I happened to find this John Dey masterpiece totally by accident. I hope everyone can read it.

Toulouse and Herbert
Visit the Flight Deck
There couldn't be two more coon ass people on the face of this earth than Toulouse and Herbert. Both came from somewhere in the far, dark, dank and near prehistoric recesses of the swamps of Louisiana, and through some grand miscalculation on the part of the Marine Corps managed to not only enlist but to be schooled in aircraft maintenance. I doubt the two of them had even seen an aircraft up close until they found themselves in aviation school in Millington, Tennessee. In a world gone mad during the Vietnam War, it was the luck of VMO-6 that the two of them would come to be placed in the same squadron at the exact place and time in history to make their presence felt in ways that to this day bring me mirth, a sense of the forlorn and dismay.

No one really knew what to do with them. They both displayed a certain proclivity toward rotating machinery, so in the over two hundred years of experience the Marine Corps had piled up, these two were assigned to jet engine school. And there they shined for probably the first time in their lives outside running from the law, moonshine still operators and debt collectors. This pair could take apart a J-58-11 gas turbine engine as easily as others their age popped hubcaps off passing cars. And when the two of them formed a tag team on an aircraft the aircrews would watch them like hawks watch field mice, but always come away with a begrudged respect for their mechanical skills. Often it wasn't pretty, but that pair could keep a gunship in the air when everyone else was ready to frag the damned thing and get another from Naval Rework. They took safety wiring to an artistic level and even the gruffest of quality control inspectors would shake their heads and sign off on their work. They could keep any Huey in the air but the crew would not like them sitting in it any longer than was necessary to affect repairs. They always left behind a certain aroma that seemed to permeate their very souls and transfer itself into or onto anything they touched. It was something they ate that arrived regularly from home, usually wrapped in brown paper and showing the telltale signs of grease leakage all over the outside. There were all manner of theories as to what exactly came in the packages, but as long as they didn't try to smoke it everything was jake with the crew chiefs. There was a sense of élan among aircrew Marines and that big tent was large enough even for Toulouse and Herbert to find refuge from officers who just might look too closely at a package that smelled like something gone tragically wrong in a brie factory. Everyone shared everything that came from home, no matter what. It could be Italian, American Southern, New York deli or whatever. You split it up and got your share when others got theirs. No one lined up licking their lips when the mail clerk would deliver packages to Toulouse and Herbert arms extended and head turned slightly to one side. And in those days it took a lot to make a Marine turn his head slightly to one side.

It was hard times in the Corps and VMO-6 had suffered so many casualties and lost aircraft we had to stand down and go get fresh flying machines. The closest available was a gaggle of Hueys stationed at Futema Marine Air Station on Okinawa. Orders flew, teletypes chattered and twelve of us found ourselves aboard the U. S. S. Ranger bound for that far away yet peaceful island just south of Japan proper. Toulouse and Herbert were with us. I knew even then that no good could come from this.

We arrived on Okinawa and were deposited in the transit barracks for the short duration of our stay. The OD cast a weather eye on the two Louisiana natives as he issued us liberty passes and laid out the ground rules for living in peace with Marines not assigned combat duty "down south". Finally he drew himself up, looked at the two and asked, "Why isn't your brass polished?" The reply was a drawn out "Brasso burns" from Toulouse backed up by a frenzied nodding of the head from Herbert. We explained that our orders from the commander of Westpac stated that no crew member should have on their person or equipment any material that would burn if exposed to open flame. The OD wasn't buying it but he had little choice since we had a gunny backing up the story. And the pity was, it was true. We had lost a lot of good men to fires aboard hit gunships

At the flight line Toulouse and Herbert went over the aircraft from top to bottom, investigating every nut, bolt, swashplate and switch until they were satisfied the aircraft were fit for service and up to their standards of operation. The senior NCO of the flight line, a Master sergeant of the "olde" Corps, didn't take to having his aircraft looked over by so skuzzy a bunch as us and let us know in no uncertain terms. Ruffled feathers were all smoothed dutifully into place and three by three the Hueys were flown out to the Ranger for the trip back in-country. The gunny stayed until the last flight, filling out all the requisite paperwork for us to take legal possession of his squadron's spit and polished Hueys. The squadron on Okinawa was used as a glorified taxi service for all the heavies and lifers on the island.

As soon as we had the helos chained down on a remote area of the flight deck of the Ranger out came all the fancy red carpets, polished nameplates and other luxuries such as doors. They made hardly a splash when dumped over the side into the South China Sea. Then we were on our way back "home".

It came to be our good fortune that Providence saw fit to send the Ranger into Hong Kong during our confinement aboard. No one ever really knew why and we weren't about to ask. Gift horse, mouth, all that, you know.

At the time Hong Kong was what was known as an open port. Any ship from any nation could sail right on in and drop anchor. There was but one admonition: You couldn't so much as clean a pistol as long as you were in port. You could be anchored beside a North Korean patrol boat or a heavy cruiser from the Soviet Union. Officers read the Riot Act for those going ashore, as we did so in orchestrated waves. Shore leave was granted on a starboard/port rotation. Couldn't leave the ship empty, you know. We, the Marines, were assigned the port section. Of course, the starboard section was the first to hit the civilian scows lined up to take free spending American round-eyes ashore to fulfill lustful dreams and other diversions. Tailors would give you free beer while they measured you for one of their famous custom tailored suits. If you bought, and you'd better, the suit would be brought out to the ship before it sailed out of the bay, even if it was leaving the next day. Never did figure out just how they managed that in the days of analog everything.

With nothing else to do other than harass sailors and fill them with dread of combat we told them was coming to claim each and every one of them, we decided it was best if we stayed up in the daylight and caught a few rays. Then, as now, Marines provided security for the captain of the ship and ran the brig. We were not the most endearing of passengers for a tightly run ship. We had no sweat gear so we all just took K-bar combat knives and sliced off our utility trousers (women wore pants) to fabricate shorts. Now I don't know if you've ever worn or even seen a pair of Marine issue utility trousers (1 each), but they are extremely roomy in the leg unless you have the thighs of Earl Campbell. Couple that with the decidedly unsavory but necessary habit of Marines wearing no skivvies "down south", and you have a situation where one could reveal more than modesty might allow in polite circles.

We were back near the round down at the aft end of the flight deck sunning like a group of horrendously misshapen amphibians when Toulouse and Herbert made their entry, dressed to the nines in their cutoffs and nothing else. We kept a respectful distance as no one had any desire to see whatever those two might have to display, knowing the unclean condition in which those items would no doubt be found. They were up by the tower where all the heavies were stationed to take care of actually running the ship, as opposed to us unwashed trash that now befouled their pristine deck.

Being good world citizens and being in a port controlled by Great Britain at the time, the officers running the ship would allow certain military attaches, naval officers from various allied countries and other big batters - with their attendant families - a guided tour of the ship, its equipment (unclassified) and facilities. The British Navy flocked aboard with families in tow for such a treat as this. The pride of the American fleet was in town and this was not a sight to be sloughed off.

A hatch opened on the side of the tower and a Lt.(jg) stepped through followed by several of the Queen's finest, families following like a string of ducklings. The officers looked very, very smart in their black uniforms and gold braiding. There were several wives accompanying them and bringing up the rear were a squadron of children, male and female, from, oh, about eight to sixteen years old from the looks of them. As they were in so close a proximity Herbert sat up quickly and surveyed the situation.

Toulouse was spread out on the deck like a man about to be drawn and quartered. His fishbelly-white skin fairly glowed in the bright light. His head was pointed away from the tour leaving his nether regions aimed directly toward the unwary civilians. Herbert, as was his wont, wasted not a second in taking full advantage of the situation. He figured, quite correctly as it turned out, that there was little the Navy could do to him that the Marines had not already visited upon his bedraggled personage. What were they going to do? Send him to Vietnam? Take away his birthday? Shave his head and call him a prisoner?

Hoppy, Wheatley, Markey, Opinsinski and I all shot up like meerkats on the watch for an eagle. Whatever it was, it was going to be good.

Herbert noted the giggling teens when they caught sight of Toulouse' privates draped out in front of God and everybody. He rose and crossed over to his supine friend from the swamps. In full view of the now motionless crowd he bent over. Extending two fingers he took Toulouse' scrotum between two grimy fingers and rubbed them back and forth. Toulouse didn't budge. Shaking his head in admiration Herbert said, "That's some really fine material you got there. I think I'll have a suit made out of this stuff".

Chaos.

Evil personified in the midst of hapless and undeserving civilians. Squeals came from the children as their mothers struggled to cover their own mouths and their children's eyes at the same time. British Navy backs became straight as ramrods. The young Lt. visibly blanched and then like a chameleon you used to get at the fair, turned a fiery red that gradually, but swiftly, became a shade of purple I had heard about but never actually seen. Not even on the face of a Drill Instructor.

At a greatly accelerated pace the group reentered the hatch and were gone.

Now was a good time to leave. The odds of that particular Lt. being able to identify any one of us on a ship of five thousand men was slight IF we made tracks now. As if someone had yelled "INCOMING!" we scattered through any and every available hatch and stairwell. As I went through a hatch I looked over my shoulder. Toulouse and Hebert had disappeared as if sprites or wood fairies. In seconds we were redressed and lounging about on the hangar deck, mindlessly fingering equipment and bent over imaginary tasks.

Now it's a good ways and a lot of steel between the flight deck and the hangar deck but we heard a hatch slam open and then a man screaming, actually screaming, at the tops of his young Navy lungs. We couldn't make it all out but we did discern the words "brig", "for life" and "if I ever". Our senior NCO, the gunny, told us to lay low a while till Junior's blood pressure returned to a readable level.

Being the astute diviners of human behavior we were, after about ten minutes we started sauntering back up to the flight deck to take the air once more. Toulouse and Herbert were nowhere to be found, and indeed, were not seen again until we left port. They were down in the lowest part of the ship where a crew of three manned a manual steering mechanism in case the wheel on the bridge was shot out or otherwise vaporized. These men had no hope if anything happened to the ship. It was far too far a climb to get out before the ship sank. They found brothers in arms, and scent, in Toulouse and Herbert. After several days of cleaning the sailor's clocks in marathon games of poker, the two emerged even dirtier than we could believe. The gunny made them wash in seawater for about an hour. They still smelled.

Up on deck we watched the Lt. scurry about looking high but not low enough for the perpetrators of this deed most foul. It was all we could do not to laugh ourselves into a stupor. But we knew we would not be found out because we were the guys who flew in the booze hidden in the tail booms of the Hueys. You never rat out your supplier. We looked up and noticed a full captain standing at the rail outside the fight operations room. This man was the equivalent of a full bird colonel in the Corps and could have had us flayed. Onboard ship he was known as "The Air Boss".

He did his best to stifle a laugh as he briskly motioned us off the flight deck.

Toulouse and Herbert finished their tours and their time in the Corps. Their C.O. at New River Marine Corps Air Station nearly wept to lose so valuable a set of mechanics. Then they disappeared back into the swamps that had spawned them.

I never saw either again.

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Does anyone question that the above is indeed a masterpiece?

I sincerely hope his widow kept this and other stories by John Dey. Just a dozen, if compiled, would make a fitting tome and memorial to him.

Kent