Introduction:
I am hoping these are only the first of many short
stories that I continue to write:
The Calendar
Many years ago my oldest son and his wife had decided to give calendars as gifts at Christmas. Not cheap calendars but thoughtful and hopefully well-received calendars that were carefully chosen for the intended recipient. As they wanted to share their love and friendship to many family and friends they picked a gift that became affordable and yet delivered a meaningful relevance to the person and persons they gave the gifts to at this time of the Season.
My calendars have always been right on target. The first calendars were of works of artists that they knew I greatly admired: Alphonse Mucha and Hiroshige. The year before last it happened to be the Girls of James Bond movies. And this year it was pin-ups from the great pin-up illustrator Gil Elvgren.
I hang the calendars close to the desk in front of me, where I can view the date, of course, but also see the appropriate illustrations or paintings of that particular month. And naturally, I am also reminded of the Christmas gift.
Well only a few weeks ago while our youngest grandchild sat on my knee as I worked on the computer he gazed around the area and pointed at the calendar. My wife had taught him to look at images of Christ that are in many areas of the house and reverently point to the images and crucifixes, bow his head, and utter the name, "Jesus". Little John is only one year old. He even takes a magnetic image of Christ that is left on the refrigerator, removes it to his little hands, kisses it, utters, "Jesus" and then returns it to the refrigerator door.
But John sometimes confuses images of Christ for other paintings and statues in our home. He has occasionally pointed to other statues we have about or pictures, and then with the same youthful exuberance suggests,"Jesus", even when it was not. We are trying to make him certain of which images are and aren't Jesus. My wife is especially dutiful in this task.
Anyhow on this one day as I worked on the computer, just as my wife came into the office, John lifted his finger, pointed to the calendar on the wall before us and said to my wife, "Jesus". At that my wife looked over to the calendar, looked at John, and admonished, "No that is not Jesus, but a picture of a sexy girl for Grandpa!" I'm certain as he gets older, the difference will become more clear.
4-19-08
A Knockout Punch
When I was young I got in many fights. Perhaps because I grew up in New York City. Or maybe it was my name, or that I viewed my Dad as scrappy, sometimes coming home from work covered with blood and he would tell me that he had been in a fight. Or maybe I just had a temperament that provoked people to fight. But I had been in many and as I think back, probably I had won no more than I had lost. But I had never been knocked out, I think, except once!
It was on my second tour in Vietnam. I was stationed on a Naval Base at Nha Be. It was 13 miles southeast of Saigon and we were a Support Facility. My rate was a Damage Controlman and my job was repairing the hulls of the River Patrol Boats that patrolled the rivers in the Delta.
For a year and a half I patched holes in the fiberglass hulls that had been shot up while on firefights the night before. Either from small arms fire, but more often mortars and rockets that would leave gaping holes in the sides or bow of the boats. I learned my craft there and as time progressed and senior people would leave, I soon was in charge of that unit. Our base had come under fire many times while I was deployed there, probably the greatest attack was during the Tet Offensive in 1968. But I digress.
The first boats I worked on were the '67 boats, as I recall, and they were all fiberglass but the bow of the boats were packed with Styrofoam. If they came under fire and were severely damaged, for the most part they would still float bow up, bouncing like ping-pong balls. Then the '68 boats came out with the gunwales wrapped in metal and no Styrofoam within them. Needless to say, we did lose some boats at that time.
But after a day of work there we often had liberty if not having the "duty". And on those days if not on duty I would usually spend the few hours of liberty out in the town in the local bars. It was a wonderful distraction from the war, work, heat and humidity, and even the rocket and mortar attacks that were somewhat frequent. I seem to recall that our base had come under attack some 13 times in the 18 months that I was stationed there.
Well on one of those occasions as I drank with a good friend, George, in walked a PBR sailor - a green hornet - a new guy who was just recently stationed in Vietnam and beginning his tour. By that time I was an old salt, probably 20 years old, with but a few more months to do on my second and final tour there.
And in he swaggered, going on about how he and his unit were the toughest in Vietnam. Talking to the bar in general. Likely it was the beer, but I was just weary at the time and wasn't in the mood for such braggadocio. I felt compelled to tell him that if his boat ever came under fire it would go down like an anchor, and did so. He ignored my statement and so I just continued drinking. But for some reason I never did figure out, my buddy George just stood up looking at me! And then so did I, looking at him ! The two of us just standing at either side of our table staring at one another, with the braggart sitting behind us some 10 feet at the bar.
It was then that I felt a grip on my shoulder, was spun around and cold-cocked! One punch likely square on the jaw, that caused me to go reeling out of the swinging doors and land in the middle of the dirt street that parted the town. Something right out of "Gunsmoke" or "Shane". And as I sat there with my legs spread, I saw stars. Stars like one would see as if with a camera flash, blinking in various colors all over the place. I think it was the only time I may, no probably was, knocked out. But just for an instant. I remember the punch, I remember barely going through the doors, but the very next thing I remembered was sitting on the dirt street, staring up at a shotgun pointing at my nose, from a Shore Patrolman named Padilla.
And the next thing I knew was that I was being helped up by a Navy Seal, the guy who delivered the punch, who was telling Padilla that everything was all right. "It was just a misunderstanding," he said. As he dusted me off, and took me into the bar with him, he sat me down beside him and bought me a beer. Shaken as I was, I remember him clearly telling me that he had had a bad day, just wanted to have a few quiet beers, and didn't want to be involved in any barroom fights. Because he witnessed the confrontation earlier between me and the PBR sailor, he imagined that we would have gotten into it. He saw to it, that there would be no fight - by knocking me out! I guess.
And I think it was the only time in my life that I ever was!
4-22-08
What is Cool?
One incident that had a lot to do with making me the person I am occurred shortly after I acquired my Drivers License. It was a long time ago, I probably was 16 at the time.
I had worked in a butcher shop for many years. I started out as the delivery boy but gradually acquired many skills around the shop. I could slice cold cuts, cut chickens and chops, could do the minor functions of a meat cutter. I also often accompanied the boss down to the market and as I grew older I would carry the sides of beef into the walk-in and hang them from the hooks. It was this job that had a lot to do with shaping my character, making me who I am.
I had also worked in a grocery store around that time, down the block from the butcher shop. But immediately beside the butcher shop where I worked was another grocery store. I was acquainted with the "delivery boy/aide" that worked in that one. His name was John Taylor.
Shortly after I had gotten my Drivers License, John suggested that we might go hunting together, perhaps. As we lived in the Bronx, we would have to go upstate somewhere in order to go deer hunting. He had a hunting license and I got one that year, not that I was any hunter. And because I had given him my word, I was now obligated to take him upstate for the day sometime in the course of the Season.
The weeks passed and I found myself drawing to the end of the Deer Hunting season before I knew it. Finally it was the last weekend and I needed to go or renege on my word. I had mentioned to a friend from school that I was going hunting this weekend and he, too, asked if he might come along. Well this was great as I didn't own a gun and so my function for the outing would be merely chauffeur for John. I had asked Joe, my classmate, if he had an extra gun that I might borrow and he assured me had. So now I finally had a sensible reason for going. My promise would have been enough cause, but now at least I could participate in the hunting experience.
It was determined that we would go early Sunday morning. I had the keys to the butcher shop and told the boss that I would go in early and get some cold cuts for us to take upstate. He didn't mind so I met John around 5 AM, got the meat for our sandwiches and together we drove over to pick up Joe. He answered the door but quietly whispered that he was unable to go. His mother wouldn't permit him. I expressed my regret but followed it with my own request to borrow that gun he said he would lend me. He went off to get it but came back in a few minutes empty handed. He said his mother forbid him from lending his rifle. So this was working out great. I would be going hunting with no rifle. Taylor had a bow and arrow, and I reasoned that I might take a shot with his, given the opportunity. Or something.
So off we went to destination unknown - but direction North. Upstate. I began our trip on the Saw Mill River Parkway intending to take it north for an hour or two until I got into some forest areas that I presumed we could hunt in. We drove for about 30 minutes, I was at Hawthorne Circle and thought I was continuing on the Saw Mill. Instead I mistakenly had taken the Taconic Parkway and was now lost. Not that I really knew where I was going anyway.
Driving on a short ways I asked John to consult the map and tell me where we were. He said that we were on the Taconic and close to a town called Peekskill. I remembered that two very good friends of mine (two brothers) had moved there some 7 or so years previously. My parents would send the family Christmas cards. I asked Taylor if he wouldn't mind my taking a short detour. He was agreeable so I went to the Peekskill Police station hoping that they could tell me where my friends lived.
In no time I was at the house, Sunday morning around 6 AM. The father answered and asked if I had business with the two sons. I explained who I was and suddenly the father beamed with the new recognition. He hadn't seen me since I was about 8 or 9 and now I was 16 or so. He ushered myself and Taylor up the stairs to the boys room. It was quite the reunion. We spoke of the neighborhood they left and who was still living there. We talked about our present circumstances and touched on intentions for the future. Here were two guys I grew up with in my earliest formative years and I had discovered them again. But I was struck with how "normal" and "cool" they were! Being from NYC, living my whole life there - some 16 years or so - I was pretty much taught to think that anyone NOT from NYC had to be hicks!
As I listened to the two brothers, Denis a year older and John 3 years older, I came to realize that the country had not turned them into "bumpkins". The two brothers were really "cool"! Their way was modern, the clothes they had were great. Everything about them was so cool. I had to explain my puzzlement, how surprised I was that I was not with two old friends who would be looking at me wearing straw hats and holding a piece of straw from their teeth. It was then that the older brother, John, smiled and commented how, "You came up here intending to hunt deer with one bow and arrow, and you call us 'hicks'"!?
At that moment I got a new appreciation of the world. I realized that the sun didn't rise and set on New York City exclusively. And to any New Yorkers who might be reading this, I apologize for revealing that to you.
4-24-08
The End of the Exercise
I joined the Navy in 1966. I felt it an obligation to give back to a Nation that provided me the comfort I enjoyed just living there. I also saw it as a means to assist in paying for a future education. I had but one focused intention, though. I wanted to go to Vietnam. It was the only war our Country was involved in at the time. I did not want to kill and, of course, did not want to be killed, but I was prepared to do whatever was called upon me to do in that respect.
In preparation for a tour of duty there, the Navy demanded that we who were being deployed would need to go through what was termed SERE Training. It stood for Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training.
We were required to go through a survival phase of living off the land for some 3 days, eating only what we could find or capture. That was followed by the 'capture' by hostiles and put into a POW environment - to give us some sense of what it might be like. The guards looked like Cuban guerrillas in their berets and uniforms as they likely did not have enough Asians for that program. But I suppose poetic license was necessarily permitted under the circumstances.
For me, just having turned 18, it was a marvelous adventure. We were instructed to try to escape at any given possible opportunity, but once in the encampment we were not permitted as there was not the personnel and ability to secure against that action. Any attempt to escape must be performed before we went into the camp.
We were also instructed while in the camp to do whatever we could to disrupt the enemy.
I was the only one at my time who attempted an escape; but my hope was not so much to truly escape, but rather to create a diversion so that someone else might actually do so. We were told beforehand that if anyone escaped (was not found by the enemy for any length of time) the Group would be set free and need to be captured once again. No one else took advantage of that opportunity. So that was how my POW exercise began.
I was punished for that attempt by the removal of my clothes, all but my under shorts, and placed in a chain link covered hole in the ground. I crouched in it for an hour or more. At one point, when asked where my place of origin was, I lied to suggest Miami, Florida. The guard suggested that under the sun as I was, it surely must be like Florida there. When I suggested that it was, he corrected himself by saying, "NOW it must be" - after throwing a bucket of cold water on me.
And such went on through the day. After releasing me I joined fellow prisoners doing tasks throughout the day and doing my best to confound and disrupt the ‘enemy’. For instance, when stacking firewood, when the guards were distracted, I kicked out the bottom so that we would be made to stack it all again.
We went through an interrogation phase where we were beaten (a little) to reveal information. We were told afterwards that the interrogators had at times became so overzealous that a collar bone was broken, as well as a couple of ribs. I, like most, only provided name, rank and Service number. For that we were beaten more. I recall being on all fours and kicked hard enough to fling some 4 feet across the room.
All the while in this camp there played Vietnamese music and a Vietnamese flag hung from the flagpole.
The day continued with trial after trial and for most it (to me) this was great fun. But as the day went on and it became quite cold in that Virginia climate, the fun of it lessened. We were made at one point to join another prisoner in a long box, butt to butt, that was closed and beat on for some 15 minutes, wherein one prisoner was released to have another take his place until it was your turn.
We were made to do calisthenics. We did jumping jacks and push-ups and the like in addition to right turns and left turns, etc. – all under the direction of two ‘enemy’ guards. The sun had gone down and it was becoming increasingly colder.
But then the two guards started having a talk to one another over the loudspeaker. They suggested how terrible the prisoners smelled and a possible solution would be to have us all be put in the lake that was close by for such a cleansing.
By this time the fun of the day had completely worn off. I was tired and very fatigued. And I was very cold. The last thing I could bear was such a dip into the lake. Inwardly I prayed this would not happen.
The guards then resumed our commands of right and left faces, and about faces, etc. All of these commands finally ended with our facing the two guards as a group. We were told to stand at attention and present arms.
At that moment the Vietnamese music that played all day suddenly ceased. The Vietnamese flag began to descend and the American flag rose in its stead. The National Anthem began playing over the loudspeakers and we all sharply saluted the American Flag. We were told at the conclusion of the Anthem that “the exercise was over!”
To this day, over 50 years later, I get chills and remain overwhelmed by that memory which will forever be locked in my mind.
Incidentally, I did serve two tours in Vietnam on a base 13 miles southeast of Saigon called Nha Be. The base endured 13 rocket and mortar attacks while I was there.
1-16-2018
Stories by Jena Corso
Stories by Jena Corso