Flash Back To January 31, 1966

I'm reminded by the discovery of the photo below of my last official duties as a Keesler AFB Air Policeman.  I was sitting at the airbase dreading and preparing to go on leave before my deployment to Vietnam, when emergency orders came down for several of us to board a C-47 within the hour.

Within that hour I stood shaking, not having a clue what was coming or where I was going, on the Keesler flight line just outside an olive drab "Gooney Bird".  The same TSgt. that had been drilling us in riot control just weeks before shouted orders.  In full riot gear, we boarded the plane, and it was only after takeoff that we learned we were headed for Greenville, MS; to an abandon airbase where a large group of "civil rights" protestors had taken up residence in one of the main buildings.

Riot gear in those days consisted of our "piss pot (helmet)", a gas mask strapped around our waist, and a "billy club".  No weapons were issued.

I found this in a excerpt in a blog today that gave me more of the story than I had ever known:  

"...a group of fifty Civil Rights activists with the Mississippi Freedom Labor Union occupied one of the empty buildings at the airbase to protest poverty, homelessness and political repression in the Mississippi Delta. The protest took place on January 31, 1966. As the airfield was technically still under USAF ownership, the local police would not respond. Instead, the USAF Air Police mobilized to Greenville. Within thirty hours, USAF law enforcement personnel forcibly evicted the protestors."

I remember peering into the building and seeing blacks and whites sitting around on the floor chanting something about "freedom".  It scared me a little, I admit, but it also shamed me that America had come to that.  What saddened me even more was seeing black protestors vent their anger on black Air Police in the detachment.

This photo was from a year earlier, but shows Air Police in action.

The procedure for removal was to grab one protestor at a time, pass that person to policemen inside a revolving circle of troops.  No one Air Policemen was to ever be stationed at the door longer than it took for them to side-step to their right and be replaced by the next in line.  The circle would briefly open and a protestor would be inserted, or pulled, into the inner circle.  That continued until the building was empty and all the protestors were outside and inside the moving circle.

Several of the black protestors shouted at the black policemen and spit at and on them.  That really burned me, since I knew the black troops and they were my friends.  However, we were trained not to show emotion.

The protestors were loaded on buses and taken off the site...to where I don't know.

My group reassembled and were back on the plane to Keesler within hours of arriving.

This was just one small episode of southern civil rights demonstrations, but there were many and they proved effective.

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.”

HURRICANE BETSY

There are few times in my life that I can pinpoint exactly what I was doing on a specific day/night in history, but September 9, 1969 is one of the times I can.

Hurricane Betsy came ashore near Grand Isle, Louisiana that evening as a 40-mile wide Category 3 hurricane packing 135 MPH winds. The storm was a strange one, in that it made two complete loops, reversing itself, before turning around from aiming at the North Carolina cost. Betsy swept back through the Florida Keys, strengthening to a Category 4 when it reached the Gulf, just 1 MPH short of being a Category 5, and then making landfall near the mouth of the Mississippi River.

Betsy was dubbed “Billion Dollar Betsy” for causing $1.42 billion in damages in 1965 dollars! Eight oil platforms were destroyed and 76 people died as a direct result of the storm.

Forty-two years ago, and a little more than 90 miles away, Patrolman Mushy was trying desperately to find a power line that had been reported down somewhere on the street that separated Keesler Air Base from the flight line.

“Unit Four, you havin’ any luck?” the Desk Sergeant asked.

The Ford Econoline eased along the street, its bed loaded with sand to keep it firmly on its tires. The wind howled from the Gulf side of the base and making the rain come in quick sheets across the street in front of me. The wipers did little good and the inside of the windows were fogging up from the humidity. I wiped constantly at the windshield, trying to keep a porthole size spot clear so I could see.

“Nothin’ yet, Keesler!” I yelled into the microphone trying to be heard over the sound of the wind and rain pelting the metal cab of the truck.

Every 5 minutes the Desk Sergeant would specifically ask me this question. Between times he took reports of trees down, flooding, or other power lines down somewhere on the base.

I inched along, feeling the truck rock back and forth from the 75 to 90 MHP gust, trying to see through the little hole in the windshield. The base was in complete darkness, except for my headlights and the frequent flashes of lightning.

I thought about my dad during that anxious time, because, as you may remember, he was terribly afraid of storms, and often got us all out of bed and drove around in the car until the storms passed. I wondered how he would like it if he were riding with me.

“How’bout it Unit Four?”

“Negative, I have not found any power…”

Just then, there was a loud crack, and a pop, and the night lit up behind my truck. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw another bright blue flash and a shower of sparks!

“Uh…I think I found it Keesler, it’s at the intersection of…” My voice shook and my knees seemed strangely weak. I ran over the downed power line, and it had not reared its dangerous head until after I passed over it!

“Ten-four Unit four, we’ll direct the power boys over there. Stick around and keep traffic away from that area.”

“Traffic?” I thought. I was the only fool out on a night like this!

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers' Hurricane Protection Program came into existence as a result of Betsy. The Corps built new levees for New Orleans that were both taller and made of stronger material, designed specifically to resist a fast-moving Category 3 hurricane like Betsy. However, the levee improvements failed when Hurricane Katrina, a large and slow-moving Category 3 hurricane made a near direct hit on New Orleans on 2005.

For us, the wind died down shortly after midnight and the base began the process of cleaning up the mess Betsy left. We all worked a twelve-hour shift that evening, and through the morning of the 10th, and by the time I got in the rack, Boyce was there with breakfast from the “back gate” café. It had survived, as did most of the area around Biloxi, so it was business as usual under the beautiful blue skies of the Gulf Coast.

Boyce and I slept like babies!

“AND YOU ALWAYS FEEL OUT NUMBERED…”

I know, in this photograph, I do not look very formidable, but the truth is when you are alone on the street and you face overwhelming situations, your “second nature training” is enhanced by the adrenaline produced by fear. It is also surprising that you can hide your fear with a confidence that even you did not know you had.

Not too long after I began getting “law enforcement” patrol assignments, I encountered my first anxious situation. Looking back on it later, I knew I should have called for backup, but things just happened so quickly. In addition, as I say, Air Police Training makes you react quickly, as if it were only a training scenario, and the “adrenaline high” masks the obvious dangers of certain situations.

I was making a routine pass through the Keesler Airman’s Club parking lot late one Saturday when four guys, dressed in civilian clothes, came out of the club and started out across a wide grassy lawn toward a line of cars parked under a row of pine trees.

I noticed that they were tugging at one of the guys, and the fellow was obviously fighting back at them. Suddenly the guy who was slapping at the others, and getting louder, fell to the ground and turned over on his back.

This is the point I should have called in, especially since there were four of them and one of me. Instead, I pulled up and parked the truck with my bright lights full on the four individuals, got out, and walked toward the group.

Just as I got to the guy on the ground he regurgitated straight up and the whole mess fell back in his face. He just lay there and moaned, as one of his friends said, “Ah man, get up…what the hell?”

The drunk (on the ground) just lay there without any seeming regard for the puke all over his face. All he seemed to be able to do was moan.

I yelled, “You guys his friend?”

“Yeah,” one said, as they began slowly side step and get further apart around me.

“Are you stationed here?” I demanded to know, beginning now to shake way down inside.

“No…we’re ah, Coast Guard…from down in Gulf Port,” one offered.

I asked for IDs and confirmed there names, rank, and branch of service, and then asked where their vehicle was. One pointed in the general direction, and I said, as deeply and manly as possible, “Get this drunk off my base!”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison, sensing they were getting off light. They went to where their friend lay and began trying to get him up. The guy lay flat out, arms and legs out to his sides as if he were ready to begin making “grass angels,” and refused to move.

It soon became obvious that the three guys could do nothing with their friend – he simply was incapable of moving. I walked over and looked the guy over with my flash light and I got more and more disgusted with his appearance, and lack of self-respect.

Feeling my legs want to begin a little shake, I yelled, “Damn it! Get that car door open!”

I reached in my pocket, pulled out a ballpoint pen and placed it under the second finger (the gig finger) of his right hand, and across the tops of his first and third fingers. Then, as someone once told me, but I had never tried, I squeezed down as hard as I could on the three fingers! Remarkably, the drunk rose to his feet, his right arm straight out, and began to walk like a zombie along beside me moaning loudly!

His friends looked at me wide-eyed and began to get angry with me. “Hey, you’re hurting him!”

“Get that damn door open!” I yelled.

One guy opened the back door of their vehicle and I walked “my drunk” even quicker to the open door. Just as we reached the door, I shoved him toward the opening and his head, just about the hairline, caught the opening and made a loud “thunking” sound! However, his momentum carried him on into the back seat.

Later as I sat reviewing the events, I thought at the point, particularly because of the way his head snapped back, that I may have broken his neck! Apparently that did not happen – thank God!

The others looked glaringly in my direction, but then I reached for the door and slammed it shut; only, in the dark, I did not see that his right leg was still hanging out the door. There was another loud “thunk,” and the drunk uttered another low pain induced moan. He then lay motionless in the dark!

Now, their eyes looked frightened at the bad assed “Sky Cop” who again bellowed, “Get him off my damn base, and don’t ever come back!”

“Yes sir,” was all I heard and they drove off into the night.

I stood there and watched the taillights disappear, and for a long time, I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself. It was my first real law enforcement encounter and I wondered if I had over reacted. I also wondered how things would have turned out had I not acted so wild myself. It was pure intimidation and it worked.

It was not my last encounter with drunks, but this first event bolstered my confidence for the future.

I could never understand a person who could get so drunk they had no control over or self-respect for themselves. To puke straight up into the air and then let it hit and stay on their face - something so wrong about that! I did not know until this happened, what a lack of tolerance I have for mean or sloppy drunks.

REMEMBERING THE CAST OF CHARACTERS

There were a host of characters at Keesler AFB, but here are a few that I remember most, besides Frank Boyce and Frank Gordon. Each are in my memory for unique reasons only their personalities could create. All of us were from different lifestyles and parts of the country, and all volunteers randomly placed in some specific circumstance for their country. Pure fate put us in the same place at the same time.

This first photo of Boyce and I was taken sometime in the spring of 1965, I know that from the 1505 short-sleeved uniform. By this time, we were comfortable with our lives in the Air Force. Our job was like any other civilian job. We had to be at work at a particular time and we got off 8 hours later. What we did between shifts was up to us and we roamed the area of Biloxi and Gulfport, Mississippi, and even Mobile, Alabama and New Orleans, Louisiana frequently.

Often we spent quiet evenings out at dinner clubs watching club performers and comedians like Brother Dave Gardner, doing shtick about RC Colas and Moon Pies! We would order Old Fashions before dinner and Tom Collins for dessert! It was a grand time and I loved the Mississippi Coast during this year and a half. I owe Boyce much for teaching me how to be a civilized man and how to give the appearance, at least, of having some culture in public.

On the other hand, there were other characters that I knew and watched who had less desirable characteristics.

One was “Funky McNasty”, whose real name it is best I do not remember. I think it was Boyce, who first coined this moniker, having been too close to him on occasion!

There was occasional reshuffling in the barracks and one time it meant that I was rooming with Funky McNasty – the horror! Poor ol’ Funky could not help that his body odor was offensive. We watched, just to make sure, and he took showers, and he used deodorant, but he still stunk! It was a sweet sickening kind of smell with touch of acridness to it! Just really unpleasant to be around.

In this second shot, I am considering knocking the hell out of “Funky” and throwing his stinking body out the window! Seriously, he had just taken a shower and put on fresh clothes as some guys dropped by to visit. He still smelled, albeit a little better at that particular moment.

He and I grew close enough; over the couple of months I could stand it, to discuss the subject. He knew his body had this unique smell and had tried for years to cover it up. Poor guy had never had a girlfriend or any real close friends. I confessed to him that I had only stayed in his room because I did not want to hurt his feelings. He completely understood, and that week, he became the only guy on the floor with a private room!

I have no picture of Airman Currier. Airman Currier was from California, and, like Boyce, washed out of OCS and into the Air Police! It makes you feel good to learn, just after building up pride in being an Air Policeman, that the Air Force puts guys in that position as punishment! Shows you how much respect Sky Cops have with the upper brass!

Currier was a plump, waddling, sort of guy, that always looked like he needed a shave after having shaved. His uniform was just a little less fresh, a little less pressed, and everything was slightly off kilter!

Currier wore glasses almost as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles, and had a loud voice that grated on you. To Sgt. Webb, who prided himself in how his “Air Cops” looked, Currier was a total embarrassment and disappointment. Webb actually hated Currier – it was evident. “Airman Currier” (that’s the only way I ever remember him being addressed) would be assigned standing or walking post for months before ever being given a riding patrol, but he never complained. He did his job and took whatever came his way.

One evening the Desk Sergeant (a person who operates the AP HQ base radio and dispatched assignments and coordinated operations) asked Unit 8 (Currier), just before shift change, how much gas he had in his vehicle. Currier in his jovial, yet irritating way screeched out over the airways, like nails on a blackboard, “It’s either half full or half empty!” The Desk Sergeant, through gritted teeth, came back with a simple, “10-4.” Currier stood gate duty for months after that!

Finally, there was Airman Rick, a rather small black fellow from New York, with an effeminate voice and mannerisms. However, I do not think Rick was gay by any stretch of the imagination. Rick used to tell me stories about his conquests and about how he made love to his girlfriends.

I must say that his expertise was highly refined and in later years, I put a couple moves to the test. They worked great, I was told, so to me this gives even more credence to him being heterosexual.

However, his tendency to sound effeminate left him venerable to practical jokes. One of the worst ever played on him was when Boyce sprayed lighter fluid under the width of his door, lit it, and yelled fire!

Now, if you have not been asleep, and have not been startled awake, you would immediately think that you are living in a concrete building with steel doors, and that a fire is most likely not really burning in the hallway, and that you are in no immediate danger.

On the other hand, if you just sprang up from a deep sleep, in a dark room, and you see fire under your door, you do what anyone would do in a burning building. You would open the nearest window, squeeze your way through it, and drop twelve feet to safety on the ground below!

At this point, you will be fully awake and realize you have been punked - not that the laughter from the window above would give anything away!

It is truly a miracle that Airman Rick did not break his leg or neck!

I would love to see them all today.