What would you do, if, on the night of your rehearsal dinner, with wedding nuptials just around the corner (chronologically speaking) a band of sturdy young men clad all in black and sporting ski masks for to hide their features burst into the Chinese restaurant where you, your betrothed and your several, sundry and assorted friends and family members were dining? And having thus burst in on this charming, almost Rockwellian tableau, the happy band of miscreants and ne’er-do-wells made off with the struggling, squirming, muffled bridegroom? By dint, you know: Of overwhelming physical force?

Taking him, I might add, heavens knows where?

Well, I’ll tell you what one fellow’s friends and families did, on that night that we, the fraternal order of the junior officer protective association (hereinafter referred to as the “JOPA”), crème de la crème and flower of the nation’s youth, made off with our squadron Operations Officer, having burst into his rehearsal dinner all regardless of the fact that we were quite uninvited, unexpected and indeed, (say it!) unwelcome: They let out a collective “Eek!” and then sat quietly in their chairs, frightened nearly to stupefaction by such an unanticipated turn of events.

Which suited our purposes perfectly, the strong desire not to actually hurt anyone warring at all times with the compelling need to take it to The Man on this, his Special Night.

Harv was not merely a representative of the departmental officer’s professional association - or DOPA – although as a lieutenant commander he certainly was that. He was also a hell of a good fellow, for all that he’d earned his call sign by graduating from that last bastion of eastern academic liberalism (Oh, that it were true!) on the Charles River. Destined for eventual carrier command and flag rank, he had the misfortune to arrive in a squadron of experienced young FA-18 lieutenants – look it up in the dictionary between “honest arrogance” and “superabundant ego” – and repeatedly attempt to tell us tales of how it used to be back in the good old A-7 days. Which is precisely as interesting as maybe it sounds, if the sound of hearing tales told about constant-thrust/variable-noise, sewer pipe-looking, single engine mud movers is as boring to you as it was to us.

All of his attempts to inform and educate us about the good old days were met either with scoffing abuse which somehow managed to stay just the proper side of naval discipline (aviation-style – our boundaries being somewhat broader than elsewhere in the service, and subject to more or less continuous testing) or else with something quite approximating a reptilian indifference. But we were silently keeping score, gentle reader, making a list of him and his dinosaur stories. We were keeping account of his transgressions.

And the evening of his rehearsal dinner provided, we thought, the perfect opportunity for a reckoning.

The evening came and our preparations went on apace. Being but callow youths, our exquisitely designed plan amounted to little more than, “Dress up in black, wear a ski mask and let’s go get him.” So when that deed was done and we’d hustled him out to the van, bound hand and foot and working right hard to stop his gob without risking actual suffocation, it occurred to us severally and by degrees that we had thought things through no further than this. This in itself was nothing like sufficient humiliation, and it would never do to just turn him back to his guests. In our discussions while driving around it was clear from the sudden relaxation in his shoulders - not to mention the ferret-like darting of his eyes – that he had finally determined who in fact we were, and was keeping a kind of score on his own account.

Seeking to regain the moral high ground, it occurred to us that it couldn’t hurt to strip him down to a form his maker would recognize him in, and that dark deed was quickly done. In a matter of moments we had a Harvard-educated lieutenant commander bereft of both clothes and dignity, but increasingly garbed in what was to be a rather towering rage.

Off to a country back road we took him, lacking any better plan, discovering a dirt track far away from any chance of discovery by stray passers-by. Out of the van our hero was unceremoniously dumped, and we drove away again giggling, wondering what might become of him, bound, alone and naked on a dirt road in rural California.

Which, the more we thought about it, the worse that idea seemed.

So having driven away just far enough, we turned back around and picked him up again. He was evidently relieved enough to inadvertently encourage us to greater endeavors, and a plan was quickly effected to drive him on the nearby naval air station, where, it was hoped, further inspiration awaited.

This we discovered in the form of an AD-1 Spad happily decorated in our squadron’s colors, a-setting on a pin hard by the front gate. With a length of rope, rudimentary boy scout skills and a lucky toss, we soon had Harv trussed up sailor-fashion and suspended from the Spad’s wing, the better to take pictures of him. Just as this was being affected, base security rolled up with lights flashing and beefy hands on be-pistoled hips. If they were surprised at the sight of a Navy lieutenant commander swinging naked, bound and gagged from a Korean war-era turboprop while surrounded by a group of grinning junior officers they hid it well. “Never to fret,” some one of us offered up, “We’ve permission from the base CO, and anyway this man is getting married.” Which was at least half true, and good enough an explanation for security to return to their vehicle, having warned us all to be careful in the letting of him down.

At last it was done, the man returned to terra firma and re-acquainted with his slops. We generously offered him a trip back to the restaurant, which he generously accepted. Once there we escorted him back to a wedding party which had only just began to bestir themselves, offering our apologies and quietly whispering to himself that if all went according to plan, he’d soon have access to both the photos and the negatives.

And that was the end of the A-7 stories, at least for a while.