Driver, T. C. Read Online Free PDF Page A

conflict or 'mission' of our ship gave me many questions that all begged for answers. I did learn that we were not alone. That there were at least three others like us; old American aircraft carriers, remodeled and refitted to college or student service. One ship was always here on “Gumbo Station” off the east coast of Africa in a tag team fashion. We lent support to the “Dark Continent”. Our students took little notice, neither of the military missions given our ship, nor of the “who or why” of our battles. Students seemed as uncaring robots or serf subjects. All of them were totally unquestioning of authority. Their blindness troubled my heart and soul. It was an affront to God and nature. What had caused this numb; and docile, youth. I loved the evenings at the ship's Gospel Cafe and the students from Lynchburg because they were still American. They still valued liberty, freedom and the Bible. No news reports had stories of a war in Africa. No mention of 'us', the Great Ark or this new private navy. Nothing of whom or what we were or 'who' was in charge. I wondered to myself, who was paying me? I guessed European, maybe Indian and Russian with a few Israelis sprinkled in. no answers could be found, even after much snooping around on my part. 'Follow the money' is always good advice, but my many hours of working “B” time in purchasing had not landed any fresh information. After another routine three day work cycle of flying ship protection patrol. I just could not stop myself from telling stories of 'back in the day' at my big round corner table.
    The Gospel Cafe was packed that night. I took a big drink of hot French roast coffee; my own Irish version. Then I started off by going back to my youth in the now closed up, former U.S. Navy. Long before the big 'Osoma cuts'. The U.S. Navy was off this same east coast of Africa. The 'news' reports broadcasted a cover story, or 'official lie' back then that we were feeding Africans in Somalia. What a joke that was! I had been part of that operation; where the movie 'Blackhawk down' came from. What we sailors truly did in Africa during that operation is built five large airfields in remote, dry, desert locations. Our operation had nothing to do with feeding anybody. The bases we built are referred to by military logistic types as forward staging areas. When our construction was completed, we quickly abandoned them to the blowing desert sand. My old Wart Hog plane was one of only two which took part. The other plane was a rare husband and wife team. We are all still good friends. These old planes are close air support machine gunners; not fancy. Funny how smells can come back to you even years later from scenes you wish, or thought you had forgotten. Close-up war is unpleasant. I do not recommend a front row seat. War is often just like seasickness on small boats. You might think of yourself as a tough man and immune to all the blood and guts around you, but then the smell hits you in the stomach. The stench and rot of death is what puts even the so called 'tough guys' over the edge. It will send them crying; falling quickly to their knees in prayer. Yes, it's always the damn smell that gets you.
    I tried to chill out and called the waiter for a free round of drinks for my many guests; all fourteen to sixteen of them. All of these students were very polite; even respectful tonight, a rare blessing. The second set of music was about to start in minutes here at the Gospel Cafe. A singer named Brenda Dole was about to come on. She was very popular. She was married to a crewman named Rodney on the ship. I took another sip of my favorite strong French roast coffee.   My own special flavoring added at the table. I am after all, part Irish and also an ole Granddad (ha-ha). Then I started back to my story.
    “My friends, that year the 'anti-military' party 'Clinton' had just been elected, so the first President Bush was a 'lame duck'. The coalition had ten large, private