Mr. Gene's in the paper!

Check this out, guys!  My dear friend is famous!

That's him looking especially dapper in the bottom right corner of the bottom picture!  This is part of an article by The Newnan Times-Herald.
"Student-Vet Connect: Veterans bring history alive for students"
Author: ALEX McRAE, Date: May 21, 2011, Publication: Times-Herald, The (Newnan, GA)

And something else?!
HIS BOOK IS FREAKIN' IN PRINT!!

I have a signed copy on my bookshelf this very moment!
It's being sold at local bookstores, the Peachtree City Books-A-Million, and Barnes and Noble wants to sell it, too!
Talk about awesome!

This is truly one of my proudest moment from my favorite adventure.  Hooray!

Mr. Gene's gettin' published!

I went over to Mr. Gene's today for our weekly work.  He had exciting news to share: he's found a publisher!  His plan is to have the book published in August, but he needs to get around 28,000 more words to have enough material for his book.  Oy.

Anyways, Mr. Gene showed me this publisher's business card.  Mrs. Swanee with Jawbone Publishing.  And she lives nearby.  And how about we stop over at her place.

"Wait, you mean today?"

Yes, today.

Finally!

11:40 AM
Guys!  Guys!  I'm at work right now on my break, and I have to tell you this!  My FBI fingerprint cards finally came in!  I'm going to get my prints done today when I get off @ 2 and before I meet with Mr. Gene @ 3!  Gosh, if anything else gets in my way this time, I'm driving up to the FBI headquarters (in West Virginia?) for this!

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7:30 PM

Ok, kids, I've got them.  The fingerprints.  They've been printed.  And by "printed," I mean with a printer.  The Coweta County Jail has this neat machine that scans, copies, and prints your fingerprints right onto the official FBI card that took a week to get to you.  Just like a regular printer, really, but I had getting ink smudged on my hands in mind, so I was surprised.

Sounds all groovy, yeah?  I thought so, too, when I was telling Mom and Taylor the story at dinner, and then I remembered the frustrating part.

The things that people say, Part I

I hung out with Mr. Gene again to work one fleshing out his stories.  He's already gotten them to two publishers, and one of them say Mr. Gene's got some good material, and things need to be a little fuller.  Mr. Gene's always happy to see me.  "I'm gonna hug you."  And I'm always happy to see him.  He gave me the seat at his desk, and I opened my laptop to get started, but he asked how I was first.  Oh, I'm good.  Not much going on today.  My boyfriend and I were going to try and hang out today, but that had to be moved to Friday...
"Is this the same guy you went on a date with before?"
I couldn't help grinning.  "Yeah..."

"It seems like you really trust him."

"Mr. Gene.  I do."

"Well that's good. You gotta pick 'em for his character, now.  And, you can put two perfect people together, and you’ll still have peaks and valleys.  And you’ll come to a place where the two people are adamant on something...  Now, that’s not going to turn him into a monster, it’s just something you have to work through...  It’s good to have a partner while you’re doing what you’re doing, finding your place in the world, you know... and vice versa  …Well, congratulations so far.  When you get to your 54^th year with him, we’ll talk again.  ...End of lecture 474, taken from the archives…"

That dear man!  He lost me a few times during his spiel, but his intentions were so clear.  I adore him, and I'm so blessed with how he cares about me and how he tells me to be good over the weekends.  I told Mr. Gene as I was leaving about how fun it is telling people how he and I met, but it always gets a little awkward when I get to the part where I got into a car with a strange, old Vietnam vet.  (Caleb says it's a good thing he didn't start having flashbacks in the car.)  Mr. Gene laughs at this and agrees that that was a completely stupid move, but I redirect the conversation and say that it was his cool beard that helped me think he would be ok.

"Well if that's what did it, then it's never coming off!" he said."

I hugged him and said, "Thanks for not being a creepy old man!"  He chuckled and sent me off with his usual wishes and demands for good behavior.

Another Vietnam War story from Gene

Mr. Gene and I met at his place to edit this stories 5 times or so.  Just this Sunday, we got everything finished up, bound, and ready to pass along to a friend of a publisher.  I've heard Mr. Gene say so many times, "You don't know how much I appreciate this."  It's been so good to become friends with him; we've both endeared ourselves to the other so much.  He cares about me like a granddaughter, and I think of him as a granddad.  He'll tell me to be careful over the weekend and on dates and such and tells me that he's had daughters and granddaughters going through life like I am.  He tells me to tell my dad to call him anytime, 24/7, because they both enjoy golfing.  He tells me that it's wonderful how I want to go to Korea, and this is the time to do such things, and we'll have to go get coffee and talk about it when things start settling into place.

It was a sad thing to say good bye on Sunday.  I know I'll see him again, and he told me to be sure to call every once in a while, but, now that we won't be working on his stories, I don't know when I'll see him next.  He blew me a kiss right before we parted.

This story took place at the very end of Mr. Gene's second tour in Vietnam.  I believe this is in the first half of 1969 now.  And, for the record, I think it's much more fun to listen to Mr. Gene tell the story himself than to read it.

The Purple Heart?

Suddenly, Sam’s tour was half past.  LTC Schnibben called Sam and informed him that he was to go on R&R in Hawaii and that Sam should transition his battery to Jim Hinton, who had replaced Jim Spears as Sam’s XO.  Sam and Jim worked themselves through a 100% inventory of all the battery’s supplies and equipment in just two days!  Now, it was only three days before Sam was to go on R&R.  On the first day he moved from Kon Kon Tum down to Phouc Vinh.  Then Ed Balda and he transitioned the S3 position.  Sam was tired, and he turned in early.  He had wonderful dreams of his wife Barbara, and couldn't wait for that last day to start.  Suddenly, enemy rockets were falling in the middle the compound.  Sam leapt from his bed, grabbed his boots and sprinted toward the TOC TOC.  He made it halfway and encountered a row of unforgiving pallets that were being used to bridge across the temporary lake that had formed during the last monsoonal shower.  Sam, in full sprint mode, connected with the pallets and fell ass over teacups into the muddy lake.  Sam arose and limped slowly into the TOC.  There he was greeted by his soon to be Operations Sergeant, Wilson. “What happened to you?”

“I tripped over those damn pallets.  I think I broke my big toe,” said Sam through gritted teeth.  A medic appeared, almost mysteriously, and examined the now swollen metatarsal.

“It’s for sure broken,” pronounced the medic.  “I’ve got to fill out this form so they can award you a Purple Heart.”

“I don’t want a medal for tripping over a ##@#$ pallet. Now go out there and find someone who’s really hurt.  Sarge, how about sending someone over to my hooch and fetch me a clean set of fatigues?”

The rockets had ceased falling and the new day was being gloriously revealed by its artist.  Sam had a big day planned and it all pointed to 3 PM when his plane would leave Vietnam for Hawaii.  His first task would be to secure a chopper and fly to Vung Tau to visit the PX there.  He hoped to find a pair of sneakers that he could cut out the top and rest his mangled toe.  It only took of 30 minutes to find a shoe that would suffice.  He also picked up a present for his wife, a beautiful diamond ring.  She would fuss but, in all honesty, love it.

Beautiful Things!

Guys!  Guys!  Mr. Gene and his wife totally love me!  And!  I love them back!  It's so cool to go to over to their house and to feel completely welcomed and appreciated.  Very sweet indeed.  The first time I went over for editing, he greeted me happily and asked if I wanted anything to eat or to drink.  I denied at first, but, after thinking a bit more, I asked for a glass of water.  He brought the drink over to me and said, "I put a bit of vodka in there, too."  Just for kicks!  What a hilarious dude!

An hour or so later, when we were in the throes of our editing, he asked again.  "You sure you don't want some hard candy?"  No, no thank you. He pops one into his mouth.  "Keeps me sweet... while I'm turning to a hard maniac." (He hasn't struck me as the maniac type yet.)

Today we finished all the editing of his Vietnam tablets.  I'm also going to be typing up two other short stories and an introduction for him as well as editing a series of stories about his father!  This is the super-super cool part.  Get this!  His father... was a hobo!  for real!  From 12 to 17, his dad was a hobo!  I've gotten to read two of the stories so far, and I am in love with them.  I can't wait to share a couple with you!

First, though, here's the conclusion to the one posted from before.

(Bart, continued)

Even though only a week had passed since the division had arrived, already hovels were springing up, roads were being cut and the pattern for this small city that would eventually arise was well established.  It was nicknamed the “Golf Course” in memory of better times in more pleasant places.  No golf would be played here; only more serious games.

The first lift was on its way.  They were scheduled to arrive at the LZ’s precisely two minutes after Bart and his aerial artillery had prepared the LZ’s.  The crackle of commands crowded the radio frequencies and everything was going as scheduled.

Bart made contact with the C and C (Command and Control) chopper and at 0812 began the preparatory fire.

While the 2^nd Platoon prepared the LZ’s, firing around the edges of the tree lined LZ’s, Bart and Sam took aim on the suspected machine gun position.

 Sam was flying, relieving Bart for his command function.  He began his run at 1,500 feet above ground level (AGL) and dove pointing the gunship at the exact coordinates given to them by S2.

At 1,200 feet AGL he released the first pair of rockets.  Slightly left of target, he adjusted accordingly.  Strange orange-green baseballs were flying by him on all sides.  He didn’t have time to analyze what these unfamiliar objects were as his mind was totally immersed in bringing his rockets to bear on his target.

Each pair was closer to his intended target until finally he was dead on.  He switched the selector switch to four pair and again pressed the red fire button on the cyclic control.

            The right rocket streaked towards the target and exploded in a fiery frenzy exactly where Sam had intended.  The orange baseballs stopped.

“Bullseye!” said  Sam, justifiably proud of his gunnery as he began his break.

“Not bad, pad’nah.  Not bad a’tall—especially under fire,” answered Bart coolly.

“What fire?” questioned Sam.

“Pad’nah, those orange-green things flying by were tracers from a 14.5, and I got to hand it to you, Sam, you just held it steady as a rock.  Cool Hand Luke.”  Bart laughed.

  “Damn! You mean those bastards were shooting back?  Sure as hell ain’t like Benning.”   Sam, suddenly relieved, laughed with Bart.

Meanwhile, the first lift was dropping its load of infantry into the landing zone.  “Armed Falcon 66 this is Skyhawk 6 – over.”  This was the Brigade Commander in the C.C shopper.

“This is Armed Falon 66 – over.”

“Roger.  We’ve got a hot LZ here.  Recommend you bounce another section or two until we get things settled down.”

“Wilco.”  On Battalion frequency, Bart bounced the 1^st Platoon and then called the 2^nd Platoon leader who was above the LZ.

“64 this is 66, status please.”

“Roger, 66, we’ve still got about twelve rockets each, but, at the rate we’re going, we’ll be dry soon.”

“Ok 64, help is on the way.”

“66 and 64, this is 64 Alpha, over.”  This was the call sign of the 1^st section leader of 2^nd Platoon.  Both Bart and his 2^nd platoon leader acknowledged.

“Got a small problem here.  Took some fire on the second pass and my controls seem to be getting a bit stiffer.”

Six four Alpha was Capt. Pete Brokaw former Syracuse right guard and his copilot was Capt. Steve Stumpf who wrestled varsity at West Point.  If the controls were stiff for those two…

“64 Alpha this is 66.  Try your auxiliary hydraulics.”

“Roger, we’ve already tried.  Doesn’t seem to help much.”

“Ok, turn heading 180°.  We’ll be there in a minute.”

A dirt road ran north/south in the middle of Happy Valley.  A small stream roughly paralleled the road and crossed its path several times.  At these crossings, the bridge had been destroyed so the road would dip five or six feet to ford the stream before rising back to the mean valley level.  Refugees were already streaming down the road fleeing the fighting a few miles north.

“64 Alpha, 66.  How are things holding up?”

“Not too good, 66.  Seems to be getting progressively worse.”  There was no panic in the voice, only concern.

“Roger.  We’re going down to clear the folks off the road and I want you to make a running landing.  We’ll pick you up and carry you home.  Skyhawk 6 have you been monitoring?”

“Roger, Armed Falcon 66.  We’ll get a platoon over there to protect your bird until you can get a crane to lift it out.”

“Thanks, 6.”

Bart and Sam buzzed the road sending refugees scattering.  They landed nearby and by wild gesturing got the remaining refugees off the dirt roadway as 64 Alpha began their shallow approach.  Bart and Sam stood together beside their still running ship and watched.  Both were still attached to the radio by the communication cord of their helmets.

“Bart, I think they’re going to land short in that dip,” Sam observed.

“I’m afraid you’re right, Sam,” said Bart watching the wounded gunship only about ten feet off the ground now headed toward the arroyo-like dip.  Suddenly the gunship lurched as the pilots fought to keep it out of the hazard.  Their flight now dangerously slow, the tail swung right and into a lovely palm.  The entire tail section became detached dropping crazily to the ground.

Now in a wild flight, the helicopter began to spin.  The door gunner came flying out the door but, tethered by a crew chief harness, was soon lurched back inside like a human yoyo.  Bart and Sam stood frozen with their mouths agape.  They watched as the spinning helicopter flew overhead and, with its nose pointed straight earthward, disappeared over a hill.

“Let’s go, Sam!” shouted Bart jumping back into his seat.  And, with Sam beside him, both convinced that they’d be picking up remains in a helmet, they flew over the small hill behind which the crash had surely taken place.

And there beside the foreshortened Huey stood two angrily cursing captains, a shaking crew chief, and an infantryman as pale as a ghost.

“Well I’ll be…” said Sam as they landed beside the wreck.

“Skyhawk 6, this is Armed Falcon 66.  Save your platoon, 64 Alpha didn’t leave enough aircraft to save so we’re going to destroy it here.  I’ll take them to base and be back ASAP.”

“Roger, 66.  Is the crew alright?”

“Everybody’s A-OK.  Somebody up there must have been watchin’ out awful close.  Out.”

The rain had stopped, and the sky began to clear.  The first operation, despite its hairy moments, had been successful and a Special Forces Camp was established in Happy Valley.  Capts. Brokaw and Stumpf were awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross though both knew that they had not a damn thing to do with landing that bird.  No, someone or something else had taken the controls.

"Needless to say the rainy season sucked at the Golf Course ....
RVN September 1965 (An Khe) Image courtesy of Ed Lemp"
Via:  VHPA Museum

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 Aaaand...
Look!  I've found beautiful things to share!

A list of happy December things.

I must paint my walls like this before I die.

Gotta love ninjas.  (Or else they'll kill you in your sleep.)  (I kid, I kid.)  (No really, look behind you.)

Millie and I saw this wallet at Blue Skies in Chattanooga.  I instantly fell for it.

Vietnam War stories from Gene

I've finished typing all four tablets of Mr. Gene's war stories.  He called me yesterday to make sure we were clear on the issue of sharing his stories.  He told me that, as long as his stories aren't published, it's no problem at all to have my family and friends read them.  It will probably be a different story once he gets them into a book and official.  He also told me about how he's writing an introduction for his book, too, and he asked if I would be willing to type it out for another $50.  I couldn't turn him down.  The last thing he wanted to tell me was how these are real stories, but he doesn't like the idea of writing stories about himself, so would I please change the name of his character to Sam Walker.  "Let me know if you think of a better name..." he said.
 "Oh, no, I like that.  Sam Walker."
"I always wanted to be named Sam Walker, but my mother never did anything to change it."
"Well now you can live out your dream through your stories."
He laughed and agreed.

Ladies and gentlemen, here is a story from Sam Walker.  (My favorite lines in the whole work are those last two sentences.)

Bart

A persistent early morning rain dripped from a slate gray sky.  Helicopters lined both sides of the An Khe airstrip and men were slowly stirring to cook their breakfast of C Rations over low fires.  Other fires from halved oil drums serving as latrines were burning nearer the perimeter.  These brought a foul smelling smoke drifting across the entire strip.

“Damn!  Sure wish they’d wait till after breakfast for the crap cremation,” groaned Sam to no one in particular.

Bart stood about ten feet away, shaving out of his helmet, the white lather a stark contrast to a dull gray/green scene.

“They seen their duty and they done it,” said Bart wiping the lather from around his ears.  “Ah, where else but in the beautiful Central Highlands of lovely Southeast Asia, and all this sponsored by the United States Army.”

Bart was the C.O. of Charlie Battery, Aerial Artillery – Gunships.  He was a major and his command consisted of Regular Army Captains and non-drafted professional solders.  Discipline was not a problem.  Bart knew this and treated his men with the respect they had earned.

“Sam, brew me up some coffee and if you don’t mind, smear some grape jelly on the cracker.  I’m going down the line and make sure everybody’s up.  Thanks.”

He smiled as he pulled on his fatigue shirt, barely hearing Sam mumble something about not being the frigging cook.

Sam was recognized as being the unit’s second best pilot.  Bart was the best.  Sam had finished first in his helicopter instrument school class and indeed had set a record for both academic performance and flight performance.  His record still stands.

Everyone was up, and most were ready.  Some were conducting their pre-flight inspection and others were already loading their 2.75” rockets.  A few kidded Bart about not being a good example by sleeping in so late.

How can morale and esprit be so high in these men when things were the worst, thought Bart.  Back at Benning (Fort Benning, Georgia) where they had trained, conditions were far better but morale only mediocre.  Now after forty-five seasick days on the Baltic Ocean and a week sleeping in pup tents, shallow bunkers and under helicopters, suddenly these men were ready to take on the world.  How do you figure?

A few minutes later he briefed the aircraft commander on the morning’s air assault.

“Ok, this is a biggee,” he began.  “Eventually, by the second lift, an entire brigade will be involved.  The LZ’s, as you can see, are at the northern end of Happy Valley.  As usual, we’ll provide the preparatory fires and then orbit until the LZ’s are secure.  We’ll take five of the ten ships here, Gen and I plus 2^nd Platoon.”  Each platoon had four choppers – two sections.

“We’ll expand half load for preparatory fires and heap a half of our orbit.  GZ’s not sure of the size of the VC force but could be as much as a battalion.  An L-19 was hit by some 14.5 millimeter anti-aircraft fire over the area, so be on guard.”  Actually, Sam and he were going to attack that target during the preparation.

“Ok, frequency for F1 (Fire net) is 35.6 fm.  Also be up on Battalion Flight net on UHF and no listening to AFN on the way.”  The pilots laughed and made their way back to watch this aircraft.  Like most professionals, they appeared relaxed, but their minds were already rehearsing the violent scenes ahead.

Promptly at 0755 Bart got the radio message to crank.  “Fire in the hole!” Sam shouted as he pressed the starter button.  Slowly the blades began to rotate picking up speed as the engine caught.  In a few seconds, optimum RPM had been reached and he picked up to a hover.  He swung the tail ninety degrees right so that Bart could see that every one was ready.

They were flying UHIB (Hueys) with XM-3 rocket pods loaded with thirty-six High Explosive (HE) 2.75 inch rockets.  On each door hung an M-60 machine gun manned by the crew chief on the left and an infantryman attached to the unit on the right.  These were used to provide suppressive fires as the gunships were breaking from their rocket runs.  Most people think that shooting a helicopter down would be as easy as shooting ducks, but it’s much harder when the ducks are shooting back.

As the gaggle of gunships rose above the tree line and began heading east, the jungle clearing serving as the division base camp appeared on their left.

 

"Oh Shit!  This is NOT the place to be stopped.  East Bound from Pleiku to QuiNhon, truck on the An Khe pass loses its brakes, takes a curve too fast and overturns....  This is, most certainly, a VERY bad development"
Image: Steve Shepard vie VHPAMuseum

Human moments #s 62-67 (or I Could Have Died)

Hu·man mo·ment: -noun a time when you connect with a stranger on a more personal level than usual so as to develop at least a minimal friendship and better understanding of one another.

I had 4 minutes left of work on Monday when an elderly gentleman came to my register. "Hello, Lindsay, I'm Gene Walker."
"Oh, hello, Mr. Gene. Can I help you?"
"Did I meet you last week?"
"I don't believe so."
"Well, I met a young lady like yourself, affable and all, and she liked to type."
"Um, I don't know who you met, but... I like to type."

He continues. "I'm a Vietnam veteran, and I'm wanting someone to type out some of my writings for me."
"Would this be with through our copy and print department?"  We type pages for customers at an outrageous price.  $60 per full page.
"No.  This would be independent," he said directly.
"Weeeell, I get off in 4 minutes. How about I come find you when I get off work?"
"Ok."

I quickly found him once I clocked out and he said, "Wanna get some coffee?" I briefly thought about how strange this could be, but I said sure. We were trying to figure out where to get coffee since he didn't care for Starbucks because it's so fancy, and we settled on Burger King, but he didn't know how to get there. He said we could both go in my car. I briefly thought about how young ladies aren't really supposed to give rides to strange old men, but I said okay.

(Before you jump to conclusions, I promise that all this brief thinking does not get me hurt.  This is a happy story, albeit one where the heroine could have been killed.)

We walked over to my Explorer, and he points out his new Fusion to me as we pass it. "Ooh, it's beautiful," I say.

"Well, then we could take my car."
"All right!" I say without hesitation.  As we got in and as we were putting on our seat belts, I began rethinking my choice and I was hoping he didn't have any guns or knives.  I know, I know. It's terribly unwise, but I trusted him. That sounds so weird and foolish, but we had formed some kind of connection in the 25 minutes that we knew each other.  And, his beard was really cool.

 

Seriously, this is what Mr. Gene did.  He also got to fly John Wayne!

Anyway, at Burger King, he opened the door for me in gentlemanly fashion and bought my coffee, then we sat down to talk. He told me about how he had graduated from the University of Arkansas with a degree in geology, but he couldn't do much with that, so he went into the Army for 20 years as a helicopter pilot. "I never lost a soldier. I'm very proud of that." After the Army, he went into business management, became a professor @ Clayton State where he taught economics, management, leadership, and basic computer, and then he retired.  I told him about myself (family, education, work) at his request, and, really, I just enjoyed chatting with him over coffee.  I also felt just a little sheepish because the story of my life was only 22 years long instead of 73; I didn't have much to say.

Eventually he said, "Well, now, I want you to talk with your parents about all this, or your brother or whoever... and here's my driver's license, military license, and my health insurance (now you know how old i am)... The next step would be for you to follow me to my house to pick up the manuscripts. I sure hope Barbara [my wife] is home..." I explained to him that I'd be calling my parents as soon as I got into my own car to follow him on the way to his house, and I did. When I got a hold of my dad on the phone, I told him all the information I knew.  I gave him Gene's address, told him that Gene had purchased his new Fusion from the dealer shown on his "Applied for" tag, etc.  Dad listened very quietly and, when I finished, said, "Well, I'm trusting God.  Be safe.  Call me when you get there, and when you leave.  I love you."

"I love you, too, Dad," I said smiling.
 

Mr. Gene took me back to work so I could get my own car, and I followed him to his house which was only 5 minutes away in a thankfully familiar neighborhood. His wife was at home, and she was so pleased to see me! She was glad Mr. Gene had found someone to do the typing for these precious treasures, and she asked me about myself and asked me to sit down. Very friendly.

After chatting with Mrs. Walker, Mr. Gene went over pricing and logistics with me. He offered to get a legal document for all this, but he told me that, the way he sees it, he's purchased my skill of typing. There would need to be a deadline, but he was willing to let me set it, and the price would be at least $200. He told me that, if the project took more time than expected, I could haggle up, but $200 was the floor. "And be sure to spend this money on something for yourself. You gotta pay yourself sometime."

"Deal."

So now I have two new friends and four tablets of Vietnam stories on the table beside me.  I've already typed out the largest two, and I'm really happy with my quick progress.  It's been so interesting to read and to be absorbed in what was happening to Mr. Gene.  His stories shocked me, intrigued me, and made me laugh.

Tada!  Isn't that a wild and cool story?  I love it when things happen like that, when they just fall into your lap and you don't get screwed for being spontaneous and carefree.

I talked with three of my friends after the fact, all guys, and all of them chastised me for getting in the car with this stranger, but they all laughed a bit, too.  At least, I hope they all did.  One of these conversations led to discussing human moments a bit more, and I wondered: how many people who sit alone at the coffee shop want to be interrupted?  Good question.  I know I would like to be.  I'd be very interested to hear your thoughts on the matter.