Twenty years ago, on November 9, 1989, the Wall that separated East and West Berlin was taken down, marking the reunification of East and West Germany.
Forty-six years ago, I spent Christmas on both sides of the Wall.
I had been working at the BMW factory in Munich and decided to take Christmas vacation in Berlin. I had arrived in Reutlingen, Germany, on June 27, 1963, a day after President John F. Kennedy delivered his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech at the Berlin Wall and a day before my 20th birthday. The original plan was to work for a month in Germany and then return to the United States. But, while in Reutlingen, I had written the mayor of Munich who had arranged my job at the BMW plant in Munich.
I was working at the BMW plant when Kennedy was assassinated on November 22
-- the history of Kennedy's Berlin speech had been one reason I wanted to visit Berlin, which Kennedy referred to as "a defended island of freedom."
So, on Monday, December 23, I boarded a bus in the Munich Banhof at 5:30 a.m. for the 576 km or 358 mile journey to Berlin. The bus was freezing, with ice on the windows and in the toilet.
The trip was uneventful until we reached the first Soviet Zone at the East German border. The bus stopped and an armed brown-uniformed East German soldier boarded the bus and looked at all our passports. When he came to me, he looked at my U.S. passport and ordered me off the bus. I had a black beard and was dressed in black pants, a long black coat, a black scarf and a black woolen hat. Was there something sinister about my appearance? Or was it that I was the only American on the bus?
I followed the guard across a dirt yard to a yellow, one-story wooden structure where another guard looked at my passport, looked at me, looked back at the passport, asked for 10 deutschmarks for a visa, stamped my passport and sent me back to the bus.
At 6 p.m. we came to another checkpoint -- this time entering the West zone, where guards checked all vehicles inside and out. Once again, my passport was checked last, but this time without incident.
It was early evening when we arrived in West Berlin. I stepped off the bus and immediately felt I was someplace different. There was an atmosphere or an attitude in the air quite different from what I experienced in Munich.
Perhaps it was the "island of democracy" West Berlin surrounded by communist East Germany.
There were dramatic contrasts: brightly lit Christmas trees, apartment buildings with parts showing occupancy while other parts still showing evidence of World War II bombing, new structures adjacent to bomb ruins.
I asked my way to the Studentenheim -- a youth hostel -- where I got a room for 5 deutschmarks, equal to a little more than a dollar. Everybody in the Studentenheim spoke English.
On Christmas Eve, walking around West Berlin, I visited the famous Brandenburg Tur and checked out the Wall. At Potsdamer Platz, I climbed a platform and looked over the Wall into East Berlin. Potsdamer Platz before the war was one of the busiest and liveliest squares in Europe. Allied bombing during World War II left it in ruins, much of which remained on that day in 1963. I looked out across a no-man's land and took in a view that was perfect for the black and white film I had in my camera, since all I could see was black and white. Barbed wire and obstacles stretched across the bleak snow-covered terrain to the bombed-out buildings with gaping holes that had once been windows. Many buildings stood stark against a grey sky, entire walls missing, surrounded by rubble. The streets were empty, barren, bleak.
A sign erected high over the Wall reached out to the East Berliners: "Die Freie Berliner Press Meldet," or, "In Berlin the free press reports."
Under that was another sign wishing all, including those in East Berlin, "Frohe Weihnacht und ein besseres Neues Jahr" ("Merry Christmas and a better New Year").
There were other signs, printed in English, Russian, French and German informing people "You are leaving the American sector." I walked to Checkpoint Charlie, the scene of a dramatic standoff between American and Soviet tanks in 1961. Two armed soldiers manned the checkpoint, which displayed a picture of Kennedy, with a black sash across one top corner and "Mr. Praesident" underneath. Met a German man who said we should go to the East on Christmas Day.
On Christmas Day, I joined my new German friend and crossed into East Berlin aboard the S Banh. After going through passport check, we got separated so I was on my own.
The most people I saw all day were at the Banhof, where relatives and friends were seeing each other for the first time in years. The rest of the city was empty other than one rebuilt section. Bombed ruins were everywhere, very dirty, extremely quiet - a strange atmosphere. Everywhere I saw magazines and travel posters for Russia, Viet Nam, Korea and Hungary.
Propaganda pictures showed New York City slums, one of a man in filthy, ragged clothing slumped in a gutter. The caption said something to the effect that this is America.
Windows and doorways of buildings along the streets were bricked shut. The only sight I saw of Christmas was a small, skinny Christmas tree in a store
window.
After lunch in a small restaurant, I discovered I did not have enough East German money to pay and the waitress refused to take U.S. or West German money. But when she pointed to the pack of Marlboros in my pocket, I offered them to her and she indicated I had paid for my meal.
I saw signs, "For freedom and socialism our way is right" and "Die Republik braucht alle -- alle brauchen die Republik!" -- "The Republic needs all -- all need the Republic," referring to the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, or the German Democratic Republic.
I wandered some more, having no idea where I was or where I was headed -- just walking and taking in the atmosphere. At one point, I walked down a narrow side street when I saw a group of soldiers. I walked past them and another soldier walked toward me. He greeted me with "Guten Tag," which I returned. We passed each other and I continued down the street when I heard yelling in the distance. The soldier turned and yelled at me: "Vorsicht.
Halt. Eintritt ist verboten." "Caution. Stop. Entry is forbidden." It was then that I saw I was within less than 100 yards of the Wall. I made a hasty about-face, deciding it was time for this young man to go West, so I returned to West Berlin. I learned later that day that a youth had been shot attempting to escape into the West.
Back at the hostel, I spent the evening with students in a private party, eating, drinking, and listening to music. They surprised me by asking me to read a chapter in English from the book I had with me -- "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Surrounded by new-found friends in the warmth of the youth hostel, I was reminded of the earlier image I had of a lone woman in East Berlin walking in the middle of an otherwise empty street lined by brick-shuttered buildings on Christmas Day.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
looking back to Germany
I was getting nostalgic and dug up the first newspaper stories I had written -- back when I was a 20-year-old floating around Germany working in restaurants and factories. I wrote my experiences for the Marin Independent Journal. Could have used some editing, for sure, but here they are:
Independent-Journal, Friday, July 19, 1963
HARD WORK
Youth Describes Life In Germany
By David Rosso
I work in a spulen and hulsen factory, which makes spools and bobbins for textiles, with Donald Light of Fairfax and Dennis Fitch of San Francisco.
The work is long and dull. We walk to the factory to begin work at 6:30 a.m. and finish at 5:30 p.m. All day we operate machines to mold, sort, cap and package spools, bobbins and flyers to be sued by textile factories around the world. The factory is bog, dark and dirty.
However, it is fascinating to work with people from all over the world. The people we work and talk with represent France, Germany, Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, Algeria, Persia, Turkey and Egypt.
As soon as the people at the factory heard I was an American, they said, “Kennedy!” The German people love him. They describe him with one word, “prima.”
After we finish work, we head for home, or the Kolpinghaus, where students from all of Europe live. I room with a Yugoslav and two Frenchmen. We speak in German, English and a little French and Yugoslav.
One unfortunate incident has arisen. A Negro from Nigeria refuses to speak to Americans because of the American race riots. There is no communicating with him.
Before I left the United States I was told of the great German food. On a limited budget, I have failed to find any. I don’t think a day has gone by when we haven’t had noodles for a meal. Wurst, beer, bread, cheese and noodles make up a meal.
The factory employees have a taste for warm beer which I have yet to acquire. During work they soak their beer bottles in warm water.
Prices for food vary. At Kolpinghaus we pay $1.25 for 21 meals, including the continental breakfast of bread, butter, marmalade and warm milk or coffee. At the factory we have five hot lunches for a total of about 87 cents.
Milk is about eight cents a half liter and beer is 13 cents a quart. A good meal in the town costs about $2. Most desserts are expensive and very rich.
We have found a café which is frequented by the younger set for dancing. American music is very popular, as is the twist. The bossa nova has come and gone but the Madison has survived. The Germans were very anxious to learn the American version of the “tweest.”
No date
AFTER 12,000 SPUDS
Marin Youth Washes Dishes In Germany
By David Rosso
I was standing all alone in the crowded Munich railroad station about to search for a room and a job. Two weeks later I found a room, but finding a job was much easier.
I started as a potato peeler in a restaurant. Four days and 12,000 potatoes later I started washing dishes for a restaurant. Here I have a room, four meals a day and enough money to get on my feet after having had to spend it on expensive hotels while looking for a permanent room.
Nothing need be said about the work. Washing dishes is washing dishes wherever you are. But the room is very interesting. I live with two Germans in a run-down room behind the restaurant. There is no hot water, no toilet and no heat except from a small pot-bellied stove.
I will work at this job until I begin my regular job at the Bayerishe Motorwerke AG (BMW) which I got by writing to the mayor of Munich.
I saw much of Munich while looking for a room; there is too much to say about it and an amateur’s description would not do it justice. Munich never sleeps as tourists and students constantly come and go. I plan to use the entire year to see all of the many art, history and science museums.
One of the most impressive sights of the city is Munich’s Leopold Street in the Schwabing area. This is an existentialist section where the students display a nightly exhibit of their art. The sidewalks are lined with candle-illuminated paintings, copperware and pottery.
The city is much too great for casual analysis. Now I can only say that Munich is a city with much American influence, hourly bell-tolling, many cathedrals, museums and flowing beer.
Oct. 3, 1963
‘PROST’ IS WORD
Marin Youth Tells Of Fest In Germany
By David Rosso
MUNICH – For three weeks the fest will bring in people and pour out millions of liters of beer. Last year three and one half million liters of beer were consumed in the many beer halls set up at the edge of the mile-long fairgrounds.
There are numerous side shows, booths of chance and restaurants, much like any other state fair, but the beer halls are like something I have never seen before.
They are packed with persons from many nations, all celebrating as one. The magic word is “prost.”
One can always join in table-top dancing, sing German drinking songs or simply prost a perfect stranger who will at once become your close friend.
In one night I drank with Germans, talked with Frenchmen, argued the merits of the Giants with students from Los Angeles and sang with Canadians.
The parade which officially opened the fest lasted for 90 minutes. Even at the end it seemed to continue as the crowd fell in behind the marchers and choked the streets leading to the parade grounds.
The warm spirit of the fest has failed to take the edge off the cold winds which are promising a long winter in Germany. For the past week the temperatures have never climbed above 65 degrees and there has been some cold rain.
(The editor’s note did say I was describing the Octoberfest)
Nov. 25, 1963
Marin Youth Tells About Living Costs In Germany
By Dave Rosso
West Germany’s money, the Deutsche mark, is worth about 25 cents in U.S. value, and living here in Munich is very good at this rate if you are living on the American economy.
A good steak dinner costs six marks, or the equivalent of $1.50, which is well and good, except that, unfortunately, all the money I make is in marks, coming from a factory here in which I work.
The same steak, then, in my “new currency,” costs me two hours of working at drilling metal.
Too, when I received my paycheck, I discovered that 25 percent of my earnings went to the Bundes Republic. From the remainder, it cost 30 percent for rent, 10 percent for transportation, seven for food, and every other cent for whatever travel I’ve done around Europe.
However, the taxes do include free medical services for me at the factory clinic, service including most everything from pills to eye glasses.
The factory workers here are surprised to see me, an American, working in their factory. The image of the American with streets lined with gold dies hard. The only way I can answer their questions is that I’m working here “because I am a student.” This they understand.
A major tax is housing and land. Apartments are being erected everywhere and are inhabited as quickly as they are finished. Nonetheless, there exists a housing shortage here.
Laundromats, a relatively new business in Germany, cost about the same as in the U.S., but haircuts cost only about 75 cents. A turkey for Thanksgiving, however, will cost as high as $8.
I hope to have an article on Christmas in East Berlin.
Independent-Journal, Friday, July 19, 1963
HARD WORK
Youth Describes Life In Germany
By David Rosso
I work in a spulen and hulsen factory, which makes spools and bobbins for textiles, with Donald Light of Fairfax and Dennis Fitch of San Francisco.
The work is long and dull. We walk to the factory to begin work at 6:30 a.m. and finish at 5:30 p.m. All day we operate machines to mold, sort, cap and package spools, bobbins and flyers to be sued by textile factories around the world. The factory is bog, dark and dirty.
However, it is fascinating to work with people from all over the world. The people we work and talk with represent France, Germany, Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, Algeria, Persia, Turkey and Egypt.
As soon as the people at the factory heard I was an American, they said, “Kennedy!” The German people love him. They describe him with one word, “prima.”
After we finish work, we head for home, or the Kolpinghaus, where students from all of Europe live. I room with a Yugoslav and two Frenchmen. We speak in German, English and a little French and Yugoslav.
One unfortunate incident has arisen. A Negro from Nigeria refuses to speak to Americans because of the American race riots. There is no communicating with him.
Before I left the United States I was told of the great German food. On a limited budget, I have failed to find any. I don’t think a day has gone by when we haven’t had noodles for a meal. Wurst, beer, bread, cheese and noodles make up a meal.
The factory employees have a taste for warm beer which I have yet to acquire. During work they soak their beer bottles in warm water.
Prices for food vary. At Kolpinghaus we pay $1.25 for 21 meals, including the continental breakfast of bread, butter, marmalade and warm milk or coffee. At the factory we have five hot lunches for a total of about 87 cents.
Milk is about eight cents a half liter and beer is 13 cents a quart. A good meal in the town costs about $2. Most desserts are expensive and very rich.
We have found a café which is frequented by the younger set for dancing. American music is very popular, as is the twist. The bossa nova has come and gone but the Madison has survived. The Germans were very anxious to learn the American version of the “tweest.”
No date
AFTER 12,000 SPUDS
Marin Youth Washes Dishes In Germany
By David Rosso
I was standing all alone in the crowded Munich railroad station about to search for a room and a job. Two weeks later I found a room, but finding a job was much easier.
I started as a potato peeler in a restaurant. Four days and 12,000 potatoes later I started washing dishes for a restaurant. Here I have a room, four meals a day and enough money to get on my feet after having had to spend it on expensive hotels while looking for a permanent room.
Nothing need be said about the work. Washing dishes is washing dishes wherever you are. But the room is very interesting. I live with two Germans in a run-down room behind the restaurant. There is no hot water, no toilet and no heat except from a small pot-bellied stove.
I will work at this job until I begin my regular job at the Bayerishe Motorwerke AG (BMW) which I got by writing to the mayor of Munich.
I saw much of Munich while looking for a room; there is too much to say about it and an amateur’s description would not do it justice. Munich never sleeps as tourists and students constantly come and go. I plan to use the entire year to see all of the many art, history and science museums.
One of the most impressive sights of the city is Munich’s Leopold Street in the Schwabing area. This is an existentialist section where the students display a nightly exhibit of their art. The sidewalks are lined with candle-illuminated paintings, copperware and pottery.
The city is much too great for casual analysis. Now I can only say that Munich is a city with much American influence, hourly bell-tolling, many cathedrals, museums and flowing beer.
Oct. 3, 1963
‘PROST’ IS WORD
Marin Youth Tells Of Fest In Germany
By David Rosso
MUNICH – For three weeks the fest will bring in people and pour out millions of liters of beer. Last year three and one half million liters of beer were consumed in the many beer halls set up at the edge of the mile-long fairgrounds.
There are numerous side shows, booths of chance and restaurants, much like any other state fair, but the beer halls are like something I have never seen before.
They are packed with persons from many nations, all celebrating as one. The magic word is “prost.”
One can always join in table-top dancing, sing German drinking songs or simply prost a perfect stranger who will at once become your close friend.
In one night I drank with Germans, talked with Frenchmen, argued the merits of the Giants with students from Los Angeles and sang with Canadians.
The parade which officially opened the fest lasted for 90 minutes. Even at the end it seemed to continue as the crowd fell in behind the marchers and choked the streets leading to the parade grounds.
The warm spirit of the fest has failed to take the edge off the cold winds which are promising a long winter in Germany. For the past week the temperatures have never climbed above 65 degrees and there has been some cold rain.
(The editor’s note did say I was describing the Octoberfest)
Nov. 25, 1963
Marin Youth Tells About Living Costs In Germany
By Dave Rosso
West Germany’s money, the Deutsche mark, is worth about 25 cents in U.S. value, and living here in Munich is very good at this rate if you are living on the American economy.
A good steak dinner costs six marks, or the equivalent of $1.50, which is well and good, except that, unfortunately, all the money I make is in marks, coming from a factory here in which I work.
The same steak, then, in my “new currency,” costs me two hours of working at drilling metal.
Too, when I received my paycheck, I discovered that 25 percent of my earnings went to the Bundes Republic. From the remainder, it cost 30 percent for rent, 10 percent for transportation, seven for food, and every other cent for whatever travel I’ve done around Europe.
However, the taxes do include free medical services for me at the factory clinic, service including most everything from pills to eye glasses.
The factory workers here are surprised to see me, an American, working in their factory. The image of the American with streets lined with gold dies hard. The only way I can answer their questions is that I’m working here “because I am a student.” This they understand.
A major tax is housing and land. Apartments are being erected everywhere and are inhabited as quickly as they are finished. Nonetheless, there exists a housing shortage here.
Laundromats, a relatively new business in Germany, cost about the same as in the U.S., but haircuts cost only about 75 cents. A turkey for Thanksgiving, however, will cost as high as $8.
I hope to have an article on Christmas in East Berlin.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
looking back
Back in 1992, when United Press International looked like it was about to close its doors, Paul Hendrickson did a lengthy piece about us for The Washington Post. He interviewed me for the piece and my part went like this:
Rosso's talking. Rosso's big and beefy and bearded. He came to work today in tennis shoes and a black nylon jacket. His full name is Dave Rosso but all anyone ever seems to call him is "Rosso." Maybe his wife calls him that. He's the Washington news editor. Nice guy.
"I can read the tea leaves," he says, "but I want to stay, I want to keep the dream alive."
He's been a Unipresser for 22 years. Started out on the switchboard. Took him 17 years to get off weekends. Was in at 6 this morning. That bad day in 1970 when Merriman Smith shot himself, Rosso was just a greenhorn manning the phones. He worked double shifts. He wrote across the top of the overtime slip, "Death in the family."
"I love the process," he says. "I really do." I can't describe it beyond that. I take the stuff home to my wife. I show her what the guy reported and what I did to fix it, and both of us working like crazy, and she'll say, 'Mmmm, I kind of like that one better.' Wrong!"
Once he had Unipressers all over town phoning in stuff. Now there are two on the Hill, one at State, one at the Supreme Court, three at the White House. One guy covers Treasury, Commerce, Labor all by himself. Lonely guy.
Almost blithely: "Oh, we've been fed stories (by management) over the years: 'We need these cuts out of you now, but we will bring it back up.' It never comes back up, not all the way."
Then: "I don't know who we're feeding copy to. I don't have any idea. We're in the information business. And we're working in an information vacuum."
So you're doing your job every day --
"That's right," he cuts in. "With no (expletive) idea if anybody's reading it."
More of this. A broad-shouldered semi-profane man who's dressed like a trucker wipes a tear with his thumb. He grooves his thumb down the ridge of his nose. "Didn't know it would get to me," he says, caught between the tear and some more laughing. He goes into a story. "Over a year ago we lost a couple hundred all at once. Big pink slip orgy. I saw a message come across, 'There's going to be a big party in Dallas.' And these were names I'd dealt with over the message wire for years. I told my wife, 'We're flying to Dallas.' No way could we afford to fly to Dallas. So we flew to Dallas. There were about 50 people at this party. Names. Names. Names from the message wire. I was putting faces with names. It was like a reunion with people I'd never met."
Did you cry?
"Nope," Rosso says. "But it was a rough ride home the next day."
Rosso's talking. Rosso's big and beefy and bearded. He came to work today in tennis shoes and a black nylon jacket. His full name is Dave Rosso but all anyone ever seems to call him is "Rosso." Maybe his wife calls him that. He's the Washington news editor. Nice guy.
"I can read the tea leaves," he says, "but I want to stay, I want to keep the dream alive."
He's been a Unipresser for 22 years. Started out on the switchboard. Took him 17 years to get off weekends. Was in at 6 this morning. That bad day in 1970 when Merriman Smith shot himself, Rosso was just a greenhorn manning the phones. He worked double shifts. He wrote across the top of the overtime slip, "Death in the family."
"I love the process," he says. "I really do." I can't describe it beyond that. I take the stuff home to my wife. I show her what the guy reported and what I did to fix it, and both of us working like crazy, and she'll say, 'Mmmm, I kind of like that one better.' Wrong!"
Once he had Unipressers all over town phoning in stuff. Now there are two on the Hill, one at State, one at the Supreme Court, three at the White House. One guy covers Treasury, Commerce, Labor all by himself. Lonely guy.
Almost blithely: "Oh, we've been fed stories (by management) over the years: 'We need these cuts out of you now, but we will bring it back up.' It never comes back up, not all the way."
Then: "I don't know who we're feeding copy to. I don't have any idea. We're in the information business. And we're working in an information vacuum."
So you're doing your job every day --
"That's right," he cuts in. "With no (expletive) idea if anybody's reading it."
More of this. A broad-shouldered semi-profane man who's dressed like a trucker wipes a tear with his thumb. He grooves his thumb down the ridge of his nose. "Didn't know it would get to me," he says, caught between the tear and some more laughing. He goes into a story. "Over a year ago we lost a couple hundred all at once. Big pink slip orgy. I saw a message come across, 'There's going to be a big party in Dallas.' And these were names I'd dealt with over the message wire for years. I told my wife, 'We're flying to Dallas.' No way could we afford to fly to Dallas. So we flew to Dallas. There were about 50 people at this party. Names. Names. Names from the message wire. I was putting faces with names. It was like a reunion with people I'd never met."
Did you cry?
"Nope," Rosso says. "But it was a rough ride home the next day."
good ol' days journalism
Many, many years ago - don't bother asking how many - I did a story about testing of a weapon and the research drew me to a story in history that sent me to the Library of Congress and a gem that I copied and kept for the pure hysterics of how it was written. I have since forgotten the reason for the original story, but will share this from Thursday, Feb. 29, 1844, that begins with this headline:
MOST AWFUL AND MOST LAMENTABLE CATASTROPHE!
Followed by this subhead:
INSTANTANEOUS DEATH, BY THE BURSTING OF ONE OF THE LARGE GUNS ON BOARD THE UNITED STATES SHIP PRINCETON, OF SECRETARY UPSHUR, SECRETARY GILMER, COMMODORE KENNON, & VIRGIL MAXCY, Esq.
Then the story. But, first, the fact that the president of the United States was also on board the USS Princeton is not mentioned until deep into the second graph and then he isn't named.
Here then is the text of most of the story as it was printed with its italics and caps:
In the whole course of our lives it has never fallen to our lot to announce to our readers a more shocking calamity --- shocking in all its circumstances and concomitants - than that which occurred on board the United States Ship Princeton, yesterday afternoon, whilst under way, in the river Potomac, fourteen or fifteen miles below this city.
Yesterday was a day appointed, by the courtesy and hospitality of Capt.
STOCKTON, Commander of the Princeton, for receiving as visitors to his fine ship (lying off Alexandria) a great number of guests, with their families, liberally and numerously invited to spend the day on board. The day was most favorable, and the company was large and brilliant, of both sexes; not less probably in number than four hundred, among who were the President of the United States, the Heads of the several Departments, and their families. At a proper hour, after the arrival of the expected guests, the vessel got under way and proceeded down the river, to some distance below Fort Washington. During the passage down, one of the large guns on board (carrying a ball of 225 pounds) was fired more than once, exhibiting the great power and capacity of that formidable weapon of war. The Ladies had partaken of a sumptuous repast; the gentlemen had succeeded them at the table, and some of them had left it; the vessel was on her return up the river, opposite to the fort, where Capt. STOCKTON consented to fire another shot from the same gun, around and near which, to observe its effects, many persons had gathered, though by no means so many as on similar discharges in the morning, the ladies who then thronged the deck being on this fatal occasion almost all between decks, and out of reach of harm.
The gun was fired. The explosion was followed, before the smoke cleared away so as to observe its effect, by shrieks of wo which announced a dire calamity. The gun had burst, at a point three or four feet from the breech, and scattered death and desolation around. Mr. Upshur, Secretary of State, Mr.
Gilmer, so recently placed at the head of the Navy, Commodore Kennon, one of its gallant officers... (it named a number of others) were among the slain.
Besides these, seventeen seamen were wounded, several of them badly and probably mortally.
The story continues until this:
The scene upon the deck may more easily be imagined than described. Nor can the imagination picture to itself the half of its horrors. Wives widowed in an instant by the murderous blast! Daughters smitten with the heart-rending sight of their father's lifeless corpse! The wailings of agonized females!
The piteous grief of the unhurt but heart-stricken spectators! The wounded seamen borne down below! The silent tears and quivering lips of their brave and honest comrades, who tried in vain to subdue or to conceal their feelings! What words can adequately depict a scene like this?
No word in this story about the fate of the president - still unnamed! Oh, the president? John Tyler, who married Julia Gardiner, daughter of David Gardiner, who was killed aboard the Princeton.
MOST AWFUL AND MOST LAMENTABLE CATASTROPHE!
Followed by this subhead:
INSTANTANEOUS DEATH, BY THE BURSTING OF ONE OF THE LARGE GUNS ON BOARD THE UNITED STATES SHIP PRINCETON, OF SECRETARY UPSHUR, SECRETARY GILMER, COMMODORE KENNON, & VIRGIL MAXCY, Esq.
Then the story. But, first, the fact that the president of the United States was also on board the USS Princeton is not mentioned until deep into the second graph and then he isn't named.
Here then is the text of most of the story as it was printed with its italics and caps:
In the whole course of our lives it has never fallen to our lot to announce to our readers a more shocking calamity --- shocking in all its circumstances and concomitants - than that which occurred on board the United States Ship Princeton, yesterday afternoon, whilst under way, in the river Potomac, fourteen or fifteen miles below this city.
Yesterday was a day appointed, by the courtesy and hospitality of Capt.
STOCKTON, Commander of the Princeton, for receiving as visitors to his fine ship (lying off Alexandria) a great number of guests, with their families, liberally and numerously invited to spend the day on board. The day was most favorable, and the company was large and brilliant, of both sexes; not less probably in number than four hundred, among who were the President of the United States, the Heads of the several Departments, and their families. At a proper hour, after the arrival of the expected guests, the vessel got under way and proceeded down the river, to some distance below Fort Washington. During the passage down, one of the large guns on board (carrying a ball of 225 pounds) was fired more than once, exhibiting the great power and capacity of that formidable weapon of war. The Ladies had partaken of a sumptuous repast; the gentlemen had succeeded them at the table, and some of them had left it; the vessel was on her return up the river, opposite to the fort, where Capt. STOCKTON consented to fire another shot from the same gun, around and near which, to observe its effects, many persons had gathered, though by no means so many as on similar discharges in the morning, the ladies who then thronged the deck being on this fatal occasion almost all between decks, and out of reach of harm.
The gun was fired. The explosion was followed, before the smoke cleared away so as to observe its effect, by shrieks of wo which announced a dire calamity. The gun had burst, at a point three or four feet from the breech, and scattered death and desolation around. Mr. Upshur, Secretary of State, Mr.
Gilmer, so recently placed at the head of the Navy, Commodore Kennon, one of its gallant officers... (it named a number of others) were among the slain.
Besides these, seventeen seamen were wounded, several of them badly and probably mortally.
The story continues until this:
The scene upon the deck may more easily be imagined than described. Nor can the imagination picture to itself the half of its horrors. Wives widowed in an instant by the murderous blast! Daughters smitten with the heart-rending sight of their father's lifeless corpse! The wailings of agonized females!
The piteous grief of the unhurt but heart-stricken spectators! The wounded seamen borne down below! The silent tears and quivering lips of their brave and honest comrades, who tried in vain to subdue or to conceal their feelings! What words can adequately depict a scene like this?
No word in this story about the fate of the president - still unnamed! Oh, the president? John Tyler, who married Julia Gardiner, daughter of David Gardiner, who was killed aboard the Princeton.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Poor Zero
Consider the zero. Not the oh, the zero. We say oh. We say our phone number is 555-6-oh-5-2-1. We hardly ever say 5-5-5-6-zero-5-2-1. When we learn to count, we learn one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Did we ever say zero? The only time that figure shows up is with ten and then we say ten, not, t-zero and then 20, 30, 40, on to 100. And zero never enters into it. When we learn the alphabet, it is a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, I, j, k, l, m, n, o, p, and on. We say oh, not zero. My ZIP code is 955-oh-3. My are code is 7-OH-7. I never say 955-zero-3 or 7-zero-7.
Poor zero!
Poor zero!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Tank
This one isn't mine but it needs to be shared and I hope the author doesn't mind my spreading it far and wide. Well, that assumes I still have readers!
THE STORY OF TANK. It's a beautiful story!
They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did. But, at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.
For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls -
he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got
tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I
didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get
him new things once he settled in. But it became pretty clear
pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew,
ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd
follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen
when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after
the fourth of fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to
doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh
and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes
and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him and
he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I
couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and, when it was, I
was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my
unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the
guest room, but I also mumbled rather cynically, that the "dog
probably hid it on me."
Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the
shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from
the shelter. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he
snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen
since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like
that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort
of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate -
and
then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down with his back to me. Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number. But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that too. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."
_________________________
To Whoever Gets My
Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong, which is why I have to go to try to make it right.
So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.
First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he’ll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones - "sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals: "back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.
I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand. He's up on his shots.
Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car - I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.
Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....
His name's not Reggie. I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his
name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well...well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
His real name is Tank, because that is what I drive.
Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander.
See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with...and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call the shelter...in the "event"...to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting to be downright depressing, even though, frankly, I’m just writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family. But still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.
And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who do terrible things... and to keep those people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was my example of
service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight -every night - from me.
Thank you, Paul
Mallory
_________________________________
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star. Flags had flown at half-mast.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog. "Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright. "C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.
"Tank," I whispered. His tail swished. I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So what da ya say we play some ball?
His ears perked again. "Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next
room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
This archived news story is available only for your personal, non-commercial use. Information in the story may be outdated or superseded by additional information. Reading or replaying the story in its archived form does not constitute a re-publication of the story.
http://www.wil92.com/post/18020_this_dog_story_will_touch_your_heart
THE STORY OF TANK. It's a beautiful story!
They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did. But, at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.
For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls -
he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got
tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I
didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get
him new things once he settled in. But it became pretty clear
pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew,
ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd
follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen
when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after
the fourth of fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to
doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh
and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes
and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him and
he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I
couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and, when it was, I
was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my
unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the
guest room, but I also mumbled rather cynically, that the "dog
probably hid it on me."
Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the
shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from
the shelter. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he
snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen
since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like
that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort
of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate -
and
then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down with his back to me. Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number. But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that too. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."
_________________________
To Whoever Gets My
Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong, which is why I have to go to try to make it right.
So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.
First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he’ll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones - "sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals: "back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.
I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand. He's up on his shots.
Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car - I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.
Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....
His name's not Reggie. I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his
name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well...well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
His real name is Tank, because that is what I drive.
Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander.
See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with...and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call the shelter...in the "event"...to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting to be downright depressing, even though, frankly, I’m just writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family. But still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.
And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who do terrible things... and to keep those people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was my example of
service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight -every night - from me.
Thank you, Paul
Mallory
_________________________________
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star. Flags had flown at half-mast.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog. "Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright. "C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.
"Tank," I whispered. His tail swished. I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So what da ya say we play some ball?
His ears perked again. "Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next
room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
This archived news story is available only for your personal, non-commercial use. Information in the story may be outdated or superseded by additional information. Reading or replaying the story in its archived form does not constitute a re-publication of the story.
http://www.wil92.com/post/18020_this_dog_story_will_touch_your_heart
Friday, September 11, 2009
Cam Ranh Choraleers
The following is about a very special Christmas. Why Christmas in September? One reason is I am trying to locate fellow members of the Cam Ranh Bay Choraleers and also trying to obtain copies of tapes of our performances and the Christmas tape we did for the Ed Sullivan Christmas Show December 1966.
It all started Nov. 22, 1966, from my Vietnam diary while I was stationed at Cam Ranh Air Base where I had been stationed with the United States Air Force 1966-1967. The diary notes the shock I experienced in Manila after several months in the sands of Vietnam.
I have just returned to CRB after five wonderful, relaxing days in the Philippines. … We were a great success.
We arrived late Thursday night after Sgt. Britten, our leader and organizer, went 48 hours with no sleep trying to get a plane for us. The colonel said cut your group to 38 and you can go. Sgt. Britten said all 55 go or no one goes. The colonel called back and said a plane was waiting. When we landed at Clark Air Base, the director of the Silver Wing Service Club, Miss Davis, was there on the flight line to meet us with two buses. We were taken to our quarters and let loose. On the way we couldn’t get over paved streets with lines drawn down the center, sidewalks, American cars — any car for that matter, and most of all green — real green, cool — grass. In the squadron were two Coke machines that gave bottles, not cans, of Coke.
Our mattresses were 7 inches thick. The barracks were made out of wood. During the five days I ate all of my meals in the Airman’s Club. Our A Club at Cam Ranh is a one-room barn. Clark’s A Club was fantastic. You walk past the lobby into a huge room with a stage in front. On the stage was a 12-piece band. At one end of the room is a restaurant — The Knight’s Inn. This is where I ate all my meals. Wall-to-wall carpet, tablecloths, padded pleated leather chairs, beautiful leather-bound menus and the most courteous Filipino waiters. We ate off plates, drank out of glasses, were waited on, had our cigarettes lit for us and paid very nominal fees. It took us three times to get used to the Inn.
Behind the Knight’s Inn was the Pirate’s Cove, a more secluded, more intimate nook for couples. On the other side of the main room was a barbershop that used electric razors. In another corner was a small lounge that served drinks and featured a jazz combo. There was also a game room.
In the other corner was the Stag Bar with hard wood walls, large polished tables and chairs, a TV and TV-juke box.
The first day I had a Mexican dinner followed by a ham steak, filet mignon, sirloin, waffles for breakfast with melted butter and I can't remember what else I had during those five days. I gained 10 pounds.
Friday we had a short rehearsal in the service club then we went to the hospital where we gave a short concert in the main lobby for the patients. Friday night was one of our big performances. It was one of the most important. We were on live TV for 30 minutes and we pulled through it like champs. It was near perfect.
With this under our belts Saturday was a day of rest and the Service Club arranged a special tour of Manila for us. We spent all day riding a bus from the base to Manila, about 50 miles away, and seeing all of the sights. We made stops at a beautiful Chinese cemetery, the Manila Zoo, the market area where you hide your watches and hold onto your wallets, and made a lunch stop at a shopping center that was just like home. In the center we ate at a very exclusive restaurant that served a smorgasbord for $2. I filled my plate three times. We couldn’t believe it. Chicken, veal, sausage, shrimp and rice, carrots flavored with anis, fruit salad, coffee and the best whiskey sour I have ever tasted.
At the end of the meal I put a cigarette in my mouth. Before I got my hand to my pocket for a lighter one of the five waiters around our table had lit my cigarette.
All the time we were on the bus we were singing songs from the concerts until we had lost our voices. Sgt. Britten would have loved that if he had known.
The Filipino children flocked around the bus asking for money or trying to sell black market goods. They always greeted us with, “Hey, Joe.”
Sunday was another big day but also our most disappointing. We had a big concert on the base theatre — capacity 1,200 and we were expecting a large crowd due to the reports received of our TV show. Just before the concert it started to rain and typhoon warnings were out. When the curtains were drawn we could see nothing but empty seats. We couldn’t see that eventually the seats filled after the lights dimmed. I think this had an effect on us because we didn’t sing at all well. The audience was polite and appreciative but it wasn’t the performance we knew we could give. We sang an encore — I Believe — which we slaughtered. We were all very unhappy.
This whole tour meant so much to us and we felt as though we had just blown all of Sgt. Britten’s hard work.
Monday was a different story. It was our last day of concerts and they were important. Our first appearance was not an official concert. We were the guests of the Skylarks, an all-female choral group of officers’ wives. The Skylarks included the wives of two PACAF generals. Maj. Gen. Ingelide, vice commander of Clark, was present. The ladies presented us with a very nice, yet informal, lunch after which the Choraleers presented flowers for members of the Skylarks and gifts of appreciation for Sgt. Britten and our only female member, 1st Lt. Eileen Gabehart (Gabey). There were tears because we love Gabey as much as she loves her “60 wonderful men.”…
We were asked to sing. We didn’t have our music, but you can’t refuse a request, so we sang our three favorites — “I Am Proud To Be An American,” “Happy Wanderer,” and our No. 1 song, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” We sang these songs like they were made of gold. Never had we sounded so good. We were honestly flabbergasted and when we finished Battle Hymn there were tears in the ladies’ eyes. To tell you the truth there were tears in our eyes too. The Skylarks sang a medley from Sound of Music. Then we sang together.
…
At the hospital we stopped in four wards to sing. This was interesting because we didn’t have a piano. It took about the first four words of each song before we finally got our pitch. But it turned out fine and the men in the beds were appreciative. That was all that mattered.
At 9 that night we had our final and most important concert of the tour….
We sang a 45-minute concert in the officer’s club. Most of the top brass on Clark were there along with the chief nurses. After the hectic week of singing, our voices were beginning to wear but somehow we pulled through and gave them a performance they shall remember. As we finished our last song and started to walk off stage they shouted for more and we gave them two encores. Then we left the club and boarded the bus. Just as the bus was pulling away a lieutenant from our group nearly broke his neck as he flew down the stairs to stop the bus. Sgt. Britton wanted every man back in the club. The officers had opened the bar for us. We have only five officers in our choir. The majority of the rest are lower-grade airmen with the remainder NCOs. When I arrived at the bar a full bird colonel stepped behind the bar, asked me what I wanted, and mixed it for me. He mixed quite a few drinks. We couldn’t get over it. A man one step from general mixed our drinks. We not only closed the bar, but remained an hour after the bar had closed.
As we were leaving, we were met in the lobby by Mrs. Westmoreland. She introduced herself to each member of the choir and told us that she wants her husband to hear us.
…
Nov. 24, 1966
This is going to be very short as I still have five more letters to answer from the onslaught I received after returning from Clark. But I have news for you that is the thrill of my young life. Please spread the word. I thought our trip to Clark was great. I thought that our Christmas tape to the States and our individual tapes were great. Now you are not only going to hear us, but you are going to see us. This was arranged some time ago and none of us knew about it until tonight. I just returned from choir rehearsal. Tomorrow we are to be on the flight line in work clothes to do a color TV tape for the Ed Sullivan Christmas Show. We will start and finish the show. That is all I know about it now.
Dec. 22, 1966
Christmas started last week with a Christmas tree in the squadron and stockings loaded with goodies from the Red Cross. Friday, the Choraleers had their dress rehearsal for the Christmas concert. Monday we gave the concert before a large crowd that responded with a standing ovation — a mighty good reaction form a GI audience. Tuesday we rehearsed for Billy Graham with the Army and Navy. Wednesday was the day we all had been waiting for since we knew were coming here. The Bob Hope Show — to be televised 18 Jan. by the way. Col. Agen would not let them come to the Air Force so we had to go to the Army 10 miles away. We left the base at 9 a.m. (10 of us), hitched a ride and arrived at the South Beach Amphitheatre at 9:30. It was already crowded — maybe 300 people, but we managed to get a seat on the aisle — dead center — and about 50 yards back. They were great seats until the camera crews arrived at 1 p.m. and put up scaffolds right in front of us. The biggest complaint was, “The show is for the troops, so they put a scaffold up in our way so the folks back home can see it well on TV.” It was hard to see. Most of the time all I could see of Bob Hope was from the shoulders down. However, it was still a great show — two hours long — and gripes were dismissed as soon as Bob Hope came on stage. It was such a thrill just to be there. And what a crowd!! If you get to see the Bob Hope Chrysler Hour you’ll see what I mean. The cast couldn’t be better — Phyllis Diller, Joey Heatherton, Anita Bryant, Vic Damone, The Korean Kittens, Miss World, Les Brown and his Band of Renown, and Diane Share, a baton twirler. Two solid hours of entertainment. The show started at 2:30 and ended about 4:45. …
Tomorrow we are singing for Billy Graham. Saturday the choir sings at candlelight services, then to the hospital, then caroling with the Red Cross. At midnight Christmas Eve, several members of the choir boarded jeeps and toured the outposts of the base to sing to the troops guarded us and in the mess halls preparing the meals and along the flight lines. Sunday will be a most memorable day. I signed up — along with 74 others — to escort Vietnamese orphans around the base. We will meet them at 11:15, take them to lunch where Santa Claus will hand out gifts, then to cartoon show. And that will conclude my Christmas week — one I shall never forget.
It all started Nov. 22, 1966, from my Vietnam diary while I was stationed at Cam Ranh Air Base where I had been stationed with the United States Air Force 1966-1967. The diary notes the shock I experienced in Manila after several months in the sands of Vietnam.
I have just returned to CRB after five wonderful, relaxing days in the Philippines. … We were a great success.
We arrived late Thursday night after Sgt. Britten, our leader and organizer, went 48 hours with no sleep trying to get a plane for us. The colonel said cut your group to 38 and you can go. Sgt. Britten said all 55 go or no one goes. The colonel called back and said a plane was waiting. When we landed at Clark Air Base, the director of the Silver Wing Service Club, Miss Davis, was there on the flight line to meet us with two buses. We were taken to our quarters and let loose. On the way we couldn’t get over paved streets with lines drawn down the center, sidewalks, American cars — any car for that matter, and most of all green — real green, cool — grass. In the squadron were two Coke machines that gave bottles, not cans, of Coke.
Our mattresses were 7 inches thick. The barracks were made out of wood. During the five days I ate all of my meals in the Airman’s Club. Our A Club at Cam Ranh is a one-room barn. Clark’s A Club was fantastic. You walk past the lobby into a huge room with a stage in front. On the stage was a 12-piece band. At one end of the room is a restaurant — The Knight’s Inn. This is where I ate all my meals. Wall-to-wall carpet, tablecloths, padded pleated leather chairs, beautiful leather-bound menus and the most courteous Filipino waiters. We ate off plates, drank out of glasses, were waited on, had our cigarettes lit for us and paid very nominal fees. It took us three times to get used to the Inn.
Behind the Knight’s Inn was the Pirate’s Cove, a more secluded, more intimate nook for couples. On the other side of the main room was a barbershop that used electric razors. In another corner was a small lounge that served drinks and featured a jazz combo. There was also a game room.
In the other corner was the Stag Bar with hard wood walls, large polished tables and chairs, a TV and TV-juke box.
The first day I had a Mexican dinner followed by a ham steak, filet mignon, sirloin, waffles for breakfast with melted butter and I can't remember what else I had during those five days. I gained 10 pounds.
Friday we had a short rehearsal in the service club then we went to the hospital where we gave a short concert in the main lobby for the patients. Friday night was one of our big performances. It was one of the most important. We were on live TV for 30 minutes and we pulled through it like champs. It was near perfect.
With this under our belts Saturday was a day of rest and the Service Club arranged a special tour of Manila for us. We spent all day riding a bus from the base to Manila, about 50 miles away, and seeing all of the sights. We made stops at a beautiful Chinese cemetery, the Manila Zoo, the market area where you hide your watches and hold onto your wallets, and made a lunch stop at a shopping center that was just like home. In the center we ate at a very exclusive restaurant that served a smorgasbord for $2. I filled my plate three times. We couldn’t believe it. Chicken, veal, sausage, shrimp and rice, carrots flavored with anis, fruit salad, coffee and the best whiskey sour I have ever tasted.
At the end of the meal I put a cigarette in my mouth. Before I got my hand to my pocket for a lighter one of the five waiters around our table had lit my cigarette.
All the time we were on the bus we were singing songs from the concerts until we had lost our voices. Sgt. Britten would have loved that if he had known.
The Filipino children flocked around the bus asking for money or trying to sell black market goods. They always greeted us with, “Hey, Joe.”
Sunday was another big day but also our most disappointing. We had a big concert on the base theatre — capacity 1,200 and we were expecting a large crowd due to the reports received of our TV show. Just before the concert it started to rain and typhoon warnings were out. When the curtains were drawn we could see nothing but empty seats. We couldn’t see that eventually the seats filled after the lights dimmed. I think this had an effect on us because we didn’t sing at all well. The audience was polite and appreciative but it wasn’t the performance we knew we could give. We sang an encore — I Believe — which we slaughtered. We were all very unhappy.
This whole tour meant so much to us and we felt as though we had just blown all of Sgt. Britten’s hard work.
Monday was a different story. It was our last day of concerts and they were important. Our first appearance was not an official concert. We were the guests of the Skylarks, an all-female choral group of officers’ wives. The Skylarks included the wives of two PACAF generals. Maj. Gen. Ingelide, vice commander of Clark, was present. The ladies presented us with a very nice, yet informal, lunch after which the Choraleers presented flowers for members of the Skylarks and gifts of appreciation for Sgt. Britten and our only female member, 1st Lt. Eileen Gabehart (Gabey). There were tears because we love Gabey as much as she loves her “60 wonderful men.”…
We were asked to sing. We didn’t have our music, but you can’t refuse a request, so we sang our three favorites — “I Am Proud To Be An American,” “Happy Wanderer,” and our No. 1 song, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” We sang these songs like they were made of gold. Never had we sounded so good. We were honestly flabbergasted and when we finished Battle Hymn there were tears in the ladies’ eyes. To tell you the truth there were tears in our eyes too. The Skylarks sang a medley from Sound of Music. Then we sang together.
…
At the hospital we stopped in four wards to sing. This was interesting because we didn’t have a piano. It took about the first four words of each song before we finally got our pitch. But it turned out fine and the men in the beds were appreciative. That was all that mattered.
At 9 that night we had our final and most important concert of the tour….
We sang a 45-minute concert in the officer’s club. Most of the top brass on Clark were there along with the chief nurses. After the hectic week of singing, our voices were beginning to wear but somehow we pulled through and gave them a performance they shall remember. As we finished our last song and started to walk off stage they shouted for more and we gave them two encores. Then we left the club and boarded the bus. Just as the bus was pulling away a lieutenant from our group nearly broke his neck as he flew down the stairs to stop the bus. Sgt. Britton wanted every man back in the club. The officers had opened the bar for us. We have only five officers in our choir. The majority of the rest are lower-grade airmen with the remainder NCOs. When I arrived at the bar a full bird colonel stepped behind the bar, asked me what I wanted, and mixed it for me. He mixed quite a few drinks. We couldn’t get over it. A man one step from general mixed our drinks. We not only closed the bar, but remained an hour after the bar had closed.
As we were leaving, we were met in the lobby by Mrs. Westmoreland. She introduced herself to each member of the choir and told us that she wants her husband to hear us.
…
Nov. 24, 1966
This is going to be very short as I still have five more letters to answer from the onslaught I received after returning from Clark. But I have news for you that is the thrill of my young life. Please spread the word. I thought our trip to Clark was great. I thought that our Christmas tape to the States and our individual tapes were great. Now you are not only going to hear us, but you are going to see us. This was arranged some time ago and none of us knew about it until tonight. I just returned from choir rehearsal. Tomorrow we are to be on the flight line in work clothes to do a color TV tape for the Ed Sullivan Christmas Show. We will start and finish the show. That is all I know about it now.
Dec. 22, 1966
Christmas started last week with a Christmas tree in the squadron and stockings loaded with goodies from the Red Cross. Friday, the Choraleers had their dress rehearsal for the Christmas concert. Monday we gave the concert before a large crowd that responded with a standing ovation — a mighty good reaction form a GI audience. Tuesday we rehearsed for Billy Graham with the Army and Navy. Wednesday was the day we all had been waiting for since we knew were coming here. The Bob Hope Show — to be televised 18 Jan. by the way. Col. Agen would not let them come to the Air Force so we had to go to the Army 10 miles away. We left the base at 9 a.m. (10 of us), hitched a ride and arrived at the South Beach Amphitheatre at 9:30. It was already crowded — maybe 300 people, but we managed to get a seat on the aisle — dead center — and about 50 yards back. They were great seats until the camera crews arrived at 1 p.m. and put up scaffolds right in front of us. The biggest complaint was, “The show is for the troops, so they put a scaffold up in our way so the folks back home can see it well on TV.” It was hard to see. Most of the time all I could see of Bob Hope was from the shoulders down. However, it was still a great show — two hours long — and gripes were dismissed as soon as Bob Hope came on stage. It was such a thrill just to be there. And what a crowd!! If you get to see the Bob Hope Chrysler Hour you’ll see what I mean. The cast couldn’t be better — Phyllis Diller, Joey Heatherton, Anita Bryant, Vic Damone, The Korean Kittens, Miss World, Les Brown and his Band of Renown, and Diane Share, a baton twirler. Two solid hours of entertainment. The show started at 2:30 and ended about 4:45. …
Tomorrow we are singing for Billy Graham. Saturday the choir sings at candlelight services, then to the hospital, then caroling with the Red Cross. At midnight Christmas Eve, several members of the choir boarded jeeps and toured the outposts of the base to sing to the troops guarded us and in the mess halls preparing the meals and along the flight lines. Sunday will be a most memorable day. I signed up — along with 74 others — to escort Vietnamese orphans around the base. We will meet them at 11:15, take them to lunch where Santa Claus will hand out gifts, then to cartoon show. And that will conclude my Christmas week — one I shall never forget.
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