Friday Afternoon at Combat Connie’s Hooch Saloon (Circa 1990)
By “Smoke” *
It was late afternoon at Connie’s Hooch Saloon
Down on the sound side of base.
Me and the boys were making some noise
And drinking cold beer by the case.
There were Black Bird drivers, Green Hornets, Ghost Riders,
And some guys from CCT too.
There had to be some wing staff you see,
The only one missing was you.
We had all hit Hurby at about the same time
With some travel pay in our poke.
It was easy to say that by the end of our stay
We would all leave for home plumb broke.
Now, Connie knew every crew and what they flew
And with never a single miscue,
When you walked in from the war she set your beer on the bar,
‘Cause she knew every man’s favorite brew.
The floor was covered with peanut shells,
The walls were covered with graffiti.
That and the portajohns outside
Made the place seem a wee bit seedy.
Well, it wasn’t a fern bar for certain
But the name tags on the walls backed the claim
That this kingdom that Connie ruled over
Was a special ops hall of fame.
The jukebox was playing as loud as it could,
You could hear it all over the base.
We were drinking and yelling as loud as we would
By the time darkness came down on the place.
The base commander dropped by, found the noise level high,
Fire trucks soon arrived with a roar.
Firemen rushed in with hoses full force,
Washed the whole damn gang out the door.
But we were back in the door and ready for more,
A crowd with the “guts to try.”
“Anytime, Anyplace,” and right in you face,
By guys already ready to fly!
The dice cups came out and were passed around,
The hare was around the hole.
Some fool in a hat walked in,
A round for the house was the toll.
The cup came around and dice lied again,
“Three sixes” was the call.
A staff puke yelled, “dead bug,”
And the bodies started to fall.
War stories were told of bold days of old,
Bravery enhanced once more,
‘Till peanut shells were the least of the stuff
Knee deep upon the floor.
Now, there were two or three gals we considered our pals,
All of ‘em ugly as sin,
But to a son-of-a-gun alooking for fun,
You could fix that up with some gin.
Well soon, the gals that had been so ugly before - -
Why they was plumb pretty by now.
And the longer we drank on into the night
The prettier they got somehow.
By midnight I’d say they was all beauty queens,
Why nothing had started to sag.
“A man would be proud,” I said right out loud,
“If one of you beauties he’d snag.”
Along about three my eyes couldn’t see,
And my legs weren’t working so good.
My crew says to me, “We better flee,”
And I says to them, “we should.”
So we tested our fate on old ’98,
With my head a pounding real bad.
My pockets were empty as you might have guessed,
But look what a time we had.
So, next reunion I’ll meet again with the gang
And we’ll all howl at the moon.
We’ll spend all our cash, but we’ll have a big bash
At Connie’s Hooch Saloon.
*Authors last name is being withheld to protect the guilty.
WARNING TO ACTIVE DUTY PERSONEL: The events described herein were accomplished by seasoned veterans of a bygone era.