OD Duty

At Kemper we ran a 24 hour Officer of the Day. This was before answering machines; and since we had kids from all over the world, we might get a call in the middle of the night. There was the Officer of the Day (OD); usually a 2^nd Lieutenant to Captain-maybe a Major.  A Sergeant of the Guard (OS), and two runners; usually New Boys or up to the rank of corporal.

Changeover was usually around 5 in the afternoon before 3^rd mess formation. The uniform was “C”s and you wore your white parade belt to indicate that you were working. Officers wore their sash and the sergeants wore the parade belt or white pistol belt if they were entitled to.

This was both a blessing and a curse. While on OD duty, you didn’t have to brace or sit up. But you also got stuck doing all the meat and potatoes jobs that helped Kemper run. You ‘ran’ after class sips to make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be. If not, then you tried to locate them. You checked  their room, the Club Room, library, QM, wherever.  This was a 24 hour job. There were bunk beds that started in the OD office, then were moved to an adjacent office. This was usually where the runners slept, unless the Sgt or OD decided they wanted to sleep there. Then you could sleep in your own room, but you had better back when you were suppose to. That usually mean the crap time of either 12-2am or 2am-4am.  The OD usually pulled the first or last shift. The sergeant would usually pick the other one and the 2 runners had to decide which one they were going to get.

After 4 weeks at Kemper I was assigned OD duty. I was still terrified of what was going on, now more so that I’d screw up.  This was because this experience was so different, so raw to me.

Have you ever had your stomach hurt? Not from some food you ate or something you were worried about? But the hurt from holding your breath. Afraid that the simple act of breathing would bring down the wrath of God. Which in this case, was an Old Boy. That’s what I felt while I was a Phase I.  It was with me; more so when I was on OD Duty, as I would be visible to more than just my squad, platoon or company. But to the whole Corps.

That evening was fairly quiet. You got to know people as pretty much all you could do was talk. It was a Friday and everyone was getting ready for a home football game the next day. I went to my room and got a few hours sleep before being woke up to take my 2 hour shift in the middle of the night.

As I sat in the OD office, I found a paperback book, City of the Chasch by Jack Vance, and started to read. (Yes I remember the book; it became one of my favorites. It wasn’t until decades later that I learned that Vance was a well known author and that there were 3 other books in this series.) I learned that as long as you were awake and had your wits, you could read, study, shine shoes or brass.

When my shift ended I woke up my replacement, the sergeant of the guard, who had slept in the bunk bed in the next room.  As I made my way back to my room, I realized that I wasn’t sure which one was mine. It was all too new to me, I had been moved not too long ago and couldn’t remember which door was mine. I wasn’t going to turn on the hall lights, as you found that the cadre was light enough sleepers that would draw attention. And everyone still had at least 2 hours of sleep before wake up call.  Sleep was a simple pleasure which made most upset if they didn’t get any.

Since I lived in the barracks above the administration offices, I walked down to the hallway that had all our distinguished alumni pictures. The over head lights were always left on, so I read about our past alumni from their pictures. The famous and not so famous. I  found George “Goober” Lindsey’s picture and my grandfather’s picture (he was a representative for the state of Missouri).

As I sat on one of those long wooden benches, I thought about a story my father had told me about when he was at Kemper. He said you could leave your watch out on a desk and no one would bother it. If someone did take it, then the whole company would stay up, sitting on their beds until that watch was returned.

I laid there on that long curved wooden bench. It had been worn smooth over the years. There was always a distinct smell in the admin building of old age, old wood, cigarette and cigar smoke and the sweat and tears of many who had come before me. It was like no other smell. To me that was Kemper.

I laid there long enough, dozing, with my head on my arm. Glancing at my watch, it was almost time to be back at the OD office. I stood up, straightened my uniform and gig line. I looked around at the pictures of men, who had come before me; who had roamed these very halls.  I swear I could feel their presences wrap around me and become a part of me. They watched me. I think they watch me still.

Back to OD duty.  Not much to do as there was a home football game. We ran some calls. Everyone was getting ready for the game.  I remember almost reaching the officer’s porch; if you were on OD duty you could walk on the porch as it was quicker to get to places, when I heard “OD! OD!”

I saw it was the battalion adjutant, Major Gaskill. He was motioning me over.  I jogged over and started to explain, “I’m not the OD I’m just…”  he just waved that away. I forget who he had me go find; I just remember that he was over by the lower corner of D barracks; by the entrance to the barber shop. And when he spoke to me. it wasn’t in his parade field voice, but in a normal, though loud and excited voice.  It was the voice of someone in command. (To me, that was how you commanded men; with a voice like that.) I had never thought he talked any other way except when he commanded us to ‘Sit-Up!” in the Mess Hall or was calling “Ba-Talion, A-Ten-tion!”

Another thing about OD Duty; everything was written down in a giant ledger; a logbook, in the OD’s Office. It was a record of what happened. You could go back and read incidents that happened and also see how people wrote. It was where I truly learned that the truth was stranger than fiction as I read over some of the things had happened. Some things were common knowledge. Some things you only knew some of it and the log book helped fill in some details. And then there were other things; known and unknown, that happened.

But those are for another time. And for those with the proper clearance.

Kemper Names

38 yrs ago I was exposed to names of people that were vastly unfamiliar to me at that time and now are part of the blood that runs through me. Alzheimer’s would be a living Hell.

There was something called a ‘sound off’ for cadets. You were given a sound off, so when your name was yelled to sound off, you did. It would have gone something like this;

‘Herring Sound Off!’

“Sir my name is Herring; I am full of ball bearings, sir!”

A brother of mine in the same platoon, whose last name was Tandy, has to sound off with ‘bbzzzz-bzzzt. Tandy Corporation owned Radio Shack. Radio Shake sold electronics, so…

Then there was Woodle. Tracy Woodle. Young kid;7^th or 8^th grade. Short. Glasses. And a talker. His sound off was “Sir, Woodles wobble but they don’t fall down.”  Remember the toy Weebles? Their saying was Weebles Wooble, but they don’t far down.

I remember he roomed with Stuart Inglish and was 2 doors down from my room when I wa sin Delta Co.  I remember him telling us about his dad in the Army. He was going to fly down here in his helicopter to deliver his trombone. Us New Boys in the same platoon just looked at each other, like ‘yeah right.’

Being a New Boy didn’t leave you a lot of options on the weekend. I think it was like the 4^th or 5^th weekend, a lot of us were watching an evening movie in the auditorium when we heard a loud thumping. It was getting closer. It kept getting closer and closer. Everybody piled out onto the court when we were struck by a light from the sky. It was a UFO!

Nope. It was an Army Chinook helicopter coming in for a landing on the west parade field; traveling east to west. I can remember this like it was yesterday. It got lower and slower and did a slow rolling touch down. It was loud, and the search light and blinking red and green lights cast weird colors and designs. Suddenly a short kid ran out towards it. One of the crew, dressed in a green flight suit, helmet and carrying a trombone case jumped out of a side door. He met the small form, gave him a big hug, handed him the trombone case and then turned, ran back to the copter and the green machine slowly started to rise. It easily cleared the trees and hill and continued on its way west. The whole thing couldn’t have taken two minutes and the motor and blades never slowed.

That’s when I learned that just because something sounds impossible does not mean its not true. Woodle got a bit of street cred after that. Unfortunately Woodle was only at Kemper for one year.

Another thing; we called each by our last names. Even amongst your closest friends. At least until you got a nick name bestowed on, or sometimes your first name just felt right. Like Speidel. He could be Spidey… naah. As a New Boy he was Spediel. Later, when he became family he was George. Now remember the cartoon with the abominable snowman and “I will call him George and love him and squeeze him…”  At least for me, that’s how I started calling him by his first name

But what do you do when you have brothers going there? Simple. One was Big Kipper, the other was Little Kipper. And Karlskint, became ‘Skint.  Or you middle initial, couple that with your prowess with the ladies earned you ‘Luscious.’

And then there were just the plethora of names, that to my ears were exotic and memorable. Kahli, Tua, Hennefent ,Lowe, Lamb, Suarez, Selfridge, Kresin, Shehorn, Ulloa, Eehl.  Or you were just called by a rank. Captain, Sergeant-Major, Colonel. Maybe L-T or ‘Lootenant”.

At one reunion, the kind where we could actually go into the buildings and walk around the court, this man looked at me sidewise and sidled, sorry, that is literally the only way I can describe how he walked up to me, and started, “I bet you don’t know…”

I said, “Hold on.” I looked at him and said, “Reuben Makekau.”

He was like “Wow, even the first name.”  I told him there were some people who make a lasting impression; you just never forget, even after (at that time) 25 years.

The Fall

I love the fall.  It used to be great, going back to Kemper. Before the internet; when you got back together you told what you did over the summer to your buddies.  I heard more b.s. stories about what someone did, or who they did, to last a life time. Usually in a room, some guys sitting on a bed while others took one of the chairs or the footlocker, the desk lamp on and the radio tuned to KWRT in Boonville or KFMZ out of Columbia. The music was the soundtrack of that time. You’d talk til late until the bell rang for lights outs and taps.

Hopefully the weather had turned so you weren’t sweating in the sheets as you tried to get some sleep. Windows open, maybe mosquitoes or crickets. You’d hear a train rumble by. Maybe the distant hum of the interstate. The night would be cool and black except for the odd pools of lights from the dusk to dawn lights on the buildings. The stars watched over us, remembering. Lights from distant houses, street lights, and lightning bugs were like far away dreams; you could see but were always out of reach.

The trees turning were the best as the colors were stuff you would never see anywhere except CGI. That’s when parades were the best too. Sound carried, whether it was Gaskill’s ‘Ba-tallion!’ the sound of the band or Bunch playing taps. That feeling was like no other. When it snowed, those cadets from the south seas, who had never seen snow before, would be out in t-shirts, shorts and flip flops or boots. I imagine for those who had never seen the ocean it would be the same reaction.

Depending on the barracks, at night, you could hear wood creek or footfall in the hall. In B barracks, if someone went to the latrines you could hear that big wooden door open and close.

Halloween meant we got to dress in civilian clothes; dress up or down. It was a bit relaxed. You might have gotten your black patches by then if you were very good. By that time you weren’t messing up as much and things were starting to come together.

By Thanksgiving it was even better. After my first year, I had A LOT of people coming to the house. Because I lived close, and my mother loved to cook, and my father was an Old Boy and on the Board of Trustees and loved to talk, and these were men and women who I loved then and still do today, those days were filled with laughs, talks and a feeling that transcends being friends.  In the military you trust you buddies. At Kemper that applied but there was something more. By the time you got to the real military you had jelled a lot as an almost adult. At Kemper that process was still going on, kids becoming men and women. I have always said those of us who went to Kemper know each other better than anyone else. During those times I knew how some people would react in almost any given situation.  That is why we are the way we are today. It’s not like someone you have met and hung out with occasionally for a few years.  This was 24/7, hours upon hours through parades, classes, sports, weekends, holidays, those long talks, etc. We know the real person; not the one you show to wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, co-workers, or blood relatives. We know the person who is trying to re-write their past so those people don’t know how you were.

So what? That was you. That IS you. It is a part of your history. That sometimes is a hard lesson for said wives, girlfriends, etc to accept. Thus the Kemper Curse. But that’s another story. This is about how well we know each other.

Promotion or birthday. Pond or shower.  That’s all I need to say. Those who know understand. Those who don’t…. should be obvious. You get promoted or it’s your birthday, you went either to the pond or shower. It depended on how well liked you were. If you weren’t, or if you were caught near there, the pond. That sucked as pond water, dirt, grass stains play Hell with uniforms.  Showers was usually just water, either very hot or cold, maybe some shaving cream. But you were usually close to your room where you could change.  And it was not an ‘if’, but a ‘when’.

My birthday. I decided to hide out in the Officer’s Club during my mid-week.  At this time it was like a grand hotel that was run down. Lots of wood, broken down couches that had been jumped on more times than should be allowed, shag carpet, a console tv that was on its last legs with ‘borrowed’ cable from the apartment and commandant’s office above.  The pool table had seen better days. That was where I first saw TBS and CNN. But it was quiet, and killing a few hours before I knew I had to make my run was appealing. I was in evening study wear; C pants, tennis shoes, white t-shirt.

There came a knock on the door and there was Anderson; God I wish I knew where he was today. Anyways, he said that someone had knocked my tuba off and it was broken. I figured that someone had been in my room looking for me and had knocked it on the floor and the bell had just come off. No big deal. So I dutifully followed him back to K Barracks. Band was 1^st floor K. My room was down the right hall, about halfway. As I walked down the hall, all the doors were closed, but that didn’t register as weird, it being evening study. It wasn’t until I was right in the middle and someone, I’ll say it was George, yelled “Get him!”

All the doors opened up and a mob descended upon me. I was got. Strong hands gripped my shoulders and arms. Grinning faces, not unkind were all around. I knew where I was going. I was a little upset. Not that I was got, but that I didn’t get a chance to lead them on a merry chase. Sometimes the person resisted, strenuously and violently. But in the end, it was no use.  Me, I just liked to see how far and long it would take them. With cries of “Shower! Shower!”  I calmly took off my glasses and handed them to Anderson.  Evening study was over.

I get asked at times how can I remember what happened way back then. Because I replay those times over and over in mind.

My one unique ability is to be able to replay memories like that; songs, smells, sight, sounds-whenever I want or needed them. I can hear the voice of Bunch or George or others in mind.  I could easily assign the voice of Wilkey as a devil. Now granted, I talk to all of these guys often, so its not unusual. But I also hear people’s voice that are no longer with us. Chief being a big one. I have the ability to compartmentalize; to have those memories running in the background of my mind and soul is what keeps me alive and moving through this life one second at a time.

 When I have had to do repetitive tasks or grunt work or whatever needed to be done, I can replay them. And its not all Kemper, but a lot is,as the work I am doing seems to suit those memories.  I also think of certain people from then. After a while you forget what it’s like to be a New Boy. Then you have some very humbling experiences and instead of being the scared New Boy who didn’t know anything and was afraid of the Old Boys, you are that New Boy who is strong. Though you may not know exactly what to do, knows that hard work is what it will take. Because of that, because of those men, and I am specifically thinking of Dolloff and Parks, I worked hard, harder than any others. Whenever I have questioned how hard to work, I would volunteer for the jobs that no one wanted to do. I think of Kozlick.  I did what had to be done and I learned what it took, I learned what I was made of and what I could do. It was because of them.  I want them to know that their ethics are still remembered. Theyw ere older than I was at the time, and at the time I didn’t realize I still had much to learn. I am a good person, and I think I have always been a pretty good person, but these last 15 years….I think has made me a better person.  The past helps.

"I was that which others did not want to be. I went where others feared to go. And did what others failed to do. I asked nothing from those who gave nothing, and reluctantly accepted the thought of eternal loneliness, should I fail. I have seen the face of terror, felt the stinging cold of fear, and enjoyed the sweet taste of a moments love. I have cried, pained and hoped, but most of all I have lived times others would say were best forgotten. At least someday I will be able to say that I was proud of what I was. A soldier."  Cpt. G.L. Skypeck, Viet Nam, Republic of, 1972. This was in a classroom at Kemper that I saw almost every day for years. I memorized it. The title is Soldier.

Where did this dream come from?

I hate when I have dreams that I have no idea where they come from.  Last night I didn’t watch any movie or series. I was busy on the computer sending things out, but not watching anything, just listening to music.

I went to bed early as I hadn’t slept well the night before.

I woke and still kinda remember my dream.

It was on the old farm. I had driven up and saw a tank, Hum-Vee and a command vehicle in the back by the white barn. I looked around. I don’t know if I was supposed to be meeting someone or I still lived here or what. I got out of my vehicle and could see that the top hatch of the tank, the commander’s ring, was up and open. I immediately knew that my son was in there.  I saw an officer standing in and out of the command vehicle. But no other soldiers around.  For some reason I knew it was just us; that the rest of the soldiers were elsewhere.

I looked over at the officer and asked if there was anything in the tank that my child could touch to make it fire, start up, etc. I got no response just a look from him.

I climbed on the tank and loudly said my offspring’s name. I got a “Yeah dad?”  Told him to come on out. When I saw him I reached in and pull him up and out and stood him on the back of the tank. I wasn’t really mad or anything as I probably would have done the same thing, given the situation, at any age.

Just then my ex-wife showed. But it was neither one of my current ex’s and no one that I know (and I also got the impression that the man I was , was either a younger me or not me, so it’s not like some weird premonition)  As my son and I climbed off the tank, she grabbed his arm and started walking towards a car.  A typical angry parent about her child doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

Suddenly this officer is moving past me, un-holstering his pistol.  She lets go of the boy and starts to run for the house, her brown hair flowing behind her. A shot rings out and I run to where my ex has falling. For some reason I have the receiver of a portable phone. I try to stop the bleeding and dial 0 at the same time.  I can hear the phone ringing and I get some pre-recorded message. Finally I hear an operator and I tell her to send an ambulance, the Sheriff and Highway Patrol, as my ex-wife had been shot by the Army.  For some reason I got the feeling that this was the start of a nationwide coup.  I look down and my hands are covered in blood as is the phone. I sit there against the side of the house as I cradle her in my arms.

Wow. Talk about a lot going on. Again, no idea where this came from.

In the beginning....

Before the official start of the school year at Kemper, there were 4 camps going on. Leadership; for prospective leaders. Band camp; well for band. Football camp for the players and rifle camp for prospective members of the rifle team.  I was the youngest person ever to attend rifle camp. This was because of my interest in guns. I didn’t know at the time that usually those people attending the camp would be n the rifle team. I just like shooting guns. And I learned how to shoot. SGM Winborn was a great teacher. Before the end of the camp and the start of Kemper, he took those of us at camp to the Missouri State Fair. I remember we went the ‘back way’ and n SGM’s car. There just wasn’t that many of us. During camp, none of the Kemper rules applied. I wasn’t a New Boy, there was no bracing or sitting up, yet.

Down the right side of K barracks was those were in band camp. Down the left side were those who were in leadership and rifle camp. I remember my father wanting to see the inside of the barracks.  As we entered, we encountered a tall cadet in uniform. He was in class C’s, cap, the model of a cadet Old Boy. I had never seen him before and didn’t know who he was at the time.

My father was a tall white man, 6”2’ while this cadet was a tall black kid.  He didn’t know this cadet yet, and yet he put his arm around his shoulders, pulled him close and started talking to him like they were old friends. He told this cadet that this was all new to me and to try and teach me what it was like to be a Kemper cadet and to watch out for me.  All the cadet could do was say “yes sir, yes sir.”  My father also had tendency to slap you on the back. I remember seeing my father, walking down the hallway, slapping this poor, bewildered cadet on the back. And I wasn’t even technically a cadet yet.

When the time came for me to join the ranks of the Corps, my father, mother and grandmother came to see me off.  At that time, you had to go to each station (finance, education, military, quartermaster, tailor shop, etc.), give/get whatever they wanted; check, parent’s signature, pick up your uniforms, and proceed until you were finally pointed to the officer’s porch where  a cadet with a clipboard was doling out room assignments.  This cadet was also in a “C” uniform, and though probably only as tall as I was, was older. He had that air about him. He was an officer, he was a leader, he was an Old Boy!

After getting my room assignment-3 rd floor B barracks. The room faced the inner court and a wall. Not the most attractive thing. Couldn’t see anything.  Well my father took me back down to the cadet. He went up to him. “Son, when I was here, my room was up there on the third floor. About halfway down. You can see it from here and I was hoping my son could get that room.”

The cadet looked up at my father and his determined face. He looked down at his clip board, erased something and wrote something. He then looked up at my father, “He’s in that room now.”

As we walked back up the stairs I asked him if that had been his room.  He just smiled.

Getting things situated, I remember my father taught me how to make socks ‘smile.’ He told me about putting Vaseline on the brim of my garrison cap to keep it shiny.  My new room had a view that overlooked the front of the school and Third Street. At night the streetlights that lined the drive between Johnston Field House and D barracks would come on.  For some reason my father knew that view would help a soon-to-be homesick boy. I can still see that view to this day.

I walked back down the stairs to say goodbye to my family.  I now stood in front of the school outside the president’s office windows with my father. He said I would need a watch and took off his Timex. He then asked if I needed any money.  I nodded of course. My grandmother and my mother had already slipped me some money.  He gave me some more.

We stood there, a comfortable-uncomfortable silence. He could tell that I was starting to realize that I really didn’t know what I was getting into too. We watched a very small black boy and his father carrying a trunk.  As they walked down toward the court, my father said, “See that boy. He’s being strong. You have to be strong. You think you can do that?”

I nodded. He shook my hand and went over and hugged my mother and grandmother around the neck. He got into that gold Cadillac and drove slowly down the street. I didn’t watch them disappear, but instead made my way back to my room to get into “D”s. My Kemper life started,

Pictures in the Mind

Why is it that lack of sleep or maybe the early hours gets one philosophical?

You can try and share things with others, but they will never truly understand or appreciate why hat you are sharing is important, unless they were there too; to witness or experience the moment.

I am a professional photographer; though now the only pictures I take are with my cell phone or my mind. For those who don't know; I did have a studio and yes people actually paid me money to take their picture and I have had pictures published...so I am a professional. Just not currently. Anyway-I do have a portfolio, but the funny thing is that I have pictures in my head that will never be seen by anyone. Moments, people, places...many no longer with us. Am I selfish? No. I just u n d e r s t a n d.

I can share a picture. I can tell a story. But to 99.9% it will never convey the emotion, the tingle in the tongue moment of it because that person I am telling it too wasn't there. They may say the right words or look impressed, but they will never understand. Should I try to make them understand?

I wonder. Part of me, a big part, knows I will probably still try; to force memories and emotions of that time on others. That way maybe they will understand me a bit better. To understand why I am me. But will they really?

The pictures and times we all carry are sacred.

Star Trek: Renegades

Just watched Star Trek: Renegades. An 'independent' or 'web based' movie. The look was good, not bad special effects and it was nice seeing some familiar faces. Interesting story, neat 'villain' race. Although I am getting tired with every other alien race having the "I want the honor of the first kill" bit. I would have been satisfied with the 'honor of the last kill' which is what they said first and I thought was interesting.  I liked Chekov's office with the different Trek pictures. And the uniforms aren't bad, but almost a little plain. That being the good things said, let me count the ways it lacked, in my opinion.

This was like Star Trek: The Motion Picture. A lot going on and cramming it in one movie. Well maybe not in relation to the story, but definitely in relations to the characters. It was like a bad role play game; you had all the arch-types/stereo-types all together.

You had the Cardassian hating Bajoran. The token Cardassian. The reformed Borg.  A defective Betazoid. The disgraced doctor, who, I was surprised to see was Sean Young who had a love affair with the creator of the holographic doctor. Gary Graham is there too as.... something. and what looked like something from Star Wars. And the captain of these renegades is Kahn's daughter? Really?? Literally, they were a group of players who each wanted to 'play something different.'

I will say they did have a surprise or two, so the story isn't bad. But half way through it I cared more about Chekov's great grand-daughter that the crew of the Icarius. Maybe it was their acting abilities or lack of? I don't know Even now I half wish that the bad guys had killed them. But they couldn't or earth would have been destroyed.

And they set it up for sequels or a series. All in all it was ok. 6.5 out of 10.