A week ago I boarded the Coastal Starlight at 8:30 PM in San Jose. A man who was older, nicer, and larger than I by three good measures, waited for me to board ad then offered to assist with my tactical pack, which, at 28 pounds was almost too much for this runty bone rack to stow overhead. One travels alone on the train and finds himself bumped out of seats by couples, or, at better run stations, assigned a seat with another singleton. For this reason I meet new folks.
If it is a big man or a nervous woman, I leave and spend the trip in the cafe car. This fellow was six feet or more, so I spent the night in the main car. Feeling bad for my rudeness the night before, I bought us each a cup of coffee. His accent was Australian, modified for U.S. ears. I informed him that he was the second Australian in my life, and that the first one, John Byrd, was my employer some 40 years ago and hated me, declaring that I was a white aborigine. Andy spoke about the raw deal the Abos had got in his country and had some questions about my aboriginal existence before becoming a Tramp. I learned a lot and was pleased for such good company. I cannot reconstruct Andy’s words from memory. Below, I will note what I can recall of Andy’s story.
I will append Andy’s tail to Bob Johnson’s memoir, “I Could Not Kiss Ass!” as these men are mirrors of a masculine kind.
First, Andy is a fine figure of an old hand, still fit, with an easy way. He expressed a desire to finally take on a female retainer. Andy has a 34 foot ocean going boat, which he would like to staff with a crew of one, who, I reckon, based on his evident eye strain peering across the aisle at the lovely thing ensconced there in form-fitting white sweats, that an athletic, slightly plump, brunette who would like a real Captain in her life, will do nicely.
Send applications to jameslafond@proton.me. If you are not accepted by Captain Perry, never fear, some courtesy will be arranged by Andy’s talent scout.
Andy was born on Tasmania, the West Virginia Down Under, up in the mountains in very primitive conditions favored by his father. His father had fought the Japanese in Indonesia. He was also deployed, previously, I think, to Tabruk as it was taken by the Axis, to Greece as it was overrun by the Germans, and Crete as it was subject to the largest airborne invasion to date. He was the last man to leave Crete as it was taken. He then served in North Africa in numerous battles. As a veteran of the overused and mistreated ANZAC Corp, Andy’s father learned to distrust the government. Andy recalls as a boy that while hiking through the snow above Hobart to fetch supplies with his father, that the old man turned and told him he was making too much noise.
“My father moved in total silence—you could not hear him step.”
As a teen Andy had been driving illegally, to take his brother to Boy Scouts. The sheriff told his father that Andy needed to leave Tasmania or he was destined for jail. Andy went to sea in various capacities. He described himself as “a big lump o’ lad,” who was good for fishing vessel work and that he did not ever sail to Antarctica when the work was made available.
When he was old enough he joined the Australian Navy and became a helicopter pilot, after qualifying to be a fixed wing aviator. The Australian Navy “got rid” of their planes, so helicopters it wa. He was assigned as a Liason Pilot. His conditions of service can be accessed via:
www.HueyVets.com, official website of EMU, Operators of EMU 309.
Andy was attached to two U.S. Army helicopter units, one being a cavalry troop. He saw one of his American colleagues shot in the head and the copilot lift him from his seat, put him behind, and save the craft. That fellow ended up becoming a forestry firefighter in California where Andy had the honor of reuniting with him after having worked as a bush firefighter in Australia. He described Australian firefighting as a joke compared to American methods and that the ability for Americans to throw huge amounts of money at a problem makes them very effective. He also described Australia as “the 51st State,” discussing the fact that USG dictates his nation’s foreign policy.
Andy was thrilled to be tapped for missions by a U.S. Special Forces Colonel and irritated to be chewed out and removed from a mess for having an Australian Navy regulation beard by a lesser Colonel. That colonel was Andy’s job for the next day and expected that Andy would ferry him about despite the hierarchical acrimony. Andy said, “Colonel or not, I was the captain of that [helicopter],” and then played a game of what is the matter with the plane with his crew chief. Disgusted, the colonel stamped off and the men had a free day to “repair” the craft.
In Vietnam Andy discovered that some officers were trying to win a war and others were simply concerned about points of decorum. He informed me that the Navy could not grant permission to “grow a beard,” that being God’s call. Rather, the sailor was granted “permission to cease shaving.” Some time later, a week, I think, the resulting growth was inspected by an officer, and if it was not some weak affront to beardliness, nature was permitted to take its bristly course.
After combat service in Vietnam with U.S. warfighters, Andy and his mates returned to peacetime service in, Perth, I think. Here they were informed that their wild tales of combat were lies, that they had learned nothing, that no lessons were learned in combat that could possibly improve upon Australian Naval Aviation. The war vets were targeted as pariahs, and as he put it, the Navy was such a small place, that an enemy made of one officer was made of all. Andy and his fellows were shunned and shunted and he ended up not completing his hitch and went into private service flying in Southeast Asia.
Since his younger days Andy has worked as a pilot, a fire fighter, as a fishery hand and sport boat captain, has a great boat made of painted gum wood which he and his son and some other fellows operate out of a balmy inlet in the tropical north of his nation, Queensland I think. He is proud to have a son who has not joined the military and is “a real hard man,” who lives by a code of honor and “sorts out,” those lesser sorts of men who insist on trouble. Andy’s son actually built a bunk over top of the engine so that he can wake and go right to work on the motor when at sea.
Andy was a gentleman, and even made certain his seat mate for a night and a day made it off the train platform in Portland on, “those sticks,” and swore that my inability to stow my pack was the fault, not of my decrepitude, but of an obstinate can of Spam.
Andy Perry spends a month at a time touring America, hosted by U.S. Aviators he met in Vietnam, who are a true family to him.
