A MOMENT IN TIME

This is about a brief moment in time, a simple thing that took place once, and this is as much of a war story as I will ever tell.

It was the early nineties, after I had returned from Okinawa. I was working as a survival instructor at the Special Warfare Center. As you can imagine, the SWC survival school covers a little more than just which roots and berries you can eat, or how to catch fish and game. It's called S.E.R.E. - Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape; I've briefly referred to it in Blog STORMBRINGER. I was working the Evasion team in those days.

Anyway one cool night in early fall I'm out on a rural dirt road, on the side of a hill in the northern part of Moore County. It was a pitch black night; looking over the land as it sloped far away toward the lights of downtown Southern Pines (near where my house is now). I could make out a faint glow in a bowl shaped area which is the swampland of Camp MacKall, and the brighter lights of the Rockingham Speedway. Out of habit I'm constantly making geographical references, I'm constantly orienting myself to the terrain, and this night I could make it all out.

So I'd parked the white panel van, had gotten out and was standing on this absolutely deserted dirt road on the side of a hill. I was waiting to make linkup with a group of soldiers who were going through the training; the scenario was I was some sort of underground operative, assisting them in their evasion.

The hill was behind me, directly to my front the shoulder of the road dropped off and there was the usual wall of pine trees. Of course stretching out for miles I could see in front of me, across the tops of the pines, what I'd described above; the distant city lights. All around me it was absolutely pitch black; a moonless night in the woods in the Carolinas is like black velvet soaked in black ink.

While I was waiting I became aware of an almost imperceptible woosh! sound from somewhere above and behind me. I looked up and for a moment I could make the outline of a giant owl. It flew right above me only an arm's reach above my head. The thing was huge, six foot wingspan if it was an inch. It was dark, the giant bird was darkness against black ink of the sky, and it was only there for a split second but somehow in that split second I could make out every detail of it's feathers, right on down to the individual strands of each feather, almost as if it was an ink lithograph.




All this in just a split second, and then it was flying away. I could feel it's wings beating the air, I could feel the air on my face, it was like the feather's on the tips of its wings practically brushed against my face.

From that point on, that moment always made me think of the song by Peter Gabriel:

Solsbury Hill

Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light

Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night

He was something to observe
Came in close I heard a voice

Standing stretching every nerve
I had to listen had no choice

I did not believe the information
Just had to trust imagination
My heart going boom-boom-boom
Son, he said, grab your things I've come to take you home
Eh, don't quit

To keep in silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut

Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut

So I went from day to day
Oh, my life was in a rut

'Til I thought of what I'd say
Which connection I should cut

I was feeling part of the scenery
I'd walk right out of the machinery
My heart going boom-boom-boom
Hey, he said, grab your things I've come to take you home
Eh, back home

When illusion spin her net
I'm never where I want to be

And liberty, she'd pirhouette
When I think that I am free

Watched by empty silhouettes
Who close their eyes but still can see

No one taught them etiquette
I will show another me

Today I don't need a replacement
I'll tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart going boom-boom-boom
Hey, I said, you can keep my things They've come to take me home


That song always meant a lot to me after that night. I don't know the meaning of that song and I doubt anybody else other than Peter Gabriel himself does either; but it always made me think of that brief moment in time, that brief split second in my life when I could make out every minute detail of that bird's feathers as it swooped directly above me in the total darkness.

If I want to get symbolic about it, that was the beginning point in time when I started living in Moore County, and I was looking out over the land that I was to make my home, the land that would be my kingdom and my playground, the place where I would cool my heels between deployments, over the next couple of decades.




I love Moore County. If I have my way, it is my wish to die there.

STORMBRINGER SENDS

BIRTH OF A LEGEND

At 5 a.m. Paris time, on this date in 1917, Margaretha Geertruida Zelle — better known to the world as Mata Hari — was awoken at Saint-Lazare Prison to news that it was her last day on earth.




Prior to becoming an espionage legend, Mata Hari presented herself as a Hindu dancer. The truth is she was just a needy adventurer, a pretender with enough intuition and sensitivity to take advantage of the Parisian orientalist fantasies at the beginning of the XX Century.

There, her scanty, exotic costumes were enough; she never was genuine oriental dancer but, avant la lettre, an exotic dancer. Shot by firing squadron on a muddy drill field outside Paris, Margaretha Geertruida Zelle died, but the romantic myth of Mata Hari the femme fatal was born and lives amongst us to this day.


She died as she had lived: self-possessed, mysterious, facing the firing squad eyes open - she refused a blindfold.


She was already pushing 30 when she got into dancing, with a failed marriage behind her and two children. In Paris in the belle epoque, there were assuredly dancers younger, prettier; Margaretha, who here debuted the show name by which history would know here, surpassed them with showmanship.

Her exotic olive-toned looks — there were rumors of Javanese or Jewish blood even in her childhood - combined with her willingness to push boundaries of eroticism made her an instant sensation. Naturally gregarious and unprudish, she segued into the courtesan biz on the side with dashing officers and wealthy industrialists.


Not bad for a thirty-something mother of two. Nowadays they'd call her a MILF.


Sensual postcards and posed photos of Mata Hari were at once her pitch and her product.





14 years after her death, she’d be portrayed by silver screen femme fatale Greta Garbo:




I've always had a hard time figuring out my sympathies here; Mata Hari was a whore who spied on the French . . . for the Germans . . .





. . . yet whether or not she was really a German spy has never been determined — she seems to have been approached, or to have been set up by either French or German intelligence . . .





. . . sort of an anti-hero, I suppose . . . kind of hard to be against her . . .





So the French shot a whore - bravo les grenouilles! If it had been the British who had caught her, they'd have turned her against the Germans.

As a British correspondent reported, Margaretha Zelle owned her role to the very last:

The first intimation she received that her plea had been denied was when she was led at daybreak from her cell in the Saint-Lazare prison to a waiting automobile and then rushed to the barracks where the firing squad awaited her.

Never once had the iron will of the beautiful woman failed her. Father Arbaux, accompanied by two sisters of charity, Captain Bouchardon, and Maitre Clunet, her lawyer, entered her cell, where she was still sleeping - a calm, untroubled sleep, it was remarked by the turnkeys and trusties.

The sisters gently shook her. She arose and was told that her hour had come.

"May I write two letters?" was all she asked.

Consent was given immediately by Captain Bouchardon, and pen, ink, paper, and envelopes were given to her.

She seated herself at the edge of the bed and wrote the letters with feverish haste. She handed them over to the custody of her lawyer.

Then she drew on her stockings, black, silken, filmy things, grotesque in the circumstances. She placed her high-heeled slippers on her feet and tied the silken ribbons over her insteps.

She arose and took the long black velvet cloak, edged around the bottom with fur and with a huge square fur collar hanging down the back, from a hook over the head of her bed. She placed this cloak over the heavy silk kimono which she had been wearing over her nightdress.

Her wealth of black hair was still coiled about her head in braids. She put on a large, flapping black felt hat with a black silk ribbon and bow. Slowly and indifferently, it seemed, she pulled on a pair of black kid gloves. Then she said calmly:

"I am ready."

The party slowly filed out of her cell to the waiting automobile.

The car sped through the heart of the sleeping city. It was scarcely half-past five in the morning and the sun was not yet fully up.

Clear across Paris the car whirled to the Caserne de Vincennes, the barracks of the old fort which the Germans stormed in 1870.

The troops were already drawn up for the execution. The twelve Zouaves, forming the firing squad, stood in line, their rifles at ease. A subofficer stood behind them, sword drawn.

The automobile stopped, and the party descended, Mata Hari last. The party walked straight to the spot, where a little hummock of earth reared itself seven or eight feet high and afforded a background for such bullets as might miss the human target.

As Father Arbaux spoke with the condemned woman, a French officer approached, carrying a white cloth.

"The blindfold," he whispered to the nuns who stood there and handed it to them.

"Must I wear that?" asked Mata Hari, turning to her lawyer, as her eyes glimpsed the blindfold.

Maitre Clunet turned interrogatively to the French officer.

"If Madame prefers not, it makes no difference," replied the officer, hurriedly turning away.

Mata Hari was not bound and she was not blindfolded. She stood gazing steadfastly at her executioners, when the priest, the nuns, and her lawyer stepped away from her.*

The officer in command of the firing squad, who had been watching his men like a hawk that none might examine his rifle and try to find out whether he was destined to fire the blank cartridge which was in the breech of one rifle, seemed relieved that the business would soon be over.

A sharp, crackling command and the file of twelve men assumed rigid positions at attention. Another command, and their rifles were at their shoulders; each man gazed down his barrel at the breast of the women which was the target.

Inevitably, a story got around that she’d opened her funereal coat to the firing squad, revealing no clothing beneath it - she did not. She did not move a muscle.

The non-commissioned officer in charge had moved to a position where from the corners of their eyes they could see him. His sword was extended in the air.

It dropped. The sun - by this time up - flashed on the burnished blade as it described an arc in falling. Simultaneously the sound of the volley rang out. Flame and a tiny puff of greyish smoke issued from the muzzle of each rifle. Automatically the men dropped their arms.

At the report Mata Hari fell. She did not die as actors and moving picture stars would have us believe that people die when they are shot. She did not throw up her hands nor did she plunge straight forward or straight back.

Instead she seemed to collapse. Slowly, inertly, she settled to her knees, her head up always, and without the slightest change of expression on her face. For the fraction of a second it seemed she tottered there, on her knees, gazing directly at those who had taken her life. Then she fell backward, bending at the waist, with her legs doubled up beneath her. She lay prone, motionless, with her face turned towards the sky.

A non-commissioned officer, who accompanied a lieutenant, drew his revolver from the big, black holster strapped about his waist. Bending over, he placed the muzzle of his revolver almost - but not quite - against the left temple of the spy. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet tore into the brain of the woman.

Margaretha Geertruida Zelle was surely dead . . .

. . . and the Legend of Mata Hari was born.

SECRET SERVICE HATED JIMMY CARTER

America must never forget those who hate us for what we are, those who spread ill-will and discontent about what we stand for.


According to writer Ronald Kessler, Jimmy Carter was the "least likeable" president. Ronald Kessler reveals this in his new book "In the President's Secret Service: Behind the Scenes With Agents in the Line of Fire and the Presidents They Protect", about the Secret Service that chronicles the agency’s activities guarding every president from Kennedy to Obama.




Already an Amazon.com best-seller since its publication on Tuesday, Kessler's book features startling disclosures about the presidents and their families.

Agents told Kessler that Jimmy Carter treated them and others who served him with utter disdain.

"Inside the White House, Carter treated with contempt the little people who helped and protected him," and told agents not to look at him or speak to him — even to say hello — when he went to the Oval Office, Kessler disclosed.

"For three and a half years, agent John Piasecky was on Carter's detail — including seven months of driving him in the presidential limousine — and Carter never spoke to him, he says.

"At the same time, Carter tried to project an image of himself as man of the people by carrying his own luggage when traveling. But that was often for show. When he was a candidate in 1976, Carter would carry his own bags when the press was around but ask the Secret Service to carry them the rest of the time."

A politician staging a photo op - who'd ever imagine that?

On one occasion, disgruntled agents deliberately left Carter's luggage in the trunk of his car at an airport, and Carter "was without clothes for two days."

At his home in Plains, Ga., Carter once tried to attack and kill a small dog with a bow saw. Agents had befriended the stray dog, a terrier, and given it the code name Dolphin.

When the dog ate some food Carter's wife, Rosalynn, had put out for their Siamese cat, Carter "got the bow saw off a woodpile near the family room patio" and "tried to kill the dog," one agent who was there told Kessler.

Dolphin dodged the attack, but Carter insisted that agents remove the dog from Plains. The orphan dog was given to the press corps.

As president, Carter needed to have the "nuclear football" at hand to enable him to take action in case of a nuclear attack.

But the president — code-named Deacon — refused to allow a military aide with the nuclear football to stay in a trailer on his property in Plains. The aide had to stay in Americus, a 15-minute drive from Carter's home, a top military official confirmed to Kessler.

"Because of the agreed-upon protocols, in the event of a nuclear attack, Carter could not have launched a counterattack by calling the aide in Americus," Kessler writes. "By the time the military aide drove to Carter's home, the United States would have been within five minutes of being wiped out by nuclear-tipped missiles."

Carter was "moody and mistrustful" and sought to micromanage everything, agents told Kessler. He insisted that aides ask him for permission to use the White House tennis courts — even when he was traveling on Air Force One.

The Carter Administration - those wonderful people who brought us the Ayatollah Kohmeini!

Early in his presidency, Carter proclaimed that the White House would be "dry," and only wine, but no liquor, would be served at state dinners.

The word was passed to get rid of all the booze on Air Force One, at Camp David, and in the White House. But on the first Sunday the Carters were in the White House, they ordered up Bloody Marys before going to church.

Kessler discloses that Carter "would regularly make a show of going to the Oval Office at 5 a.m. or 6 a.m. to call attention to how hard he was working for the American people."

In fact, "he would work for half an hour, then close the curtains and take a nap," Robert B. Sulliman Jr., who was on Carter's detail, told Kessler.
"His staff would tell the press he was working."

As the Carter administration drew to a close, Carter and his staff became more paranoid. They believed that people were stealing things and eavesdropping on his conversations in the Oval Office.

Before going on a fishing trip in Georgia one morning, Carter accused a Secret Service agent of stealing fried chicken stewards had prepared. In fact, White House aides Jody Powell and Hamilton Jordan had eaten the chicken.

The Carters never really understood the Secret Service's role, Kessler asserts.
He reveals that Carter told the Secret Service that Rosalynn objected to agents and uniformed officers being armed inside the White House. Rosalynn said guns made the Carters' daughter, Amy, "uncomfortable." Agents explained that in the event of an attack, they would be useless if they were not armed. The president relented.

After leaving the White House, Carter made a show that he was going to save the taxpayers' money by not keeping the Secret Service. But he soon brought agents back when he discovered that having federal agents along got him express service at airports and the like.

There is one single thing we can thank Jimmy Carter for - it was the Carter Administration that gave us the single greatest President in American history - Ronald W. Reagan.


Carter’s oddities continued after he left office, Kessler reports. Carter occasionally stayed in the townhouse the General Services Administration maintains for former presidents in Washington. Photos of former presidents adorn the walls of the townhouse.

GSA managers found that when Carter stayed at the townhouse, he would take down the photos of Republican presidents Ford and Nixon and put up a half-dozen large photos of himself.

Egomaniac.


"He didn't like them [Ford and Nixon] looking down at him," GSA manager Lucille Price told Kessler.

"We would find out he would put photos of himself up," and then "take the photos of himself back with him."

I read Kessler's books, and based on what I know from my exposure inside the intelligence community, they are legit and well written. I'm just spreading the word here on his latest . . . S.L.

THE GRAY GHOST

On 13 October 1864, Confederate partisan cavalry leader John Mosby raided Harpers Ferry. This action was a part of the 1864 Shenandoah campaign; a series of brutal clashes between Brig. Gen. George Armstrong Custer and Confederate Partisan Ranger John Singleton Mosby. This second Shenandoah Campaign featured numerous incidents that can only be described as atrocities and war crimes, even by Civil War standards.

Colonel Mosby and his Confederate Rangers adopted an irregular form of warfare; after a skirmish, Mosby’s men returned to their own homes rather than to camp, agreeing to meet again at a future date and place. Each man acquired his own horse, arms and uniforms, but was entitled to share in whatever public or personal property was captured. Mosby was soon the only organized military force in northern Virginia, and so firmly ruled the area that it became known as ‘Mosby’s Confederacy.’




Mosby's Rangers are considered a part of the shared lineage of modern U.S. Army Rangers and U.S. Army Special Forces.




Mosby initially spoke out against secession, but joined the Confederate army nonetheless. Many years after the war, Mosby explained why, although he disapproved of slavery, he fought on the Confederate side. While he believed the South had seceded to protect slavery, he said, in a 1907 letter, that he had felt it was his patriotic duty to Virginia. "I am not ashamed of having fought on the side of slavery —a soldier fights for his country — right or wrong — he is not responsible for the political merits of the course he fights in . . . The South was my country."

After impressing J.E.B. Stuart with his ability to gather intelligence, Mosby was promoted to First Lieutenant and assigned to Stuart's cavalry scouts. He helped the general develop attack strategies. He was responsible for Stuart's "Ride around McClellan" during the Peninsula Campaign.

Captured by Union cavalry, Mosby was imprisoned in the Old Capitol Prison in Washington, D.C., for ten days before being exchanged. Even as a prisoner, Mosby spied on his enemy. During a brief stopover at Fort Monroe, he detected an unusual buildup of shipping in Hampton Roads. He found they were carrying thousands of troops under Ambrose Burnside from North Carolina on their way to reinforce John Pope in the Northern Virginia Campaign. When he was released, Mosby walked to army headquarters outside Richmond and personally related his findings to Robert E. Lee.

In January 1863, Stuart, with Lee's concurrence, authorized Mosby to form and take command of the 43rd Battalion Virginia Cavalry, Partisan Rangers. This was later expanded into Mosby's Command, a regimental-sized unit of partisan rangers operating in Northern Virginia. The Confederate government certified special rules to govern the conduct of partisan rangers. These included sharing in the disposition of spoils of war. Mosby was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel on January 21, 1864 and to Colonel, December 7, 1864.

Mosby's Rangers


Mosby is famous for carrying out a daring raid far inside Union lines at the Fairfax County courthouse in March 1863, where his men captured three high-ranking Union officers, including Brig. Gen. Edwin H. Stoughton. The story is told that Mosby found Stoughton in bed and roused him with a slap to his rear. Upon being so rudely awakened, the general shouted, "Do you know who I am?" Mosby quickly replied, "Do you know Mosby, general?" "Yes! Have you got the rascal?" "No, but he has got you!" His group also captured 30 or more sentries without firing a shot.

Several weeks after General Robert E. Lee's surrender in April 1865, Mosby simply disbanded his Rangers, as he refused to surrender formally. Mosbys' Rangers however were the carriers of the surrender orders and documents to Appomattox Court House.


The Gray Ghost never surrendered his colors.


After the war, Mosby served as U.S. consul to Hong Kong (1878–1885), served as a lawyer in San Francisco, worked for the Department of the Interior, and as assistant Attorney General in the Department of Justice (1904–10). He knew a young George S. Patton III and enjoyed making "Battle plans" with Patton in the sand.

Mosby died in Washington, D.C. May 30, 1916

“War loses a great deal of it’s romance after a soldier has seen his first battle. I have a more vivid recollection of the first than the last one I was in. It is a classical maxim that it is sweet and becoming to die for one’s country: but whoever has seen the horrors of a battlefield feels that it is far sweeter to live for it." - John Singleton Mosby, Colonel, CSA

THE EUROPEAN STRATEGY OF SURRENDER

In a move of strategic brilliance, a group of academics in Oslo Norway have effectively accomplished that which eluded the grasp of our enemies for over eight years on battlefields from Iraq and Afghanistan to the Philippines to North Africa to Ground Zero, New York City.




By handing the Nobel Peace Prize to the President of the United States they have effectively neutered and shackled our national leadership’s will to wage war. The world’s highest credentialed egomaniac – a man who’s never had an original thought in his entire life – has had the ultimate peace medallion hung around his neck - what are the odds Barack Hussein Obama will now be willing to commit further US forces to combat in our struggle against Islamofascism?




The day after the action that won my buddy R.D. the Silver Star in Afghanistan, his battalion commander and the Joint Special Operations Task Force commander came out to his firebase and told him to “stop taking so many risks, it’s not worth it.” What kind of command emphasis is that? No wonder morale is plummeting - our Commander-in-Chief cannot even abide calling it “the Global War On Terror”.

The last US President to receive the Nobel Peace Prize was none other that Jimmy Carter, the man personally responsible for paving the way to power for the Ayatollah Khomeini, and on whose watch the Soviets saw fit to roll into Afghanistan. Thank you, Mr. Carter, you gave the world the Islamic Fundamentalist revolution; here’s your Peace Prize.




Jimmy Carter has made a post-Presidential career of expressing anti-American rhetoric in support of America’s enemies. President Obama didn’t even wait until his term was over to badmouth his own country overseas, and true to form the Euros awarded him the Nobel Peace Prize.


Where is George W. Bush’s Nobel Peace Prize? He liberated MILLIONS.











Is the Nobel ever awarded posthumously? If so, when does Ronald Reagan get HIS Nobel Peace Prize?









The Reagan Doctrine of “Peace through Superior Firepower” resulted in the tearing down of the Berlin Wall without a shot being fired, and the subsequent collapse of global Communism.


It is a truism of history that peace is achieved by force of arms.

There is a reason they called the Colt model 1873 revolver - one of the most legendary small arms in military history – “the Peacemaker”.


“Any war is winnable, and just when both sides are convinced they're about to lose, they're both right.” - Murphy’s Special Law of Combat, #44


"When a nation is at war it is beyond folly, it is criminal to do anything other than to try to win it." - the Philosophy of STORMBRINGER


“War is simple, direct and ruthless.” - Patton


If I was the President of the United States, I’d take that Nobel Peace Prize and say, “Thank you very much. This is a very nice Prize, what an honor. Now for an encore I’m starting World War Three!” I’d go down in history as the guy who put the kibosh on al Qaeda, the Taliban AND Ahmadinejahd and the mad mullahs in Iran.


"Deal with me now . . . "



. . . or deal with me LATER."


Fat chance any of that is going to happen anytime soon. I guess all that Obama talk about how he would take fight to Pakistan was just that – talk.


"We don't really want to WIN this war if it means killing people and breaking things . . ."


'OBAMA WILL TAKE FIGHT TO TERRORIST ENEMIES IN AFGHANISTAN, PAKISTAN'
By Dan Balz, Washington Post Staff Writer - August 2, 2007

Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama issued a pointed warning yesterday to Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf, saying that as president he would be prepared to order U.S. troops into that country unilaterally if it failed to act on its own against Islamic extremists.

In his most comprehensive statement on terrorism, the senator from Illinois said that the Iraq war has left the United States less safe than it was before the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, and that if elected he would seek to withdraw U.S. troops and shift the country's military focus to threats in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

"When I am president, we will wage the war that has to be won," he told an audience at the Woodrow Wilson Center in the District. He added, "The first step must be to get off the wrong battlefield in Iraq and take the fight to the terrorists in Afghanistan and Pakistan."

HARLEY DAVIDSON CVO SCREAMING EAGLE CUSTOM

It's FOR SALE - 2008 HD CVO Screamin' Eagle Softtail Custom

Potential show bike with less than 1000 miles on this meticulously detailed, garage kept beauty. Comes with extended warranty, pod lights, custom cover, and touring bag. V&H Street Sweeper pipes, have original pipes if desired. Click on the link (above) for seller information.

I've seen this bike and IT IS BEAUTIFUL -S.L.

M561 GAMA GOAT

Somewhere deep in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey . . . IT LIVES ! ! !






The Gama Goat is a six-wheel-drive semi-amphibious off-road vehicle originally developed for use by the US Military for the war in Vietnam - it is no longer in service. Infamous for its articulated body, which allowed it to travel over exceptionally rough terrain and for the unique four wheel steering arrangement with the front and rear wheels turning in opposite directions, "The Goat" as it was referred to by GI's required almost daily maintenance.

The vehicle's name comes from two sources; "Gama" from the name of the inventor of its powered articulated joint, Roger Gamount, and "Goat" for its mountain goat-like off-road ability. Its military designation is M561, 6x6 tactical 1.5-ton truck. There was also an ambulance version known as the M792.
















Some 15,000 Gama Goats were built at a cost of US$8,000 each; this was considered quite high at the time. While the Gama Goat had exceptional off-road ability, its quirky steering made it hard to handle on pavement, and it tended to founder in amphibious operations. Production was halted after the original contract expired. This is somewhat ironic, as some claim problems with "The Goat's" performance were largely due to cost-cutting modifications made at the request of the U.S. Army. "The Goat" is prized amongst military vehicle collectors because it is so unusual and in short supply.


Talk about Last of the Few . . .







The Heart and Soul of The Goat - the Infamous Powered Articulated Joint.










When I was in the 82D Airborne, these beasts infested the Division and were almost universally despised for the amount of heavy maintenance they required. I was almost taken aback at the feelings of joy and happiness this Goat evoked when I encountered it today. Nobody said a word as I popped open the engine compartment for a look at the 3-cylinder, 2-stroke Detroit Diesel engine - the owner of the body shop this thing is parked in front of is probably used to ex-GI's drooling all over his Goat. This baby's last depot overhaul was in '89, and has civilian registration dated 2006

- S.L.