We were involved in a huge military exercise covering most of Southern California.  My unit, the 301st Trans out of Fort Ord California, was in direct support of the 7th Infantry Division and was set up in a tent city on the end of the runway at March AFB in Riverside.  Every fifteen minutes or so a huge flying gas station would take off right over our heads.  The newer ones based on the DC-10 were noisy but tolerable compared to the older KC-135 which was based on the 707 and hadn't heard of noise abatement technology...it really rocked our world. 

The 301st's mission was logistical support for the division.  We had trucks working out of the port at Hueneme,  Yermo Marine Logbase, and March AFB.  We carried food out of March, Ammo out of Yermo, and whatever was coming off the ships in the port.  Most of the supplies came to March to be broken down and repackaged for distribution to the using units.   The tent city we lived in was adjacent to a row of warehouses where the bulk-break took place and the work went on 24 hours a day.  Our trucks would drop an empty trailer off at the loading dock and pick up a loaded trailer that was ready to make deliveries.  The trick was that we were supposed to be at war,  so all the work had to be conducted as if we were in a combat zone.  This required all night work to be done in  "blackout" conditions:  that is,  no lights.  For that reason, the whole tent city was off-limits to anyone who was not involved in the exercise. 

One night, dark and late, a young airman from March was taking a shortcut back to the base, through the tent city.  His motorcycle was fairly new and very fast.  The investigators said he had had to be going in excess of 100 mph when he ran into the side of the Rough Terrain forklift that was moving pallets across the road from the warehouses.  The motorcycle was pretty much unrecognizable...not to mention its rider.  I got there within a few minutes of the crash;  I was in my tent when I heard it happen...a lot of soldiers were showing up.  It took until well past sunrise to clean up the site.  But it still seemed dark;  the accident put a pall on what had been a pretty carefree, low-stress exercise.

That evening I was sitting in the maintenance tent with the Chief Warrant Officer and another platoon sergeant and Sandy Lopez, our company clerk.  There was a lull in the conversation, which hadn't been much to begin with.  The maintenance Chief remarked that we needed something to cheer us all up.  Lou Mesa, the other platoon sergeant, commented that I had told him about  a steakhouse in Colton called the Pinnacle Peak Patio that sounded like a cheering-up kind of place.

What I had told Lou was that my in-laws had taken me to the original Pinnacle Peak Patio in Scottsdale, Arizona, right after I married into their family.  My father-in-law told me to make sure I wore a tie.  The joke was that if you wear a tie into a Pinnacle Peak, they cut it off and nail it to the wall, or ceiling, or wherever there is a space for it.  The steakhouse was out in the desert with great views of the surrounding hills and such;  the cooks worked a huge barbeque pit.  They wore cowboy outfits and guns and every now and then they would draw and fire into the air and whoop like old-timey cowhands.  The food was excellent, the service was quick and friendly, and the whole evening was a  great experience...if you don't order your steak "well done"...'cause then they bring you an old cowboy boot, hot and sizzling off the grill. 

After a quick review, the Chief announced a "parts run" into Colton.  Since we were officially on an exercise and pretending to be at war, we were not supposed to be going into town for anything but official business.  One of the authorized official businesses was the purchase of repair parts that we couldn't get quickly enough through normal channels.  Some of us had military credit cards for that purpose.  So we all loaded up into my CUCV (an Army Blazer) and drove over to Colton to the Pinnacle Peak Patio.

The menu at Pinnacle Peak is pretty simple...well, it was  then; nowdays they have ribs and chicken and salads and such...but in the 80's it was still just a Cowboy steak and a Cowgirl steak...plus beans and bread.  The guys ordered Cowboys, naturally, and Sandy ordered a Cowgirl.  We waited for our food and talked about the restaurant and how we were anticipating real food after a couple weeks of eating dehydrated meals and MREs.  The waitress brought out a plate with a huge steak on it, the biggest most of us had ever seen;  it was almost two inches thick and covered a very large dinner plate.  She sat it down in front of Sandy and started to leave.  Sandy called her back and told her that there was a mistake, that she had ordered the smaller steak.  The waitress smiled and said, "Honey, that is the smaller steak;  you boys 'll have yours in just a minute".   There was a chorus of "Whoa's" around the table.  The rest of the steaks showed up hanging over the edges of their plates with a separate bowl for beans.  There were some mighty big eyes around the table as the plates were placed.  We dug in and for about a half an hour there just wasn't much conversation.  We settled up and loaded into the Blazer for the trip back to March.  Aside from the sound of snores, there were a few moans now and then.  We got back to the tent city and went our separate ways, back to the business at hand. 

But for a good part of the evening we had a serious morale boost...and not a word was passed about an unfortunate airman, whose brand new motorcycle was a lot faster than his brain.  We still felt bad for the kid, but there was a huge "Off Limits to All Unauthorized Personnel" sign at the entrance to the warehouse area and a sign just a little farther in that said, "Blackout Area - Turn Off Lights".  Maybe at 100 mph all he had time for was to think, "What'd that sign say?..."  And at 100 mph at night you are outrunning your headlights (for the un-initates:  when the farthest edge of your illuminated area is not far enough in front of you...your lights will light up stuff but you won't have time to stop before you hit them).  Who does that?  Nineteen year old airmen...and sailors...and soldiers and marines...I guess.

PS:  We did stop to buy some air fresheners for a couple of the trucks, so it was an official parts run...and no, we did not use the government credit card to eat at Pinnacle Peak.  Well, we didn't.