Congratulations, Cap’n. [salute]
A quick story:
A much loved Captain, our airfield commander, was leaving the service, (Germany 1971). A dozen of us enlisted men threw him a going-away party at which we all got very drunk.
For some reason known only to the gods, I asked him what he had never done in the service that he always wanted to do.
“I’ve never fired a flare gun,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “I have a flare gun in my (air traffic control) tower. We can take care of this little oversight tonight.”
We piled into cars and roared off to the airfield. Twelve of us staggered up the steps to my tower. We egress to the catwalk where I hand the loaded flare gun to the very happy Captain.
Before I could tell him to fire at a 45-degree angle, (to give the flare sufficient loft), he holds his arm out straight and fires the flammable phosphorous flare 40 yards into the fodder in the farmer’s field across the fence from our flightline.
The grass begins to burn. :eek:
“Oh, shit!” we said in 12-part harmony.
Springing into action, (as the Army is wont to do!), we ran/tumbled down the tower steps and grabbed a piece of fire-fighting equipment that had been there apparently since the 1900s. It was nothing more than two wooden wheels, a large spool of fire hose and a pair of ‘pole-thingies’ between which one puts a horse.
We pushed, pulled and cursed the thing to the wire fence, got it over the fence, and finally to the expanding circle of fire…a la Keystone Kops.
Once in position, however, we discovered that there was no faucet to which the hose might be attached. :smack:
Meanwhile, the flaming circle expands!
We eventually beat the fire into submission with our shirts, returned the fire apparatus to its rightful place, and, of course, had no idea the next day how the black circle, some 20 yards in diameter, got there.
Moral of the tale: In case you run into a drunk Captain with a flare gun, always carry a faucet.