Hear this chronicle, Dear Reader, and then speak of it no more. . .

The skies were dark and cloudy that morning, my friends—like the swirl in a cup of steaming hot java with just a splash of soy milk. The Baron had not come to make friends. That much is clear. But friendship we had in abundance. What we needed was something to unify us in body, mind, and spirit: a common enemy. And if it’s true that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, then give ears to me now, urbanite: these men were challenged by the ace of aces and lived to tell the tale. 

I arrived to the airfield 20 minutes before wheels up. Airstream, true to his name, had beaten me there. He looked like a man who was ready to take on the greatest challenge of his life and it was shortly thereafter that the challenge arrived. No, not the Red Baron, but Blackbeard, who had been sidelined due to an unfortunate incident involving friendly fire. Or should I say “unfriendly tire”? (indeed, I think I should say that.) In our business, we can scant afford to leave even one man behind. (Yes, even Blackbeard. Why would you even ask that?) 

The rest of the men trickled in like the pee of a dehydrated old man with an enlarged prostate. The biggest splash came in the form of a clown car arriving a minute late and a without a clue about what they were soon to be up against. There would be no further clowning around from that crew or anyone else that day because the toast was about to hit the floor. . .jelly side down. 

The Red Baron waits for no man, so calisthenics were as brief as Callahan’s shorts and as pointless as the scraggly goatee of your humble correspondent. The same cool breeze that hardened our nipples also heralded the arrival of the scarlet ace himself, so there was no time to compare the relative arousal of our arrector pili muscles. The battle commenced. . .

Four exercises (merkins, squats, X’s and O’s, bear squats)

600 reps total (10, 20, 30, 40, 50 or more—like the Red Baron song from the 60’s) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oxzg_iM-T4E

2 miles (if you count the walk to Dunkin Donuts)

Fellowship at coffeeteria was as robust as the odor emanating from our collective crotches. Survivors of the Red Baron were joined by infantry hobbling in from the Wilderness and other dusty locales where lesser battles were fought and won. The day was ours! 

That’s the tale, Dear Reader, and if I’ve prevaricated one scintilla of the details, may the Protocaliphora fly lay eggs in my testicles weekly. It was an honor to lead these hardy, hearty men into battle, despite their utter lack of enthusiasm for my constant haranguing. As long as the Red Baron lives and flies, our work will never be done, so until the next siren sounds, gentlemen, stay fit and be prepared.