align="center">
VIGNETTE NO. III
Mule Deer Hunting in Nevada
Humboldt National Forest, Nevada
It is Fall of 1971 and Jim Seymour, a good friend of mine has drawn Mule Deer Hunting Permits for the Humboldt National Forest. It is an annual event for Jim, his brothers and other family members. But, fortunately for me, not all members can go this year and I am invited to go along as the fourth member. Now, a deer hunting trip with Jim is not just any old deer hunting trip. First off, it is a pack-in trip on horses. Secondly, he takes everything that can make a man comfortable for five or seven days in the wilderness, including a break-down cooking stove, a huge tent and food galore. The stove is of his design and when dismantled amounts to no more than a stack of six metal plates about 18” square with a few single rods that hold the pieces together and form a stand. The flu, or chimney, is collapsible with a cinder-catcher that protects the tent.
With everything packed into Jim’s GMC and his six-horse trailer hooked on behind we headed out of Sacramento, California in the wee hours of the morning for Mountain City, Nevada on a seven day hunting trip. Arriving in the late afternoon we sighted in our rifles at a roadside stop then checked into a motel for the night. In the early dawn we unloaded the horses, saddled up, tied on our individual packs, rifles and scabbards and helped Jim tie the pre-packed box panniers on the two pack horses. The trail we were taking started up a steep climb, a climb best made on foot. I was about half way up the climb when it became quite clear to me that I was horribly out of shape. Gasping for air and feeling dizzy I sat down against the side of the trail. Not a word was said. The others continued on to the top, stopped and waited until I regained my composure and made it the rest of the way to the top. Man, was I embarrassed. No one said a word, me included. We climbed into the saddles and headed into the wilderness, me behind Jim who was in the lead with a pack-horse in tow.
We traveled a good distance winding our way up several switch-backs until we were riding on the crest above the tree line from where we could make out our destination, a small valley beyond another ridge. The trail descended down into the trees and then to an open area. Jim pulled up, dismounted and we did the same. Ahead lay about 100 yards of a shale slide that reached several hundred yards down the slope.
Jim handed his reins to me and stepped out onto the shale, twisting one foot then the other testing the shale. Cautiously, he took several more steps each time twisting and stomping the shale. The top pieces rattled and shifted, but it seemed solid. He moved out to the center, all seemed to be okay. He returned, took his reins and set out across the shale slide with instructions that we cross one-at-a-time.
I waited for Jim to reach the other side, then on his signal I started across, moving cautiously, testing the shale with every step.. About half-way, the shale behind me and under Dobbie let loose. Her hind quarters slid down hill sending her tumbling over backwards. I threw down the reins as Dobbie tried to regain her footing only to tumble again. This time she stood upright, became still, her eyes ablaze, with the saddle hanging under her belly. The shale stopped sliding. I eased myself down to where I could reach the reins and reset the saddle, pack and scabbard. I’d guess Dobbie must have hit some loose shale as the other horses crossed without a problem.
We reached our assigned area, tethered the horses and set-up camp. In the early daylight we spread out and went hunting for Mule Deer. I spotted mine in no more than an hour, took careful aim, squeezed the trigger and hit a tree fifty feet to the right of the deer! My scope had been knocked out of line when Dobbie tumbled. From there on I hunted with iron sights and got my deer as did everyone. On the third day, we broke camp, packed up and rode out to a stream where we washed up, shaved and headed for Sacramento. I found my time with Jim and his family to be friendly, sharing and caring. They sure know how to go deer hunting and they are not bashful when it comes to eating!
END
VIGNETTE NO IV
Why I Remember M/Sgt “Pinky” Cochran
Lowry Air Force Base, Colorado
The year is 1947. I am twenty years old and a Sergeant in the Army Air Corps (soon to be the United States Air Force), single, living in the barracks, assigned as an Instructor in the Machine Accounting School (IBM Punched Card Accounting Machines, referred to as PCAM.). Master Sergeant “Pinky” Cochran is the Non-Commissioned Office-in-Charge (NCOIC) of the school.
Pinky is an “old Sarge”. By that, it means he is not to be toyed with. He is fair and honest. He demands the best you can do and will accept nothing less and he can be your best friend or your worst enemy, all at the same time. You do your best to stay on the “good side” of Pinky. Pinky is in his young thirties, married with three children, he comes from Louisiana and has the drawl of a Louisiana fisherman.
As an instructor, I was allowed to patronize the Non-Commissioned Officer’s Club which Pinky frequented on a regular basis. On one occasion I became quite inebriated, made a fool of myself and was facing charges until Pinky stepped in and had me put under his direct control. At the time, I would rather have had brig time, but there I was on Pinky’s leash. His leash was very short, extremely short and I was soon the best behaving, most disciplined instructor in the school. Not only that, I had become buddy-buddy with Pinky. When he needed help doing something he called on me. When it was time to go to chow he sought me out. On Fridays and it was ten cent beer at the NCO Club we went together. On weekends we went fishing. We did a lot of fishing.
I was instructing officers on the use of IBM PCAM, a four week course. The training gave the officer an understanding of how each machine worked and how it should be employed, but stopped short of teaching how to wire or operate the equipment. Pinky often set in my classes to observe and later give me suggested improvements. In some ways, Pinky was like a big brother to me.
In November of that year I was married and in December I passed the tests for attending Officer’s Candidate School (OCS). I recall the day, the time and the place that Pinky learned I was going to OCS. He had, of course, known that I was taking the tests and appearing before the Board, but I truly do not think that he thought I’d be going. Not that I couldn’t pass the entrance requirements, but that he saw me as following more in step with his career pattern.
Less than two years later I returned as a 2nd Lieutenant, soon promoted to 1st Lieutenant, and in charge of the school. Pinky is still the NCOIC. At first, there is some awkwardness between Pinky and myself as we take on our respective roles and the relationship of Enlisted to Officer and vice versa. My problem was that I still saw Pinky as the “Old Sarge” instead of a subordinate. I found myself seeking direct advice from Pinky and then discarding the advice in favor of my own thinking. I was learning the lessons of an old adage, “Familiarity breeds!”...and in the case of the military, it breeds, “contempt”. Our relationship became very tenuous and it could be felt by others in the school.
My superior was Major Frank R. Burr, an ex-cavalry officer who thought the machines would run better if they were polished! Pinky and he were mortal enemies On one occasion, Major Burr thinking Pinky had violated his order, ordered me to report to him with Sergeant Cochran. I summoned Pinky and we both reported. After some explanations and a dressing-down Major Burr turned to Pinky and said, “Do you have anything you want to say to me?” I am sure Major Burr was expecting Pinky to apologize. Instead, Pinky said, “Yes Sir, if I were an officer of equal rank, or higher, I would tell you, you are a no-good Son of a Bitch!” Major Burr sat ashen faced, Pinky and I both saluted, did an About Face and exited with Burr never saying a word, then or later.
This occurrence sat hard with me for I saw the basis
