No Final Whistle: A Novel

Chapter 1

1995

The alarm clock sounded at 6:30. I rolled over, turned off the buzzer and listened. For a change, it was quiet down below. Usually a crescendo of noise would build in the downstairs apartment and end in shouts and the banging of doors. But this morning, it was quiet.

This was my first apartment after the divorce. I had stayed on as a caretaker of an estate in a small New England town while the owners in New Jersey entrusted the place to me. The estate was over one hundred years old with a small backyard, adjacent to a church. Neither of us were churchgoers, so when my wife left, I was spared the natural gossip of the parishioners. When the place was put up for sale, the owner asked if I was interested in buying the property. After giving the matter considerable thought, I decided to decline on the offer.

Getting up from the bed I walked across the narrow hall to the tiny bath - the two-bedroom unit was big enough for one or two - but for me it was cramped. I glanced at my combination living-dining area. Music sheets were scattered across the wall-to-wall carpet. A couple of crushed empty cigarette packs and several empty beer cans added to the clutter. My acoustic guitar and my electric guitar were propped up against the hide-a-bed sofa. I noticed that my practice amp was plugged in and left on. I walked over to the amplifier, turned the power switch to the off position, and un-plugged the unit. My life was different now with music being just a hobby, not like it was five or six years ago. Then, I was never home on a regular basis. When I was, I hardly spoke to my wife. Part of the time, I was too tired or too drunk.

Being a country singer/guitarist was demanding, but I seemed to survive, not really giving a damn about my marriage, just booking another gig and pleasing the crowd. Crowd wasn’t the rule it was the exception. Playing small clubs as a single or with a sideman usually meant a handful of people - sometimes you did get a pretty good crowd. Getting paid for your night’s work was another matter. Generally, slow nights meant settling for less pay. Customers buying drinks for the singer was never a rarity. It’s amazing how much a person can adjust to large amounts of booze. My performances never seemed to show the effects of ten or so shots of brandy and five or six beers chasers. The drinking had started years before and I managed to fine-tune it into a part of my life. I think they refer to that as a lifestyle.

Anyway, the condo unit wasn’t soundproof at all, so I couldn’t practice without being heard on all three floors. The couple right below me asked if I could turn the volume up so they could hear more of my playing. That was nice. At least the estate had empty rooms on both sides (it was a huge old duplex style) and I had set up practice session rooms. When I was home from playing clubs, it was possible for my wife and me to be in the same building and not see each other for a couple of days. Whether or not it was planned, we adapted to that lifestyle. The divorce was inevitable.

People just don’t become alcoholics, they turn into alcoholics. Events and circumstances in their lives make the bottle seem more attractive. Then the attraction turns to addiction. At least that’s the theory that I have on the subject. In my case, the circumstances and events kept on piling up so fast that barrooms became a big part of my life. Not important, just big. Nothing important happens in barrooms, just the importance that people place on conversations they can’t remember the next morning.

Chapter 2

There isn’t any way to tell this story delicately. To tell it, is to tell my own tale. I was drawn into a world where the brutality of war and the suffering of a people was commonplace. For the most part, I could go weeks and not have a daytime flashback of the terror inside that gun mount. The nights were different. Night sweats were chronic. The mind plays terrifying moments in cinemascope. Drinking was a way I had of trying to suppress those nightmares. It didn’t always work. But now I finally had a full time teaching job, and figured that I could control daytime recurrences of memories of the past. In just two hours, I would find myself fighting those ghosts again.

I took the pillowcase off of the pillow and threw it on the washing machine. I did this every morning because usually the pillowcase was wet with sweat. Night sweats that I couldn’t help and resulted in waking me up as they did this morning. At least I had stopped leaping from the bed and landing in the hallway five or six feet from the bed. This was a symptom of posttraumatic stress disorder I was to later find out. At the time, my wife had encouraged me to go to the VA Hospital for help. Between the knockout pills the VA prescribed, and the booze, I calmed down somewhat. The nightmares continued, and though less frequent, were still present.

I was still able to get up early enough in the morning, to get some substitute teaching work in the area schools. I preferred elementary schools, where I seemed to relate better to younger kids. I later learned, during a counseling session at the VA Hospital, that combat veterans did relate better to kids than to adults. Soon after the divorce, I landed a full time teaching job in a small town not too far from Haxby, the town where I grew up.

I had grown up in a small farming town, on one side of the Connecticut River. On the other side of the river, was the small city of Northallerton, which was a college town, artistic and trendy and in sharp contrast to Haxby. Immediately to the east was Annhern, While smaller in population, Annhern was home to the state university and to Annhern College. Haxby became part of the socio-economic, cultural growth of the area. Like it or not, this was my world; the one I grew up in.

I went into the bathroom and turned on the sink faucets. As the sink filled with water, I started to whistle a song our old band used to play. The song triggered a memory that brought to mind the face of an old friend, our road manager from the early 60’s-Don Stubs. I peeked at the clock and put Don’s face on hold for the moment. It was getting late. I shaved, drained the sink and with an eye on the clock, gathered all my school papers together. This was the day before Thanksgiving and it would be a half-day. The teachers who were moms, would look all stressed out, while most of the kids couldn’t wait for the dismissal bell.

I left the building, walked across the parking lot and thought of our road manager again. Don Stubs wasn’t really a pro-he was just a friend who was pretty good at getting us gigs. He always used to tell us that he really dug our sound. We liked to hear him say things like that. We knew our band sounded like any garage band back then, loud and primitive. Most people were kind and forgiving though- they seemed to really dig our electric guitar sounds.

Throwing my briefcase on the backseat I reminded myself to pick up a bottle of wine for Thanksgiving at brother Bill’s. I got in my car and started off for school.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I thought of our old band again. Our band got regular gigs on Friday nights at a small restaurant. The crowds were college kids, intent on getting drunk, so the quality of music was incidental. I can remember playing Limbo Rock. We would stretch that for half an hour. The following year we took full advantage of the folk music revival. This adjustment gave our band a distinctive ‘folk-rock’ style.

I arrived at school and slowed down as I entered the school parking lot. As I poked along looking for a parking space, I thought of Don Stubs again- and his friend -a tall skinny guy who called himself Zeke. When the boys in the band talked about drinking, Zeke would always brag of a beer joint in Northallerton where he was served, even though he wasn’t of drinking age. I wasn’t old enough to drink either, but I still liked the taste of beer. One night, I decided to drive over to Northallerton to check out the beer joint. No one at the bar asked me for an ID so when our band wasn’t playing, I’d drive out to the place and have a couple of beers. I saw Zeke at the bar maybe five or six times. While I never got to know him that well, alcohol and I became close friends.

I parked my car and as I opened the door to get out, the eight o’clock outside school bell sounded. The sound of the bell reminded me of our ship’s general quarters bell. My thoughts flashed briefly back to my days on board my ship-the USS Brice. After finishing sonar school in Key West, Florida in 1966, I got orders for a tin can (US Navy destroyer) out of San Diego. I would spend the next two years of my young life on the Brice-a destroyer escort. The ship was to deploy to the Western Pacific and Vietnam twice-1966 and 1968. I opened the front door of the school and for the moment anyway, memories of the Brice floated away.

Chapter 3

I walked into the office and one of the teachers said, Good morning, Mr. Bonner.

I am not a morning person, nor am I that sociable. I mumbled something that sounded like good morning and walked quickly past the teachers’ mailboxes, up the stairs to my room. There was just time enough to visit the men’s room before the kids arrived.

After math class and a Pilgrim fact activity sheet, I took my class down to physical education in the gym. Stopping by the office to pick up my mail, I noticed that one piece of mail was different than the rest. It was addressed to me in manuscript. Paying little attention for any detail of its origin, I tore the envelope open and quickly scanned its contents. When I read the first few lines of the letter, I was stunned. The letter was from an old Navy buddy, Ray Saunders. Backing into the copy room, I fought to catch my breath. I decided to continue on to the second floor. As soon as I got to my room, I opened my desk drawer and grabbed the bathroom key. I walked quickly to the teachers’ room and unlocked the men’s room door and went in. Standing in the dark, I could feel the beads of sweat running down my chest. I turned on the lights and put the letter on the towel dispenser. I splashed cold water on my face and neck. Fighting for breath, I knew I was having a flashback. Out of focus images raced through my mind.

Christ, I said, not now.

My breathing slowed down and I knew it was under control. Thank God, the kids were in gym class. Every so often, something unexpected would trigger a flashback-even in school. Occasionally, a flashback would start to simmer but never reach the boiling point.

But three years ago, like today, the kettle had almost boiled over. It was the first day of school. I knew there was a Vietnamese student in the upcoming class. She was new, having transferred from another town. The fourth graders started arriving and making their way to their assigned classrooms. I told them to find a seat anywhere, for now, later I would make changes in the seating arrangements.

I looked up from my desk and directly in front of me was the Vietnamese girl. She smiled, the kind of smile that was apprehensive, yet trusting. Her face caught me completely off guard and I stared at the little girl’s eyes. My stare must have surprised her, because she quickly lowered her eyes.

I got up and moved toward the back of the class, to begin the routine of the opening day. Composing myself as best I could, I introduced myself, letting everyone know what was expected of them for the new school year. Finally, I moved to the front of the class and finished the first part of the directions for my homeroom class. Again I made eye contact with the little Vietnamese girl. I smiled and she smiled back. We were changing classes and it came just at the right time.

I stood in the hallway, trying to catch my breath. My hands felt cold and clammy, and I could feel drops of sweat on my lower back. Seeing her face brought me back to a time and place that was always lurking in the back of my mind.

We had lost two plane spotters that afternoon, as we were engaged in naval gun fire support missions just a hundred yards or so off the coast of Vietnam. We were pounding targets in the II Corps area of operation, around Nha Trang in the Khanh Hoa province. The fore and aft 5-inch guns were relentless, as we delivered rapid-fire salvos of high explosive and white phosphorus (willie peter) shells into our targets.

One entire village was destroyed that afternoon, because of suspected Vietcong activity. We received a well done, because of a high-confirmed kill count. Working as a powder handler directly below the gun mount itself, I couldn’t see the death and destruction that we were bringing to the village. I could only imagine it, and I tried my best not to.

That morning in school, that little girl’s face had returned me to the hell of which I was once a part.

Usually the nights were worse than the days. Some unexpected sight or sound would trigger the day attacks. They wouldn’t last long, just twenty to thirty seconds. I would lose concentration on what I was doing and my breathing would become irregular. It wasn’t that noticeable. To someone watching me, it probably looked like I had a sudden headache or sinus discomfort. I could feel the cold sweat on my back, chest and hands that people couldn’t see. My mind was a different story. During an attack, blurry, fast moving pictures would race through my mind, kind of like a movie projector gone berserk.

One daytime attack was particularly frightening. It was on a Saturday, early spring, just prior to my divorce. I had been raking up the winter dead grass in back of the estate. It was a sunny, pleasant, early April morning. I had my usual Saturday hangover, from the night before. There hadn’t been much of a crowd at the bar and the gig was long and tiring. The shots of brandy and breaks were more frequent than usual.

I had just put the rake and shovel into the wheelbarrow. Stuffing my work gloves into my jacket, I started to steer the wheelbarrow up the curving driveway to the two-car garage. Hearing a familiar thumping sound I turned to my right towards the church. Six or seven assault helicopters were thundering over the treetops, noses down, in attack formation. Dropping the handles of the wheelbarrow, I ran into the garage and slammed the door behind me. Suddenly, I was disoriented and out of breath. I tried desperately to focus on any previous thought.

Later that afternoon, I called my brother who still lived in Haxby, and asked him about the choppers. He told me there was an air show at the airbase celebrating the return of the troops from Desert Storm.

The airbase was home to a C5-A squadron, and had been a SAC base in the fifties. At least there weren’t any air shows at the base during the Persian Gulf War troop build-up. The base was closed to the public. Prior to the Gulf War, my brother was constantly asking me to go with him to the base air shows held every summer. He really meant well, but I had a hard time explaining to him that I just couldn’t. Even occasional helicopter flights overhead, would make me flinch with apprehension.

I remembered my first visit to a VA Hospital. There is a small VA facility outside of Northallerton, about forty-five minutes from Haxby. It had been one year and some months since I had been discharged from the Navy. I drove out to the facility, and walked into the administration building, where patients checked in. Since I wasn’t an outpatient, I had to go through the initial paperwork routine. It was bewildering, and I think designed to discourage one from finishing the process of getting help from the government agency. In the end, my hunch would prove to be right.

The year was 1969, and the war was still going on. Veterans’ Hospitals were busy places, most of the in-patients being WWII vets, and Korean War vets. The V.A. was not receptive to returning Vietnam vets at all, I was to find. All I wanted to do was to talk with someone. No one would listen until all of the forms were filled out. One of the desk clerks asked for my DD214. This was my official discharge paper. I would have to go back home and return with it in order to continue. Finally, I did get to see someone who would listen. The man in veteran’s services, who I ended up seeing, was not very understanding.

Something’s wrong, I began. I can’t sleep except when I’m drunk - normal sleep is impossible. I wake up covered with sweat. Sometimes I leap out of bed, shaking and yelling. The drinking is getting worse, and sleepless nights are more frequent.

I was blurting all of this out, thinking that I was the only one with these problems.

Were you ever treated for this in the service? the veteran’s service agent asked, peering over his glasses.

No, I replied. I felt a sudden rush of anger and a burning sensation in my face.

Well, we can’t help you out, he answered, with a disdainful look. You have to prove that what ever is causing this, is service related. We have veterans here who are being treated for shell shock. All of that is documented in their medical records.

I left the VA that afternoon, to deal with whatever was wrong with me, by myself. The only way I knew how to deal with my problem, was to hit the bottle.

Chapter 4

Vietnam, 1966. IV Corps Sector-Vinh Binh province. It was the Brice’s third consecutive day on the gun line, Dixie Station. We were providing gunfire support for our troops ashore.

Both gun mounts were active, firing a lot of rapid-fire salvos, followed by star shells. We were also firing rounds of highly unstable white phosphorus shells.

I was in the upper handling room, lifting the powder charges out of their aluminum casings. The shells were coming up from the magazine directly below us on a hoist. The hoist was on automatic. One shell would come up and the hoist would stop. An assigned sailor would lift the 60 or so pound five inch shell out of the hoist and place it in the hydraulic lift to go up into the gun mount itself. Powder charges were on a rack. My job was to keep the powder coming. This mission was busy. We were doing a lot of firing, and more powder was needed. The powder had to be sent up from the magazine.

The firing of the guns was fast and furious.

Twelve rounds, rapid fire salvo! The order echoed down from the mount captain above.

Both gun mounts, fore and aft, would fire simultaneously, as fast as powder and shell could be supplied to the gun mount above. There the fuse would be set in each shell before it was fired to target.

I turned to grab the powder casing from the hoist.

The hoist malfunctioned. A shell followed the powder and the chain didn’t stop. One of the other sailors grabbed the shell before the hoist spit it out to fall on the steel deck.

It was hot. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the heat, noise, or the smell of gun grease and steel. The Brice shook as her guns fired round after round. No one was paying much attention to the mal-functioning hoist.

Just as I handed the powder case to the lift loader, I heard the hoist start. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shell come out of the hoist-the chain lift didn’t stop. I lunged sideways and tried to grab the shell. The shell came out of the hoist, pinned my finger between it and the hoist, and then landed on the foot of a sailor standing nearby.

I froze as the shell bounced on the deck and started to roll around. It was a white-phosphorus shell.

It’s a willie-peter shell! Throw the fucking thing over the side before it goes off! shouted a 1st class gunner’s mate.

Two sailors grabbed the shell, opened the dogged down door to a passageway, and finally threw it overboard.

Mr. Bonner, please contact the office.

It was the office intercom. I was late to pick my class up from gym.

We finally got all of the kids off to the buses, on their way home for the Thanksgiving break.

In several minutes I would sit down to read the unexpected letter in its entirety.

Chapter 5

I walked back upstairs to my classroom and closed the door. The envelope was on my desk next to the paperwork that I had planned on taking home to correct. One thing was for sure - teachers had plenty of correcting to do. When you’re a kid, you don’t think of things like that. The papers kind of appeared, with more bad news than good. At least, in my case, it was that way, when I was a student.

Looking out of the window, I could see the buses leaving the schoolyard, with the teachers’ cars not far behind. The sky was overcast, with occasional light snow flurries. The wind made whistling sounds, and it looked cold and raw outside. This was the kind of weather that one would expect to find in New England on the day before Thanksgiving.

I walked slowly back to my desk and I picked up the envelope, and took out the letter. With the letter was a check. Until now, I hadn’t had time to carefully examine the piece of mail.

The envelope was ordinary, but the stationary inside the envelope said-HOTEL MANDARIN, Hong Kong. The letter was simply signed-Ray. After all of these years, a combination of who sent the message, and what it said, especially his urgent message, was unsettling. Aside from Ray’s word of warning, getting a letter from him brought back musty memories from the past.

Along with the letter, Ray had sent a check. The check was a bank draft for two thousand dollars. In his letter, Ray said he was paying me back for the money I had loaned him in South East Asia in the late 60’s. The hotel stationary told me that his general location hadn’t changed during all of these years. That was what I guessed anyway.

I flip-flopped the letter back and forth in my hand and muttered, How the Christ did he know where to find me?

There wasn’t any return address on the envelope. The postmark read, Scottsdale, Arizona. For a moment, I was puzzled.

Suddenly it dawned on me. Ray’s sister Rose sent this to me. She and her husband had moved from California to Arizona. His letter probably came as a shock to them, after all the years of silence. I knew why there was a silence, they did not. As far as I knew anyway, Ray’s sister Rose and her husband Norman had no idea that Ray had deserted the United States Navy in 1968. As far as I knew, they knew nothing of his whereabouts. I did, more or less.

I had exchanged Christmas cards with his sister for years-though I never mentioned Ray or his general whereabouts. I thought the world of Rose and her husband Norman. When the Brice was stateside, Ray and I would frequently spend weekends at Rose’s house in Anaheim. Rose and Norman would open up their house to us-they were generous people. I had fond memories of those days and I looked forward to getting Christmas cards from Rose. In the last exchange of cards, I had mentioned that I was moving. I hadn’t sent her a card yet with my new mailing address. I did tell her however, where I had gotten a teaching job. That was the address on the envelope. The school address wasn’t complete, but the letter had found its way to me.

There wasn’t any note or explanation enclosed from his sister. How could she have an explanation? I would probably hear from her later. All that was in the envelope was Ray’s message and the check. I recalled my days aboard the Brice with Ray. I never saw Ray Saunders write a letter-to anyone. His favorite pastimes were A. Getting drunk, and B. getting laid. Why would he go through the trouble of sending a hand written letter at this stage in his life? It wasn’t hard to come up with a plausible answer. His urgent message of gloom and doom had prompted him to send the letter. That was my theory anyway. Would I ever hear from Ray again? It was hard to say.

Mr. Bonner! I’m glad that you’re still here!

It was the principal. I put Ray’s letter in my jacket pocket.

Chapter 6

In some ways, the principal reminded me of my mother. She was strict and demanding, yet fair. I guess that was one of the reasons why I listened to her and followed her advice. It was also why I presumed myself guilty of some wrong doing, whenever I was asked to meet with her in the principal’s office.

Jay, could I see you in my office before you leave? she asked.

Sure, I replied.

I finally finished straightening the room out and gathering up everything that I wanted to take home for the Thanksgiving break.

About fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of her office doorway.

Come in Jay!

Sitting in back of her desk, and holding an envelope, she asked me to have a seat.

I felt at ease because she did not get up and close her office door. A closed door meeting, was not a sign of good things to come.

She was tapping the palm of her left hand with the envelope. I was beginning to feel apprehensive.

Jay, she began; The superintendent received this letter yesterday.

The palms of my hands felt sweaty, and I leaned forward in the chair.

She continued; Jay, you have been chosen to participate in a citizen ambassador program. It is a program designed to send an elementary education delegation to Vietnam. The purpose of the delegation will be to study different aspects of Vietnamese education.

She handed me the letter.

It was from the Eisenhower Institute. There it was, in black and white. I was selected to receive the invitation because of my activity in the field of education. A list of different criteria was printed to explain why my name was chosen.

A detailed itinerary was enclosed with the cover letter.

With the sweat again starting to run down my back, I stood up. Suddenly, one of my knees buckled. Trying to maintain my composure, I took a deep breath and stepped backward, around the chair.

I continued to read. Scheduled destinations included, Hong Kong, Hanoi, and Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon).

The trip would take place in early spring of the coming year.

Any concentration I had was suddenly gone.

My glance caught her squinting eyes. Her expression was one of maternal concern.

"Are you ill?’ she asked.

Uh - I probably picked something up from the kids. I managed.

She pressed on. Jay, as you might have guessed, your acceptance of this invitation, would mean a lot to our school district. The superintendent and I are asking you to seriously consider this honor. Surplus grant money would be available to defray expenses.

I was in South East Asia, I interrupted with a steady, even voice.

She paused. Oh! Well, things are different now, Jay. This is such an exciting opportunity.

The phone rang, and she picked up the receiver to take the call.

Things, however, had not changed.

It’s never done intentionally. To the general public, when an event ends, attention is directed towards something else. A thirty-minute television program, or a football game, for example. When the final whistle is blown, the game is over.

For the men and women, who return from battle, there isn’t a final whistle. These veterans belong to a special club. Each one owns a piece of real estate from hell. Bought, paid for, and hidden deep in the recesses of the human mind, terrifying visits to the property can occur unexpectedly. The contest, for most of them, never ends. The final whistle never sounds.

My attention focused back to the principal.

______________ and I hope that you will give this your most serious thought. Special coverage will be provided for your absence.

You can have my answer now, if you like, I offered.

Her mouth opened.

I wish you would take your time --.

My answer is, NO.

She seemed to be taking my refusal graciously, as far as I could tell. I placed the letter on her desk, and started to leave.

Jay, I really wish you would give this some thought.

My answer is final, I said. I just couldn’t.

Walking out of the main office, I opened the double doors to the outside sidewalk.

The weather was just as it looked from upstairs. It was cold and windy. An occasional snowflake flew past my nose, as if in a hurry to get somewhere.

It was just the opposite for me. When you live alone, there isn’t any urgency for an excursion.

Mine was one of four cars left in the small parking lot. Opening the back door, I threw my briefcase on the back seat.

Goddamn, it was cold. A light coating of snow covered the windshield. After starting the engine, I put my head back and closed my eyes. Taking off a glove, I felt the inside of my jacket pocket to make certain that Ray’s letter was still there. Waiting for the car to warm up, I began to drift in thought.

Chapter 7

I snapped out of my daydream and hunched over the steering wheel. It was cold. My fingers felt like ice. I stuck my hand in front of a dashboard heater duct. Warm air was finally coming out of the heater vent. I tapped the steering wheel keeping time with a strange new noise that seemed to be coming from the heater fan. The pulsating rhythm reminded me of stripper music. Thinking of stripper music made me think of the time we had driven to Boston after high school graduation.

The exotic dancer’s red tassels had distracted and intrigued me to the point of oblivion. Regaining my senses, I heard the bouncer tell us to get the fuck out of the bar.

Boston, June 1961; The Combat Zone.

It was an instance in my life that I occasionally recall with fondness. A time of youth, innocence, and friendship.

To celebrate our graduation from high school, the five of us had driven in to Boston. We took the car that we figured would safely get us there and back. I think it was a 1955 Plymouth sedan, or close to that. An older brother, attending college in Boston, was gracious enough to let us stay overnight in his modest apartment.

Was it not for Louis, we probably would have been unnoticed in the strip bar. He was a strapping farm lad, accustomed to hoisting seventy-five pound bags of potatoes with ease. The bar was crowded, and we were trying to blend in with the bar patrons. Things were going smoothly until Louis ordered a glass of gin at the bar. Never having had a drink in his life, he pronounced gin with a hard g.

I bit into the greasy, submarine sandwich, some twenty minutes later. My pride was wounded, but at least I had a racy story to tell involving red tassels. Even if I decided not to recount this adventure, just the thought of those tassels, brought enjoyment. Besides, a submarine sandwich was a new eating experience for all of us. We were savoring each messy mouthful. Swallowing a particularly hot bite, I wondered why my mother had never thought of this. Perhaps, this kind of cooking hadn’t been discovered yet, in our part of the state.

We soon found ourselves in a sleazy, dark theater watching some B grade film. Hoping to see bare flesh, all we were treated to was a jumpy, black and white flick, with occasional views of women in bras, panties, or negligee.

Getting off the T at the waterfront, I told the others that I wanted a closer look at a sidewalk poster in front of the Navy’s recruiting office. I was unable to give an explanation as to why. I stood in front of the military’s public relations pitch.

With sea bag slung over his shoulder, the sailor, in dress blues, and squared away white hat, was beckoning. Adventure and far away places waited. For me the poster had done its work.

We spent the remainder of the evening in the apartment munching on chips, drinking tonic and watching Charlie Chan reruns.

While on the gun line in Vietnam, I would often think of this time in my life.

Whether or not my companions kept in touch with each other over the years, I never knew. After the war, I isolated myself from everyone, with the exception of my immediate family.

Chapter 8

The inside of my car was as warm as toast, but I had decided to stay put for a while. I got Ray’s letter out and looked at it again.

Ray’s letter had come as a pleasant surprise. I still considered Ray a friend-even though he was a deserter. I quickly scanned through his letter. His opening paragraph hadn’t lost any of its punch.

I was momentarily distracted by the noise of a car door slamming. The teachers were firing up their cars and zooming out of the parking lot. I stared at Ray’s urgent message for a couple of minutes then I quickly scanned through the rest of the letter. The remaining text of Ray’s letter brought me up to date on how he had done for himself and other things-listed item by item. One. He was paying me back the money he had borrowed from me in 1968-plus interest. Two. He had cashed in on the Hong Kong electronic boom and was leading a comfortable life in Hong Kong. Three. After the Brice weighed anchor and left Hong Kong in 1968, cable divers discovered and recovered the ASROC (anti-submarine rocket) manual pages. Four. His girlfriend’s brother delivered the ASROC pages to the other side. Five. His girlfriend’s brother had set him up with the bad guys (the two civilian engineers). The two engineers had tried to make him talk about the ASROC launcher and SOSUS (Ocean Sound Surveillance System)-but he didn’t crack-even though they had busted up his hands. (This would explain his peculiar appearance in the beer advertisement picture-the one I had spotted in a Hong Kong bar). Then he mentioned the fact that he had a twenty-year old daughter, LeeAnn, who was living with him in Hong Kong. At the end of his letter he wished me well.

I’d been enjoying marked progress in forgetting the past. Receiving Ray’s letter this morning, brought back all of those memories.

The flashback that had occurred when opening the letter had subsided. I knew that it would. What I was afraid of happening next had started. The sorting out process had begun.

I remembered my first two tours of duty in the coastal waters of Vietnam-1966 & 1968. I was a sailor then on the USS Brice. Then I recalled the sonar page incident in the Gulf of Tonkin and the ASROC manual page incident in Hong Kong Harbor. Both incidents had taken place in 1968-twenty-seven years ago. Over the course of time, I had stopped blaming myself for the careless disposal of secret military documents. But Ray’s letter suddenly brought back the pangs of guilt.

Ray’s urgent message was startling. But there was a double whammy in Ray’s letter. Just as shocking to me anyway, was what he had to say about the ASROC pages. When I had thrown the pages overboard in 1968, I figured no one would ever find them-they were at the bottom of Hong Kong Harbor. But according to Ray’s letter, the bad guys not only found the pages, they had recovered them. Now, more than ever, I was convinced that in 1968, I had put the ASROC weapons system up for grabs. At the very least, I figured I had given the other side a golden opportunity to improve on their Cold War anti-submarine weapons program. Because of my careless disposal of the launcher documents, I felt that in part, I was responsible for the present threat to our national security-the threat that Ray had described in his letter-his forecast of bad things to come.

In 1968 I had been called to task on the sonar page incident. But to the best of my knowledge, no one knew about the launcher page incident-no one except the officers and senior petty officers of the Brice. If questioned now about the launcher pages, I would admit that I had dumped them overboard. I would do so because of my sense of honor and duty to my country.

The Navy had ordered me to Vietnam in 1966 and 1968. I was released from active duty July of 1968. I made my third trip back to Vietnam in August of 1968 as a civilian. During my third trip and seeking information about a friend’s death, I had negotiated a deal with U.S. Army Intelligence in Saigon. It wasn’t that complicated. I had asked for a favor from Army Photo Intelligence-Vietnam. Army Intelligence agreed to help me out because they were interested in what I had to offer in return.

When Photo Intelligence completed their work on my request, the results were startling. What they stumbled upon rocked the US Army Command in Vietnam.

Details of the dumping of the ASROC launcher pages in Hong Kong Harbor, as far as I knew anyway, had remained on board the Brice. The only official dispatch sent to CINCPACFLT, at that time, concerned the disappearance of Ray Saunders in Hong Kong. He was listed as being AWOL, and documented as such in the ship’s deck log.

The fate of the ASROC launcher’s classified manual pages had been unknown to me for twenty-seven years. Even so, and after all that time, the strategic value of the launcher pages was still significant. The launcher pages contained schematic diagrams of the electrical and hydraulic systems of the ASROC launcher. Moreover, the pages named electronic components of the MK 113 ASROC launcher computer. In other words, the launcher pages that I had tossed over the side of the Brice in 1968, contained detailed plans of the US Navy’s anti-submarine weapons system-the same system I believed still used by the US Navy-a system capable of delivering conventional and nuclear warheads. Ray’s letter had revealed the fate of the launcher pages and more important, had sounded an alarm. His hot tip-his ominous message was not to be taken lightly.

I would have a long night ahead of me, trying to sort through all of this. My companions would be Jack Daniels and a pack of cigarettes.

The secretary’s car drove out ahead of me. She had tapped on my window to see if all was well. My car was the last to leave the parking lot.

Chapter 9

Early March 1964

Leaning my guitar against the amplifier, I headed for one of the beer kegs located across the dark, smoke-filled room. Our band had just finished playing Memphis.

As I pushed my way through the throng of fraternity partygoers, a good-looking co-ed grabbed my arm. Her long brown hair clung to her partially unbuttoned sweater. She had been dancing in front of the band trying to get my attention. Her efforts had been successful.

Hi. I’m Pam. I just love your voice.

Thanks, I replied.

Working her hand up underneath my silver shirt, she began to rub my chest.

In need of a beer, I found myself dragging her along. She was drunk.

By now, I was used to these pleasant distractions. It was all part of performing.

Beer in hand, I edged my way toward an opening in the crowd. The cute brunette had passed out in a corner where the floor freezer stood. With friends hovering over her, she seemed to be in good hands.

After telling our road manager that I needed a cigarette, I opened a basement door to the cold New England air.

Lighting up and taking a deep drag, I thought about my announcement at the supper table earlier that evening.

We had played our regular gig at the White Restaurant the night before. The Friday afternoon drive from the State College to Haxby, had taken longer than usual. There was just enough time to pack my equipment in the car, and grab a sandwich. Our manager had this thing about starting exactly on the hour.

I had transferred to a State College in the Berkshires, and the drive home during the winter months was slow and dangerous. We were booked every weekend and the money was good. Needing the cash, I endured each Friday’s long, tedious drive.

Besides, this was our third year playing professionally, and we were all bitten by the show business bug. I guess you could say that we were hot. The glare of the spotlight and playing to a packed house every weekend became addicting.

Today was Saturday, and I had ample time to break the news of my decision to my folks. The gig at the fraternity house in Annhern started at eight. This gave me time to tactfully work in my piece of news during supper conversation. In our house, frequent dinner dialogue provided respite from my mother’s bland cooking. Between mouthfuls of watery, homemade spaghetti, I casually mentioned that I had decided to join the Navy. After reassuring everyone that I would finish the college semester, we finished the meal in an uneasy calm.

People join the military for many different reasons. In some ways, mine were selfish. There wasn’t a sudden rush of patriotism, nor was there a sense of duty to carry on a Navy family tradition. Instead there was this restless urge to do something. College seemed like such a goddamn waste of time. If I dropped out of school, that would screw up my deferment. I would be reclassified 1-A in the draft. Enlisting in the Navy made the most sense.