Joe "Tuffy" Tofuri
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Book Description
Meet the basic trainees whose lives will never be the same once they meet their Air Force Drill Instructor, Technical Sergeant Joe “Tuffy” Tofuri. He is an Air Training Command (ATC) Master Instructor and a veteran of several years in the basic training program. A hard-nosed T.I. whose vocabulary does NOT contain the word failure, TSgt Tofuri unloads the full force of his training knowledge and attention-getting tactics on his unsuspecting trainees. Join Tuffy, “Bullets” Grogan, and many more T.I.s whose hilarious antics rock the world of basic training in 1968. All of them are led by the most loveable Squadron Commander in the history of basic training—Major Chin Ho Wok. He is a 5' 3" Chinese American whose speech pattern is caught up in the cartoon world of Elmer Fudd! Nothing can stand in the way of Tuffy’s Heroes, including the blistering Texas heat, a shootout, a body count, a “white tornado” and, oh yes...a werewolf!
Warrior
by Ted L Glines
Old man stalks
uniformed in pride
long vision
cordite piercing stare
hard-grim face and mouth
"love" tattooed on one hand
"hate" upon the other
remembering...
fear and exultation
groaning German ships
torpedo sunk
enemy drowning with no faces
death runs deep in angry seas
remembering...
silent jungle night-raids
Jap ammo-dumps with guards
quiet knife slicing startled throats
death creeps on silent toes
life draining away
like blood on his blade
then incendiaries
planted - wired to blow
orange-red mushrooms in the night
remembering...
spoils of war
silver-plated Jap officer's sword
stripped from his dead corpse
a pair of brass lamps
gorgeous lamp shades
made of tattooed human skin
light glows through
a Marine Globe
a simple black sheath
womb for his special knife
still black-caked with Jap blood
remembering...
standing on his ship's bridge
screaming whine building higher
kamikazi suicide plane coming in
Imperial Wind gusting now
impact deafening explosion
fireball - smoke - screams
as his ship goes down
one more broken mother
spawning lifeboats
on South Pacific seas
remembering...
old man walks
uniformed show of pride
long and distant vision
cordite piercing stare
eyes brim - tears
tough-grim face and mouth
iron hard gauntlet of hate
shielding his trembling fist
of love.
Poppies Poppies Poppies
by Ted L Glines
”The Sumerian culture flourished between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers in southern Iraq from 4000-3000 BC, and the first mention of the opium poppy is found on Sumerian clay tablets inscribed in Cuneiform script in about 3000 BC. These tablets were found at Nipper, a spiritual center of the Sumerians located south of Baghdad, and described the cultivation of the opium poppy, including the collection of poppy juice in the early morning, with the subsequent production of opium. Ancient Greeks regarded opium as a symbol of consolation and oblivion, and crowned all of their nocturnal gods with a wreath of poppy blossoms.” ~http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa3833/is_200207/ai_n9107282/pg_1
Gen. James Jones (RET), co-chairman of Afghanistan Study Group, appeared before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. One of the primary topics was the Afghan poppy crop - how it should be eliminated. Deploying airborne defoliant spray seemed to be the tactic of choice. The manpower and aircraft are on the ground. The infrastructure is in place. However, this plan cannot be carried out because the local governments will not allow such action. For us, the topic is Drug War. For Afghanistan, Pakistan, Turkey, Iran, India, Lebanon and Khirgistan, the topic is Big Business.
“Illicit cultivation of the opium poppy (Papaver somniferum) has traditionally been an Asian business. Following Southeast Asia is Southwest Asia, primarily Afghanistan (with smaller amounts growing in Pakistan, Turkey, Iran, India, Lebanon and Khirgistan), these two regions accounting for the vast majority of opium destined for conversion to illicit heroin. A typical opium poppy field has 60,000 to 120,000 plants per hectare (2.46 acres). After full bloom, the petals drop to reveal a small, round grayish-green fruit which continues to develop into an oblate, elongated or globular capsule (also called the seedpod, bulb or poppy head) about the size of a chicken egg. The skin of the pod encloses the ovary, the walls of which secrete the latex (opium) which collects in a network of vessels and tubes throughout the pod. At this point the pods are ready to be scored (or tapped, incised or lanced). Harvesters make the incision with a three- or four-bladed instrument (iron or glass blades bound tightly on a wooden handle), designed to make an incision of about one millimeter deep. (Too deep an incision may result in excessive spilling either into the center of the pod or to the ground; too shallow and the latex will not ooze as desired). The pods are scored two to three times each in the afternoon, causing the white latex to drip onto the surface of the pod. The opium oxidizes, darkens, and thickens overnight, and in the morning is scraped from the surface with a flat iron blade. Each pod may yield from 10 to 100 milligrams of opium, with an average of 80 milligrams.
“Raw opium collected from the poppy is placed in an open cooking pot of boiling water. This should dissolve all of the alkaloids in the opium, while solid plant material, soil, twigs, etc. remain undissolved and float to the top of the solution. Solid impurities are scooped out or filtered by straining the mixture though cheesecloth or burlap. The liquid is then re-heated over a low flame, evaporating the water to leave behind a thick, dark paste, which is then dried in the sun. The opium left behind has a putty-like consistency and is generally about 20% lighter (20% more pure) than the raw material. At this point the product may be exported for smoking or eating or consumed locally. Processed opium is stirred in large drum of boiling water until it has completely dissolved. After the pH of the solution reaches 8 or 9 it is cooled. Within a few hours, morphine base and any remaining codeine precipitate out of solution and settle to the bottom of the pot. The solution is then poured off through cloth filters, leaving chunks of morphine base on the cloth, which are squeezed dry and set aside to dry further in the sun. About 700 grams of heroin base will be produced from each kilogram of morphine. It is then filtered, and the solids are collected on clean filter paper. Wrapped in the paper, the solid is dried on a wooden tray, usually over lime rock, and dried in the sun. The fully dried product, heroin hydrochloride, is a fine white powder, ready for packing and shipping.” ~http://designer-drugs.com/pte/12.162.180.114/dcd/chemistry/heroinmfg.html
If that process is too complex for us, we may consider the following scenario: In an American suburban or inner-city kitchen, the “cook” adds alcohol to opium gum and mixes this to liquidize the opium. This mix goes into an ice-tray and is then frozen. The mix freezes into two layers. One layer is morphine, and heroin is the second layer. The substances seperate because they freeze at different rates. Our “cook” scrapes off the morphine and bags up the heroin for sale. This street-process is simple but crude and this heroin is anything but pure (the consumer does not care). I have left out one critical stage in this process ... to discourage any potential “Drug Lords.”
I know it is a nasty thought, but I am thinking about our major pharmaceutical houses which buy opium and process it into useful medical drugs like morphine and a few others. What do they do with the natural processing by-product - heroin? I would like to believe that they destroy the heroin. However, knowing that greedy humans can resist everything except temptation ...
“Everyone knows that Afghanistan is the centre of the world's heroin trade. Afghanistan's poppy fields produce more heroin than all other countries combined. U.S. federal, state and local governments have spent hundreds of billions of dollars trying to make America “drug-free.” Yet heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine and other illicit drugs are cheaper, purer and easier to get than ever before. Nearly half a million people are behind bars on drug charges - more than all of western Europe (with a bigger population) incarcerates for all offenses. The drug war is not the promoter of family values that some would have us believe. Children of inmates are at risk of educational failure, joblessness, addiction and delinquency. Drug abuse is bad, but the drug war is worse. There is a real link between drugs and terrorism. The United Nations reports that the illegal drug trade is worth $400 Billion a year - more than pre-war U.S. Department of Defense budgets. Indeed, illegal drugs make up 8% of all international trade while textiles make up 7.5% and motor vehicles just 5.3%. This mass traffic in illegal drugs has greatly contributed to violence across the globe. Before drug trafficking was blamed for international terrorism, it was financing the arms race on America's streets. Similarly, any terrorist group with a militant agenda can tap into the huge resource.” ~http://www.drugpolicy.org/drugwar/
America is now a bit less than three hundred years old, and we are in a rush to win our Drug War. We are pushing against against the tide of six thousand years of opium business history. We make no efforts to punish the drug lords (the kingpins responsible for growing, manufacturing, transporting, and sales of heroin). If you walk down the street in Islamabad, you will see big new houses. “Who lives there?” you ask, and you are told “Oh, that's the Drug Lord.” Instead of going after him, our American prisons are filled with the victims, the end-users of this illicit drug traffic.
Soldiers' Christmas
by Ted L Glines
Creeping through the silent night,
Things that move are things of fright,
Sleighbells never ringing now
Angels seldom singing, now
Nothing comes to make their season bright.
(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers' love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember ... their gift forevermore.
Helicopters - guns and tanks
Moving now in guarded ranks,
Not a bit of Christmas cheer
That must wait 'til Home next year,
Since their only present is your “Thanks.”
(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers' love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember ... their gift forevermore.
Now with many flags unfurled
Boys and girls from 'round the world
Lift their voices - battle cry
Bound to win or bound to die
Brave young heros all - to chaos hurled.
(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers' love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember ... their gift forevermore.
Here at home with Christmas cheer
In this fun time of the year,
Let's pause a bit from what we've planned,
Singing songs - with praises ... and
Send a loving hug to soldiers dear.
(Chorus)
Ring the bells and praise the Lord
For our soldiers' love outpoured,
Post their names upon your tree
As they fight to keep us free,
Remember ... their gift forevermore.
One Medal
by Ted L Glines
Grizzled old man in rags
sits against the storefront
sun-warmed wall
scuffed shoes with holes
propped before him
dirty plaid coat
(with one medal)
pulled close around him
street wind chills
eyes tracking walkers
they avert their eyes
not seeing him
smelling car exhaust
spilled coffee
eau de sidewalk
he closes his eyes
inside his head
screams
stuttering machine guns
blazing rifle fire
village huts blown to pieces
fire all around
women children
blood explosions
twitching begging
roasting flesh
killing mercy shot
walk on
vision passes trembling
he wipes his eyes
no one must see
eyes tracking walkers
who avert their eyes
he is never seen
by walkers
who stayed at home
sent him to kill and kill
and kill some more
and have these visions
for them
dirty plaid coat
(with one medal)
symbol of their guilt
dirty plaid coat
pulled close
against the cold
Author's Notes: During a college research project, I found myself sharing the street life with many homeless people in SoCal. Many of them were Vietnam veterans who had dropped out after the war, and this poem is a moment in the life of one such man.
Iraqi Knight
by Ted L Glines
Blaze the night, rocket grenade,
tension and fear on stark parade.
Sergeant yells, "Bogey on your right!"
bright lines of tracers spoiling your sight.
Stuttering blinks, concentrated fire,
rocket burst makes funeral pyre.
Nothing but sweat and cordite stink,
rapid fire now, hear the casings click.
A slap and a grunt from your brother friend,
your buddy's gone; gone to his end.
Screams of pain from your far right,
death grips the heart of Iraqi Knight.
Call in the choppers before it's too late,
insurgents screaming a curse of hate.
Too long 'til dawn, we die here now,
gotta survive but don't know how.
Too black to see the bodies go down,
as fire meets fire on explosive ground.
Heart like a high speed metronome,
"Baby, think of me, I'm going home!"
War is hell and that's no lie,
Goin out screaming, “Semper Fi!”
Author's Notes: Where did this one come from? I honestly do not know. It was there in my mind and all I did was write it down. Someone had something to say. Bless him.
Warrior Addict
by Ted L Glines
We wonder what it is that drives a person to crave to be in battles. Is it that they wish to die? Or, perhaps, they wish to kill and it is war which gives them permission. Perhaps there is a deeper warrior-reason.
In any battle, the odds for or against survival are equal. You will either survive or you will perish. It is a 50-50 balance and it does not get better than that, even if your fighting platform is a submarine deep under the sea. In modern warfare there is no place to hide. It does not matter whether your armor is much or little. Death is an equal opportunity predator, and modern weaponry makes armor obsolete.
One must note that these warrior addicts have stood between our citizens and death on fronts all over the world. They have gone where no man dared to tread, and some of them have survived to come home again. Fewer came home uninjured. There was a strategic (otherwise worthless) piece of rock in the western Pacific, named Iwo Jima, where countless warriors died to give us one more stepping stone on the road to Tokyo, and to give us a flag-raising photograph which resonated around the world.
My grandfather fought in every battle he could get to from WWI through WWII. He fought in submarines, the old S-boats, which were floating coffins (when you dived an S-boat, you were never sure the boat would rise again). He fought in destroyers, unstable floating gun platforms with a life expectancy approaching zero in any pitched naval battle. He volunteered to go ashore with raiding parties, to engage in hand-to-hand combat with Japanese soldiers guarding fuel and ammo dumps in the south sea islands. My grandfather was a warrior addict, and it all but destroyed his mind and body. During WWII, Kamikaze planes sunk three ships out from under my grandfather, but he kept going back for more. In his later years, he would cringe at our kitchen table when a small plane flew over our house. His body was marked by the jungle ravages of dengue fever, and he periodically went through malarial shivering bouts. But, even then, if a battle had made itself available, my old grandfather would have gone to war.
Why? What drives such a man? The only answer I have ever heard is all wrapped up in the U.S. Marines’ "Semper Fi!" We feel constrained to leave it at that.
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This was inspired by Tom Kitt, fellow AD author. In one of his recent works, he reminded me that warriorism is an addiction, and it certainly is all of that.