COCK OF THE WALK

I spent a lot of my leave time fixing up the beige ’66 Falcon to make it a little more presentable, things like taking the cheap hubcaps off and painting the wheels flat-black, and buying some chrome lug nuts. To me, that made all the difference. Then I had a 4 and 8-track Muntz tape player installed with 4 of the biggest stereo speakers money could buy.

As a matter of fact, twice I was playing it so loud that I did not hear my recapped snow tires separate. I thought the flapping in the wheel wells was part of the beat!

Of course, my Falcon was not nearly as sporty looking as Suldog’s, but it was a zippy little ride that I drove at top speed. In those days the Interstate speed was 75, which meant I went back and forth between home and the airbase at 80 to 85 MPH, faster if I passed a patrol car, almost every weekend.

Once I got into a “top end” race with a small V-8 Chevy (’65 or ’66) on the way to Nashville. I tried my best to pass him, but all I could do was follow about 6 car lengths behind him at about 110 MPH! After about 10 miles, smoke suddenly bellowed out from under the Chevy, and oil sprayed all over my windshield! He took the next exit off – I kept going! Who needed a Mustang!

Also, in those days, the Tennessee Highway Patrol used radars set up on tripods. I got two tickets before I learned to spot the damn things a mile down the road. Once, I stood by the car while the patrolman wrote out my ticket and glared at every car that passed. Before I got off the Interstate west of Crossville, I had passed every car I remembered again!

Where the Interstate ended, Highway 70 took me on home. It was a very crooked 2-lane highway from Crossville, Tennessee on in to Rockwood. I still love to drive that road. The curves are banked perfectly and I learned from my dad at an early age how to “go in low, foot off the gas, and come out foot on the floor and high!” Of course, I learned other tricks after I got my first straight shift!

Dad loved to play, what he called “Dick Tracy” on the curves, making the old bias tires squeal! I learned to love that sound as much as he did.

I reported to Sewart AFB in April of 1967 with 17 months remaining to serve. I dreaded spending all that time on some gate or routinely driving around looking for speeders. At that point, I had my fill of monotonous duty, but at least there would not be anyone out in the dark waiting to kill me. So, I resigned myself to living with my destiny for a few more months.

As I sat outside the First Sergeant’s office thinking about this, and awaiting my Flight and barrack assignments, he suddenly appeared, as if sent by God. “Anyone out here type?” he yelled.

I probably looked like that horse that got shot in “Animal House!” “I do,” I said, not believing what I heard, and with my dad’s voice about not volunteering ringing in my head.

“Where’d you learn to type Airman?” the old Senior Master Sergeant asked.

“High school Sarge,” I said, beginning to be afraid of why he wanted to know.

“Come in here!” he motioned for me to follow, then pointed at his typewriter, “Type me something.”

All I could think of was the old “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aide of their country,” and the old “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” routines everyone learns in typing class.

“You’re hired boy…now get up to Sgt. Hollingshead’s office right now. He needs someone right now!”

Luck, pure ass luck, had smiled on me again. From that first day, until I was discharged I was in charge of the recording and disposition of all traffic violations and accidents that happened on the base. This position put a lot of people in my debut and I reaped the benefits from supply and food services people almost immediately.

“Uh, yeah, I kinda got a speeding ticket the other day and, uh, I was wondering if there was anything I could…”

“Say you work in supply?” I would ask, “Well, you know, my stuff’s in pretty bad shape since getting back in country, so, you couldn’t…could you?”

Needless to say, I had anything I wanted. If you worked anywhere else, you were pretty much out of luck!

I was also one of a hand full of Security Policemen that had a car. Even though it did not compare to one guys’ Jaguar, it was “A CAR,” and that made me one of the elite.

I was also the only Airman in our squadron, in the lower ranks, that had been to Vietnam. For some reason, the other guys looked up to me. They were not afraid to ask me questions, and I loved the questions, and I gave them the straight scoop. Most would soon be going and all were scared, so I did not embellish my tales – just the truth about long lonely hours on dark post, the heat and humidity, the monsoon rains, and the rockets.

For the first time in my life, when it came time to choose sides for sports, I was not picked toward the last. I was picked “first round” and my ego grew. I begin to feel that my year in ‘Nam was finally worth something, and I began to cash it in!

I played above my potential in softball and volley ball and had a blast, and actually became a good athlete – late bloomer I suppose. I could “talk the talk, and walk the walk!” That summer was one of the best in my life. I played hard, drank hard, and had a girl two hours away that I could see every weekend.

Then Billy Jean (not her real name) came along! Oh my, she was hot, and I wanted her too. The only problem was she belonged to someone else. However, I soon discovered his weakness – another guy!

Life had never seemed, or been, so good, and life was about to get even better. You have probably heard the saying, “It’s good to be the King!” That was me, the cock of the walk!

However, I did not know life could get so complicated.