h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Thanks for the invitation, Reefgirl.

The USAF is a big subject, I'd like to satisfy your curiosity, but I'd be more comfy with specific questions.

I was born and raised in the Army. My 'hometown' was mostly in southern (West)Germany. I was born on an air base between Hiroshima and Nagasaki. (Ashiya) It doesn't exist anymore. Neither does the high school I graduated from.

There's a lot to tell, really. Much to be proud of, and much to be ashamed of.

I'd be pleased to correspond.

I'd just like to know what you did that's all, I work in the Galley of our hospital on the graveyard shift, I'm a civvie, I've watched our ships go to war and come home,

I won't ask about your high school in Japan as I probably know what happened to it

My ex husband's father was a flight sargent in the RAF

I've had a pretty interesting career. Some 'glamourous' jobs.

I'll go into detail this evening (am at w*rk right now).

If you're in California then you are 8 hours behind me in Britain it's 22.18 here and it must be 14.18 there so I may not be around when you post back, anyway, I live in Gosport which is the other side of the harbour from Portsmouth, I watched the Ark Royal leave for the Iraq war carrying some of my friends, they're all back now, earlier in the year the Enterprise came to visit, it anchored in the Solent as it couldn't get into the harbour, my job is very boring, I have to cook meals for the military night staff it's quiet but I like the navy lads who I cook for.

looking forward to your tale's

This is shaping up to be a long one. I hope to keep your interest.

Chapter One submitted.

Chapter 1. Beginnings.

My life's tale has much to do with the military, and the wider world.

Steven Petersen, aka Stu Pidarso
Born in occupied Japan 1954, father infantry officer and military government member. Mother German war bride.

My life had obviously been deeply influenced by the military, and I had essentially considered a military career as a first option. I was an upstanding Junior Republican of the Nixon variety. Puberty was difficult. Expectations were bravely faced. The plans were made and they were good.

About the time Douglas Adams encountered his epiphany in an alpine pasture near Innsbruck, I was about 60 miles away, finishing high school in Munich.

I was awarded a full Reserve Officer Training Corps (Army) scholarship, and at age 18 began what became a demanding, high-pressure, and ultimately debilitating experience that lasted about a year. This was at Texas A&M University, which has a highly accredited engineering school, as well as one of the 3 toughest ROTC programs in the nation. The regimen was said to be more dire than the military academies, and hazing was the norm.

The combination of culture shock, Mechanical Engineering curriculum, and 24/7 Old Army fun and games wore me thin. I finally called a halt about a month before the term's end, and walked away. Used the last of my stipend to buy a ticket 'home' to Germany. Spent the next four years repairing what I could of my psyche. I had to learn how to 'like', 'want', and 'feel' all over again.

As an aside, the 'Most Likely' presentation in my high school yearbook would have included me, were the topic not so morbid: Most likely to die in Vietnam. My chums told me years later.

Anyway, I recovered my bearings and took the inevitable next step. Enlisted in the Air Force this time, as it had a much more technical culture than the Army. Also, there was less drilling and marching involved, which suited me admirably.

It went well. Basic training, in San Antonio, Texas, lasted six weeks. The drill sergeants, upon learning of my history as an Aggie, put me in charge of the training flight of 50. Small authority, great responsibility, generally catching s**t from both ends. No problem, though, it was like sleepwalking for six weeks.

I had tested well enough to qualify for any Air force job. During basic, tested some more. Was invited to a classified presentation which expressed the need for sharp people in the intelligence field. Before I knew it, I was assigned to language school to learn Russian.
Found myself in Monterey, California attending the Defense Language Institute for a year.

Wow, my childhood was typical by compasrison, Born in West London 15th Septeber 1968, attended local primary and secondary school ( Kindergarten, junior high and High school), went to collage to study to be a chef, I think I'm the only one who is still cooking, worked in a couple of army barracks amoung the varying jobs I've had, married on September 11th 1993 (how prophectic was that!!) Alex was born a year later and we split in 1998, my dad died the same year we moved to Gosprt christmas 98, I was diagnosed with depression in 1999 no one was surprised, I met my BF, also called Stuart aka Excelsior, christmas 2000 and we've been together ever since. that's the condenced version or my life, I've had a pretty boring life

I'm at the point in my life where boring is good. In fact, I'm a recluse by nature. Divorced father of three 'foine lads', the four of us hanging together for therapy, as it were. (There's a sob story lurking in the wings here, but let it lie.)

Believe it or no, my interaction with this small circle on h2g2 is probably the most sustained 'social' activity I've had in years, barring the ebb and flow of my sons' friends.

My sons:

Erik, born 1979 in (occupied) Berlin.
Dana, born 1982 in Vandenberg AFB.
Carl, born 1983 also Vandenberg.

I'm proud of them. They have smarts and skills.


I work in Sacramento at the University of California (Davis) Medical Centre, as a computer technician...
(Not a programmer, I hasten to clarify...that would be way too stereotypical, no?)
...and live in Vacaville, which is halfway from Sac to San Francisco.

I'm fond of instrumental music, peaceful people, and beautiful sunsets.

I'll continue with my ramble this weekend, if you wish. I'll chat your ear off if you'd let me, but naturally I'm interested in your stories as well.

I looked up Portsmouth and Gosport in the atlas today...how are the sunsets in the south of England?

stu

I enjoy being with the friends I have h2, I tend to prefer my own company in RL as I work evenings and I have my Daughter Alex to keep an eye on so I don't tend to go out much

I'm not divorced, yet

Alex is 10 going on 16 and going through a diva stage ATM so there is a lot of storming up the stairs and door banging

I like my music, classical, blues and rock

The sunsets over the Solent (which is the strip of water between the mainland and the Isle of Wight I have some good pictures of sunsets taken from the car on the Isle of Wight

of course we only see the sunsets when it's not raining, which doesn't happen often

Have fun at work

Here's the sunset pics from the Isle of Wight

http://uk.msnusers.com/ReefsH2G2Pics/isleofwighthols.msnw

Chapter two - new horizons

California was a new place for me. It's a complex world which encompasses a strong nature culture, a heady dose of conspicuous consumption, and a vibrant sociopolitical climate. It's difficult to describe Cali quickly with any justice, but easy to accept it as a good place to live. 'Gemuetlich' is the closest I can get. Expensive too, but there are always frugal options available.

The Presidio of Monterey was one of many forts throughout California founded by the Conquistadores in the 17th and 18th centuries. There are some fragments of the original structures, but the prevalent motif was of another historical era, namely World War 2 army barracks. The Presidio occupies the hill on the Monterey peninsula, overlooking the town and the bay. It had been an infantry post until after the end of the war, when it became the Defence Language Institute, with a catalogue of languages depending largely upon demand. Russian was very big in the 70s. There were about a hundred students in my class group alone.

The russian language is different. Not like german or spanish, but maybe a step or two beyond german in its grammar. It's definitely a grammar-driven tongue, where articles don't exist, and nouns are modified (declined) according to case. Adjectives associated with the nouns are also declined, and verbs have a gender component in their conjugation.
Cool alphabet, though. He wanted to conjugate, but she declined...

Met, wooed, and married a classmate, a California girl also in the air force. We both managed to beat the 70-percent attrition rate, continued on with cryptography training (and serious national-security indoctrination) in a windowless building in Texas, and finally deployed for duty in Berlin.

There was a large intelligence/counterintelligence circus in Berlin. Every major player was represented. Indeed, Berlin was considered Spy Central by anybody with a link to the business. And a couple more fresh-faced Yanks joined the act in 1978.

Glamourous? Heh. Probably the boringest job, with the craziest work schedule, in a very suspicious, paranoid, watch-yer-back organisation. In a town that assumes the aspect of a prison most times, and there's nothing between Berlin and Siberia except concrete and concertina wire, as the saying went.

I was introduced to the concept of 'Berlin psychosis' by a Frenchman I had met on the plane in New York on the way over there...and lived it. Winters were evil. If Hell really exists, it'd be like West Berlin during the cold war in the winter. To be fair, springtime is most beautiful.

Our home was close by Tempelhof Central Airport, which was established as an aerodrome in the early 1900s. A marker exists there commemorating a flight demonstration that the Wright brothers conducted around 1910. Albert Speer, the state architect for Hitler, had designed a massive building to completely encircle the Tempelhof meadow, but perhaps only a quarter of the circuit was completed. A thoroughly sturdy structure, it proudly withstood prolonged Soviet artillery barrages during the battle for Berlin in 1945.
And shortly after, it was the most recognisable venue for the Luftbruecke -- the Berlin airlift -- certainly the most noble mission that any air force has ever accomplished.

We worked in a 'radio station' on top of an artificial hill in the Marienfelde district, close by the southern boundary of the city. The hill was of rubble from the city's destruction. Another rubble hill, Teufelsberg (Devil's Mountain) was large enough for skiing, and had another 'radio station' at its summit.

K (the wife), with a little help from me, transitioned from intelligence collecting to motherhood - and civilian status. I entered a different situation...from two wage-earners able to afford some good life, to a single-income household with two dependents.

About the same time, I was busted for using hashish. I was able to redeem myself as far as the air force was concerned (difficult but not impossible), but there was no possibility of me returning to that job.
It turns out to have been a major positive career move for me.

Auf wiedersehen, Berlin...and welcome to sunny Spain.

Wow, I went to Berlin a couple of years ago on a holiday excersion, I was not too well when I got back, it was the pollution in the city, it's a loverly city and so full of history, my parents went to Berlin either side of the wall coming down, they went on a tour of the East in 89 and my dad saw what he thought were bullet holes and asked the guide if they were, she said yes they were left over from the Russian advance of 1945.

My Ex hubby's dad took part in the Berlin airlift

Looking forward to life in Spain

Adios

Hullo again...I'm slowly sloggin' through the Spain experience, and promise you something before Monday, but here's a little offering:

Interlude - the Duty Train

West Berlin had been unique during the cold war era by virtue of its geographical isolation from friendly territory. It was literally 'an island outpost of Western Democracy in a sea of Communism'. Or, if you prefer, 'a chancre of Capitalism on the German Democratic Republic'. Berlin was located some 100 road miles away from the west German border, and there is no question but that the Soviet Army controlled the turf between.

Travel to and from Berlin was problematic for us, as members of the intelligence community. Private vehicle travel, though feasible for most american military, was prohibited. Public ground transport was similarly ruled out. Air travel was uneconomical as well as inconvenient. That left the Duty Train as the default option for travel across East Germany.

It was a service provided by the Berlin Brigade, the major American command in the city. As a consequence, it was free for us. The only requirement was travel orders from the individual's unit, either for official travel, or in conjunction with leave or pass. And for the period of time the train was travelling through GDR territory, passengers' ID cards were held by the train's commander.

The journey starts at a private station located in a quiet area convenient to the Berlin Brigade complex. Around nightfall, the passengers start to gather at the station, check in at the window, and receive their boarding passes. (If you are not already on the manifest for that evening's train, forget about it.) At the appropriate time (long since forgotten) the passengers board, ID cards are collected, and the train rolls out of the station.

It's a sleeper train. Single passengers are paired-up by gender; young married couples are left to their own devices. The compartments are clean and well-kept and panelled in dark wood. The temperature is comfortable in the summer and coolish in the winter.

The train itself is far from nondescript. It is clean, polished, and bears the legend 'United States of America', with the flag, on each carriage. It cruises serenely through the southwestern boroughs of Berlin, and comes to a halt within view of the Wall, at a siding labelled Potsdam. Daylight is gone, but the scene is brightly lit by good Socialist candlepower.

It is here that we see the Soviet soldier up-close and personal. He proudly stands guard in the summertime, and huddles morosely in the winter, alongside the train. And occasionally he deals. Tradition has it that Ivan will trade authentic Soviet Army memorabilia for a Playboy magazine or packet of Marlboros.

The train is cleared for the journey in a leisurely fashion. Within the hour, we're rolling again, past brief glimpses of the meagre nightlife in Potsdam and finally into the interstellar darkness of East Germany...I could very well imagine some of the Soviet assets posted along the route, but no identification was possible at night. And the night was the exclusive milieu of the Duty Train.

The journey along those 100-odd miles of track was a leisurely one, due to the fact that the Americans had a much lower precedence on the GDR rail system than, well, anything else. In any event, the transit required five or six hours. Clack-clack of the rails, interspersed with peaceful interludes on a siding somewhere.

At some point in the wee hours, the sleeping passengers are alerted by an absence: the train is felt to be in motion, but the clack-clack is no longer there....Ah, yes, we are now in West Germany. The Zone, in the parlance of the island people of Berlin. The tracks in the Federal Republic of Germany are continuous-welded. Due to the excellent engineering and meticulous workmanship of the righteous Free Germans, the railway experience is like gliding upon silken steel.

The train arrives at the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof at about 0800. And the Hitchhikers find themselves in one of the major travel hubs of Europe.

We went on a coach holiday to Germany and our driver had been doing the trip for 15 years so had been around during the Communist years and was telling stories of the East, we were travelling to Berlin down the old 'corridor' which still had the old checkpoints, he told us that any daytrippers had to have Ostmark but all the places they stopped only took Deuschmark and the guards used to stop obvious westerners for 'speeding' but the fines had to be paid in Deuschmark, coming back the otherway weserners couldn't take Ostmark back into the West so the guards took it back at the boarder, the end of the story being, the guards would hand over all the Ostmark they confiscated as 'speeding fines' and keep the Deuschmark which would buy you anything in the East

Chapter 3

We had taken the duty train out of Berlin for the last time, spent a few days with my family in Wiesbaden, and flew in a C-130 cargo aircraft from Frankfurt to Torrejon Air Base, close by Madrid. Travelling with an infant was cumbersome, but we had, by then, acquired some ease and confidence with parenting.

It was a little homecoming for me, going to Spain. I had lived here for two years as a youth, indeed beginning my teens here. The base was pretty much as I remembered it, the prevalent red-brick structures following typical Air force architectural standard. We set up household fairly quickly in the town of Torrejon and had a most pleasant two years.

I had found my vocation as a tradesman. I was assigned to a Civil Engineering squadron as an electrician. The tricks of the trade came to me with almost preternatural speed, the skills of supervision following in a more sedate fashion. But I was comfortably embedded in a professional and social structure that was more nurturing than my family had ever been.

During my sojourn in Spain as a youth, the sociopolitical climate was easy. Francisco Franco, the Generalissimo, was in charge. Being young, and as a privileged American (and consequently naive), I felt that the Spanish way of life was exceptionally orderly and good. To this day, I have only a small understanding of the circumstances surrounding the spanish civil war, the bloodshed and atrocities, the oppression and ugliness...it's probably a very good policy for the individual to stay naive, sunny, optimistic...at any rate, the American teen was able to wander freely in Madrid after nightfall, alone, in perfect safety. Except for stray dogs, and even they ended up being civil enough.

I returned, then, to a state somewhat different than what I was expecting.

Franco had died in the interim, King Juan Carlos de Borbon y Borbon was the nominal ruler, and the local politics wavered between socialism and communism. Needless to say, the relationship between the Spanish and the US military was uneasy. Pragmatically, we could be accepted up to the point that we supported the local economy. Still, our presence there at Torrejon, which had predated the current regime, was continually challenged by the citizens.

Law and order had deteriorated into a restive situation, with which the Guardia Civil was only barely able to cope. I personally lamented the high level of street crime that prevailed, and was continually taken aback by the attitudes I encountered, from the same Spaniards that were so decent 'back then'.

Curiously enough, this was probably the only time in my life where I felt like, this is the reality of living in an american community. Being a brat, and accustomed to pulling up stakes on a regular basis (I had yet to live in any one place for more than three years running), I had never known the experience of being a part of a permanent community. Here I could feel an essential connection. We were necessarily insular as a community, and we had the resources and infrastructure to make it work. Perhaps this is a reflection of the old american pioneer mentality, or perhaps more accurately a colonial mentality. The fact that we were here as a set-piece in the greater geopolitical game could be ignored most of the time.

We shared Torrejon Air Base with the Spanish air force. Or they with us. Coupled to the standard US industrial-strength military community structure was the subtle influence of a benign Spanish culture. There were tascas (pubs, in the Med style) on the base, in the unlikeliest of places. And Rick, my partner/trainer/supervisor, was welcome at all of them. He was a Cuban-american wheeler-dealer, with a full idiomatic fluency in Spanish, and connections everywhere.

Americans have a peculiar relationship to alcohol and drinking, probably as a result of Prohibition times. The culture of drinking was irreparably ripped out of the american psyche, and when the Prohibition amendment to the Constitution (I forget the number) was repealed, we had this lifestyle component that we didn't really know how to handle. Like sex, to the Puritans. So we insist upon treating drinking purely as a form of, or adjunct to, entertainment. (Hmmm. The concept is fraught with interesting implications.) For an american to be drinking before the end of the work-day is somehow unclean.

The Spanish, our righteous hosts and partners, didn't have such inhibitions, bless them. We could visit the Alert pad off the runway's end, where two fully-loaded, fully-armed SAF interceptors waited to 'scramble', and sit in pleasant company with a cold beer. We could pass through the Spanish headquarters at any time and drink Cafe Napoleon with the staff.

The Spanish beer, while I'm on the subject, is very good. It escapes the notice of the beer critiques and travelogues that I've read, and that's truly a shame. The San Miguel brand, for example, was preferred both for its flavour (a clean refreshing Pilsner style) and its price (unbelievably inexpensive). There was an occasion when some slick entrepeneurs from Stateside loaded a pallet of Coors (perishable, and tres faddish) on a cargo mission, to make the proverbial killing out in the outposts. We had fresh San Miguel at a quarter of the price. They had a couple tonnes of stale Colorado Kool-aid and no market whatsoever. Oh well.

So for two years we lived in a situation that, for me, could have continued for the remainder of my career. It wasn't fated to be, as I was not eligible for consecutive overseas assignments.

I had plenty of practice from childhood, at saying goodbye to a great place, grand times, and close friends. It is never happy.

Onward to California, where the air force career plays out, with the exception of a solitary year in Turkey and a short war in Arabia.

[vague memory of passing through customs at JFK with pregnant wife and toddler]

for now...

I guess sitting around with nothing to do will get you to drink more than is good for you. I wish I had a replie but my life has been very very boring