Social Distancing Fails

Nostalgia has crept into the Colonel's infantry-addled being this morning.

He's been reviewing old photographs from his crayon-munching days and one glaring fact leaps out at him from nearly every image...

Hey, there's no social distancing going on! 

Look here, America, most of you have nothing better to do this morning than peruse the Colonel's historical review of personal social distancing fails...  

You've binge-watched everything binge-watchable.

You've eaten every snack in the 3-week quarantine chow stash.

You've mastered the three sheet wipe.

You've washed your fingerprints off.

You've discovered that teachers are vastly underpaid and you've told the kiddos to go play in the street.

Some of you have even caught yourself contemplating a first-time firearms purchase.  (See Josh at TGC Outdoors and tell him the Colonel sent you.)

You've mastered the mid-morning and mid-afternoon nap.

You've even caught yourself on Pinterest looking for things to make with old neck-ties and empty hand sanitizer bottles.

So, the Colonel is here to rescue you.

Our first entry from the "way back file" is the Colonel, then a first lieutenant, standing in as the potted plant in front of Headquarters Company, 31st Marine Amphibious Unit (31st MAU).   

The year was 1982.  The place was Perth, Australia.  And, that's about all the Colonel remembers (or cares to share) about that port call.  Note the disturbing lack of social distancing.  Note the tavern in the background, which may or may not have contributed to Colonel's inability to remember anything else about this picture.  

Your next social distancing fail stop on the Colonel's historical pictorial trail is a shot of the 31st MAU HQ's LPA (Lieutenants Protective Association). 

The location was aboard LHA 3 (USS Bellau Wood) in the Indian Ocean west of Australia.  The date was 10 November 1982.  The LPA unilaterally decided to upgrade the uniform of the day to celebrate the birthday of the Marine Corps.  The LPA was shortly thereafter sighted by the MAU XO (LtCol Wild Bill Marcantel) who proceeded to live up to his nickname, at the expense of the LPA in the wrong uniform.  Note what seems to be a half-hearted social distancing attempt by the lieutenant on the right.  The truth is Scott Sullivan was a Texas A&M grad and that's as close as the rest of the LPA would let him stand.

A year later (that would be 1983 for you Bama and LSU grads struggling to keep up), the Colonel (then a captain) was assigned to the Basic School (TBS -- never forget the T) as an instructor/staff platoon commander training brand new butter bars. Here, the Colonel is conducting a uniform inspection.  

Beyond the social distancing failure, there are several other items of note in this picture.  First note that the Colonel is taking his duties very seriously -- measuring the distance between the end of the uniform epaulet and collar with his calibrated finger.  Also, note that there is another person in this picture shorter than the Colonel.

A couple of years later, then Captain, Gregory was in command of a reinforced rifle company in Battalion Landing Team 1/8 with the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit deployed to the Mediterranean.  In this social distancing fail snapshot, he is pictured with his (from left to right) Company Gunny, Forward Air Controller (FAC), Executive Officer, Company First Sergeant, and Artillery Forward Observer (FO).   

Note that the FAC and FO are the only ones smiling -- the others had been with the Colonel much longer.

In 1990, the Colonel was promoted to major and assigned as commanding officer of the recruiting station responsible for Marine Corps Recruiting in Georgia and South Carolina. 
 

No social distancing in this picture.  The Colonel is, however, attempting to claim a little personal space with some not-so subtle man-spreading. 

While on recruiting duty, the Colonel had his first taste of the Joint world.  The social distancing fail picture below depicts the Colonel's recruiting competition with Georgia Governor Zell Miller.     

Just off camera to the left of this shot was a picture of Chesty Puller with whom Miller served in Korea.  When this photo op ended, the Governor asked the Colonel to stay behind for a minute.  That minute turned into a half-hour of war stories -- a cherished memory.  Note the Army lieutenant colonel (Army recruiting battalion commander) looking down at the Governor -- loved to tell "dumb Marine" jokes.  The Colonel (then a major) came to a joint service recruiting meeting prepared with quality recruiting reports (county by county break down of average ASVAB scores) showing that the Marines were trouncing his recruiters in every county in Georgia.  "Dumb Marine" jokes ceased.

Having survived three years in command on recruiting duty, the Colonel was given his choice of attending whichever service's Command and Staff college he wished.  He chose the Air Force's Air Command and Staff College (ACSC) in Montgomery, Alabama.  Pictured below are the nine Marine majors in the 600-man class.  The Colonel was the lone infantry-man in the class.   

No social distancing observed.  Note the smiles -- they were in the midst of a year-long vacation with the Air Force.  

When the Colonel graduated from ACSC, he was told to stay put as one of the two Marines on faculty.  He spent the first year teaching Airpower Theory (yeah, that was a hoot). 

No social distancing observed, although they did try to hide the Marine in the back. 

The Air Force discovered that the Marine might not be the most enthusiastic Airpower Theory instructor and he was assigned to the Joint Operations instructor group for his second year on faculty.  In preparation, the Colonel attended the three-month joint school (Armed Forces Staff College -- AFSC) in Norfolk, VA.  AFSC was not necessarily known for its academic rigor -- so the Colonel was sent on a summer vacation in the middle of his Air Force vacation.  The non-social distancing photo below is of the seminar group/softball team/dinner social club to which the Colonel belonged. 

Yep, only Marine in the group.  Side note: graduation from ACSC put a check in the Colonel's Joint Professional Military Education (JPME) Phase I box.  Graduation (with honors in softball and taco preparation) from AFSC put a check in the Colonel's JPME Phase II box.  And..., because his time on the faculty at AFSC counted as a joint assignment, he was designated a Joint Specialty Officer.  That's right -- nowhere else in DOD can one go on a three-year vacation and get joint credit.   

Towards the end of his second year on faculty at AFSC, the Colonel's (by then a lieutenant colonel) career monitor called to say that he had been selected to command a battalion.  An infantry battalion.  In Hawaii.  Yes, Hawaii.  House on the beach Hawaii. The Colonel took command of the 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines, in February of 1997.  The social-distancing fail shot below is of the 40 some odd officers of the best battalion in the Marine Corps.  They provided superb leadership for 800 Marines and Navy Hospital Corpsmen and made the Colonel look like a hero during the battalion's 7-month deployment to Okinawa (and the rest of the Western Pacific) in 1998.  

Note that the Colonel is the only man smiling in this picture -- most of these officers had been with the Colonel for the better part of 18 months at this point, so...  The XO, seated to the Colonel's right is smirking -- he was in command of 2d Battalion, 3rd Marines a year later.   

As penance for an absolutely wonderful tour as C.O. of the best battalion in the Marine Corps, the Colonel spent his last year in Hawaii as the XO (second in command / chief of staff, if you will) of the Third Marine Regiment.  No social distancing fail photos exist from that year -- the Colonel was not a pleasant man to be around.

When the year of penance ended, the Colonel was sent back to the school house -- the Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island.  The social-distancing fail photo below was taken a few days before graduation in June of 2000.   

 For those of you who care enough to try, you will find the Colonel by looking for the shiniest bald pate in greens.  

A month later, the Colonel was in Korea.  The Colonel spent most of the next year in a bunker in Seoul.  Good training for the current pandemic.  There are a few social-distancing fail photos from that year, but they are so secret that if the Colonel were to share them with you he would have to kill himself.

Selected for command, the Colonel escaped from Korea and took over as the C.O. of the Sixth Marine Corps District, headquartered at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, S.C., and responsible for Marine Corps recruiting in the Southeastern United States.  The social distancing fail photo below was taken in late 2001, and includes the Colonel and his majors (commanding state-sized recruiting efforts) with the Commanding Generals and Sergeants Major of the Eastern Recruiting Region and Marine Corps Recruiting Command.     

   
Note the Colonel ain't smiling -- he was on recruiting duty for the second time and the Marine Corps had just gone off to war without him..., for the second time.  The trend wasn't looking good, so...

Note the only one smiling in this picture is the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda (first row in the stands, fourth from left).  She's been the Colonel's social-distancing buddy ever since.

Be well, America, and keep your chins up.  The Colonel commands it.  We'll all be taking social-distancing fail photos again real soon. 

Good Training

A few years back -- well..., more than just a few actually; but that's not important right now -- the Colonel, in his post-active duty attempt to re-integrate into civilian society (a miserable failure; but that's not important right now, either) was at dinner with some senior executives from a large legacy truck manufacturer whose name will be go unmentioned...

...but, the company's initials are International Truck and Engine Corporation...

The year was 2007.  The ineptly executed and horribly misnamed Global War on Terrorism was in its infancy and the question posed to the military professional at the table was:

"Colonel, how long will this war last?"

The Colonel replied, "What war?"     

The others looked at the Colonel as if he was more than a quart low, so he clarified.

"Look, gentlemen, America ain't 'at war'.  Small portions of our military are at war, but the rest of America isn't any more involved in the 'war effort' than they are in this weekend's NFL games."

The puzzled looks across the table spurred the Colonel on (as if he really needs a reason to pontificate), "You guys know the history of your company, right?  How many civilian vehicles did y'all make in 1943 and 1944?"

There was a quick conference begun opposite the Colonel, and he waved them back to attention, extending a hand with thumb and index finger connected in a circle, "The answer is zero. Your company, and nearly every other company in America, was retooled to build war material.  Your company had as much to do with winning World War Two as any military organization.  When your company goes back to that kind of war footing, then, and only then, can you say 'We are at war'."   

In International's defense, they soon after joined the war effort in a minor but not insignificant way, adapting their medium truck line to build Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) vehicles.  Their trucks saved lives.

But, their MRAP line was only a minor sideshow to their continuing civilian truck effort.

It strikes the Colonel this morning, as he watches news of American corporations coming on line to provide "war material" for the current war on the Chicom Virus, that this is good training for what will almost certainly be far more serious threats to the security of the citizens of our Republic in the near future.

A big war is coming.  On this there is not a doubt in the Colonel's military mind.  The current threat from COVID19, while indeed serious, will pale to insignificance in comparison.  

So, we Americans should look at this crisis as good training.

It's good training for the kinds of personal sacrifices that will need to made in the coming war.  There are very few Americans still alive who know -- they made incredible sacrifices in the first half of the last century; sacrifices that make a couple of weeks cooped up with the kiddos look like free passes for life at Disney World.

It's good training for our government -- local, state, and federal.  Hopefully those in government are learning how to focus on the truly important things for which a government exists -- public safety and business-supporting infrastructure.

It's good training for American corporations.  This should be a wake-up call that off-shoring for short-term profit risks complete loss of business when those off-shore countries shut down for reasons nefarious and not.

It's good training for our teenage youth.  Idiotic spring break examples to the contrary, the vast majority of our young people have had their eyes opened to the fact that it ain't all about just them.  They are beginning to see that their actions have consequences not just for them, but for others.

It's good training for our churches and other benevolent organizations.  If you don't understand how, then you need to join one.

It's good training for the Colonel.  It's breaking him out of his self-imposed shell and making him really think about things large and small for the first time in a long time.

Be well, America, and keep training.            

Pandemic Precedence

The Colonel and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda are hunkered down in social isolation on the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

The current pandemic has nothing to do with that.

They've been "isolated" for 13 years.

Egeebeegee, the unincorporated capital of the Tallahatchie Republic (a virtual government founded tongue-in-cheek and hand-on-wallet), was established here in North Central Mississippi in March of 2007.  The Colonel and his bride were looking for a place to put down roots after wandering rootless for the first half century of their lives.  They found it quite by accident.  A turn down a lonely narrow road led them to a piece of land that immediately felt like home.  Nowhere else on the globe had felt like that in the previous half century. 

The road on which Egeebeegee perches is not a thoroughfare to or from anywhere.  From his rocking chair on the front porch of the Big House, the Colonel might count no more than a half-dozen vehicles passing by on a hours long afternoon rock.  Rush hour is two pickups, a tractor, and a four-wheeler in a two hour stretch.

With the foregoing as preamble, the Colonel is acutely aware that he is one of the most fortunate men on the planet.  "Quarantine" ain't a hardship for him.

The rest of humanity has the Colonel's sympathy. This viral pandemic is going to be hard on the rest of you.

But..., the Colonel promises you, our nation will weather this storm.

Let's put it in perspective, shall we?

The seminal event of the lives of those alive at the beginning of the last century was the First World War.  Initially confined primarily to European treaty entanglements, that war quickly spun out of control and then collapsed into a trench-work black hole that drew the rest of the world into its gravity well.  By the time the United States joined the fight in earnest, the cream of a European generation had been lost in three years of horror.  

The United States sent a three-million man expeditionary force to France; more than triple the deployment of forces in the Desert Storm drive-by, and far, far larger still than any deployment of force since 9/11.     

And then, when the horror and sacrifice seemed it could plumb no further depths, a particularly virulent strain of influenza broke out.

Historians call it the "Spanish Flu," but it didn't originate in Spain.  It just so happened that the only nation that didn't censure news of the epidemic, that manifested itself with the most prevalence on the battlefield, was Spain; and because the Spanish press was the primary reportage of the outbreak, the virus became the "Spanish Flu."

Many historians and epidemiologists now believe the virus took hold originally in crowded Army camps in the United States and then was transported by American soldiers to the trenches in France.  

Much is being made about the fact that there is "much we don't know yet" about the current virus -- COVID-19 (COrona VIrus strain D -- first identified in 2019).  Even though we are indeed playing catch-up in our attempts to contain, treat, and immunize against COVID-19, we are light years ahead of where the world was in 1918 dealing with the Spanish Flu pandemic.

First of all, medical science in 1918 did not know what caused influenza.  It was still believed to be a bacterial -- vice viral -- infection.

In fact, in 1918, scientists had only just identified a bacterial infection in the lungs of influenza victims that they attributed as the cause of the disease.  It wasn't until just before World War Two, that the virus that causes the flu was identified.  For centuries prior to the Twentieth Century, the accepted science was that influenza was caused by the influence of things other than germs -- the word "influenza" is Italian for "influence," because Renaissance scientists attributed outbreaks of the disease to the influence of astronomical events such as alignment of planets.    

The Colonel kids thee not.

The particularly virulent strain of influenza that swept the world -- by definition, a pandemic -- in 1918/1919 killed tens of millions across the globe.  The official death toll in the United States was 650 thousand.  When you consider the decentralized nature, and lack of uniformity in reporting and record-keeping 100 years ago, the actual mortality numbers are likely much higher. 

The population of the United States in 1918 was just north of 100 million souls.  It is now north of 330 million.  The Colonel will allow you to do the math...  

The Colonel's intent is not to scare or incite panic.  Panic, although understandable, is unreasonable.  

There is ample reason for reason.

We are in so much better of a position to fight and defeat COVID-19 (early stumbles and bumbles in testing notwithstanding) than we have ever been in any other viral outbreak.  The speed at which we have been able to isolate and discern the make-up of this virus (thanks to super-computers) is, to use a word far too much in use today, unprecedented.  

To our Federal government's credit, it has engaged the incredible resources and capabilities of the commercial sector, and gotten out of their way.      

To be sure, this is a generation-defining crisis; much more so than the misnamed and fecklessly fought (strategically) "Global War on Terror."  The past two decades have been a walk in the park for the vast majority of Americans -- even given the economic hardships suffered during so-called "Great Recession."  Only a fraction of a percent of the American population has had to make any serious sacrifice over the last twenty years.

Get ready to sacrifice, America.

Sacrifice builds character. We will come out of this stronger.

If nothing else, this will help us to identify those on whom we can count (and not count) in a future real, existential, crisis.    
        

Viral Vicissitudes

The Colonel, ever attentive to his vast and slightly less than onerous duties as chief executive for life of the Tallahatchie Republic -- a semi-autonomous virtual republic established tongue-in-cheek and hand-on-wallet -- headquartered aboard (but not necessarily limited to) the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, has been keeping a close eye on the latest viral pandemic.

Loathe to add any restrictions to the personal liberties of citizens, temporary residents, and invited visitors beyond those which currently fit -- handwritten with a partially eaten crayon -- on a post it note, the Colonel would be remiss in his slightly less than onerous duties if he were to not make adjustments appropriate to the health threat posed by the Wuhan Virus.

Last evening, at an emergency session of the Congress of the Tallahatchie Republic, the Colonel addressed the assembled citizenry and announced temporary preventive measures to be instituted immediately:

"My fellow citizens, the Wuhan Virus threat to the health and well-being of all who call the physical headquarters of the virtual Tallahatchie Republic home cannot be ignored.  There is no need for panic -- the Colonel is in charge here and remains vigilant to any and all threats to your security.  We will, however, need to make a few changes to our standing operating procedures."

"First of all, we must begin to practice 'social distancing..."

The Colonel's best friend and second most important TR citizen -- the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda -- slammed her needle-point down on the couch beside her (the action that often signals her desire to participate in the debates of state), "Social distancing?!?  Knucklehead, what are you rambling on about now?  And why are you swinging that stick around."

"The Colonel never rambles!," the Colonel retorted.  "He may pontificate.  He may lecture.  He may even occasionally offer extended correctional criticism.  But, the Colonel never..."

"Just stawwwp!," the Colonel's bride obviously needed no further explanation. 

"Stop what, dear?"

"Stop referring to yourself in the third person and stop swinging that stick around.  If you put a scratch on my piano, you're gonna be in deep stink!"

"It's not a 'stick'."

"What?"

"It's not a 'stick'.  It's the Colonel's treasured walking cane procured at great personal risk from the deep interior of the snake-infested  cane brake back at the far reaches of the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere."

"It's a stick.  And if you don't stop swinging it around, I'm gonna snatch it from you and break it over my knee."

The Colonel recoiled in horror, clutching his treasured walking cane to his formerly robust chest.  "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, I dare, Knucklehead, I dare. Put the stick down, now!"

The Colonel stood clutching his treasured walking cane to his formerly robust chest and considered his options.  

"What is wrong with you, now, Knucklehead? If you keep biting your tongue and crossing your eyes like that I'm gonna have you admitted."

"I'm considering my options."

"Well, stop it.  You look ridiculous.  Even more ridiculous than usual."

The Colonel slowly relaxed his tensed posture, uncrossed his eyes, and assumed the position of parade rest. "Maey tha Koernal pleath esplane..."

The Colonel remembered he was still biting his tongue.  

"The Colonel is using his treasured walking cane to describe the arc of distance at which citizens, temporary residents, and invited visitors must remain from each other in order to significantly reduce the communication of the Wuhan Virus.  Each citizen, temporary resident, and invited visitor will be issued a replica of the Colonel's treasured walking cane with which they will maintain social distancing." 

Because the Colonel had ceased describing the arc of social distance with his treasured walking cane, and therefore ceased to present a clear danger to her treasured piano, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda returned her attention to her needle point.

The Colonel resumed his address.

"In addition to social distancing, citizens, temporary residents, and invited visitors will vigorously wash their hands and feet at least hourly."

"Feet?"  The comely and kind-hearted looked up from her needle-point and fixed her loving gaze quizzically upon the Colonel.

(Well, most people wouldn't recognize it as a "loving gaze," but the Colonel sees it a lot, and knows that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda loves him a lot, so...)

"Yes, you heard that right.  Feet will be washed hourly, at the top of each hour.  And, since the Colonel's infantry-ravaged back no longer allows him to reach his own feet...,"  the Colonel paused and looked expectantly at his loving bride.

"Dream on, Knucklehead," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda didn't even look up from her needle point.  "I wouldn't touch your nasty feet with your stupid stick."

The Colonel detected that the natives were getting a bit restless and began to wrap up his address on Wuhan Virus emergency measures.

"It's not a 'stick.'  It's the Colonel's treasured...  Never mind.  The last change to our standing operating procedures regards restrictions to travel to and from the physical headquarters of our virtual republic.  Effective immediately, and until further notice, all travelers from the Colonel's vast land holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere will prepare by washing hands and feet..."

The Colonel paused to judge the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's reaction.

"Dream on, Knucklehead," the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda said without looking up from her needle point.

The Colonel pressed on, "Travelers will also carry a replica of the Colonel's stick... err..., he means treasured walking cane, with which they will maintain an effective social distance from others."

The Colonel closed his address by assuming the Tallatchie Republic salute stance -- a modified position of attention with tongue planted firmly in cheek and right hand clutching wallet in right rear pocket.

The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda registered her overwhelming approval of the Colonel and his outstanding leadership with her customary head shake and well-worn term of endearment,

"Knucklehead."          


        
                                 

Planning on the Fly

The helicopter unexpectedly banked hard left and the Colonel (then a captain commanding the best rifle company in the Marine Corps), sitting on the left side of the aircraft, felt the lurch of chow to choke point that often accompanied being thrown around in the dark with the varietal bouquet of engine exhaust, fear, and his fellows' last night's beer in his nostrils.  What he could see out the small round window opposite him only served to compound the Colonel's concern -- he was facing upward and caught sight of another helicopter passing closely... much, much, too closely. 

The assault plan, briefed a half dozen times over the last 24 hours, had called for a simple, straight-in approach to the landing site.  But, plans rarely survive past the first moment of execution.  

This plan had survived longer than most.  

The Colonel's command was training for one of the most likely missions it would expect to be given during its rapidly impending deployment to the Mediterranean as the dedicated "helicopter-borne" company embarked aboard one of the Navy's big gray uglies.   

The mission was called "airfield seizure."  

The standards to which the helicopter-borne company, and the composite helicopter squadron on whose rotary-winged beasts the infantry Marines rode, trained were fairly stringent:

Within six hours of mission receipt from higher headquarters, plan and launch a long-range raid from amphibious shipping; to include phasing through one or more FARPs (forward arming and refueling points) in order to seize and secure an airfield for use by follow-on forces.  

With such a tight window for planning, everything was standardized in SOPs (standing operating procedures).  

The helicopter-borne company could count on a mix of six CH-46E medium lift helicopters, two CH-53E heavy lift helicopters, and two AH-1W light attack helicopters (for close-in fire support).  While the Colonel's rifle company -- reinforced with jeep-mounted .50 caliber and 40mm heavy machine gun and TOW anti-tank missile squads, and a combat engineer squad -- topped the scales at around 210 Marines and Navy hospital corpsmen, this 6-2-2 configuration limited the number of his nominal raid force to a little less than half that number.

The Colonel and his lieutenants designed an SOP that permanently assigned each platoon a mission in a notional raid force they nicknamed "Bald Eagle."

1st Platoon, commanded by Al Adler, was designated the security element.  The heavy gun and TOW squads were attached to 1st Platoon.  The security element's mission during raids (as well as all other operations) was to provide isolation of the objective area and over-watch of the movement of the assault element.  They were the shield. 

3rd Platoon, commanded by John Burke, was designated the assault element.  A 7.62 medium machine gun squad, and a light anti-armor rocket squad from the company's Weapons Platoon were attached to the assault element.  The assault element's mission was to act as the spear of the raid force.

Weapons Platoon (minus attachments to the assault and security elements), commanded by Tony Wells, was designated the support element.  The combat engineer squad, along with their little flat-bed mechanical "mule," were attached to the support element. 

2nd Platoon, commanded by Pat Hollis, and reinforced with machine guns and rockets (plus Marines and sailors from the other platoons for which there was no room in the 6-2-2 mix of helicopters), was permanently designated as the company reserve.  But, 2d Platoon had another special assignment -- any time a mission called for a platoon-sized element such as rescue of downed airmen (Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel, or TRAP) or reinforcement of Navy ships without significant security elements aboard, Pat and his Marines got the nod.  This force was nicknamed "Sparrow Hawk."

Per SOP, each of the two heavy-lift helicopters carried three of the company's jeeps -- four heavy machine gun and two TOW jeeps in total.  Each jeep had a crew of three Marines, but, since the CH-53Es were such heavy-hauling beasts, each jeep also carried an additional Marine from the raid element (security element) to which the heavy machine gun/TOW squad was attached.  Two more Marines could fit on jump seats forward of the jeeps. So each of the two CH-53Es carried 14 Marines.

The SOP for loading the six medium lift helicopters called for one CH-46E to carry the combat engineer squad's mechanical mule and eight Marines.  Another CH-46E carried a small motorcycle and ten Marines.  The remaining four 46's carried 12 Marines each.

Every man in the raid force knew exactly what "heli-team" he was in, and on which helicopter he was assigned, by SOP.  There was never any wasted time rebuilding team and helicopter assignments for each mission -- except for minor modifications in the case of replacements due to casualties or higher-headquarters strap-hangers. 

Every man in the raid force knew what his SOP "load-out" of weapon, equipment, ammo, chow, and water was.  No need to spend time telling him what to bring.   

When the "Bald Eagle" raid force was given the mission of seizing an airfield, the Colonel and his lieutenants ran through a rapid planning drill that included mission analysis to determine "stated" and "implied" missions, map and photo reconnaissance of the objective area to determine known and likely enemy positions and reinforcing avenues of approach, and location of desired landing sites for each individual helicopter in order to best facilitate the embarked raid element's tactical mission.  With repetition, it soon became obvious that a fairly standard template existed for locations of key parts of an airfield -- runways and taxiways, control tower, hangars, access control points, facility gates, etc.  So, with modifications to fit differences in key terrain that controlled the airfield, locations of landing sites for each of the raid force elements was relatively constant.

All that remained was coordinating with the helicopter squadron's planning cell and the pilot designated flight "lead."  Since all heli-teams and aircraft assignments were SOP, the only real issues to iron out was the landing sites for each helicopter and the routes to and from those sites which were influenced by terrain, wind direction, and any known or suspected anti-aircraft threat. 

Probably the most dangerous part of these missions was the loading of aircraft with vehicles and personnel....

...on a loud, crowded, pitching and rolling deck space about half the size of a football field...

...with ten helicopters "turning and burning"...

...at night. 

At launch, each helicopter lifted off, slipped to the side and then forward away from the ship...

...off of a crowded, pitching and rolling deck...

...at night.

The flight to the objective was usually low-level in a relatively close formation -- the light attack helicopters ranging ahead to deal with any threats.  At a pre-designated point short of the airfield, the formation broke up and each helicopter headed to its assigned landing site.

The helicopters carrying the security element jeeps normally landed at sites at either end of the runway and the jeeps rolled off and out to their tactical positions astride any high-speed avenues of possible enemy approach.

The assault element helos usually landed near the control tower and other airfield support buildings.  Winds permitting, the helos would land as close to the buildings as possible and pivot on landing to put the rear ramp facing the assault element's initial objectives.  Speed and shock action was paramount.

The support element would usually land mid-point of the airfield's primary runway.  A Marine on the motorcycle would make a rapid reconnaissance of the runway to scout for obstacles.  

Once the assault element had secured the airfield's support facilities, the command group (the Colonel and his radio operators) and the support element would hoof it over and join them.  

In theory, an airfield could be seized and secured in a matter of minutes.  Once any obstacles were cleared, follow-on forces (with missions elsewhere) could fly in -- either in helos from amphibious shipping or in fixed wing aircraft (C-130 or C-141).  The airfield could be used as an evacuation point, a FARP (Forward Arming and Refueling Point), or as a staging area for larger units. 

Back to the hard bank at the top of this post...

The target airfield was... well... it's a secret.  The Colonel could tell you, but then he would have to quarantine you with a half dozen recent returnees from Wuhan.               

Best job the Colonel ever had.