Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2)

by Richard Weirich

  Cliff answered “yes” and cried like a baby until Buddy reached the number ten and commanded, “Now go, go, go, go.”

  Buddy felt strangely happy about what he had done. Sgt. Robicheaux would have been proud, he thought. He also realized that all that training really had made a difference. If that incident had happened three months earlier, he would have been the one with his face in the dirt.

  The following Saturday, Buddy, waited patiently to fulfill his commitment to assist the Weirichs with their move to Middletown. Woody’s excuse for his tardy arrival seemed plausible. Said he had to drive to Reliance to borrow his daddy’s flatbed truck.

  Meanwhile, Helen was already at the new house, sweeping floors, washing windows, and planning where to put things. She was on a mission to complete the relocation in one day. Pity the poor soul who got in her way.

  Buddy enjoyed working with Woody. He was a good-natured fellow with a great sense of humor, even if he was miserably slow and a perfectionist. Every piece of furniture had to be wrapped correctly and then placed meticulously on the truck. Woody measured, carefully calculated, positioned, and then adjusted everything. Surprisingly, when he was finished, all of the Weirich’s worldly possessions were stacked and tied onto the flatbed. Next stop, Middletown.

  Due to the size of the load, it took nearly a half hour to cover a distance generally handled in less than fifteen minutes. When they arrived, Helen wasted no time lighting into Woody.

  “What took so long? Did you make a wrong turn and end up in California? You are the slowest man on God’s green earth.”

  “Unload the dadblamed stuff yourself,” yelled Woody.

  Buddy intervened. “Let’s calm down and get this job done.”

  Helen positioned herself at the back door and gave orders on where the furniture and boxes should be taken. There were four rooms downstairs including a kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom. Upstairs, two bedrooms and a bath. At the front of the house was a large porch and at the back a sizeable screened in porch. And as Dickie had already discovered, there was a very scary basement with a menacing coal furnace.

  As the work progressed, Helen began to work on unpacking boxes in the kitchen and soon after there was a knock at the door.

  “Hello,” said the stranger. “I’m your neighbor from across the field.” Jane Hudson introduced herself and her two children, 6-year-old Lily, and 4-year-old Timothy. “Need some help?”

  The two women immediately hit it off and Dickie was sent next door to play with his new friends. Woody was just happy that Helen had somebody to keep her occupied while he and Buddy completed their task.

  At the end of the day, Helen insisted on preparing supper for her brother. She had only cooked for Buddy on a few occasions, but it was enough for him to suggest that she just needed to rest. “I’m sure Mom will have something. I’ll just eat when I get there.”

  Unfortunately, there was no turning back. Thirty minutes later the meal was ready. The entrée was something she called pigs in a blanket. The name alone was enough to cause Buddy to want to run for his life.

  “You’ll love it,” said Helen as she proudly pulled her creation from a frying pan. Then she explained the delicacy. “You cut a slit in the hot dogs, fill them with cheese, wrap them with bacon, and hold them together with toothpicks. Voila. Pigs in a blanket. Momma never fixed anything like this.”

  “No question about that,” said Buddy. He figured that if he could eat field rations in a swamp, he could eat Helen’s cooking. “Got any Tobasco Sauce?” Buddy learned in the Corps that hot sauce can cover up a world of culinary sins.

  The progression of the meal was as entertaining as the menu. Woody started every meal with a slice of bread from which he would carefully bite off every little crumb from the crust. He also required potatoes with every meal, usually fried, sometimes boiled, to which he applied a generous spoonful of mustard. And then he ate at the same slow speed with which he approached everything. Woody Weirich never had the problem of not stopping to smell the roses. Buddy decided that there was also ample time for digging the hole, fertilizing, planting, and watching them grow.

  On January 13th, 1954, it was again time for Buddy to hit the road. As had now become the custom, his mother ended their visit with “we never say goodbye…see you later.” But there was one more thing, something she had forgotten. “Keep this with you,” she said, handing him a small New Testament. “If you ever get lost…this will help you find your way.”

  At 8:15 a.m., Buddy, and Donnie boarded a Greyhound Bus for the next leg of their training journey at the Naval Air Technical Training Center in Cherry Point, North Carolina.

  “You ain’t gonna believe what I saw yesterday,” said Donnie.

  “What’s that?”

  “Stopped by the Newsstand to pick up a paper and Cliff Norris was there. Had his arm in a sling. He about ran when he saw me. Wonder what happened to him?”

  “I wonder,” said Buddy. “Must have run into something.”

  A Friend Called, Moose – January to July 1954

  Strasburg was a great place to grow up as long as you stayed there. The only windows to the ways of the world were television programs, news media, and the experiences of locals who dared to venture away for a while. So far Buddy’s worldview had expanded to include the sleepy town of West Point and the crusty drill instructors of Parris Island.

  The culture, customs, and morality of civilian life in small town America were about to be challenged by a radically different military environment. Here he would discover a strange mix of structure and chaos, discipline and unruliness, decency and immorality, and comradery and loneliness. The first clue to this strange new world could be seen just outside the military gates. Neon signs illuminated the landscape, advertising just about every temptation imaginable: 24-hour tattoo parlors, all-night bars, strip clubs, and X-rated movie houses. And that’s just what you could see.

  Buddy had already been introduced to the salty language of the Corps. Apparently, his mother’s ‘wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap’ philosophy had bypassed the U.S. military. And as much as cursing was commonplace, so was drinking. Most days of Airman Training were followed by a trip to the base Enlisted Men’s Club where you could get wiped out for less than a dollar. Happy Hours often turned to unhappy brawls when America’s finest fighting men turned on one another.

  Herein was the culture of acceptance. To be considered one of the guys, a man, a real Marine…this was the path of least resistance. For those who rejected the lifestyle, it was, at times, as brutal as Boot Camp. Buddy’s value system was so deeply ingrained, like a governor (speed limiter) on a school bus, that he was unwilling to compromise for the sake of fitting in. It would be his greatest test.

  Taking the moral high road also resulted in an unexpected turn in his friendship with Donnie. Buddy’s path was clearly defined and he refused to depart from it, but Donnie reacted to his newfound freedom like a kid in a candy store. As Donnie’s behavior drifted toward the cultural norm of the Corps, their relationship grew distant.

  Fortunately, Buddy was outgoing, made friends easily, and was a master at getting along with even the most difficult personalities. There was no shortage of Butch Abercrombie’s in the Corps and he was able to co-exist with most of them. But occasionally, there were irascible characters who saw his moral conservatism as an affront to their chosen lifestyle. They resorted to brutal teasing, personal insults, and sometimes physical altercations.

  One Sunday after a worship service at the base chapel, Buddy struck up a conversation with a mountain of a man from Okauchee, Florida. PFC Calvin Ridley was 6 feet 6 inches tall, weighed in at 250 pounds, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. Out of high school, he received a football scholarship to play for the Florida State Seminoles but found that he was not as good at academics as he was at football. One year of higher education was all that he could take.

  Calvin, nicknamed ‘Moose,’ shared Buddy’s values, was hilariously f
unny and his imposing size served as a deterrent to anyone who would do them harm. They also had something else in common. Moose was an accomplished artist and with his help, Buddy revived his old dream of becoming a cartoonist.

  Soon after, others of like mind came into their circle of friends: Ollie Barnes, a Presbyterian minister’s son from Kentucky, Herbie Crockett from Tennessee, who claimed to be a descendant of Davey Crockett, and Cutter Hayes, a farm boy from Alabama.

  One Saturday in March, Moose was hungry, as was often the case, and he had “a hankerin’ for a burger.” The best hamburger around was within walking distance at the Enlisted Men’s Club. “Need me a Double Gator Burger with double cheese. Who’s with me?”

  Not wanting to disappoint Moose’s hearty appetite and with nothing better to do, the five friends walked to the Club where they were seated at a round table near the bar. It was late afternoon, and the place was empty except for three off-duty Marines, heavily invested in a tequila party.

  “It’s my birthday,” declared the glassy-eyed Marine to the new arrivals.

  Buddy and his friends extended best wishes to the guest of honor.

  “Bartender, find out these fella’s pleasure. Al, here, is buyin’,” he said while pointing to the man to his left.

  Cutter was the first to respond. “Just burgers for us.”

  “Offer is for drinks only. Ain’t buyin’ no food for nobody,” objected Al.

  “Weren’t expectin’ you to,” said Buddy. “Just enjoy your birthday party.”

  When Buddy’s group ordered only burgers, fries, and a Coke, it drew the attention from the three Marines at the bar.

  “Coke? That’s all you’re havin’?”

  “Bet you all just got out of Boot. You know, in the Corps…if you’re old enough to fight…you’re old enough to drink. You do know that right.”

  Some things are best left unsaid, such as, what Ollie offered next. “Alcohol blurs your senses. Slows you down in a fight.”

  The Marine trio laughed and laughed and then the birthday boy gave his opinion. “I’ve been drinkin’ for two hours, but I can still beat your butt.”

  Moose didn’t say a word. Appeared to be giving his full attention to his gator burger.

  “Where you from, boy?” asked one of the men. “I’m talkin’ to you, the one with the elephant ears.”

  Ollie did have unusually large ears but ignored the insult. “From Kentucky.”

  Then the men turned their attention to Buddy. “Where you from, pretty boy?”

  “Virginia.”

  “How ‘bout you, big fella? What’s your name? Sasquatch? Big Foot?” said one of the men resulting in more laughter from his friends.”

  “Tell you what I’m gonna do. All this thirst quenchin’ has me in need of a head break. When me and my pals get back, if you’re still sittin’ here feedin’ your faces, then we’re gonna haul you out back and whip you senseless.”

  As the inebriated warriors staggered to the head, Buddy and his companions discussed their options.

  “Fighting will only get us thrown in the brig,” said Ollie.

  Cutter gave his Alabama perspective. “Where I come from, we don’t back down to nobody.”

  “I’m with Ollie,” said Buddy. “Fighting will only get us in trouble.”

  Moose offered no opinion. He just sat there and grinned. “Tell you what, you fellas sit tight. I’ll be right back. Gonna give that fella a little birthday present.”

  “Oh, crap,” said Ollie when Moose took off for the head.

  If Buddy didn’t know better, he would have thought that a Roadrunner cartoon was playing in the head. Something or somebody hit the wall so hard that he wondered how it was still standing. Then came a crash and a thud and out walked Moose with and even bigger grin than before.

  “I’ll take it from here,” said the bartender picking up the phone. “You don’t want to be here when the MP’s arrive. About time, somebody took those fools down a notch. Hardly a day goes by they don’t come in and cause trouble.”

  On the way back to the barracks, Moose revealed what happened in the head. “Told ‘em…they don’t talk to my friends like that. They asked me what I was gonna do about it, so I pulled a stall door off its hinges and knocked some sense into them. Hope they were sober enough to remember their lesson.”

  Less than a week later, in the middle of the night, Buddy was awakened by the sound of men screaming in his barracks. Moments later, the lights were turned on and a group of MPs ordered everyone to stay in place. Eventually, they were commanded to muster outside the building and roll was called. Then an angry sergeant addressed them, disclosing the scant details known about the incident. He revealed that someone had sneaked onto the third floor with a baseball bat, slugged three Marines and then escaped. At the time, he did not know their condition, Medical Corpsman were attending to the injured men, and he was determined to find out what happened.

  The interrogation lasted well into the morning, three hours of which were spent standing at attention while each man was questioned individually. When the sergeant made it to Buddy, he ordered him to follow another NCO to the drill hall where they were met by an officer who was now involved in the investigation.

  “It has come to my attention that you were friends with the men who were attacked.” This was the first that Buddy had heard about the identity of the injured Marines. “Do you know PFC Calvin Ridley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you friends with Ridley?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  One by one the names of Buddy’s best friends were given. Ollie Barnes, Herbie Crockett, and Cutter Hayes. The officer then asked the question that Buddy was thinking?

  “How do you explain that your friends were attacked but you weren’t?”

  Buddy knew the answer, or at least, he thought he did. And it was not his policy to lie, ever. But this was one time when he would have to withhold information for the protection of his friends, especially Moose, who tore up base property and assailed two obnoxious drunks at the Enlisted Men’s Club. “I wish I could explain it, sir. I am devastated to hear the news.”

  Two MPs were assigned to follow Buddy to his quarters where they tore everything out of his locker, pulled off his mattress, and went through all of his personal belongings. At 0400 hours, Buddy was allowed to get some sleep. No one was able to give him any information on the condition of his friends other than they were pretty banged up having each taken a severe blow to the skull.

  Buddy was called in twice more for questioning in the weeks that followed, but there was no indication that he was a suspect. His friends recovered quickly from their injuries, but he kept his distance fearing that there would be another attack, especially since he was the only one in the group who was spared.

  In light of recent events, nobody could have been happier than Buddy that tech training was over. There were two phases to his training at Cherry Point. The first twelve weeks were basically an extension of Boot Camp, although considerably less demanding. Second was Aviation Ordnance Training, which involved learning basic maintenance on aircraft and, more importantly, how to load and handle aviation weaponry. Finally, on July 16, 1954, Buddy was assigned to the Headquarters and Maintenance Squadron based at Cherry Point and for the first time since enlistment, he and Donnie were separated.

  The day before Donnie departed for the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, the two old friends went off base for dinner at the Sanitary Fish Market and Seafood Restaurant in Morehead City.

  “Never saw food like this back home,” said Donnie while perusing the menu.

  “Nope, but we did see something that looked kind of like it in the town run,” said Buddy, who was wondering if he had adequate funds in his wallet to pick up the tab.

  They agreed that leaving home was an eye opener. “Strasburg’s like a cocoon,” said Donnie. Don’t really know much about the world until you fly away.”

  “Some things I wish I didn’t know.”
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  “You learned 5 ways to kill a man with your bare hands,” said Donnie.

  “You only learned 5? They taught me 6.”

  “I must have been in sick bay that day. Hey, I owe you an apology.”

  Buddy figured it was about time that his old friend owned up to the error of his ways. Drinking, smoking, and cursing were not part of his Strasburg education. But Donnie had something else on his mind.

  “I was dead wrong about that uniform. Ain’t got me, one girl. I guess I lied.”

  “I was thinking just the opposite,” joked Buddy. “Can’t keep ‘em off me.”

  “Now who’s lyin’?”

  After dinner, Donnie unexpectedly opened up. “Look, Buddy. Don’t know when I’ll be seeing you again. Just want you to know that you’re the best friend I ever had. That unit you’re joining, I hear talk that they may be headin’ for South Korea. If anything ever happened to you, I would never forgive myself.”

  “The war’s over.”

  Donnie was uncharacteristically emotional. “Just…be careful. Bud, you’re too good.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “And you’re hangin’ with the wrong crowd.”

  “Me? I’m the one hanging with the wrong crowd?”

  “I hear what others say about you and your friends.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll just put it this way. They don’t think you’re real men. And when you get labeled that way, bad things can happen.”

  “So, let me get this straight. Going to church, not drinking, not smoking, not carousing with women of questionable reputation, not communicating in 4-letter profanity…that’s not manly.”

  “One day, that’s gonna get you in trouble. Maybe not here…but somewhere down the line. I won’t be there to watch your back. Remember that night when somebody came into the barracks after lights out with a baseball bat?”