Ron Hale was in the middle of a residency in dermatology when his friends and neighbors decided that it was time for him to serve his country. This was 1965, the start of the Vietnam War buildup, and Dr. Hale accepted his draft notice and joined the Army Medical Corps.
He was sent not to Vietnam but to South Korea, where some 50,000 American soldiers were deployed to prevent resumption of the hostilities suspended in 1953. If a young doctor has not yet completed a residency, the Army almost invariably assigns him as a battalion surgeon. In wartime that would mean running an aid station where battle wounded get immediate first aid. In peacetime it means seeing patients with runny noses, sprained ankles or sexually transmitted diseases (STDs).
Hale might have completed his service uneventfully ─ except one day several battalion officers called his attention to the unusual behavior of the battalion commander. Hale determined that this colonel urgently needed psychiatric treatment. When he refused to accept such treatment, Hale had him strapped into a straitjacket and sent to the psychiatric ward of a military hospital.
The colonel's replacement decided that he would prefer the services of another battalion surgeon. No other battalion commander would accept him, so Doc Hale became the Assistant Venereal Disease Officer for US Forces, Korea, a job where he was unlikely to order anyone put into a straitjacket.
For decades those who preceded Doc Hale in his new position had limited themselves to statistical analysis of reported disease. Hale, however, took his new job seriously. While he studied disease reports carefully, he also traveled all over South Korea to visit aid stations and speak with Army doctors and Korean physicians in communities adjacent to bases. He was shocked to discover that a quiet epidemic was raging throughout the country. US soldiers were contracting syphilis, a highly contagious and potentially fatal STD, in record numbers.
Syphilis is easily cured with penicillin. But Hale discovered that because the Army classified this inexpensive drug as a controlled substance, only a physician could prescribe it. Every dose had to be accounted for.
At the same time, Hale learned from Korean doctors, syphilis was running rampant, virtually out of control, among the local populace. There were thousands of cases, few of them reported to authorities. Because penicillin, which had to be imported from the US or Japan, was too expensive for most Koreans to afford, few cases were treated. Worse, unlicensed medical practitioners often dispensed diluted dosages of the wonder drug, creating penicillin-resistant strains of the disease.
Hale waited a few weeks until his boss, the Venereal Disease Control Officer, went on leave. As acting head of the department, he sent memos to every US Army doctor in Korea repealing all controls on penicillin. He suggested that aid stations hold sick calls in their local communities and offer penicillin to anyone who tested positive for any STD. He also shipped large quantities of penicillin to Korean hospitals and health clinics around the country, and let it be known that any doctor who wanted penicillin had only to ask at any US base.
In a month the epidemic was over.
Hale completed his military service and returned to his residency. Today he maintains a private dermatology practice in Santa Monica, California.
© 2002 Marvin J. Wolf
Softball Can Be a Great Equalizer When You're Short and Lack God-Given Skills. But You Can't Play Forever, Can You?
I toe a corner of the rubber with my cleats and bend forward, squinting to peer at the holy trinity: batter, catcher and umpire. It is a late afternoon in early winter; until my eyes adjust, the banks of lights towering above Rancho Park have little effect. Time was when I could see a camouflaged soldier turn his head at 500 yards in twilight--but that was 1959, when I was a 17-year-old grunt with 20/10 vision. Now it takes enormous concentration to focus on home plate only 50 feet distant.
It's a long time and a long way from when I picked up baseball's rudiments on the streets of Chicago. Long before Little League came to the inner city, I spent sweltering summers on vacant lots, picking glass, rubble and defecation from the weeds before each game. Bases were cardboard swiped from the corner market. Usually someone brought the essential equipment, but often we swung a broomstick at a worn tennis ball.
On the sandlots of my youth the pitcher was inevitably the tallest boy or the best athlete; but early on, I knew I would never be either. Still, I persevered. In my ninth year I went to summer camp, began to learn the intricacies of the game and came to idolize Nellie Fox, the diminutive White Sox sparkplug.
At 12, a ball smashed the bridge of my nose. The resulting twin black eyes horrified my mother, who locked away my glove and forbade me to participate until I could "play with boys your size."
My vertical growth ended at 64 inches. I went from Fairfax High School--my family moved here when I was 16--to the Army, served 13 years and did not swing a bat or throw a ball again until I was 40. I joined a group of freelancers who challenged some editors from the Herald Examiner (former daily newspaper, long since closed) to a softball game. Nobody wanted to pitch, so I tried. We lost, but by the end of the game I knew that I could become a pitcher if I worked at it.
More importantly, I realized how much I had missed the game.
This was related to a matter that I had never dared confront. When I left the service, I was married briefly, then divorced. New relationships were elusive, and I wondered if it was because I was short and tubby in a society that equates tall with good, taller with better. I thought being a soldier in Vietnam had settled the issue for me: I had made sergeant before I turned 19, won a battlefield commission, rose to captain, commanded a company of troops. The chevrons on my arms or the bars on my collar proclaimed me a man among men.
But few women seemed to care, and going without female companionship undermined my sense of manliness. Between the white lines of the diamond, however, players are what they do. I returned to the game not to meet women or to recapture the spirit of my youth, but for the feeling that comes from playing well, of being accepted by peers. Of liking myself as a man.
I know. It's crazy. And I put a lot of pressure on myself.
Softball is a hitter's game, but even in slow pitch a good hurler can keep his team in the contest, and a poor one can lose it. Rules require that balls rise above the batter's head and land in a rectangle 17 inches wide by 30 inches deep that includes home plate. For two years, several nights a week, I tossed softballs into a box. Meanwhile I found a Sunday morning pickup game. Eventually I was invited to join a coed team, the Brewjays. I practiced endlessly in my alley, but it was not until I took the field that I learned to pitch.
I began carrying a softball everywhere I went. At night I dreamed of becoming the ball, soaring out of my fingers into the wind, rising into the sky, falling toward the strike zone. I thought about each game for days afterward. For years, I hardly slept Saturday nights. In the morning I was exhausted and wanted to stay in bed.
Often, just before taking the field, I wanted to puke. I kept it all inside, put everything I had into every pitch. My teammates socialized between innings, but I coached runners or sat alone, immersed in the game.
In a late inning of my first championship game, I choked. Tired after pitching two previous games, with irresistible bubbles of fear welling up within me--fear of failing, of revealing that I was a fraud--I walked several batters, forcing in runs and putting our opponent ahead for good. Afterward I apologized to my team. "We would never have gotten this far without you," replied one teammate.
I learned to wall off fear, to stay in the moment. A year later we played the same team again for the championship, and in the final inning of the last game, with the bases loaded and no outs, I induced two pop-ups and struck out the last batter to seal a victory. Weeks later I ran into a man against whom I had often played. Tall, handsome, muscular and 20 years my junior, he shook my hand and volunteered to his wife that I was the most intimidating presence he had ever faced on a ball field. I never knew. After that I learned to relax, to stay within myself, to savor every moment.
The Brewjays wore beer T-shirts and Toronto Blue Jays caps; as years slipped by we played under different names and sponsors, two seasons a year, April to July and September to December. Players came and went, but our corps of regulars remained intact. My life shaped itself around the team--not just games but practices and trips to the batting cage. As a prolific author with several published titles, I made sure that my books were released between softball seasons.
In the spring of 2000 we won the league championship for the third time. Afterward, most of the veterans quit to focus on family or medical matters. Our new teammates were in their 20s and 30s, with little playing experience. The Mixed Nuts, as we were now called, won only one game. I hit .669, my best season ever.
In slow pitch, a hitter has an eternity to swing a bat almost 3 feet long and weighing nearly 2 pounds. Aided by graphite composites or aluminum/titanium alloys, even an average player can swat a ball well over 100 mph. It can reach the pitcher in less than the blink of an eye.
My teammates once said that I had the fastest glove in the West. Well, at least in the Westside Entertainment Softball League. I snared anything within reach, leaping to capture line drives, bounding off the pitching rubber to scoop up a hot grounder.
Every season I took a shot or two off a leg from a ball that I could neither catch nor avoid. Once my sternum stopped a liner. It voided my lungs and I blacked out momentarily. Another time a horsehide bullet crushed my groin. Woozy and rubber-legged, I retreated from the field, asked the ump for a few minutes and returned to pitch--and win.
I never thought much about it: Injuries are part of the game, I have a high tolerance for pain and my bruises heal in a week or two. But in the spring 2001 season, I was hit almost every game. After several weeks I wasn't even flinching anymore--I had accepted the inevitability of being hit. I saw then that my glove was no longer fast, that my body could not respond as once it had, that I could no longer will myself to perform. Near season's end I was hit twice in one inning. In agony, I took myself out of a game for the first time. Then I noted that my bruises took longer to heal.
Realizing that I was no longer afraid of getting hit, I knew it was time to quit. A shot to the breastbone could precipitate a coronary. I could lose an eye. I could need a new knee joint. There were books I wanted to write, places I wanted to visit. To continue playing amounted to a death wish. I was not ready to die for the sake of my manliness.
But knowing how hard it is to find a pitcher, I decided to play one more season, to try and pass along some of what I had learned to my young teammates.
Back on the field in the uncertain twilight of December 2001, I straighten up, glove high, right arm behind my body, feeling the breeze from that side. I grasp the ball palm downward, fingers along the seams, thumb below. I bring my arm up rapidly through the dull soreness of my shoulder. Despite the ibuprofen I swallowed an hour before game time, an electric jolt zaps through me as my weight lands on my left leg, residue of an injury suffered months earlier. Wincing, I slide into a crouch, gloved hand in front of my chest, watching the windblown ball's curving descent toward the plate.
Now it is the last game of that season, and the ball hurtles out of the dark to land on the front inch of the plate, an un-hittable called third strike. The batter turns away in disgust. We go on to win; I get two hits, knock in three runs, snare a line drive, make three other solid defensive plays and am awarded the game ball.
Driving home, I consider playing another season. Maybe I'll find an over-50 league. Then I remember the agony of getting out of bed on Monday mornings. I think about going hitless in my first four games, of finishing the season with a batting average barely above .300--more or less the bottom rung for softball players. I recall nearly getting thrown out at first on a single to left field and the humiliation of legs so sore and bruised that I required a pinch runner.
Safe in my driveway, I wipe my eyes and decide to listen to my intellect, let go of my emotions. The boy inside me must shut up and sit down.
From my first day, I was the oldest in the league--including umpires. In 27 seasons I missed no more than four games; no one played more. I struck out more batters than anyone and gave up fewer walks per-inning-pitched. No one pitched or won more games. Hell, nobody lost more games. I had nothing left to prove. Gehrig quit. Ryan hung 'em up. Ripken was gone. I didn't play in the majors, but, hey, I was 60 bleeping years old.
Two weeks later the playoffs begin and I return to pitch what is likely my last league game. Before we start, league commissioners Adam Rosen and Vince Crooks--both veteran players--assemble the teams. They say nice things about me and produce a cake. Atop its frosting is an icing rendering of a photo: me, my arm thrust skyward to launch the ball.
Below the picture it says "Ironman."
Players I hadn't seen in years, including Richard Martell, our former manager, turn up to say farewell. Richard takes me aside. "I've never seen anyone with less ability play as well," he tells me, not for the first time. "You don't have much talent, but you got the most out of it." It reminds me of what Yankees skipper Miller Huggins said about 1923 rookie first baseman Lou Gehrig: "Only this kid's willingness and lack of conceit will make him a ballplayer."
It's been a year since then. I wear glasses now, and while I often join a Sunday morning pickup game, I haven't returned to visit my old team. I know that I'd want to play, and that I can't. But I'll always remember my last league at-bat, when I singled to center.
Take that, Ripken.
January 12, 2003|Marvin J. Wolf | Los Angeles Times Magazine. Marvin J. Wolf last wrote for the magazine about the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.
The truck lurched off into the twilight, and we gathered in the road, eleven recruits in the last week of Army basic training. Self, the squad leader, handed me a map and compass.
"You get this land navigation stuff, right, General?"
I hated the nickname, but it was my own fault. After years of high school ROTC, from day one in the real Army I acted like I knew everything the other recruits were struggling to learn.
Everything except when to shut up.
I spread the map on the ground. As men gathered around, I oriented myself on the terrain. "We’re here," I said, pointing.
"We need to get there." I pointed again. Folding the map, I used an edge as a straight line between spots, about 14 grid squares—8.5 miles—apart. I laid the compass along this line, turned the map until the arrow settled.
“Azimuth 32 degrees," I said. A little east of due north. “That way.”
"Let's go," said Self, and we moved into the woods. Soon we came to a clearing; as the point man plunged ahead, I called "Halt!"
We’d been trained never to cross open spaces without checking the far side. "Might be Aggressors over there," I said.
Armies train to re-fight their last war; a few years earlier, in Korea, many US units had been cut off by a surprise Chinese offensive. Soldiers survived in small groups that stealthily picked their way back through enemy lines. That was our exercise: Escape from behind “enemy lines” by applying land navigation techniques. Barring our way were "Aggressors"—GIs in distinctive uniforms. They carried a license to be brutal. Anyone caught went to a kind of “training” POW camp; Aggressors wouldn’t kill or maim us but they could do almost anything else.
"Someone should recon the far side," I said.
Self glanced around. "You go," he said.
He took the map and compass and I low-crawled across the clearing, edging into the woods, listening and looking. When I was sure that it was safe, I walked back.
The grove was empty. I searched quietly, listening, but my squad was gone.
Captured by Aggressors, I assumed, wondering why I’d heard nothing.
I was alone in a wilderness of rattlesnakes, mountain lions, coyotes and 200 Aggressors.
I had no weapon, no compass, no map, no food.
Fighting panic, I took several deep breaths, then sat down and went through my pockets, as my dad, a Scoutmaster, had taught me. I had a folding knife, a handkerchief, matches, a full canteen and a poncho secured with a bootlace.
Waiting for darkness, I told myself that I would be fine if I didn’t surrender to the terror within me. When stars became visible, I used the Big Dipper to locate Polaris, the North Star. My azimuth lay just right of that, a hair east of north. I did the math in my head: I had to cover 8.5 miles. My stride, I knew from high school, averaged 30 inches, 2.5 feet, so forty paces was about 100 feet.
I set out; after 120 paces—a hundred yards—I stopped to listen and tied a knot in the bootlace. A mile was about 18 knots; at 150 I should be near my objective. A full moon rose, casting eerie shadows. Nearby a coyote howled. Then another and another. Chills tap-danced up my spine. Would coyotes attack a lone man? I didn't want to find out.
As I hiked the hills flattened; pine and redwood gave way to scrub oak, chaparral and sage. I avoided game trails, detoured around clearings, trail junctions and other danger spots, always returning to my azimuth. When I’d tied 17 knots, I came to a road and stopped to listen.
Halfway across I heard an engine’s muted throb. A shaft of light stabbed the brush. I went flat under a sticky canopy of chaparral as a darkened jeep rolled by. Laughing, Aggressors probed the hillside with a searchlight.
I had no watch, but the moon's arc gave me a sense of time. On and on I went, counting paces, tying knots—until a sudden breeze brought the odor of burning tobacco.
I knelt on rubber knees, scanning the darkness, hearing myself breathe, listening to the kettledrum in my chest. I heard the clatter of metal on metal, the murmur of voices. A man screamed—one long, continuous cry.
Then raucous laughter.
My blood ran cold.
I crept forward. The silence was shattered by the ear-splitting yammer of a machinegun. Muzzle flashes silhouetted nearby gunners in ridged Aggressor helmets.
I went flat, stopped crawling. Suddenly it was quiet.
I heard the clink of belted cartridges: a gunner reloading. A dark shape left the gun pit, stopped near where I lay. A sloshing sound, then the acrid stench of urea filled my nostrils.
When the gun resumed its stuttering roar, I crawled as fast as I could, skinning elbows and knees on my way to a copse of stunted pine. Shaking, I stood, then edged forward. To my left was a barbed wire enclosure with guard towers, searchlights and Aggressors screaming obscenities at men doing sit-ups and pushups in a muddy quagmire.
In movies this is where the hero rescues his buddies. I never considered it. Unarmed, alone and scared, I felt that I’d be lucky to save myself.
Circling the camp, I crept between two more gun pits. A cigarette glowed in the dark. I smelled after-shave. When the firing stopped, I heard the distinctive click of red-hot metal cooling—the gun barrel.
I crept toward a rise until a shadowy man and leashed dog appeared on the crest. The shepherd barked, rousing a canine chorus behind me. I froze, praying that they wouldn't catch my scent.
I moved left, upwind, bent double, running hard.
When the camp was far behind me, I found Polaris and resumed my course.
After a long while I topped a grassy slope. The low moon lit a dirt track. I went prone in the tall grass as I fingered my bootlace, counting: 147 knots. To my left, near the track, stood a large tent with a jeep in front, hood raised.
I crept forward until I could read the white stenciling on its bumper: HQ-9-3.
HQ Company, Ninth Battle Group, Third Brigade.
A pair of legs protruded from the jeep’s hood. Then a trunk and head emerged from the open engine compartment. The man turned — and jerked backward in fright when he saw me.
"Where the hell did you come from?" said the sergeant. "You scared me half to death!"
I held the flashlight while he attached wires to the jeep's generator. He started the engine and the tent glowed.
"There’s coffee inside," he said. "A debriefing team will be along soon."
Before midnight I’d showered and was asleep in the deserted squad room. The rest of my squad arrived at sunup, exhausted, filthy with mud, cursing the Aggressors.
Nobody said a word to me about the preceding night.
After graduation we dispersed to units and schools worldwide. Along with others from my company, but no one from my squad, I went on for advanced infantry training.
I rarely thought about that night until an afternoon in 1967 when I encountered a captain outside the Ft. Benning Officers Club. There was something familiar about him; as he returned my salute, I glanced at his name tag.
We turned back at the same time.
"General!" he said.
It was my old squad leader, Self.
Over beer we reprised our respective careers. He’d gone to OCS, made captain three years before and was headed for Vietnam. I’d finished my first hitch as a sergeant, left the Army, returned three years later as a private. Now, just back from Vietnam, I was a second lieutenant.
He asked what OCS class I attended; I said that I never went; I was commissioned from the ranks. In Vietnam.
"A battlefield commission?" he gasped. “The Army still does that?”
I nodded, yes, then confided ambivalence about my new status. War had altered my perspectives; I wasn't sure if I was up to an officer’s responsibilities.
Finally we talked about Basic Training.
"Some of us were a little worried when you didn't turn up at the Aggressor POW camp," Self said. "How did you get back to the barracks?"
"I found the objective and the debriefing team brought me back," I replied.
Self stared, incredulous.
"They didn’t get you? You made it through alone?"
I nodded, yes.
“I guess we underestimated you,” he sighed, then finished his beer in one long swallow.
"It was the swagger stick," he said. "At the Open House."
Because of my ROTC experience, I’d been put in charge of a drill team; we strutted our stuff in front of hundreds of visiting family members. Swagger stick tucked under my arm, I was a celebrity for ten minutes.
But now I was mystified. "What about it?"
"The stick was the last straw. That's why we ditched you."
It had never occurred to me that I’d been abandoned.
"You were like Joseph with his coat of many colors. You knew everything better than anyone else. And then that stick. You were just a kid—what, 18?"
"And so full of yourself—insufferable! You crawled off and someone said, 'We've got the map and compass, let's split.’ We thought you’d get caught and the Aggressors would fix you good. Couple of times before, we’d talked about giving you a blanket party. This was better."
Throw an Army blanket over someone so he can’t identify the men kicking and punching him. That’s a blanket party.
I didn’t know what to say.
We shook hands and went our separate ways.
And when I calmed down, I realized that Self was right. My first months in uniform, a soft, baby-faced, five-foot recruit in an Army of tough six-footers, I was terrified of failure. How could I compete with bigger, stronger men? So I played know-it-all, too dumb to know how others saw me, insensitive to their feelings, unable to imagine that they could feel just as scared and inadequate as me.
Performing under pressure on that night alone in the wilderness did wonders for my self-confidence: When I left Ft. Ord, I finally felt worthy of my uniform.
At 17, Joseph flaunted his gifts and his ten jealous brothers sold him into slavery. When he realized his shortcomings, he forgave them and accepted his ordeal as necessary to prepare the way for his family's survival.
I forgave my Army buddies, who, like Joseph’s brothers, forced me to prove myself.
And long years later, reading the Bible, I discovered the importance of names. In Hebrew, Joseph means "to put in." He put all 70 Hebrews into Egypt.
Moses means "to draw out." He drew the Hebrews, by then a nation, out of slavery. Out of Egypt.
Could it be only coincidence that, at that turning point in my life, when I sought to find myself, the man who revealed my secret past, pointing the way to understanding, acceptance and self-confidence, was named Self?
© 2001 Marvin J. Wolf
"By the time you finish my class, you will all be able to speak Hangul well enough to appear on national television," says Professor Lee. Tall and thin, not yet thirty but already balding, his doctorate is in Russian — not a high-demand skill in the South Korea of 1972. To earn a living, Lee moonlights at the University of Maryland Extension, teaching American GIs like me to speak Hangul, the language of his country.
As I learn this phonetic alphabet I begin to read, at first street signs, then restaurant menus, soon newspaper headlines. It comes remarkably quickly, it seems to me, so fast that I forget about Lee's opening statement, which I ascribe to hyperbole. So I am astonished and then scared when, two weeks before semester's end, Lee says that instead of using this evening's three-hour class to converse with each other, we will go to a singing nightclub, the Korean version of what will later be known as a karaoke bar, to practice for our final exam.
The exam, he adds, is an appearance on a daytime Korean Broadcasting System game show whose name translates "Joyful Blue and White Games."
We spend an evening taking advantage of the open mike, and I rehearse a takeoff on the Smothers Brothers' act. Singing off-key — of course — accompanied by an Air Force weatherman on guitar, after many fits and starts we almost complete Sarang-hae tongshin-ul, the soulful ballad then topping Seoul pop charts.
Two weeks later I am under the lights with Flyboy, a famous-for-being-famous, over-the-hill television emcee. He rattles off "American" jokes at supersonic speeds; I balance on a flexing two-by-four over a pool of shallow water, trying to nab tennis balls with a butterfly net.
I am not making this up.
Sooner or later, everyone gets wet, and when I do, the rules of this game decree that I sing a song or tell a joke. I belt out Sarang-hae tongshin-ul so badly off-key that everyone in the studio, including my guitar player, is convinced that I am putting them on, the sort of basic, earthy humor that many Koreans find hilarious.
"Do you think many people watch this show?" I ask Professor Lee afterwards, and he beckons over his college roommate, the gameshow producer. "We are number one in daytime," says the producer in perfect English. "Our re-runs air for years and years."
I take my A in the class — those who decline to humiliate themselves in front of the cameras are docked half a grade by Dr. Lee — and go on for three more semesters of Hangul. By 1974 I can understand the lyrics of almost any Korean song, although, even to save my life, I cannot carry the tune of even one.
In July of that year I prepare to leave Korea for what I think will be my last time. I am about to take my Army discharge, about to change my life in fundamental ways, and I crave the solitude of a solo journey as an opportunity to feel, to think, to heal. I also want to experience a region that I have never seen. So I plan a week hitchhiking and trekking through the peninsula's nethermost provinces, so isolated that few foreigners ever visit them.
It is glorious, walking miles down the middle of unpaved roads, accepting brief rides from provincial police, catching a local bus, even resting my backpack on a farmer's cart as I stroll alongside, effortlessly keeping pace with the shambling gate of an ox. It is fine stopping at midday to share my tinned rations and sample the home-grown victuals of barefoot, friendly peasants. They smilingly complement me on my Hangul, exchange sly glances about my Seoul accent, slip into regionalisms and local dialect to talk about me to my face but behind my back. Seoul is barely 300 miles north, but this is another world.
It is a cosmos of close horizons, with steep mountains crowning narrow, emerald valleys, every welcome breeze redolent with turned earth and manure, every field spotted with farmers working unhurriedly through the long summer day. I cover thirty miles or so between nights in one or another yeogwan, the diminutive country inns that offer a coffin-sized sleeping space, a freshly-laundered mat, hot tea on arising and steamed rice with pickled radish and soup to fuel a dawn getaway.
After three days, my transistor radio tells of a vast, unseasonable storm, likely an embryonic typhoon, headed straight for the peninsula. Suddenly the constricted valleys, cut by swift mountain streams that hours of hard rain will send over their banks, seem like a trap. I am two days march from a main road, from a small city where I might take shelter or get a train or highway bus to the safety of Seoul. My map, however, depicts a back road across relatively low hills that would put me a day closer to civilization. What sort of road? My Army map, decades old, doesn't say.
I turn off the main road onto fresh gravel. By noon the stones are gone, the road is a pair of deep ruts. Jumbled rocky hills rise on either side, the air is moist and still, and before me are only mountains and mists. I eat on the march, hoping for a police jeep, a farmer's tractor, anything. At twilight the ruts peter out, and I am on a slim path twisting between steep hills terraced with narrow paddies. I have not seen another human being since midday.
Abruptly the path ends in a tiny village, five or six thatched huts scattered among vegetable gardens. Next to the largest a television antenna, perched atop a high pole and guyed with steel wires, points north towards Seoul. I hear laughter and voices, and trudge wearily toward the antenna. Abruptly upwards of a dozen children come boiling out of the house. They surround me, giggling, pointing. Then a boy of perhaps ten gives me a look. "Omah! Omah!" he shouts, and when his mother's head appears in the open doorway he calls, "Look! It's the long-nose from "Joyful Blue and White Games."
After dinner I am made to sing Sarang-hae tongshin-ul five times. Each time, my hosts, including several adults, laugh uproariously. In the morning, the boy with keen eyes guides me to a mountain path that becomes to a cart track that leads to a road that, after flagging a bus, brings me to the cozy city of Masan. By nightfall, just before the full fury of the typhoon arrives, I am safe.
I like to think that I would have been just as welcome in that nameless village if I had been able to carry a tune — but thinking back to the boy's parting words, I still wonder: "Are you going to be on the TV again?" he asked, and when I shook my head, no, he said, "Do all Americans sing funny?"
© 2009 Marvin J. Wolf
Just before my outfit left for Vietnam I went to Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, to photograph a training exercise. I drove there from Ft. Benning, and on the Saturday afternoon that I was to return I found a skinny, worried-looking PFC waiting beside my big Pontiac Bonneville.
“’Scuse me, PFC,” he said, none too sure of himself.
I said my first name and stuck out my hand. He shook it perfunctorily, like a ritual whose purpose he didn’t quite understand.
“Call me Henry,” he said. “I heard you was driving back to Benning, and I wondered if I could ride along. I could chip in for gas and oil…”
Why the hell not, I thought.
No good deed ever goes unpunished. Thirty minutes out of Fayetteville, Henry dropped the other boot. “Say, is there any way I could get you to go a little out of the way, so’s I could stop by home and say goodbye to my folks?” he said. “Before we ship out for Vietnam and all?”
As if he’d just that minute thought of it.
I pulled off the road and broke out a map. “Show me,” I said.
He traced the detour with a dirty fingernail: Instead of heading south through Columbia and then on to Atlanta, we were to swing west, then north through the mountains and on up to a crossroads just over the Tennessee line.
“Just a couple of hours north of Ashville, and then coming back we could drop down through Chattanooga and then it’s a straight shot to Atlanta.”
In other words, 300 miles out of our way.
“That’s an extra tank of gas,” I said. “Maybe more.”
“I’ll buy the gas,” he said. “Got almost twenty dollar.”
At twenty-five cents a gallon, a tank of pre-OPEC regular leaded went for under five.
I’m not sure why I didn’t say no, or suggest that he take a bus from Columbia. Maybe it was because we had only the weekend and I knew little about this part of the country. An adventure, I thought. What the hell. Maybe I’d never get another chance to see rural Tennessee.
“Let’s do it,” I said, and we eased back into traffic.
The sun was just over the trees when we stopped in front of Henry’s home in a bushy hollow. I saw a tired pile of weathered wood and peeling paint that seemed ready to collapse onto a sagging porch. I looked at Henry, mouth agape.
“Round here we say, ‘Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash,’” he shrugged.
Inside we found his parents and three little sisters sitting around a bare table on a bare plank floor surrounded by walls bare bur for a calendar with a picture of Jesus as a honey blonde with pain in his blue eyes.
The looks on Henry’s parents and sisters’ faces mirrored the calendar.
“Who died?” I blurted before my brain arrested my tongue.
“It’s your brother,” said Henry’s mom, only forty-something but all wrinkled skin and jutting bones. For all her Sunday-go-to-meeting attire — it was 7:00 am — she seemed as tired and worn as the house.
“What happened?” asked Henry.
The story tumbled out in roundabout fashion, parts supplied by first one youngster, then another. Henry’s dad sat silent, brooding.
The upshot was that Henry’s 16-year-old brother, William, was in a cell at the Justice of the Peace’s Office.
He’d gone to work at the crossroads gas station the previous evening. Friends came by. They’d offered him a jar of something pale and potent: corn liquor. When he woke up, Mr. Granville, who owned the station as well as the adjacent grocery store, was standing over him. His friends were long gone. The cigar box that had held the cash was empty. The pump meter said the box should have held nearly forty dollars.
I turned to Henry. "We've got to head back to Benning," I said.
"I know. But…"
"I can't leave William in the hoosegow."
"It was 40 bucks. He's a kid. What could they do to him?"
"Could we talk outside?"
We stepped out on the porch and Henry closed the door.
"It's Sunday,” he said.
I nodded, as if to say, so what?
“In an hour ‘most everybody in town will be in church. If William ain't there, people will wonder why. Time the Reverend gives the lesson, everyone will know that William drinks and is friends with thieves. Makes ma and pa look real bad."
"What do you expect me to do about it?"
"Could you maybe drive me over to talk to Mr. Granville?"
“The gas station owner? I thought your brother was in jail.”
“Granville’s Justice of the Peace, too.”
So the victim of this crime was also judge and jury. Sweet, I thought.
I wanted to be on my way. But right then I had an idea.
Half an hour later, wearing my one suit, a starched white shirt and a conservative tie and accompanied by Henry’s parents, I entered the general store. My hair was GI short, but this was the South and crew cuts were common; I just hoped Granville wouldn’t notice my black, Army-issue shoes.
He was a big man gone to fat, wearing pressed trousers and a Panama hat over some kind of off-white cotton shirt, his jowls quivering with indignation. When he saw William’s parents he went off on them, growling that the young pup in his lockup didn’t have the sense of a good hound, wondering why he’d lacked the upbringing to refuse moonshine, and so forth. He vented for a good ten minutes. I let him wind down and then, before Henry’s parents, whom I had asked to remain silent, could speak, I introduced myself.
I never actually said that I was a lawyer, just that my office wasn’t too far from Atlanta, that I’d been visiting one of the boy’s relatives, and that the family had asked me to represent them in this matter.
It was a tissue of truths. As far as it went.
Granville turned to Henry’s parents, and they nodded.
He looked out the window and gave my big, year-old Bonneville a long, appraising stare.
“Well, what are you looking for?” said the big man.
“Bail,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll want some kind of hearing before you dispose of this, but in the meantime, if you have the authority, I’d like to make it possible for this young man to accompany his family to church this morning, where he might be instructed in the Lord’s wisdom and perhaps see the error of his ways.”
All this in my best approximation of a good ole Georgia boy’s accent.
“Certainly, I’ve got the authority,” said the big man, indignant at my implied challenge. I kept my mouth shut, waiting.
“Bail will be fifty dollars. Plus full restitution,” he said.
That was more than a month’s take-home pay for an Army PFC in 1965. Fortunately, I’d drawn a per diem advance for my temporary duty; springing William would leave me broke except for an emergency twenty I kept in my shoe and a couple of dollars in parking change.
And I had to make a car payment the next week.
Maybe I could get an advance on my pay, I thought, as I counted the money into Granville’s outstretched hand.
Half an hour later, Henry’s family, including the chastened William, was in church and Henry and I were on the road to Chattanooga.
“What do think’ll happen to your brother?”
“Probably nothing,” replied Henry. “Granville is just about money, is all. But I’ll pay you back. Every cent.”
I mentioned my impending car payment. “When do you think that might be?”
“Army sends some of my pay home every month.” he replied, shamefaced. It’s gonna take me awhile.”
I grunted, thinking that I didn’t know if he’d return from Vietnam alive. Or if I would. Or if I’d still have legs and arms.
For a long moment the only sound was the purring of the Pontiac’s big engine and the wind rushing past the car.
"What’ll you do about your car payment?" asked Henry.
"I won't need a car in Vietnam," I said.
“I’ll pay you back, you’ll see.”
Maybe, I thought.
“If you come back in one piece, I want you to paint that house."
“I’ll pay you back. Every dime,” he insisted.
I did run into Henry in Vietnam, and he had no cash but did me a big favor. Then we lost track of each other. And although he never repaid the money, by the time I got back from the war I didn’t much care.
In 1990 I flew back to Georgia for a veterans reunion. Over 4,000 men attended, but Henry wasn't among them.
Before returning home I rented a car and drove all night to a Tennessee hamlet. As the sun came up, I wondered if I could find Henry's house again.
It turned out to be easy. It was the only one in the hollow that had been painted in years.
© 2001 Marvin J. Wolf
Another miracle, I thought, turning off West End and easing my Beetle into a space in front of Jack's apartment on the corner of 86th.
An hour earlier I had called him from visiting officers quarters at Fort Hamilton. His wife, Carol, answered. "Jack is busy right now," she said, a brush-off. "Tell me what this is about, maybe I can help you."
My cousin Jack Gelber was in the theatre. He taught drama at Yale and Columbia, and would go on to head the creative writing program at Brooklyn College. But in those waning days of 1966 he was best known as a playwright, author of The Connection, a penetrating look at the desperation of strung-out heroin addicts. Produced off-off-Broadway, its use of language had created a sensation. The play was made into a critically acclaimed movie, and launched Jack's career. While I was close to his younger brother, David, I hadn't seen Jack since childhood.
"Tell Jack that his cousin Marvin is visiting New York for the first time and would dearly love to see him."
A moment later Jack came on the line. "The Cub Scout!" he yelled. "You made it home alive! Look, I've got a house full of people, and we're just about to sit down to dinner. Where are you?"
He recited driving directions. "Leave right now, stay clear of Midtown, and you should get here for dessert. We'll save you a plate."
Half an hour later a woman in a serving apron took my coat and my cousin went around the room with introductions, but after Billy, Sandy, Norm and somebody and Suzie, Linda and somebody and somebody else, I gave up trying to remembering names. Since my call, Jack had called his mother, or perhaps mine, because he introduced me as "my cousin, just back from Vietnam, where he won a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star and a battlefield commission."
What Jack omitted was that I went to Vietnam as a rookie combat photographer, had learned to write news copy, and that circumstances had propelled me into becoming the First Cavalry Division public information officer’s go-to guy. It was a high-profile job. My reward—a field promotion to second lieutenant—was such a rare event and so unexpected that I hadn’t yet grasped its full implications.
Fifteen months with combat pay, no taxes and little to spend money on had enabled me to save enough to buy a new VW. A week trying to referee the interminable battle between my parents was all I could take, so after seeing a few friends, I took my leave of Los Angeles and sought the solace of the open road. I had a month to report to Fort Benning, and I was hungry for America.
Covering only 200 miles a day, I reacquainted myself with the comforts that Americans take for granted, the small amenities that are unimaginable luxuries to a grunt in a war zone. I stopped in little towns and small cities to shake the stench of Vietnam, looking at the country of my birth with new eyes. I reveled in the hygiene of cheap motels: crisp white sheets faintly scented with citrus, fluffy fresh towels, water that didn't reek of iodine, or household bleach, or Kool-Aid. Hot water any time, hamburgers grilled to order, fresh vegetables, crunchy French fries, people who looked me in the eye and smiled. I was home, I was healthy, I was an officer and a gentleman, a shining future lay ahead for me. I should have been elated—but I could muster no extreme emotions of any sort.
I traveled solo and made no friends. I told no one that I was just back from the war. I watched and listened and avoided lengthy conversations.
In Vietnam, something interesting or frightening or memorable had happened every day. Now I was struck by the humdrum tediousness of safety. By the time my Volkswagen's tires sang their way across the high span over the Verrazano Narrows into Brooklyn, I craved human contact. I needed people to hear my stories, needed to feel that I was again part of society.
Jack parked me between a tallish blonde woman and a shorter man. He seemed to be in his forties; there was something familiar about his craggy, Semitic face and large head covered by unruly coils of salt-and-pepper hair. Suddenly ravenous, I speared a piece of potato with my fork. I opened my mouth, already salivating at the odor.
"Battlefield commission, eh?" the curly-haired man hissed, leaning close. "So you must have bayoneted a few babies, right?"
I put the fork down.
On my second air assault, a whirring cloud of Hueys dropped a rifle company on a small, grassy plateau. As our ship flared for landing, a door gunner sprayed lethal tracers at a boy of maybe ten tending a herd of scrawny cows. The kid ran, bullets skipping by him. I yelled at the gunner to stop, then jumped off to join the infantry. But I took time to note the aircraft tail number, and later I hunted up the unit's executive officer, a major who assured me that we weren't in Vietnam to kill children, that the gunner would be disciplined. Soon afterward an order came from division HQ with new rules of engagement: We were not to shoot at civilians unless they shot first. Maybe this had something to do with my report, maybe not—either way, I felt better.
I wanted to tell Curly about this, defend not only myself but my comrades, but I was so furious that it was all that I could do to shake my head.
"Well then, you must have burned down a few villages, right? I mean, they don't just hand out battlefield commissions!" The man came out of his chair, assumed the classic boxer's stance, cocked his arms, taunting me.
"Maybe you'd like to try fighting somebody your own size?"
For the record, he had three inches and thirty pounds on me.
I jumped to my feet, balling my fists.
Someone stepped between us. Three men grabbed Curly and bundled him into an overcoat, then jammed his hat on his head. His wife murmured apologies as they were all but pushed out the door.
"Who is that jerk?" I asked when the door closed.
"You must forgive him. When he drinks, he likes to fight," said Jack.
"But who is he?"
"We thought you knew! That was Norman Mailer."
Later everyone went into Jack's den, where they passed a joint around and I was asked to explain the war. Bright, sophisticated people from the arts, from publishing, from the theater, they were friendly and open-minded, but I struggled for answers to satisfy them. What was Vietnam about? What were we doing in a civil war?
I told them of the Ia Drang Campaign, savage battles against a division of North Vietnamese regulars. I spoke of a pile of little arms chopped off by Vietcong cadres after American soldiers inoculated village children against smallpox. I shared an eyewitness account of a boy who begged a candy bar from a GI in Bong Son, sat down and ate it, then flipped a grenade into the cab of his benefactor's truck. I described accompanying a surgical team that repaired 30 cleft palates in a single inbred hamlet.
But what national purpose was served in Vietnam? they asked. Were not the South Vietnamese corrupt and venal, and the North Vietnamese hostile fanatics? Why were we involved at all?
I was a brand new second lieutenant, and such questions had not yet begun to trouble me. It would be years before Lyndon Johnson's lies and hypocrisy would be exposed, and while some reports of official duplicity had been published, I remained ignorant of them. I went to Vietnam because a democratically elected commander-in-chief had sent me, I had served with the finest men our nation could field—of that I was proud.
But there was more, and for this I could find no words: I wanted to tell these men and women, most a decade or two my senior, that I went to war in search of myself, under compulsion of some inner force to prove my manhood, to show that I might be undersized and Jewish but that I could soldier with the best. I wanted to shout that I came from a line of orphans, that I never expected to see my fiftieth birthday, that I hoped to pack as much living into the years that I had before cancer or heart disease or something worse claimed me, as it had so many of my ancestors. I wanted to tell them that Vietnam would be the defining event of my generation and that I didn't want to miss it as my 4-F father had missed serving in World War II. I wanted to know that I had served my country.
Most of all I wanted to add that beyond all that, I had sought to better myself, to learn a craft, find a useful profession, and that my commission had been unexpected, that I still wasn't sure if I ought to have accepted it.
I wanted to say all this, but could not focus my thoughts. And later, as I jolted down unfamiliar roads toward Brooklyn, I realized that among Jack's guests that night, only one might have understood what I had so recently experienced. But the author who had come to world prominence by summoning the ugliness and futility of war in The Naked And The Dead, the lone war veteran who might have felt some resonance in my mixed motivations, was the man who had been so wounded by his wartime experiences, so damaged and angry that he routinely anesthetized himself with alcohol, was the man who had left early.
© 2012 Marvin J. Wolf
I stepped out of the Hotel Caravelle and into the gathering darkness. The streets were alive with pedicabs and taxis. The youths we called “Saigon Cowboys” whizzed by on motorbikes or called out from saloon doorways.
I headed across the square, past the Parliament toward the shabby-elegant Continental Palace Hotel.
Someone shouted my name. I stopped and peered into the twilight.
On the Palace veranda, a tall, bespectacled man of about 30 waved. He was with a young American woman and some journalists I knew.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
I stared, confused.
“Have we met?”
“You were at Camp Kaiser?”
“Why are you still in the Army? And why are you a PFC?”
I mumbled something about my break in service and he introduced me to his wife and said that he worked for the New York Times.
And then it came back. He was the clerk.
I came to South Korea on a troop ship and was trucked, with several hundred other replacements, to Camp Kaiser. We were delivered to a Quonset hut to wait for “in-processing.”
I immersed myself in a book until it was too dark to read and my stomach began issuing ultimatums. I was alone; everyone else had been called.
Then a tall, dark-haired, bespectacled clerk with an Irish name beckoned me into a room where contingents of clerks pushed paper through typewriters or cranked ancient mechanical adding machines.
“Sit there,” said the lanky clerk and I waited as he leafed through my file, skimming each document.
“You have unusually high scores,” he said.
He meant the tests that recruits take when they enter service. The most important was the General Technical; it measured vocabulary, reading comprehension and math ability. You needed 110 to get into Officer Candidate school; training as a medic, electronics technician or finance clerk, for example, required higher scores. I had my choice of Army schools; I picked infantry.
I was tempted to say something clever. But you mess with a personnel or finance clerk at your peril: There’s nothing to stop one from mailing your records to Greenland and screwing up your pay for years.
“Thanks,” I replied.
“You’re scheduled for Delta Company,17th Infantry,” he said, reading. “But when I saw your scores…. How’d you like to work here?”
“I’m an infantryman,” I replied, amused.
“We’ll give you on-the-job training.”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
He peered at me as though I had just confessed to an axe murder or announced that I was uncertain if the earth was round.
“Let me tell you about Delta Company,” said the clerk. “You’ll spend three nights a week in the field the year around. You’ll eat mostly C-rations and there’ll be days when you don’t eat at all. This division is under strength, so there’s never enough men for all the shit details. When you’re in garrison, you’ll pull guard duty twice a week. And you won’t get the next day off.
“In winter it gets down to 20 or thirty below. In summer it goes over a hundred. In spring it rains for weeks. You’ll be out in that, night and day, until you wonder if webs are growing between your fingers and toes. Like a frog.
“But here we get three hot meals a day. We sleep between clean sheets. A shower every day. We have stoves for winter and air conditioners for summer. We’re off at five No weekend duty. No holidays. No guard, no KP, no details.
“So, what do you think?”
I had no words for what I was thinking, no vocabulary to express the contempt that an infantryman, who even in peacetime spends days and nights and weeks in the field, feels for those who don’t. Every man who has gone days without sleep, without bathing, without decent food while being forced far beyond his own fearful notions of personal limits, who has marched and crawled and climbed and faced the elements and done his job well, feels that anyone wearing the uniform but removed from danger and hardship, whose duties are performed in relative safety and comfort, is a pussy. The Marine hates Navy swabbies and looks down at anyone in Army green. Most of the Army sneers at the Air Force and Navy. The rifleman or grenadier knows that he’s a better man than any mechanic or cook, better even than mortarmen. The infantryman scorns headquarters types as chair-borne rangers, not even poor warriors but rear-echelon MFs, unworthy of the uniform.
So when this clean, well-fed, rested, and doubtless well-intentioned clerk offered me the opportunity to walk away from the privation and denial that is the infantryman’s daily ration, it made me angry.
“So what do you think?”
“I think I’ve got a better chance to make rank in a line outfit,” I said.
He pulled my file closer and extracted the Form 66.
“You made PFC at ten months. Two months later than usual. Then Specialist Four less than a month after. How did that happen?”
“Don’t be modest — you were honor graduate,” he said. “It’s not true that line companies get more stripes. We pass out the quotas. We keep our share. So, what do you say? Want to work up here?”
I was torn. A little.
“I’m not sure.”
“So what the hell is a smart kid like you doing in the infantry?”
I’d heard that before. On the rare Friday nights when I could attend religious services, I had mingled with the doctors, dentists, lawyers, chaplains and clerks who made up the great bulk of the Army’s Jewish ranks.
“What’s a nice Jewish boy doing in the Infantry?”
“Give my sergeant a call; I’ll have you transferred to a nice office job.”
“Ever thought about law school? Clerking in the Judge Advocate’s office wouldn’t hurt your resume!”
They meant well. They just didn’t understand why I would limit myself to serving as a common soldier, as cannon fodder.
And they knew of the Army’s casual anti-Semitism, of the many who believed that negotiating a better price is an exclusively Jewish practice, or, paradoxically, that Jews and communists are synonymous. That Jews are clever weaklings—thinkers, manipulators, swindlers. Never men of action.
I chose infantry because I wanted to show that an undersized Jew could be tough and smart. That in a macho, testosterone-driven world where the strong push aside the weak, I wasn’t going to be pushed so easily.
But I was eighteen. I didn’t know how to say all that. And it was none of his business.
“Just lucky, I guess,” I replied.
He shot me a hard look. Here it comes, I thought.
“I hate it here. You will too. But you’ll hate it a lot more in Delta. “
I nodded to show that I was listening.
“Let me train you. In 60 days you’ll be my replacement; I’ll go home 90 days early. If I time it right, I won’t be reassigned—I’ll get an early discharge.
“So, what do you think?”
I was thinking, This is how REMFs game the system, looking out for themselves instead of thinking like part of a team with an important mission. Jerk-off REMF, that’s what I was thinking.
Still, if I ever wanted easy duty…
“And listen — guys like you have nobody to talk to in a rifle company.”
“Guys like me?”
“Smart guys. And you’ll be the only Jew.”
In hindsight I know that he didn’t mean it maliciously. But to me that was the last straw. I was never going to be just another Jewish candy-ass, another Jewish Finance clerk.
“I’ll go to Delta Company.”
“If you change your mind…”
Life in Delta was much as the clerk predicted, but worse. I regretted my decision only about 52 times.
The war that began in 1950 had paused with an armistice–a cease-fire–in 1953. Soldiers on both sides still died in brief skirmishes or from occasional artillery shells or land mines. Infiltrators and saboteurs were common. Tough and battle-tested, the world’s third-largest standing army was 30 miles away, poised to resume the attack any day. Our mission was to prepare for that day.
So we trained hard. We went without sleep longer than I believed possible. I marched holes in three sets of boots. I ate everything I could get my hands on and lost weight. I got crotch rot in the summer, frostbite in the winter, and trench foot in the spring. I grew more than an inch. I sewed on sergeant’s stripes before my 19th birthday—one year and six months after enlisting.
I ran a squad. I made mistakes and learned to lead men. I made friends and won the respect of far better soldiers than I would ever become. To this day I’m proud to say that I served a year in Korea as an infantryman: What I learned in those frozen hills and boiling valleys was of immeasurable value ever afterward. My experiences fostered a deep and abiding kinship with every American who ever shouldered a rifle.
The clerk, Neil Sheehan, didn’t finish his full tour. He was a Harvard man with journalism experience. He was a few months from going home when an unexpected opening at Stars & Stripes took him to Tokyo. Months later he was discharged and hired to run UPI’s Saigon bureau. He worked with some of the best reporters of our generation and distinguished himself. He met John Paul Vann, a senior US military advisor, and a former Marine named Daniel Ellsberg. Sheehan spent years researching and writing a book about Vann, A Bright Shining Lie, which won the Pulitzer Prize.
When Sheehan left UPI he joined the New York Times. In 1971 Daniel Ellsberg, then working at the Rand Corporation, discovered proof of the lies and deceptions that the Johnson and Nixon Administrations had used to justify the Indochina war. Trusting Sheehan, Ellsberg slipped him secret government documents exposing these lies, the so-called “Pentagon Papers.”
Publication of the Papers by the New York Times led to a Supreme Court ruling that reinforced the First Amendment by prohibiting prior restraint. Ellsberg and Sheehan changed history.
The Bible tells of Joseph, sold into slavery by his brothers. He might never have found them but for a mysterious “man” who directed him to distant Dothan. Some rabbis say this was an angel sent to ensure that Joseph met his fate.
Because if he had not been sold into slavery, there would have been no Exodus, no Sinai. No Bible. Our world would be different.
And so I wonder: What if I hadn’t been insufferably full of smug self-superiority? What if I’d accepted Sheehan’s offer? What if he’d gotten his early discharge, never worked at Stars & Stripes, never made to 1962 Saigon, never met Ellsberg or Vann?
How different would the world be now?
I don’t know about the Pentagon Papers, but I would have been just another REMF. Instead I lived among wolves. I earned the right to tell stories around the campfire.
Did God send Sheehan to tempt me with easy duty, to make me fully consider the difficult path I’d chosen?
Or did God harden my heart, like Pharaoh’s, so Sheehan would meet Ellsberg and get the Pentagon Papers?
Or was God napping on that dreary Camp Kaiser afternoon and all that followed was blind chance?
Take your pick.
© 2008 Marvin J. Wolf
If Lowell had known anything about corporate culture or management, he never would have hired me.
That’s because in most big companies, Human Resources professionals screen employment applications and perform résumé triage, putting each into a pile: Meets minimum qualifications; doesn’t meet them; maybe. Usually only the first pile goes to the interviewer.
I did not then have a bachelor’s degree, as the job required, so my application should have gone on the second pile, thence to the shredder.
But Lowell told HR he wanted to see all 200-plus applications. He found mine, with tear sheets of published picture stories and magazine articles, and barely glanced at my resume.
The job was associate editor of a profusely illustrated monthly employee magazine for a financial services company. Lowell was its editor.
My interview went well: We both smoked Borkum Riff in our pipes; we were both recently discharged from the Army, and both our wives were Asian. Lowell said this was “propitious.” (I didn’t mention that I was getting a divorce.)
On my first day Lowell explained that we would write four pieces each per issue, then edit each other’s stories. All copy then went to HR to check name spellings, and to Richard,a vice president and Lowell's boss.
Lowell then handed me six pages. “Peruse these,” he said. “Edit as you go.”
I wasn’t sure what “peruse” meant. Not wanting to seem stupid, I looked it up in my office dictionary, then went to work.
Carefully reading each page, I examined each word, each line, each paragraph, every comma, period and colon. I perused it.
An hour later Lowell stuck his head in my office. “Have you finished perusing my piece?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I replied.
He asked twice more, and twice I replied as before.
Just before lunch he marched into my office and snatched the pages.
“What is wrong with you!” he shrieked. “How long does it take to read a short story?”
“A few minutes,” I replied. “But you told me to ‘peruse’ it.”
“Yes, peruse it. Read it over quickly.”
“No,” I said. “Peruse does not mean to read quickly.”
“It certainly does,” he insisted, his face flushed.
“I looked it up,” I said. When I showed Lowell the dictionary, he stomped off in fury.
Lowell’s stepfather was chairman of a Fortune 500 manufacturer. Lowell attended prep schools and then a pricey private university, a campus better known for its football teams than academics. Then he was drafted into the Army; afterward, with his wife, he toured Europe trying to be a freelance writer. When his family shut the money tap, they returned.
Tally and rangy, Lowell was 25 but looked at least my age, 33. He favored tweeds and elbow-patch jackets and used $50 words, sprinkling his conversations with literary allusions and gratuitous wine commentary.
This was his first real job. A week after coming aboard as associate editor, the old editor left and Lowell took his place. Two weeks later, he hired me.
The company operated nationwide; each month one of us traveled to a different state, where we spent a week interviewing staff, doing research and shooting photos. I wasn’t making much money, but I enjoyed the travel.
I needed this job, so from the first day forward, conscious of Lowell’s pretensions, I humbled myself to him. He seemed satisfied with my work; when it began winning awards he found ways to share the glory. I didn’t mind. I was trying to put my life back together and learn enough to prepare myself for my next move up the career ladder.
Lowell was on a different journey. A few months after I started, his pretty wife gave birth to their first child. He soon moved out, took a bachelor pad and entertained a succession of girlfriends. He began locking himself into his office until lunch, taking no calls. He claimed to be working on his novel, but everyone in the office knew he was sleeping. Once a janitor found a pair of women's panties in his waste basket.
Meanwhile he gave me first one, then two, of his stories to write each month, in addition to my own four. Claiming that my expenses were excessive, he cut back my travel schedule. On the road I usually ate hamburgers and always took modest lodging, so I wondered if he was using our budget to fund dinner dates.
But I said nothing.
By then I was again single; after years in uniform and classes at eight colleges, I was anxious to finish my degree. From HR I learned that the company reimbursed tuition, books and expenses for work-related classes, so I enrolled in university editing and graphic design courses.
Reimbursement required Lowell’s signature — but he refused to give it. Why spend department funds when I could get GI Bill education benefits, he said. HR told him that education reimbursement came out of their budget, but as usual Lowell wouldn’t back down.
My graphic design class required that I turn in a camera-ready piece project. I created a fold-out brochure; it needed type, so I called Frank, the vendor whose company set our magazine’s type. When I asked the price, he said “Not much — I’ll bill you.”
Soon after that, Sherry, Frank’s saucy, irreverent, 20-something daughter and his company’s messenger, flashed our office secretarial pool to display her new breast implants.
Lowell caught a glimpse of the new Sherry and invited her to dinner. They went to a fancy restaurant; as the vichyssoise arrived, he made it plain that he expected her to spend the night with him.
Sherry laughed at him.
Lowell gauchely mentioned the price of the meal they’d just ordered.
Sherry threw her soup in his face and called a cab.
Around then our corporation bought a credit card firm, a competitor of American Express. Lowell was told to interview Ken, its president, and write a profile. That required a long, rush-hour drive back from Los Angeles in brutal heat — but Lowell had a dinner date, so he sent me instead.
While I was writing this profile, Lowell obsessed over Sherry’s humiliating rejection, which she had, of course, shared with our secretaries. To punish her and end the buzz that accompanied her messenger visits, he fired her father. We were Frank’s biggest account; trying to change Lowell’s mind, he reminded him of past favors, including several weekends that he’d allowed Lowell and various girlfriends to use his hideaway beach cabin. Frank also mentioned my school project; he’d never billed me for the type.
Lowell ignored him and hired a new typesetter.
When my profile was published, Ken was so pleased that he asked our CEO to promote me. The editor-in-chief of his company’s magazine, a rival of Travel & Leisure, was old, ailing and due to retire. Ken wanted me to come over, and after a six-month apprenticeship, take over for him. I’d get a small pay raise immediately and a big one when I became editor.
This was a terrific break: a leap from the employee communications backwater to the glamorous cosmos of a consumer travel publication.
Lowell was furious. The next day he berated me for misspelling a name, the sort of trivial error that we’d both made and that HR always caught. “If you spent less time perusing dictionaries, maybe you’d have time to check names,” he growled.
He’d never forgiven me for revealing his ignorant pretentiousness!
“That’s hardly fair, Lowell,” I replied. “I’m writing almost the whole magazine now, and —“
“You’re not a captain now,” he said, seething. “I tell you what’s fair.”
I saw then that bossing me around compensated Lowell for the indignity of having had to take orders from men like me while he was in the Army.
Then Lowell bypassed Richard, went to the CEO and demanded that Ken interview him for the position I’d been offered.
He got his interview. But Ken still wanted me.
Two days before I was scheduled to start, however, while working on a special issue commemorating the tenth anniversary of our Australian division, Richard sent for me. He shut his office door behind me.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “Lowell went directly to the Legal Department, so there’s nothing I can do.”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“You accepted a vendor’s gratuity worth over $20,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s grounds for termination,” he said.
“What exactly did I do?” I asked.
“Typesetting. Some kind of fancy résumé you were having printed. So you were planning on leaving anyway?”
“That was for my graphic design class. Frank said he’d bill me.”
“It’s out of my hands,” said Richard. “Sorry.”
“What about my promotion? I was supposed to go to work for Ken.”
“Out of the question,” said Richard.
I was in shock. A security guard escorted me from the building.
At home I found a message on my answering machine: Jim, another company VP, was appalled at what happened. He’d found me a job with a competitor. The new position was considered management, offered a flexible schedule and paid much more than my former one. The only downside was a 75-mile daily commute.
I took it, of course.
A week later Lowell left a message on my machine: He, too, had been sacked. That was all — no explanation, no apology.
Then Richard left a message. I ignored it until he called twice more and begged me to meet him that night.
He got right to the point: “The special Australia issue — it’s imperative that we publish on schedule,” he said.
“I have a new job,” I said. “Staff of four, expense account, managerial title and much more money than I was making.”
“Can you work nights for us? Put out one magazine? And hire a new staff?”
“I accepted a vendor’s $20 gratuity. How could you trust me?”
“Our mistake,” he said. “But you’re the only one — and if you don’t, the Australians —”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You break my sword over your knee, cut the buttons off my tunic, pour out my canteen and chase my camel into the desert – and now you want to say, ‘oops’?”
“What’s it going to cost?” he said.
I thought about my long daily commute and my plan to start night school full time. I’d need a new car soon.
So I worked double shifts for a month, including weekends, to put out the Australia issue, and hired two friends to replace Lowell and me.
In return, my former employers bought me a new car.
Lowell vanished from my life. But more than 20 years later, by chance, I encountered the woman who actually took the job that Ken had offered me and that Lowell so desperately wanted. She’d spent three years as an apprentice editor at a beggar’s wages before she quit.
“The editor was old and sick,” she said. “But he was never going to retire. He wanted to be carried out on his shield.”
Despite his perverse intentions, his pretensions and his inflated opinion of his own talents, it seems that Lowell’s intervention saved me from a depressing career detour; getting fired put me on the right path.
All these years later, I remain in his debt.
© 2000 Marvin J. Wolf
The elevator slid open and a man in handcuffs and blue jail coveralls stepped forward. Behind him came a uniformed officer, who pointed to the bench next to me. "Back in a minute," said the cop, and parked his charge in an alcove deep inside Parker Center, LAPD's Downtown headquarters.
I noticed that the inmate was cuffed in front and that his hands and nails were clean. Then I looked away. "Whatcha here for?" he said, and I turned to peer at him again, a slender man, probably in his twenties, clean-shaven, with short reddish blonde hair. I inspected the floor tiles and stifled my urge to reply.
"I'm down for receiving stolen property," volunteered this prisoner. "Bought some copper wire off a guy, turned out he stole it," he added. "What about you?"
I had lunched with a private investigator, who shared an anecdote about recovering funds ripped off in an insurance scam. He bragged that he had cracked this case after a police captain sold him confidential documents.
I hardly knew this PI, and I had grown up watching "Dragnet" and "Adam 12," believing that the police are my friends, that in Los Angeles, as perhaps nowhere else, the men in blue are above graft and larceny, that they are the finest citizens among us. And so later, chatting with someone whom I had known since high school, a man who had made a fine career in the LAPD, I had asked if such a thing was possible.
A week later a pair of detectives knocked at my door. They were from LAPD. From Internal Affairs. They wanted the name of the captain who had been bribed.
I didn't have a name. I didn't know which department the captain worked for, or even if he was LAPD or another force. And I didn't even know with certainty that there actually had been a bribe. But when I said as much, and explained that I had been talking to a PI about a book that I might write, these police who police the police began to float scenarios: Maybe I was the guy doing the bribing. Maybe I hired the guy who bought the documents. Maybe I had tried to bribe a police officer, but he refused.
Biting back my anger, I told them, again, what I knew, and what I didn't. They were not satisfied. I was invited to take a polygraph.
I had heard and read about polygraph tests, and knew just enough to be wary. The instrument measures blood pressure, respiration, and galvanic skin resistance — sweatiness. Those who favor it insist that these phenomena reflect the liar's inner anxiety, and that measuring them while responding to questions reveals deception, when present.
Those who don't believe in the machine say that while it may be that bodies scream "no, no, no," when their owners say "yes, yes, yes," interpreting the data is more art than science, that the real purpose of the "lie detector" is to frighten a suspect into confessing, and that as science its product is worthless.
I respectfully declined the LAPD's offer to prove my sincerity.
A week later, one of the detectives telephoned to offer me a chance to change my mind about the polygraph — and about what I had recounted about the cop captain on the take.
I declined again.
Later I started to think: I had done nothing wrong, committed no crime. I knew nothing that I hadn't shared with police. But how often does a writer get to experience a polygraph test? I dreamed of writing novels. Perhaps someday I might find such an encounter useful. Even if I never wrote about it, it would undoubtedly be an interesting experience.
When the detective called back yet again, I agreed to the test.
And so I was at Parker Center, listening to an inmate talk about buying stolen telephone cable. And going into shock: Many years earlier, my father, a junkyard owner, had been arrested for the identical crime. I was in Vietnam then, and never knew much about that incident. Dad had hired a lawyer. The matter evaporated.
Suddenly I was afraid.
My only previous brush with the law was a misdemeanor: Selling encyclopedias door-to-door without a license in a small town that wouldn’t issue said permits. But surely my father's felony arrest remained in some cop shop file. Could it really be coincidence that the first person I met at Parker Center was up on exactly the same rap, the only charge that my father had ever faced? I turned it over in my mind, realizing at last that what he was telling me, chapter and verse, was probably right out of Dad's case file.
I was getting the full treatment.
My mouth stayed shut until the Internal Affairs detective beckoned to me.
While I will never qualify for sainthood, I have never been much good at lying. No matter the temptation, I am quite unable to tell a woman that I love her if I don't. I am equally unable to withhold professions of sincere sentiment, even when I know that the object of my affections would rather not hear them. In ordinary conversation I tend to say whatever comes to mouth, without considering it for the merest instant, and so later I am often unable to recall my exactly words. Until well into middle age, when I learned that it was often better to be quiet than right, I found tact a challenge.
I feared no lie detector.
The room was small and worn, with faded lime-hued walls, the requisite one-way mirror, and a rumpled, balding operator who explained how things worked as he affixed a blood-pressure cuff at my biceps, a galvanometer sensor on my finger, a strap across my chest to measure how quickly and often my lungs filled. The detective read me the questions that he would ask and we began.
After preliminary queries — my name and age, used to establish a baseline of body responses, came the main event. And an unscripted question: "Your only reason for being here today is to help this investigation, is that correct?"
Not quite. I was there partly so that the police would stop bothering me, and partly for the possible literary value of the experience.
"Not exactly," I replied.
"Yes or no," said the detective. "Answer yes or no, please."
"Yes or no!"
Yes," I said. My body temperature rose. Perspiration oozed from my every pore. My heart beat wildly, and my blood pressure rose so rapidly that I grew dizzy. I fought for air.
The polygraph needles etched arabesques across the chart.
I have slogged through rice paddies with bullets snapping and hissing past my ears. I have spiraled down toward a landing zone while fountains of green tracers searched for our chopper as it jinked and side-slipped and zigzagged and shuddered from hit after hit. I have taken the witness stand in open court and had my motives and mores and credibility gnawed by a pit bull in a thousand-dollar suit. I have been about as afraid as it is possible to be, yet kept my wits and did my job. But in that small green room I was suddenly overcome with dread. Panic seized my body and refused to release it until the questions ended and the polygraph was turned off.
"Anything you want to say?" asked the sneering detective afterward. "Are you ready to give us the truth now?"
I tried not to be sore. The police were just doing their job, I told myself, and in their world everyone is a suspect, a sleaze ball who lies to save himself. But then, a few months later, the lid came off the LAPD toilet and I learned about cops manufacturing evidence, "testilying" about crimes that never occurred, shooting an elderly homeless woman who waved a screwdriver at them — whole barrels of bad apples ruining innocent lives in the name of blue power solidarity.
The more I think about those cops, the less sure I am of my feelings toward them. My only certainty is that I will never take another polygraph test.
And that is the truth.
© 2000 Marvin J. Wolf
Rachel rapped on my screen door. “Hello!” she called. “Anybody home?”
Just back from my Sunday afternoon run, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to see Rachel again, let alone now, when I was sweaty, thirsty and tired.
“Please,” she called. “I need your help.”
We’d met through the Personals. She was everything I’d ever wanted in a woman: pretty, sexy, sassy and smart. And responsibly employed. For me it was pretty much love at first sight. It took Rachel several dates, until I clicked with her young daughter and charmed her mother. We became a couple. Heaven!
For all of two weeks.
She dumped me with a message on my answering machine.
“This isn’t working,” she said. “I’m sorry. I met someone…. ”
She wouldn’t take my calls. Was never home when I rang her doorbell. Didn’t respond to my letters.
Rejection is every writer’s companion and far from my worst enemy. I was hurt, of course, but at 35, with a terrible marriage behind me, I knew I would recover. I’m not the stalker type, so I moved on.
Now, two months later, she was at my door.
I gave her a can of soda and took a seat on the couch next to her, admiring, as always, her alluring yet modestly attired figure.
“It’s good to see you, Rachel,” I said, putting an arm around her.
She pushed me away.
“I didn’t come for that,” she said.
I gave her an expectant look.
“I’m married now.”
“Why are you here, Rachel?”
“I wanted to say I’m sorry. I should have had better manners. I should have told you in person.”
“Told me what, exactly?”
“That you weren’t the man I needed. I need someone with a regular job.”
“I have a regular job.”
“You’re a free-lance writer.”
I gestured expansively. “I own this house. Me and the bank. My car is paid for. I eat regularly, pay my bills on time.”
“It’s a townhouse. Your Toyota is three years old. You always wear jeans. And you know what? That’s smart, because you never know one month to the next how much you’ll make. I really admire you. You’re very talented and you work hard. …”
Yadda yadda yadda.
“… but I need — “
“Somebody with a lot of money,” I said.
“No, no, that’s not right. I just need… more stability. And then I met Michael, and he was….”
“He’s in sales — and he does very well.”
“Let me guess. Drives a Mercedes. Lives in Beverly Hills.”
“Newport Beach. And it’s a BMW.”
She fumbled in her purse for a photo.
Michael seemed to have stepped out of a GQ ad: tall, movie-star handsome, immaculately groomed in Armani.
I’ve never owned a suit that cost more than $100, and I bought that one in Hong Kong. I’m average looking…if there isn’t too much light. And short. Very short.
“And now you’re living happily ever after?”
“I need to borrow some money,” she said.
I laughed. Surely some revelation was at hand. “Surely the Second Coming is at hand,” I said.
I was thinking Yeats. She was thinking something else and shrank from me.
“Michael’s in trouble,” she shrieked.
“What kind of trouble?”
“He’s kind of…. behind in his child support.”
“‘Kind of behind’?”
“A year or so.”
I beamed her my tell-me-more. She began sobbing.
“So he owes his ex-wife a bundle?”
“Three ex-wives! Five children!”
“You dumped me for a deadbeat dad—now you want me to pay his back child support?”
“It’s not what you think! Anyway, I didn’t know about all that until….”
Rachel wept uncontrollably. Tissue was inadequate. I got her a towel.
I let her cry, trying to savor the irony. It didn’t make me feel better about myself. Or about her.
When Rachel was cogent, I prepared my lance, then jabbed.
“Tall, dark and handsome, Beamer, lives in a waterfront mansion and dresses to make your heart go pitty-pat—but too cheap to support his own flesh and blood?”
Round two. Rachel cried for another five minutes, long past the point where I regretted my cruelty.
“The house— the car— the furniture— everything's leased,” she murmured. “He got behind… I had to make last month’s payments—He's in real estate and he hasn’t closed a deal since…”
“How much do you need. And what’s it for?”
Dabbing at her eyes, Rachel told me that police arrested Michael for failing to pay court-ordered child support. He told Rachel that one of his listings was about to close escrow; once out of jail, he’d get an advance on the commission. In a few days he’d pay everything.
Bail was $10,000; 10 percent to a bondsman in cash, non-refundable. So, two days earlier, on Friday evening, she’d written a check for $1,000 to get Michael out of orange coveralls and back into Armani.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“All my savings went for car payments and rent!”
I nodded to show that I understood. I didn’t.
“I couldn’t let him stay in jail,” she wailed. “I took $1,000 in cash from the posting drawer.”
Rachel worked for a large bank; she supervised “posting,” ensuring that each deposit or withdrawal was debited or credited to the proper account.
“Before we closed for the weekend, I wrote a personal check,” she explained. “To balance my books. Tomorrow I’ll have to deposit that check, but there’s not even a hundred dollars in my account.”
“Why would you do that?” I asked, incredulous.
“Michael said that he had emergency cash hidden in his office. He said he’d pay me back right away.”
“And you believed him?”
Round three of the waterworks show. I waited until she dried her eyes. She looked more vulnerable, more appealing than ever.
I despised myself for still wanting her.
“Where’s Michael now?”
“Showing a house,” replied Rachel.
“So—a divorce? An annulment?”
“I love Michael and he loves me. We’ll get through this .”
“He lied to you, manipulated you into embezzling—what’s wrong with you?”
“It’s really more of a misunderstanding,” she said. “We’ll work it out.”
You can’t make this kind of stuff up.
“And if you don’t return the cash tomorrow,?” I asked.
“They’ll call the police,” she said. “Even if I don’t go to prison, I’ll never get another good job.”
That kind of a misunderstanding. But I didn’t say it aloud.
“Why come to me?” I asked, relishing the moment. “Surely your mother could help?”
“Mom hates Michael. Says she always knew he was a phony, that I was a fool to fall for his act and that I should have married you.”
Oddly, this did not make me feel better.
“Your mother would let you go to jail?”
“She said she’ll help with a lawyer, but she wouldn’t give me the money because I deserve to be punished.”
Wow, I thought. Tough love.
“I’m only a free-lance writer,” I said. “I live in this crappy townhouse, wear jeans and drive a crappy old Toyota. A thousand bucks is a lot to me.”
Actually, at that moment it wasn’t: I’d just scored a major reprint sale and landed a lucrative brochure project. I was flush.
Rachel worked the ring off the third finger of her left hand. The stone was easily three carats, its myriad facets refracting sunbeams as tiny rainbows.
“Take this for collateral,” she said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a zircon. No pawn shop would give her as much as $50 for it.
“I don’t want your ring,” I said.
“I’ll open a savings account for you and deposit $50 a month.”
I thought about it for a long moment, then wrote her a check.
“I can’t let you go to jail,” I said.
“Thank you! I’ll pay you back! Every cent, with interest. Thank you!”
I didn’t think she would — but I was curious: Years earlier, my then-wife committed a serious crime; although I knew nothing of it until her arrest, she tried to wriggle free by blaming me. Though shocked and horrified, I still loved her. I couldn’t let her go to prison, so I naively offered to sacrifice my freedom for hers; improbably, this became the twisting path to my own subsequent liberation.
All this cost me my savings and a promising career as an Army officer. And of course, I couldn't be married to someone that I couldn't trust.
Now I was watching a replay, gender roles reversed: Michael betrays Rachel; she risks her freedom for his. It almost restored my faith in womanhood.
It was worth a grand to see how things worked out.
A week later the mail brought a bank book with a balance of $10. Not $50. A month later Rachel deposited another $10. She was trying. Ten more the following month and ten the next.
Then nothing. Her phone was disconnected. New tenants occupied the Newport house. Rachel left the bank, though why, how or when they wouldn’t say. I never heard from her again.
Many years later, when I wrote my first movie– the first that was produced – I made my villain a tall, good-looking, well-dressed serial killer with a flashy car. He seduces a needy woman, manipulates her into embezzling, murders her for the loot. Then he does it again. My screen lothario’s last victim supervises accounts posting for a large bank. She takes cash on a Friday afternoon, believing that her lover will repay her before Monday’s reckoning. Right.
At the climax my hero swoops in, shoots the killer, saves the woman — and turns her over to the cops for embezzling.
That screenplay brought way more than $1,000.
I love being a writer: Nothing in my life goes to waste and every story ends as I choose.
Writing well is the best revenge.
© 2000 Marvin J. Wolf
FROM Marvin J. Wolf
On this page are true stories, magazine articles, and short fiction, each offering a glimpse of my life and times. I'll be posting weekly. Your comments welcome. © Marvin J. Wolf. All rights reserved.