I will never forget, not even if I tried.
By: Edd Vitsun Airncraft

Amongst my droll stories of adventures across the world, I’ve related about being in the Philippine Islands during the 1970s. It was not during one of the more happy times in my life. See, my real wife of the times, who happened to be my first wife, had just attempted suicide and had failed fortunately. But I was to be accused of getting her to that point rather than the real culprits who had gotten her accustomed to a kitty-cat and puppy-dog existence, and like myself, no connection to the street.

My name was known many places as being connected to aerospace and the opportunity presented itself for me to become a part of a team going to a place called Subic Bay, Cubi Point, close to and adjoining the City of Olongapo in the Philippine Island of Luzon. I was a representative for Federated Aircraft of Long Beach, California, a major airframe manufacturer. This happened from late 1966 to midway in 1967. The group of us would leave from a Navy Reserve Center in Orange County, California to do specialized work at Subic Bay.

I will imbellish a little on the trip there as it was nearly a calamity. The rat’s ass military aircraft we went on didn’t really have adequate seating, had no real heating, and the engines were original, overhauled...so they said.

But after we had left Guam, and were about 150 miles from the P.I., one after another of the engines failed and we made it in, finally, to the base on ONE engine. How were we to know that this was a scrapped aircraft and that a crew was preparing to take the whole fucking plane apart and sell the metal to a “jeepney” manufacturing plant in another island city?

See, that was the whole fucking thing. We were expendable. The main thing that the military wanted to do was get that scrappable plane to the P.I. and off-load it and get us there if it just so happened to be the case. We were lower in priority that the junker plane was. Once again, the angels of Heaven were watching out after ME, ergo the rest of the occupants of the plane.

On the way over we stopped at some places that were involved in the “Big One,” meaning WW2. In this flying coffin where we were making the trek, we were reminiscent and cognizant of the skin-flint, cheap-ass, scum-bucket company for which we were working. They really didn’t think much of us or they would have sent us over by commercial aircraft. Things haven’t changed much as far as higher management. They are still thinking about their own comfort zones and their own enrichment. The CEOs are still a bunch of skinflint cocksuckers and paying dearly for their lack of foresight as much as their lack of foreskin. “Save a nickel and spend a buck, as long as they have it...on themselves.” They damned near got us killed and again, had it not been for the angels in Heaven, we would have punched out in the Pacific Ocean. We got close to old glory and our shorts were plenty soggy by the time we got to the runway. It was a damned close call.

Immediately, the local cocksuckers got to going on tearing down the old military transport plane. Some junker that crate was. Once we arrived, people observed the nail marks in the seat backs and the white lips and blue jaws on some of the people. It was my first taste of the P.I., but it was not to be the last. I didn’t realize that at the time this happened.

The Vietnam conflict, the war, was in full session and of course we were to see some of the real goodies as the planes we were working on, soon to be, were fresh from the combat zone and had slugs and holes in them. It was