The Bandido

An Introduction

The Bandido and me

Well, after my last piece, death to America, I had an epiphany. A lifelong pattern of life emerged, part of, I had no control over. Dad, being a fighter pilot, gave the government every ounce of life he could outside of being KIA (killed in action). By default, being a tag-a-long, so did I, even though I did absolutely nothing of any value outside of the constant uprooting without complaint. But it placed me in a position of not belonging. I have no roots anywhere, and of extended family, I really don’t belong there either having spent no time with them. The process of growing up with the military created the belief that I do not belong anywhere. And in truth, I don’t. Plus, this is not a woe is me, just a life pattern of: Who cares.

Then came Ricology, and after writing upwards of 100 pieces, the epiphany. Our country has fiercely divided itself along party lines. One is now either Democrat or Republican: No longer American. Because one’s Americanism is dependent on the party they choose because the other party cancels the rival party’s belief. Truly a vicious cycle with no in-between. Even those in power have pushed the mantra of party over country, deciding the Constitution is no longer relevant to the nation’s future, understanding one prevailing party is the future. Either get on board or don’t belong to the country: Be an outsider. So, because I do not accept either party, believing their intent is to destroy the country, I’m no longer American enough. And that includes my youth having been spent in tumultuous times because of government, Vietnam, and haircuts that screamed: Your dad’s in the military. Always high and tight! And I’ve found writing cannot make a difference being the antithesis of what others want to hear: No party connection. But: Who cares.

Which brings me full circle back to Dad and having scribbled out his story: The Bandido. Originally, I printed 100 copies with two remaining. The story itself has been sitting on a shelf since 2021 after I applied for and received the copyright. It’s also in two names; mine and Chester Vernon Bogle, Jr. who helped throughout until his passing in 2016. We will also share authorship. It’s the only way I know how to honor the greatness of who he is. Except, the only way to actually honor him is to go through the entire process and officially print the book. But, even though I have the copyright, I keep revising the book to make certain it’s perfect. My vicious cycle and the merry-go-round I have to get off of. Even today, not being a wordsmith, or educated, I do not want to embarrass Dad or Chet with an inferior product. So, in light thereof, including all the above, I thought I’d post the book here in bite-sizable bits every Thursday morning allowing one to read the entirety of it. So, enjoy and once it’s printed, be sure to buy a copy! I present it for your edification:

To begin, The Bandido, a hard-edged, highly structured fighter pilot, is my father. And through constant training and periodic bouts of combat, the ingrained desire to kill any combatant he came up against, whether in training or combat, earned him the nom de guerre. In life, his nickname was Chico. At home, Dad. His work office was a cockpit, the kill or be killed structure and environment where he mastered the killing part, surviving three tours of combat. So, years after his retirement, I proposed scribbling out his story, and requested his blessing. His reaction: No! I didn’t do anything a thousand other guys haven’t done.  

Although, he offered me his records … to look through. While I read through them, in the OERs (officer effectiveness report), a person emerged unlike anyone I knew. And for the first time in my life, I started to understand Dad. As such, I inquired again. The response: “NO!” So, I wondered. Was he thinking: Someone else … please! As we stared at each other in a Mexican standoff, he relented, offering the sought-after permission.

Now, in writing the book, I did not plan an introduction, but in life, things happen, and not always good. When I started compiling all Dad’s records, I searched out names found and reached out. Of those who responded, without their help, this book would not be. Each took parts and turned them into something I couldn’t on my own. Except, one helped throughout, reading each revised manuscript right up to. His knowledge of history, facts, figures, verbiage: unfathomable. An absolute walking encyclopedia. Well, after working through five renditions together, my family visited him and his wife in Fort Worth.

Arriving late morning, we talked all day, staying up late into the night. My wife, Barbara, gave up the ghost at midnight. At 0200, I mentioned I was getting tired. His words: That’s your problem, not mine. I realized he had no desire to quit. At age ninety-two! His name: Chet Bogle. The most gracious host a person could be blessed to know. As a friend, mentor, historian, fighter pilot, and gifted writer, I consider our relationship an honor.

But … there is always an end, and sadly, it can arrive quicker than we want and hurts like no tomorrow. The year 2016 was rough. Two of the pilots who assisted me passed. Chet Bogle and Drury Callahan were both finally able “to touch the face of God.” I especially miss Chet. We had hours-long conversations going over minute details or conversing about politics. Most conversations turned into deep discussions.

I’m glad Chet was my father’s friend, and I was able to be a part of his world, even for the time I was allowed. I also decided to include him as an author. His family agreed. Thus, in the following pages, my only intent is to recognize the dedication each gave to the country, the mission, the flying. I wish more people could know Chet, Drury, and the other pilots involved. They were giants among men. And my prayer is this will get them the recognition they deserve. They are here, in the pages, and alive in my heart, mind, and soul.