PhilippinePhil 

Climbing the Mayon Volcano -- Part I

In July of 1985 I climbed the Mayon Volcano almost a year after climbing Japan’s Mount Fuji. I was sightseeing throughout the Philippines and my first stop was Legaspi, the capital of the southern province of Albay on the island of Luzon. My wife and I had made the mistake of taking a bus from Manila, a ride of 13 hours counting the time it took to fix two flat tires. We were in a daze from the long bus ride; just the same I could not help but to be instantly captivated by the awesome spectacle of the Mayon volcano, as it seemed to overhang the city like a massive inverted ice-cream cone.

After checking into a hotel and resisting the urge to take a nap, I visited the Legaspi tourist office where we learned about all the local sites. Hesitant at first, at last I got up the nerve to ask about the possibility of climbing the volcano. The girl was quite nonchalant and said she could send a local guide to meet me at my hotel if I wanted. I asked about the cost and was delighted to hear it was just $50. I was hooked; I had to do it. The next evening, after a long day of seeing the sights of the Legaspi area, I met my guide in the hotel lobby. I gave him extra money for our food, which was not included in the $50 guide fee, and we were all set to climb the following day.

Bright and early the next morning my guide arrived along with another fellow, who I supposed was a guide in training, and off we went. We caught a cab to the outskirts of Legaspi, and then took a “jeepney” for the last few miles to where our trek on foot began. From the main road we passed through a gate into the husk of a decaying golf course, long abandoned, probably due to an eruption. We hiked across what used to be the course’s fairways and putting greens, now sad in their dilapidated state, while Mayon glowered down at us from on high. I was truly intimidated by the mountain’s presence, especially knowing that unlike Fuji this volcano was quite active. The wispy white plume coming from within Mayon’s fumarole almost 2500 meters up reminded me of this.

Mayon is about half the size of Japan’s Mount Fuji, but it doesn’t seem like it when you climb it. Although huge in size next to the smaller Mayon, Fuji is docile and harmless by comparison. And while Fuji should take no more than 12 hours to scale roundtrip, idiots like me take a full day plus most of a second to climb and return from the summit of the wilder and mostly pathless Mount Mayon.

We ambled through the last of the old golf course and entered the lush green ramps of the mountain’s base. After more than an hour of walking towards Mayon from the main road, I was thrilled as I realized that I was starting to climb the actual mountain. No one was brave or foolish enough to live on the lower slopes of the volcano, but I observed from the trail that plenty of people were taking advantage of its fertile soils to cultivate a variety of fruits and vegetables.

At lunchtime we stopped at a rest area consisting of a stone-and-mortar cooking pit, a wooden table and a simple open-sided hut useful in keeping the sun and rain at bay. My two guides had picked a jackfruit and some bananas growing along the path, which they prepared and feasted upon while I ate canned meat, bananas and crackers washed down with lots of water. I was awfully hot and thirsty from hiking all morning in the tropical heat. We rested at that tranquil spot while gazing down at Legaspi City and out across its lovely palm-lined coast at the myriad ships in a sapphire sea. The view was stunning no matter which way you chose to look. In fact, except when clouds blotted out the view I never tired of gazing at the landscape during the entirety of the climb.

My Guides Were Awesome

We continued our ascent and I marveled at the strength and endurance of my young guides. I carried only my light daypack, while each of them was loaded down by big heavy backpacks, while also taking turns hand-carrying a large plastic jerry can full of drinking water that must have weighed at least 20 pounds full. They wore some of the rattiest looking tennis shoes I have ever seen on a pair of feet; in fact, the primary guide’s left sole flapped with every step, until he tied it still with a spare shoelace. I held my own with them in the climbing department, but I wasn’t half as burdened as they. The guide made me feel only a little better about myself when he told me he had led some Filipino marines to the top a few weeks before, and he said I climbed better than they did. While I never asked to stop for a rest, he said the marines continually had to take breaks. These two scruffy fellows didn’t look like much, but they were in incredible physical shape.

The trail became less apparent, and disappeared totally as we ascended to where fruit and palm trees refused to grow. Farmers didn’t have cause to go higher than their crops, so the trail petered out from non-use. As we got above the tropical tree line I felt refreshed by the cooler high altitude air. The chillier environment caused the vegetation to be markedly different from anything below. The plants up there seemed exotic, almost prehistoric looking. A nice surprise was the prevalence of blueberries; the steep slopes were covered with bushes heavy with them. The blueberries were as big as marbles, and without breaking stride I picked two full handfuls at a time, gobbling them down as fast as I could strip them off the bushes. The dark blue fruitlettes were plump with superbly sweet pulpy juice and I ate until I was stuffed. Our hands and mouths were stained as blue as the berries and we laughed at each other as we seemed to be wearing bizarre dark-blue lipstick.

The Dangers

Now that there was no more trail to follow, I was amazed at how varied the possibilities of upward travel became. The mountain at this mid-level was convoluted with dead-end gorges and craggy cliff faces all covered with deadly loose rock and scrabble. I realized that if I would have tried to climb Mayon by myself that either I would never have found my way to the top, or more likely, I would have died from a nasty fall. It was only later that I learned one or two climbers die every year trying to climb Mayon, although I think I still would have climbed it even had I known that fact. The hazards were constant and I anxiously watched everything my guides did and I strove to copy their every step and move. At one point we had to leap across a fairly wide chasm; when my turn came I slipped and fell to my stomach on the other side. I tried not to panic as I struggled to worm forward far enough to get to my feet, but I couldn’t get hold of anything with which to pull. I felt panicky thinking about the 20 or 30 feet I was about to fall if I couldn’t pull myself up, but I was too proud to call for help from the guides who were unaware of my dilemma. Slowly, I inched forward until, thankfully, I got one knee under me. That was just the first time I felt my life was in danger on that trek and it wasn’t the last.

The day wore into late afternoon and I wondered how in the world we would be able to find a flat spot expansive enough to pitch a tent for that night’s camp. The incline was extremely steep by this time and I could not imagine where we would sleep without rolling back down the mountain as we slumbered. But late in the afternoon the mystery was solved when we arrived at our campsite and a welcome sight it was. We entered a gorge about 25 feet wide with loose rock walls towering some 20 or so feet directly above us. The gorge was actually a primary runoff, and in fact a small trickle of water ran past the man-made shelf that was to be our camp.

The guides soon had our tent pitched on the flat spot, and using some dead limbs they had carried since below the tree line they started a fire for a quick meal. By this time it was getting damp and again they amazed me by using a well-dried piece of rubber carved from the sole of an old flip-flop to act as a fire-starter. With one match the rubber blazed hot and remained lit for at least 10 minutes, long enough to cause the damp kindling to smolder and then flare up into a full-blown fire. As an old boy scout, I was thoroughly impressed with this effective fire-starting method.

The dampness turned into a light rain and then became a steady downpour. The best place to be was in the tent, so we got in and tried to make ourselves comfortable; I didn’t have much hope of that considering we were like three sardines in a can. Hours passed and there was no letup from the rain, quite the opposite, it came down even harder. To top it off, lightening and thunder began to add to the disconcerting roar of the newly formed river that now roared by just inches from the tent. My guides never stirred from their slumber, but there was no sleep in me as rocks and boulders, loosened and washed free by the driving rain, began to fall from the cliffs soaring above us. Every few minutes I heard another rock thump to the ground and sometimes roll away. They sounded like they were landing just outside the tent and still the guides slept on as I imagined a rock smashing down on us.

Somehow I fell asleep despite the racket, and the next thing I knew I was waking up to the sound of my two snoring chums. A glance at my watch revealed it was almost 6 a.m. and I waited impatiently in my sleeping bag for my companions to also awaken so we could get on our way to the summit. I decided to get up hoping my stirring would wake them up, and finally they did. They weren’t as keen as me to get moving, but I insisted that we should start for the top. The boys packed up our equipment and stashed most of the heavy stuff including their packs; after all, there was no use carrying all that stuff to the top. In an intermittent drizzle we set off toward the sky.

Push To The Top

The drizzle occasionally turned into light rain and at times it stopped completely, but the one constant was the clouds—we were socked in and could see nothing further than 2000 feet or so. Now, during our infrequent rest stops we had nothing to look at down below or above, because we just couldn’t see a thing for the clouds. An hour from the start of our second day of climbing a new irritant joined our list of woes—wind! It howled into us as if an angry god was trying to blow us back down the mountain. The higher we went the harder it blew. My inner ears began to ache from it and it’s constant shrieking caused me to hear nothing besides my own breathing, and soon it became a force that almost took my life once again.

Less than 3 hours into our 2nd day it became so steep that much of our climbing involved using our hands as if we were going up a ladder. This was nothing like Fuji where we had a smooth switchback trail that never caused us to have to walk straight towards the peak. Going up Mayon we never zigzagged; we almost always marched in a direct line toward the top and it required continuous effort and concentration. I became so absorbed on each ascendant step that I felt like I was in a trance and in effect—I was! I came out of this stupor when I dimly heard strange high-pitched whoops over the sound of the shrieking wind. My head snapped around, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw where I was. I threw myself straight forward into the side of Mayon.

Part II

Climbing Mayon Volcano -- Part II

‘If I slip, that is going to be me!”

As I looked around, I saw that I was on the side of an almost sheer wall of loose gravel and rocks, and as panic began to engulf me I inadvertantly kicked loose a softball-sized rock. I watched with alarm over my shoulder as the rock bounded down the slope below me in huge 40 and 50 foot leaps for hundreds of feet. ‘If I slip, that is going to be me,” I thought. My guides had been the source of the piercing whoop and they were signaling at me frantically to stay put till they could come to me. I wasn’t about to go anywhere so staying put was not a problem. Cautiously, they sidled along the loose wall until they were about 10 feet to my left. My guide told me to work my way carefully toward him. Digging my toes into the soft wall with each sideways step I did as he said until I was next to him, then we all continued in that manner until we were off the face of that perilous cliff. I felt myself sag as I realized how close to buying it I had been. My intensity and inattention had almost got me killed. I wasn’t about to let that happen again! After my close call I made sure I continually looked up for the location of my escorts and I noticed that they were keeping an eye on me as well. I felt bad that I had screwed up and had put all of us in danger; I became determined to do better.

Within another hour or two the footing went from steep-and-loose to steeper-and-smooth. There was no longer any sign of vegetation at that level, and I realized I was walking on what had been molten lava from one of Mayon’s numerous past eruptions, one of which had occurred only three months before. The new concrete-smooth walking surface was slick when wet and the moisture from the clouds that immersed us kept that hardened lava face moist and therefore treacherously slippery. Using our hands to keep our balance became even more crucial.

I knew we were getting close to the top when I began to get whiffs of the sulfurous fumes coming from the fumarole. In my constant glances up and around I finally began to see Mayon’s pinnacle high above me. The wind, the wetness, and the cold made me absolutely miserable, but I could take it knowing that my objective was just ahead, or more appropriately, just above!

Within a few hundred feet from the peak the smooth solidified lava began to develop narrow gullies just wide enough for us to walk inside at armpit depth. These lava-formed channels were just deep enough to keep our arms above the surface allowing us to pull ourselves forward and upwards. These narrow person-sized furrows almost seemed to be designed to allow us to finish our climb in relative comfort and speed. As we approached the summit, the wind seemed to pick up speed until it’s sound drowned out even our thoughts. I paused to open my knapsack to get my camera, but when I opened the case and looked through the aperture I found it completely blurred from the cold and moisture. Disappointed, I put it back in the bag.

The sulfur stink was pervasive. Several times a particularly thick puff of the nasty smelling stuff would envelop us causing me to gag and choke, but we continued upward on the inside of our lava trench. And then, at long last, we were there! I had envisioned myself standing proudly at the top like a conquering hero, but the wind prevented any of that nonsense as it roared through us in gusts of at least 30 or 40 or more miles per hour. All I could manage to do was to sit on the narrow circumference of the crater with my arms wrapped around a boulder to keep from being blown bodily back down the mountain. The cruel and unrelenting wind ripped a mixture of sulfur miasma and cloud mist through us, and it made it impossible to see anything and to hear even less. I couldn’t see down into the crater because of its thick white sulfurous emissions, and the clouds that enveloped us prevented any view of the surrounding landscape. I sat at the top of Mayon for less than half a minute—profoundly cold, wretchedly wet, my inner ears throbbing, my lungs and throat aching from the foul air, and I was ready to get the hell out of there.

I crawled over to the guide who also looked ready to skedaddle, and I yelled at him, “LET’S GO!” He couldn’t hear me so I had to scream it again directly into his ear. He nodded and grinned; I sensed he saw the irony of our having worked so hard to get up there only to leave almost immediately. As we scrambled back down the lava trough I yearned for our journey to be over right then and there, but we had to do the whole thing all over again, only in reverse. I felt dispirited but swallowed my misery with a deep breath and an enormous sigh. It was a LONG way back down.

What Goes Up…

Believe it or not, even though it’s faster, going down a mountain is physically harder and more painful than going up. The primary difficulty of descending a steep mountain, especially when there is no trail, is the lack of secure footing. If you imagine trying to go down a ladder facing away from it, that’s exactly what it is like trying to hike down a steep mountain like Mayon. My guide had warned me to expect to go up on all fours and to come back down on all fives. I had no idea what he meant until we started down. He was right—my first tendency was to slide down the smooth lava slabs on my butt, or my “five,” using my hands to steady and slow my progress.

The wet weather was still upon us as it had been all morning, and the effects of being constantly soaked had caused my hands to become soft and tender. This was not a good thing considering the sharpness and abrasiveness of the volcanic rocks I was forced to use as handholds for hours on end. By the time we had slid and scampered back down to the campsite my fingertips were sliced and bleeding. We stopped for a snack of fresh mango and when the guide handed me a slice, the juice felt like acid on my shredded fingers. The pain was excruciating and even rinsing them in a little drinking water did little to stem the agony. I would have done anything for a pair of sturdy leather work gloves. I made a mental note to never go hiking anywhere again without a pair.

We finally got below the rain cloud enveloping much of the volcano and that ended the constant dampness. We also escaped from the winds so prevalent toward the peak; and blessedly, the temperature became less and less chilly. But along with those good changes I began to notice another physical problem aside from my frayed fingertips, and that was my toes. I had had the same problem, although not as severe, during my descent from Mount Fuji. Going down a steep decline for many hours causes your feet to incessantly press into the toes of your shoes, and by the time I got back down to tree level I could feel that all my toes were blistered and bleeding. When I finally got my shoes off that late that afternoon I found my socks soaked in blood.

I had the chance to see another example of my guides’ amazing climbing skills when we came to an exceptionally steep mountain slope. They stopped at the top of this cliff-like wall and told me that I should go ahead of them. I looked down the side of this near vertical mountain face with uncertainty and asked, “Are you sure we came up this way?” I couldn’t believe I was supposed to go down this near vertical section. It was studded with loose rocks imbedded in sandy cinder material all of which made for horrible footing. The guide told me to take my time and assured me we had indeed come this way during our climb up. I took a deep breath and started down the cliff facing it as if going down a ladder. The wall was at least 60 feet high and I soon understood why they made me go first. The rocks were so unsecured in their setting that almost every step caused stones and gravel to cascade down the cliff face. If the guides had gone ahead of me I would have showered them with the stuff. Very slowly and shakily I made it to the bottom. I huffed in relief and then watched my companions make their way down. These guys were human mountain goats. They came down that nearly perpendicular precipice casually, as if they were walking down a flight of stairs! Hardly a pebble was disturbed as they confidently stepped down from rock to crevice to rock; and the entire time, unlike me, they faced away from the wall without using their hands. I compared my own amateurish and cautious descent down the same gradient and if truth be told there was no comparison. These guys were awesome!

The Journey Ends—Stinkily!

Many hours later I was extremely pleased and relieved when we got back down to the less precipitous bottom areas of Mayon. I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and ready to get back to the comforts of civilization, which I was reminded of as the old golf course came into view below us through the last of the farmer’s fruit trees. As I limped back through the vestiges of that ruined course I could not believe how utterly drained and weary I was. We still had a long hike to the road, but it was relatively flat and it felt almost effortless to cover the several thousand meters required to get us back to where a vehicle could carry us instead of our tortured feet. In less than an hour we exited the gate to the road and tossed down our packs. I sat on a rock and looked back at the mountain that I had “conquered,” feeling more like it had beaten the stuffing out of ME instead. I struggled back to my feet as a jeepney pulled over to pick us up.

There were already five people in the jeepney and after we hung our packs on hooks outside the back of it we pulled ourselves on. Normally when entering a jeepney, passengers already on board expect newcomers to scoot past them toward the front of the bench seats on both sides of the jeepney bed. This time however, the moment we stepped on board, every person on the jeepney held their noses; and as one, they hurriedly pushed away from us toward the front, giving us the best seats at the back. I really couldn’t figure out what their problem was for I couldn’t smell anything unpleasant. I figured they were overreacting and promptly forgot all about it as my exhaustion turned me into a sluggish lump. I really didn’t care; my brain had turned off.

When my guys dropped me off at the hotel I thanked them with a $20 tip and plodded stiffly to my hotel room. All I wanted was a shower and some food. I kicked my clothes into a corner of the bathroom, and as I tried to turn on the shower I realized my hands were going to be a problem. My fingertips were too tender to handle soap and shampoo, so I asked my wife to wash my hair while I held my tortured paws in front of me well out of the streaming water. Stepping out of the shower I felt like a new man as I toweled off. It was then that I smelled something absolutely repugnant—like a combination of rotten eggs and defecation. “Did the sewer back up?” I asked my wife. She grimaced and pointed at my grimy climbing clothes—looking more like dirty rags—lying in a pile on the floor. It wasn’t just unwashed body odor that had befouled me; from the smell of it, I had obviously absorbed the stench of the mountain’s sulfurous flatulence. No wonder those unfortunate people on the jeepney had cowered from us; I’m surprised they hadn’t retched and gagged at the way we reeked.

So that’s the story of my foray up the Philippine’s exquisite Mount Mayon. It was 20 years ago, yet it doesn’t seem so far in the past, so intense and unforgettable was the experience. I had always intended to try it again someday only better prepared, but it was not to be. My body is no longer capable of such an endeavor. My advice to anyone with bodies still healthy and able is to climb your mountains while you can, for you might not ever get another chance!

The VA: Heartless AND Contemptible!

Conspiracy!

Helping my fellow veterans over the last three years has been eye opening and interesting. Unfortunately, it’s also been gut wrenching. Two things strike me as I think back on my past 36 months as a Veterans Service Officer: first, there are some amazing United States veterans running around out there; and second, the VA can be a pissy bunch of pricks.

Personally, I have been treated fairly by the benefit system in place for U.S. veterans. But, I was lucky; I knew how to “play” the system, a system that is stacked against the unknowing. Six months before I left the service, I happened to run into a woman, my angel, who clued me in on what I needed to do to prepare for what was to come.

As for my “angel,” she had been forced to leave her career in Air Force security after contracting Lyme Disease. When she left active duty, no one advised or guided her through the convoluted VA disability compensation system. No one told her about veteran service officers, and so she made the classic mistake of trying to file on her own, expecting that the VA would do right by her. Right off the bat they underrated her disability, which began a years-long appeals battle. In the meantime, she used her VA vocational rehabilitation benefits to get a degree, which she parleyed into a job working FOR the “enemy.” That’s right, she went to work for the VA! She figured the best way to fight her foes is to infiltrate them. I met her in the Tri-care* office at the new hospital on McGuire Air Force Base not long after she had left the VA for greener pastures. (*Tri-care is the military HMO).

While she was advising me on a Tri-care issue, I mentioned I would probably have to retire in the near future. Immediately, she asked me if I was planning to claim disability for my many physical problems. I answered in the affirmative, and after asking me a few pointed questions, she quickly surmised that I was ignorant and woefully prepared.

She asked me, “Do you have some time? I can give you some pointers if you want to learn how to deal with THOSE people.” She almost spit with disgust as she referred to the VA.

I jumped at the chance. I pulled a notebook from my knapsack, and for the next hour or so she filled me in. She was as passionate as an evangelist; she spoke with a glint in her eye and with fire in her gut. I scribbled line after line of info, pitfalls to watch out for and medical evidence to gather. I look back at those dozen or so pages of notes now, and I realize how basic the things are that she told me, but oh so important! The primary benefit I derived from her intervention was to be WARY! Expect the worst; preempt the bastards!

So, what is it exactly about the Veterans Administration that upsets me so much? It isn’t any one thing; it’s comprehensive. If I didn’t have my service officer goggles on, I probably wouldn’t feel one way or another about them. After all, I did okay. But as I think back on how it COULD have gone, and on some of the shabby treatment other “unprotected” veterans have suffered, THAT’S when I start to fume.

I believe that there is a conspiracy of silence. This plot to keep veterans unaware of their benefits and what is required to win compensation involves not ONLY the Veterans Administration; it also involves the collusion of the U.S. military. Why would our leaders in the Pentagon do this? Here’s what I think—the way they see it, every time a vet is awarded another entitlement it’s money taken away from THEIR budget. I say, “TOO BAD!” The Department of Defense is quite ready to use our devotion to duty to accomplish the nation’s military taskings WHILE we wear the uniform, but as soon as we leave, that is when we are looked at as nothing more than a financial drain. I’ve actually heard Pentagon spokesmen refer to military retirees as a “threat” to the security of the United States because of the money we pull away from their weapons systems coffers! The conspiracy I accuse them of becomes quite apparent as the time for discharge from service draws near.

In the weeks or months before one is due to separate, most servicemen and women attend a weeklong seminar called a TAP briefing. TAP stands for Transition Assistance Program, and it includes a period of three or four hours on post-service VA benefits. Usually a VA representative briefs the VA portion and my TAP was no exception. My TAP mates and I listened very attentively to this glib fellow, and we THOUGHT he was being very informative, but now I know how truly deficient his lecture actually was. Instead of telling us jokes and amusing us, he SHOULD have told us what we needed to know about how to properly go about making a claim for disability compensation—such as the following:

· Veteran Service Officers; that they exist, what they do, and how they are INDISPENSABLE if a veteran plans on making a successful disability claim.

· Medical Evidence. The fact that the evidence must show three things before a claimed condition will be rated as service connected: 1) diagnosis of a condition while in service, 2) current diagnosis of the condition, and finally 3) that the condition existed from service to the present.

· The first year after discharge is PARAMOUNT! Two things are important concerning that first year after getting out. First, if veterans apply for compensation within 365 days, once they are rated, the award date is retroactive to the date of discharge. However, if they wait until the 366th day, then the award date is the date of the application for benefits. The second important thing EVERY veteran should know about that first year is this: THE PRESUMPTIVE PERIOD! It means that almost any disabling medical condition discovered during the first year is considered to have originated in service. Can you see why the VA conceals this from us?

· Waiting to file is a HUGE mistake! Every day, month and year a veteran waits to file makes it that much more difficult to win a claim for disability compensation. Most veterans are more concerned with finding a job and a decent place to live for their family than they are about filing for disability. The more time that passes the less likely a vet will be able to prove his claim, thus, advantage VA!

· The VA ONLY considers what you claim, and NOTHING else! This means that normally, the VA will not award compensation for a condition that is NOT actually written down on the claim form. If the veteran has a host of illnesses and disabling conditions, and doesn’t completely understand the nature of them all, he might not write them all down on the form. The VA won’t go through and look for “missed” ailments in the service medical records. Nope. The VA will only consider what is asked for and usually nothing else. Is this ethical? Hell no! But they do it regularly.

The five bits of info above are very basic to those of us who deal with the VA on a continuous basis, but virtually no one separating from their military branch knows about them. To me, it’s criminal and inexcusable. From what I’ve seen, both the military and the VA would just as soon keep their people uninformed of this crucial information.

If all there was to it is that the VA and the DoD conspire to keep vets from what they are entitled to, then I wouldn’t have near the enmity I do about it. What causes my fury against the Veterans Administration is how truly pissy they treat so many of my comrades. Here are some examples, and I plan on adding to these as more occur to me.

· About 40 years ago, a paratrooper in the army made a drop from 2500 feet. His first chute “streamed” and he immediately deployed his second parachute. It also failed to deploy, and in the next few seconds he was convinced he was about to die. Using every foul word known to a soldier, and there are more than three, he hit the ground. He remembers bouncing off the ground high into the air (later he was told he bounced 25 feet). He said the second impact was the one that hurt. He broke multiple bones and his guts became a jumbled mess inside his body cavity. He lived, but he required many operations to put humpty back to together. The army lost his medical records and the VA had the gumption to deny his claim based on “lack of evidence.” After a long battle he won his claim and was correctly rated at 100% disabled. Years later the VA whimsically decided he was no longer that bad and reduced him to 40%. This required another appeals war.

· In the early 1960s my ex-sailor veteran client was ordered to stand on the deck of a ship in the South Pacific with scores of his shipmates. After given dark goggles to protect their vision, they watched as an atomic bomb went off miles away. He said it was the most incredibly beautiful sight he has ever witnessed, but at what cost? These guys absorbed some horrendous radiation and virtually all of them are dead or dying today. My guy is horribly sick. Two years ago he was granted full compensation for his condition, and he came here to the Philippines where he can afford the services of a full time attendant. Recently, he received word that he missed a scheduled exam in the U.S., an appointment he was unaware of, and because of this the VA arbitrarily decided that his radiation sickness is not all that bad after all. His disability compensation is the only money he has coming in and now it may stop. He called me the other day, so sick that I could hardly hear him, worried to death, and at a loss as to what to do. The heartless sons of bitches have probably taken another six months off his lifespan because of the stress they have placed him under.

· Typically, our office assists two or three surviving spouses of deceased veterans every month. Most of these grieving and dazed women have children, and these ladies have no idea what to do when it comes to filling out claims for benefits from the VA, DFAS*, and Social Security. Unfairly, there is a cap on the total amount of compensation these widows are allowed to receive as far as the VA is concerned. Yet the VA depends almost entirely on these unsophisticated women to inform them if they receive monies above the “pay cap.” I’ve seen several times where the VA will “discover” an “overpayment” and without fail they want ALL of it back, sometimes as much as $37,000 going back 10 years, and they want it returned as quickly as possible. They don’t care if it means that a family can no longer afford to stay in their home, or even if they have money for food. They simply stop all payment until it is paid in full. I’ve never seen them grant a waiver to forgive the debt, and usually they don’t even entertain a reasonable payback plan, although it is allowed by regulation. (*Defense Finance and Accounting Service is the military retiree payment center).

· Filipinos who fought for the United States in WWII qualify for U.S. veterans benefits, but only IF they can prove service. After the war the army canvassed the country using hundreds of personnel in a group called the War Claims Commission or the WCC. Even though these 80-some-year-old Filipino veterans clutch certifiably valid U.S. army documents showing they served in the U.S. Armed Forces of the Far East or recognized guerrilla units, the VA refuses to even look at these documents if their names cannot be found on the list compiled by the WCC. This list is considered chiseled in stone and is unalterable in any way. That means these honorable old gentlemen will never be recognized for their service because no WCC personnel ever bothered to contact them 60 years ago. This egregious outrage has been going on for decades, VARO Manila knows about it, AND THEY COULD NOT CARE LESS!

· I put a 76-year-old navy veteran in for Unemployability. The VA denied his claim because they said his college degree meant that he should be able to find office work. Mind you, this man was almost blind, was suffering peripheral neuropathy in all four limbs, and needed assistance to walk and in getting up. These were but a few of his service-connected ailments. It took me six months to convince the adjudicators of their wrongheaded decision. His condition was completely apparent in his VA case file, yet they made him go through this fight. If I hadn’t been there to fight for him, HE WOULD NOT HAVE RECEIVED HIS BENEFITS! Can you see why I have nightmares?

I could go on, but the essence of the VA’s shameless lack of empathy for veterans and their dependents is more than discernible from these few actual cases. The very fact that my services are even required is shameful. The system is adversarial to the extreme, when the charter of the VA states that it is supposed to be anything but that. “Reasonable doubt” in favor of the vet is the theoretical, NO; it is the PROCLAIMED standard of the VA! Why then is the system so contentious? In this time of war, why is the veteran looked upon by the DoD and the VA as nothing more than a parasite? Our overpaid congressmen and senators need serve only one term and they receive pensions, medical care and allowances for life. When the World Trade Centers went down, the families of the victims received at least a million dollars each, and they squawked about it not being enough. Our veterans and their widows are only asking for a small fraction of the same kind of response. When is the VA going to make my job unnecessary? Why do I have to lose sleep every night because my comrades are not being treated with the consideration and respect that they have earned? Carlos Pebenito at VARO Manila! Are you listening?!

My Retirement Speech from April 2002

In April 2002, I retired from the United States Air Force after 27 years of service. Recently, I found my retirement speech, and I thought it would be "cool" to present it here.

First, I’d like to thank General Boots, Colonel Voorhies, Colonel Lorimor and his wife, Sherry; and to the members of the 33rd Flight Test Squadron, thanks to you all for coming. Although, I suspect some of you guys are out here JUST to make sure I DO actually retire. To Brian Fortner and Tom Moriarty, thanks for folding my retirement flag. I’d like to give a special thanks to Ken Gibson for putting all this together, and to all the 33rd members who made this ceremony happen. And finally, thanks to all my friends for finding the time to come out.

I hadn’t intended to read my goodbye words, but my parents and family couldn’t be here today, and I want to make sure I get this right for the video. Hi Mom!

Well, I can’t believe it’s all over. 28 years ago, I first put my hand in the air and swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America. It seems like just yesterday.

I’d like to now give due to those in my family who have inspired me to last this long in service to this great country. Like my Great Uncle Bud Samuel Spear, who was killed on December 20, 1944 at Bastogne, in The Battle of the Bulge. He was a sergeant pilot with the 327 Glider Infantry Regiment attached to the 101st Airborne Division. Recently, I calculated that Bud was born the same year, 1907, as the actor, John "Duke" Wayne. The “Duke” USED to be one of my inspirations, but that has changed. Instead of laying it on the line, and risking life and limb for his country, John Wayne decided HIS talents were better put serving in safer movie-making pursuits. Not so my Uncle Bud, who gave everything he had, as President Lincoln said, “The last full measure.”

Another inspiration is my dad, who served 20 years from 1950 to 1970. I watched him go to work everyday in his uniform, and I was lucky enough to get to watch him march in several parades back when the Air Force still routinely did such things. My dad was a definite influence on my decision to enlist, although he was very much against me joining the Marines. I knew exactly how he felt when my daughter decided to join the Army over three years ago.

My mom also inspired me, as I watched her devotion to my dad, and to us, throughout all those difficult years of HER service. She served her country every bit as much as he did in taking care of the family while he was gone for months at a time.

The list of my family who have served in the U. S. Armed Forces is extensive indeed. All my dad’s brothers did so—my Uncle Nelson was an army medic during the war in Europe; my Uncle Keith was in the Army Air Corps and served during the trying months of the Berlin Airlift; his son, my cousin Mike, served in Vietnam; my Uncle Dale was wounded, shot through the stomach in Korea; two of my mother’s brothers served in war, Uncle Bill in Korea, and Uncle Jim in Vietnam. My brother, Kevin, served two hitches in the Air Force back in the Cold War era of the 70s and 80s.

Another great source of inspiration has been watching my kids, Marie, Joshua, and Rebecca, as they grew up, at times with me around, but more often with me not. All in all, all three of them are doing well, and they are contributing members of society. Now, my daughter, Marie, is going into the final year of her four-year enlistment in the Army. She’s currently in the middle of a tour in Korea, not far from the DMZ. Josh is fighting his own private war to stay healthy and happy with juvenile-onset-diabetes; I’m pleased to say he’s doing better than ever. Rebecca dreams of joining the Air Force, so there is a very real possibility that another Spear will soon be joining the ranks. I’m proud of them all.

The fact that I’ve had an interesting career is only gravy. The REAL satisfaction has been SERVING, to be a part of something bigger than myself. Being able to be a part of history has been priceless. And to be a part of the greatest, most powerful military force in the history of mankind has been not only a pleasure, but also a privilege.

If I had to sum up my career in one word, it would have to be: “Cool!” For instance, I spent a year in equatorial West Africa, in the country of Liberia, during my time in the Marines. I’ve never felt more appreciated, than while I guarded the American Embassy in the capital city of Monrovia. The American embassy personnel knew that we’d do whatever was necessary to protect them if things got ugly. Not long after I left there, it got VERY ugly, and my successors saved a lot of Americans, and other foreigners, caught up in the middle of a civil war. Damn, I just missed it!

When I switched services 22 years ago, I started out as the honor graduate in my technical school, and I thought, ‘Hey, this is neat!’ Then I got to my first assignment, Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, in North Carolina. I reported in, and found the entire base was being punished for having just failed an Operational Readiness Inspection or ORI. My new shop had been on 12-hour shifts with no days off for weeks, and there was no let up in sight. ‘Oh man,’ I thought, ‘this Air Force stuff sucks!’ It could only get better from there, and after a couple months if did.

You see, in the Marines, back in the 70s, no one ever actually FAILED an inspection. Here’s how it went: The inspectors showed up, and we took them out and showed them a good time, usually involving lots of alcohol. Then, we got most of our planes in the air, which was a feat in itself, while other inspectors made sure we had all our Regs hanging on all the proper clipboards. On the last day, we demonstrated our physical fitness and that’s when it became MY time to shine. See, back then I could run 3 miles in 17 minutes, pump out 20 chin-ups, and pop out 80 sit-ups in a minute. Naturally, the Colonel would want to meritoriously promote the guy who just aced the physical fitness test—and that would be Me! Here’s the conversation between the inspecting general and me as I was promoted: The general would say, “Corporal, how do you keep your shirt tucked so perfectly into your trousers?” Briskly, I replied, “Sir, garter belts, sir!” The general nodded knowingly, saying, “Damn straight son. Every squared away marine wears ‘em.” “Aye aye Sir!” I agreed.

I’ve been all over the world, in every clime and place. For instance, in ’96 I did a test that took me over the North Pole in the spring, and I actually LANDED on the South Pole that autumn. To top it off, to get to Antarctica we went through Hawaii, Pago Pago, and New Zealand. Now that was REALLY Cool!

I’ll never forget certain airplanes during my maintenance days that really made me earn my money to get ‘em flying. On a rotation to “Moldyhole,” or Mildenhall Air Base, England; I flew into the U.K. in one of our birds that kept “frying” compass amplifiers. We tried everything, and every morning that damn airplane waited for me to give it MY shot at fixing it. It took me over a week to figure it out, and even though I wasn’t the most experienced technician there, it was me that got the job done. Those are the kinds of small victories that you NEVER forget.

I remember repairing one of the aircraft avionic systems I was responsible for on a C-5 transport in Yokota Air Base, Japan during a “Red Streak.” A Red Streak is when a technician gets called out to repair an aircraft just before take off, so the pressure to get it done quickly is enormous, but it’s also very exciting. In short order, I troubleshot the problem to the malfunctioning component, changed it, checked it out, and signed off the forms. It was my last job of the night. I lived on the other side of the base, and I was on my bicycle heading for home, the sun just rising after a long and eventful midnight shift. I was rounding the end of the runway, when MY airplane taxied out in preparation of its impending takeoff. I pulled over into the grass to watch that huge bird wind up its four enormous engines, scream off down the runway and into the sky. You know how it felt KNOWING that I had something to do with that? It felt COOL! I still remember the joy and satisfaction of watching that plane take off as the sun burned off the last of the morning haze.

Man, I can think of a dozen incredibly tough jobs that really taxed my abilities. Each one taught me something new, about my systems, and more importantly, about myself. The primary thing I learned—Never give up, because there’s always something else to try! I’ve been a supervisor at some level pretty much the entire time I’ve been in the Air Force, and I’ve always tried to impart that lesson to my troops.

And finally, one of the coolest things about my career took place over about a 4-year time frame from ’91 to ’95. That’s when I was in Quality Assurance and was placed in charge of the Contract Field Team at Little Rock Air Force Base in Arkansas. During that time, we gutted one C-130 aircraft after another, and refitted them with brand new avionics and electrical systems. That’s when I discovered how truly inadequate the military acquisition system can be. I could NOT believe how screwed up those brand new systems were. And so, it was fairly easy for me, in 1992, to be chosen as “Suggestor of the Year” for the base. For about three years, I had dozens of suggestions approved. I can safely say that I saved the Air Force enough money in that period, to have paid for ALL my active duty wages, AND all my retirement pay—probably twice over!

If I had my way, it would not yet end here today, especially while we find ourselves in the middle of a war. We are prevailing in Afghanistan, and we all know that Iraq is next. I wish to God I could go back and help you finish off the war that we should have been allowed to finish back in 1991.

It was my wish “to do 30,” and to finish up my career working with planes, and with the people who “put” those planes into the air—both the maintenance troops and the aircrew. Unfortunately for me, I needed to make Chief for that to happen. I think that my wife, Amalia, was even more disappointed than me when I didn’t make that last rank. She loves being an Air Force wife, and she wanted to get assigned overseas. And with her in mind, I’d like to call it a career. Most of us were born Americans; she wasn’t, and she, of all people, truly appreciates what we have here, and why the sacrifices we make are important in keeping our country great, and free! She worked hard to become a citizen, and to honor her today, I’d like to present to her my retirement flag. Thank you Amalia.

And with that, I am finished. I say with great sadness, that when I take off this uniform it will be for the last time.

You are all invited to stay with us in the Philippines after we move there later this year. Take care, thanks to you all, and please, let’s stay in touch!