(The Piper of the 46th Naval Intelligence Dining In. He’s an acoustic physicist in his day job.)
The storm is coming, so we will drop any pretense at literary devices, cute asides of extended metaphors. This is going to be a wet week, at a minimum, and the maximum…well, it could really suck.
Hurricane Sandy- or Tropical Storm Sandy, or just that vast mass of moist swirling air- is behaving unusually. Normally, hurricanes diminish in intensity as they move north over cooler waters.
The boffins of weather forecasting demure as to the precise point of impact. This one is too tricky: before Sandy comes ashore, somewhere between here and New Jersey, she will encounter cold air bearing down from the northwest. The collision will transform Sandy from a tropical storm to something more like a winter storm. The air mass will then be able to intensify when most weather systems would be diminishing.
The transformation will eliminate the usual characteristics of a hurricane: the eye will disappear, but we will be left with an “enormous swirling mass of wind and rain, and even snow.”
Yike. So, with all this bearing down on us, it was good that we got the smaller social rituals of the Fall out of the way.
The Annual Meeting of the Professionals has been coordinated with the active duty crowd, and retirees and real sailors got together out in Tysons Corner, at the venerable Crowne Plaza Hotel. There was an address from the Intelligence Officer to Navy’s Cyber Command, which was purely non-attribution, so I can’t tell you how scared to be about what is going in back of the screen of the computer on which you read this words.
(The Chairman considers the implications of what Admiral Sam told us to be looking out for.)
Oh hell, be scared. That is another perfect storm coming our way.
The social hour was wonderful, and two glasses of white wine were just right to get to the rubber chicken and the remarks of the Chairman and the keynote address by the Vice Admiral who is now entrusted with herding the kittens of Intelligence, Cryptology, Meteorology and Public Affairs down the pier in something like a rational manner.
Two of our very good pals were honored. The first was Mac, of course, and I had to pinch myself to note that he wasn’t at one of the tables. He was so much a part of this organization that his absence left a hollow spot in the Agenda.
Rex was likewise there, at least in spirit. His son Earl Junior had made a significant contribution to the organization in honor of his Dad, and delivered from the foundation established to honor his Mom.
Arlington Cemetery had scheduled Rex’s interment for the morning of Snowmaggedon, when twenty-odd inches of cement-like white stuff entombed us all. The wet flakes were coming down as we walked downhill from the grave on the hill.
Stormy weather, loss of power and general panic ensued, and that was another weather event for the ages, totally in keeping with the solemnity of the day.
It was a good meeting, and despite the sense of loss, positive and upbeat on the weather front passing through the officer corps as the Navy moves to confront an uncertain future.
We wrapped things up just before two, and I had to get to the office to attempt to salvage the day, since Phase Two was coming at 1800 sharp.
I had the usual problems with the studs on the formal white shirt, though I was relieved to find that the tuxedo still fit. The problem with formal garb, in my experience, is that it has a distressing tendency to shrink while on the hangers in the closet over the winter.
Looking and feeling my best, I drove the Panzer over to Ensign Socotra’s house and was entertained by the chaos of his shipmates changing out of khakis and into bow-ties and mess dress.
You should see the racks of medals on this generation of officers. It is quite amazing, but reasonable, considering that the nation has been at war since these kids were in junior high school.
It was a short jaunt over to Ft. Myer, where the Dining In has returned to the Officer’s Club on the bluff overlooking the capital and Arlington National. The Chairman of the Joint Staff lives nearby, along with the Chief of Staff of the entire US Army.
It is a return to another era walking into that club. If there are other O Clubs still in existence, this might be the last that continues in the full flower of the Old School tradition.
Drinks were in the Koran Room, an oddly prophetic name for a cocktail lounge, and the new Piper was in the lobby, waiting the moment to pipe the assembled Mess to the big dining room upstairs. We chatted for a while- he is a nuclear physicist, by the way, and we talked about the peril of going down in the Sedan Crater at the Nevada Test Site while I snapped pictures and juggled a glass of Chablis as the officers swirled around us.
The Dining In was a venerable tradition of the Old School of Naval Intelligence. It was placed on hiatus, since the institution viewed as a bastion of possible resistance to the consolidation of the old four Restricted Line communities into the Corps of Information Dominance.
The full effects of the merger have not been internalized, but moral is the essence of vitality in a profession that is laden with tradition, if not monetary remuneration.
(Chief of Chaplains leads Admirals Sam, Kendal and John to their places at the head table to the strains of the pipes.)
Admiral Sam was president of the mess, and he presided on a transformation of the tradition to one much more approachable and fun. The old ones featured rigid adherence to the ancient forms, and a sort of ritual humiliation to ensure compliance.
The traditions were all still there: the Piper gearing up “Scotland the Brave,” and piping the Brass to the head table.
A superb a capella version of the Anthem was sung by a junior officer.
The Beef was presented to The President of the Mess, who though a vegetarian, pronounced it fit for consumption for those who indulge in that sort of thing.
There was a remarkable moment in which the Oldest Living Active Sailor called out the distinguished guest, and insisted on moving the Aviator Wings from the top of the rows of medals to the bottom, replacing them with the warfare pin of the Corps of Information Dominance.
Highly symbolic, like the video from Hawaii that pointedly reminded the crowd of the Pivot to the Pacific. The traditional skits were in the manner of Foc’sle Follies, a forum in which the Juniors can say whatever they desire about their Seniors without fear of retribution.
It is a new officer corps, and one that looks like America. I am very proud of them.
Plus, the food wasn’t bad, the remarks were light and upbeat, and there were few of the retirees who used to pack the audience and subdued the natural high spirits of the kids. Now, a trip to the Grog Bowl for minor Mess infractions is just good fun.
It was a great show, and went on well past the assigned time of closing. The Ensign and his pals were off to someplace else to follow, but I am old now and just wanted to get home to Big Pink and get to bed.
It was a big day, and not a drop of rain to spoil it.
Not like what is going to start smacking us late tomorrow.
Bring it on, Sandy. Let’s see what you got. There is plenty in the grog-locker to get us through.
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com