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!

WATCHING IN THE MISSISSIPPI NIGHT

If you walk out of your home, apartment, or any building at night, you find the night full of shadows that make the mind imagine it sees all sorts of devilish things. However, if you stand in the shadows and allow the darkness slowly to surround you, you will be amazed at how well you can see – at how comfortable you find yourself there.

I learned this as a young boy, running the neighborhoods at night playing hide-and-go-seek, avoiding the occasional clothesline, garden hose, or hanging birdhouse or feeder. It all came back to me as I performed “night watchman” duties at Keesler AFB. The added night experienced also served me in Vietnam.

A patrol would drop me off on the border of my assigned grid of buildings, and I would walk away from any light and stand in the shadows until I got my night-vision. Dressed in my fatigues, carrying a flashlight, a night watchman’s clock, a two-way radio, and a clipboard with all sorts of information and area maps, I was almost invisible as I moved about my appointed rounds on the base.

There was a sense of power you felt in this stealthy situation, and of course, I had my 1911 as added confidence.

The clock at the right is a very modern model, but very similar in shape and configuration to the one I carried. Night watching began many years ago, and was a simple process of ensuring someone visited buildings, checked the doors and windows, and secure areas on a routine basis during off hours.

The processes involved securing a “numbered key” to a building, or to several points around the perimeter of a building or area, and having a “night watchman” check the building at specific times. The visit is confirmed by inserting the “coded key” into a clock and making it record the key number and the exact time of each visit. On a checklist, the guard verifies he has checked all entrances and that no one has entered.

The procedure was a good one, but not foolproof to the foot-patrol who was determined to goof off. If you could imagine your assigned area from an aerial view, you could determine the shortest routes between buildings going cross-country, rather than walking along the outside perimeter. Therefore, you could spend more time doing what you wanted to do, meet another foot-patrol for a BS session, or just duck in somewhere to catnap or get warm! There was also the use of a motor patrol buddy who would let you ride around until it was time to “click” a time clock, and then have them drive you quickly there. If a system can be beaten, then some desperate person will find a way!

I always made the complete circuit by foot at least twice a tour of duty, once the first hour, and then the hour before getting relieved. On one particular night, I was making my first round after assuming the foot-patrol at midnight. You would expect that everything would be buttoned up securely, or the guy before you would have found it. However, on this night I turned the key in my clock and started to walk on by a door when I tried the knob just for grins. It opened!

The facility was a Laundromat, full of washers and dryers, and all kinds of drink and food vending machines. My heart began pounding in my chest! It was the first time I had ever found a door unlocked, and I immediately conjured up all kinds of bad guys inside waiting for me to enter.

I immediately stepped away from the door, back to the shadows, and radioed for a patrol to assist me. After hearing my description of the situation, the Desk Sergeant dispatched two patrols.

Within minutes the patrols arrived, red lights flashing, headlights on bright and aimed at the now open door. A tall skinny black Airman First, later called a “Buck Sergeant,” came to where I was standing and asked me what I saw.

“Nothing…the door was just unlocked!” I explained. “Wonder why they didn’t find it on the evening shift?”

“Good question,” he said, “…or, there’s someone in there now.”

The Airman First motioned for the other patrol to stand at the door and for me to go inside to check things out, and that he would follow me. I swallowed a couple of times and proceeded. Just before clearing the door, I looked back at the Airman and caught him giving that “let’s watch the new guy get the crap scared out of him” grin to the other Patrolman! He quickly recovered and with a more serious face motioned for me to go on.

I made careful and deliberate steps into the dark building, shining my flashlight into every opening and around every corner. It was soon evident that there was nothing there and that there never had been, but there was one more closet to check before backing off and locking up.

I slowly made my way up to the door, sensing the Airman standing right behind me. As I reached for the doorknob, a Coke machine suddenly and loudly snapped on right behind the black Airman. He made a little girly squeak in his throat, whirled around, and came within ounces of squeezing off a round from his .45 into the machine!

All this was witnessed by the Patrolman at the door who was now belly laughing and bracing himself against the side of the building.

“Wh’cu laughin’ at asshole?”

“You asshole! Were you going to shoot the big bad of Coke machine?”

Long story short, I was sworn to secrecy, but I did not have to keep quiet long. At the next Guard Mount, my witness gave it up to Sgt. Webb and the whole Flight. They all laughed, including Sgt. Webb, long and hard.

It was a bonding time for me. I now had a story and something in common with the older troops on the Flight. It was a beginning for me. I now felt like I belonged to the group and that they belonged to me. It was another good thing that happened in the Mississippi night.

“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.

PARTYING WITH KETCHUP BOY AND FAMILY

Sunday was great…decent weather for setting outside most of the day enjoying family. “Ketchup Boy” (a.k.a. Steve the Knight) was there and Ron gave him a gift to help remind him of his love for the red stuff. However, he would not wear the shirt; so, I put his head on a shot of the shirt! The things we won’t do to tease each other!

We believe in segregation – Dragons on one side and the Knights on another. Even at that, the Dragon noise drowns out our conversations! But, we lov’em!

I caught another “I’m about to stroke out" look on Judy’s face. Flash anticipation will kill a good photo every time! I decided a long candid shot might be best of the girls.

The cigars were from Gary this time…someone had given him a bunch of CAO samples and they were very good. I’m considering a box of them next time, if they are affordable - just a touch stouter than a Macanudo.

Of course, since it was our Labor Day celebration, I have to mention the food. The pictures are of what was left of burgers, macaroni salad, potato salad, baked beans, peach cobbler, and a blue berry cake. There was also homemade ice cream!

I think the desserts were what put me over the top! Until I found a Pepcid, I was rather miserable, and felt as wasted as the garbage can!

Hope everyone is having, or had, a wonderful holiday celebration (even if you live in another country).

SATURDAY WITH COREY AND LILY

My son, Corey and I did the “manly man” thing today making the rounds at Best Buy, Circuit City, and Thompson Cameras, but since he could not find a fix for his printer or camera, he decided to do some serious drinking.

We moved on the Wild Wings Café, off Campbell Station Road, and I ordered my usual Sierra Nevada, chips and queso dip for each of us (if I don’t, I don’t get any), and Corey ordered the hard stuff – un-sweet tea!

We had fun looking around and especially outside where they had set up a huge “funeral tent” for Saturday’s big University of Tennessee vs. University of California, Number 15 against Number 12! With most of the games, being “mismatched” this game promises to be the game of the weekend! (Well, guess not…the funeral tent seems fitting now!)

The tent will enclose a temporary bar and a huge TV! I will probably spend a lot of my college football evening’s right there this season.

We then ordered wings and, MAN, did they ever set me on fire today! I like’m hot and that is exactly what I got…I had to take alternate sips of beer and water to cool the old lips down!

The best part came later when Corey called an invited us over to watch the game. Getting to see him, his wife, and our granddaughter is way more important than any old “tent party!” (It was a great time…the baby was really feeling her oats and showed off for us…got to love on her some and sneak in a few cheek smooches! And Corey, well he is hilarious to be with during a UT game…goes crazy calling and running plays!)

Saturday was a great time…and Sunday…it’s on to the Dragons vs. the Knights game in Sweetwater! Long weekends still mean a lot to me, even though I don’t work anymore - they just mean more party time now! See ya!

RAIN, RAIN, COME AGAIN ANOTHER DAY

I woke this morning to the sound of rain – unbelievably heavy rain with no wind, no lightning, and, of course, no thunder. I immediately went to the back porch and sat there thanking God for it and watching it fall. You could almost hear the trees and grass sucking it up. It was wonderful indeed!

We are almost 14” behind in rain this year and this hour long down-pour will be a start in reducing that deficient. However, it needs to rain almost this hard for a full day or three before the ground gets back to what it needs to sustain the grass and flowers through the reminder of the summer and fall.

Soon Judy and Baylee (not shown) joined me and we just lay back and breathed in the cool fresh air for as long as it lasted. We have had 30 straight days of over 90-degree heat, but with the rain, I doubt we break the 1993 record today.

As soon as it ended, I fixed a ham, onion, jalapeño, and three-cheese omelette, with healthy dashes of Tennessee Sunshine hot sauce! That and a tall glass of milk got us rolling for the day!

Folks, it is good to be retired and to smell life as it gently passes by – come join us!

PINE TREES JUST DON’T HAVE THE SAME POWERS AS PORCELAIN GODS!

One of the first things I had to do after settling into the routine at Keesler was to look up Woody. Woody was at Keesler as a trainee, not permanent party like me. He was probably into his ninth or tenth week of air traffic control training by the time we hooked up again.

Actually, I may not have even thought about looking him up at all, had I not seen him marching along with his training flight one day. There he was, as I watched from the patrol truck, doing that little half skip step you do when you are trying to get back into step!

That evening, after completing the day shift, I went down into the barracks area that housed the trainees, and began asking questions of everyone I met, “Hey, you know a guy named Woody (not his last name) from Tennessee?” Eventually, I found an Airman who knew who I was talking about and he pointed to an upper level of a barracks a few down from where we stood.

I went up to the barracks door, talked to the dorm guard who also knew Woody, and he let me go upstairs to see my “hometown boy!” Sure enough, there he sat on the end of his bunk looking out the window and twirling a few short strands of his brown hair, as he usually did when he was in deep thought.

Woody seemed genuinely glad to see me and introduced me to his new buddies. Before long, there were at least six of us sitting around laughing and talking, and then someone broke out a full bottle of Jack Daniels!

The party got into high gear then with each member of the group taking a sip as it came their turn. The guys seemed impressed, somewhat, that I was a “sky cop”, so as they asked me questions, I answered partly in truth and with some embellishments I knew they expected. When my turn on the bottle came, a bubble always rose to the top as I took a long “show off” pull on it. Their eyes widened with each drink I took and soon everyone was trying to imitate me! Before long, the bottle lay empty on the floor nearest my feet.

Suddenly, I knew I was drunk! For those of you that have never experienced this sudden onset of stupidity, it is just a quick feeling that strikes your brain with no preliminary warning, just a light switch is flipped in the brain that says, “You’re drunk…you need air…now! Go! Go outside now!”

While Woody was in the latrine, and the group continued to laugh loudly, I rose quietly, went down the stairs, out into the open air, and sat down behind a large yellow-pine tree and began to giggle!

When Woody returned and asked where I was, no one knew. As a group, they all went downstairs and asked the dorm guard, like from some western movie, “Which way did he go?” The Airman simply pointed outside and shrugged his shoulders.

To me, it was all so hilarious. Here were all these guys out calling my name like I was a lost puppy of something. I pulled up as thin as I could behind the tree and said nothing, watching them search the area in the now dark Mississippi night. Every time someone would holler my name, I would have to cover my mouth with my hand to keep from laughing aloud, and say in a whisper, “They can’t find me now! Hehehe”

It was one of those “retard” moments where you have no pain, no problems, and no good judgment. However, it only last a few carefree minutes before the stomach takes over and begins the process of bringing you back to reality!

Therefore, that is how they found me! From the first, loud, gut wrenching “RALPH,” to the follow-up “EARL” the group zoned in on me! “Ralph and Earl” give me up!

The same five or six guys who had not long before been admiring a brave and tough “sky cop,” were now watching him try his damnedest to throw up his shoes!

I do not remember ever seeing Woody again until years later in Harriman. I could have seen him a time or two more, but the memory is just not there. All I know is that this embarrassing incident happened, and I somehow made it back across an unfamiliar base to my own bunk!

Had I prayed to the “porcelain god” that night, I may have made some promises that may have saved me from that ever happening again. However, since I was on my hands and knees behind a tall yellow-pine tree, I got no help for the future. I was on my own!

Pine trees just do not have the same powers as porcelain gods!

MEETING SERGEANT WEBB

The Franks and I reported the Provost Marshal’s office at 0800 hours Monday morning. He was a short man with short black wavy hair and a kind face, which put us at ease, even if he was a “Light” Colonel. We reported with a two other Airmen who had arrived on Sunday. They came to the Air Police Squadron at Keesler straight out of Basic Training to learn how to be “sky cops” through OJT (on the job training).

Our tech school training afforded us the privilege of performing duties on our own sooner than they were, but it was still some time before we did actual law enforcement patrol. Until then we would stand seemingly endless days and nights on “gate duty!”

A lieutenant, an adjutant to the Provo, assigned Frank Boyce and I to “A Flight” and told us to report to Sergeant Webb, at 3 PM that same afternoon, in our blue heavyweight winter uniforms, ready for work. Naturally, we were relieved that we would be on the same Flight. Frank Gordon went to another Flight, but we often had the same days off, so he would sometimes hang with us.

As soon as we got back to the barracks and told someone about our assignment to “A Flight,” the rumors started about Sgt. Webb.

“Wooo, damn,” someone said shaking his head. “That mean sombitch eats new recruits for breakfast!”

“Yeah,” another said, “ya’ll should see ‘bout gettin’ on another flight!”

Something with spindly legs crept up spine and when it got between my shoulder blades, it exploded into a hair raising cold shiver that I could not hide from the others. “Ah, hell, it can’t be that bad…” I looked at Frank and finished, “…can it?”

Frank Gordon grinned a devilish smile, like he always did when he thought he had something over you.

That evening at “guard mount,” we met the infamous Sgt. Webb. He was not the slight built “Joe Friday” (Jack Webb) of “Dragnet” fame! This Sgt. Webb was 6’ 5”, about 275, a huge barrel-chested man, with a face that appeared as though it had caught fire and been beat out with the bottom of a golf shoe! I am talking mean looking here. The kind of guy you really would not want to meet in the light of day, let alone a dark alley!

There was no smile on the pockmarked face, no hint of welcome in his voice as he introduced us to the “Flight” and asked us to give our names and a little background information. The others were too busy watching Webb’s reaction to our stories to listen.

For the first two weeks, either we rode with a seasoned AP or stood, wondering, “What the hell?” we had gotten ourselves into, on the various gates and intersections around the base.

Several months later, I was standing gate duty on the “back gate,” which, as you remember, was in sight and smell of the little café we frequented. The smell drove me crazy all day and once, since the restaurant was only steps outside the base fence, our “waitress friend” brought me a cold fountain drink. Getting the refreshing drink, plus watching people walk up and down the strip, helped pass the time, but I soon became bored.

A stupid little song, by Freddie and the Dreamers, had just become popular and I started to play it in my head. Soon, when I thought no one was watching, I began “The Freddie!” (Go ahead, click on the link and let it play while you finish reading!) It looked something like a “jumping jack” exercise and I am quite sure I looked ridiculous in full AP gear jumping around in front of the gate shack. However, gate guards often do stupid things to occupy their alone time.

I had no idea anyone had seen me until the next guard mount, when Sgt. Webb told me to stand up and said, “Do the Freddie for the Flight!” I was shocked and embarrassed, but, as I am prone to do, I covered my embarrassment with comedy!

“Sure,” I said as I stood up, “but you’ll have to hum a few bars!”

There was almost a smile, but it was quickly extinguished and replaced with gritted teeth and “DO IT,” was forced from behind them!

I did a couple of jumping jack moves while saying, “Do the Freddie,” but then sat down quickly, having learned a hard lesson.

It would be some time before I began to admire Sgt. Webb, but as I soon learned, those that worked for him, and worked hard for him, grew to love him. He was always ready to defend his “sky cops,” and no one reprimanded them but him, and that included the officers. We were his, and we grew to like it that way.

Moreover, I made it my mission to get smiles from him! It took a while, but I often got those little hints of a smile that came quickly between the movements of his chin as he chewed his Spearmint gum.

I went from being terrified when he would pull up to my post, to looking forward to the challenge. “Oops,” I wanted to say aloud, “there it was! I gotcha…you smiled!” However, you only went so far with Sergeant Webb.

PERMANENT PARTY AT KEESLER

It is often said, probably too much, that you can never go home again. I probably did not know that cliché then, but I knew the truth of it almost immediately.

Coming home was a big disappointment. There was no Woody, Barry, Tom, or anyone with whom to celebrate. There was no girl then, and I began to feel very alone after the first few days.

Further, I could tell my brother, who was ten years younger, had already begun moving into my room. Displaced from my own familiar surroundings, I knew the only direction I could turn was toward Keesler, to my friends Boyce and Gordon, who I met in tech school, and the other people I had yet to meet in my new grownup world. I began to count the days until I left home for good – at least mentally.

As fate would have it, Frank Boyce and I arrived at Keesler AFB, in Biloxi, Mississippi, within the same hour and renewed our friendship by discussing how boring it had been at home. We did not have to report to Air Police Headquarters until Monday morning, so we had what was left of Saturday and all day Sunday to settle into our rooms and explore the base and the surrounding city.

As “permanent party” personnel at Keesler, we lived in two story concrete buildings, part of a large complex, painted bright white, with large roll out windows to help during the hot summer months. Even though there was no air conditioning, these buildings provided a rather cool place to live.

There were normally two Airmen per room, and it was up to the occupants to agree on either a bunk bed arrangement or single beds on opposite walls. Frank and I chose the bunk arrangement so we would have more room for visitors and the partying we planned to do!

The floors were dark green square tiles and the cinder-block walls were light green. On the wall, opposite the windows, were wooden closets and sets of drawers painted to match the block walls. It was very easy to keep clean, but still required the usual buffing for monthly inspections. However, we did have an electric buffer that the floor took turns using.

The main gate faced south and was only two blocks from the Gulf of Mexico. This was the first street of exploration and we soon found ourselves sitting on a dock looking out toward a beautiful sitting sun. This was my first visit to the ocean, which Frank found puzzling, but his family was obviously a little higher on the economic ladder than mine was. Our family’s idea of a vacation was a trip “home” to visit the grandparents and the extended family, several times during the year.

I sat there, sucking in the wonderful salty air, feeling my sinuses clear, for a long time while the red-orange sun slowly sank below the waterline. “What a grand thing God has made,” I thought. It was such a feast for my innocent eyes, and I could hardly believe that I would be privileged enough to get to watch this event on regular basis.

On the way back to the Main Gate, we noticed a beautifully detailed grand old hotel called the White House Hotel that was everything you would expect in an early 1900 southern hotel. It was what you would expect, a white two-story building, with a large porch wrapping all the way around, and covered by huge roof that extended from the upper level and held up by six large columns. There were hanging baskets, Tiki lanterns blazing out on the ends of angled poles beside each three-tiered stair entrance to the porch, and all surrounded by a beautifully manicured lawn, exquisitely tended flowers and shrubs, and at least seven huge oaks draped in that wonderfully mysterious Spanish moss.

As we passed on the west side, we could see the red and blue glow of a lounge sign and we ventured inside for a better look. Inside it first appeared to be a large bar with tall stools, and several booths, but on closer inspection, it was rather tiny, with mirrored walls giving it a roomier appearance.

We loved it immediately, and we sat in the corner booth and Frank ordered us each a Tom Collins. I remember these drinks were quite different tasting from those back in Texas, and Frank smiled as he realized I had noticed the pleasurable Mississippi difference. This little hide-away bar became our favorite hangout for the next year and a half.

The next morning, after checking out the “chow hall” for breakfast, and hooking up with Frank Gordon, who arrived sometime the night before, we ventured out the “back gate.” The town began once you left the base heading east, first through a strip of bars and cafés, a laundry mat and dry cleaners, a drug store, a quick-check market, and a tattoo parlor or two, then into a “seedier” part of Biloxi housing, and finally into the business center of the city.

We worked our way back toward the base and just before entering the gate; we noticed a little café that would become our “quick food” base of operations. I wish I could remember its name, or the name of the young, rather plump, plain-Jane waitress that became our friend. She would holler our name out across the room whenever we entered, and all we had to do was say “The special,” which was normally gumbo, or “Put it on my tab,” and we were soon eating the best toasted bun hamburger, chili, grilled cheese, or bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich anywhere in the world!

I once sat down and ordered two buttery-grilled cheese, and two juicy BLT sandwiches just because I had always wanted to eat my fill of these mouth-watering sandwiches and having a “running tab” made it too easy! I sat there, alternating with different halves and sucking on a milk shake so thick the straw would stand straight up in the middle! What I wouldn’t give right now!

There would be a hundred mornings to come that Frank Boyce and I alternated running to the little café, pick up two Styrofoam boxed eggs, bacon, grits, and toast breakfast, while the other showered and got ready for bed after our midnight shift! We each looked forward to midnight shift just for this tradition. The last thing either of us would do before leaving Keesler would be to pay our bill at the café and give everyone a farewell hug.

It seemed we were home and into a routine, one we had created on our own, and we looked forward to our tour of duty. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could spend our whole four years here,” Frank Boyce asked?

It was the fall of 1964, and that would have been nice.