I’M GAY!

“Mushy!”

I kept hearing someone call my name as I ran through the jungle, ducking behind trees and blinking my eyes to the flashes of the explosions. “Mushy (not his real name)!”

I heard the sound of feet getting closer to me and the light flashing before me got brighter and brighter. For some reason I thought that if I answered the voice and opened my eyes, I would die. I fought to get away from the voice and the light, but the voices got louder. I know now that it was a Vietnam “flash back” dream that had coincidentally clashed with reality!

Finally, I opened my eyes and angrily shouted, “WHAT?!”

“It’s Don, he’s laying out here in the hall calling for you,” someone said.

“What the fuck does he want,” I said rubbing my eyes and looking squinty-eyed up at the bare incandescent bulb swinging back and forth above me.

“He’s hollering for you man!”

I staggered to the door of our room and looked down the hall, and rubbed my eyes trying to adjust to the light again.

There in a rumpled heap lay my roommate Donald. He was obviously drunk, no more than drunk; he was totally smashed, and just short of hallucinations! He reeked of alcohol and vomit!

I stood over him and began to ridicule him for getting so stinking drunk, but he reached out and grabbed my leg, and tried to reach up higher. Finally, I bent down and put my hand around the back of his neck and pulled him up close to my ear. He was trying desperately to tell me something, but wanted closer.

I leaned over and let him pull himself up to ear. “I’m gay,” he whispered letting out a long expulsion of alcohol breath.

I froze for an instant, and then stood up allowing him to drop back to the floor. “I’m sorry man,” he said just above a whisper looking up at me. I looked around to see if anyone had heard what he said before, but everyone seemed overly concerned for him and not to have heard.

Donald began to throw up violently. He began to shake uncontrollably and scream between bouts, so we had no recourse but to call the medics. An ambulance soon came and they carted Donald away, with him still saying “Mushy, I’m sorry!”

I stood in place for a long time, but finally made it back to our room and sat on the side of the bunk in the dark. I began to feel guilty for not going with him, but for the moment I was embarrassed, and I was confused – confused about my feelings and about what I should do.

A couple of days later I came in from work and Donald was there. He sat silently on the side of his bunk staring out the window. I pulled a Falstaff from the fridge, popped the top, and sat down on my bunk staring out the same window.

He broke the silence first say, “I will understand if you don’t want me to be your best man at your wedding. I should have told ya.”

“Yeah, why didn’t you say something? I mean, you and talked about girls and…”

“No, you talked about girls…I talked about my sister…think about it,” he said raising his voice slightly.

I really had grown to like Donald and it dawned on me that nothing should change. I do not know how or why I came to the decision, especially in that day and age, but I did.

“Nothing changes…I asked you to be my best man and by God you will be…you, you are my best friend!”

“You sure ‘bout that?”

“Yes, I’m sure, so let it go,” I said taking a long pull on the tall can. “What did they tell you at the hospital anyway?”

“I had the DT’s…been drinking all day and part of the night I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Bruce.”

“Bruce? What the hell has he got to do with it?”

“He was my boyfriend,” he explained, as my eyes got wider.

“He was with me before Billy Jean, then you came along, and he came back, now he’s back with her…at least I think he is.”

“Holly cow man!” I said, realizing for the first time the world is a big place with strange things going on it. I was never as naive again.

Donald went on to be my best man, and he and Bruce came to Harriman and we had a bachelor party in some little motel room near there. Yep, just me and two gay guys celebrating my last night of freedom! Life is strange, but ain’t it fun!

A few weeks later Donald was called away to the First Sergeant’s office. He apparently had blabbed too much that night to the medics. He was forced out of the Air Force, and I never saw or heard from him again.

BILLY JEAN – Part 1

To most observers, Billy Jean would have appeared to be the base slut. She hung out at the Airmen’s and NCO Clubs on the weekends, and sometimes would show up during the week. She was fresh out of high school and learning to be a beautician. She loved life and walked with purpose wherever she went – always in a hurry. She dressed in loud colors and patterns. Her dresses were very short, for the purpose of showing off her long legs. She liked most to show them off on the dance floor, and that is where I first saw her. She looked great, with a dazzling smile full of white teeth, platinum hair, and porcelain skin. She also liked to drink, and she always seemed to have a drink or cigarette in her hand.

I have never been much of a dancer, but I have been a smooth talker, and with my new found confidence, I somehow took her away from the dance floor guys.

However, in the later part of our relationship, when some guy would come to the table and ask her if she wanted to dance, she would look in my direction and I would motion for her to go – go dance!

I could tell it hurt her for me to seem not to care that much about her, and not to show any jealousy, but it was part of my play of indifference. I discovered that the more I pushed her away the more she seemed to care for me. She reminded me of the little dog I used to toss off the couch when I was about three. No matter how many times I threw the dog off into the floor, it jumped right back up waiting for me to give it just a little more attention.

Yes, I am ashamed of how I treated this girl, but I was playing a roll – I was a true Gemini for those last few months. I was an indifferent “cocky” fellow at the Airbase, and a meek and mild follower at home. Two completely different guys in attitude, personality, and purpose, and I knew from the start that Billy Jean would be hurt.

We began by simply talking and soon she looked for me when she came into the club. Guys still looked for her and still asked her to dance, and I showed no emotion one way or the other. I did not know she was seeing someone as a “steady,” but Airman Bruce soon let me know all about it.

Bruce came up to me one night in the Airmen’s Club, with his coal black duck-tailed hair, and two of his friends standing behind him. He just laid it out there on the table; he and Billy Jean were together. I do not know if he really wanted a physical confrontation or not, but I did not move or change expressions. I simply said, “…and you’re telling me this why?”

“I’m just telling you that she belongs to me,” he said shifting his weight to another foot.

“I don’t think Billy Jean belongs to anyone,” I told him. I then turned my back to him and watched the dance floor. I half way expected him to club me from behind, but when I next looked around he was gone.

I found out from Billy Jean that she and Bruce had met at the beauty shop. Bruce was a part-time beautician at a local shop. I hate to stereotype people, but this raised the first flag in my mind. They had begun their relationship by meeting after work to go dancing at the Airmen’s Club.

Billy Jean soon decided she wanted to be with me more than Bruce, and Bruce, being the tough man he was, backed off, but would occasionally give me dirty looks as we passed.

I continued to see Connie on the weekends and Billy Jean during the week. Sometimes I had some Color Guard or marching duties at the base, so I saw Billy Jean on those weekends.

Unfortunately for Billy Jean she fell in love. Me, well, I liked her and wanted her, but I had little respect for her.

She would ask me over to her parents where she fixed me supper on occasion, and sometimes I would leave work and go hit the rack for a nap. Someone would wake me up and tell me she was on the phone downstairs. It would dawn on me that I had missed her supper, but I pretended it did not matter. She would sound broken hearted and tell me she still had it in the oven, keeping it warm.

“Okay, I’ll be over in a little while,” talking while I yawned in a monotone voice.

“Oh…great…I’ll be here,” she would say, all bouncy like that little dog I had.

Later that evening we would sit in the living room and watch TV with her parents. When they went to bed, we made love on the couch. Afterwards, I practically had to pull her off me, first one arm then the other, and then I got up and left.

This went on until about December of ’67. That was about the time Connie asked me to marry her! We made plans to marry in March of ’68, so I knew I had to do something about Billy Jean. I racked my brain for a way to break if off, but being mean to her only made her love me more. It had to be something that did not give me much choice and still leave my dignity in tack.

Like I said, I’m ashamed.

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.

MONDAY, MONDAY

You never know when you will find someone. It seems to happen when you are not really looking. So it was with Corey’s mom.

Woody just happened to be home on leave the same time I was there waiting for my deployment date to roll around. It was a good thing too – I needed someone to talk to about the real possibility of not coming home. That is just something you do not talk to your mom or even you dad about.

Woody and I hit the old spots, but especially the little “quick stops” that would sell us beer in high school. Our favorite was a little grocery/gas station in a remote area called Bitter Creek. The store is still there today and only a few miles from where I live today.

It is strange how boys are always old enough to fight and die for their country, but not old enough to drink or vote. Makes no freakin’ sense whatsoever!

One evening Woody asked me to accompany him to Connie’s. I did not know her but I knew her best friend Betty Anne, and Woody’s sister. I do not remember if Woody was trying to date Connie, or if they were just best friends, but after that first night, Connie and I spent almost every waking moment together.

She was fun loving and seemed to enjoy my wicked sense of humor. We also shared a love for music, but it was a much more tranquil taste in music than I developed in later years. We loved Dylan, the Mamas & Papas, The Righteous Brothers, Johnny Rivers, Bob Lind, Percy Sledge, Simon and Garfunkel, Ray Charles, Temptations, Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass, Aretha Franklin, and of course, the Beatles and Elvis.

I think it was the mood that set the tone for the songs we liked. We both knew I was leaving and that a “sad goodbye” day was coming soon. So, we did not listen to the Stones, the Byrds or the Yardbirds, Paul Revere & the Raiders, or groups like the Beau Brummels – much too upbeat.

But one stupid song still resounds in my head, but it says more about the time than I could ever write. The chorus from Bob Lind’s “Elusive Butterfly of Love” goes:

Don't be concerned, it will not harm you

It's only me pursuing somethin' I'm not sure of

Across my dreams with nets of wonder

I chase the bright elusive butterfly of love

In any other state of mind, I would have hated that song, but it reflected my inner feelings at the time. I did not know if I was falling in love or if I was just holding on to someone because I was afraid I was about to die. She comforted me in my hour of need. The other question that puzzled me was it her, or just because she was there.

Nonetheless, we filled up each of the thirty days I had with dimly lit quiet times in each other’s arms, listening to soft moody music.

Another song that still rattles in my brain from that uncertain time was “Monday, Monday” from the Mamas & Papas. It seemed to hauntingly remind us each time that there was a Monday coming that we dreaded:

Monday Monday, can't trust that day,

Monday Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way

Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be

Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave and not take me.


Monday finally came and it was time to go. I had said my goodbye to Connie the evening before, and now it was time to tell my mom and dad not to worry. “I’ll be okay…I’ll be back before you know it!”

My dad and I posed for a shot the day they took me to Knoxville. It was one of the few times he and I actually hugged. Most of our affection was displayed through wrestling matches in the living room floor, where he usually pinned me and tickled me until I almost cried!

On the way we stopped at Shoney’s in Oak Ridge and had a last meal together. The concern they had for me was obvious in their eyes, but we actually said little to each other that morning.

All the time I was offering these words of brave support, I knew inside why I could never dream forward in my life. This was the reason I could never imagine myself with a nice car, a pretty wife, and children. It was destiny playing out, and so I left for Vietnam with the thought in my mind that I was never coming back.

A month after arriving The Stones released their “Paint It Black,” which to me was prophetic:

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black

With flowers and my love both never to come back

I see people turn their heads and quickly look away

Like a new born baby it just happens ev'ry day

I look inside myself and see my heart is black

I see my red door and it has been painted black

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts

It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black

Obviously I made it, but until I arrived home a year later you could not have convinced me otherwise. I lived one day short of a full year under this mental anguish. Monday has always had a bad connotation for me, and even today when I hear the word, I think back to that Monday in March of 1966, and how hard it was to walk away and toward my perceived destiny.

DON’T DO AS I DO, DO AS I SAY!

The Christmas and New Year’s Holidays brought shift changes to Keesler AFB for many permanent party groups. The Air Police normally operated with four Flights rotating the midnight, evening, days, and off shifts, with 24 hours off between shift changes (so I was reminded by PRH recently). The shifts were normally broken into 3 days of each shift, with the last shift being 3 days off.

However, during Christmas and New Years two Flights alternated 12-hour shifts while the other two Flights took “leave” and usually went home for five days. Then two Flights returned while the first group took their short leave.

The best present you could get for the holiday was to work the first 12 on 12 off shifts, so that when you returned you went back into the normal routine. Otherwise, a week of relaxing with family was ruined by having to work the grueling 12-hour shifts!

Only one of the holiday rotations is clear in my memory, or it could a combination of the two holiday seasons I had a Keesler.

We prepared for the 12-hour Christmas Day or New Year’s Day shifts by gathering three clean garbage cans from our friends at the chow halls. We then requisitioned enough ice to fill them. Before topping the garbage cans off with the ice, we filled them about half way with canned beer!

One of the cans was placed at each of the three off-site radar facilities that we routinely checked several times each shift. The inspections were normally performed by the patrol that rode the area surrounding the back gate, where a highway from Gulfport came directly into the back of the base. Off this highway were the three dirt roads that lead to the radar sites.

However, during these festive times, each patrol got their turn to leave their normal areas, exiting the base through the back gate (Gate 7 if memory serves), and headed for the radar site/s. Once at the sight the unit went 10-6 (busy) and checked the fence and locks, and then grabbed themselves a beer – or two!

This was how we celebrated the holiday and forgot about not being at home. The beer trips rotated during the shifts, and by mid-shift, most Air Policemen were pretty happy. Even the gate guards got their turns, with the patrolman standing their duty while they were gone. However, we were sworn to uphold the law, and uphold it we did.

I remember driving along, feeling good, not drunk, but with a mid-level buzz, and seeing some Airman weaving along a base street in front of me. “He’s drunk,” I said out loud as I reached for the toggle switch that turned on the huge chrome-clad combo red light and siren atop the Ford Econoline.

“AWWWAHHH,” it bellowed, while at the same time sucking all the electrical power from the electrical system, causing the engine to bog and slow the truck by at least 10 MPH! You soon learned to flick the toggle back and forth quickly in order to keep your truck from stalling!

The Airman pulled to the side of the street and stopped. I could see him digging from his ID card and license as I walked up the rear of the driver side window.

“Step out of the vehicle sir.” It was our custom to be polite and courteous of everyone; at least until we found out if they were an officer.

“Yeeaah…shur,” he slurred as he opened the door and braced himself, carefully using the car door and the top of the car.

I do not remember the routine we used in those days to determine sobriety, but I am sure it was more a judgment call in those days, and I was calling this guy “drunk!” He could barely form sentences, and if he were not holding the car, he would almost go down.

Now mind you, at this point, I too was feeling no pain, and the least little thing would set me to laughing almost uncontrollably. I got the cuffs on the guy, helped him up into the passenger seat of the truck, and we both laughed all the way to AP HQ!

There we stood, both of us weaving back and forth, actually using each other to steady ourselves, in front of the Desk Sergeant. The only difference between us was that I knew the other guy was drunk.

I voiced the circumstances and charges to the Desk Sergeant, who grinned, and took down the information. The apprehended Airman was taken to a holding cell in the stockade, and I mounted up and resumed my patrol.

As soon as I entered my patrol area, I informed the Desk Sergeant that I was 10-8 (back in service), and promptly requested permission to check one of the off-site facilities. I was getting a little dry!

“Uh, that’s a negative Unit 4, I believe you have done your service to the off-sites for this shift,” the Desk Sergeant announced. I remember hearing laughter in the background as his transmission ended. Was it Webb? Can’t remember.

While it is not commendable that a law enforcement officer would drive drunk while on duty, I ask you to remember that they are human, and when off duty, will do many, if not all, of the things you do when you are off. If you happen to catch one of them in the act, they would simply say, “Don’t do as I do, do as I say!”

SERGEANT WEBB AT HIS BEST

In the previous post, I began to describe the Desk Sergeant’s area. It was about a ten-foot diameter area in the center of a large fourteen or fifteen by fifteen foot room, circled by a desktop area that encircled all but the three-step entrance up through a swinging door to the rear of the area and opposite the side the Desk Sergeant usually sat, or more normally stood.

The the desktop was about thirty inches above the main floor, and the desktop, and shelves beneath it, made up a walled ring around the Desk Sergeant’s area. Above the desktop was a Plexiglas ring, about twenty-four inches high, protecting the area from people walking through the area, but gave the Desk Sergeant a 360-degree view of the Air Police HQ operations area. This made the overall height of the Desk Sergeant’s platform about seven feet from the top of the glass to the floor.

The raised floor, on which the Desk Sergeant stood gave him a commanding view of the entire HQ area. From his perch, he could look down on anyone coming in the front door and walking up to the three-foot opening in front of the Plexiglas to ask questions, plead his/her case or voice his complaints on traffic violations and other issues, or for patrols to bring in appended Airmen for identification and disposition.

The Desk Sergeant usually stayed out of the main conversations between the Patrolmen and their arrest, and just stuck to documenting the incident in the Desk Blotter, and ensuring the proper forms were completed and signed.

On one eventful midnight shift, Sgt. Webb brought in, rather shoved in, through the front door, a very belligerent and obviously drunk Airman. The loud commotion took me by surprise and I jumped to my feet and looked over the side of the desk at the Airman that was now lying on the floor attempting to get up without the use of his arms, which were cuffed behind him.

The Airman looked up at me and yelled, “What’chu lookin’ at?”

“Uh, you,” I snapped back!

“Get your ass up,” Sgt. Webb said, reaching down and pulling the guy up to his feet.

“Hey, you better watch it asshole,” he fumed!

Sgt. Webb again shoved the drunk on toward the rear of my Desk Sergeant platform and made him take a seat in a chair along the wall near the side entrance door. Every time Sgt. Webb would start to walk away, the Airman would jump up, only to be pushed back down in the chair again.

“You damn APES (a derogatory term developed from AP) are all assholes,” he spewed in Webb’s direction.

“Sit down and shut up!” Webb yelled back.

The third time the Airman sprang to his feet, Sgt. Webb grabbed his right arm and forced him up the three steps and through the short swinging door and onto my level. Webb grabbed a rolling office chair and handcuffed the Airman’s arms to each of the chair’s arms.

The Airman could not stand up, but he could scoot the chair about. He then made a near fatal mistake.

“You damn APES are stupid,” he said looking at me and spitting in my direction!

Sgt. Webb boiled and spilled over! His big booted foot suddenly lashed out and caught one arm of the chair and he pushed with all his might!

Through the swinging door, and bypassing the three steps, the Airman landed face first on the hard tiled floor below. The Airman made an “Ooffff” sound as he bounced to a limp stop next to the chairs along the wall. His face was against the floor, turned slightly to one side, and looked distorted from the full weight of the chair and his body on top of him. The room became so quiet we heard the chair’s rollers spin to a stop.

Everyone but Webb held their breath, just knowing the Airman did not survive the fall. However, by the time Webb ambled over to where he lay, he began to show signs of life!

Even if the fall had killed him, Sgt. Webb probably would not have shown any concern. He bent down close to the Airman’s ear and whispered something none of us could hear. The Airman blinked his eyes, shook his head, and then allowed Webb to right the chair without resisting.

I would love to be able to tell you what Sgt. Webb said to the Airman, but I do not have a clue. Suffice it to say, there was not a peep from him the rest of the morning.

The next morning the Airman was lead away to the stockade.

I always felt safer with Sgt. Webb around, even before this incident, but this just sealed the deal for me. I gained a new self-respect and sense of pride for being an Air Policeman on “A Flight,” and more importantly, a Desk Sergeant that night. I was determined to be the best at what I did, not only for me, but also for him.

THE DESK SERGEANT

“Car 54, where are you?”

If you are old enough to remember that phrase, or watched any other good police movie or TV show, you know that a “Desk Sergeant” makes such calls out over the police radio. The person doing the dispatching duty may not actually have the rank of sergeant, but the position is normally given this title, mostly because he or she works directly for the Duty or Flight Sergeant and issues tasks/orders over the radio on the responsible Sergeant’s behalf.

After many months of walking and standing duties, I moved up to motor patrol, and apparently distinguished myself as a good Sky Cop. It could also have been partially because of the high school typing experience I had!

The Desk Sergeant keep the Flight’s shift Desk Blotter – a kind of running chronological incident log of the night’s happenings, arrest, alarms, accidents, open buildings, thefts reported, domestic altercations in the housing area, etc.

The Desk Sergeant issued standard procedures to the patrols that deployed to accidents, car chases, break-ins, and routine Flight Line incidents and practices. One such routine practice was to provide security to a plane that was either being up or downloaded with an atomic weapon. Fake accidents, complete with colored smoke depicting a crashed aircraft were performed at least once quarterly at Keesler, even though there were no nuclear weapons at the site. These exercises were called “Broken Arrows!”

The Desk Sergeant was expected to know the operating procedures for all exercises and ensured that Air Policemen were dispatched to the proper positions around the perimeter of the incident. He also kept a running log of events until the exercise was declared completed. These “exercises” really kept you on your toes!

Underneath the Desk Sergeant’s desk, which usually sat high above the floor of the Air Police Headquarters, to look down on anyone entering, was a foot pedal about the size of a clutch pedal in a car. This pedal was to be used when the office area was “under duress.” A large amount of cash was kept in several safes around the room, where the Base Exchange and other businesses dropped their nightly receipts. The money was then picked up the following morning, by the specific managers, and taken to the Base Bank for proper deposit.

It was conceivable that this money could be a target, therefore, a procedure was written to cover the situation. AP HQ was the perfect place to keep an eye on the money, and if someone got the drop on the Desk Sergeant, he was to step discretely on this pedal. This action turned off the radio so no one in the office could hear the patrols being dispatched by the Base Command Post.

Yes, I had been briefed, and had even watched a “duress” exercise being played out before, but while using the push broom one evening to clean up before shift change, I inadvertently hit the pedal with the broom!

I had no idea what had happened, but at that very moment, inside every patrol vehicle was being heard “Keesler Police, Keesler Command. Keesler Police HQ is under duress! Please deploy as to procedure and standby for instructions!”

As I was “whistling while I worked,” the front and side doors burst open! At the main entrance stood Sgt. Webb with his .38 (a recent change from the .45) pointing directly at me!

Instantly I knew what had happened and glanced down at the pedal under the radio console, and back up at Sgt. Webb. A little smile attempted to turn up one corner or his mouth, but he fought it. He gave me a “you screwed up” look, holstered his weapon, and immediately squeezed the microphone on his left lapel.

“Keesler Command, this is Alpha One.”

“Go ahead Alpha One.”

“Keesler Police is clear. There has been an unintentional activation of the duress alarm.”

“Ten four Alpha One, Keesler Command is clear.”

The radio console again began to squawk and squelch normally. The A Flight Patrols returned to normal operation, and I was left alone with Sgt. Webb for the remainder of the shift. “Write it up Mushy (not his real name)!”

It was about thirty minutes after normal quitting time before I completed the Desk Blotter entries. My backside hurt the rest of the night from the butt chewing I received.

I could not, at one point, resist saying, “Ah, it keeps’em on their toes!”

“Suppose a patrol had gotten hurt rushing over here?” Webb said looking sternly over the top of his glasses, waiting for the rational to dawn on me.

“Well, yeah, there’s that! Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Better not…I stuck my neck out putting you on the desk. You know what goes before my neck don’t ya?”

“My ass,” I said.

The regular Desk Sergeant was a Staff Sergeant (four stripes) who was on 30-day leave. When he returned, and because he loved patrol, I continued to alternate with him during my remaining time at Keesler.

MY BILOXI BLUES

Some visitors to Keesler AFB were sometimes amazed how I knew to throw up my white-gloved hand and stop them as they approached the gate. It is quite simple really, authorized vehicles had little vinyl decals on the drivers side bumper that were color coded from Airman (red), NCOs (yellow), Officers (blue), and Civilian employees (green). There is nothing particularly hard about that but unauthorized personnel do not realize this and think the Air Policeman at the gate is either psychic or just stops everyone coming through!

“How did you know to stop me? I saw you waving all those other cars ahead of me through,” the pretty brunette asked.

“Oh, just intuitive I suppose Miss,” I said as I stepped down to the street level, bent forward and looked into the car. “Where you ladies headin’?”

“Airmen’s Club, of course.”

“Driver’s license please Miss, uh…”

“Smith...and this is Debbie Bates,” she said pointing to her blond passenger.

“What on earth for?” I said as I waved an Airman and two NCOs on around through the passing lane.

“Why didn’t they have to stop?” pointing through the windshield at the other cars.

“Oh, I know them, but I don’t know you. Now, Miss, uh?”

“Betsy,” she said rather shyly taking back her license.

“See, I’m gettin’ to know you already….Betsy. Now, Betsy, why are you going to the Airman’s Club?” I said waving an officer on through.

“To dance of course! Don’t you dance?”

“Well, I have been known to do the Freddie from time-to-time, but not on the gate…at least not anymore,” I said with a big “inside joke” kind of smile on my face.

“So, what time do you get off….uh Officer?” the blond asked.

“Oh, thank you mam, but I’m just a lowly Skycop, and I get off about midnight.”

“Think you could dance then?”

“Deb!” Betsy said embarrassed at her friend’s boldness.

“Well?” Debbie shot back.

“Well, if two lonely Airmen were standing right over here at midnight, do you suppose a couple pretty girls would stop and take them on a ride along the beach?”

“Yeah…” Debbie started before Betsy interrupted.

“What she means is…” she looked up at me, and I removed my sunglasses and looked back into her dark eyes, “…is probably.”

‘You DO have a friend…don’t you, ah, Mr. Sky Cop?” the blond asked.

“That’s Mushy (not his real name), and yes I have a friend that I know would be thrilled to meet you.”

I stepped back up to the gate shack level, grabbed a Visitor’s Pass, and handed it to Betsy. “You ladies be real careful down at the Airmen’s Club, ya hear, and I hope to see you both later.”

I guess the point here is that there were advantages of working the boring “gate duty,” especially “Main Gate” duty. This did not happen often, but often enough to break the repetitiveness of always going out with the guys or just Boyce. The guys were okay, but occasionally, well, you know.

I immediately rang up the Desk Sergeant and asked him to have Patrolman Spainhour drop by Gate 1.

Wayne had come to Keesler to learn to be a Skycop through OJT. He was there straight out of Lackland, but he and I had quickly bonded early on over drinks and from sharing adjacent “walking patrols.” We talked for hours, ran to punch our clocks, and then rushed to our next rendezvous to take up where we left off. Wayne was a Southern Gentleman, and that, plus his boyish good looks, made him a favorite of the local gals.

Wayne did not believe me until a few minutes after midnight when the girls rolled up and he got a good look at the Debbie! “Damn!” is all he could utter.

Wayne settled in the back seat with Deb and I took the “shotgun” position and gave Betsy the once over while we were still beneath the Main Gate’s lights.

The black dress she wore puffed up under the stirring wheel, several layers of petticoat marked where the dress stopped, and the long darkly tanned legs began. The dress lay flat across her belly and her long tan arms held the wheel firmly at 10 and 2.

It seemed as though she was afraid to look in my direction. She checked her outside mirror and pulled forward, up and over the tracks, and on to the beach where she turned right toward Gulfport.

At some point, she made a right and headed back deep into the coastal area forest. The road turned to dirt and the full light of the moon was nearly blocked by the huge Willow Oaks strung with long strands of Spanish moss. The moss hung very still in the night air, but it was still a pleasant night for driving.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s Charlie’s Place…never been here?”

“Nope.”

“Then you are in for a treat!”

She was right. There was a huge buffet of “soul food” steaming on a long line of trays, and the place was nearly packed. In the beginning, you had to shout to be heard over the crowd.

There was chicken, chicken livers, black eyed peas, grits, hog jowl, pinto beans, slaw, macaroni and cheese, and other wonderful things I cannot remember. In addition, of course, there was beer…all kinds of beer of the day, Schlitz, Falstaff, Budweiser, Country Club, and Colt 45!

There was also music of the day playing loudly on a jukebox that bubbled and flashed bright colors, and reflected the happy faces of its listeners! It was such a wonderful place, and it appeared, it was a place frequented by mostly locals.

Soon it was just the four of us, and one or two other couples, content to sit and talk, listen, or dance to the juke, and have another round. The family staff busied themselves with putting things back in order, ignoring us except for an occasional “Need anotha round, hun?”

Betsy and I, Deb and Wayne, swayed to the soft music that was now the choice of most quarters that were dropped.

She was such a beautiful Southern beauty and already I was addicted to holding her and to smelling the hair on the right side of her head. I could feel the heat of her body through the dress and I wanted more than I could ever have. I whispered my wishes and she pulled me tighter.

Later we all four lay on the beach and listened to the waves lapping the shore. We kissed and we talked until daylight. We probably kissed more than we talked, but the things we said were phrased as if there would be a tomorrow. However, there was no tomorrow for us.

That was the last time Wayne and I ever say those same girls again. Time after time, we played that scene repeatedly but with different girls. Oh, we might be blue a day or two, but we soon forgot about it and got on with the game.

Girls visited the base looking for a lot of things, but it seemed the ones that were the easiest to pick up had a long-term plan. A Sky Cop just did not hold the best meal ticket for those plans, but we were good enough for a one-night-stand and hell, that did not bother us in the least!

As Bob Seger put it so eloquently, “we were gettin’ our share…workin’ on our night moves.”