I was in shape in Airborne School. I was a wimp. After a year and a half as a Lieutenant in Alaska I was really in shape. The Airborne unit in Alaska I was assigned to, transitioned to an Air-Assault unit. So, I signed up for the one-time-only Air-assault School at Fort Richardson. On the final day of the two-week school, we had to run 25 miles in full pack and gear in combat boots. Not too hard. After a year in the army, it’s hard to believe, but I thought nothing of it. I easily finished in the prescribed time. 

I arrived home that night to discover my toenails had turned black. The next day they all fell off again! Would they ever forgive me? They did and grew back. My toenails and I are now best of friends. 

Photo: Airborne School Graduation, July 5 1984, Bill and Wil Bosbyshell

Mardi Gras

 

Mardi Gras

by Wil Bosbyshell

I was about to march in a parade. Not just any parade, mind you, it was the mystic Krewe of Iris parade at Mardi Gras in 1980. Standing in formation in New Orlean’s French Quarter on Saturday morning before Mardi Gras, I could feel the craziness building.

Mardi Gras is not just crazy, it's planet crazy!

As a freshman in Army ROTC on the University of Georgia Pershing Rifles Drill Team, I was ill prepared for Mardi Gras.  

The Drill Team consisted of 30 cadets both men and woman. We marched in a platoon formation with four cadets across and seven rows deep. Our uniforms were dark green Class A pants tucked into highly polished boots, a white short-sleeve shirt with two vertical creases, yellow ascot and chrome plated helmets. We carried the M1A1 rifle with wooden stock weighing 13 pounds. The rifle was augmented by a flat black bayonet. Our team advisors were a regular Army Major and Sergeant Major.

As a precision rifle drill team, a key part of our parade routine was twirling our rifles in circles in front of us and to both sides. The rifle moves required roughly 3-feet clearance in front and to each side of platoon members.

In most parades, the marching units are buffered from the crowd on either side by several feet of space. Right now, the crowd was already close, too close. We were still in the staging area on a side street and the crowd was pressed into the point of physical contact. Pawing me is more accurate.

Carl, the senior commanding cadet, gave the order, “Forward … March.” We stepped off in unison, our rifles at port arms. I was on the right flank of the platoon. In just three steps a child ran into my legs, and a man brushed my shoulder. I began to worry. We twirled our rifles as part of our drill routines, and the rifles had bayonets attached to the end of the barrel. Sharp bayonets on very heavy rifles. 

Carl gave the first routine command, which meant swinging the bayonet-tipped rifles in a circle in front of each of us. It was a basic move where I swung my rifle causing it to extend two feet past my right shoulder, into the normally empty space between me and the crowd. This time that space was not empty.

As I swung my rifle in a quick circle an old lady darted in between me and the cadet in front of me. There was no room for any person to physically occupy that space, but this little old lady somehow dodged my razor-sharp bayonet.

At that point the Major called a halt from the rear. The lady ran hell bent for leather through our formation and out the other side. Clearly, she wanted to cross the road. She was nearly skewered by several bayonets. As we stopped, three more people ran through our closely packed ranks. These people bumped into us without noticing or acknowledging us in any way. The Major was having a heart attack, imagining a bayonet spearing a civilian.

The scene was complete insanity. Several trumpet-heavy high school bands played with all their might, speakers on floats blared loud staticky sounding music, Iris Krewe members (all women) screamed at the top of their lungs from their perches atop floats, and the audience screamed back for Krewe members to throw beads. It was nuts and we were only five minutes into the parade.

Cadet Commander Carl called for us to stow our bayonets. We had scabbards to hold a bayonet on our belts, however, our team Sergeant Major feared that revelers would grab the bayonets from us while we marched. It was certainly possible and more than likely. So, our Sergeant Major carried all our bayonets for the duration of the parade. 

While we reorganized ourselves, I politely repeated, “Excuse me ma'am, please stay on the side of the road,” several times. We stepped off again. There was absolutely no space between the parade spectators and the floats and marching units. We weaved our way through a sea of humanity that was walking and darting through our formation. We couldn't do any fancy drill as we planned, we were just trying not to hurt people twirling our 13-pound M1A1 rifles as we marched.

We were constantly being pelted by strings of beads that everyone was throwing seemingly at us. The worthless colorful beads coated the street making footing precarious. All the cadets were slipping on the sea of beads.

Wow, I thought “It can't get much worse.” Just then it began to sleet.

Just an hour ago, I was sweating in the Louisiana morning heat wearing my short sleeve summer uniform. Now ice and freezing rain pelted my face in a blustery winter storm. “Great,” I thought.

We were able to do some of our planned drill routines at designated street intersections when police on horseback held back the crowd. Huge horses.

Amazingly we made it through the parade without hurting ourselves or any drunk old ladies. Cold, soaked and tired we returned to the USS Lexington aircraft carrier docked in the port of New Orleans. USS Lexington was there to support all the military units during the Mardi Gras season. It was an older carrier, diesel not nuclear, but it was a super cool place to stay. The only problem I encountered was that I kept hitting my head on the solid steel Navy water-tight doors. So, I decided to wear my helmet everywhere.

In the carrier mess hall, I ran into a fellow Camp Cheerio counselor. He was a Navy ROTC cadet at Chapel Hill.

We rested and got ready for the party on Bourbon Street. The Major established a few rules. We had to stay in groups of four, and we needed to watch out for each other. The Team was co-ed, and we were all 18 and legally able to drink. “Be back on the Lexington by 8:00 AM,” shouted the major. I was surprised, surely, we would be back before that. I thought, “Don’t the bars close at mid-night?” Little did I know.

Bourbon Street was crowded at 6:00 PM and only slightly unusual. Most people were going to dinner in nice clothes or formal attire with just a few people in costumes. When we emerged back on Bourbon Street after dinner, the formal attire was gone, and most people were in elaborate costumes. These were typical Halloween costumes, such as vampires, fairies, werewolves, monsters, wizards, etcetera. There were a lot of vampires even though this was several years before Anne Rice wrote her famous New Orleans vampire novel Interview with a Vampire.

Everyone wanted to see a Drag Queen show, so we did. The show was OK, nothing great. I was from Florida and unimpressed, men in drag were nothing new to me.

We emerged from the show around 10 PM onto the Bourbon Street bedlam. We saw wall to wall people, many openly doing drugs right in front of police officers. By this time of night, the costumes were all sexual. For example, buck naked cowboys and cowgirls in chaps with nothing underneath. There were many topless women and just plain naked men running, dancing, and partying. I marveled at all the nearly naked people; I was wearing a winter coat. There was a lot of body paint masking as clothing.

The police were there in full force but only intervened in case of serious injury. If an injury was not going to result in death, the police didn’t intervene.

It was 1 AM and I realized there was no way out of Bourbon Street, we were trapped in the crowd that went for blocks and blocks. We were in the Twilight Zone; I mean Mardi Gras Zone. Returning to the aircraft carrier was not an option anytime soon.

We were stuck for the duration. So, we made the best of it. My group decided to find a place on the street that we could stand without being run over by the crowds.

We each got a giant-sized signature hurricane drink and moved to a T-intersection. We stood on the sidewalk under the balconies that ran along both sides of every street. My shoes and pants were already ruined, and I was trying to keep my wallet out of pickpocket’s hands; they were everywhere. ‘Heaven help you if you fall on Bourbon Street tonight,’ I thought.

In front of me women bared their breasts so that people above on the balconies would throw them beads. Have I mentioned that Marti Gras provides excellent people watching?

My attention was drawn to a large second story balcony at the end of the street. Two French doors flew open, waltz music blared and two couples in tuxedos and hoop skirts danced out onto the balcony.

The couples spun wildly with the music as the crowd cheered. Each dancer waved in turn at the crowd as they came close to the balcony railing. I kept thinking that something was strange about the dancing. My mind said, “This is weird,” but I suspended my disbelief and enjoyed the spectacle. 

As they danced the couples began to undress, throwing off pieces of clothing. The clothing would float down to the street, the crowd surging in that direction. I held onto a nearby pole for dear life. 

In minutes it became clear that there were not four people dancing, but two people and two mannequins. The male and the female humans were operating their respective mannequins like life-sized puppets!

Soon both humans and mannequins were naked. I thought mistakenly this marked the end of the show. Yet, the human and mannequin couples continued to dance, and the crowd cheered even louder.

“What would they do next?” My question was answered as the human half of each couple began dissembling the mannequins.

The man and woman each removed a hand on their respective mannequins, tossing it to the crowd below without missing a beat of the waltz. The enthusiastic crowd flowed towards the discarded mannequin parts; I am not sure why. I wrapped my entire arm around the pole to keep my place as the crowd churned and people crushed around me.

When the mannequin heads and torsos landed in the crowd I was forced to let go of my drink and hold onto the pole with both hands.

This continued, and as the mannequin’s limbs slowly dwindled the humans used the mannequin parts sexually before throwing them into the crowd. Now I really didn’t want a mannequin part to hit me. Eventually the mannequins were gone, and the two naked humans began to dance together as one couple. I believe the two humans were a man and a woman, however there was some lively debate to that point on the ride home the next day.

As the human combo danced, they engaged in sex or came very close. Maybe they simply simulated having sex. Take your pick. It was a crowd-pleasing show in any case.

The music ended and the couple bowed deeply as if they were in a Broadway play, then retreated through the French doors. “This is Mardi Gras,” I thought. The act was repeated on the half hour. I watched a few rounds.

Towards 4:00 AM the crowd slackened ever so slightly, and we made our way to a café, drank coffee, and ate a beignet. We made it back to the carrier around 5:30 AM and got two hours rack-time before heading home to Athens.

If you want a crazy spring break, Marti Gras in New Orleans is the place.  

Check Point Charlie – Berlin 1986

 

Check Point Charlie – Berlin 1986

By Wil Bosbyshell

It was three in the morning in Berlin Germany. I was in my full U.S. Army Class A uniform, medals and all; it was a bit rumpled. It had been a long, exciting and interesting day in both East and West Berlin. 

I was in the US equivalent of Dunkin' Donuts, a ‘Berliner’ shop. That is what they called donuts in Berlin. I am charitable in comparing a Berliner to a donut. Both are pastries at least, but donuts taste good. I needed coffee, lots of coffee. I was worried that I was really drunk. I didn't think I was drunk, but it was Berlin on New Year’s Eve, and the other possibility was that I hallucinating.

The donut shop was a clean and well-lit place, just like an Ernst Hemingway story. It was on a major square in downtown West Berlin. On the sidewalk outside thousands of people jostled on the street because everyone was partying or heading to a party. I had just left a disco dance club to get a bit of fresh air and spied this donut / Berliner shop. The shop was crowded with people who needed some caffeine to continue partying. I was contemplating all I had done that day watching the crowds on the street, people coming and going …. wait, was that a vampire? A couple, dressed in all black, walked into and through the shop. Straight from the front door to the bathroom (water closet). “OK,” I thought… vampires. I ordered a second cup of coffee. 

I was on a three month leave while on active duty in U S Army and between duty stations. I travelled to Europe on an Air Force plane to visit my sister in Germany. I flew from South Carolina to Frankfurt then back to Canada through DC to South Carolina roundtrip halfway around the world for $1.15. I'm not sure what the $1.15 cents paid for, but it had to be paid in cash, in exact change. That's the US military way. 

In Bamberg Germany, I joined four Army officers who wanted to spend New Year's Eve in Berlin. Why not, I thought. On the way to Berlin, we drove through the less famous checkpoints: Alpha and Bravo. Once in Berlin we checked into the bachelors’ officers’ quarters, donned our Class A uniforms and headed for the infamous Checkpoint Charlie. This was 1986 and half of Berlin and Germany were communist under the influence of the Soviet Union (USSR). The US Army had an agreement that soldiers could spend the day in communist East Berlin if they were out by midnight. On the dot, or you were shot…. dead. 

We walked through Checkpoint Charlie into no man's land. Cameras and machine guns trained on us! Many of each. Scary to have that many loaded weapons pointed at you. We endured many inspections, a great deal of ID and passport presenting, and uniform inspections on both sides. Through the Berlin Wall inside East Berlin we went straight to the Soviet Officers Club. The USSR Officers’ Club met all our décor expectations: they even had several very large statutes of Lenin and Stalin in the foyer. We bought everyone in the bar a round of drinks and toasted to our respective countries and services.

The exchange rate between the communist east and capitalistic west was twenty to one (GDR East German Deutsche Marks to U.S. dollars). We were received warmly by the people in East Berlin, especially if we were buying the drinks. 

On we went to dinner. We were turned away from five fine dining establishments. They were full and required reservations. There was no way to make a reservation, much less a phone call between East and West Berlin. 

My buddies and I huddled. 

Meanwhile back in the donut shop, another group came into the donut shop in all black clothing, white skin, and black hair. One of the women turned to say something to the group… did I see fangs? Straight to the bathroom they went. No one in the group stopped to get any coffee. Strange coincidence? Two groups of vampires? No one else in the donut shop seemed to notice. 

Back in East Berlin, I said, “Guys the exchange rate is twenty to one, that means if we give the maître-d' a $20 dollar bill that’s worth 400DM (Deutsche Marks).” “No way that will work,” one of the other junior officers said, “look at that line, they'll never let us cut in front of that line even for 400DM.” “What do we have to lose? Let's try it.” I walked up to the maître-d' who had just turned us away saying the restaurant was too crowded, (in broken German) “A table for five, bitter.” and slipped him $40 U.S. dollars folded. He looked down, no hesitation: “Wait please.” Moments later a table was carried over everyone’s head and placed in the aisle. We were in! The seven course meal lasted three hours, the final two courses being cigars and brandy. Smoking was allowed everywhere in the world at this time. Barbaric, I know! Each man paid $20 US for the meal including a generous tip. 

We proceeded to a communist disco until eleven when we left to return across the border wall through Checkpoint Charlie. We didn’t want to be late and shot after all. 

I interrupt this story to notice a third group of vampires walk through the donut shop directly to the bathroom. 

After crossing back into West Berlin and into the US zone we went straight to another disco. The US Army class A hat was hell to keep up with in a dance club, but I managed. The round saucer hat got kicked and stepped on a few times. Oh well. 

Not a single vampire had emerged from the bathroom at this point. I had observed at least ten go in. What was going on? Inquiring minds had to know! Maybe the donut shop had a really large bathroom? I finished my Berliner and coffee, paid, and went into the hall to the men’s room. Expecting a full house of vampires in the men’s bathroom, I yanked the door open … nothing. I stood there for a moment. 

I went back out in the hallway, four doors: Damen, Herren, Kuche (kitchen), and a door with no sign. The blank door beckoned, so I pushed it open. Wow! Crazy lights, deafening Goth dark-wave music, all black walls, chain link fence décor… a full-blown dance club. A vampire disco! No sign, no bouncer, but lots of fangs, pale skin, black jeans and black hair. “Fun,” I thought. My uniform was definitely not meeting the vampire disco dress code. It was Berlin on New Year's Eve after all….the vampires didn’t mind. 

Alaska Christmas White-out

by Wil Bosbyshell

Allow me to state the obvious, it snows a lot in Alaska. 

My first winter in Fairbanks, Alaska it snowed five feet in five hours; an unbelievable foot per hour. It was amazing to anyone, but to a native Floridian it was magical. During that blizzard it eventually snowed 72 inches in 72 hours with snowflakes three inches in diameter as they fell blanketing Fairbanks. It looked like I was in a magical animated movie!

That same year in Anchorage it snowed so much that even the local wolf packs were impressed. The wolves who lived in the mountains north of Anchorage could not hunt their normal prey due to the snow depth, so packs of wolves snuck through Anchorage eating every dog they came across. Needless to say, many pet owners were unhappy. On the upside – less annoying barking …just saying. 

When I skied at Alyeska Ski Resort that year, over 80 feet of snow accumulated. By March the two-story chairlifts snaked through canyons of snow with the skiing surface above the top of the lifts. It’s hard to picture this: the ski slope was above the top of the two-story lift towers! 

For my second winter in Alaska, I invited my sister Mary Helen to visit. She would see more snow than she could imagine. 

To my great disappointment, a week before Mary Helen's arrival in Anchorage the temperature soared above freezing; over the course of four days all the snow vanished. I was heartbroken. This never happens in Alaska!

I devised Plan B. It may have been a balmy 40 degrees in Anchorage, but it was a pleasant 20 degrees in Fairbanks with lots of snow; we would go north for Christmas! 

On her way up to the un-frozen north, the man sitting next to my sister on the plane proposed marriage. The ratio of men to women is so skewed in Alaska that it was customary practice for a man to propose marriage to a woman on first meeting her. It may be your last chance, after all. My sister turned him down, she was already engaged and was even wearing the engagement ring. 

My sister arrived a few days before Christmas. We toured around Anchorage, and then drove into real winter toward Fairbanks.

My Alaska mode of land transportation was a 1979 Ford Mustang. Not the quintessential Alaska vehicle, but it was fully equipped: roller-ball snow tires with inch and a half metal studs, battery blanket, engine block heater, and extra interior heater. 

Fairbanks was a six-hour drive from Anchorage on the only paved road in Alaska’s interior. You couldn't make a wrong turn or get lost, as there were no roads to turn off onto. We reached the only gas station at the midpoint or point of no return. We got out and took photos in front of the abandoned three-story igloo hotel. The igloo hotel is still there and still abandoned. In the middle of our photo session, it began to snow. 

This is before The Weather Channel and Doppler radar, so we didn't know that this was the leading edge of a blizzard. We headed north straight into the as yet un-bared teeth of the storm: the snow increased, the wind increased, and the temperature dropped… a lot and fast.

I was getting a little worried - not much. I had been in Alaska a year and a half! I wasn't a cheechako, a person who had not survived an Alaska winter. I had been through plenty of blizzards I reassured myself. I heard an army pilot say that they could hear the universe go ‘click’ when their airplane fuel gage reached the point of no return. I heard that ‘click’ now… and it was not a sound I wanted to hear.

I could still see the orange flags that marked the edge of the road. The paved driving surface was indistinct from the tundra, flat and white to each side of the road as far as you could see through the falling snow. I decided to casually and calmly give my sister a description of my emergency supplies in the car's trunk: vapor barrier boots, sleeping bag, tent, stove, rations, etc. My description only scared her. 

The temperature was dropping to dangerous levels. Sevier cold can cause even small mistakes to become life-threatening situations. 

The road was stark white and the sky above the road was light gray, just enough difference for me to steer by. The snow swirled at the edge of my headlights outside of which the day was pitch black. The blizzard was approaching white out conditions. Not good. No cars were coming south, in the opposite direction, which was a bad sign. I slowed down a little as the car slipped slightly in the building snow. There were no cars behind us, an even worse sign. The flags on the side of the road were showing less and less above the building snow. 

A white-out comes with a warning of sorts. Your visibly decreases as the snow creates a curtain between you and reality. Your vision becomes flat losing perspective. That loss of perspective was happening now. 

My driving safety and staying within the boundary of the road was dependent on my ability to see the line where the earth meets the sky with the forced perspective of the road edge markers converging into the distance. 

All that flattened now. There was no horizon line, no road edge, no falling snow – just the white nothingness.

The line between the road and sky disappeared into one white blur; we were in a white-out. 

We couldn't turn back like I said, having passed the point of no return to Anchorage. The snow was overwhelming my one-and-a-half-inch metal tire studs, no ice, just too much snow. I was a very experienced winter driver by this time in my life, but I didn’t want the car to slide into a deep snowy ditch in the middle of nowhere at minus 10 degrees. I eased my foot off the gas, slowing the car but not stopping.

Just when I was beginning to think about panicking, I saw two lights behind us. Bright, high lights. It was a snow grader – a miracle with six wheels! 

It was the kind with the blade in the middle and the cab on top up high. 

I waived it past me, pulled in behind it and let out a big sigh of relief. I followed the grader all the way to Fairbanks, not even slowing down though Nenana’s one traffic light. We never saw another car or person! No one else was stupid enough to be out in this blizzard. 

We had a great Christmas with my friends and fellow army officers the Reagors. She was a helicopter pilot, and he was an artillery officer. By the next day, Christmas Eve, all the roads were plowed, Fairbanks didn't miss a beat. 

We went to the North Pole, the city of North Pole that is, which is just to the east of Fairbanks to visit Santa’s Workshop. Being Christmas Eve, Santa's Workshop was in full swing. I mailed postcards, to be stamped ‘North Pole AK.’ I submitted several naughty lists for my young cousins. Santa would write letters keeping my young cousins in line for next Christmas. We didn't see Santa; of course, he was flying around the world delivering Christmas presents. We talked to several elves, their job was complete for the year, they were very relaxed. Santa's workshop is still on St. Nicholas Drive in North Pole, AK. It has a website and an 800 number. Santa is real; don't let anyone tell you different. 

We drove north of Fairbanks, stopped to take a photo next to the Alaska pipeline. It was very famous, having been recently completed. We then drove further north to where the paved road ended. At the end of the world, I mean road, the Highway Patrol has a special station. To continue north on the road to Prudhoe Bay you had to sign a waiver. The waiver stated that you were certifiably crazy and knew how dangerous it was. The state of Alaska was not responsible for your death if you were dumb enough to preceded. A classic waiver if there ever was one. Only ice truckers used this road. 

After Christmas my sister and I headed for Alyeska Ski Resort in Girdwood Alaska. The mountain begins at sea level and goes straight up to 4,000 feet. Resort may be stretching the term a little; the hotel rooms were trailers linked by an inside hallway. Mary Helen really didn't know how to ski; she was from the South after all. Nevertheless, she had skied before. 

Alyeska has a Bunny hill, the run would be a triple black diamond on any southern ski resort. Being the worst brother ever, after two runs on the bunny hill I took my sister, who could barely ski, to the top of the mountain. I wanted to ski in the high bowl area, so I gave her a map and made plans to meet her for lunch. Fortunately, she didn't ski off one of the many 2,000-foot cliffs to her death. She was rescued by a man who got her to the midpoint lodge and asked her to marry him. Of course. She turned him down. 

My sister is still mad at me 30 years later about her almost skiing over the unmarked 2,000-foot cliff. I can't imagine why? She lived! It didn't spoil our trip. Does a life and death experience to get between siblings? Of course not! Mary Helen and I had experienced several of those already! 

That night we were sound asleep having worn ourselves out skiing. I woke suddenly with a start as I flew out of my bed and hit the floor hard. My mind slowly grinded its gears: why was I on the floor? Was I drunk? No. I hadn't drunk that much. 

Then Mary Helen landed on top of me, “Ouch!” My sleepy mind noticed that the floor was shaking, I looked around, everything was shaking. An earthquake! I had never been in one, it had to be an earthquake. The safety brief on earthquakes dictated we run for the door frame. Part of my brain told me to do just that. Naturally I ignored that thought; I was 25 and invincible. In addition to the shaking my ears were filled with sound … a roar. It could only be one thing: an avalanche! I had never been in one of those either. 

So, with no logic or common sense I jumped up and ran for the plate glass door on the ground floor facing the ski slope and the 4,000-foot mountain of snow, throwing open the curtains. It was indeed an avalanche barreling and roaring down the mountain straight for us. My sister joined me at the window of death.

Wow, my brain registered the mistake we had just made. Damn, my mom is going to kill me if my sister gets hurt, I thought. Before we could move or tear our eyes away from the wall of snow… it began to slow, then stopped a football field away. Lucky. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell Mama about this,” I said. 

We skied through New Year's Eve. At midnight hundreds of local kids with flashlights skied down the mountain on every run so the entire mountain was bright with the light of the New Year. Beautiful. 

While the band played Huey Lewis & the News ‘Power of Love’ we danced and drank. Mary Helen and I were at a table in the bar watching the spectacle when I left to go to the restroom. On my return all the chairs at my sister’s table were full of men. 

As I walked up, my sister introduced us, “Joe, Mike, Todd this is Wil…” At this pause in her introduction, the men looked at me their faces turning into unhappy frowns. “Damn,” they all thought. I could read their minds, “She already has a boyfriend or a fiancé.” My sister continued the introductions, “Wil ... my brother.” The men's faces morphed immediately into joyous smiles! A single woman! In Alaska no less! I drank for free all night as the brother of the lone single girl at Mt Alyeska Ski Resort on New Year's Eve. And the fact that she was beautiful only added to the novelty. All three of the men proposed marriage over the next few hours. They were disappointed but not surprised at her rejection. 

My sister mailed me photos from Florida a few weeks later. “All my outdoor photos from the trip were ruined,” she said due to poor photo development. “All the photos are so dark,” she wrote exasperated. I wrote back to her saying nothing was wrong with the photos. She forgot that Alaska had no sun in the winter; the sun had set in October. Her photos were dark because it was nighttime during her entire trip! You just grow accustomed to how dark it is in Alaska in the winter.

It was an exciting visit: warm front, blizzard, white out, earthquake, and avalanche … what more could you want in a fun family holiday trip? 

 

Saint Nikolaus Day in Germany

 

Saint Nikolaus Day in Germany
by Wil Bosbyshell

Looking to my left, a German shepherd complete with festive Christmas neckerchief sat in the chair next to me. He was very polite, especially for a dog. To my right sat a German boy about 11 years old. There was one other dog further down the table, in addition to grandparents, parents and lots of kids of all ages.

I was seated at a long table with about 45 Germans in the local Brauerei. Several families from one neighborhood gathered together to celebrate Saint Nikolaus Day on December 6th 1987.

I was drinking beer, the dog’s had water and the kids had lemonade or Radler. If I wanted food or another beer I called for an auction. I simply lifted my empty beer stein; I didn't speak too many German words. The emcee would head over to a large Christmas tree in the corner and pull a branch off. The branches were decorated with beer, champagne, and Bratwurst. Holding the branch, he announced the auction. If I wanted a beer, I had to be the high bidder. Hilarity ensued. Controlled chaos with a laugh track.

All proceeds went to the neighborhood soccer club. The event featured sports awards both serious and humorous. Sports awards are the same the world around. The awards were sporadically interrupted by tree branch auctions. If I were bidding too high the German shepherd would put his paw on my hand to keep it down. Dogs know when you are getting carried away with the bidding.

My sister, Mary Helen, walked over at one point to tell me I was buying too many branches. I was staying with her and her husband, Kevin, in Bamberg Germany. Kevin was a US Army Armor officer commanding a tank platoon. I was an Army Artillery first lieutenant on a three month leave between duty stations.

After the awards, a hush fell on the assembled crowd. The door burst open, and two figures emerged from the falling snow outside. The man was the real deal: red coat trimmed in white fur, real beard, red hat, black belt and real black boots. Nothing fake or cheesy looking. Saint Nikolaus or Santa Claus was here in the flesh.

Saint Lucy was at his side with an embroidered full-length dress and a wreath of garland in her long blonde hair. St. Nikolaus had two sacks over his shoulders, one stuffed to the brim with Christmas presents and stockings. The other sack was slack, holding only long tree branches cut into switches. Saint Nikolaus stomped the snow off his boots, walked to the center of the room and made a solemn pronouncement.

I didn’t speak much German, but it was obvious what he said. He placed both sacks on the floor and called the first name of a child. A boy of about seven walked up and stood in front of Saint Nikolaus and Saint Lucy. Saint Lucy produced a book and began reading. She listed the bad things this boy had done during the year. It was a brief list.

Next Saint Lucy listed the good things that the young boy had done throughout the year. The good list outnumbered the bad list. The assembled crowd applauded and St. Nikolaus gave the boy a stocking of candy and wrapped gifts. Everyone toasted, “Prost!” The dogs even smiled.

The kids were called out one by one and they had all been pretty good this past year. About ten kids into the event a small girl was summoned before St. Nikolaus.

Saint Lucy launched into a list of her misdeeds. The crowd sighed and booed as the bad behavior was listed point by point. The girl looked nervous. Her bad list went on and on. She had been an unbelievably bad little girl. St. Nikolaus raised his hand. Saint Lucy stopped reading. He bent over and opened the sack of switches. All the adults, including me, were given a switch.

All the adults waved their switches as Saint Lucy continue reading the girl’s misdeeds. This was a blood thirsty crowd! St. Nikolaus had the girl step into the sack, but the sack was left on the ground around her feet. Saint Lucy began to read the girls good deeds, but it was a light and short list. The crowd chanted for the girl to be put in the sack and switched. I realized this was the girl's fate if the good list was shorter than the bad list.

Tears ran down the girls face but Saint Lucy pronounced that the girl had one good deed more than her bad deeds. The crowd booed; they were ready to switch her. She got a small stocking and ran quickly away back to her seat. One other boy came close to being switched. But all the kids had been good this year, though for some it was a narrow escape from being switched in the sack.

One parent near me assured me that bad kids had been switched in years past, but it was rare. He seemed disappointed with this year’s outcome.

Saint Nikolaus gave the last kid their stocking. He exclaimed a jolly, “Ho Ho Ho,” wishing all a Merry Christmas. Then, he and Saint Lucy walked out into the snowy German winter night.

I bought more branches for dinner, I had no idea how much money I spent. Several boys and I had a water fight in the bathroom. I had stopped drinking beer, not being able to keep up with this German crowd. More awards were given, and we sang Christmas carols. The words were German, but the tunes were the same ones I knew by heart: Silent Night is the same song halfway around the world.

Merry Christmas.

The Mayor of Glennville (or How I got the nickname Puke Boot)

The Mayor of Glennville (or How I got the nickname Puke Boot)

story by Wil Bosbyshell

painting by Wilma R. King

story compilation: Bullets and Bandaids volume 3: What Now? 

I was a Captain in the Field Artillery assigned to Fort Stewart Georgia near Savannah. A new Lt Colonel had just taken command of the battalion while we were in the National Training Center at Fort Irwin California. His name was Lt. Colonel Warner, and he was one of the great leaders I had the pleasure to serve under while I was in the US Army. Just like Captain Kirk did on the Enterprise when he began his command, Lt Col. Warner called each of his officers in for an interview to learn their capabilities or, in my case, weaknesses.

During our interview he asked where I was from. I told him that I was from Florida, but my family was from Savannah and that I would be buried in nearby Bonaventure Cemetery. I added that I had graduated from the University of Georgia that was about four hours away from Savannah.

When Lt. Colonel Warner heard this, he was excited. He said very few officers in our unit were from this area and that I was a native in his eyes. “Captain Bosbyshell, I have a job for you. You are going to be the liaison officer to the town of Glennville.” So that is how I became the “Mayor of Glennville.” I wasn't really the mayor but that was one of the many nicknames my fellow officers and sergeants referred to me as. Officers called me that to my face, sergeants behind my back.

My job as liaison officer to Glennville involved going to various meetings of the Chamber of Commerce and responding to requests. If Glennville wanted a tank for the 4th of July parade, I oversaw getting it there from an armor unit. If a state Senator from the capital came to visit Glennville and they needed a color guard, I was in charge of arranging it. If an elementary school teacher needed a guest speaker from the military for career day, I was to find the right person. It was actually very fun.

One morning I received a call from the President of the Bank of Glennville. He was also the Scoutmaster of the Glennville Boy Scout troop. He asked if the boys could fly onto Fort Stewart shoot machine guns, drive tanks and generally play army for the day. This was a bold request! I had never heard of an outing like this before. I told him that it was probably a long shot, but I would ask the general.

In my job as the liaison to Glennville I reported directly to the general of the post. However, in observation of the chain of command, I went to see my boss Major Soltas and told him of the request from the Glennville bank president and scoutmaster. He broke into a chuckle, “Col Warner has to see this.” Major Soltas ran the operations for the Artillery Battalion and he had unlimited patience to lead all his very young and head-strong men.

He and I walked to Lt. Col Warner’s office and told him of the request. Lt. Col Warner broke into hysterical laughter and said, “CPT. Bosbyshell, there is no way this is going to happen.” However, he said it was my job to forward Glennville’s request to the general. If the general wants to turn it down that would be his prerogative.

There was no email or internet, so I typed (on a typewriter) a quick memo to the general's adjutant outlining what the bank president had requested. I didn't spend a lot of time on the memo, it was short, as I was sure it would be turned down.

To my surprise I got a response in about 45 minutes of my delivering the memo to the general. The adjutant called me to say that indeed The 24th Infantry Division would be glad to host the scout troop for a day of military fun on Ft. Stewart.

Even in 1986, I was surprised. After 2001 and 9-11 this would have never been allowed. Unknown to me at the time, but later revealed in the local newspaper, a unit of Rangers had just destroyed a local drinking establishment (translation strip bar) and the general was looking for a positive public relations win.

On the designated Saturday, I boarded a Chinook helicopter, took off from Pope Air Force Base and flew to Glennville. The Chinook helicopter landed in the bank parking lot, which was surrounded, by telephone and high-tension power lines. I couldn't believe the accuracy of the landing. We lowered the ramp and the Boy Scouts piled in. We flew to Fort Stewart landed in one of the training areas and preceded with a full morning of military training.

Each boy got to fire a shotgun and some of the older boys were allowed to fire an M-16 rifle with blanks and laser tag equipment. I was unable to secure an actual M1 tank for them to fire or ride in, however I was able to secure a Sheraton light armored tank for them to ride around in. Then, each boy was able to drive and ride in an M113 armored personnel carrier.

Halfway through the day, at lunch, is when I made the mistake. I have mentioned before in other stories that the protagonist, usually me, makes a mistake and this makes the story interesting (read usually dangerous).

In between firing the M16 with blanks and riding in the Sheraton light tank we stopped and had lunch. Lunch consisted of the famous army MRE or “meal-ready to eat.” The boys loved the MREs. However as anyone who has been in the army and eaten an MRE knows, the meals in the MRE are a little … slick. They go down easy! For example one of the main meals is ham/turkey/meat loaf. What is that anyway? No one knows. The boys had a great time inhaling without much chewing the MREs and then we finished riding around in the various vehicles.

The boys had fun, but the day was at an end. The Chinook helicopter arrived to take the Boy Scout troop back to Glennville. If you have not ridden in a Chinook helicopter, this helicopter has two propellers. One in the front and one in the back. It looks like it should not be able to fly. Riding in any helicopter has a strange sensation different from an airplane. However, riding in a helicopter with two rotors creates a very unusual set of movements. You have the normal side to side and up and down movements of any aircraft. In a Chinook you also have the strange forward and backwards movement caused by the rotors being in the front and the back.

We were in sight of the Bank of Glennville. From my vantage point standing in the middle of the passenger bay, I could see the bank parking lot out of the window. That is when the first boy puked his guts up.

Then in a truly Quentin Tarantino-esque cinematic display of synchronistic puking every boy puked the entirety of his stomach bazooka-like onto the floor. Standing in the middle of the boys getting ready to lower the tailgate of the helicopter, I was covered head to toe in puke ….especially my boots.

Proving that MREs come up as easily as they go down, the last boy finished puking his guts out all over my boots, the helicopter gently touched down and the boys ran out. Mission Accomplished!

The helicopter crew chief came back and exclaimed, with a string of multiple expletives, that I was going to “clean up all the puke”. I did, in fact, clean up all the puke on our return to the air force base. It was a lot of puke. Very chucky. Boys really do not chew their food thoroughly like they are supposed to. Not much digestion had occurred since lunch it appeared.

The Air Force General called the Army general to complain about the treatment of his aircraft. The Bank President sent letters of thanks to both generals. The boys wrote letters of thanks for the fun they had. The rangers were forgiven for destroying the bar. I was awarded the Service Above Self award by the local Rotary Chapter. And of course in hours or maybe minutes, my nickname in the artillery went from “Mayor of Glennville” to “Captain Puke Boot.”