VIETNAM--Units of the 9th Marine Expeditionary Brigade (9th MEB), under the command of

Brigadier General Frederick L. Karch, arrived at Da Nang . The 3d Battalion, 9th Marines,

3d Marine Division became the first U . S . ground combat unit to land in Vietnam .

(Gazette, v . 49, no . 4 . Apr 1965, p . 1 ; Unit File - 3d Mar Div .)

Wooden Ships at Red Beach

My second ship, the USS Abnaki (TF96) received orders to work with a Mine Flotilla in Vietnam.  I don't recall the date that we arrived "on station." Nor do I remember which mine flotilla it was, awaiting our arrival.  The assignment would result in us "mapping" the bottom of an approach to a beach which would eventually be the location of the first (and only) amphibious landing by U.S. Marines; at the time we performed the work I don't remember that we knew the final plan. Our efforts were just part of many unchronicled and meaningless preparations and contingencies of the military, at times seeming almost random.  At times, what we were assigned to do seemed like just the Navy equivalent of digging a fox-hole, then filling it back in. 

I had joined the Abnaki in December 1963 a couple weeks after John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas.  When that historic day occurred I was in Tucson, Arizona on shore-leave with orders to report to the USS Abnaki in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii after the leave was complete.  The assassination, however, resulted in all military on leave being expedited to their next ordered assignment, as a precautionary measure in case the attack on Kennedy was the beginning of a larger effort.  My next assignment happened to be waiting at the salvage docks near Hickam Air Force Base, at the entrance to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

The USS Abnaki (ATF-96) was a so-called fleet sea-going tug.  She performed heavy towing over long distances, as well as more pedestrian assignments including towing gunnery targets, supporting salvage or repair efforts, and special "one-off" assignments such as the one I'm about to describe.  Soon after I boarded the Abnaki we left for Westpac (Navy-speak for the Western Pacific).

I don't remember which port in Asia we left from to support the Mine Flotilla's efforts...I want to say Subic Bay, Philippines, or maybe Hong Kong.  Even though I was one of the duty radiomen aboard and had a higher security clearance than all but three officers, I didn't know what our assignment was about.  That message had come in as a long series of 5-character alphanumeric clusters of unintelligible code, then was hand-decrypted by the Operations Officer and delivered under Top Secret cover to the Captain.  Soon after, it became common knowledge, at least among those of us in Operations, that we would meet up with a mine squadron near Da Nang harbor and assist them as required. 

When we met up with the squadron they off-loaded to us several devices about 3 or 4 feet long, narrow, conical which resembled small missiles.  These projectiles were fitted with electronic wires wrapped around the tow-lines.  As I remember, these "missiles" even had fins to keep them at a stable depth when towed at a particular speed. As it turned out they contained sonar devices which would rapidly "ping" the bottom of the seabed and allow a "map" of its terrain to be graphed by the portable equipment on board our ship as we towed them along a grid pattern at a pre-determined, optimal speed.

The mine flotilla's vessels were among the few ships remaining in the U.S. "wooden" Navy.  The wooden Navy ships worked exclusively in mine sweeping and removal, or mine placement and laying.  Their hulls were made of wood, and their exteriors contained little or no ferrous metals, depending instead on copper and brass for most of the external metal.  This lack of iron or steel in their hulls made them less susceptible to setting off one of the mines they were laying, or accidentally exploding an enemy mine they were retrieving and disarming.  

The whole point of our mission was to map the bottom of Red Beach1 so that this flotilla could lay mines, eventually allowing U.S. mines to be optimally placed to protect the Marine "invasion" landing path to the beach, and of course, the bottom-map would be used to make known the presently unknown bottom terrain of Red Beach1  and its approach so that the fully outfitted Marines would not drown in the surf on their trudge from the landing craft under the burden of 60 or 80 lbs. of gear. 

We enlisted men were unaware of the use our efforts would support; per normal Navy operating mentality, we did not know the importance of our efforts at the time we were performing them; we did not know that some native or immigrant son of the U.S. would rely on the accuracy and reliability of our efforts.  Perhaps the Captain and the officers knew,  but, the crew did not know that one day in the Spring of 1965, 3,300 - 3,500 young men would trudge up the slope of Red Beach1 from their landing craft, in the sole sea-to-land amphibious landing of the entire Viet Nam war, only to be greeted by local townspeople, a few newsmen, school girls with flowers, a few previously assigned U.S. personnel, and several high-ranking South Vietnamese military members.  Though Red Beach1 was "hot" during the time we mapped it, the beach would be safer than the streets of New York City by the time the Marines landed.

Suffice it to say, this amphibious event bore no resemblance to "D-Day" on Omaha Beach in France.  By that, I intend no take-away from the commitment of the Marines and their leadership...they would have done whatever was needed, including jumping into the surf and scrambling up the beach under deadly fire.  But, the day was a foreshadowing of the circus and spectacle which the U.S. presence in South Vietnam would become.  Even a none too happy Marine General Karcher was bedecked with flowers by local maidens, and photographed for the world to see, his combat fatigues adorned with blossoms.  The U.S.'s "quiet buildup" of troops turned out to be anything but. LBJ was President, and Vietnam was already resembling the clown act in a West Texas circus.

The military leadership and diplomatic corps. had advised against such a spectacle, which would involve tanks and amphibious tractors landing near a large local populace, as well as a column of support ships cluttering the already constricted waters of the bay, but this was about to become a politician's war, and a Southern politician at that.  L.B. Johnson knew how to milk a spectacle, and then then steal the cream that rose to the surface.  I'm not saying he was directly responsible for the spectacle at Red Beach1 in Da Nang; I'm simply saying that kind of comedy became the hallmark of our presence in SEA under LBJ's command, even as the number of deaths mounted.  As it occurred later, under the guise of an attack on the Turner Joy, LBJ was not  above creating his own crises and photo-ops in order to justify an escalation of U.S. presence and use of U.S. power in Southeast Asia.  But that's a whole other story.

The use of wooden ships would continue for awhile.  They would perform some meaningful tasks, but mostly they would be curiosities wherever they docked. And even we salty sailors in the auxiliary fleets would stop and look as we passed by on the adjoining pier, or we would stop in our tasks and watch them sail by at the mouth of this or that harbor.  They would perform a few more "live" tasks removing explosive underwater booby-traps in Da Nang and other rivers, and harbors, but as with most Navy traditions, they would slowly fade from use and join the "moth ball fleet" in some harbor's backwater, and, the politicians would eventually take over the strategy and tactics "on the ground" (and on the seas) as the Generals and Admirals became unwilling to risk their ranks and retirement, and become more or less willing pawns to political theater. 

I don't know if that day, March 8, 1965, was a Presidential reach-in, or was just the first obvious, unquestionable FUBAR of the Vietnam Conflict, but it wasn't the last...and, now events like that have become the routine.  Presidents fire senior officers for comments made in private conversations, and even thwart their tactics at ground level on the field of battle; chain of command has become a possibility but not a certainty, and consequently, most Generals and Admirals are now equally officer and politician, as they must be if they want to retire at full rank and pay. 

Maybe a more peaceful world will be the result, I don't know, though generals usually are not the ones who start wars.  Starting wars is almost entirely accomplished by politicians these days.  In any case, I was there, we were there, before the Marines landed.  There always are the unknowns who are there "before"...those beach heads don't prepare themselves for those photo ops of landings.



Marine General Karch and 3,500 Marines Storm Red Beach1 in the face of an unrelenting volley of flash-bulbs, handshakes, and flowers in Vietnam's first and last amphibious landing by combat forces.
 

 

- - -

 

Why I Hate Governance

I haven't always hated the regulation and oversight...just since I was 5 years old.  I'm 80 now. I believe my reasons at 5 years old and now are equally justifiable, but I want to talk about then, because my reasons were clearer and less abstract at the beginning.

I come by my disdain for governance and regulation naturally, and I think any readers will agree that my disdain is justified...you see, governance, undeserved control, and "regulation" caused my first-ever business venture to fail...put me out of business when I was five years old...that's right...at five years old, in Tucson, Arizona, at a "cabin court" occupied by itinerant laborers' and their families, and our own itinerant family I was forcibly and abruptly "regulated" out of business...my first effort at for-profit entrepreneurship...and, I've never forgotten or forgiven that event, nor am I even about to cooperate with those who would deign to govern me now!  

The times were bleak for my family, but I was blissfully unaware of those post-WWII social and financial realities.  Five-year olds have few issues which keep them awake at night, or invade their dreams, particularly boys.  At the time in 1949 we lived in a residential cabin court in the city of Tucson on Oracle Road...residential in the sense that no self-respecting tourist would have even stopped to look in one of the screened openings, much less stayed there overnight.  The court was just at the point where a curving exit ran off to the West, forming a road called "The Miracle Mile." I don't know why it was called The Miracle Mile...I doubt the fact that several dozen resort motels were jammed into the mile or so between Oracle Road and U.S. Highway 30 was any sort of supernatural consequence. Maybe the "miracle" was that it being there, and called that name made us feel better about our social plight; it felt more special to say we lived near the Miracle Mile on Oracle Road, though the facts were that we lived in a two-room cinder-block cabin, on a concrete slab floor, with screens instead of glass in the window openings. My sister (8 years my senior) and I slept in the same, narrow, twin-sized bed in the large entry-room which formed the living room and kitchen; the other room was my parents bedroom, and I believe there may have been an inside toilet in our unit. The sleeping arrangement did not favor my sister, because I wet the bed regularly, at least once a night, and sometimes twice.

I don't specifically remember what my Dad did for a living at that time, but likely he was painting some sort of structures in and around Tucson. Many of the cabin-court's other occupants worked in agriculture, including the citrus groves on Oracle Road to the North and the grounds of the large cemetery also North of us on Oracle; the "real" jobs were occupied by the veteran-heroes of WWII who had returned from their military duties to displace the women, 4F's, and Conscientious Objectors who had taken over employment during the war; these temporary workers, including William L. senior slid back down the social and economic ladder a rung or two. It didn't matter whether the returning vet had been employed before the war or not -- he returned, for the most part, to full employment at the will of a grateful nation. Even the German POW's at the Mount Lemmon U.S. Forest Service work camp had more reliable "employment" and better living quarters than we did, except we were "free."  Still, we had several things going for us, among them: We didn't know we were "homeless" victims of a failed dream; we didn't know someone else was to blame; and we didn't know that hard, honest work would never truly pay off.

Of course, at five years old I was oblivious to the employment concerns of my elders. As long as we had fried chicken and mashed potatoes every Sunday, Spam, Kraft macaroni & cheese, "oleo marginarine" and evaporated canned milk it was all good. It should be said though, I was on the outlook for my own opportunities to earn, find, or even steal money, especially secret money; Secret money opened the door to a certain amount of liberty because it required no explanation; no adult could regulate your soda, candy, or ice-cream intake, so long as the presence and source of the money remained confidential. At five years old, I had already learned to never...and, I mean NEVER...let any adult know you had found money, because it would immediately go into what passed for a piggy-bank, and out of your control, and even worse, they might require you to look for the person who lost it and return your loot.  It should be said at this point that I've never been one to work unnecessarily hard for my money. My best work was always done when someone was watching, but if you were looking for someone to work less, work easier, and expect more, then I was your guy! Not much has changed in ensuing 65 years; it isn't as simple as me being lazy; it's that I pride myself on finding the optimal path...that is, the highest payoff for the least effort.

So it occurred, in my ceaseless vigilance for "easy money" that an opportunity presented itself in the form of an old nicotine-stained, "alcoholic" neighbor. This neighbor, whose name I don't remember, put me unexpectedly in the alcohol transportation and delivery business...let's call him Mr. Jones, just for the ease of telling the story:  My family was not crazy about the presence of Mr. Jones as a neighbor, because Mr. Jones was not "saved!" Judging from his lifestyle he had never invited Jesus to be his personal savior, nor had he confessed his sins, and it was abundantly clear that he likely never would. He was in fact the kind of person whose past life and present behavior offered up a cautionary object-lesson, thereby making Godly adults like my own parents thankful for his existence, but uncomfortable that he was so near-by. ("You don't want to end up like Mr. Jones, do you? Well then get ready for Sunday School!")

So Mr. Jones functioned as an object-lesson, but I was told to stay far away from him, because he was, and I quote, "As mean as a snake, a drunk, and who knows what else!" You see, Mr. Jones would come home Saturday after working 6-days (10 or 12 hour days) in the citrus groves, and he would be thirsty...I mean THIRSTY...as only an old sun-soaked, bone-thin, nicotine-stained drunk can be...so he would sit outside his sweltering concrete-block cabin, roll his cigarettes, his perpetually shaky hands spilling Bull Durham on his thighs, and drink his beer...and when he drank his beer the old demons of his futile life, lost loves, and missed opportunities would come out to play; he was, as they said, "a mean drunk!"

Soon after walking the mile and a half home from the citrus groves and arriving at his cabin, Mr. Jones would walk further down Oracle Road to the tavern carrying his own metal beer-bucket, probably less than a 100-yards, to where the tavern owner, who was almost always there, or his bar-man when it was busy, would fill the bucket to the brim with draft-beer. I don't know what it cost then for a half-gallon of beer...maybe twenty cents or a quarter, but draft beer was the preference of working-men who were just trying to get by in an otherwise difficult life, and do a little harmless self-medication to help their sore-muscles sleep through the night.

Once his bucket was filled with that amber nectar, Jones would walk his bucket back to his cabin, during which time the "head" on the beer would settle, and once seated in his chair outside his one-room "single-man's cabin" he would quickly consume the entire bucket...nearly a full half-gallon of beer even with the head settled...and because of his sparse-diet, age, physiology, and a life-time of drinking , he would become immediately and substantially drunk, physically and emotionally unstable...ahhhh! But, in his weakness lay my opportunity...demand and supply are wondrous partners! He needed strong mobile legs, and I had them...I needed money and he had some, a little bit...at least enough to take care of my 5-year-old sense of avarice.

When I saw him walk by our slightly larger "family" cabin, returning from the tavern with his first bucket of beer on Saturday afternoons, and some weekday evenings when he was sent home early from work, I would leave the area around our cabin, not quite following, and hang around...not hover...but, just "play" within earshot of his place, knowing that his call was certain to come out; sooner or later he would yell, "Billy! Get over here!" (Yessir!) Take this quarter and get me a bucket of beer! If you don't spill any I'll give you a nickle when you get back!" Ahhh! Music to my young capitalist ears...a whole nickle just for walking 200 yards round trip! I was going to run around and cover that much ground doing nothing anyway; but he wanted to pay me to do what I naturally did...he would pay me just to move! It was almost too simple...had I known the euphemism "candy from a baby" I'd have likely used it. But, lest I make it sound too easy, I want to say that as with every endeavor, commercial or otherwise, there were possible pitfalls and like every worthwhile venture, there were present risks to be managed; not the least of which was my parents and my nosy, intrusive older sister...who I guess I should talk about now.

My sister is 8-years older than I am. At the time, I was five years old and she was thirteen. She was charged with looking out for me. Assuring that I was protected from myself, as well as being safe from my "environment" -- which in that place, day, and age was not entirely wholesome and safe. In fact, some time around the time of this particular story, I had been "molested" by a group of older boys out in a vacant lot behind the cabin court. Lois hunted down the ring-leader, well known because of his crew-cut red-hair, picked him up by his hair, and dribbled him on the pavement like a basketball. Needless to say, having his ass whipped by a girl was daunting enough, but having it done in front of me and his cronies was even more humiliating. So it should be said that while she was nosy and intrusive, her protection was at times useful.

To understand the social risk I was taking by helping Mr. Jones, and myself, you would need to understand "alcohol" in the context of a Pentecostal holiness family; let's just say that the only alcohol which was ever tolerated was for medicinal purposes, and even then it had better be in cough-syrup or some such concoction, blessed by a real company with an appropriately serious looking label, and the disease it was treating had better be life-threatening! Purposely drinking alcohol, for enjoyment or relaxation, or even entering into a "beer joint" was not acceptable...even in an emergency. I had witnessed that my mother would rather wet herself trying to get to a more distant restroom then go through the door of a nearby tavern to use its restroom...I'm saying "we" didn't go in there, even when it would have been expedient to do so...I mean, what if the Lord returned to Earth and you were in there? (I always assumed He being "the Lord" would know that I was there just because I had to pee...or in this case, make an honest nickle! God knew that I would not have even risked licking my finger if some of Mr. Jones' beer slopped up on it, being certain that I would be struck dead then and there!)

But, I digress...being discovered was one of the risks I had to manage; it was a simple logistical issue, resolved by exiting and entering the cabin-court, which had no gates, walls or fences, on the south side of the store which was positioned between our cabin and the tavern, due to the store's orientation more toward the street...walking by our cabin with a full or empty beer-bucket would have resulted in certain and sudden death...hence the longer, yet less visible route in and out. Problem solved!

Another risk was that of "sloppy" bar-tending; sometimes the owner or his assistant bar-man would hurry the filling of the bucket, causing a much thicker head on the surface of the beer, which would settle on my walk back to Mr. Jones' cabin, and even if I had not spilled a drop Mr. Jones would growl, "I ain't payin' you no nickle for half-a-bucket of beer, Billy!" This financial risk meant I had to learn to engage an adult, the owner or barman, on their own terms in order to gain their cooperation, "Mr. Jones won't pay me my nickle if the bucket isn't full!" Working people in the late 1940's understood entirely that the guy with the money had all the power; hence the sympathetic barman, or even the owner, would top off the bucket before I set back out. They knew what it was like to be refused pay by an exacting and watchful boss.

And, there were many other risks, but sometimes the risk was that Mr. Jones just wouldn't pay! He didn't have a nickle, or, he'd go in the house to get a nickle...forget why he was in there and leave me waiting until my sister or parents yelled that it was dinner or bedtime...and, by the next time we saw each other he would have forgotten (conveniently I thought) that he owed me a nickle; I understood the risks, and I did my best to manage them, but how could I have known about the risk that would put me out of business...how could a 5-year-old comprehend that a "city" could put you out of business? Why that would have just been crazy-talk!

Whoever said that bad things ALWAYS happen in three's didn't know what they're talking about. Sometimes bad things happen in two's and sometimes those two's happen simultaneously. At five years old, I didn't ponder whether two-bad things happening at once counted as one bad event or two, but the first "bad" thing happened at the tavern one sweltering Saturday afternoon or evening; I showed up as usual before the sun had set to the West over the Tucson Mountains; I know this because I wasn't allowed out of the yard after the street-lights came on, and on Saturday nights we kids would sit on the concrete steps of the cabin-court's store and watch the movie at the drive-in across Oracle Road. We were not allowed to go to a theater to see a movie, because that was somehow sinful, but we could watch the movie from 1/4 mile away, and that was OK...probably because we couldn't make out the sound from all the window-speakers on the cars. Anyway, I showed up at the tavern...bucket and quarter in hand, a respectful and expectant smile on my face, like I'd done many times before...BUT, THE BARMAN WOULD NOT GIVE ME THE BEER!

I had no fall-back plan for this! I was dumbfounded...less concerned about the loss of my nickle, than I was about what would happen to me when I showed back up with an empty bucket to face the already intoxicated Mr. Jones. With all respect to working men and women everywhere and of every era...Mr. Jones like many rough men who toiled with his hands...was angry and frustrated...and that was on his best days. At his worst, he was physical and violent...and, I was pretty sure that showing up without his beer would cause a premature death, probably mine...and I was familiar with death. I had first-hand witnessed the drowning death of a peer not long before this up in Idaho, so I knew kids could die, and I didn't want to die by Jones! Add to this the fact that he might be quite loud in his displeasure, and with our cabins less than 50-feet apart, he might draw the attention of my parents, or even worse, my nosy, intrusive sister who had a habit of embellishing things entirely out of any known resemblance to reality!

I don't remember my exact words but I do know I went to my standby strategy of groveling and begging...possibly crying, though tears have never come easily for me. The barman went in back and got the owner, who came out and told me to the effect, "Billy...someone complained about you buying beer and got me in trouble with the City!" (I wasn't even aware that you could get in trouble with "a city" -- that was more confusing adult-speak...a city was a bunch of houses, business, and streets on land! How can you get in trouble with a city? Besides, anyone with even a partial brain knew that the bucket I brought in belonged to Mr. Jones! But I let it pass...instead begging, groveling, and explaining how I wouldn't get paid, and I might even get my "ass whipped!" (I was unaware about the prophetic nature of my words, "get my ass whipped" nor was I predisposed to know that my "ass whipping" when it occurred, would not come from Mr. Jones.)

The owner said in essence, "OK this is the last time! Take this bucket to Jones and don't come in here again! I don't want to lose my license!" (More adult-speak! What did selling beer in a tavern have to do with driving?) I took the beer and fled...but, I never made it to Mr. Jones' cabin...my father was waiting on the path alongside Oracle Road outside the tavern door, and I was summarily relieved of my bucket duties...marched back to our cabin, shoved through the door to my tearful mother (and my beaming, triumphant sister who had witnessed my earlier departure with the bucket), while my father took Jones' bucket to him.

I wasn't there, but I can only guess that my Dad read Jones the "riot act" for sending "a mere innocent child" to do the Devil's work like that. When he returned to our cabin I got to dance with his leather work-belt, while my mother cried and turned away, likely wondering how she could have failed so badly as to be punished this way! My sister, of course, hung as close-by as she could, short of attracting my Dad's attention, relishing every landing of the leather strap on my legs and bottom, and every scream from my little chest as I danced around my Dad in circles, trying to outrun the strap. (It should be noted that I had learned to wail as though death was imminent, because in the face of stoic acceptance the strapping became harsher, faster, and lasted longer...hence, I felt compelled to vigorously voice a near-death experience at the maximum output of my small lungs!)

So there it is! The City of Tucson (which I now understand to be more than a collection of land, streets, and houses) and my parents (with the information from my conniving sister and the authority of Jehova-God) put me out of business...ending my brief, though highly successful and relatively lucrative, foray into the world of beverage distribution.

I never knew how Mr. Jones got his second (and sometimes third) bucket of beer after I was regulated out of business...I wasn't allowed to go near his cabin, or even talk to him again. My guess is he was threatened with "official action" and like many, if not most single men in those cabin-courts, would not have fared well after being discovered and identified by the police. I do know that I didn't immediately find an easy way to replace that weekly nickle (and sometimes two) from my over-regulated beverage distribution business, and my parents became more astute about looking for any "hidden income" sources, and any hidden savings.

Who knows where I could have ended up had I only been allowed to further develop my beverage ventures? Could I have expanded the business into a beverage bottling and distribution empire with my name on it? We'll never know, because my spirit was broken. My next worthwhile venture (selling the Coos Bay "World" newspaper on Central Docks) would not occur for five and a half years...half of my life by then spent on "the dole" performing family slave-labor for little pay. Looking back and pondering that oppressive event, its a wonder I developed any initiative whatsoever after that.

I'm sure you can now understand and sympathize, perhaps even agree with me, that my hatred for regulation specifically, and governance in general is reasonable.

- - -

Post Script: Though the account above is fundamentally true in fact, I have "sewn a suit on a button."  The fact is my beer carrying last a short while, possibly only once, before my dad was informed by my sister of what I was doing.  You have to admit all of the adult embellishment makes a good story better, - BK

Fear

My fear is that we are locking-up personal expression "behind the counter" as though it were a magazine considered "obscene" or a dangerous drug component which might fall into the hands of a trafficker, and in that process, we are over-sanitizing the social-environment so that a mere conversational misspeak, an unformed thought, or a even a purposeful slight can start a contagion of offense in an audience whose tolerance has been compromised.  We are being protected by those ever-present, hovering "mothers" (male and female alike) cleansing everything with sanitary wipes, and in so doing, assuring that no one develops immunity to any offense no matter how slight...thereby assuring  that every offense is sufficient to attract violent defense.

As repulsive as some self-expressions are...the Westboro Baptists come to mind or uniformed neo-Nazi demonstrators at Holocaust memorials...repressing that ugliness with "law" or by brute force, is even more repulsive than the ugliness of the expressions repressed.  The final result of repression by law is a beyond-putrid, stinking fear...the stench of a quieted society, where the bowed head, the silenced voice, and wordless acceptance pass for courtesy.  When we shout down an unpopular or even absurd voice, we are covering over one of the greatest inventions of our species, free expression...the liberty to be ridiculous, the freedom to be absurd, the license to be irrational aloud.  At this rate of change in the cancel-culture the U.S. Congress and the Supreme Court will be the sole locations where absurd expression is condoned.

For our own protection, we need to individually protect the right to self-expression, even when we personally disagree with the content...even when we can't see the value...even when the content is ugly, repulsive, and seemingly without merit. Silencing personal expression is the ultimate obscenity, even if harmony and contentment might result from the silence...fear is the great silencer, and it is mandatory silence which we should fear.

Military Justice, or How I learned to color between the lines.

In the U.S. Naval Fleet non-judicial punishment is referred to as a Captain's Mast. So called, because in sailing days the Captain handed out punishment to individual crew-members "before the mast." In this way, the crew could observe the punishment, and perhaps learn to not do the same offense...there are few object lessons more powerful than watching the flesh being lashed off of your crew mate’s back; my guess is that would help you want to behave.  In any case: At a Captain's Mast the commander of a U.S. Navy vessel has a fair amount of authority to hand out punishment on board his ship, thus avoiding a court martial, and thereby retaining his crew-member for duty during the period of punishment. In my four-years plus active-duty, I had the dubious distinction of starring in two Captain's Masts, and several Executive Officer's Masts. It was the second such Captain's Mast that convinced me I didn't want a third, though no sailors were injured during the punishment phase of that Mast.

Like all uniformed services, the Navy takes in young men and women at various stages of intellectual, psychological, and emotional (if not criminal) development, and, then expends a fair amount of time and effort to mold the new recruit into a sailor, with discipline, craft, and military training.  The hopes are that at the end of this investment period the Navy will have a member who behaves in a predictable fashion under known and unknown conditions; the trainers tease out the predisposition or skills of these young people, relate those traits to needed crafts, then school the individual to perform the skills as needed by the Navy, performed under what may be less than ideal conditions. The point of all this molding is to increase the probability that an individual, once processed into a trained and developed sailor, will more or less "color between the lines" and even become a "known value." And, if the first enlistment sailor has trouble staying within acceptable parameters, the Navy places a fair amount of authority at the hands of its Commanding Officers which can be used to help adjust the young sailor's personal course. Among these persuasive techniques were: peer pressure, non-judicial punishment, judicial punishment (Courts Martial) and even death for treasonous or cowardly "wartime" offenses. If the punishment rendered was judicial, a Courts Martial, it could result in the sailor being left behind in a port which had a Marine administered "brig" while awaiting trial, though on occasion a Courts Martial level offense might be initiated and heard on board, with the punishment phase to be determined by some local tribunal.  If the offense was serious enough to warrant imprisonment, the sailor might likely be left in some port, transferred off his ship to the brig, awaiting trial and sentence.  In each case, Captain’s Mast or Courts Martial the legal standard one’s behavior was compared to was a thick document known as the UCMJ, the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

Most fleet officers are wary of losing an asset, such as a fully trained crew member, unnecessarily.  The XO's (Executive Officers) and Captains were hesitant to give up technical, and other hard to replace resources to the brig and judicial punishment, because the resource might have to be left behind in a port awaiting trial, and a replacement resource might not be available, on board, and trained for many months. This vacancy might have a ripple effect which, depending on which skills were missing, could affect the entire crew; for instance Cooks and Medical Corpsmen were more highly prized than deck-hands. These more "valuable" human assets were sometimes treated more favorably, though in my experience, never favored to the point of someone looking the other way; it's just that “possibly” their punishment would allow them to remain on the ship performing their usual duties, until they received their firm slap on the wrist, and suspended punishment, such as, a reduction in rank and pay.

The first time I got in trouble on the USS Ashtabula, an "oiler", was because I reported to my "watch" unfit for duty. The lack of fitness had to do with the amount of "partying" I had performed the night before in Hong Kong. In that case, I was simply remanded to the Operations Officer, who dressed me down verbally, then passed me over for recommendation to take the Petty Officer 3rd Class exam, though I had the time-in-rank required. In my 19-year-old brain, this was not even close to being punishment. After all, you can't lose what you don't have. No harm, no foul, no impression. Forgotten, so what's next?

The next time I got in trouble was the day I was to be transferred off the Ashtabula onto a month's shore-leave, at the end of which I was to report to the USS Abnaki in Pearl Harbor Hawaii; the morning of the day I was to leave the Ashtabula, I was brought back to the ship under arrest due to "public intoxication." In fact, I was not overly intoxicated, but I was sleep deprived (having partied non-stop for the prior 48-hours) and had chosen the hood of a Long Beach, California Police cruiser as a place to catch a quick nap. The officers assigned to the police car did not see the efficacy of my sleeping on a police car out of safety and security concerns, “Of course I was sleeping on a cop car...I didn’t want to get robbed!” and because I was not carrying a picture ID, they arrested me and provided me with a piece of concrete floor in their jail as an equally safe place to spend the night. The next day, after the police confirmed that a William L Karns, #3905335, fitting my description belonged on the Ashtabula, I was brought back to the ship by the Shore Patrol. After some discussion, and negotiation, the Operation's Officer let me transfer off per my already cut orders, and become someone else's problem instead of writing me up for a Captain's Mast, and keeping me on board. I had just turned 20-years old, and I didn't consider this a problem, or even a "near miss." After all, a miss is as good as a mile, right? Once again, I moved on having learned little or nothing from the event, except that maybe I was just impervious, and Officers were pushovers.

I left the ship and hitch-hiked to Tucson...an eventful 24-hours which I've chronicled in another post. This was to be the week that John F. Kennedy, then President of the United States, would be assassinated in Dallas, Texas. What was supposed to be a month's leave, starting in Tucson and ending in Oregon, ended abruptly following the assassination, with a radio and TV call for all Active military to return to their current duty stations, or report to their next ordered duty station; my high school buddy, Jim Brogdon took me out to Davis Monthan AFB where I received emergency pay and flight vouchers from Tucson International Airport to LAX, then LA to Honolulu International, so I could get to Pearl Harbor and catch my next ship...in fact, the entire process was to take more than 3 weeks.  I spent what seemed like years waiting for hops, just about to board, being bumped, sleeping on the floor of waiting room, shaving and washing up in a concourse bathroom, and trying to weasel on to the next available hop.  I lived in LAX in Los Angeles almost long enough to become a voting resident of California.

By the time I caught a stand-by flight out of Tucson, then stand-by out of L.A. to Honolulu it was late-ish December 1963. Honolulu and Pearl Harbor were sunny and warm, as I stopped to assess the Abnaki in my wool dress-blues, sweating already at shortly after 8 a.m., carrying my 50-pound canvas sea-bag. This ship appeared even sleepier, more utilitarian, and less "gung ho" than the Ashtabula had been. It appeared it would be fairly easy duty...and for awhile it was, until Captain James R. Williams was "piped" aboard, took over and took command from a "Mustang"* Captain who was immensely impressed with himself, though imminently forgettable. Williams, by comparison, turned out to be memorable and impressive.  He was an Annapolis Man, and his command reputation was not going to be undercut by immature, under-construction, rebellious young sailors.

Captain Williams was a quiet, confident, Naval Academy graduate, as I remember a citizen of Virginia. His demeanor almost entirely lacked emotional reactivity, drama, or bravado, though he was friendly, articulate, and very definitely in charge. During the entire time I served under him, I heard his voice sharpen a few times, but never heard it raised...never heard a curse, a threat, or disrespect to any crew member or officer, even though I witnessed him during some stressful events. Being the shrewd judge of character that I was, I took the absence of loud, overbearing, forcefulness as probable personal weakness...like I said, I was 20-years old. I never claimed I was bright.

My job as one of several Radiomen, who also couriered messages, brought me in contact with Captain Williams and other officers multiple times per duty-day...sometimes on the bridge, sometimes in the Officers Dining area, and often in the middle of the night after awakening them. The Captain was the only officer with an actual door to his cabin.  The XO’s stateroom was literally right next door to the radio shack on the 01 Level, and had a heavy drape as a “door.”  After knocking at his, the Captain’s, compartment door in order to give him a priority radio message, even at 2 or 3 a.m., awakened out of a dead-sleep he never seemed dazed or groggy; rather, he was immediately vigilant, alert, cognizant and ready to deal with whatever it was I handed him. I would stand waiting until he said, "That is all!" or until he scratched out a response message for me to send by Morse-Code, or voice if it was available.  My point is not that we were buddies, because he wasn't "buddies" with anyone, not even officers. My point is I witnessed him at all times, under all conditions, and because I didn't see "bravado" I failed to detect his strength.

My first difficulty aboard the Abnaki involved "crew's justice" during which several of us collaborated to modify the behavior of a fellow crew member who was not bathing regularly, or perhaps not at all. Our sleeping compartment, or berth as it was called, was very close quarters. We slept inches from each other, including head to foot, since sailers were not allowed to sleep head to head in order to reduce the spread of respiratory illnesses, and in those close quarters, "scrounges" were simply not to be tolerated, particularly in the heat of that uncooled compartment which was more than 80 degrees even when crossing the Pacific in Winter. In the tropics or even Hawaii, it was approaching 100 degrees on occasion.

Our "scrounge" had ignored all hints, however heavy-handed, that he needed to shower daily and wear clean clothes daily. Consequently, one night after lights-out we picked him out of his rack in a dead-sleep, wrapped him in a wool blanket, carried him kicking and screaming up to the enlisted head, where a large garbage can full of hot soapy water was waiting, then scrubbed him with bristled deck brushes until his skin, and the bathwater, was a very pleasing, rosy pink. He reported the "assault" and because he was snatched out of the Operations and Deck compartment where I sometimes slept, the XO assumed I might be involved, or at least have knowledge of the event. An "XO's mast" is really not nonjudicial punishment, being more of a preliminary hearing, followed by a recommendation to the Captain who will usually sign off on the XO's recommendation; if there was enough evidence, for instance eye-witnesses, the XO might recommend a Captain's Mast, particularly where violence, drinking, theft, or dereliction of duty was concerned. All six of us involved in the "behavior modification" incident held fast to our stories that he must have been mistaken about the voices he thought he recognized; and, I said, because "...I wasn't involved, I couldn't possibly know who else might have been involved..." and besides he might have just been dreaming...which didn't explain his abraded skin of course, but the statement was made with enough wide-eyed innocence to properly irritate the XO; the event ended with no action by the XO or Captain, and, again, I was naive enough to believe that because I was not caught, there was no issue, no fault, and no carry-forward to the future.

Unfortunately, after not too long, my next offense was failure to report for duty; quite simply if you failed to report for Quarters dressed and ready for your day, it constituted "failure to report." I was very sick and fatigued from a night out on "Shit Street" also listed on the Honolulu city map as "Hotel Street." I missed Reveille and when Chief Delorme woke me up, after Quarters had already commenced I figured I was screwed. I asked Delorme if I was on report already for sleeping in...he said yes. My response was, “Screw it! Then I’m going back to sleep.”   That earned me my first Captain's Mast, and my first up close and personal experience of Captain Williams' skill at helping young men grow up.

The lectern and other trappings were placed on the starboard, 01 Level weather-deck, where I stood at attention in front the lectern, awaiting the Captain. Chief Delorme was there in two capacities: as a witness to my offense and my attitude during the offense, and as the Master at Arms, or the "bailiff" for the Mast. The XO was there "representing" me. It was a short, and sweet event. I was found guilty as charged, but my punishments were suspended pending 6-months of good behavior, with an admonition that if I had another offense within the 6-months, my suspended punishments would be re-enforced, and even added to, which was reduction in rank and forfeiture of pay, plus anything else the Captain might add on for the ensuing offense. 

Amazing as it may seem, none of this got my attention. I considered it a win...Hell! I was walking away untouched again...it was just paper! Besides, I could do six-months of good time standing on my head, I thought, because we were scheduled to be at sea and I never drank at sea or got in trouble when we were under way. Unfortunately, our deployment was delayed for reasons known only to the Commodore of the Pacific Service Fleet Pacific, of which we were a part...so we stayed in Pearl Harbor...working on ships maintenance, dragging the occasional gunnery target off Diamond Head, and spending three out of four nights on the beach...and the time was not spent in the Christian Serviceman's Reading Room writing letters home to Mom and Dad.

Long story short, I never made it to the six-months point...not even close...before I had a minor run-in with four of the Honolulu Police Department's finest plain-clothesmen. These guys were big and beefy in their trousers, and tropical shirts, and moved in that lumbering but purposeful Polynesian or Samoan fashion. They stopped their over-sized, unmarked sedan to interrogate me at a bus stop, for reasons I never understood because their use of colloguialisms was entirely unintelligible to me...they were "mo betta da kine cuz" guys, and I was a "fuckin' Haole" who didn't belong on their streets. At some point I allegedly referred to them as "Dumb fucking Kanake's" and the fun times ended abruptly. As though by miracle, at that precise moment, a Hawaiian Armed Services Police (HASP) vehicle pulled up, stopped, and two guys with armbands, helmets, and .45 caliber pistols collected me from the impending doom caused by my cultural faux pas. I didn't realize it at the time, but perhaps they saved my life or at least helped me avoid a severe beating for "resisting arrest." Still I wasn't grateful, as we headed off to their office and lock-up. To this day, I don't know the actual implication of the word "Kanake" but I understand it's use is to be avoided unless you are one. Our language has several labels like that.  

A few minutes later, after a disorienting and nauseating ride in a windowless box on a vehicle, I stood in front of the booking desk. A nice, polite, clean-cut Marine asked me to put my feet in the painted squares on the floor, and directed me to lean forward with my arms extended, hands on the booking desk. This stance resulted in me leaning well forward, with my legs spread, off balance. As the nice, polite Marine "frisked" me for weapons, including up the insides of my thighs, he slapped me in the gonads quite hard with the back of his hand. My stomach, already queasy from an evening of over-indulgence and my ride in the windowless "lock-up" dumped it's contents between my feet and the booking desk. The Marine disappeared momentarily, and returned with a mop and bucket, instructing me to clean up my mess. I asked him if I was on report or under arrest. He affirmed that I was indeed under arrest, pending an escort back to the ship by an Officer; given that there was little to recover by being cooperative, I informed him he could clean up the mess himself, and, according to the booking documents, I allegedly referred to him as a "...dumb fucking Jarhead..." in the process. I will admit that I had previously used this phrase in other contexts, and it certainly was possible that the allegations were correct.

Before 7 a.m. the next morning, the nice, polite, Marine woke me up from my sleep on the concrete bench by turning a small fire hose on me. Sometime later, Mr. Hollis, the ship's Engineering Officer, showed up in the ship's vehicle, resplendent in his tropical whites, wearing his SP arm-band, the required government issued .45-caliber side-arm, hanging on his belt.  He took legal possession of me by signing the custody document, and jokingly asked me if he needed to put the cuffs on me. I said "No Sir" and he then said, "OK...but don't run or I'll have to shoot you!" Then laughed at his own humor as we walked to the Navy pickup truck, and drove back to the ship. I always liked Mr. Hollis. He was a "stand-up" guy, understanding but firm about the rules, and truly concerned that "his boys," which pretty much included the whole enlisted crew.

We were in port, and destined to be in port for another two-months. As I remember we were undergoing some upgrades and maintenance, and getting ready for our Operational Readiness Inspections before heading out to WestPac again. I fully expected to get a Captain's Mast fairly quickly, and get the entire matter behind me, but Captain Williams had other plans. He restricted me to the ship, and regular duty pending Captain's Mast. This meant I could not leave the ship except for medical or dental appointments, or to shop at the PX for necessities. However, if I did leave the ship for those reasons, I was required to be accompanied by an armed guard, and wear a "Prisoner" armband. I stayed aboard, rather than endure the curiosity and presumed disdain of the public, plus the embarrassment of putting a crew member through the ordeal of having to baby-sit me. Sixty-four days later, after getting underway for WestPac, somewhere between Pearl Harbor and the French Frigate Shoals, Captain Williams decided to have a Captain's Mast.

I stood at attention about 10 feet in front of the wooden podium which had been set up on the 01 level starboard weather deck -- I'd been here before, not that long ago. Chief Delorme was standing to my left, facing outboard. The Executive Officer, Mr. Nason (now deceased) was there as well, standing beside me as I remember. In his own time Captain Williams exited his cabin, and stepped out the 01 level hatch, starting the ritual. The charges were read, including written witness' statements; apparently my choice of words with the Hawaiian citizens had caused a community level "embarrassment" for the Navy. I believe I was asked if I had anything to say on my own behalf, and of course, there was nothing to say; I had already stood before Captain Williams once before, I was under a suspended punishment, and I knew that the excuse "I had been drinking" would cut no ice with him. He busted me from Radioman 3rd Class (E-4) to Seaman (E-3), and, he reduced my pay equivalent to the rank reduction, and, he fined me 3-months pay -- Ouch! Then he asked me to step forward, and asked Mr. Nason and Chief Delorme to step away.

He looked at me over the podium, calm, almost friendly, certainly benign, and said, "Now Karns I know you feature yourself to be something of a "sea lawyer" (this was not a compliment)...and, you may be tempted to tell me I can't award hard-labor because that's a Court Martial only punishment; however, I should warn you that if you prefer to have your hard-labor sentence at Courts Martial I'm willing to see to that, once we get to Guam." It might help to know that there was an infamous Marine Brig on Guam where pending Court Martial cases were "housed" and where convicted Court Martial prisoners might spend up to a year, before being dishonorably discharged. With that reality in mind, I said, "No sir! I don't need a Court Martial...I'll perform whatever duty you give me!" He smiled, almost proudly, like a teacher with a student who might have demonstrated some promise after all, and said "Two weeks hard-labor, to be assigned, plus you will stand all of your normal watches and perform all normal duties. If you appear before me ever again, and are found guilty I will remand you to a Court Martial and we'll see if that can get your attention. Dismissed!" I thanked him, and stepped back to my place.

The location of my "hard labor" had not been indicated at Mast, but once again, Captain Williams had a plan. When we were beyond French Frigate Shoals in the open Pacific, moving slowly toward the International Date Line, the sea took on the familiar "roll" of the huge, mid-ocean swells...a rhythmic up, down, with a slight yaw thrown in which messed with my middle-ear, resulting in almost constant nausea; my motion-sickness was well known, since I frequently brought a bucket to the bridge with me when doing tactical radio duties; if necessary, I would step out the hatch onto the flying bridge and puke into the bucket...not exactly the kind of hearty bridge-ritual that Captains appreciated. Captain Williams assigned me to the Shaft Alley Bilges to do "extra duty" a day, for 14-consecutive days, the day after we hit the pitch, roll and yaw of these open ocean swells.

Shaft Alley, was the farthest compartment aft on the ship, and well below the water-line; so-called because the "shaft" which was turned by the propulsion system, ran through it, and out an (almost) water-tight fitting, finally attaching to the giant propeller which moved the ship. It was a place frequented only by "Snipes" (an affectionate term for Engineering crew), and the occasional Deck Ape (a disrespectful term for the Deck force). No self-respecting Operations Puke (Radio, Radar, Signalman, Electronics Technicians) likely even knew it existed, or how to find it if they did know it existed. Shaft Alley underway, as it turned out, was smelly, hot, noisy, and humid...thoroughly unpleasant. The bilge below the removable metal deck plating was full of warm, greasy "water" with a unique stench, swirling, gurgling, rising and falling in concert with the ship's motion. My extra-duty was to remove rust and other debris from the bulk-head, starting at water's surface, and upwards to some point, using a chipping hammer and a wire-brush. Then I would coat the bare metal which my efforts exposed with Yellow Oxide...a rust-inhibitor which I believe is now outlawed for application by humans because it is a suspected carcinogen. To do this, I stood in the murky waters of the bilge, up to my thighs, or in the case of a good ship's roll to port or starboard, up to my waist. I wore plastic goggles to keep the chips, water, and oxide out of contact with my eyes; the goggles also provided a place for sweat to pool, and resulted in an allergic reaction to the rubber sealant material around my eyes, and the bridge of my nose...ultimately I ceased wearing the goggles, feeling that possibly blindness might relieve me of the remainder of my duty; however I was not to be fortunate enough to experience blindness or any other form of disabling relief.

I should mention that any time out of the bilge during my extra duty workday had to be made up with more time. When Captain Williams accounted for time, he didn’t count a half-hour in the head vomiting or urinating...a full measure of time, as prescribed at Mast, in the bilges, for 14-consecutive days, including Saturdays and Sundays.   Consequently, I learned to not waste time by leaving Shaft Alley to vomit or urinate, adding even more toxicity to the water in which I was standing. When I exited Shaft Alley each day I was coated with rust, old paint, oxide, assorted other metallic and oily grime, as well as, soaked dungarees from standing in the water. There are few things I hate more than being grimy-dirty. I don't mind sweat, but dust, grime, grease, oil and other indescribable water-borne concoctions and body fluids are not even close to tolerable; however, the Marine Brig in Guam was waiting if I refused to perform the duty as described by my sentence, so I persisted everyday, also performing my other duties on shipboard, flawlessly, because I believed it mattered. 

Captain William, the astute and intuitive professional Officer had found the key to my cooperation...I hated getting dirty, and working in filth, including my own. My career as the ship's "bad boy" pretty much came into acceptable parameters after that. My "military" marks were acceptable; my "professional" marks in Radio were excellent; and, my personal demeanor was well within "acceptable" limits until I left the Abnaki in July 1966 in Subic Bay the Philippines, enroute to Treasure Island, California. Part of my improvement was for a reason I could not claim.  We had to leave my "shore buddy" and drinking partner Kenny Wetzler in Yokosuka, Japan after his jaw was broken, and wired in place following a brawl at the Enlisted Men's club. With Wetzler gone, I gravitated to others who perhaps didn't magnify my own faults to the same extent. I don't mean to imply that my behavior was Wetzzler’s fault; simply put he and I did not "moderate" each other's faults, we magnified them.

In good time, with the recommendations of Mr. Nason and Captain Williams I re-earned my Petty Officer-3rd rank and finished out my time as an E-4. During my civilian career, I often remembered Captain Williams, his benevolent but absolute authority, and his willingness to use his power to bring about change, and I became better at sizing up my "boss's". Perhaps only two of them, in my next 39-years of employment understood how to use power and authority without malice or self-aggrandizement.  I like to think I learned some of my management skills from Captain Williams.

- - -

Jim Brogdon

October 16, 2010.
Tonight that unique spark which had inner-lighted Jim Brogdon for almost 67 years flickered and died.

I received the message from Jim's wife and daughter earlier this week that Jim had gone onto home-hospice...finally accepting outside assistance from a visiting nurse. He was in a hospital bed, taking oxygen for comfort, and to elevate his blood-oxygen level, which was perilously low. He was no longer able to talk on the phone...his voice a bare whisper, his hand unable to hold the phone, and crushing fatigue enveloped him at slightest effort.  He was pulling back against the forward tug of Eternity, and was losing the tug-of-war.

Michael, his Son and oldest child, called me shortly after 9 p.m., leaving a voice-mail which I retrieved just before 11 p.m., as I drove to collect my granddaughters from their high school dance. That message and the ensuing conversation, have stirred memories and half-memories which I'll try to share here.

- - -

I met Jim the first time in church...at least that's what he told me, and given his remarkable ability to accurately account for our history together, I'll accept his version. However, my own first clear memory of Jim was of him sitting on his scooter, I think a Cushman Eagle, wearing Levi's and a white t-shirt which contrasted starkly with his red-hair, and his tanned and ruddy complexion. It was early autumn of 1958 in Tucson, about this time in October, and the day was sunny and warm as it nearly always is in October. He was in my part of town to meet a mutual friend and his future brother-in-law, Billy Brown, who lived a block or two from the trailer court my parents and I were in.

I don't remember our words at the time. I do know that Jim was always direct, which sometimes made me "squirm" because he would move to the heart of a matter too quickly, before I had processed my position...before I even knew how I felt, or if I felt, or had any inkling about what I felt. I needed to hedge my bets rather than jumping right in. This honest, soft-spoken abruptness endured throughout his life; not that he was always right, or accurate, or rational, but he reasoned, agreed, disagreed right out in the open. Though I never heard him use the word "bullshit" he had a subtle way of calling "bullshit" that let me know my ruse or unprepared answer was discovered.

I had attended the 6th and 7th grades in Burns, Oregon and started the 8th grade in September 1958, believing that I would likely be there until I was on my own; truth be told, at that time there was no place I would have rather been than Burns. The dusty little throw-back of a town had become the center of my universe, which was comprised of friends, spending time outdoors just rambling through sage-brush and rim-rocks, and hunting for specific game in season, and of course, impatiently enduring school and church activities. Like all of the "goods" of life my time in Burns ended.

On a bleak morning, just after daybreak, in early October 1958 we left. I can remember feeling that a life worth living had just ended. As our over-loaded 1948 GMC pickup truck labored out of the valley, leaving Burns and Hines behind, I had no reason to believe anything worthwhile would happen to me in Arizona, and I had no inkling that I would meet anyone who would become a life-long friend and brother. But, here was a boy, a bit younger than me, who was to become closer than a brother though the friendship would never become cloying.

Jim sat back easily on his scooter, shut off the engine, and smiling in that direct, all eye-contact way that he had throughout his life, extended his hand and re-introduced himself. We had met in a Sunday School class for young teens perhaps the prior Sunday. I remember being somewhat surprised that he would recognize me outside the church setting, or bother to hunt me down...any kid who rode a scooter was obviously "rich" and had all the choices.  I, by comparison, always felt somewhat invisible, like I was there to observe but could easily slip by unseen. I had a career by then of being the new kid, and started every relationship with every new town and its people "knowing" that it and they, were temporary. My role in the scheme of things, I imagined, was to be the outsider and observer, engaged enough to get along with the natives, but then move along without any strings of remorse when it came time. I had relaxed this view during my two-plus year stay in Burns and had paid the price. With that start...the extended hand and direct manner, Jim and I became friends, compadres, partners, and eventually "brothers"...separated only by our attendance at different schools.

My parents loved Jim! They were usually not enamored of my choice of friends, so I think they almost went "overboard" to assure that they did not get in the way of my friendship with Jim. He was courteous and respectful of adults, he was clean living (no smoking, no alcohol, no drugs, no foul language) and he relieved them of some of my transportation needs later on when he began driving a car. As I remember, passengers were not allowed on his Cushman, either by family or municipal decree, I can't remember which. The Cushman, however, was followed by a succession of cars, which Jim worked to pay for, worked on to make them street-legal, serviced, and improved so that we never lacked adequate wheels. In addition to Jim's car, we "tooled" around frequently with Paul Brown in his 1955 Chevy, or with Jim Beaman in his old Mercedes funeral car -- and, when we wanted to impress the chicks, we sometimes used my dad's '48 GMC pickup truck with the red wooden "sheep-rack" on its oxidized bed.

I think it would be difficult to find two boys, or families more "demographically" different. Our families and backgrounds were entirely at odds. Jim's dad was a Master's Degree-level headmaster of a private school for primarily wealthy kids -- my Dad had an 8th grade education, was a house-painter, and sometime pastor/missionary. Jim's mother was a "home-maker" and logistically supported her husband, two daughters and Jim. My mother cleaned the houses of wealthy families, receiving an hourly wage, and sometimes a jar of borscht for her efforts, and did all the home-maker stuff as well. His family was from East Texas, Beaumont I believe. My parents were from the mid-west, southern Missouri and southern Illinois, "Hill-Billy" country. His family lived in a 3-bedroom house in the suburbs of Tucson, well beyond the racial mix, and police interventions of my neighborhood near downtown, and the Southern Pacific railroad tracks. We lived in a four-room (counting the kitchen and bathroom) duplex, likely less than 500 square feet in all, where I slept on the living-room couch. Jim was an above average, fairly well-behaved student, a disciplined and motivated athlete, a courteous and non-rebellious youth. I was...well...not athletic, not a good or even close to an average student, who rebelled against all guidance, and was prone to scamming well-intentioned adults, often just for the sheer entertainment value.

Still Jim seem to truly enjoy his forays into my world and my house, where he would converse with my parents, and we could listen to Dave Brubeck or Miles Davis LPs on an old console stereo without interrupting any one's TV watching, since we had no TV in my home. If our music and adolescence became annoying, my parents would gracefully vanish to the bedroom at the back of the house, and close one of the only two doors in the house, leaving us the front-room and kitchen.

My neighborhood was the frequent scene of street violence, some of which I perpetrated.  There was police activity, and vandalism of all sorts, a behavior I never took up and never understood why anyone would; it was unusual for Jim and I to be out and about and not be stopped by police for a "field interview" which was a euphemism for "harassment without probable cause" which by the way, I fully endorsed then and now. Only a thin strip of undeveloped desert and a huge rail-yard separated my neighborhood from the streets of downtown Tucson. The neighborhood was a mixture of mostly Mexican families, a few hold-out retirees who perhaps believed the neighborhood would "turn" back to its White roots, and some young couples from Davis Monthan AFB, enjoying the cheap, off-base rent, at the expense of their personal and property safety.

On weekend nights, across the rail yards, the visceral core of Tucson beckoned us with its neon lights, smells and sounds, risky street-life, authentic Mexican food, and prostitutes baiting and cooing to us, "C'mon over heah white-boys...you White-boys wanna have a good time?" or sometimes they were fighting tooth and nail over control of a prime corner on which to strut their wares. The Greyhound bus station off West Congress St. was a prime spot for people-watching, in particular if the people you wanted to watch were the denizens of the night...the thin layer of sediment just above the scum of society...or those possessed by "demons" which required half a jar of sugar in a cup of coffee while weathering the gap between heroin hits. This part of Tucson hustled and bustled with noise, risk, and frequently illegal activity and attracted us boys as though we were large desert bugs attracted to a street-light, though we were voyeurs of its delights.

Sundays, however, we were transformed into teenaged worshippers with two stints in church, dressed in our best, and resplendent in our pretenses, working hard to fit right in with the Saints, while still feigning enough boredom and rebellion to not lose credibility with our peers...we dutifully attended the First Assembly of God Church of Tucson. Because my Dad functioned as an informal assistant pastor to the Reverend Gilmore, it seemed we were always early. I would hang out on the corner of Broadway and Martin waiting nervously for that particular gun-metal gray Plymouth station-wagon to appear from the East on Broadway, turn the corner and park on Martin, delivering the Brogdons to church, and delivering me from an otherwise unbearable and boring service. Jim's dad would smile and greet me in his low-key fashion, a smile with eye-brows raised; Jim's mother, who seemed somewhat demur and reserved, a bit fussy, would acknowledge me, usually with a sideways once over, while his two sisters pushed by seeming, wisely seeming to ignore me entirely.

Once in church Jim and I shared a Sunday School class for young teens, after which we were dumped out into the general morning "worship" service where we established our turf at center-rear of the auditorium with the other "young warriors", giving us a panoramic view of the other worshippers, in particular the girls and young married women, but which also placed us far enough back that whispered comments and light-laughter might not be detected from the pulpit; detection from the pulpit could result in sanctions as light as a pause and direct glance, or a general reprimand, "You boys settle down back there!", or a very specific ejection by name, from the service. Personal ejections from service were always followed by additional physical and psychological home-punishment, at least that was so in my case.

I don't recall Jim ever being ejected from a church service, though I do remember his quick wit being the cause of several general reprimands, and resulted in my own ejection more than once. Evening "testimony" services so-called, were particularly perilous given the impromptu thanks of meek individuals, unaccustomed to speaking publicly. One elderly woman declared that she had "...been at death's door, but Jesus pulled me through..." to which Jim injected, "Well what's she doing here?" resulting in raucous laughter and my expulsion from the service. No adult would have even thought to blame Jim for the ruckus in the pews, just as they could never consider that I might not be the cause.

Sunday afternoons were almost exclusively dedicated to family, made bearable by the fact that we knew we'd be going to Sunday night service, and unless there was an unusual outpouring of guilt and repentance at the alter, we'd be going out on the town after Sunday evening worship, particularly if it was a warm, summer Sunday night in Tucson. The Sunday night forays to a late meal or soda were "co-ed" though not coupled. Yes there were attractions within the group, particularly at the older end of the age spectrum, but there was not any serious coupling during that Sunday after service time. Every young male in church was 'attracted' to Cheri (pronounced "Cherry") Beck...reason being she was attractive...though not available, flirtatious, or slutty...she was feminine but could still "fit in" with the guys, and was just physically and intellectually attractive...plus her parents were "cool." "Birdie" (Roberta Hamilton) also known as "Puddles" was attractive, though in a somewhat frenetic, "Tom Boy" way, and kind of all over the map emotionally. Rosemary Migliore was the older, simmering Italian-Mediterranean beauty, whose parents owned a tourist motel on the Miracle Mile. Rosemary was out of our reach due to age as well as "class" -- at least so we imagined; but, more than that, she was not admired by Jim because he felt her to be "manipulative" with her looks; while I agreed with him that his assessment was probably true, I truly didn't understand why he would take issue with her using her assets. And, there were others whose names have now leaked from my memory into oblivion. The boys were me, Jim Brogdon, and Paul Brown, who was at the older end of the set, and (I want to say) "Jim" Woolsley. Billy Brown was a bit young to run with us, and even when we tried to include him I think his parents, in particular his mother, may have quashed the invitations, unless the following Monday was not a school day.

The entourage would load up into cars, and arrive en masse at a predetermined destination, usually a drive-in or low-end, family-style restaurant, and noisily invade the quiet Sunday night business, by moving tables and chairs, and requesting separate checks. If there were any active romantic attractions it was discernible only by whose meal or drinks got paid by whom, or which girl got dropped off at home last, by which male driver. Some of the routes taken to pull off this result were so obvious and laughable that the "couple" was often noisily derided whether or not anything might be going on. The point is, the activities were innocent enough, even though the intentions of the heart might be less than platonic.

On one such occasion a new girl in church, who Jim immediately dubbed "The Amazon" due to her height, apparent stealthy "hunger" and other burgeoning "assets", ended up being taken home last by me...a result which was entirely by chance.  She simply ended up in my car, with no other good choice available for delivering her home and I didn't feel I should just leave her on a corner. There was no touching, or any sort of innuendo on my part, however she made it clear in every subtle and unsubtle fashion that she would love to have me over for dinner, breakfast, or lunch. I had the distinct feeling that I would be the "main course."

This girl was "light-years" beyond me in her conscious desires and long-term goals, and, her attention felt dangerous and threatening to me because she was "a church girl" and whatever happened would be integrated into my church world, and as with all things, become public, and usually distorted, knowledge of all. To get her out of my vehicle that Sunday night, and make my escape, I promised her that I would come over to her house again, when I could come in and stay longer. That being said, and committed I was able to escape for the moment. As an aside, I must say that I was entirely afraid of her, and didn't even know for sure why! I just knew that she was dangerous to me, and my future...I knew that I never wanted to be left alone with her, and, as long as she went to "our" church I would be unable to escape her attention.

As soon as possible I talked with Jim and told him he had to help me. He of course had way too much fun with the event, pretending to not understand why I was so intimidated. He kept asking specifics, like "Well, what exactly did she say? What exactly did she do?" which I would answer, and he would respond, "Well that doesn't seem threatening to me...I think she just wants to be friends!" All the time, he was grinning and his eyes were twinkling, characteristics he shared with his father, which were the true signs that he was having entirely too much fun at my expense.

In any case, like the good friend he was, when I next went to her house he went with me. The house was entirely void of other family, and she was dressed in a fashion that for the time would have been unsuitable for church or school. She was not happy to see Jim, and the evening did not last long before her frustration, and the awkwardness of the triad brought the event to a close. I admit I was somewhat disappointed that she gave up so easily...it seemed like she would have fought harder for such a prize as me! She may have appeared at our church a time or two after that, but apparently left for a better hunting-ground.

As recently as last year at Jim's 65th birthday party, he bragged to others that he had once upon a time saved his best friend Bill from being kidnapped by The Amazon, and suffering a fate of who knows what, but undoubtedly a fate worse than death!

In all, I went to portions of 4 school-years in Tucson, starting with the 8th Grade in 1958 and 1959; I attended all of my Freshman high school year in Santa Barbara, but again returned to Tucson High School for most of my Sophomore, Junior and Senior years.  Tucson had become the jumping off point for my Dad's treks into Mexico to save the Indians, which is a whole different though related story.  I left Tucson the day after my high school graduation day, and a night spent with my friend Jim and other church friends at a "progressive dinner."

At about 7 a.m. on June 3rd in 1962 my parents and I drove the 1948 3/4 ton GMC pickup and a 1951 Plymouth sedan North out of Tucson, on our way to Tacoma, Washington. The high school church-sponsored graduation party had ended the night before at about midnight at Rosemary Migliore's house, with swimming in her Dad's tourist motel pool (most, if not all of the tourists were well-gone from Tucson by June). I went home knowing I could stay in Tucson if I chose. I was 18 years old; I had enough cash to last awhile, and employment was very easy at the time...but I didn't have the 'nads' to make the break at that time.

My lack of forethought had resulted in a graduation day with no plans for the day after and beyond. Going with my parents was emotionally the easiest choice, though this choice resulted in leaving Tucson behind. I must say, when I was younger, I always intended to "loop back" and rejoin the ride where I had left it. This was true of Burns, Santa Barbara, and of Tucson; but, I never did loop back and rejoin the ride in any of those places, though I revisited all of the places and people several times after leaving. Someone said something like, "You can never go home again" and this was true of all my beloved towns and friendships.

Jim and I would meet again in Tucson in November 1963 after I hitched in from the USS Ashtabula in Long Beach. As chance would have it I arrived on Sunday of the week that Kennedy would be killed in Dallas. We would meet thereafter, halfway across the globe, in the Philippines where Jim was stationed at the U.S. Navy Air station Cubi Point, overlooking Subic Bay where my ships frequently visited. We would have dinner in Olongapo Village, a cesspool of a city of the kind that can only exist at the gates of a major military-base…imagine Tijuana on steroids. The cities "commerce" was designed to serve the mostly illicit needs of the U.S. military. The village was burgeoning with bars, restaurants, night clubs, brothels and street denizens...Bennie-Boys trying to pass themselves off as "girls" to the drunken Marines and Sailors, as well as, well-qualified, professional substitutes, true females who for a while and a sum, would pretend to listen and care. I sometimes felt bad for the plight of the citizens of Olongapo, but in truth I felt more disappointment and sorrow for those in uniform who believed they needed their comfort.  When Jim and I went ashore together we sampled only the foods of Olongapo City, though he knew that I had a different relationship to the town when he wasn't present.  The final time that I came into Subic Bay, in August 1966, it was to catch my "ride" home from Hickam AFB and be separated out of the Navy.  Jim had long before ended his Active duty and headed home.

In the Summer of 1967, a year after I had left the Navy, Jim came up from Tucson to Tacoma to work; he was seeking physical work, but preferred to perform that work in the cool summer of the Northwest. He and I shared an apartment for that Summer, in the complex across the street from the apartment complex where Jennifer and I would, in less than a year, begin our life together as a married-pair. By the time Jim left to go back to the desert in late August, I was "smitten" beyond repair or reversal with Jennifer Carmichael. I had told Jim with great certainty when we first saw Jennifer in Sunday morning church, that "...this was the woman I would marry..." Jim believed I was certain, but had less confidence in my abilities to make it so. That is another story, but it all worked out as planned, in a very general way which is the way most plans work out if they work at all.

After both Jim and I married and had children we would meet again when Jim, Sandy and Michael moved to Renton, Washington for a brief while. I can't remember if Michelle was an infant by then, or not yet born. In any case, Bill and Bev Brown (Jim's sister) had transferred up to Seattle with his company, and Jim and Sandy soon followed, with Jim working as a heavy-equipment mechanic (I believe) at the same semi-trailer sales company as Bill Brown. The gray, wet, unrelenting rain and short, cool summer drove Jim and Sandy out of Washington and back to the desert soon after they moved up...and we were not to see each other again until 2002 when I went to Tucson for my 40th High School reunion.  By the time I headed down to Tucson, I was aware that Jim had been "sick" for some time.  I had spoken to Cheri Beck and Jim Beaman, telling them I'd be down, and hoping we could all get together.  They mentioned Jim's "condition" but I was unprepared for what I found when I arrived.

I checked into the hotel where the reunion was to be centered, on South Alvernon way, coincidentally less than two miles from Jim and Sandy's residence, which they shared with their children Michael and Michelle. I had purposely missed the trip to reunion trip to Tucson High School and other "memory lane" activities, content with showing up on the second night, for cocktails and dinner only, and meeting my old school-mates in an escapable setting.  More on that perhaps sometime in the future, but for now suffice it to say that I found that the mutual interest and curiosity shared by me and the group was every bit as underwhelming as when I attended school; the same old "clicks" convened and cloyed, to the exclusion of all others, and the same old onlookers hung out in singlets looking on at the clicks, and wishing they were members of the exclusive clubs so they could exclude people like themselves. The food was predictable hotel fare, rubber-chicken, roast beef, and Talapia, and since I don't drink alcohol, I was out of there in plenty of time after the alcohol raised the decibel levels, to go back to Jim's house nearby.

When I first saw Jim in 2002 I have to admit that I was stunned!  It's always shocking enough to have to fast-forward one's images and expectations due to aging alone...it had been almost 3 decades since I had seen Jim and Sandy...but, aging alone couldn't account for the physical changes. Jim's progressive disease (body inclusion myocitis or in simplified form, Muscular Dystrophy) had shrunk him, his muscles "jellified" and taken him off his feet; he lived his life sitting in a chair or lying down. He could in 2002 still stand for a brief while, but barely, and could not navigate the transition from bathtub to floor, or walk even one step on the flat floor.

In 2002 he could still hold a fork or spoon and feed himself, and I believe he could get a small light-weight container to his mouth to drink fluids. The strong, fast, limber athletic man was gone. But, the strong, quick, nimble mind and humor were even more present...if anything, the "unphysical" identity that was Jim had been magnified by time and disability. And, at least in my presence, there was no self-pity, and his family did not carefully avoid the "500 pound gorilla" of disability in the room.
While I was there, part of the old "60's gang" -- Jim Beaman and his wife Jan, and Cheri Beck and her then current husband, came over. Of course the spouses had to endure stories, events and times that they weren't part of and couldn't share in, but they seemed to know to stay out of it, and not try to add anything.

I left Tucson, knowing that I would be back to visit Jim again, though I had no distinct plans. As chance would have it, I saw Jim two more times before he died, the last time being at his 65th birthday party where family and "the ol' 60's gang" again put in an appearance. It was April 4, 2009 and this time Jim was entirely disabled. He could sit, once stabilized and "tied" into his wheel chair, and he could lay in bed, but all other activities had to be assisted...including scratching an itch on his face, or moving a fork to his mouth.  The bites he was fed were necessarily small, and he chew long and well lest he choke on the small amount of food, or even liquid.  The disease was moving from his extremities to the small muscles of his throat and chest.

When I said good-bye to Jim that weekend, I believed I was saying good-bye to his face forever, and as it occurred that was so.  Seeing him as he was, I was surprised that he had survived that long, and I was overjoyed that his mind, humor, memory, and speaking ability were still intact. I decided that I wanted that to be my last up-close-and-personal contact with Jim...while his identity was at its peak. I bent over his chair, and hugged him a longer while than the brief "man hug" that usually occurs, walked out of his house, and drove back to the hotel for the last time before flying home. I cried silently the entire 30 minute drive to my hotel. That was the night I "lost" Jim, or so I thought at the time.

We spoke frequently by telephone over the next months, and year, but it was never the same again for me. Each conversation was a reminder of the impending...and in each conversation Jim was straining more and more to be present, and laboring for his voice to be heard...though his thoughts were clear. The second to the last time he and I spoke, his voice gave away his downward slide...it was weak, higher in tone, hollow and halting. There were no flowing sentences or burgeoning thoughts...and I knew then that these short phone conversations were costing him dearly in effort and fatigue...it was almost time to let him go.

We spoke briefly one more time, and ended that short call by telling each other of our love for the other, and then finished with the "patented" parting that we had heard from Goldie...my mother, so many times, and so many years before: "Good bye Bud...I'll see ya, when I see ya!"

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