The SYM wasn’t a malicious man by nature, but he was a guy that enjoyed a good practical joke, and the jocularity that men often engage in that might seem…odd to others.

This brings us to a warm humid Saturday evening at his house in Del Rosario compound. It was a large house with a large living area, a den, a formal dining room, a large kitchen, five bedrooms, and a laundry/utility room. The house was filled with rattan furniture and several Papa San and Mama San chairs. The SYM had three room mates, and they all worked together, but usually on different shifts.

On this early evening, the SYM and one of his roomies were sitting in the den watching TV and having some drinks. His roomie will be referred to as Sausalito Joe, as that is where he was from and was a real character, as though created by John Steinbeck(i.e. Tortilla Flats). As mentioned, it was warm and humid, as it was the rainy season, so the two roomies were lounging in the den in their underwear with the two oscillating fans on high speed.

During this time one of their other roomies, who seldom went out and ran the bars and streets as the rest of us did, was busy going between his bedroom and the bathroom across the hall from his first floor room. We noticed he had turned on the window a/c unit, which he had installed and was the only one in the house. We kept glancing through the living area and noticed his activities and commented on his preparations. Not long after, dressed in his freshly ironed and starched jeans, ironed western cut shirt, shined cowboy boots, all cleaned up and smelling good, our roomie known as Mac entered the den.

Mac was a good guy and a big guy, about 6’3″ and 240lbs. We always liked having him along on patrol, as he could block a door and not be moved by anyone. Mac was also not as outgoing as most of us, much more reserved by nature, but not someone you would normally fool with. Which is why he wasn’t entirely comfortable when he entered the room. Mac gave a little speech, instead of being as direct as we all typically were. He began by clearing his throat and stating that he was going out for the evening, that he had met a young lady that he wanted to take to dinner and a movie, and was hoping to bring her home later, which is why he would be leaving his a/c unit running. In a somewhat awkward way he asked if the SYM and Sausalito Joe would be up later or at home, and that if we were could we please have some clothes on. The SYM and Joe were silent and glanced at each other, and the twinkle in the SYM‘s eye tipped Joe off. Before Joe could say anything, the SYM spoke up and with a sincere tone, reassured Mac that there would be no problem with that, as the SYM would be going to bed early due to an early morning shift. Joe quickly replied that he was going out and wouldn’t be home until much later, and that if our other roomie came home, we would let him know Mac was bringing home company.

Mac let out a little sigh of relief and said goodnight, as he headed for the front door. Not long after the front door closed, Joe looked at the SYM excitedly and inquired about what they were going to do. The SYM told Joe to follow him into Mac’s room. As they stood in the door, the cool air from his a/c was almost shocking in its refreshing sensation, as they stood there in their tighty-whiteys. The SYM quickly looked at the lay out of the room, then walked over to Mac’s dresser and rummaged through a drawer and extracted the most worn out pair of undies Mac had. The SYM then explained the scheme to Joe, that Mac, being such a gentleman, would hold the bedroom door open for his young lady, she would step down into the bedroom and place her purse on the chair just inside. This is where Mac’s underwear would be hanging, on the back of the chair. Sausalito Joe nodded in agreement, the scenario seemed plausible, but didn’t understand why the underwear on the back of the chair. The SYM looked into Joe’s besotted Jim Beam eyes, and in a low deep voice asked Joe to go get the jar of extra crunchy peanut butter and a spoon. Joe’s eyes got large with the realization and was laughing as he ran to the kitchen and back.

The SYM held the underwear, which were stretched and had a few holes, while Joe applied the peanut butter to the crotch. When the SYM determined that the portion and weight of the peanut butter seemed appropriate for a large man’s…leavings, the SYM then hung the underwear on the back of the chair in such a way so that the illusion would be obvious. As they left Mac’s room, Joe was laughing excitedly and asked the SYM if he was going to wait up. The SYM said no, he was heading to bed in a few hours, at which time Joe said he wasn’t going anywhere, and that he would be hiding in the utility room when Mac got home to see what happened.

After some more jocularity and TV watching the SYM went to bed, with Sausalito Joe working on his second quart of Jim Beam, as was his custom.

Early the next morning, at 00:dark:30hrs., the SYM answered the alarm and climbed out of bed. As he exited his bedroom for the bathroom, the door felt heavy as it opened and a loud *thunk* was felt and heard on the outside of the door. Puzzled, he looked on the outside of the door, and hanging on the door knob was a pair of old underwear, stretching under the weight of a copious amount of extra crunchy peanut butter.

Later that day, Sausalito Joe saw the SYM for the first time since the evening before and couldn’t wait to tell the SYM what had transpired. Joe explained in detail, that Mac had held the door open for his date with a grand “tah-dah” gesture, as she stepped down into his frigid chamber. At the moment she put her purse on the chair she noticed the sagging underwear and its dark contents and jumped back with an expression of shock. Not knowing that anything was amiss, Mac looked at the chair and saw the soiled garment. He tried to reassure her it wasn’t what she thought, that someone was playing a joke and he picked up the offending item and sniffed them. The young lady recoiled even further in disgust when he did this and he was finally able to convince her it was peanut butter. Joe was well pleased at how the prank had played out, and the SYM basked in the glow of a successful ambush joke.

As for Mac and his date, they married many months later, and last I heard they were still married thirty five years later. Mac has been an assistant warden at a very famous state penitentiary for quite a few years.

As for Sausalito Joe, only the Good Lord knows where he is and what became of him. As good a man as he was, he seemed to be troubled somehow, as his heavy drinking would indicate.

As for the pwnage of Mac, he never really said anything about it, and didn’t seem to hold a grudge, but his new girlfriend certainly seemed to.

Several callers in a row were veterans of Viet Nam, and at the end of one of the calls I was expecting him to say what so many have said, since G. Gordon Liddy first started doing so in the early 90′s, and that was to say “Thank You For Your Service.”

It was a false expectation on my part, as Bolton said something I was completely unprepared for. Something that made my eyes well up with tears, and caused me to gasp a little.

He stated, for this Viet Nam vet, who probably never heard these words before…WELCOME HOME!

Of course. He was correct, it was seldom said. Even by family and friends. It was as if everyone wanted to forget it ever happened, that it was in the past, and the less said about it, the better.

I came home just as Saigon was falling, more than two years after combat operations ended, and yet, I still had some mental midget yell “baby killer’ at me at LAX. I heard of much worse greetings by returning combat vets.

When I returned, it was a rush to get to a court room in East Texas and begin what would be a custody battle for my children that would last another six years. While my mind was occupied with immediate concerns, my heart still hadn’t made the disconnect with the strong affection I had for the life I had been living in the Philippines, nor of the experiences I had during the evacuation of Saigon in Operations New Life and Operation Babylift.

On several occasions I would attempt to relate some of my experiences with family and life long friends, but they would cut me off and change the subject. They didn’t have to participate in the ugliness or the beauty of it all, and did not want to be reminded of it.

They just did not want to know about it.

Subsequently, it took me much longer to process it all and put it in its proper perspective.

For the vets and active duty personnel here, you will understand what I mean, when I say it is other vets and active duty I feel a stronger kinship with. We know the looks in fellow warriors eyes, without saying a word. For those who never wore a uniform, this is not intended to denigrate you in any fashion. It is just not possible to understand without having been there, even with all the invaluable support you provide.

My reaction to Jeff Bolton’s comment surprised me, and hurt me in a self-pitying way. No, no one ever told me Welcome Home, not even those who loved me most, but it wasn’t their fault, they just didn’t understand. It also hurt for those many I knew who came home to be buried, and for those who were never the same again. They too were never welcomed home.

So, a lesson learned and not to be forgotten.
Whenever you encounter a vet or a returning service member, don’t be shy, shake their hand, thank them for their service, and never fail to always extend a heart felt WELCOME HOME!

It means much, much more than you will ever realize.

*Cross-posted*
At lgf2.

A Note from The Virtual Wall
At 4:03 pm 03 Apr 1975 an Air Force C-5A Galaxy, serial number 68-218, of the 60th Military Airlift Wing lifted off the runway at Tan Son Nhut AB near Saigon, bound for Clark AB in the Philippines. As the initial mission in “Operation Babylift”, the C-5 carried Vietnamese orphans enroute to the United States. The aircraft commander was Captain Dennis Traynor, the copilot Captain Tilford Harp, and there was a crew of 15 others, including a 10-person medical team.

The C-5′s troop compartment contained 145 orphans and seven attendants, most of them civilian volunteers being evacuated from Vietnam. The cargo compartment held 102 orphans and 47 others.

Twelve minutes after takeoff, while the aircraft was passing though 23,000 feet, the rear loading ramp’s locks failed, leading to explosive decompression and massive structural damage to the aircraft as the pressure door, most of the rear loading ramp, and the center cargo door departed the airframe. Control cables to the rudder and elevators were severed, leaving only one aileron and wing spoilers operating, and two of the four hydraulic systems were out.

Using engine power changes, the functional aileron, and the wing spoilers, Traynor and Harp managed to regain marginal control of the aircraft and turned back toward Tan Son Nhut. The aircraft had to be maintained between 250 and 260 knots, with a considerable lag between power adjustments and aircraft response. Traynor anticipated that the minimum landing speed would be somewhere in the range of 250 knots.

As the C-5 passed through 4,000 feet while turning to the final approach heading it became apparent that they could not make the runway. Traynor applied full power to hold the nose up while Harp attempted to maintain a wings-level attitude. Just off the ground, Traynor reduced power to idle and the C-5 touched down in a rice paddy, skidded about 1,000 feet before becoming airborne again, hit a dike, and broke into four parts. The cargo compartment was completely destroyed, killing 141 of the 149 orphans and attendants. Only three of 152 in the troop compartment perished. Five of the flight crew, three of the medical team, and three other servicemen lost their lives, but 175 of the 328 aboard survived.

The eleven service personnel who died in or of injuries received in the crash were

* Lt Col William S Willis, Coats NC, Air Ops Officer
* Capt Mary T Klinker, Lafayette IN, Flight Nurse
* Capt Edgar R Melton, Dallas TX, Pilot
* MSgt Joe Castro, Fresno CA, Photographic Instrumentation Technician
* MSgt Denning C Johnson, Dunn NC, Medical Service Technician
* MSgt Wendle L Payne, Essex MO, Loadmaster
* TSgt Felizardo C Aguillon, San Francisco CA, Loadmaster
* TSgt William M Parker, Vacaville CA, Loadmaster
* SSgt Donald T Dionne, Sylmar CA, Flight Engineer
* SSgt Kenneth E Nance, Los Angeles CA, Photographer
* SSgt Michael G Paget, Woodland Hills CA, Medical Service Specialist

While I knew many on that fateful flight, including some who survived, the loss of DJ shook many of us in a way that we couldn’t understand. Such a kind and gentle man, who loved life, his family, his job, and his friends, suddenly snatched from us all, left many of us to stand around in stunned silence as we recalled his pleasant persona, his quiet demeanor, and how he elevated us all in a positive manner, by his mere presence.
I have never forgotten my old motorcycle buddy, DJ, as he was part of our group of friends that I have referenced before, in this story, and this one. The crash that took our friend, and loving husband and father away from us, hung over us for weeks, even as Operation Babylift took on a much larger and better planned role, we just couldn’t stop thinking of DJ, and his family.
I still do, to this day, and probably always will.
God Speed, DJ!
You were the best of us.

Operation New Life/Babylift.
USAF Heritage:Operation Babylift.
A Galaxy of Heroes.
Viet Nam Babylift Home Page.

Most Airmen stationed at Clark A.B., near Angeles City, PI, knew that the potential for this crime always existed, but ever so often, a new arrival to the island of Luzon hadn’t heard about it, or an Airman who wasn’t paying attention, either due to alcohol or complacency, would put themselves in the path of this crime, and come straggling into our office at Town Patrol slightly injured, to make a report.
What was the crime, and how was it perpetrated? It was an armed robbery, committed on the least expensive of the local public transport system, like this jeepney. As you can see in the image, there is room for three on each side in the back facing each other, four if the demand was there, and the occupants weren’t large G.I.’s, while three or four could sit in the front seat, including the driver. The vehicles never stop, they slow enough for the passengers to grab the hand rails on the back, and step up into the compartment.
When these robberies took place, it was a consistent pattern. There would be two men on each side in the back seated next to the entrance, and one seated next to the back of the driver, forcing any new occupants to sit on the side facing the lone passenger behind the driver. There would be two passengers in the front seat, and with the exit closed off by the other two rear passengers, the new passenger was now in the center of the ambush.
When the driver gave the signal to the man next to him that it was safe to proceed, the two front seat passengers would turn back on the victim, one would have a balisong or as they are best known, a “butterfly knife.” The man directly behind the victim, would grab him from behind, while the man next to the driver would put the blade to the victims throat. As they did, the other three men pounced to restrain the victim, and invariably the victim realized how futile resisting was, and out of self-preservation, would offer no resistance….usually. The men in the back would then proceed to extract anything and everything of any value from the victim, while the driver drove to a predetermined spot to expel the victim, and then they would be gone into the night, with countless other jeepneys, and no adequate description was obtained by the victim.
With this knowledge, but never having actually witnessed the crime, the SYM came stumbling out of his favorite club, slightly inebriated, and in a very good mood, as he looked for the next jeepney to come along, so he could get home. As the faded, and raggedy jeepney slowly pulled off onto the sandy shoulder and slowed for him to get in, the SYM employed his well practiced jeepney maneuver, by firmly grasping the handrail with his right hand, while putting one foot on the step, as he flung his weight forward, landing firmly on the step with both feet, and grasping the other rail with his left hand. As he did, he noticed something that he didn’t like, two men near the entrance, one farther up in the back, with three occupants in the front. As the jeepney slowly pulled back onto the highway, the SYM stayed on the step while looking at the men, and they wouldn’t make eye contact with him or each other, and the two passengers in the front kept glancing back to see where he was. The SYM motioned for one of the men next to the entrance to move forward, which was ignored. The SYM then said to move back,while gesturing, and neither of the men responded, or made eye contact. The SYM leaned forward a little, as though he was going to fall for their trap, which caused them to look at him, and as they did, the SYM smiled broadly, then leaned back, and let go of the handrails as he stepped off of the jeepney, which was barely moving, and he laughed loudly and waved bye to them as they drove away, looking at each other in disbelief. The SYM was still chuckling as he got home, after hailing the very next jeepney to come along. He was pleased with himself, that his ambush detection was still strong, even with a San Miguel soaked system.
Time went by, weeks and months, and not one incident of this type of robbery was reported, and once again complacency was a concern, as Airmen and other service members, came and went on a daily basis. Then one night, the SYM witnessed the worst case scenario of this type of robbery.
Once again, the SYM came stumbling out of his favorite club, the Madison, which was dimly lit, with a large and loud house band, and with the amount of beer in him, it always took a moment to adjust his senses to the outside environment. As he was standing there looking around, trying to decide what to do next, he noticed a slight uproar in traffic, and people began to scatter. At that time, the SYM noticed an Angeles Police motorcycle patrolman attempting to pull a jeepney over, which he thought odd, as they could never be caught speeding. As the jeepney pulled over, five or six men quickly exited the jeepney, and dispersed in the large crowd of people in the area, and the policeman didn’t even attempt to try and chase any of them, instead he went straight to the driver. As the SYM walked across the street, he was standing directly in front of his office, but being a civilian matter he knew he couldn’t get involved. At that moment a Filipino man in the back of the jeepney tried to step down, and his white shirt was literally red with blood. As he exited he stumbled, falling several feet away from where he had stepped, and the SYM could tell that the man was in deep trouble. The man was trying to get up, but he couldn’t, and remained on his hands and knees, so the SYM walked over and offered his hand, and tried to help the man stand. As the man looked at the SYM, the SYM could recognize the early stage of shock setting in, as the man was barely conscious, and his eyes looked glassy, with a very distant look in them. As the man slowly reached up to take the SYM’s hand, the man’s wound became visible, and the SYM recoiled in shock and disgust, he had never seen such a wound on a living being. The victim had obviously resisted, and the man with the balisong had cut him from under his left ear, all the way across to the top of the man’s right shoulder, a gaping and hideous slice. As the man reached up for the SYM’s hand, the SYM had looked down and actually saw the man’s collarbone exposed. As the SYM withdrew his hand, all the SYM could say , with a horrified tone, was…”Man…you are hurt!” The man went back to his hands and knees, and was bleeding profusely, and all the SYM could do was kneel down to the man, encourage him to lay down, try and relax, as help would arrive soon. At this time, the SYM was also screaming for the Angeles patrolman to call for an ambulance. The patrolman came over to see what the SYM was screaming about, and leaped backward when he saw the wound, and got on his radio to call for assistance.
A crowd had quickly formed and encircled the scene, and most people would look, then walk away in disgust at the sight. The man was barely alive, as the SYM kept checking his pulse, and trying to reassure him, though he was clearly in shock, and his body was struggling to cope with the blood loss and pain.
The man was finally taken away, and the SYM never knew who the man was, or what had become of him, though he was almost certain he had bled out before he got the medical attention he needed.
The SYM would recount many times, how he could have reached in and grabbed the man by his collarbone, and related that story to many young Airmen he saw that were on the verge of becoming stumbling drunk, realizing that as he informed each new Airman, that the risk of a local national falling victim to this crime, only increased.

Hello there, my old friend
Not so long ago it was ’til the end
We played outside in the pouring rain
On our way up the road we started over again
You’re livin’ a dream….as though you’re on top
My mind is achin’….Lord it won’t stop
Thats how it happens….Livin’ life by the drop

Up and down that road in our worn out shoes
Talkin’ ’bout good thangs and singin’ the blues
You went your way and I stayed behind
We both knew it was just a matter of time
You’re livin a dream….as though you’r on top
My mind is achin’….Lord it won’t stop
That’s how it happens….Livin’ life by the drop

No waste of time….We’re alive today
Turnin’ up the past….There’s no easier way
Time’s been between us….A means to an end
God it’s good to be here walkin’ together my friend

You’re livin a dream….
My mind starts thinkin’….
That’s how it happens….Livin’ life by the drop
That’s how it happens….Livin’ life by the drop
That’s how it happens….Livin’ life by the drop

SRV-Life By The Drop

The young man that became the SYM, had seldom traveled much outside of the East Texas/NW Louisiana area, that was home for him and his extended family. When the day came for him to travel outside of the U.S.A. for the first time, it was a long journey. The SYM took with him his personality, that was an amalgam of all of his limited experiences and training. One of those experiences was learning what alcohol had done to his dear grandfather, a decent, kind, and sensitive man, that had tried to drown the pain of losing his father and only son. The grandfather who drank large amounts of bourbon everyday for thirty two years, causing harm to his family that he couldn’t see, until one day, he just quit…cold turkey! All of his family were so very proud of him, and he was the happiest and healthiest he had been all of the SYM’s life, but the ravages of alcohol and time would have their revenge for his actions, and his body revolted due to the withdrawal.
The SYM loved his grandfather, he was named after him, and resembled him in many respects, which is why the profound effects of alcohol on his grandfather were not lost on him.
As the SYM arrived in the Philippines, he made some new friends that were going through the processing in procedure together, and of course when the sun went down, young men often find themselves looking for entertainment, and a cold beer, which began innocently enough by visiting the NCO Club on base, before getting the courage to venture into the local town, with it’s six hundred plus bars and clubs.
After the processing in was over, they were assigned jobs within their respective career fields, and soon the SYM and his new best friend found themselves working at Town Patrol(a.k.a. Tri-Agency Patrol). A stranger in a strange land was now his newest experience, and not just the title to his favorite science fiction novel. The SYM experienced fear unlike he had ever known, as he had no experience to prepare him for his new role, and every approaching person and every shadow was frightening, especially after hearing tales of some of the various crimes and disasters that had befallen other Airmen. However, fear had never had the effect of preventing the SYM from doing what needed to be done, it never paralyzed him, as it does some, and was most often a motivator. As he dealt with his new fears, he slowly came to accept and embrace them, and muddled through.
One thing the fear of his new environment had done, was delay his emotional reaction to the anger and pain he felt about his divorce, just prior to departing the U.S., and the fact that his two little girls were now in the hands of a woman he was very angry with, and that he worried deeply about them and their well being was also set aside, as he acclimated to his new surroundings, job, and new co-workers and friends. As he became more familiar with his new life, the anger and pain of the life he had departed, only months before, started to reemerge.
The SYM’s unit, Town Patrol, had decided that a unit party was in order, and everyone agreed it was a great idea. A date was set, a caterer was contacted, the site was selected, and all of the members of the unit contributed equally for the costs. It was to be an all day/all night party, so that everyone that had to work that day would be able to attend. It was to be a luau type party, with the roasted pig(yes, it had an apple in it’s mouth), along with copious amounts of fried rice, lumpia, and other goodies. The SYM was one of the lucky one’s that had a scheduled day off, the day of the party, so he and several friends started the party very early, at about 8a.m., first with San Miguel beer, as they ventured onto the base to the NCO Club, where the SYM purchased a fifth of George Dickel Black Label, a fifth of Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7, and a quart bottle of Smirnoff’s 100 proof Vodka, to contribute to the party. The party actually started about 10a.m., with many playing basketball, before moving to the swimming pool area, and the banquet began. It was most excellent! The pig roasted in the ground was amazing, as it’s flavor and texture were simply indescribable, and they all ate too much, and laughed often. In the SYM’s case, it was a laughter created by his inner demons, his stress and tensions from his unresolved emotions, numerous beers, and now fueled with Jack Black and coke.
As the co-workers and friends now frolicked in the pool, and enjoyed the care free day of food and partying, the SYM was now working on the bottle of George Dickel, as well as some of the other beverages that were available, such as the hourly cheer his friend Joe offered with 151 proof Rum. As it became night, the party was still going strong, as others had left for work, and those who had been at work, joined the feast and party. SYM was now completely alcohol fueled, and with his waning control over his inner demons, a quart bottle of 100 proof Vodka in one hand, and a quart bottle of orange drink in the other, he was a walking screwdriver time bomb. In this state, he was standing on the steps leading down from the pool area, and talking with two of his friends, and their wives, when suddenly, his knees unlocked, and he fell face first down the inclining steps As the SYM reached out to catch his fall, he realized that the hand he was using still held firmly to the quart bottle of Vodka, and was unable to do anything other than land with the glass bottle, shattering on impact, as the SYM slid through the shards of glass. As the SYM tried to pick himself up, his friends rushed to his aid, and upon standing, everyone, including the SYM, noticed he was covered in blood from the multitude of cuts. As they tried to render aid, the large and strong SYM broke away from their grasps, and against their protests, ran for the pool and jumped in to wash the blood off, and after doing so, looked at all of the tiny gaping slices on his upper body. The refreshing plunge into the pool reinvigorated the SYM, and he started issuing a challenge to any of those who were beseeching him to get out of the pool, to come in and get him. A couple of his friends came in the pool to talk to him, and try and convince him he needed to leave and get his cuts taken care of, but only one dared get close enough so the SYM could get his hands on him. The others had to jump in to keep the SYM from drowning that person, and still with the numerous other men, they couldn’t overcome the SYM’s besotted demon strength. They now chose to wait the SYM out, and as he became tired, the SYM exited the pool, and sat down, and after a brief conversation with some friends, agreed to let them give him a ride home, as it was now nearly 11p.m. at night.
The next thing the SYM remembered, after being dropped off at home, was the sound of men banging on his front door, yelling for the SYM to wake up, and to not light a cigarette. The SYM was aroused by the banging and yelling, but it didn’t make much sense, as he didn’t feel very well, and his orientation times three(time/place/date) was missing. The SYM tried to yell back at them, that he was getting up, but his mouth was too dry, and his voice was inaudible. So he started to get out of bed, but the sheet was stuck to his upper body, as he tugged on it. WTH? Finally the SYM yanked on the sheet, and it came off with a tearing sound, and the hundreds of tiny cuts started to ooze blood again. As he stumbled to the door and opened it, his three friends came bursting into the room, and rushed to the stove, which had the oven, and all four burners on….unlit! They lingered for a little while, to see if he was alright, and answered his questions about what had happened the night before, and the SYM became aware that it was early afternoon. As the SYM listened to all of this, and surveyed his wrecked apartment, he realized that this wasn’t who he truly was, and he became very embarrassed. The SYM asked them to leave, as he needed to clean up his home, get a shower, and go to the ER and get his cuts dressed. At the ER, the med tech that worked on him said that there was nothing he could do, that there was no inflammation, and the 100 proof Vodka had actually done a good job of sterilizing the cuts, and none of them required stitches, but only barely.
The SYM left the hospital and took public transport back to the office, where the looks he got from his colleagues only added to his embarrassment, and he went home, to ponder what had happened to him. The SYM came to the realization that there were some things troubling him, why else would he behave that way? That was not who he was, he knew that! The SYM first decided that he would not ever let himself get to the point of losing control, ever again, from drinking alcohol, and the pain from the cuts and muscle soreness was an acute reminder of his loss of control. The SYM would still party with his friend’s, but not allow himself to get out of control. While he couldn’t make his emotions of anger and fear go away, he could acknowledge them, and the pain he felt, and not get ambushed by them again. The SYM then charted a course of self-improvement, and got involved with a number of hobbies and interests, which gave him new found confidence, and enthusiasm for life.
The SYM never got out of control drunk again, after that.
The man that came from the SYM doesn’t really drink at all now, other than an occasional beer or wine with friends, it just doesn’t have the appeal it once did. That is as much a result of his own experiences, his grandfather’s, as well as a class he took in Cellular and Molecular Biology at the University of Texas, where he learned that, alcohol, in it’s essence, is microorganisms drowning in their own feces and urine.
The SYM would have liked to have had that information, much earlier.

The nation which forgets its defenders will be itself forgotten.
Calvin Coolidge

There are 58,245 names listed on the Vietnam Memorial. Let that thought sink in for a moment. The Wall isn’t just an artistic expression, with names engraved in it for visual effect, these were men and women, mostly young, that had mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends. I mention this man, to give a glimpse into the flesh and blood, the spirit, and the quality of man he was.
Patrick Lynn Blair.
We met for the first time, on the playground of David Crockett Elementary school. Pat was bigger than me, which made us the two biggest kids in the schoolyard. Being the new kid, he was quickly introduced to me by other schoolmates, and he had been forewarned of my proclivity for losing my temper and going into a rage, while pounding on my opponent. In actuality, that only happened a few times, and I was working on controlling my temper, but I had a ‘rep.’ When we squared off, surrounded by other kids, we exchanged pleasantries, while checking each other out. I could tell from his eyes, he didn’t want any part of me, and I tried to disguise that I felt the same way.
Throughout our years, growing up in Marshall, Texas, we were always friends, yet for such a small town, we never did that much together, and hung out with different people. Pat was even more of a country boy than I was, and he was also more serious, and worked when he wasn’t in school. We played on different baseball teams, in Little League, and Babe Ruth League. While Pat didn’t play football, which is generally expected of young men in East Texas, especially for a big guy like Pat, he truly loved baseball. One day I ran into his older brother, who was more outgoing than Pat, and I mentioned to his brother that Pat’s team, and mine, were playing that night. His brother’s eyes got big, and he said “Ohhh, that explains why Pat was heat treating his new bat over the kitchen stove this morning.” Pat was competitive, in a gentlemanly way.
The last time I saw Pat, was on the occasion of our “All Night Party” after our high school graduation, 1 Jun 68. Pat had actually graduated at mid-term our Senior year, and enlisted in the U.S. Army shortly thereafter. He was one of several young men from Marshall that were serving, and more would soon follow, as events in Vietnam would require more men.
It was good to see Pat that night, and he was still the serious, looming presence he had always been, but he was different. His formerly boyish looks had now transformed into a lean, fit young man, he wore his Class A uniform with pride, and he looked fantastic; an example for his still carefree classmates. As we stood on the earthstone bridge over a creek, and having a cold beer, we talked. Not just about silly, teenage things, but we talked as two men, thoughtfully, seriously, and with emotion. We talked as we never had, and I thought how little I actually knew about Pat, and wished we had talked like this all the years we had known each other. Pat informed me that he was on leave, before shipping out to Vietnam, that he really wanted to be home to receive his diploma, and see his old friends again. He had missed the simple life of a small town, his Momma’s doting love for him, and her home cooking. I remember not knowing what to say about his deployment, I was young, and still didn’t quite understand how deadly serious his job as a mortar man, in a deadly war was. I didn’t have the words, as I didn’t have the understanding. It was at that time, that Pat looked at me, and asked if I remembered the first day we met, and I said that I did. He gulped on his beer, looked out over the creek, and said, “I was really afraid of you, that you would beat me up.” I was shocked, and in the spirit of the moment, I admitted that I had been afraid of him too. We looked at each other in stunned silence, then cracked up laughing. As we finished our beers, and headed back inside to the dance, Pat turned his back to the creek, yelled ‘Geronimo,’ and threw his beer bottle over his head, in a lazy arcing pattern. There was only one spot which wasn’t cement, and was a mudpile, and his beer bottle hit there, without breaking. We cracked up laughing, and went inside, never to visit again. I called his house a few days later, to see if he wanted to go fishing with me, and his sweet Momma answered the phone. She informed me he had already gone back to his base, and she didn’t try and conceal her concern for her baby boy. She did mention that he had told her about the great conversation we had had.
Months went by, and I was attending a local college and working at a local grocery store/deli, and hung out with my friends and girlfriend. Life was still simple, but the news from Vietnam was constant, like a dull headache. Then one day, I received a phone call from a friend, Pat had been killed in action. The information I received, was that he had been part of a twelve man quick reaction mortar team, that they were very good at their jobs, and were called in to assist in a heated battle. As he and his team stepped off of the helicopter, the first six were killed instantly from smalls arm fire, and Pat had been shot up so badly, that his funeral was a closed casket ceremony. I couldn’t go to his funeral.
Oh, I could have rescheduled the dentist appointment, and gotten off of work, but I didn’t try. I couldn’t go because I was afraid. Afraid of how I would feel, afraid to face my own mortality, and the fragility of life, and I was afraid that the fond memory of our last meeting would be replaced with that of a funeral for a childhood friend. A good man, a good son, and a good friend.
It wasn’t long after Pat’s death, and other friends being injured, that in a fit of anger and purpose, I went to the Marine recruiter to join up. Had it not been for a drunken man, that wanted to rejoin the Marines, starting a fight with the impressive Gunny Sgt. recruiter, I would have signed that day. As it turned out, my fate was to take a different path, than the one I tried to plot.
I have not, nor will I ever forget, Pat.
He was my friend. Not just a name on a wall.

*UPDATE*-Received an email from a friend of Pat, that served with him in Viet Nam.  The following is from his email.

“Pat and I often shared the same bunker.In fact, we shared the same bunker on LZ White, the site of his death. I would be out on missions for 4-8 days at a time. When we returned to the rear these spartan bunkers were home. On March 20, we returned from a mission, and the company commander instructed me that it was time for me to have a break, and to return to the rear area with the supply chopper, and to get a shower, fresh cloths and to get drunk. I did so, and was awakened in the early morning hours and advised that LZ White had been hit by special sapper units.

Before catching the first chopper out, I knew that we had casualties, but had no names. Upon arrival, I learned that Pat was among the dead. He was killed in the bunker we usually occupied together. While he did not die rushing to the mortar pits, it does not detract from his courage. I learned that the enemy rocket fire was so intense, that few people were able to leave the safety of their bunkers.

The sappers who infiltrated the perimeter not only directed rocket fire into the perimeter with devastating effect, but also was comprised of individuals who ran from bunker to bunker hurling satchel charges inside. This is what happened to Pat. The satchel charge produced an intense concussion which claimed his life.”

I am glad to know, finally, what happened to my friend Pat, as painful as it is.  He was such a decent and good man.

He had heard from some friends that the Japanese government had just passed a law banning the ownership of any bike larger than five hundred cc’s and that bike shops had a plethora of bikes they were willing to sell for incredibly cheap prices, or else sell them for scrap.

So the SYM thought about it for a little while, then decided that’s what he needed to do, sell his Fi-Fitty and go to Japan and find a bike.

As it happened, another Sgt. he knew had been bugging him to buy his bike, as it was the last of its color. The Sgt. agreed to pay an amount that exceeded the original cost of the bike, but less than the cost of one of the new models. Everyone was happy!

The SYM was now able to make plans for his trip to Japan, but needed some friendly advice as to where to look, how to get it back to the Philippines and help in reassembling it, as he had never disassembled and reassembled a bike before. He checked around and was introduced to his soon to be new friend Bob, of the Night of the Wild Sabong.

Until you got to know Bob, he came across as a rough character and didn’t mince words. Bob informed the SYM that if he wanted him to assemble his bike for him, he couldn’t afford his price. However, if he would come over to his house everyday and work on the bike, Bob would show him what to do and what not to do, at no cost. This was the deal of a lifetime and the SYM quickly extended his hand in acceptance of his generous offer. Bob also armed him with knowledge which would help in selecting the best bike possible, which bike shop to go to first and how best to get it back home.

It was a pleasant day in March when the SYM boarded the military hop bound for Yokota Air Force Base. At that time, in 1974, the Yen to Dollar exchange rate was much different than today, as this photo from the Chase-Manhatten Bank at Yokota AB can attest.

The SYM proceeded to a bike shop called “Curly’s,” which was owned and operated by the Japanese gentleman it was named after. Curly was a delightfully pleasant man with very limited English skills and he employed a cheerful young man of high school age as his translator. His shop was packed full with bikes over five hundred cc’s, including the Suzuki 1000cc police bikes, which the SYM had no interest in; he was looking for a Honda CB750K of which he found one that met his criteria, except for being a butt-ugly Olive Drab green. After looking at all that was available, he decided the OD green bike was the best of the bunch and Curly even threw in a set of brand new carburetors at no cost. (What was he going to do with them?) The grand total, including having them completely disassemble the bike, bag the parts, cut the frame in half and box everything for mailing, came to just over $300 U.S., including tips. The SYM hired a taxi and took the seventeen boxes to the base post office and mailed them back to the Clark AB post office, in the Philippines. A few days later, he went to check his mail and the boxes had arrived…all seventeen, of which he had doubts that they would. His relief and renewed faith in the system was invigorating. Now for the assembly.

The SYM took the boxes to Bob’s house and they began unpacking and sorting the bags and cartons. When another of his friends showed up on his candy apple red Honda 750, he went straight to the frame and started looking at the cut ends. This was the guy who was going to weld it back together, as he worked in the Precision Instruments shop on the flightline and he did a superb job, taking measurements before and after the weld and delivered it with a guarantee that the frame was perfectly straight.
It took about two weeks to complete the assembly, as he only had a few hours each day after work and days off, but finally the bike was complete, it was roadworthy and ready to be registered. This photo was taken after getting the bike registered and just prior to it’s first road test.

Shortly after this photo he asked a friend to come with, as they took it out for a spin North on MacArthur Highway, north of Mabalacat and back. When the road opened up a little the SYM rolled the throttle back and was soon going 105mph…in third gear. He shut it down and cruised…he was pleased! After going past Mabalacat they turned around and started rolling through the gears again, when suddenly a disturbing grinding sound emanated from the right side of the engine case, but only when he activated the clutch. The SYM saw a Sari-Sari store coming up on the right side of the road, so he quickly slipped the bike into neutral and coasted to a stop. With only limited tools in a kit under the seat and still not quite certain what the problem was, he asked his friend if he would go back to Angeles City and bring Bob with tools. The SYM handed him a wad of Filipino Pesos and hailed a jeepney for him. All the SYM could do now was wait and hope that help came before the sun went down and the Hukbalahap started prowling around and took a liking to the SYM and his new bike.

As he sat at the counter of the Sari-Sari store, some of the local villagers began approaching out of curiosity. The children wanted money, but the older gentlemen wanted to talk about politics and the SYM wanted to know about the Japanese occupation. It was a pleasant day, as was the conversation. The SYM had a deep affection for the Filipino people. After a while, a tour bus pulled up and stopped, and about thirty Japanese tourists got off. The tour director gave them instructions and then carefully escorted them in single file across the busy highway to a field on the other side of the road. The SYM hadn’t noticed the path leading into the sugar cane field, with a swath cut out surrounding a memorial. He asked one of the gentlemen he had been talking with what the monument was and he informed the SYM it was a memorial to the first Kamikaze Squadron of WWII. The SYM was shocked, as he had always thought the Kamikazes didn’t begin until Okinawa, so as soon as the tourist had left he crossed the highway to see for himself, and the proof is here and here.

It wasn’t long after that, that a roar could be heard in the distance and soon a pack of motorcycles could be seen flying towards the stranded SYM. It was the whole gang from Bob’s house, with Bob leading the way with his friend riding with Bob. Of course the obligatory ragging and leg-pulling came first, then the business of determining what was wrong came next and it was soon discovered that the clutch housing bolts had come loose and were grinding against the clutch cover. The SYM had failed to torque the bolts properly, and more ragging and razzing followed. The repair was made and the band of merry bikers soon were forming a flying V, headed south and home.

The very next day the SYM went to a paint shop to remedy the awful paint color on his new bike. He sat down with the owner and discussed his idea, at which time the owner called his artist into the office. He explained what he wanted and the artist’s eyes soon lit up, as he really liked the idea, which was to paint the tank Mediterranean blue and then paint a gold metallic comet streak with a Tiger’s head at the end, with it’s mouth opening and roaring the word Honda. The artist asked if he wanted his helmet painted with the same scheme. The SYM hadn’t even thought of it and when the artist stated it would be easy and his eyes showed a genuine enthusiasm for the project, the SYM smiled and agreed. The deal was made and the project was finished in only a few days.

After assembling the bike, the SYM developed an affection for this bike and it was more than just a thing or a possession, it was a part of his life, of his discovering what he could accomplish and he had found some wonderful new friends and artisans that he otherwise would have never known. This bike was special to him and as he knew every bolt, wire and spoke on it, he had a great deal of confidence when he rode it and always treated it with respect.

After a few months of cleaning, polishing and buffing, the patina on the engine case was gone and now it was shiny again. He kept the engine in peak tune, as he knew the abundance of reserve power was more important to his survival than the brakes, which he also took care of. This became very important, one overcast day at dusk.

After getting off of work, the SYM headed home to hook-up with his bud and their girlfriends, for a night out of dinner and dancing. There was a slight drizzle as the SYM was cruising the main drag, looking for his companions. Looking at the road ahead, it was clear for quite a safe distance of vehicles and pedestrians when he noticed an attractive young lady wearing a short skirt walking down the side of the road. Instead of glancing, the SYM was completely distracted and lost concentration on the road and instead focused on the young ladies attributes. It was at that time, that everything that he thought was happening on the road ahead had changed.

When the SYM did look ahead he found that a jeepney had pulled off of the same side of the road as he and was trying to merge into traffic which had stopped and another jeepney was crossing the street and turning left in front of the SYM and the other jeepney. The SYM had, at best, two nanoseconds to make a decision; either get off of the bike and let it slide into the jeepneys, or try and save it, which could mean a lot of pain. The SYM, being immortal, decided on the latter.

He instantly factored in the position of the vehicles and saw a gap between them. He also factored in that the roads were slightly wet and sandy, so traction wouldn’t be the best. The SYM then, almost instinctively or with Divine Intervention, jammed the bike into first gear, rolled hard on the throttle, while simultaneously locking the rear brake so the bike’s rear wheel slid slightly to the left. As he approached the gap between the two jeepneys, which was at about a 52 degree angle, the bike slid on the rear tire and the bike was now aligned with the opening. He released the rear brake and shot through the opening and was soon on the sandy area just off of the roadway. As the SYM passed between the two jeepneys everything was in an adrenaline induced slow motion mode and the SYM could see many peripheral aspects of the scene. He saw the shocked men and women on the jeepney directly in front of him as they were preparing for his impact into their broadside. He could also see the jagged, rusty steel bumper of the jeepney on his right as his leg passed by it, only inches away from a permanent injury.

As the SYM was now clear of the conflagration, he poured the coal to his Honda and got home as quickly as he could. Arriving home he parked his bike inside the front porch area, sat in a chair and alternately vomited and cried for several minutes, until the adrenaline overdose had subsided.

After processing what had just happened, the SYM had some new perspectives. He was angry at himself for losing concentration, as he knew that bike riding is an exercise in concentration and to not know this is a recipe for disaster. He also knew that his bike had performed superbly, a testament to it’s design and the aggressive maintenance program he followed for it.
Finally, he realized he had handled the situation with a skill he did not know he possessed and was proud of the decision he had made and the manner in which he had handled it.

Nevertheless, he decided he had to punish himself for his foolishness, so he decided to park his bike for a few days and just work on it without riding it and to think of what he had done and what could have been. So for three days, when he came home he would work on it. One night he pulled the plugs and checked the gap and how they were burning. Adjusted the valves, synchronized the carburetors, adjusted the cam chain tension and changed the oil and filter. The next night he washed it, compounded it, waxed and polished it. The next night, he polished all of the chrome on the bike, from the mirrors to the spokes on the wheels. On the fourth night, after much reflection and self-admonition, the SYM got ready to ride.

Sitting on the saddle, the SYM inserted the key into the ignition, pulled the choke control out, turned the key to the on position and gently tapped the electric starter. The engine fired effortlessly and immediately. Allowing the engine to warm, the throaty sound of the inline four cylinder SOHC engine was inviting. Pushing the choke control back in, the engine signaled it was ready. The SYM rocked the bike forward, releasing the center stand and the wheels were now touching the pavement. Engaging the clutch, he clicked the shift lever to first gear and the bike made a pleasant sound of engagement and the SYM gently rolled on the throttle, while letting the clutch out… he was rolling.

As he eased onto the roadway, the wonderful and familiar sounds of his bike were present and as he increased his speed and shifted gears, he could feel the wonderful mechanical actions, sounds, and the smells.

Not only was the SYM pleased to be riding his 7-Fitty again, but his 7-Fitty was also very happy.

*7-Fitty Slideshow*

In the Philippines, cockfighting crosses all socio-economic lines and is as much a sport as a lifestyle, preceding the Spanish occupation which began in the year 1521. The special arenas or cockpits are always bustling on Saturday nights and some of the larger ones were even televised.

It was on an unremarkable Saturday night that one cockpit was transformed into a dust bowl of bedlam.

The SYM was hanging out with his motorcycle buddies at his friends house, as they were completing the build-up of the SYM’s new Honda 750. His friend Bob was a delightful guy and father of two. Bob had been a Harley Davidson mechanic in SoCal before joining the USAF and became a Medical Services Tech. Bob had even worked on the motorcycles for the cult classic television show, “Then Came Bronson.” With his bud’s, he was able to be himself and when you encountered him at home a simple handshake wasn’t allowed..no, you had to trade licks and he had quite a punch. When Bob and his bud’s were around his wife and children, the love he had for them was touching, as his rough demeanor transformed into the warmest man anyone could imagine. There was an unspoken understanding that when they were around his family, deference to his family was mandatory.

So it happened, that on this particular Saturday night, all of the men were working on their bikes, drinking beer, telling tall tales and enjoying each others company. At one point, they all agreed a break was needed, as it was hot and humid and one could feel the pressure building for a rain shower. Bob kept his house air conditioned for his family and he invited them all inside to cool off. They visited with his wife and children and then all settled down in the living room, as Bob started searching the few television channels to find something to watch. It was a weak schedule. Finally, Bob settled on the sabong(cockfights) as he thought it might be good for a few yuks.

The level of noise and frantic activity is difficult for most to follow, as the attendees have grown up with the sport. There are people constantly yelling, placing bets and in general, getting caught up in the nervous energy that is contained in the cockpit. When the handlers and their “fighters” enter the arena, the decibel level rises precipitously. It was at one of these moments, that things got wild. The combatants met in the middle of the pit with the referee and as is their custom, they began to arouse the fighting spirit of the birds by holding them close to each other. The cocks get quite angry and eager for the fight. One cock was particularly worked up and at the moment his handler was removing the cover from his blade, the tare, the bird went wild. He slashed his handler with his blade, in trying to get to the other cock. The referee rushed in to try and help gain control of the bird and got his throat cut and from the appearance of the blood flow, seemed to have hit the carotid artery. The referee went down. The cock was now unrestrained to go after the other bird and the other handler dropped his bird and fled the scene.

At this point, the SYM and his friends are totally engrossed in the proceedings, even though they were not real enthusiasts of the sport. They were looking at each other in disbelief, laughing, pointing and talking excitedly, wondering what was going to happen next.

As the out of control cock finished off his opponent, they noticed a Filipino Policeman cautiously approach the bird from behind, draw his WWII era Colt Government Model 1911, raise it above the bird, while pointing down and BOOM! The friends sat up in their seats in surprise and watched silently, as the dust cloud slowly receded. When the dust(and feathers) had settled, there was a quiet scene of mayhem. The 230grain .45ACP bullet had reaffirmed itself as a lethal round, as the out of control cock no longer existed, nor did his remains, other than some feathers and bits and pieces. The referee was still laying in his pool of blood and they were uncertain if he was still alive and the previously raucous crowd was silenced…for a few moments, then the screen went blank before another program was cut in.

The friends all gathered in the living room looked at each other, grabbed another beer and went back out to the garage, so their thoughts and reflections could not be heard by Bob’s family. None of them picked up a wrench the remainder of the evening and they slowly drifted off to their homes. With no increased desire to ever attend a sabong.

For the good folks in Louisiana that have grown up with cockfighting, I believe that if we are to claim we, as a society, respect different cultural heritages, then the same rule should apply to cockfighting. I don’t need to attend the fights, nor does anyone else, but for those that do and have strong cultural ties to the activity I say more power to them.
Just watch those tares!

*UPDATE*  Louisiana Bans Cockfighting!