Chapter 26
A CALM…AND CALLING OF GOD.
(Marine
Corps Air Station Cherry Point, North Carolina.
Part 3. From early summer 1973
thru September 1973)
While in VMA 121 at Cherry Point, those in authority
over me send me to the Norfolk and Virginia Beach,
Virginia area 3 or 4 different times to attend schools on Navy installations in
the Norfolk area. They send me to Logistics School
(about 4 weeks long). I think it was held on Little Creek Amphibious Training
Base. I was taught how to supervise our squadron’s Marines in loading
our squadron’s equipment and such onto Navy ships to relocate overseas, and was taught other such military logistics
operations.
Little Creek Naval Amphibious Base. Oceana Naval Air
Station. Norfolk Naval Base with Naval Air Station. I think these are the 3 main
Navy facilities in the Norfolk area. Likely there are smaller facilities also.
Norfolk, Virginia equates to U.S. Navy. At
different times, I drive my car from Cherry Point to lodge a week or a few
weeks on these Navy and Marine installations to attend schools on each
of those 3 main facilities (as best I recall).
Each time I was sent to the Norfolk area (to sit in
a class room and be taught all day 5 days a week), it
was like a vacation in paradise, because it took me away
from all the villains and unfair treatment in my squadron at Cherry Point. I relished each of the 3 or 4 times I spent a few peaceful
weeks in class there. This was one factor of A
CALM that God
brought me into, and it was
most refreshing.
The brief period of 5 months at
Quantico, and short period of a year at Vance
AFB suit my desire for a frequent change of scenery. I’ve been “stuck” at
Cherry Point too long to suit me very well. For that reason, also, I
relish going to “school” in the Norfolk area for a change of scenery (and a change of faces).
Our squadron’s aggressive Commanding Officer (Lieutenant Colonel F.), gets transferred
elsewhere (here on Cherry Point Air Station). His oppressive aggressiveness
quickly transfers him up the ladder to higher duty, where he will have greater opportunity to oppress more underlings. His transfer out of my life causes an aggressive
smile (wider than the spacious skies I fly), to aggressively spread
across my heart, and stay there. It’s an immense relief to me for that oppressor to disappear out of my life. A Calm!
Our Squadron Executive Officer (Major D., the rule-breaking, dangerous smoker seated
beside Pilot Me in my A-6 cockpit), now moves up as our new CO. Our
new Ops Officer (who replaced the suicide man), moves up to XO. A new
Operations officer comes into our squadron. These 3 men listed above are the highest-ranking
officers in my squadron. All 3 are majors. All three are levelheaded and fair. None are very oppressive. It becomes a pleasure to work under their command. Life at work greatly improves, much to my relief! A calm. How sweet it be!
Soon, our squadron’s new executive officer (XO) summons me to his office. “Increasing problem drinking among
Marines has resulted in a new set of commands coming down on us from
Headquarters Marine Corps (in our nation’s capital). Each squadron is to
appoint an Alcohol Abuse Officer to counsel any men in our squadron who
have a drinking problem. I am assigning that position to you. We already have a
corporal who says he needs help with problem drinking. So, hop to it!” (Thus
wise, I am given an additional hat to wear, an additional duty to perform.)
I soon call that young
corporal into my office to talk to him. I tell him that “Alcoholics Anonymous”
has a group here on base, and I advise him to start attending. He is more than willing.
He doesn’t have a car. So, I take him in my car to the next meeting (actually located off base, but most of the drunkards who attend are Marines). The air in that
meeting room is so filled with cigarette smoke that
it looks like the clouded IFR skies I fly through at times. These drunkards
(striving to stay dry), find help in chain smoking. Breathing
that thick, stinking, poisonous air, I wonder if I’ll die of lung cancer,
striving to help this drunkard corporal dry out.
(When I was a teenager, my stunning mental image of the hero military pilot was of his
scarf flying in the breeze of the open window cockpit as he dogfights with
enemy pilots at close range. On Saturday night, he struts manly along the boardwalk in his leather jacket, scarf
around neck, and a lovely lass on his arm, instead of sitting in a
smoke-filled Saturday night AA meeting of drunkards seeking man’s help and
salvation from demon rum, instead
of
seeking God’s Help.)
(Anyway. the events in the
last 3 paragraphs occur along about this time, but have nothing to do with A CALM my Lord graciously brought me into. Also, I’ll share the tragic loss of
another flying buddy that occurs along about now.)
I’m in
my office on a normal workday, when a pilot buddy manning the ready room desk
receives word that an A-6 aircraft has crashed. As he immediately
alerts our commanding officer, executive officer, operations officer, aviation
safety officer, and such key personnel in the squadron, the “buzz” of the bad
news rapidly spreads thru out the squadron.
Most
officers (aviators) present, quickly gravitate to the ready room as the
duty officer gets on our squadron’s radio, calling on each of our birds that is
presently airborne, to report in. Tense
minutes pass as each pilot in the air reports in by radio, and we breathe somewhat
a sigh of relief. The A-6 that crashed did not belong to our
squadron. That was the 1st important fact we need to
ascertain, tho it is still a most tragic event for us,
that a Cherry Point Intruder has crashed. As we eagerly listen to each news
update reaching our ready room, it soon appears that neither of the 2 crewmembers ejected before the crash, and that both souls
perished. That saddened us of course; two fellow A-6 aviators with us
here at Cherry Point have just been killed.
There
are 2 other A-6 squadrons here at Cherry Point, VMT 202 (where I recently trained
in piloting the A-6), and one other tactical squadron. I personally
know several pilots and navigators now in each of those
squadrons. ‘I wonder if I know the 2 guys aboard that plane.’ Lt. Larry L. (a
navigator here in my squadron) had become a buddy to me back in 202 where I
first met him. Soon I leave the ready room to return
to my deskwork, my ears peeled for new updates. Walking along the catwalk
sometime later, I meet Larry.
“We’ve
now heard the names of the 2 guys, and they are no one that you and I know.” (Larry
and I had started training together only recently, in VMT 202. So, he pretty well knows whom I have trained with from that recent
point on. But he does not know who my Auburn ROTC
buddies were.) Then Larry told me the last names of the 2 fatalities. My heart heavily
dropped!
‘Ah,
the pilot is an old buddy of mine from Auburn University Navy ROTC days,’
I sadly utter. Midshipman Mike ④. (Like
me, Mike is now a 1st Lt. A-6 pilot.) That afternoon, Mike
was doing bombing practice; dropping 26-pound inert
practice bombs onto BT-12 (Bombing Target Number 12), a small flat square
barge-like target nearby in the waters of Pamlico Sound.
I frequently
do that same bombing practice. I take off and fly out to BT-12 with 12
or 18 of those small blue bombs hanging beneath the plane’s wings, and drop 1
bomb on each bombing dive run, practicing 30- or 45- or 60-degree angle dive
bombing. After each drop, I bank left while pulling the plane into a climb
(back up to altitude), and crane my neck to glance
back to spot where my bomb hit. The smoke charge in the inert bomb’s nose is
set off upon impact (even when impacting the ocean’s surface), sending up white
smoke to show me how good (or how bad) my aim had been. I repeatedly fly an
oval “race track” pattern (climbing and diving while
turning), till I drop all my bombs, one by one.
While
doing such dive-bombing, that Intruder dips plenty close to the ocean at
the dive’s lowest point. Then as I pull up, bank left and crane my
head sharply left, trying to spot that little puff of white smoke, I must
be ever so careful to watch my bank angle, because sky and ocean look
so much alike, blending together,
making it difficult to discern where the horizon is,
and thus what my bank angle is. As I crane my head left looking
for the puff of white smoke, there is a tendency to unintentionally
keep
pulling the control stick to the left, increasing bank angle. It
is a time of danger when the pilot must stay ever so alert.
And if
the bombardier navigator (BN) sitting beside the pilot values his own life, he
will frequently glance sideways to the pilot’s instrument panel to his
left side, to monitor bank angle and rate of climb (or descent), and call out
to the pilot over the intercom if the pilot is “messing up”.
When
the A-6 bomber plane is in the lower area of the dive, diving or climbing
either, the ocean is ever so close below. Also, no terrain is visible to the
crew then. The ocean surface and the sky look plenty alike, making it difficult
to keep in mind where the horizon is, what your bank angle is, and whether the
plane is descending or ascending.
‘My Buddy
and Fellow A-6 Intruder Pilot Mike, you must be ever
so vigilant on each and every
dive-bombing pass, to watch your turn angle, bank angle, and your rate
of climb!!! You can’t be slack for 3 seconds, Pilot,
or it might kill you, and your Navigator, whose life is in your hand!’
Tragically,
on this fatal day, these 2 aviators were not as alert and vigilant
as they each should have been. So, likely the bank
angle increased to more than 90 degrees (which becomes inverted flight
to some small degree), causing the plane to descend back to the ocean.
Both flyers were instantly killed upon impact. I attend their memorial service
3 or so days later in the base chapel, and then their funerals (again in the
chapel), several days later after both bodies had been recovered by divers. Mike
was married. I think his navigator was also. Both wives were most heartbroken.
Upon
the death of the 2 men, likely both wives clung together trying to comfort each
other. No doubt, Mike’s wife was trying to find words of apology to the
navigator’s wife, for her own husband killing the navigator. Cause of crash was
determined to be pilot error, as is often the case.
Each time a navigator and I strap on an Intruder, and leap into the air to fly
its dangerous mission, I’m responsible for his life, a most
grave responsibility.
Right now, my
Reader Friend, as a messenger of the Lord Jesus Christ, I’m responsible to tell
you that you will weep and wail and gnash your teeth
forever in the flames of Hell fire if you die rejecting your Creator God, the
Saviour of all the earth Who died on the cross for you. That is the
most careless and most foolish thing that any human soul can do,
during his or her short earthly journey, much more
careless than my pilot buddy Mike was on that fatal day. I pray
that you will not dare to be that careless and foolish
with your eternal fate. “Now
is the day of salvation.” You have NO
promise of tomorrow.
Salvage
crews (with divers) in boats or small ships, pull the severely damaged airplane
up from the shallow ocean floor (along with every torn off piece of it they can
find), haul it to my squadron’s hangar and lay it all out on my
hangar’s deck for the accident investigation team to inspect. They don’t put it
in Mike’s squadron hangar out of respect for his buddies there. I gaze upon
that mangled, gruesome wreck in solemn awe. This is a most sad
event for me this summer of 1973! One by one, the Grim Reaper is reaping
several of my military buddies with violent death. My Lord is most gracious to
stay the Grim Reaper’s hand from me in this danger-filled world of Jet Attack Warplane
Pilot! Thank Thee, Lord Jesus!
I call
Fred M. down at Camp Lejeune to tell him of Mike’s death. Fred and Mike are the
same age, and were in the same Navy ROTC class at
Auburn for all 4 years. I am a year older than they are, but I slid down into
their class upon missing 3 quarters of study at Auburn.
(I will now
return to talking about A CALM, which is now to become even more bless-edly
CALM.)
Upon entering VMA 121 and being assigned barracks
officer and supply officer (with those many
problems and headaches I have written of), I naïvely assumed that I would be stuck in those jobs with
that mess for the duration (of my time in 121 squadron, which might possibly be my entire remaining
active-duty time). That is a dull outlook. But along about now, our new
XO again summons me to his office (on a different day). “Our S-2 officer,
Captain S, is being transferred out of our squadron. I’m making you his
replacement, moving you out of S-4 into S-2. Captain ‘Intel’ will give you all
the briefing you need to take over from him. So, you two get going with it!”
Squadron S-2 Section is Squadron Intelligence.
“Hey…W-a-i-t just a minute, Farm Boy. You mean to tell us that they
made you the Squadron Intelligence
Officer, with your 3 lame brain cells??”
‘Of a truth. It is a historical fact.’
“Makes one
wonder if they had any brain cells at
all!”
‘Now You Hush, please.’
Much military information is secret. They use the term “classified”
for it being secret. We had 3 degrees of classified information (from bottom to
top: “Confidential”, “Secret”, and “Top Secret”. Soon after entering Navy ROTC
at Auburn, I was granted clearance to receive “Confidential” information. Along
the way, the FBI thoroughly investigated my background, and I received
clearance for “Secret”, and later upon steadily advancing higher, I was granted
“Top Secret” clearance. Training to be a U. S. military jet pilot who
drops nuclear bombs, I must learn much
Top-Secret information.
“Tell us some of it, Old Man!”
‘So S O R R Y! I’m still not allowed to tell you!’
“Another reason is that you have forgotten most of
it in your senile old age.”
‘That is a fact, for which I am glad!’
Anyway, it has steadily sunken into the heads
of my superior officers in VMA 121 that I am a loner by nature. Each
day, the S-2 Officer sits alone secluded in a “secured” small office.
They correctly deemed that to be the perfect place for me
to be. Reader Friend, to me, it
was like entering paradise to enter into that job! I was in my element, solitude!
“No doubt all 3 brain cells were at full throttle
to handle this Intelligence office work!”
‘Actually, all 3 were in afterburner!’
In this little private office (my domain alone), I have no
enlisted Marine clerk, no other soul in my presence. No other Marine in there to fill the air with cigarette smoke and vain (even vulgar)
speech. Solitary bliss and peace of mind! It suits me perfectly! A calm! I am in charge of a large safe full of “classified”
manuals (from Confidential to Top Secret), that squadron personnel need to use
from time to time.
When a squadron Marine (mostly aircraft maintenance
personnel) needs a classified manual, he comes to my office and tells me which
manual he needs. I check his card in my card file to see if he has clearance
for that manual, and then sign it out to him. He is
responsible to keep it out of sight, and return it to
me as soon as he is finished with it. I’m required to see that all manuals get
returned by the end of the workday. I must make sure the safe is properly
locked, and that I lock all the special locks on my office door when I leave at
the end of each workday. It’s a great job! A Calm, thank God!
I relish playing around high up in the skies a few times each week. I stand duty officer regularly and such. I hang around in the
ready room chatting with fellow aviators when I desire. But I spend most of my
time in the solitude of this peaceful, secluded
haven of
S-2, while a younger first lieutenant, new barracks and supply
officer tears his hair out over the problems that had vexed me for 7 or 8
months. One day when I drop into his office (my former office), he’s on the
phone with another squadron’s supply officer, begging to have a little “credit”
transferred to us to get desperately needed toilet paper (or
corncobs). Pity that newcomer younger 1st lieutenant pilot! I have
been in your shoes, son. I know exactly what you are going thru. And I heartily sympathize with you.
At work, I receive printed updates and changes to be
inserted into manuals. I receive new manuals to record on our list, and to be
put into the safe. I receive orders to return old manuals (to Group S-2
office), as they become outdated. Group then returns them to Wing S-2 to be
destroyed. But I have plenty of free time sitting alone in this secluded
office. I read my Bible. I study my Sunday School lesson that I teach at
Pleasant Acres church each Sunday. I’m most relieved and thankful to enter this CALM, after the many horrible storms I have
sailed thru at work since arriving at Cherry Point! And overall, in the
squadron, the drug problems and barracks problems calm down noticeably.
Upon making me the new S-2 officer, my Squadron
Commander orders me to the next Intelligence school session in the Norfolk
area. It lasts 4 or 5 weeks. I think it was held at Naval Air Station
Oceania, but it might have been at Norfolk Naval Base. There are about seven
O-1 and O-2 Navy and Marine officers in this class. That is Marine 2nd
and 1st lieutenants, and Navy ensigns and lieutenant junior grades.
I am the longest in grade (most senior) among the 4 or so O-2’s.
So, I’m made class leader. It’s fascinating to learn
many deep government secrets during that month or so. The last week, we
practice planning a large-scale secret assault on an enemy nation. As class
leader, I supervise the drawing up of that complicated war plan, as we study
top secret actual recognizance photos our
spy eyes high in the sky took of “enemy” nations’ military facilities. Interesting Eye-opening Fun!
Each of the 3 or more times I spend a few weeks
in the Norfolk area, I usually drive back to my house near New Bern each
Saturday morning, attend church at Pleasant Acres on Sunday, and then drive
back to Norfolk late Sunday night.
A highlight of being in the Norfolk area is
attending Pastor Dale Burden’s Fairmont Park FWB church on Wednesday nights. He’s
a wonderful man of God, and his strong preaching and wisdom-filled Bible
teaching greatly benefit me. Occasionally Pastor Burden comes to preach
revival services in one of the FWB churches in the New Bern area. I enjoy
attending those services when I can, to hear him preach.
I attend every revival service and preaching
convention in the New Bern area that I possibly can (soaking it all in). Along about now, The Holy Spirit starts
stirring up my heart to preach. So, it shouldn’t surprise any of us that He laid it on
Pleasant Acres’ Pastor Outland’s heart to call on me to preach on a Wednesday
night, when he was away. With much trembling and fear, I
did. God blessed! My heart overflowed with joy. Before long, Pastor asked me to
preach again on a Sunday night. Praise God, that He was molding me into a
preacher!
It must have been in June when a letter comes in the
mail from Daddy, saying he is getting married. After their wedding, he and his
new bride (Ina Lee) drive here and visit me on their honeymoon, staying 2
nights in this area. I am plenty surprised to see that
Daddy is driving an almost new car. I assume the car already belonged to Ina when they got married (becoming a
fringe benefit to Daddy in that marriage).
‘Is this Ina’s car?’
“It’s ours.”
They had bought it new after they got married. Daddy
now has a steady paycheck and makes steady car payments. I am plenty surprised
that in 1973 Daddy is driving a new car, and no longer
drives the 1940 Nash jalopy. That old car set (as a monument?) in his front
yard till we children finally had it hauled away a few years after his death in
2003.
On Wednesday, I take Daddy and Ina to my squadron’s hangar
to show them my office and the airplanes in the hangar. Daddy climbs up to look into the pilot’s seat area I occupy in the cockpit. He
is plenty amazed at that complicated setup. It sure looks different from the 2-horse
wagon he taught me to drive when I was 6 years old or so. Truly it is a
different generation now, one
bent on destructive swords, instead of on using plowshares, and farming with
horses.
I take the day off and drive the honeymooners down
to the beach. I told you I saw the ocean for the first time in the late summer
of 1965. Daddy never saw it till just a few years after that (soon after he
turned 50 years old), when he went with Mr. Howard from Vernon to some state
government “farm” conference at Mobile, Alabama on the coast. “I saw more water at one time than I
had seen in all my life!” Daddy wrote that to me in a letter after returning to
Vernon from Mobile.
Today, as I slowly drive up a gentle sloping sandy
beach trail, “presto” that lovely ocean with all its vastness and gently
rolling small waves, quite suddenly appears before our eyes as we top that
slope. An audible sigh escapes from Dad as the majestic sight catches his
breath. We 3 walk around in ankle deep warm water and
soft sand. Then we find a good seafood lunch in that area. That night (Wednesday),
they attend church with me at Pleasant Acres, and I proudly tell my church
friends they are “honeymooners”. They drive away the next morning and soon
return to Vernon.
Daddy and Ina visiting me BY THE SEASIDE, was a precious family
event we would always treasure. For several years up to now, Daddy had first faithfully taken care of Lucille’s mother, and then had taken care of Lucille upon each of them
becoming invalids. One could easily deem that to be a hardship. But Dad did
that well and faithfully, in dire poverty, vexed with gigantic medical bills piling up. But he never complained. I heartily thank God for this blessed place into which He has
brought my dear Daddy; giving him a wife in good
health. They each are employed, receiving steady
paychecks that provide for a new car that now enables him
to drive such a long distance to visit me, and much more other blessedness!
Thinking on Daddy’s entire adult life, tho my
silent Dad never spoke any of the following to me, I surmise that his life was plenty
pleasant and carefree enough, until he bought that dilapidated “poor” farm right after I was born. That
started monthly mortgage payments,
on top of a family of 6 to
provide for, upon Joe’s birth soon after he bought the farm. From then (1946) on, insufficient finances
constantly plagued him with misery, till he got that full time job soon after Lucille’s death in 1972. Now, getting a new bride in 1973 dispels his
loneliness, starting 2 decades that are plenty blissful and comfortable financially, up until his 3rd wife’s
health starts failing in l993. I thank God for giving
Dad these 20 Golden Years!
1. He is financially comfortable, no
longer strapped in dire poverty. 2. He is not strapped with that huge
amount of farm work that entailed constant hard labor. (He continues
to enjoy growing corn, veggies and such, and keeping a few farm animals,
while working his job in the factory.) 3. He has a good Christian wife
companion who is in good health. 4. He is enjoying his grown children and especially his small grandchildren coming along. 5. In the mid
1980’s, both Dad and my new stepmother retire with sufficient retirement pay,
and pleasant leisure. Thank
Thee, Lord Jesus, for bringing my earthly father into this blessedness in his
golden years.
(New,
Exciting
Subject) Now, for the drama-filled
danger
story of the greatest heroic and most gallant deed I performed
while I was a brave Marine officer guarding and defending your life and your
nation with my very own life! Each good soldier is duty-bound to boast of his brave, heroic deeds. Thus, I
will now write of the time I courageously went to the aid of a bloodied, young novice
aviator, that had just been injured in a Helter-skelter space flight.
“Wow! Is this of danger while
flying high in the skies?”
‘W-e-l-l…not exactly. This is of danger while
erratically orbiting at an extremely low level.’
“I didn’t know that your A-6 Intruder orbited!”
‘I didn’t say anything about my Intruder! This is about
a mischievous kitty cat whose curiosity accidently launched him into a deadly helter-skelter orbit in a confined space close to
earth (a clear case of where curiosity almost killed the cat)!’
“No doubt it’s far
more exciting than your pilot stories!”
‘Absolutely,
no doubt!’
Coming home from the air station, as I turn left off
U.S. Hwy 70 to go to my house, just before the RR tracks shortly ahead, a
little old wooden shack of a country store sets on the right. Just past it and
the RR tracks, I turn right to go down my short, sandy lane to my house. I
occasionally walk out to that store and drink a Dr.
Pepper in a glass bottle, especially in hot weather when I am working my tomatoes or mowing the lawn. (In a temperance
effort, I keep no soft drinks at home,
avoiding the temptation of their convenient presence.) A friendly, plump
neighborhood lady runs the store, and I chat with her as I enjoy my occasional
Dr. Pepper in temperance.
One hot afternoon this summer, she speaks right up
as I walk into her store. “I want you to meet ‘Sharon’. She and her husband recently
moved their trailer in, right down there (pointing).” These 2 ladies are the
only people presently in the store. “Sharon’s” hubby is an enlisted Marine. I
greet “Sharon” kindly, but easily see that she appears most worried, fearful, distressed about something. As
that plump lady talker keeps chirping away cheerfully, “Sharon” just suddenly bursts out crying.
“My kitten walked into the fan!!” she sobs
terribly. She
sobs out more details. A square frame floor fan set on her living room floor,
stirring the hot air around inside her tin house. A
wire guard covered the fan’s front, but there was no guard on the back. From the backside of the
fan, the curious little kitty just walked
right into the fan’s blades, to find out what was purring inside the fan, I surmise. Obviously, “Sharon” was
not watching over her dear kitty as it headed into the fan.
At the sound of, and then the sight of the whirling
fan striking Kitty and launching him into a most erratic orbit inside the box
frame, and the sight of kitty fur literally flying, and at the
horrible screams erupting from Kitty, “Sharon” just
totally panicked and fled
out the door. She came straight over to the store and sat down, as she often
does to visit with this friendly lady.
“Sharon” had fled over here just shortly before I arrived,
and hadn’t yet gotten up the nerve to tell this lady about Kitty’s disastrous
orbiting in space. My arrival (apparently timed by Divine
Intervention from Heaven), apparently helped that “flood burst”
of bad news to erupt from “Sharon’s panicked heart”.
“The Marines have landed, and all is well!”
‘You read the script right.’
The plump motherly figure now vocally sympathizes
ever so sincerely with “Sharon”.
This brave Marine officer feels duty bound to come to the rescue.
‘If you don’t mind me going into your house, I’ll go
over to check on your kitten for you.’ Because I am the only brave Marine
in the little country store, I feel duty bound to volunteer for that gory mission.
“Please
do!”
Seldom have I ever
heard such a desperate plea. So, I steady my
nerves as I bravely march over to the trailer’s half open door to enter the bloody battlefield of Kitty Versus Fan, not knowing what terrible carnage might await me.
But I feel duty-bound to be a brave Marine. Kitty might be severed in half. I suspect
Fan would not be wounded much, so I’m not concerned about him. Keenly surveying
the battlefield, sure enough, I easily spot Fan, whirling
and purring in prime shape.
Looking about more keenly, I spot casualty
Kitty nearby, lying upright on the floor, blinking his eyes and moving his head
strangely like he was trying to shake off its wild internal orbiting. Kitty isn’t purring at all. A few
scraps of Kitty fur and splatters of blood had been flung around, as Kitty
orbited around in low space for the first time (void of a space suit to protect
him in space). Bare red spots on his quivering body testify to the source of
the fur scraps and blood splatters (and of him deserving to be awarded a Purple
Heart for his battle wounds). He soon stands up, somewhat unsure of his walking
ability as he starts walking slowly, wobbling.
I march triumphantly back to the store to make
my reconnaissance report to “Sharon”. She is somewhat relieved, and reports
that she thinks she is now brave enough
to return home. So, she steels herself to go and enter into
her shoebox shape tin house that has just become our nation’s latest battlefield.
But I don’t expect government to make her tin shoebox house into a state park
for high school students’ trips, where those kids will steal imitation bloody Kitty fur souvenirs,
like kids in my high school stole souvenirs when they went on a trip to Civil
War battlefields in Shiloh, Tennessee.
I buy my Dr. Pepper and elect to take it home to
drink, instead of staying near the traumatic
battle zone
any longer. The Doctor’s caffeine and trace cocaine aid in soothing my nerves traumatized by this bloody battlefield scene and pitifully
wounded Kitty. So ends the tense, nail-biting story of my Marine Corps career’s
most gallant heroic deed.
“And you say that was the greatest one you performed during your whole five and
half years as a Marine officer??”
‘Yep. Simply by default; it being the onlyst one.’
“Well, did our nation award you the Medal of Honor
for it? Heh, Heh!”
‘No! But I think they should
have, don’t you?’
“Ha, Ha. That’s out-of-this-world ridiculous!!”
‘What?!’
“Uh…, well…, maybe…, I mean uh…, yeah, Of Course! And it’s never too late!
Our whole nation will now rise up with one voice,
calling on our President to award you the Medal of Honor!”
‘Thank ya’ll! That’s right kindly of you. But please
shake a leg and get on with it speedily, before I become post humorous.’
(Yes, I do know the proper spelling of posthumous. And I will soon become both of those posts.
Glory!!)
On 1 August 1973, I reach 4 years as a commissioned officer, which brings a
welcomed pay raise.
I correspond regularly with Mrs. Mars in Birmingham
as Mr. Mars’ condition steadily deteriorates. In late summer, the day comes
when she calls me to say that he died. I take leave and fly commercially from
New Bern thru Atlanta to Birmingham. While working for Mr. Mars, I had gotten
to be friends with the Mars’ next-door neighbors
(Nick). I call Nick from the
Birmingham Airport, and he is home this afternoon. I ask
if he would come to the airport for me. He readily comes and drives me back to the Mars’ house. I know the time of the funeral this
afternoon, and that I had just missed it, even rushing as much as I could. I
didn’t want to ask a family member to come for me at the airport during this
important time for the Mars family.
When Nick brought me to his house, glancing next-door I could see that the Mars family had returned home
from the funeral. So, I thank Nick and walk over to
the Mars house with my small bag. I stay 2 or 3 nights (visiting and doing
chores), before flying back to New Bern Airport. Flying to Birmingham 3 days
ago, I bought a spoiled sandwich at the Atlanta
Airport that gave me food poisoning, making my stay with the Mars family plenty
miserable. I marvel at how our Creator ordained for that poisoning to make me
crave copious amounts of water (to absorb the poison, I assume). So, I drank
oceans of water and didn’t go to a human doctor.
“And you are still alive in 2024 to tell us
about that?”
‘Apparently so.’
The several major events I write of in this
chapter are tragedies, and most rich, precious memories of Summer 1973. (Kitty’s
story is not actually major.) It was a most blessed summer! Most everything at work, at church, and in
my social life is turning golden and pleasant (in the natural realm), and ever so blessed and rich (in the spiritual realm). It is a joy to have become enmeshed into
this rural neighborhood (with Kitty fur flying, and all such). After leaving my
boyhood home, this is my only time while living stateside to
become well integrated into a “genuine” local neighborhood around
my abode.
With great joy and
anticipation,
I look forward to spending the remaining year and 5 months of my military active-duty
time as VMA 121 pilot and S-2 Intelligence Officer, while living in my pleasant
little white wood frame house in the country by the railroad tracks. How I
thank God for ordaining this for me!
“But Writer Boy, back at the beginning of this
chapter you said that you had been ‘stuck’ at Cherry Point too long for it to
suit you very well. Is this a senile contradiction?”
‘Nope, it’s simply one of the many amazing
paradoxes along our short earthly journey to our Eternal Abode.’
“Answer Boy, you’ve got all the bases covered, haven’t
you?”
‘I’m fully trusting in the Lord Jesus Christ, the
Saviour of the world, to take me home to Heaven when my brief earthly journey
ends. That is the ONE base a human
soul must make sure to cover. Have you covered that base?!’
“Folks, let’s all be careful not to disturb Richard Boy in this satisfied,
contented, and happy state of his military life (of only one heroic Kitty
deed). He naïvely thinks that Almighty God is of one accord with his
plan to continue living here. Little does he know,
that God in Heaven is about to drastically upset his little narrow-minded
applecart!”
The End Of Chapter 26