HEY MARINES ... MAIL CALL !

A U. S. Naval Aviator

Subj:CARIBOU MAIL
From:X1369
To:PUSHTRUCK

THIS IS FROM MY ARMY (VIETNAM ERA) COUSIN'S MAILING LIST...
1. Just what the taxpayer ordered - everyone get in line to get your Cold War Recognition Certificate

http://147.103.18.232/

2. Ren Hart, one of our members sent this - well written ...
From:[email protected] (Ren Hart)

Bruce,

Here's one that you will enjoy,
Regards,

Ren

I visited with three old friends recently at a park near my town.
It seemed like only yesterday that we were all together, but actually it had been 28 years.
There was a crowd at the park that day, and it took us a while to connect, but with the aid of a computer we made it.
I found Lance at panel 54W, line 037, Lynn over at panel 51W, line 032, and Vince down at panel 27W, line 103.

In 1968 we were gung-ho young fighter pilots in Vietnam.
The cream of the crop of the U.S. Air Force Pilot Training System, and now their names are on that 250-foot-long, half-size model of Washington's Vietnam War Memorial that moves around the country.
I had intentionally avoided visiting the wall when it came to town in years past because I did not trust myself to keep my composure.
But after nearly three decades it was time to try for some closure on this issue.
I told my wife that I preferred to go alone, if that was all right.
Truth be known, I nearly backed out at that.

Standing in front of that somber wall, I tried to keep it light, reminiscing about how things were back then.
We used to joke about our passionate love affair with an inanimate flying object.
We flew F-100's and we marveled at the thought that we actually got paid to do it.
We were not draftees, but college graduates in Vietnam by choice, opting for the cramped confines of a jet fighter cockpit, over the comfort of Corporate America.
In all my life I've not been so passionate about any other work.
If that sounds like an exaggeration, then you've never danced the wild blue with a Supersonic Angel.

I vividly remember the Sunday afternoon, in the summer of ' 68, when we flew out of Travis Air Force Base, California, on a troop transport headed for Vietnam.
Lynn, Lance and I crowded around the same porthole and watched the Golden Gate Bridge disappear below broken clouds.
We had gone through Fighter Pilot School together and had done some serious bonding.
In an exceedingly rare moment of youthful fighter pilot humility, I wondered if I would live to see that bridge again.
For reasons I still don't understand, I was the only one of the three of us who did.

Once in Vietnam, we passed the long, lonely off-duty hours at Dusty's Pub, a lounge that we lieutenants built on the beach of the South China Sea at Tuy Hoa Airbase.
The roof at Dusty's doubled as a sun deck and the walls were nonexistent.
The complaint heard most often around the bar, in the standard gallows humor of a combat squadron, was:
"It's a lousy war, but it's the only one we have." (I've cleaned up the language a bit.)
We sang mostly raunchy songs that never seemed to end.
Someone was always writing new verses and, as an antidote to loneliness, fear in the night and the sadness over dead friends, we often drank too much.
Vince joined us at Dusty's Pub halfway through my tour of duty, and since he was a like-minded country kid from Montana, we hit it off.
He had a wide grin, slightly stooped shoulders and his own way of walking.
He just threw his feet out and stepped on them.
But what he lacked in military bearing, he made up for with the heart of a tiger.
He often flew as my Wingman, and we volunteered for the night missions on the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
One starless night, the longest, saddest night of my life, we got into a nasty gun duel with some antiaircraft artillery batteries.
I watched Vince die in a mushroom-shaped fireball that, for a moment, turned night into day.
Lance-a New York boy who took unmerciful grief from us because he talked like a New Yawker, crashed into the side of a mountain in the Central Vietnamese Highlands while attacking a target.
Lynn, a happy-go-lucky jock from Pennsylvania's Slippery Rock College, with a hound named John the Basset, returned to his base on a stormy night in July after weather aborted his mission.
Two miles of wet runway weren't enough to stop an F-100 landing at 160 knots with all its bombs still on board.
He ran off the end, flipped over and slid through the minefield at the perimeter fence, setting off a gruesome sound and light show.

At the wall, I told the guys only about the good parts of the last 28 years.
Lacy, one of our associates from Dusty's Pub, became an Astronaut, and a few summers ago, I watched from my backyard near Tampa as he blasted off.
His voice over the radio from space was at least an octave lower than it was the day I heard him radio for help while swinging from his parachute, hung in a tree in Laos.

Another Dusty's patron, Rick, is now a Two-Star General and I reminded them what we used to say about the military promotion system:
"It's like a septic tank ... only the really big chunks float to the top."
I didn't tell them about how ostracized Vietnam Vets still are.
That during that same week, one of the nation's leading newspapers had run an article that implied we Vietnam Vets were, to quote one syndicated columnist:
"...either suckers or psychos, victims or monsters."
I didn't tell them that the Secretary of Defense they fought for back then, has now declared that he was not a believer in the cause for which he assigned them all to their destiny.
I didn't tell them that a draft-age kid from Arkansas who hid out in England to dodge his duty while they were fighting and dying is now the Commander-in-Chief.
And I didn't tell them we 'lost' that lousy war.
I gave them the same story I've used since the Nixon administration:
"We were winning when I left."

I relived that final day as I stared at the black onyx wall.
The dawn came up like thunder after 268 combat missions in 360 days in the vall ey of the shadow.
The ground trembled as 33 F-100s roared off the runway, across the beach and out over the South China Sea, climbing into the rising sun.
On the eastern horizon, a line of towering deep-purple clouds stood shoulder-to-shoulder before a brill iant orange sky that slowly turned powder blue from the top down.
From somewhere o n that stage, above the whine of spinning turbine blades, I could hear a choir singing Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus" in fortissimo:
"The Lord God omnipotent reigneth,"
and He was bringing me home, while Lance and Lynn and Vince will remain as part of the dust of Southeast Asia until the end of time.
I was not the only one talking to the wall through tears.
A leather-vested, bare-chested biker, two panels to my left, was in even worse shape.
I backed about 25 yards away from the wall and sat down on the grass under a clear blue sky and midday sun, that perfectly matched the tropical weather of the war zone.
The wall, with all 58,200 names, consumed my field of vision.
I tried to wrap my mind around the mega-tonnage of violence, carnage and ruined lives that it represented.
Then I thought of how Vietnam was only one small war in the history of the human race.
I was overwhelmed with a sense of mankind's wickedness.

God, Duty, Honor, Country...
My heart felt like wax in the blazing sun and I was on the verge of becoming a spectacle in the park.
I arose and walked back up to the wall to say goodbye and ran my fingers over the engraved names...

Lance and Lynn and Vince,

as if I could communicate with them in some kind of spiritual Braille.
I wanted them to know that God, duty, honor and country, will always remain the noblest calling.
Revisionist history, from elite draft dodgers trying to justify their own actions, will never change that.

I have been a productive member of society since the day I left Vietnam.
I am proud of what I did there and I am especially proud of my friends.
Heroes who voluntarily, enthusiastically, gave their all.
They demonstrated no greater love to a nation whose highbrow opinion makers are still trying to disavow them.

May their names, indelibly engraved on that memorial wall, likewise be found in the Book of Life.

Mr. Wetterling, a stock broker with Dean Witter in Clearwater, Fla., is completing a novel based on his service in Vietnam.

Subj:Important Trader Jon's News
From:[email protected]
To:[email protected]

A very famous Naval Aviator, Bob Stump, has signed up and is assisting directly in the effort to Save Trader Jon's.
I've included his email to the Navy world below.

Kent Bolin

Bob Stumpfs Letter:

Dear Friends of Trader Jon,

As you may know, Martin "Trader Jon" Weissman last year suffered a debilitating stroke and has been unable to run Trader Jon's for months.
We all probably realized that neither would last forever, but now the reality is upon us.
I visited Trader and Jackie last week in their home, and while it was apparent that Trader would never tend bar again, the fire in his eyes burned bright.
He brought back a flood of memories which reminded me of the importance of our aviation heritage and his almost mystical part in it.
His brief appearance on Saturday after the Blue Angels homecoming show had a magical effect, even from a wheelchair.
Trader Jon's is a common denominator for virtually everyone who wears the wings of gold and countless thousands of other aviation aficionados.
It is truly a national treasure.
While so many of our cultural symbols have been diminished or eliminated over the last several years, Trader's endures --
still on South Palafox Street, as it has been for 45 years.
But with Trader's illness and Jackie's advancing years, Trader Jon's is near extinction.
This presents us with a unique opportunity --
To save Trader Jon's as a living legacy to the man and the incredible institution he built over the decades.
Under the leadership of retired Marine Helo Pilot Kent Bolin, the Trader Jon's Preservation Squadron was recently commissioned as a non-profit Corporation.
It's purpose is the acquisition, preservation, upgrade and operation in perpetuity, of Trader Jon's.
Kent is a very close personal friend of Trader's and Jackie's and, as such, has established their best interests as an integral goal of the organization.
With downtown Pensacola on the economic upswing, those who would acquire Trader's strictly for its real estate value are standing in line.
The vultures are in 'low holding'.
For us to maintain Trader's as we know it, we need to move with great dispatch.
Please don't wait to join us in this noble effort.

As a 'Squadron Member', you will receive updates on our progress and have a say in how we proceed.
Our immediate goal is to raise several hundred thousand dollars now to acquire the property and the priceless artifacts within.
As we grow and further organize, we have plans to renovate and upgrade, but preserve the main bar as you remember it.

We can do this!

When you think of how many thousands of us hold Trader's dear to our hearts, it's easy to envision the possibilities.
Nobody is going to make any money out of this.
All funds will be used toward goals of the Squadron.
We have no salaried employees.
Our overhead and expenses are absolutely minimal.
Vice Admiral Jack Fetterman, President of the Naval Aviation Museum Foundation, although initially a little apprehensive, has thoroughly scrutinized our plan and has approved.
In the unlikely event that we are unable to make this work, all proceeds and property will be donated to the Museum.
The Squadron is a registered Florida 'not for profit corporation' through efforts of Gary Huston, Esq., of the Pensacola law firm, Beggs & Lane.
Gary is busy preparing our application for exemption status under Article 501(c)(3) of the Internal Revenue Code.
Ted Gund, of the Pensacola accounting firm Saltmarsh, Cleaveland & Gund, is overseeing our financial accountability procedures.
Jim Durr, President of First Navy Bank on NAS Pensacola, is managing the banking arrangements and is accepting donations sent directly to the bank.
Please send donations* via check or money order to:

Trader Jon's Preservation Squadron, Inc.
c/o First Navy Bank
180 Taylor Road
Pensacola, FL 32508

Or:

POBox 10464
Pensacola, Fl 32524

In an effort to keep expenses as low as possible we will only mail receipts for donations of $50.00 and more.
All donations, no matter how small, are important and will be scrupulously accounted for.
Tax exempt status will have to wait pending the outcome of our IRS application.
We'll let you know as soon as we have the IRS determination.

Spread the word!
Please forward this letter to your E-mail network.
Cyber communications are crucial to getting the word out quickly so we can ensure a timely bid on the property.
For more information, please see the website at:

or E-mail me at:

[email protected]

or,

Kent at:

[email protected].

We will publish more information as we grow.

Thank you for your support.

Bob Stumpf
Chairman of the Board,
Trader Jon's Preservation Squadron, Inc.
USNA '74,
VFA-83 ('91-92),
Blue Angel 1 ('93-'94),
Tailhooker-of-the-year ('96)

Note:

Your contributions might not be tax-deductible.
Your contribution is not an investment and does not entitle you to any claim as a creditor or any interest in the corporations property or receipts.
We are applying for 501 (c) (3) status.

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