77mustard40
SILVER Star
Sea Knight said:
Let it rip Commander
Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (2 Viewers)
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Let it rip Commander
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77mustard40 said:
Agreed, I believe we all would most likely like to read it Lee. However, it is something you have kept to yourself, sooo
- Thread starter
- #163
Spearman--Part One
I pull away from the Glancy Motor Hotel and tune in good old reliable KOMA. Jackson Browne.
Aside from water standing in potholes and roadside ditches, there's little evidence of yesterday's storm. Once again I'm seeing sunny clear skies, just as predicted. Sun is rising behind me, and not another soul on the highway. This will be a better day for sure. It has to be; if I can't put in more than 100 miles a day I'll be lucky to make Seattle by Christmas.
The Mother Road will take me all the way to Amarillo, 180 miles, and then it's only a short 50 miles north to Dumas. I aim The Turtle due West on Route 66, and start daydreaming. Thirty minutes pass and we're in Elk City, home of the National Route 66 museum. I stop and snap pics of The Turtle in front of the museum sign. This wind is cutting through me like a knife; I'd forgotten how cold it can get in the Panhandle and again I'm grateful for Ray's flannel shirt. I scramble back into the truck and continue driving. Another 15 miles and I'm in Sayre, where much of The Grapes of Wrath was filmed. Historic territory. I'm still daydreaming. That's what the road does, makes you think. Think, and remember. Like Jackson Browne said, I've got seven women on my mind. But mainly one. Just one. I decide to alter the plan. I've already told Tom that I may not make it to his place, so I'm not expected. I'll bypass Amarillo and Dumas. Instead I'll head North, to Spearman.
To this day I can't explain it, but I was a young man in a hurry. I skipped a year of high school and then attended college Summer sessions in order to get out early. Why would I do this? The best thing I can come up with, and I've pondered this for years, is that I was afflicted with wanderlust. I didn't have a definite long range plan. I just wanted to get out of Texas and see the world. So barely 20, I'm finished with school and thinking "What now?" My cousin is in dental school, and my parents think it would be just great if I did the same. Then we could open a practice together. I happen to know that the only reason he's studying dentistry is that his eyesight is too poor to pass a flight physical. Mine isn't. I'm not old enough for a commission, but that's only a minor obstacle. I decide to lie about my age, and join the Navy. Like the recruiting posters say, "Join The Navy, See The World." That's gonna be me.
I had an elementary school girlfriend, and a junior high girlfriend, and then I became cautious. By high school many of my friends had started pairing off, getting serious, talking about marriage as early as 16. There were a few scandalous high school pregnancies that lead to shotgun weddings, certainly enough to make a person think twice about slipping up. Things stepped up a notch in college, and I saw several of my buds rushing into marriage, some because they had to, others to avoid being drafted, and a few who were truly in love. I was best man in at least four weddings within a year, and none of the happy couples were much past their 21st birthday. And they didn't seem all that blissful. That wasn't gonna happen to me. No Sir, I was way too smart to get tied down. A wife would absolutely derail my dream, so I was careful to avoid getting close to anyone that might bugger up the plan.
So far, that was working pretty well for me--no wife, no fiance, and no girlfriend. I'd finished up my coursework and had already flown to Albuquerque for swearing in but there was one hitch. It seemed that everyone and their brother wanted to be a Navy pilot. I'd have to wait several months for an API slot to open up, Aviation Preflight Indoctrination. Technically I was on active duty and being paid, but I had no actual responsibilities. Not a bad situation, I thought. I planned to keep my apartment for another semester and just hang out until it was time to go. It was August, and I wouldn't be leaving until January. One night I'm at a campus pub drinking fifty cent pints of Schlitz dark, (because drinking dark beer was the mark of a real sophisticate) when I ran into one of my former profs. He was a fairly young guy I'd seen there before, very approachable, not the stuffy academic type. So we start talking, and when he learns that I don't have anything going on, he asks if I'd be interested in teaching a couple of his biology labs. I'd been a science major and this was something I could do in my sleep, so I agreed. I'd pick up a few extra bucks spending money, and have something easy to do. Nothing wrong with that deal, I think.
I spotted her the first time I took roll. Patricia Marie Kingsley. It was a night class. She was sitting in the back of the lab, in the most inconspicuous spot, and she struck me as shy. Well dressed but not flashy, no makeup that I could see, red hair and freckles, what I think they call a milky complexion, and, how shall I say this...she was voluptuous. Patricia never spoke in class, but every now and again she'd approach my desk and timidly ask a question. I noticed that the class alpha males, rich frat boys and jocks, followed her around like puppy dogs. For those guys, hitting on her seemed like a sporting competition, but nothing worked. None of their lines had any effect other than causing her embarrassment. And throughout all this, she seemed completely unaware that she was a knockout.
I started running into her in odd places. The union building, science building, library, grocery store, walking across campus, and then one day in the snack bar. I was chowing down on a cheeseburger and grading papers when I saw her walk away from the checkout register looking for an empty seat. There weren't any, so I yelled "Hey Patricia," and waved. She came over, sat down, and the first thing she said was "I don't like to be called Patricia. Please call me Patsy."
And so it began. We sat there all afternoon exchanging life stories. She'd grown up on a farm, a small town girl, only daughter, four brothers, and she was the only one who'd been able to attend college. She was a junior, a music major, and she played the piano and violin. And she sang. And I was right, she was very shy. Now technically it was against the rules for a faculty member to become involved with a student, but I didn't really consider myself faculty, and she was probably the best student in my class. It took me about 3 seconds to rationalize that I didn't have an ethical problem. So we started hanging out. Not what you'd call dating, just spending time together. One thing I had plenty of was time. Time and an FJ40, and she didn't have a car. It was the most innocent relationship I've ever had. A few weeks pass, and I don't even know how the topic was broached, but somewhere along the way we started talking about the future, and then the possibility of a future together. All hypothetical of course, but I must have been losing my mind because this was clearly a deviation from my plan.
One weekend in October, my birthday weekend, I took Patsy to meet my parents. I'd never gone this far before, never taken a girl home, and my parents didn't know what to make of her. They're the critical sort, and I knew before we got there that they'd be searching for faults. Because that's what they do. Over supper they subjected her to an interrogation, which was pretty entertaining because they couldn't find anything wrong with her. The larger problem, for me, was neither could I. I'm sure we must have left there with my parents wondering what was going on with the two of us, and I found myself wondering the same thing.
Then comes November, and Thanksgiving is approaching. Patsy had planned to hitch a ride home with another girl from her dorm. On Wednesday afternoon, just before school shut down, there was a massive Winter storm that blanketed much of the Texas Panhandle with ice and snow. There were road closures and traveler's warnings, and only hours before the beginning of Thanksgiving break, her ride decided to go skiing rather than home to the Panhandle. No ride, and Patsy was upset. The dorms were closing; she'd have no place to stay and no way to get home. She called me, crying. What was a guy to do? If I planned to be an officer and a gentleman, this was a good place to start. I offered to drive her home for Thanksgiving. 600 miles, through a snow storm, in my 40. To Spearman, Texas.
In Spearman I meet her Mom and Dad, and oldest brother. When you think of the cliche, salt-of-the-earth people, that would be her family. Her Dad runs a grain elevator, her Mom owns a small business in town, and they farm. I don't know what crops they grow, but they appear to be successful, and there's also livestock, and chickens. The first morning I wake up to the scent of bacon frying, make my way to the kitchen and find her brother Danny standing over a big gas range. They take turns cooking, and Danny was the designated breakfast chef of the day. Without asking he hands me a steaming mug of black coffee, then asks if I want 4 or 6 eggs. To start. He's frying them in bacon grease. In those days nobody was cholesterol conscious but I don't want to overdo it, so I only ask for 4, over medium. And a half pound of bacon. There may have been a few biscuits in there too. He's a protective older brother and before anyone else wanders in, he "interviews" me about my intentions. His Sis is a special person, he says, something of an innocent, and he wants to confirm that my intentions are honorable. I must have passed muster because instead of showing me the door, he asked if I wanted a few more fried eggs.
Driving back from Spearman in a 40 over icy roads is a lengthy ordeal, an 8 hour sentence. That's a lot of talking time, and before we made it back to campus we'd decided, at least in principle, that getting married was a pretty good idea after all. No wedding date, no ring, no announcement, just an agreement that we were somehow going to end up together, make babies, and live happily ever after. Patsy had another 3 semesters to graduation, and I was shipping out in January, so there was no urgency about making definite plans. We were nothing if not practical.
January comes, and Uncle Sam says it's time to go. I know that I won't be needing a vehicle, so I sell the 40 for $1,700, bank the cash, and get out of Dodge. Over the following weeks and months, with no cell phones, and long distance calls being prohibitively expensive, Patsy and I write. I have leave coming up in July, and we're toying with the idea of gettin' hitched then. I'm drawing decent pay and could help with her college expenses. She'd become eligible for military health coverage, and I'd get a housing allowance. Practical. Several plusses there to think about. Again, we're just floating ideas, and we still haven't told anyone about this, not even family.
It's Spring, my 30 day leave isn't far away, and I'm jazzed about seeing my family, and even moreso about seeing Patsy. Where I am, we're somewhat isolated, and overwhelmed with training and absorbing volumes of tech information, but we do catch occasional newscasts and I know things are ratcheting up in Viet Nam. We've heard about the TET Offensive, and we hear that body counts are rising. For whatever reason, none of this registers.
Al Dewlen lived on our block, across the street and three houses down. He was a well known author, and a couple of his books had been adapted for Hollywood screenplays. Every now and then we'd read in the local paper that there was some Hollywood bigwig in town, staying at the Dewlen house, negotiating movie rights. Townes Van Zandt was only an occasional presence in the hood, but Dewlen was our resident celebrity. The Dewlens had one child, Mike, four years older than me. If you tried to conjure up an image of the All-American boy, that would have been Mike. At Amarillo High he was president of the senior class, an honor student, all-state football player, and a genuinely nice guy. Mike went on to Baylor, was All-SWC in football, graduated with honors and planned to attend law school. After graduation he'd married Lynn, a pretty Baylor coed, and they already had a young daughter. The Dewlens were a patriotic family; Al had been a Marine, and he faithfully flew the American flag on a pole in his front yard. You'd see him out there raising his flag every morning, then stepping back and snapping a crisp salute. No mistaking his love of country. Mike was his father's son; putting law school on hold and following in his father's footsteps, he joined the Marines. Predictably, he finished at the top of his OCS class. Then he went to war.
I arrive home in late June and my parents are there at the airport. We exchange pleasantries and head for the house, my Dad at the wheel, me at shotgun, my Mom in the back. Almost home, driving down our street I see Al Dewlen's flag at half mast, and a black wreath on his door. "What happened?" I ask. Long silence and then my Mom says "Mike was killed last week." She hadn't wanted to say anything until I'd been home for a while, but now the subject is unavoidable. She'd saved an article from the Amarillo Globe News:
" June 11, Marine Lt. Michael Dewlen, 24, was killed in Vietnam. His outnumbered battery of the 1st Battalion fought the Viet Cong in hand-to-hand combat in the darkness southeast of Khe Sanh. Before Mike was cut down by submachine gun fire, he and four other Marines killed 28 of the enemy, bought enough time for arriving American troops to quell the offensive, and prevented the Viet Cong from capturing a weapons cache....Posthumously, Mike will receive the Silver Star, the country's second highest medal of valor."
I can hardly comprehend that Mike is dead. Anybody but him. That hasn't sunk in when the following day I receive a call from my best friend, Wayne Woodward. I was his best man last year, and I'll probably ask him to be mine. We keep in touch. Wayne knows I'm home on leave, and wants to know if I'd like a ride to Gary Milton's funeral. What funeral? I don't even know what to say. Gary is dead? The last time I saw Gary was a year ago, in a campus pizza hut. He'd just withdrawn from school and joined the Army, and he was buying beer for the house. He was a geeky history major, not a gung ho soldier, but he wanted to see what was going on in Southeast Asia first hand. At the pizza joint he was joking about getting over to Viet Nam and doing his part before the war ended. I guess he made it. Gary's UH-1 had been shot down on June 13th. He'd been in country less than two months.
So now it's real. And the next weekend I'm supposed to see Patsy, and talk about marriage. Mike and Gary, two friends killed, two days apart. Right across the street there's Mike's widow and infant daughter. This hits pretty damn close to home. I start thinking about my situation. Obsessing. I already know where I'm going. SERE school in San Diego, and then to Da Nang. It's all I can think about. Mortality rates for helo pilots are high. There's a very real possibility that I may not come back. I decide there's no way I'm getting married now, and risk leaving a widow behind. The weekend rolls around. I borrow my Dad's VW beetle and go to see Patsy. I don't want to admit to my real concerns, so I give her a line of double talk about how I think we should wait until she's finished school and I'm back in CONUS. I make a pretty good case for the delay and she seems disappointed, but doesn't argue. There's a cloud hanging over the remainder of the weekend, and I put it there, but I'm convinced I've done the right thing. We're not breaking up, and if I make it back we'll still be on course. Right?
Well, I'm runnin' down the road
tryin' to loosen my load
I've got seven women on my mind,
Four that wanna own me,
Two that wanna stone me,
One says she's a friend of mine
Take It easy, take it easy
Don't let the sound of your own wheels
drive you crazy
tryin' to loosen my load
I've got seven women on my mind,
Four that wanna own me,
Two that wanna stone me,
One says she's a friend of mine
Take It easy, take it easy
Don't let the sound of your own wheels
drive you crazy
Aside from water standing in potholes and roadside ditches, there's little evidence of yesterday's storm. Once again I'm seeing sunny clear skies, just as predicted. Sun is rising behind me, and not another soul on the highway. This will be a better day for sure. It has to be; if I can't put in more than 100 miles a day I'll be lucky to make Seattle by Christmas.
The Mother Road will take me all the way to Amarillo, 180 miles, and then it's only a short 50 miles north to Dumas. I aim The Turtle due West on Route 66, and start daydreaming. Thirty minutes pass and we're in Elk City, home of the National Route 66 museum. I stop and snap pics of The Turtle in front of the museum sign. This wind is cutting through me like a knife; I'd forgotten how cold it can get in the Panhandle and again I'm grateful for Ray's flannel shirt. I scramble back into the truck and continue driving. Another 15 miles and I'm in Sayre, where much of The Grapes of Wrath was filmed. Historic territory. I'm still daydreaming. That's what the road does, makes you think. Think, and remember. Like Jackson Browne said, I've got seven women on my mind. But mainly one. Just one. I decide to alter the plan. I've already told Tom that I may not make it to his place, so I'm not expected. I'll bypass Amarillo and Dumas. Instead I'll head North, to Spearman.
To this day I can't explain it, but I was a young man in a hurry. I skipped a year of high school and then attended college Summer sessions in order to get out early. Why would I do this? The best thing I can come up with, and I've pondered this for years, is that I was afflicted with wanderlust. I didn't have a definite long range plan. I just wanted to get out of Texas and see the world. So barely 20, I'm finished with school and thinking "What now?" My cousin is in dental school, and my parents think it would be just great if I did the same. Then we could open a practice together. I happen to know that the only reason he's studying dentistry is that his eyesight is too poor to pass a flight physical. Mine isn't. I'm not old enough for a commission, but that's only a minor obstacle. I decide to lie about my age, and join the Navy. Like the recruiting posters say, "Join The Navy, See The World." That's gonna be me.
I had an elementary school girlfriend, and a junior high girlfriend, and then I became cautious. By high school many of my friends had started pairing off, getting serious, talking about marriage as early as 16. There were a few scandalous high school pregnancies that lead to shotgun weddings, certainly enough to make a person think twice about slipping up. Things stepped up a notch in college, and I saw several of my buds rushing into marriage, some because they had to, others to avoid being drafted, and a few who were truly in love. I was best man in at least four weddings within a year, and none of the happy couples were much past their 21st birthday. And they didn't seem all that blissful. That wasn't gonna happen to me. No Sir, I was way too smart to get tied down. A wife would absolutely derail my dream, so I was careful to avoid getting close to anyone that might bugger up the plan.
So far, that was working pretty well for me--no wife, no fiance, and no girlfriend. I'd finished up my coursework and had already flown to Albuquerque for swearing in but there was one hitch. It seemed that everyone and their brother wanted to be a Navy pilot. I'd have to wait several months for an API slot to open up, Aviation Preflight Indoctrination. Technically I was on active duty and being paid, but I had no actual responsibilities. Not a bad situation, I thought. I planned to keep my apartment for another semester and just hang out until it was time to go. It was August, and I wouldn't be leaving until January. One night I'm at a campus pub drinking fifty cent pints of Schlitz dark, (because drinking dark beer was the mark of a real sophisticate) when I ran into one of my former profs. He was a fairly young guy I'd seen there before, very approachable, not the stuffy academic type. So we start talking, and when he learns that I don't have anything going on, he asks if I'd be interested in teaching a couple of his biology labs. I'd been a science major and this was something I could do in my sleep, so I agreed. I'd pick up a few extra bucks spending money, and have something easy to do. Nothing wrong with that deal, I think.
I spotted her the first time I took roll. Patricia Marie Kingsley. It was a night class. She was sitting in the back of the lab, in the most inconspicuous spot, and she struck me as shy. Well dressed but not flashy, no makeup that I could see, red hair and freckles, what I think they call a milky complexion, and, how shall I say this...she was voluptuous. Patricia never spoke in class, but every now and again she'd approach my desk and timidly ask a question. I noticed that the class alpha males, rich frat boys and jocks, followed her around like puppy dogs. For those guys, hitting on her seemed like a sporting competition, but nothing worked. None of their lines had any effect other than causing her embarrassment. And throughout all this, she seemed completely unaware that she was a knockout.
I started running into her in odd places. The union building, science building, library, grocery store, walking across campus, and then one day in the snack bar. I was chowing down on a cheeseburger and grading papers when I saw her walk away from the checkout register looking for an empty seat. There weren't any, so I yelled "Hey Patricia," and waved. She came over, sat down, and the first thing she said was "I don't like to be called Patricia. Please call me Patsy."
And so it began. We sat there all afternoon exchanging life stories. She'd grown up on a farm, a small town girl, only daughter, four brothers, and she was the only one who'd been able to attend college. She was a junior, a music major, and she played the piano and violin. And she sang. And I was right, she was very shy. Now technically it was against the rules for a faculty member to become involved with a student, but I didn't really consider myself faculty, and she was probably the best student in my class. It took me about 3 seconds to rationalize that I didn't have an ethical problem. So we started hanging out. Not what you'd call dating, just spending time together. One thing I had plenty of was time. Time and an FJ40, and she didn't have a car. It was the most innocent relationship I've ever had. A few weeks pass, and I don't even know how the topic was broached, but somewhere along the way we started talking about the future, and then the possibility of a future together. All hypothetical of course, but I must have been losing my mind because this was clearly a deviation from my plan.
One weekend in October, my birthday weekend, I took Patsy to meet my parents. I'd never gone this far before, never taken a girl home, and my parents didn't know what to make of her. They're the critical sort, and I knew before we got there that they'd be searching for faults. Because that's what they do. Over supper they subjected her to an interrogation, which was pretty entertaining because they couldn't find anything wrong with her. The larger problem, for me, was neither could I. I'm sure we must have left there with my parents wondering what was going on with the two of us, and I found myself wondering the same thing.
Then comes November, and Thanksgiving is approaching. Patsy had planned to hitch a ride home with another girl from her dorm. On Wednesday afternoon, just before school shut down, there was a massive Winter storm that blanketed much of the Texas Panhandle with ice and snow. There were road closures and traveler's warnings, and only hours before the beginning of Thanksgiving break, her ride decided to go skiing rather than home to the Panhandle. No ride, and Patsy was upset. The dorms were closing; she'd have no place to stay and no way to get home. She called me, crying. What was a guy to do? If I planned to be an officer and a gentleman, this was a good place to start. I offered to drive her home for Thanksgiving. 600 miles, through a snow storm, in my 40. To Spearman, Texas.
In Spearman I meet her Mom and Dad, and oldest brother. When you think of the cliche, salt-of-the-earth people, that would be her family. Her Dad runs a grain elevator, her Mom owns a small business in town, and they farm. I don't know what crops they grow, but they appear to be successful, and there's also livestock, and chickens. The first morning I wake up to the scent of bacon frying, make my way to the kitchen and find her brother Danny standing over a big gas range. They take turns cooking, and Danny was the designated breakfast chef of the day. Without asking he hands me a steaming mug of black coffee, then asks if I want 4 or 6 eggs. To start. He's frying them in bacon grease. In those days nobody was cholesterol conscious but I don't want to overdo it, so I only ask for 4, over medium. And a half pound of bacon. There may have been a few biscuits in there too. He's a protective older brother and before anyone else wanders in, he "interviews" me about my intentions. His Sis is a special person, he says, something of an innocent, and he wants to confirm that my intentions are honorable. I must have passed muster because instead of showing me the door, he asked if I wanted a few more fried eggs.
Driving back from Spearman in a 40 over icy roads is a lengthy ordeal, an 8 hour sentence. That's a lot of talking time, and before we made it back to campus we'd decided, at least in principle, that getting married was a pretty good idea after all. No wedding date, no ring, no announcement, just an agreement that we were somehow going to end up together, make babies, and live happily ever after. Patsy had another 3 semesters to graduation, and I was shipping out in January, so there was no urgency about making definite plans. We were nothing if not practical.
January comes, and Uncle Sam says it's time to go. I know that I won't be needing a vehicle, so I sell the 40 for $1,700, bank the cash, and get out of Dodge. Over the following weeks and months, with no cell phones, and long distance calls being prohibitively expensive, Patsy and I write. I have leave coming up in July, and we're toying with the idea of gettin' hitched then. I'm drawing decent pay and could help with her college expenses. She'd become eligible for military health coverage, and I'd get a housing allowance. Practical. Several plusses there to think about. Again, we're just floating ideas, and we still haven't told anyone about this, not even family.
It's Spring, my 30 day leave isn't far away, and I'm jazzed about seeing my family, and even moreso about seeing Patsy. Where I am, we're somewhat isolated, and overwhelmed with training and absorbing volumes of tech information, but we do catch occasional newscasts and I know things are ratcheting up in Viet Nam. We've heard about the TET Offensive, and we hear that body counts are rising. For whatever reason, none of this registers.
Al Dewlen lived on our block, across the street and three houses down. He was a well known author, and a couple of his books had been adapted for Hollywood screenplays. Every now and then we'd read in the local paper that there was some Hollywood bigwig in town, staying at the Dewlen house, negotiating movie rights. Townes Van Zandt was only an occasional presence in the hood, but Dewlen was our resident celebrity. The Dewlens had one child, Mike, four years older than me. If you tried to conjure up an image of the All-American boy, that would have been Mike. At Amarillo High he was president of the senior class, an honor student, all-state football player, and a genuinely nice guy. Mike went on to Baylor, was All-SWC in football, graduated with honors and planned to attend law school. After graduation he'd married Lynn, a pretty Baylor coed, and they already had a young daughter. The Dewlens were a patriotic family; Al had been a Marine, and he faithfully flew the American flag on a pole in his front yard. You'd see him out there raising his flag every morning, then stepping back and snapping a crisp salute. No mistaking his love of country. Mike was his father's son; putting law school on hold and following in his father's footsteps, he joined the Marines. Predictably, he finished at the top of his OCS class. Then he went to war.
I arrive home in late June and my parents are there at the airport. We exchange pleasantries and head for the house, my Dad at the wheel, me at shotgun, my Mom in the back. Almost home, driving down our street I see Al Dewlen's flag at half mast, and a black wreath on his door. "What happened?" I ask. Long silence and then my Mom says "Mike was killed last week." She hadn't wanted to say anything until I'd been home for a while, but now the subject is unavoidable. She'd saved an article from the Amarillo Globe News:
" June 11, Marine Lt. Michael Dewlen, 24, was killed in Vietnam. His outnumbered battery of the 1st Battalion fought the Viet Cong in hand-to-hand combat in the darkness southeast of Khe Sanh. Before Mike was cut down by submachine gun fire, he and four other Marines killed 28 of the enemy, bought enough time for arriving American troops to quell the offensive, and prevented the Viet Cong from capturing a weapons cache....Posthumously, Mike will receive the Silver Star, the country's second highest medal of valor."
I can hardly comprehend that Mike is dead. Anybody but him. That hasn't sunk in when the following day I receive a call from my best friend, Wayne Woodward. I was his best man last year, and I'll probably ask him to be mine. We keep in touch. Wayne knows I'm home on leave, and wants to know if I'd like a ride to Gary Milton's funeral. What funeral? I don't even know what to say. Gary is dead? The last time I saw Gary was a year ago, in a campus pizza hut. He'd just withdrawn from school and joined the Army, and he was buying beer for the house. He was a geeky history major, not a gung ho soldier, but he wanted to see what was going on in Southeast Asia first hand. At the pizza joint he was joking about getting over to Viet Nam and doing his part before the war ended. I guess he made it. Gary's UH-1 had been shot down on June 13th. He'd been in country less than two months.
So now it's real. And the next weekend I'm supposed to see Patsy, and talk about marriage. Mike and Gary, two friends killed, two days apart. Right across the street there's Mike's widow and infant daughter. This hits pretty damn close to home. I start thinking about my situation. Obsessing. I already know where I'm going. SERE school in San Diego, and then to Da Nang. It's all I can think about. Mortality rates for helo pilots are high. There's a very real possibility that I may not come back. I decide there's no way I'm getting married now, and risk leaving a widow behind. The weekend rolls around. I borrow my Dad's VW beetle and go to see Patsy. I don't want to admit to my real concerns, so I give her a line of double talk about how I think we should wait until she's finished school and I'm back in CONUS. I make a pretty good case for the delay and she seems disappointed, but doesn't argue. There's a cloud hanging over the remainder of the weekend, and I put it there, but I'm convinced I've done the right thing. We're not breaking up, and if I make it back we'll still be on course. Right?
Now I'm where I once thought I wanted to be, and I'm not so sure. But here I am. We land in Da Nang while the air strip is taking incoming, make a rolling stop way out on the tarmac, everyone jumps out and starts running like hell for cover. This is my introduction to the big time. I was not a combatant. We flew CH-46 Sea Knights, mainly MEDEVAC missions, and some CSAR, Combat Seach and Rescue. We were out there every day in the thick of it and throughout it all, Patsy wrote faithfully, daily, and I mean every day. This would be impossible to explain, even in ten thousand words, so I won't even try. I'll just say that when you see nothing but carnage all day, every day, for months on end, when you eat breakfast and joke with someone in the morning and he's not back for evening mess, something begins to happen inside. It's insidious; it gets into your head and changes you into someone you weren't, and you never see it coming. I guess that's what happened to me. At first I'd write Patsy back, not daily, but regularly. Then as the weeks went by, I wrote less and less, and gradually I stopped writing. She didn't stop, but I did. Even today, I can't say why. After 18 months I returned to the states. But I wasn't me any more.
Back home for 30 days, I didn't see anyone, didn't talk to anyone, and made no attempt to contact Patsy. I didn't know exactly what to say to her, so I just said nothing. I had orders to NAS Washington and could have flown, but decided a new ride would cheer me up. So following a couple of weeks in hibernation at my parents house, I emerged, bought a new Porsche, and drove it to Washington. It was a liesurely drive, several days cross country, weaving my way through the Smokies and Blue Ridge mountains, breathtakingly beautiful country, but I still wasn't feeling any better. I rented an apartment in Northern Virginia and established a new routine. Work, home, drink beer and watch TV, sleep, repeat. No people contact beyond work. My Mom had given Patsy my new address, and she began writing again. She'd finished school and was teaching music in New Mexico. I was invited to visit. She hinted that she'd like to visit D.C. Her letters were chatty, and there was no indication that anything was amiss on my end, but it was the elephant in the room. She wrote and wrote, I still didn't reply, and sometimes I wouldn't even open her letters. Finally the letters stopped coming.
For years I thought I'd done Patsy a favor. There was something badly wrong with me, I thought, and whatever it was, I hadn't wanted to impose it on her. That didn't seem fair. Yet I was always haunted by what might have been, and the nagging thought that I should have handled things better. If I'd known how, I would have. But I wasn't me, and I didn't handle it at all. I just hid. Later I humored myself by imagining her as happily married to someone without psychological baggage, living a perfect life, with a perfect family.
In 1978, several of my college friends decided that we should have a have a reunion. Not a big formal reunion, just a dozen or so of us, just the guys, with no wives present. We'd get together over a long weekend, catch up on the last ten years, drink a few beers, tell lies, and hang out. We picked Amarillo as the site because it seemed most central, and we rented a big hotel suite as our gathering spot. The second night there, we're all having supper at a swanky restaurant, and I've made a point of sitting next to Bob Phillips. A decade ago he was my roommate, and now he's a country doctor, a family practitioner in his home town. Bob is from Spearman.
This is a bit awkward, so I wait for what seems the right moment and casually ask if he ever sees Patsy Kingsley, or knows where she is. I want to hear that she's healthy and happy with a house full of kids, that she found what she wanted. Bob takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead. He looks uncomfortable. Long pause, and carefully choosing his words he says "I thought you knew. Patsy died in a tragic accident. I think it was two or three years ago, in Albuquerque. She's buried in the family plot, up in Spearman." I feel like I need to puke. I excuse myself, leave the table, and I don't go back.
Back home for 30 days, I didn't see anyone, didn't talk to anyone, and made no attempt to contact Patsy. I didn't know exactly what to say to her, so I just said nothing. I had orders to NAS Washington and could have flown, but decided a new ride would cheer me up. So following a couple of weeks in hibernation at my parents house, I emerged, bought a new Porsche, and drove it to Washington. It was a liesurely drive, several days cross country, weaving my way through the Smokies and Blue Ridge mountains, breathtakingly beautiful country, but I still wasn't feeling any better. I rented an apartment in Northern Virginia and established a new routine. Work, home, drink beer and watch TV, sleep, repeat. No people contact beyond work. My Mom had given Patsy my new address, and she began writing again. She'd finished school and was teaching music in New Mexico. I was invited to visit. She hinted that she'd like to visit D.C. Her letters were chatty, and there was no indication that anything was amiss on my end, but it was the elephant in the room. She wrote and wrote, I still didn't reply, and sometimes I wouldn't even open her letters. Finally the letters stopped coming.
For years I thought I'd done Patsy a favor. There was something badly wrong with me, I thought, and whatever it was, I hadn't wanted to impose it on her. That didn't seem fair. Yet I was always haunted by what might have been, and the nagging thought that I should have handled things better. If I'd known how, I would have. But I wasn't me, and I didn't handle it at all. I just hid. Later I humored myself by imagining her as happily married to someone without psychological baggage, living a perfect life, with a perfect family.
In 1978, several of my college friends decided that we should have a have a reunion. Not a big formal reunion, just a dozen or so of us, just the guys, with no wives present. We'd get together over a long weekend, catch up on the last ten years, drink a few beers, tell lies, and hang out. We picked Amarillo as the site because it seemed most central, and we rented a big hotel suite as our gathering spot. The second night there, we're all having supper at a swanky restaurant, and I've made a point of sitting next to Bob Phillips. A decade ago he was my roommate, and now he's a country doctor, a family practitioner in his home town. Bob is from Spearman.
This is a bit awkward, so I wait for what seems the right moment and casually ask if he ever sees Patsy Kingsley, or knows where she is. I want to hear that she's healthy and happy with a house full of kids, that she found what she wanted. Bob takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead. He looks uncomfortable. Long pause, and carefully choosing his words he says "I thought you knew. Patsy died in a tragic accident. I think it was two or three years ago, in Albuquerque. She's buried in the family plot, up in Spearman." I feel like I need to puke. I excuse myself, leave the table, and I don't go back.
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You mentioned a 40 so it must be tech. When I get these tears out of my eyes I'll pour another whiskey and toast fallen brothers and lost loves.
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coleman2347
Ole Jarhead
2x
and three and four........
and three and four........
Hmmm. 
What can one say after an episode like that?
(It would be easy to think of something if it was simply "fiction" like I normally read.)
It takes real guts to share experiences that are this personal and I guess I don't really feel worthy enough to be subscribed to this thread now.
...... But ....Carry on with the story Lee and I vote no part gets deleted.
Best wishes ............
Tom in NZ
What can one say after an episode like that? (It would be easy to think of something if it was simply "fiction" like I normally read.)
It takes real guts to share experiences that are this personal and I guess I don't really feel worthy enough to be subscribed to this thread now.
...... But ....Carry on with the story Lee and I vote no part gets deleted.
Best wishes ............
Tom in NZ
Harsh. That's enough to leave a life-long scar on the psyche.
TCSTARK
Master Debater & Cunning Linguist
Lee, thank you for sharing your story with us. I hope that you find it therapeutical putting the words 'to paper' so to speak. Your story has touched my heart and has given me the opportunity to share it with my wife. She is simply amazed by the MUD community and is beginning to understand my obsession with cruisers. I look forward to the rest of the tale, the tale of your life, that you have in store for us. May the words flow effortlessly as you type.
The Stark Family
The Stark Family
myquestoyota
SILVER Star
don't stop!
I have to think this is one of the great threads of all time. Good work sir! I look forward to every chapter like nothing I have read in a long time. Your willingness to share the tale combined with your ability to write have captured a lot of our imaginations. I am sure that if they decide to relegate this to chat, and I hope they don't, it will be the most read thread in chat history. Tech is not necessarily the place for this and there have been many more tech-worthy threads sent to chat but I know that no matter where this thread goes we will find it. Please don't stop writing for a couple more years.
And I thank you for your service to our country and to our MUD community.
I have to think this is one of the great threads of all time. Good work sir! I look forward to every chapter like nothing I have read in a long time. Your willingness to share the tale combined with your ability to write have captured a lot of our imaginations. I am sure that if they decide to relegate this to chat, and I hope they don't, it will be the most read thread in chat history. Tech is not necessarily the place for this and there have been many more tech-worthy threads sent to chat but I know that no matter where this thread goes we will find it. Please don't stop writing for a couple more years.
And I thank you for your service to our country and to our MUD community.
Dang.....I didn't see that coming!
What an awesome read. You are doing a spectacular job writing. I had some of the same feelings of shock and surprise as you did in 1978. Great job Lee! Keep up the good work.
What an awesome read. You are doing a spectacular job writing. I had some of the same feelings of shock and surprise as you did in 1978. Great job Lee! Keep up the good work.
yooper
SILVER Star
77mustard40
SILVER Star
Commander, as you know there are literally thousands of potential routes from Austin to Seattle and beyond. The driver at the wheel is in control and I must say you have all of us stuffed in the back, some are riding on duffles and others sharing space on one of the rickety jump seats, our heads rocking and swaying to the impact of each pothole and expansion joint that the drivers course delivers. Should the Turtle stumble or the driver need a break we will all pile out of the back and lend a hand. Carry on.
IIRC you told me that story, or most of it, on a road trip to Mississippi. I don't recall getting teary eyed, but sure did when I read it just now.
Wow. Been reading this for hours. Quality.
(I was born in Spearman, and lived in Amarillo and Dumas as a child)
(I was born in Spearman, and lived in Amarillo and Dumas as a child)
Well put, Kelly. Now scoot over I need more room back here.
Late subscriber. Thanks for writing all this.
Thanks for writing all this.
MaddBaggins
Remember the KnightRider!
This has to be some of the best stuff I've read on this forum. Thank you for sharing. I've wiped away a few tears already.
kling-on
Kool Arrow
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Thank you for your service and sharing your story really touches me
Sent from outer space via my mind
Sent from outer space via my mind
Thanks for sharing Lee, and Thank You for your service. Carry On!!!
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