Target Practice
A Marine lieutenant in Okinawa learns that, when it comes to popping your cork, the right trajectory is just as important as the right velocity.

As a young Marine lieutenant, flying CH-46 helicopters in Okinawa, I was privileged to serve under then-Maj. “Lil’ Jon” Robson. He was incredibly knowledgeable, a cracker-jack pilot, and a stern taskmaster, but in return for our hard work he gave us unstinting trust and loyalty.

When it came time for my check flight as a helicopter aircraft commander, I drew Lil’ Jon as my check pilot. He was known to eat incompetent pilots for lunch, so after a nervous flight, I was overjoyed that he passed me on the first try. A squadron celebration was required on all such occasions, so I proceeded to the Futenna O Club for the festivities. At that time, a champagne variant—a purple concoction called Cold Duck—was all the rage, so I set up a case of that and the requisite keg of beer.

The Futenna O Club offered a free bottle to anyone who could ring the club’s bell from the full length of the bar by popping the cork from a champagne bottle, so the bottles often were used as artillery pieces aimed at that distant bell.

Cold Duck lacks the punch of champagne, insofar as launching corks is concerned, and you must “pump up the pressure” to obtain the desired flight characteristics. The evening progressed, but no bells had been rung and we were on our last round of ammo. The lieutenants cleverly conspired to maximize our last chance: Two large lieutenants would hold the bottle tightly with a steady aim while two others slapped the bottom of the bottle to maximize the potential energy contained therein.

A premature launch resulted. We had achieved the right velocity but not the right trajectory, and the cork disappeared into the smoky din of the club.

Alas, no bell. But whither the cork? Launching an immediate search and rescue, I noticed Maj. Lil’ Jon standing at the end of the bar — not far from the bell, actually—skewering me with a steely stare and holding an empty champagne glass.

Well, not exactly empty. In the bottom of his glass was the errant cork. And all over Maj. Lil’ Jon were the former contents of his glass. My whole career—all two years of it—flashed before my eyes. But the major, never breaking his composure, simply roared above the noise, “Nice shot, Magnuson, but do I look like a bell?” Then, grinning, he said, “Next round is on me, since the last one sure seems to be.” So the major partied on, knowing in his heart of hearts that lieutenants eventually grow up to be majors themselves. And if we were lucky, we would grow up to be like Lil’ Jon.