........ they lived it too.
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly Ride."
the shade replied ---
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
Of the Moon
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly Ride."
the shade replied ---
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
Edgar Allan Poe, "Eldorado"
He sat upright in his bunk. The camp-wide outdoor speaker system blared the bugle call from all directions.
0600hrs, Fort Jackson, SC. 1955.
"Damn cannon!" he muttered, to no one in particular, "Why d'they haft'a do that every morning? It's Saturday, f'Christ's sake".
The cannon, a 105mm field piece, announced the raising of the flag every morning at Division HQ on "Tank Hill", a piece of higher ground, named not for military armament, but for the huge water container located there. The early morning sound of artillery together with the bugle calls always gave him a bit of a shiver, but it was an effective alarm clock.
He was awake now, his sheet sticky from another night of sweating through the August heat of the South Carolina night. For convenience as well as comfort, the sheet was just thrown loosely over the stacked two-level bunk. Underneath, the bunk was neatly made; a little tightening in the morning and it was ready for the daily inspection. Air conditioning was unknown, at least in the Army; everyone sleeping in the barracks merely tossed a sheet over an already made up bunk, slept on it with as little clothing as possible and then dried and stored the sheet in the morning. Efficient, although the sheets sometimes became a bit rank before the next weekly issue. Steve spread his sheet loosely over the steel ends of the bunk so it would dry as much as the 90+ humidity would permit, completed his latrine duties, dressed in his work khakis (class B, no tie.) and set off for the mess hall. He was due at work at 0800.
Cpl. Johnson, the company clerk, waved him over to his table. "You had a call last night, seems your wife was admitted to the hospital.", he said, "Call came in around 2230 according to CQ's log".
"Shit! So why didn't somebody let me know?"
"CQ said he called down to the barracks on the intercom and nobody answered, so he told them you were out in town on pass."
"Great! That would have been eleven thirty down home, 'way past bedtime. Bet my mother-in-law loved it! She don't like me much anyway. Probably thinks I was shacked up in a motel somewhere. Guess it was too much trouble for CQ to get up off his ass and check the sign out book; he might've discovered that I didn't go anywhere last night; heaven forbid he should walk down to the barracks, it's at least fifty yards." "And that damn intercom is all the way at the other end of the building from my bunk: it wouldn't wake a scared rabbit."
He ran out of breath; hadn't realized he was shouting.
Johnson was calm, "Sorry man, but yelling at me ain't gonna' help now." "You need to get your ass over to the Red Cross and get your leave straightened out, then come back for your papers; I'll have them ready".
"Time's a-wastin' man, move it!, this is the one you've been waitin' for".
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What he was waiting for was the end of a series of events he had never before experienced and over which he had had little control. Married just a little over two years before at the ripe old age of "almost nineteen", he and his young bride had plans and expectations for the future. His union job at a wholesale bakery gave them a passable income, but little chance of significant advancement; spending the rest of his life on a production line was not exactly what he wanted; not what he had studied for at business college.The Korean war had finally worn itself out, but the "Cold War" with Russia was now first place in the national mindset; the draft system was in full swing, providing a steady stream of troops for the front defense lines in Europe. Young men were almost certain to serve a two year hitch; it was just that they could never be sure when their number would come up. One could join voluntarily, but that meant three years instead of two.
There was one way that gave some semblance of control while costing only two years - one could volunteer to be drafted. Members of the local draft boards were not the most popular folks in any community and were usually delighted to have someone "volunteer", whatever their reasons might be. The process was simple, just express your wish to "get it over with", sign the form and have your name placed at the top of the list. Induction could be expected within a couple of months.
Steve and Janelle ("Jan") decided that getting on with their lives was not going to be on any kind of solid footing until the threat of the military service was put behind them. He established contact with the draft board and asked to be "drafted" as soon as possible. This was late in the Fall of the year just passed, around Thanksgiving.
Then all Hell broke loose! Jan began having bouts of endless uncontrollable nausea, to the point of exhaustion, often stoppable only by hospitalization and the administration of IV fluids that were eventually counted in gallons. This cycle was repeated several times at different hospitals; medical professionals could not determine any likely cause or prevention, even to the point of exploratory abdominal surgery. They found nothing. These cycles continued through December and into early January with no sigh of abatement. The slightest thing could start the nausea, and once started, it would only end with hospitalization. Thankfully, there was ample insurance with Steve's group policy.
Then there was a postcard from the Draft Board, followed by an official notification of the time and place. He tried to explain to them that this might not be the best time, but once placed in motion, the process was not about to change direction. He was to report to an induction station at a Memphis address at 0800 hours on January 28, just days before the official end of the Korean war. (Unknown at the time, this would later become important later, since, by virtue of these few days,he would be eligible for VA assistance for a full four years of college.)
Much was to be done. Notify the employer, and the landlord, Jan would take the car, a five or six year old Chevy sedan, and move back with her parents in rural Mississippi. Fortunately their belongings were few so moving was not a major event, but the nausea continued, and his night shift job used up a major part of the available time. Events became a blur, but they got through it and he became a soldier while she returned to being once again a dependent daughter relying on her parents for help. Steve was duly inducted, sent by bus as a part of a group to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, processed into the system and assigned to a training regiment at Camp Gordon Georgia, for an eight weeks of basic training. Then there were fourteen days of leave before returning to Fort Jackson for a second eight weeks of advanced infantry education at Fort Jackson.
By now the medical profession had determined beyond all doubt that Jan's problems had a definite cause - she was pregnant! The nausea cycles, however, continued. During his second session of training, Steve learned that the training company to which he was assigned was slated to be shipped, as a unit, to Germany. Not normal individual separate assignments to different posts, but an en mass shipment to one of the infantry divisions in Europe.
He also learned, through the helpfulness of the company clerk, of a little known regulation that provided for deferment of overseas assignments in cases of serious family emergency. It was worth a try. Family, at this point, was comprised of a young wife and her parents. They were able to obtain letters of recommendation from Jan's doctor, their minister, and other reputable individuals in the community. These were consolidated and forwarded to Steve's commanding officer, and subsequently up the chain of command, recommending approval all the way, and back down to the company level. So, when Company A, of the 506th shipped out in June, Steve was placed on Temporary Duty to Headquarters Company for 90 days, to await the birth of his first child.
He really had no job. Possibly to get him out of the company area during duty hour, he was assigned to the regimental personnel office. His duties were to empty waste cans as needed and to sweep and buff the floor at the end of the day. If he ran out of things to do, he just sat. Boredom overcame him and he began volunteering to help with the minor repetitive clerical duties that the higher ranking clerks hated. Everything was done without the aid of modern copiers, computers, etc. A couple of manual typewriters and an old mimeograph machine comprised the office equipment, and 3 x 5 card files were the memory banks. It was a busy office, the regiment was graduating trainee recruits at the rate of a company each week. Orders for 120 trainee assignments had to be cut and processed for each graduation.
As his meager clerical skills became known, he was soon dressing in khakis and working a full day just like the other clerks - then emptying the waste cans and buffing the floors at the end of the day. He eventually became responsible for picking up the "undesirables" from their company assignments and delivering them to the discharge center. Since a jeep and driver were always assigned to the office, his job consisted of just riding in the shotgun seat and assuring that the recruit was properly disposed of. Riding in the front right of an open jeep, dressed in khakis, he was occasionally mistaken for an officer by a walking recruit who mistook the regimental crest on his cap for a lieutenant's bar. The simplest solution seemed to be to just return the salute and keep moving; it was kinda fun anyway.
The Forth of July provided a long weekend so he took the opportunity to travel back to Mississippi to visit his expectant wife. This was a trip of several hundred miles by Greyhound, and required considerable effort to avoid the patrolling MP's at the Atlanta depot. (His pass had a limit of 50 miles. Atlanta was a bit over the limit; Mississippi was about 500 miles.) He found her in reasonably good condition, between hospitalizations and quite glad to see him. The weekend passed quickly and it was decided that he would drive back in order to have a quick way to return when the baby came.
The return trip was uneventful save for encountering a state police road block in Alabama. They were only checking drivers' licenses in an effort to promote safety during the holiday weekend. No problem, right? Well, not exactly. He was driving a car with Mississippi tags. He was dressed in civilian clothes. He had a Tennessee driver's license, which, unfortunately, had expired in April. Tennessee law provided that a license did not actually expire so long as the licensee was an active member of the military. OK, no problem, right? Well, not exactly.
These were his thoughts as he topped the hill and saw the roadblock about a half mile ahead. There was no where else to go. He could prove that his license was still valid, but to prove it he had to show that he was on active military duty, and to prove that, he would be showing that he was well outside his pass limits, and, therefore, technically AWOL. OK, just keep your mouth shut and hope for the best, he thought, there's no way out.
He stopped as directed; the trooper approached his open window and asked to see his license. He fumbled and managed to retrieve his wallet. Luck was with him, for just as the officer took the license, his partner shouted a question to him from across the road. He turned to answer, dropped the license along with a brochure about Alabama laws, gave a cheerful "drive careful",and hurried back across the road. Steve finally exhaled, engaged 1st gear and quickly left the scene.
The car, of course, was an unknown to the military, and could not, therefore be taken on post. It was well after dark when he found an out-of-the-way parking lot in which to stash the car and take a bus back to his barracks. With the help of the personnel office staff, he was eventually able to bring the car on post, to be readily available when the need arose.
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The need had just arisen. A quick trip to the on-post Red Cross office where the emergency situation was certified, and a loan for gas money was negotiated, then back to pick up the pass, stuff a couple of changes of underwear and a spare uniform into the "AWOL" bag along with his shaving kit, and he's off to Mississippi. It was almost noon by the time he passed through the West Gate headed for what would be the longest day of his young life. There had been no further word from the hospital. Privates did not make outgoing long distance calls from military phones and the in-laws had no phone at home anyway. Well, he thought, maybe it will all be over by the time I get there. He was to have no such luck.It's well over five hundred miles from Columbia, SC to New Albany Mississippi, almost all in two-lane highways with grade crossings, stop signs, traffic lights and city streets. Steve took a quick survey of his map inventory; he found two somewhat tattered highway maps, courtesy of Shell Oil, and mentally computed his route. He folded the Georgia map to show the first portion of the trip, and stuck it over the sun visor for ready reference while driving, and headed southwest toward Augusta. Intersecting US 78 in about forty miles, he would then follow that route all the way home. No route changes, just 500 miles of driving, which would include the city streets of Augusta, Atlanta, and Birmingham. No problem, right?
The current means of conveyance was a 1950 Chevrolet four door sedan, white in color, powered by a six cylinder in line engine that was the standard for General Motors for decades until Ford's patents for their powerful V8 expired, somewhere in the mid-fifties. It was a "plain Jane" bottom of the line Chevy with around seventy thousand miles already on the clock. It had a stick shift transmission (three forward, one reverse), with the shifter on the steering column. There was no electric windows, cruise control or air conditioning. A fifteen gallon tank and a 18-20 mpg consumption rate meant a fill up every 250 miles. With only a half full tank to start, this meant at least two fill ups to get home. Gas cost around 30 cents per gallon so the tank could usually be filled for less than $5.00.
At somewhere just west of Augusta, at a gas station with a small cafe alongside, he told the attendant to fill the tank and please check the oil, then scooted into the cafe to order a hamburger to eat as he drove and a bottled coke to provide the liquid. He paid the attendant for the gas and was back on the road in less than ten minutes. The process was repeated near Atlanta and again near Jasper Alabama. The sun beating down, and now it was well over it's noon high point and becoming ever more in the driver's eyes. He didn't own a pair of sunglasses. The humidity and the heat, of course, produced perspiration and his uniform was soon soaked; the only relief available was the cooling effect of the moisture's evaporation fed by the wind from the open windows.
Constant manipulation of the accelerator and brake pedals eventually caused leg cramps and forced him to rest the right leg on the right side seat and use the left on the gas pedal. A bit awkward and clumsy, but effective - definitely not recommended for city driving. The day wore on with agonizing slowness. Stretches of open road punctuated by small towns with 30 mpg speed limits, bigger towns with traffic lights, open roads with higher limits but still with grade crossings and farmland traffic.
Augusta, Thompson, Cowington, Atlanta.
Grind out the miles; Crowd the speed limits. Leave papers are in order, but don't need the delay of a stop. Pit stop for a few minutes to stretch, gas up and grab a burger.
Villa Rica, Anniston, Pell City, Birmingham.
Blazing afternoon sun in the eyes. Occasional farm traffic. Once in a while there is evidence of a large roadkill, usually a mule. Animal owners are responsible for any damage, but are seldom identified. Drive on. Another pit stop.
Just after sundown, just before the Mississippi line, a section of US78 just outside a small town that was quite different. The two-lane highway became a four lane divided boulevard, brilliantly lighted and bearing a sign which proudly proclaiming this stretch of road to be "The George Wallace White Way". Perhaps the name has since been changed.
Jasper, Winfield, Hamilton, Tupelo.
Tupelo, Mississippi!! Twenty some odd miles to go! Enough gas to make it.
Somewhere past ten o'clock, he parked on the street in front of the hospital, stretched and walked, tired, sweaty and generally rumpled inside the hospital to inquire of his wife.
Yes, she was here, and no, she had not yet delivered.
He stared in amazement for a moment.
"No kidding?, where is she?"
"She's in 205, but visiting hours were over at nine."
"Anyone with her?"
"Her Mother."
"Thanks."
He turned and headed for the elevator. No one challenged him.
It was 10:55 P.M., August 27th.
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The atmosphere in the maternity ward was subdued; short quiet conversations, bustling nurses, and an occasional clank of a metal bedpan, all punctuated by the unique sounds of labor from an expectant mom.
Her pains were still 30 - 45 minutes apart, accented by waves of nausea that almost overcame the medication fed through the slow IV drip.
Time dragged. Terrible coffee, leftover from God only knows when and discreetly delivered by a helpful nurse. Bottled Coke from a machine in the lobby. Fresh pack of Winstons and a candy bar.
Around three in the morning, when the pains were down to around ten minutes, Nurse announced that she was being "taken down to delivery." "You can come along," she said. Her tone was more commanding than informational. "I've called Dr. Parker." she added without taking her attention from the patient.
He followed obediently as she was transferred to a trolley and wheeled down the hall and watched as she was transferred to the center table, settled into the obligatory stirrups and draped with a sheet.
Another nurse appeared with a cloth face mask and a tank of ether, and a slightly paunchy, sixtyish and balding man appeared, scrubbed and was helped into his operating uniform. This was the small town doctor who still made house calls and always carried a sack of candy in his car to toss out to any children he saw in his travels. He had delivered the mother-to-be some twenty years prior.
It began. Pains more frequent. Push hard! Again! NOW!
Nurse attempts to induce sleep, poured too much ether, soaked the patient's face, all to no avail--she never went out. He held her hand and watched in amazement as her abdomen collapsed, not unlike a rapidly leaking balloon; now a flurry of activity at the other end of the table; Doctor lifting the baby by his heels and hurrying to the next room.
"It's a little bull," he announced quietly, to no one in particular. He moved with the speed and efficiency of many years' experience.
It was 3:37 A.M.
Another lump in her stomach deflated as the afterbirth was expelled. Nurse said, "you can go back to the room now, we'll bring 'em down in a few minutes."
The new mother arrived dressed in a clean gown with her hair freshly combed; her new offspring arrived a few minutes later and was placed in her arms. She beamed with pride.
Doctor stuck his head in the door, white shirt, rumpled tie, " Hey soldier, c'mon, I'll buy you breakfast."
Steve looked to his wife; she nodded.
"Bring me back something."
"What d'you want?"
"A big cheeseburger, and maybe some fries."
He stared at her, unbelieving, looked questioningly at the doctor. who also nodded.
"Well, how about a milkshake too?"
"Absolutely!"
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He picked the takeout burger and walked slowly back to the hospital. The adrenalin was beginning to fade. Doc went home to change and start his day.
She snatched the bag from his hands and devoured the burger in record time.
No trace nausea. Amazing! (It would return with the second pregnancy, but that's another story.)
Nurse handed the new father a small bundle, saying, "would you like to hold him?." With his head in his father's palm, the toes barely reached the elbow. Six pounds, seven ounces.
He lay the baby beside his mother, took her hand, "I almost forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"Happy Birthday!", "It is today isn't it?"
"I guess it is. I forgot too!"
It was 5:12 A.M.
She was 21.
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