The Blue Hippopotamus: A Semi-Autobiographical Novel as Told by Earle Porlock, (Aka Paul Ehrlich

THE Blue

HIPPOPOTAMUS

A SEMI-AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOVEL

As told by Earle Porlock, (aka Paul Ehrlich)

PAUL EHRLICH

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© Copyright 2012 Paul Ehrlich.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2851-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2853-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2852-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012906339

Trafford rev. 09/21/2012

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CONTENTS

PART I

I

II

III

III-A

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

PART II

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

PART III

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

EPILOGUE

Dedications

My flavorite son Peter who helped so much with editing and good humor and reminding me of past things and happenings.

My number 2 son Julian, who helped me so much to see the other half of the equation.

My youngest son Joshua, who helped me to develop my attempts at mindful living and introduced me to Thích Nhất Hạnh

My first wife Betty, so helpful and patient.

My present wife Isabelle, who helped me with so much patience to live through my attempts to recapture my early and present life for the book.

My parents, Ida and Simon, who put up, with so much patience, with a terribly difficult child.

Illonka Nyland, who started me on the road to mindful living by teaching me how to sweep a floor.

Agha Maleknia Nasr Alishah, who showed me how to enlarge the boundaries of life, and taught me the true meaning of love.

Maidi Schaller, who I saw so few times but so changed my life to include the beautiful.

Jascha Heifetz and Dorothy DeLay, who taught me how to play the violin.

PART I

The Kiss of the Baboon

I

My friend Tommy had a great joke that he would pull at appropriate times when someone had uttered a large pomposity, especially on the radio (there was no TV in those days). In a very statesman-like voice—he called it his stentorian voice, though I think he got the definition slightly wrong—in tones of great sadness, compassion and resolve he would begin some famous quotation, like WHEN IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS IT BECOMES NECESSARY FOR ONE NATION TO BUU—AHH—AHH—AHH, at which point his eyes would roll up and his body would start to convulse and people would run screaming, sure he was going to vomit all over them, while the rest of us would roll on the floor screaming with laughter. He didn’t do it often, but when he did it, the reaction was a higher form of existence.

Tommy and the rest of our little group were on the Boys High track team—I was the sprinter—the 100 yard dash, the 220, and, when pressed, the 440 relay, which I hated—I was very fast, but I had no endurance, and they always put me on anchor. The reason I was so fast was my little secret, shared only by Tommy, who had been my best friend since 4th grade. In elementary school I was one of the slowest, but after a few Field Days where I got used to cat-calls and laughs I sat down with myself one day and figured it all out—which muscles to work out, which arm moves speeded up the legs, and then, since that speeded up the legs but shortened the stride, which moved you faster but not much—how to get around that defect by lengthening your stride without slowing the legs. You’d like to know? Hah!! In your dreams.

One nice result of being so fast was I didn’t have to go to practice. Mr. Palmer, the track coach, was very nice about it when I explained that I’d quit the team. Sometimes I’d practice by myself—we lived in Brooklyn, Bedford Avenue between I and J, and there was a bus that turned the corner at J, and I’d race it to Avenue I—the long city block—and usually beat it. Mr. Palmer wanted me to try out for the Olympics, but he said I’d have to go to practice. That was the year the Olympics were held in Germany and Jesse Owens won all the medals, to the great embarrassment of Adolph Hitler and his Master Race. I wonder what he would have done if a Jewish kid from Brooklyn won all the rest of the medals.

By the time we all graduated the depression was pretty much over, and jobs were not hard to find. Some of us would still meet once or twice a week at the little coffee-shop near the Paramount building where we used to hang out, usually bringing our present (and sometimes interchangeable) girlfriends, and talk about what would be interesting to do now that we had nothing interesting to do. I would usually bring Betty, who I had met at track meets—she was the Girls High high jumper, and a great girl, and very pretty. Tommy, who had used our secret to become a great long jumper, would bring Astrid, and Frankie, our mile runner, would bring Eleanor, whose father was known as the Guru, or sometimes Frankie would show up with Kendra and Silvio the Ketchup man would bring Eleanor. Silvio was a huge handsome brute, the Shot-Put King, but we called him the Ketchup man because he was allergic to Ketchup. If anyone at our table put Ketchup on his fries or his burger Silvio would get nauseous. I had the same allergy but never showed it. It was a holdover from the depression days not too long before when sometimes all we had to eat was to go to the Blenheim Cafeteria and eat a bowl of Ketchup.

That summer—1941—I took a job in Maine as a steeplejack. I took it for two reasons—first, it paid $4 an hour, a hell of a lot more than local jobs that paid 60 or 65 cents. And second, I was scared shitless of heights, and I thought I might cure myself. It worked somewhat—I still got pretty scared, but I could manage so nobody would notice. I came back to Brooklyn in the fall, my pockets full of money and feeling pretty good about myself. One day as winter approached I was having a cup of coffee with Tommy at the old hangout, and suddenly Silvio came running in and shouted, the Japanese just attacked Pearl Harbor. Tommy and I looked at each other, and we both said, Who the hell is Pearl Harbor? Silvio got the counterman to turn on the radio, and we couldn’t believe what we were hearing. The entire US Navy, it sounded like, being blown to bits. And then, President Roosevelt came on and gave his a day that will live in INFAMY!! speech.

Someone turned off the radio and we all sat in silence, stunned, for several minutes. And then, finally, Tommy and I looked at each other, and we both knew what we were thinking. Tommy whispered Marines? and I nodded.

So shortly after Christmas, there we were in Boot camp at Parris Island, South Carolina, listening to our Drill Sergeant yell at us and yelling Yes Sir, Sir back at him whenever he yelled 25 push-ups because we’d wiggled whenever a mosquito landed on us, which was often. I was lucky that I could control myself better than most, partly a result from a conversation Tommy and I had about a year before with Eleanor’s father, the Guru. I’d asked him about not feeling pain when you went to the dentist, and he told us it was just a matter of shifting your attention. Tommy asked what that meant.

You are your attention, said the Guru.

No I’m not, said Tom. I’m here. I’m this body, these are my arms and legs and head.

That’s your body, parts of your body, but not You. You are not your body. That shirt you’re wearing is yours, your shirt, but it is not You. You are not your shirt, or your pants, or your nose, or your piss. Or your girlfriend, my daughter’s friend Astrid. They may be yours, but they are not You.

So, who am I, then, or what am I? asked Tom

I just told you. You are your attention. You are not the person who looks or feels or thinks, or wishes, or tells himself he wants, whatever he tells himself he wants.

This all sounds like a lot of crap and double-talk. If I want something, who is wanting it if not me?

That depends on what you want, or need. If you want something that You really need, it may be really You who wants it. But if it’s just something that your body wants, or thinks it wants, or your imagination thinks it needs—then it’s not You, just your body or your imagination.

But how can—

Come on, Tom, I said, just try shifting your attention, like he says. Forget the deeper stuff. Anyway, I think he’s right. So many times what we want turns out to be not what we really wanted or needed, just what we thought we wanted. Haven’t you?

Yeah, I guess so, Earle. But still, if I’m not me, who’s asking this question?

So there we were, trying not to twitch when we were standing at attention and the mosquitoes and the sand fleas landed. I did better than most of the guys, except when they got in my nose or ears. I did get caught once, though, and had to do 25— Sergeant Horn, our drill sergeant was skewering one of our guys who had broken down and slapped at a mosquito, and Sergeant Horn was yelling right in the guy’s face, going on about the Marine Spirit and Courage and Honor, and I happened to make the big mistake of glancing at Tommy, and Tommy mouthed Courage and Honor and Buu-ahh-ahh and I burst out laughing, I couldn’t help it. Of course, Sergeant Horn made like he hadn’t noticed, and finished his lecture, and then walked slowly over to me with a deadly expression on his face, and put his nose, which looked like an over-ripe sausage, right into my face, and said, Something funny, Recruit Porlock? and of course I had to yell No Sir, Sir and he said 25 and once around the field and I thought I’d show off, and stupidly ran around the field at Olympic speed, and he walked back and looked at me with his deadly look for a full minute, and said, I’ve got my eye on you, Porlock. We don’t like wise guys around here.

Some weeks later, while we were doing our morning drill, standing at attention while Sergeant Horn lectured us and then described the morning activities, I noticed that there was a Marine officer standing to the side, watching us. A couple of days later he was back, watching us, standing closer, and I saw he was a Lieutenant Colonel, and he seemed to be especially watching me, and I thought, uh-oh, Horn reported something about me and I’m in for it. And again I cursed my stupidity—up till then I had been purposely keeping a low profile, never drawing attention to myself, and here I made two mistakes in a row.

When we went in for lunch an MP stopped me and said Colonel Hanson wants to see you, and led me to an office in a different part of the building. A sign on the door said Personnel and below that, Lieutenant Colonel H. Hanson. The MP knocked and opened the door. The same man I had seen was sitting at the desk, and waved me to the chair opposite. Ahh, Porlock… he said, and paused. I’ve been watching you.

I know, I said.

Do you know why?

No idea. I thought maybe Sergeant Horn said something.

Yes, he did. He’s quite impressed with you. Said he’s never seen anybody who could run that fast. Or could get all bitten up without blinking. Would it be OK with you if I called you Earle? Saying ‘Recruit Porlock’ all the time is so clumsy.

Call me whatever you like, I said.

Well, Earle, we’re in a bit of a bind here, he said, and I think you can help us. I’ve been looking over your resume. 20 years old. Captain of the Math team. Concertmaster and violin soloist with the High School Orchestra. Star runner on the track team. 12 gold medals. One gold medal for Math. Declined Olympic tryout—wouldn’t go to practice. Two months working as a steeplejack. Doesn’t drink, take drugs, get into trouble. Have you had lunch?

Not yet. Was just about to when the MP came.

Well, I’ll see if I can scrounge something up he said. I have a proposition for you, something you’ll have to think about. Something I want you to volunteer for.

Col. Hanson led me through the Officers lounge to the Officers cafeteria, which was mostly empty, with lots of luscious food still on display.

Go ahead, Earle, he said as I hesitated. Some chicken? Some beef stew? Try one of these rolls with your beef. We’ll have coffee and cake when you finish. I bet you haven’t had a good meal in a few months. Tell me, are you doing the Martial Arts now?

Right, I said.

Which ones do you like the best?

They’re all great. I specially like Aikido. Also Tai-Chi.

I thought you would. How many more weeks do you have?

Three more.

And then what?

Whatever Sgt. Horn says. Probably weapons handling.

I suspect you won’t be here by then.

What! I won’t be here? What will I be doing?

What would you most like to do?

Graduate. Become a real Marine, not just a recruit. Maybe work up to Sergeant.

How about winning the war?

Of course.

Well, this is your big chance—a chance that comes along only once in a lifetime. Don’t blow it.

What’s this all about?

Up to this point we’re just talking. If I go any further you have to swear you’ll never tell anyone what I say.

I swear I’ll never tell.

Don’t be so glib. This is very serious. If you swear, if you take an oath, as it’s called, that’s for the rest of your life. You never tell your buddy Tommy. You never tell your friends. If you get married you never tell your wife. If you have children you never tell your kids. Never… unless you’re released.

Wow!!

Yes, Wow… I have to go, now—some duties I must attend to. I’ll give you a pass so you won’t have to do 100 push-ups. Don’t tell anybody about this. Don’t tell Tom. Say you had to go to the bathroom.

Can Tommy be part of this?

No.

I haven’t volunteered yet, Sir.

Yes you have. I volunteered you.

I won’t do it unless Tommy’s in too.

We’ll talk about it later, after I tell you what it’s about. Go on back to your platoon.

II

When I got back the guys were gearing up for a six mile hike with full gear—the 70 lb. load. Sgt. Horn just gave me a pitying look when I showed him the pass, but to my complete surprise he winked at me when his back was turned to the others. Tommy gave me a questioning look, but I just whispered later. After dinner Tommy and I walked around till lights out, with me in the peculiar situation of trying to explain something about which I had no idea. Tommy always takes things lightly and makes jokes, but we both started to get nervous. We’ve always done things together, he kept on saying, and that’s the way I felt too. He said in three weeks you won’t be here? What can that mean?

Let’s just wait, I said. He’ll call me again. Right now we don’t have a clue.

Next morning we had our usual—what some of the guys called the half hour of torture, standing at attention without moving a muscle while Sgt. Horn yelled at us and insulted us and the mosquitoes mutilated us. I had got so I didn’t mind it. In a perverse way I even almost liked it—I liked the amount of self-control I was getting. It made me feel very strong, in charge of myself and almost invulnerable.

But my invulnerability suffered a setback when we went to the boxing ring. First we practiced delivering quick jabs and recoils, then evading them from an opponent. I was very good at the jabs but terrible at evading them and I got decked twice—once by a big guy named Sam, who got me hard on the chin, and once by the instructor, who was circling around with me and suddenly smacked me hard on the forehead before I could react, and down I went backwards, to everybody’s amusement including my own. Before I could get back at him he turned around and walked away laughing. I went back to the line hoping I’d get called again, but then the same MP appeared and whispered to Sgt. Callahan, the instructor, and Sgt. Callahan looked at me and gestured with his head, and again I followed the MP to Col. Hanson’s office.

Well, Earle, said the Colonel as I got seated, Have you thought about our last conversation?

Not much, I said

Liar, he said. You and Tom went for a long walk last night and I bet that’s all you talked about. Right?

Right.

Did you tell him you’d have to swear not to tell him anything more?

Yes.

What was his reaction?

Same as mine. Complete nervous puzzlement.

So it looks like I have to tell you more. Right?

Right.

And will you swear you’ll never repeat what I’m going to tell you?

I swear I won’t repeat it.

That’s not good enough. You have to swear by all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear, that you will not repeat what I am about to tell you. To anyone.

So I swore by all I held sacred that I wouldn’t tell. And here’s what he said: that there was a man in a German prison camp who had to be saved at all costs, and for many reasons the British couldn’t be the ones to do it, and so they had asked us for five of our men—Marine Recruits, they said, to come over to England for special training, and save this man. I asked him why the Britishers couldn’t do it.

I can’t tell you that, he said.

Why is he so special?

I can’t tell you that either.

Can’t this wait till I graduate? You said before three weeks. I’m to graduate in five weeks. What’s the big hurry?

It can’t wait. The Nazis are looking all over for him. He has crucial information. They don’t realize that they already have him under a different name.

Why can’t Tommy be in it?

They’re asking for five men. You’re the fifth.

If I don’t graduate will I still be a Marine instead of just a recruit?

You’ll be a member of the Marine Special Forces. When it’s over, if you come out alive, we’ll talk about your future. You’ll probably be a War Hero.

What do I tell my folks?

Just that. Marine Special Forces. No details.

If you’re ever one man short—if somebody gets sick or something—will you take Tommy?

Yes. Tommy was the sixth man on our list.

I hope somebody I don’t know gets very sick. What happens now?

Four men are arriving tonight from Camp Pendleton. You’ll meet them. You’ll like them. They’re runners like you. They made second place in the Olympic relay tryouts.

From Camp Pendleton? From California? They’re Hollywood Hipsters?

Camp Pendleton is in San Diego County, not Hollywood. The terrain there is much tougher than here. Six mile hikes up and down big rocky hills. They can probably outrun you.

That’ll be the day.

Two of them are much stronger than you are. They may have to carry him after you get him out. Taking turns, while you’re running for your life.

Sounds like great fun. What do you mean—after I get him out?

You think you’ll be there just to watch?

The rest of the day I was off duty, packing up all my gear, writing post cards to my folks and to Betty. An MP brought a set of civvy clothes and told me to change everything, even my underwear. Then he walked off with a smile. I’ll keep these, he said. Apparently you won’t be needing them for a while.

I ate lunch with a different squad, who all looked at me, in my civvy clothes, suspiciously, but didn’t ask any questions, and then I said goodbye to the guys in my squad, and Tommy gave me a big hug, and he looked like he was almost crying, and so was I. Well, he said, we knew that this would have to happen sooner or later, and it’s too bad it’s happening sooner, but what the hell, life’s an adventure, right? So you have fun—I know we will—and when all this is over we’ll get together again and talk about what it was like and all that happened and Courage and Honor and you know what. And maybe we’ll have some new jokes by then. Right?

Right, I said, but we’ll never have a better joke than your vomiting act. How about it guys, one more time, together?

So we formed a circle, all eight of us, and I gave the signal, and we all bent over and went BUU—AHH—AHH—AHH as loud and as horribly as we could, and two guys from the next squad came rushing in to ask what was the matter, and soon all ten of us were rolling on the floor, laughing so hard we were almost throwing up for real.

I watched the afternoon drill—more boxing, emphasis on body preparation and footwork and balance for left hooks and right crosses, wanting more than ever to be there and be part of it. During the break Sgt. Horn came over and shook hands, and wished me luck. Then we saw a plane come in and land on the airstrip, and soon the MP came for me. Evidently my days at Parris Island were over.

Col. Hanson was standing with a group near the plane. There were two Marine Captains and four recruits I’d never seen before, wearing civvies, not even camouflage, but looking the way recruits do, all chatting and standing at ease. Col. Hanson told everybody, This is Earle Porlock, our fifth man. You’ll all be introduced while you’re flying. He turned to one of the Captains. Re-fueling finished? Half hour? Good. Let’s go get something to eat. You have a long trip ahead of you. We all piled into a Jeep and got coffee and sandwiches at the Officer’s cafeteria. Soon the plane took off. We were in a PR-31, the fastest in the fleet, capable of 375 miles per hour. Maximum crew, five. We had six, including the Captain/pilot, but figured it was OK since we had no luggage and we were all very thin. We flew very low, lights out, sometimes just skimming the water to avoid any detection. Most of the guys fell asleep right after takeoff—they’d already had a long trip from San Diego.

I kept thinking about skimming low to prevent detection, and the more I thought the less sense it made, so finally I moved up forward. The Captain was glad to have some company, and we started making some small talk. Then I asked him about flying low.

I’d think flying high would be better—harder to see, harder to hit, no?

That’s what we used to do, he said, but now they have a new gadget, just invented, that shows a dot on a screen—a ‘blip’, they call it—that shows anything flying. It’s called ‘Radar’. Radio device something. We don’t know if the Germans have it yet, but we’re not taking any chances. There’s something else new, too. Some genius figured the shortest distance between two dots—on a globe, that is, not on a flat surface—is a curved line, and pretty soon, we’re told, we’ll be told to fly to England over the North Pole, because that’s the shortest curved line from New York to London, since they’re both in the Northern Hemisphere—not straight like we’ve been doing. Won’t that be weird?

I asked him how long he’d be staying in England. Two days, he said, and then my orders are to fly back to Langley Field, Virginia. Maybe I’ll try flying over the South Pole to see if that’s even shorter.

I stayed up front with the pilot a couple of hours, then I went back to the hold and joined the sleepers. We all slept about eight hours more, then we started introducing ourselves and shaking hands. First there were Larry and Harry, introduced by the others as the twins, although they were obviously not related, Larry very blonde, with a sad thin face, and Harry very dark and chunky. They also called Harry the Whiskey Locker, a joke I didn’t get at first. The other two were Eugene and Edison. I asked Edison who he was named after, and he laughed. My father worked for Henry Ford, and wanted to name me after Ford’s son Edsel, but he didn’t know how to spell it, so I ended up as Edison, which I like better anyway.

Eugene gave me a funny look, and said, Are you the famous Earle Porlock, the runner who didn’t want to be famous?

That’s me, I said.

I’d like to try you out, he said, and we both grinned. Then the Whiskey Locker produced from nowhere a bottle of orange juice and a small loaf of bread, and we had breakfast.

We landed at a small airfield about 60 miles southwest of Heathrow Airport, and there was a car and a tall English Captain waiting for us. He looked keenly at each of us in turn, with a slightly amused look on his weather-beaten face. Welcome to England, gentlemen, he said, with a clipped British accent, Have a pleasant trip?

Very pleasant, we said.

Well, that’s too bad, he said, But I guess it couldn’t be helped. Anybody wish to try out the facilities? We looked around, and he gestured to a few small bushes at the side of the road.

Watch out for this guy, said Edison in a whisper loud enough for the Captain to hear. He may be hiding a sense of humor. The Captain acknowledged the jibe with a one fingered half-salute, and we all piled into the car.

By the way, said the Captain while he drove, my name is Andrews, and I’ll be in charge of this operation. You may call me ‘Captain’ or ‘Sir’ . . . Captain Andrews but not Sir Andrews. I haven’t been knighted yet. In any case it would be ‘Sir Henry’, not ‘Sir Andrews’. I understand you people don’t salute officers, but you may do so any time you feel the urge.

Ahh, whispered Harry the Whiskey Locker, Sir Henry… That’ll be my name.

III

We drove for about 15 minutes over empty fields covered with scrub grass, and came to a small group of low one-story buildings. Behind them was a small parade ground circled by a narrow dirt path. An English sergeant came out of the first building and nodded to the Captain, and we all followed him into the building, which had a few empty small rooms and one central room much larger but nearly empty except for some chairs and tables and a desk, and in the middle a boxing ring. This is Sgt. Clark, said the Captain after we had all assembled. He’ll be working with us. You’ll find him extremely useful, later on. He has an eidetic memory. Anybody know what that is?

He eats only egg-whites? asked Larry.

He only eats them when they’re not dead yet? asked Eugene.

He remembers what it was like to eat, when he used to eat, I said.

Has nothing to do with eating. Well, maybe a few omelettes. said Edison, hopefully.

You guys are very funny, said Captain Andrews. A real bunch of clowns. I guess that’s about all we can hope for from American soldiers, right? But how am I supposed to turn you into a ‘lean fighting machine’, capable of doing heroic deeds?

Take the hint, said Harry and Larry in unison. Let’s eat something.

So Captain Andrews made a big show of giving up, let out a huge sigh, almost a sob, and looked at Sgt. Clark and shrugged his shoulders. Sgt. Clark looked at his watch and returned the shrug.

All right guys, you win, said Captain Andrews. "As you might say in the States, OK. There was supposed to be a welcoming committee for you, and a grand meal, and lots of speeches, some of which would have been short, but something got mucked up and I’m all you’ve got. Not that I’m apologizing or anything, but we are in the middle of a war here, and sometimes plans have to change. Sgt. Clark, you know the terrain around here. Any place near for a good meal?"

Fish and chips, sir? Six miles down the road.

Good enough, said Andrews, and back to the car we went. Sgt. Clark squeezed in too—a compact man, probably middle thirties, very good-looking and very competent looking.

The deep fried fish and huge fat potato pieces were served in newspaper dripping with oil, much to our amusement, but delicious and nicely filling. We returned to the base still disappointed with our official reception but ready to go to work. Captain Andrews sat us down and took a seat facing us.

"You are here for a very important, very secret, very dangerous mission. Some of it you have been told already. Some will become clear as we proceed. Some you will probably never be told. The reason for that you will also never be told. The reason we’re using you instead of British trainees will probably become obvious to you. If not, you will be told, when we have succeeded, if we are still alive.

"Your training here will be very intense. We hope to