He enjoyed himself and was smirking as he voted against president Trump.
A headline Aug 27: Breaking: A Major Blow To ISIS & The Deep State, John McCain Dies
Globalist warmonger John McCain passed away over the weekend and establishment politicians on both sides of the aisle came out to praise him. . . . . . . . .

But: “Some lives are so vivid, it is difficult to imagine them ended. Some voices are so vibrant, it is hard to think of them stilled. John McCain was a man of deep conviction and a patriot of the highest order.” George W. Bush.

McCain’s family tree includes Scots-Irish and English ancestors but McCain is an Irish name. The Irish have been manhandled in Ireland by their English rulers which, perhaps, gives them their “Fighting Irish” Spirit. John was a fighter.

“But we can perhaps remember – even if only for a time – that those who live with us are our brothers; that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek – as we do – nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.

A Eulogy for a pilot:

McCain flew and crashed Navy jets.
The children of fighter pilots tell different stories than other kids do. None of our fathers can write a will or sell a life insurance policy or fill out a prescription or administer a flu shot or explain what a poet meant. We tell of fathers who land on aircraft carriers at pitch-black night with the wind howling out of the China Sea.

Our fathers wiped out aircraft batteries in the Philippines and set Japanese soldiers on fire when they made the mistake of trying to overwhelm our troops on the ground.

Your Dads ran the barber shops and worked at the post office and delivered the packages on time and sold the cars, while our Dads were blowing up fuel depots near Seoul, were providing extraordinarily courageous close air support to the beleaguered Marines at the Chosin Reservoir, and who once turned the Naktong River red with blood of a retreating North Korean battalion.

We tell of men who made widows of the wives of our nations’ enemies and who made orphans out of all their children.

You don’t like war or violence? Or napalm? Or rockets? Or cannons or death rained down from the sky?

Then let’s talk about your fathers, not ours. When we talk about the aviators who raised us and the Marines who loved us, we can look you in the eye and say “you would not like to have been America’s enemies when our fathers passed overhead”.

We were raised by the men who made the United States of America the safest country on earth in the bloodiest century in all recorded history.

Our fathers made sacred those strange, singing names of battlefields across the Pacific: Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, the Chosin Reservoir, Khe Sanh and a thousand more. We grew up attending the funerals of Marines slain in these battles.

Your fathers made communities like Beaufort decent and prosperous and functional; our fathers made the world safe for democracy.

He did not know what moderation was or where you’d go to look for it. Donald Conroy is the only person I have ever known whose self-esteem was absolutely unassailable. There was not one thing about himself that my father did not like, nor was there one thing about himself that he would change. He simply adored the man he was and walked with perfect confidence through every encounter in his life. Dad wished everyone could be just like him.

His stubbornness was an art form. The Great Santini did what he did, when he wanted to do it, and woe to the man who got in his way. Once I introduced my father before he gave a speech to an Atlanta audience. I said at the end of the introduction, “My father decided to go into the Marine Corps on the day he discovered his IQ was the temperature of this room”.

My father rose to the podium, stared down at the audience, and said without skipping a beat, “My God, it’s hot in here! It must be at least 180 degrees”.

Here is how my father appeared to me as a boy. He came from a race of giants and demi-gods from a mythical land known as Chicago. He married the most beautiful girl ever to come crawling out of the poor and lowborn south, and there were times when I thought we were being raised by Zeus and Athena.

The door would be flung open and the strongest Marine aviator on earth would shout, “Stand by for a fighter pilot!”

He would then line his seven kids up against the wall and say,

“Who’s the greatest of them all?”
“You are, O Great Santini, you are.” 
“Who knows all, sees all, and hears all?” 
“You do, O Great Santini, you do.”

Let me give you my father the warrior in full battle array. The Great Santini is catapulted off the deck of the aircraft carrier, Sicily. His Black Sheep squadron is the first to reach the Korean Theater and American ground troops had been getting torn up by North Korean regulars.

Let me do it in his voice: “We didn’t even have a map of Korea. Not zip. We just headed toward the sound of artillery firing along the Naktong River. They told us to keep the North Koreans on their side of the Naktong. Air power hadn’t been a factor until we got there that day. I radioed to Bill Lundin I was his wingman. ‘There they are. Let’s go get’em.’ So we did.”

I was interviewing Dad so I asked, “how do you know you got them?”

“Easy,” The Great Santini said. “They were running – it’s a good sign when you see the enemy running.”

There was another good sign.

“What was that, Dad?”

“They were on fire.”

When I was writing the book The Great Santini, they told me at Headquarters Marines that Don Conroy was at one time one of the most decorated aviators in the Marine Corps. I did not know he had won a single medal. When his children gathered together to write his obituary, not one of us knew of any medal he had won, but he had won a slew of them.

When he flew back toward the carrier that day, he received a call from an Army Colonel on the ground who had witnessed the route of the North Koreans across the river. “Could you go pass over the troops fifty miles south of here? they`’ve been catching hell for a week or more. It’d do them good to know you flyboys are around.”

He flew those fifty miles and came over a mountain and saw a thousand troops lumbered down in foxholes. He and Bill Lundin went in low so these troops could read the insignias and know the American aviators had entered the fray.

My father said, “Thousands of guys came screaming out of their foxholes, son. It sounded like a world series game. I got goose pimples in the cockpit. Get goose pimples telling it forty-eight years later. I dipped my wings, waved to the guys. The roar they let out. I hear it now. I hear it now.”

During the Cuban Missile Crisis, my mother took me out to the air station where we watched Dad’s squadron scramble on the runway on their bases at Roosevelt Road and Guantanamo.

In the car as we watched the A-4’s take off, my mother began to say the rosary.

“You praying for Dad and his men, Mom?” I asked her.

“No, son. I’m praying for the repose of the souls of the Cuban pilots they’re going to kill.”

Later I would ask my father what his squadron’s mission was during the Missile Crisis.

“To clear the air of MIGS over Cuba,” he said.

“You think you could’ve done it?”

The Great Santini answered, “There wouldn’t have been a bluebird flying over that island, son.”

Now let us turn to the literary of The Great Santini.

Some of you may have heard that I had some serious reservations about my father’s child-rearing practices. When The Great Santini came out, the book roared through my family like a nuclear device. My father hated it; my grandparents hated it; my aunts and uncles hated it; my cousins who adore my father thought I was a psychopath for writing it; and rumor has it that my mother gave it to the judge in her divorce case and said, “It’s all there. Everything you need to know.”

Ladies and gentlemen-You are attending the funeral of the most famous Marine that ever lived. Dad’s life had grandeur, majesty and sweep. We were all caught in the middle of living lives much paler and less daring than The Great Santini’s. His was a high stepping, damn-the torpedoes kind of life, and the stick was always set at high throttle. There is not another Marine alive who has not heard of The Great Santini. There’s not a fighter pilot alive who does not lift his glass whenever Don Conroy’s name is mentioned and give the fighter pilot toast: “Hurrah for the next man to die”.

Don Conroy was a simple man and an American hero. His wit was remarkable; his intelligence frightening; and his sophistication next to none. He was a man’s man and I would bet he hadn’t spend a thousand dollars in his whole life on his wardrobe. He lived out his whole retirement in a two-room efficiency in the Darlington Apartment in Atlanta. He claimed he never spent over a dollar on any piece of furniture he owned. You would believe him if you saw the furniture. Dad bought a season ticket for himself to Six Flags Over Georgia and would often go there alone to enjoy the rides and hear the children squeal with pleasure. He was a beer drinker who thought wine was for Frenchmen or effete social climbers like his children.

Ah! His children. Here is how God gets a Marine Corps fighter pilot. He sends him seven squirrelly, mealy-mouth children who march in peace demonstrations, wear Birkenstocks, flirt with vegetarianism, invite cross-dressers to dinner and vote for candidates that Dad would line up and shoot.

____________________________________________________

McCain chose not to conform to the Academy’s rules and some of its deepest traditions. Each year he was given over a hundred demerits – earning him membership in the “Century Club” – for offenses such as shoes not being shined, formation faults, room in disorder, and talking out of place. His father came to the Academy to reprimand him on his behavior a number of times. He hated “plebe year”, the trial by ordeal and hazing of entering midshipmen that would eventually weed out one quarter of the class. He did not take well to those of higher rank arbitrarily wielding power over him – “It was bullshit, and I resented the hell out of it” – and occasionally intervened when he saw it being done to others. At 5-foot 7 inches and 127 pounds (1.70 m and 58 kg), he competed as a lightweight boxer for three years, where he lacked skills but was fearless and “didn’t have a reverse gear”. In his final year, he managed the battalion boxing team to a brigade championship.

Possessed of a strong intelligence, McCain did well in a few subjects that interested him, such as English literature, history, and government. There was a fixed Bachelor of Science curriculum taken by all midshipmen; McCain’s classmates were impressed by his cramming abilities on mathematics, science, and engineering courses and thought his low grades were by inclination and not ability, while McCain would later acknowledge that those courses were a struggle for him. His class rank was further lowered by poor grades for conduct and leadership, which reflected his sloppy appearance, rebellious attitude, and poor relations with his company officer. Despite his low standing, he was popular and a leader among his fellow midshipmen, in what biographer Robert Timberg called a “manic, intuitive, highly idiosyncratic way”. Good at lying to pick-up girls, he was famed for organizing off-Yard activities with a group who called themselves “the Bad Bunch”; one classmate said that “being on liberty with John McCain was like being in a train wreck.”Other midshipmen were annoyed by his behavior. A June 1957 training cruise aboard the destroyer USS Hunt found McCain showing good skills at the conn, and the destination stop in Rio de Janeiro led to a dream-like hook-up with a Brazilian fashion model. WHile married McCain had extramarital affairs and his marriage began to falter because he betrayed his promises. ,

McCain graduated from the Naval Academy in June 1958; he was fifth from the bottom in class rank, 894th out of 899. Despite his difficulties, McCain later wrote that he never defamed the more compelling traditions of the Academy – courage, resilience, honor, and sacrifice for one’s country – and he never wavered in his desire to show his father and family that he was of the same mettle as his naval forebears, …… but: …he refused to study as all cadets are expected to do. Stubborn, defiant of rules and hard to teach because he couldn’t learn, his crap record at Annapolis reflected his life as he was shot down because he decided to fly where missiles were known to be heavy. He recklessly and stupidly lost a A4E,as he neared the target, warning systems in McCain’s taxpayer funded Skyhawk alerted him he was being tracked by enemy fire-control radar. He lost a billion dollar aircraft and wasn’t punished because he was captured.  His grandfather and father Slew and Jack McCain had not had sterling records at the Academy themselves, finishing in the bottom third and bottom twentieth respectively. McCain realized later that the Academy had taught him that “to sustain my self-respect for a lifetime it would be necessary for me to have the honor of serving something greater than my self-interest”, a lesson that he would need to carry him through a “desperate and uncertain” time a decade later.

He spent two years as a naval aviator in training, first at Naval Air Station Pensacola in Florida through September 1959, and then at Naval Air Station Corpus Christi in Texas, during which time he was promoted to lieutenant, junior grade. He earned a reputation as a party man, as he drove a Corvette, dated an exotic dancer named “Marie the Flame of Florida”, spent all his free time on the beach or in a Bachelor Officer Quarters room turned bar and friendly gambling den, and, as he later said, “generally misused my good health and youth”. He began as a sub-par flier: he had limited patience for studying aviation manuals, and spent study time reading history books instead. He was not assigned to the elite units flying fighter aircraft, and instead became a pilot of attack aircraft. During a March 1960 practice run in Texas, he lost track of his altitude and speed, and his single-seat, single-engine, piston-driven AD-6 Skyraider crashed into Corpus Christi Bay and sank to the bottom. Although momentarily knocked unconscious by the impact, he squeezed out of the cockpit and swam ten feet to the surface, escaping without major injuries. He graduated from flight school at Corpus Christi in May 1960. He joined squadron VA-42 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia for five months of further training on the Skyraider.

Starting in November 1960, McCain flew Skyraiders with the VA-65 “World Famous Fighting Tigers” squadron on the aircraft carriers USS Intrepid and USS Enterprise. The carriers were based at Naval Station Norfolk and cruised in the Caribbean and in several deployments to the Mediterranean. His aviation skills improved, but around December 1961 he collided with power lines while recklessly flying too low over southern Spain. The area suffered a power outage, but McCain was able to return his damaged Skyraider to Intrepid.

The Liberal, Left, American hating Los Angeles Times wrote this about reckless John: “In his life and in his words, McCain preached that every American should try to meet the highest standards of honor and valor — but he recognized that no one will always succeed, including himself. The test of character, he argued, was whether you owned up to your errors and spurred yourself to do better.”

That’s false. Many, in fact most people succeed. John screwed up because so often he failed to grasp the bigger picture or because in fits of pique he just wanted to defy something. That’s a marker of a poor character. It’s part of why he never made Admiral. It’s why he decided to defy instead of working with the president of the United States. It’s why the Left adored him but the Right, the Republicans, the Conservatives, the people in the middle of America chose Donald Trump but not John McCain. Those are good things. They matter. McCain didn’t get them.  

He should have learned to respect his higher officers and he wouldn’t have been shot down and lost taxpayer aircraft because he was a reckless pilot.

 

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