Though they are tearing down the buildings, our bond remains

As a New Boy at Kemper, you learned that it was you against your other squad mates for best shine and cleanest room. Then it was squad verses squad. Platoon verse platoon. Company verse company. High school verses College verses the  Military department, Athletic department, Academic department; Band verses Guardsmen. You name it. You were always verses someone. But it never meant anything bad. But when you got to Kemper against Boonville. That was another story. Not all of Boonville, as many facility and staff came from there. But as a cadet you never felt really welcome too much in certain places. It was obvious; we were getting a better education. Our cadets were polite and nice. The local girls liked us cause we were focused. Many of our guys were getting commissions or going onto bigger and better things. And since I came from a small Missouri town, I know that we did things that Boonville school kids never did. At that time, their big thing was usually some Senior trip to a beach. My senior trip, after 4 hard years at Kemper, I got from my parents was a trip to Europe. I had already marched in the Cherry Blossom Parade in Washington DC, played a military division review at Ft Riley, actually showing up their band (thanks Chief), we marched at many, many parades from St. Louis, Kansas City, Columbia where we out performed bands twice our size. We headed for the Worlds Fair in Knoxville, TN and was the official band at the 1983 Dallas Grand Prix. I can't even begin to list all the trophies or award the Guardsmen received from their appearances, performances and competitions. That now-a-days people would freak out that high school and junior college students were throwing rifles around. The band even cut a vinyl record. So yeah, some people in Boonville being against us would be appropriate. But at Kemper you knew someone always had your back. Whether in the same company or even if you were high school and they were college; it was us against them.

The following is a slightly dramatized fictional description of an incident that happened during my New Boy year. This is how I think it started. The names have been changed to protect the less than innocent. Seriously; though the names are familiar, they are not who was in charge and I have no idea what was actually said.

Two boys were out of breath after running ten blocks, but their goal was in sight. They had to go on a roundabout way to get there as to avoid being seen, but they were almost home. The smaller one was trying to stop the blood coming from his nose and breath at the same time, “What do you think Hudson?”

The taller one, who was actually younger than the small one glanced around cautiously. He then looked down at himself, “Dam, I got dirt and grass stains all over these pants, and I just got them back from the dry cleaners.”

  “That’s nothing,” the smaller one said, his name tag said Brooks, “I got blood all over my shirt. I don’t know if it’ll even come out.”

  “Yeah but you have a couple of cleans ones; I’ll have to wait till Thursday to get these back. And the only other pair I got are the summer ones. And they are light and its getting to be real cold.”
“If we don’t hurry up and get to campus we are going to be dead.”

  “If we stay out here we might get dead. Ok, looks clear,” as he glanced up and down the night shrouded street. With trees lining the sides, the darkness was deeper, more desperate. No cars moved up or down the street.

“Let’s go!” And the two made a run for their campus. They had to cross the street, then down two blocks to get to the buildings where they could disappear inside and relative safely. As they were jogging down the sidewalk, a car turned down the street. They were briefly illuminated in the beams of light. In that time, you could see two young boys dressed in grays pants with a black stripe. Both wore blue long sleeved shirts with a black tire tucked inside. They had name tags and wore gold collar discs. They clutched hats in their hands as they picked up speed.

 Making it to the building, the car passed by without incident. Both boys breathed a sigh of relief. They were over the first hurdle. But they knew that was the easy part. Crossing the dark courtyard formed by four buildings they headed for their company area.

When they got inside and had enough light to see by, they knew they couldn’t report in looking like they did. Ducking quickly into the bathroom they started to wash the blood and the dirt off themselves. They had just started when they heard two people moving down the hallway, and one of them had taps on their shoes.

“Shit!”

No sooner was the word out of his mouth than two figures appeared in the doorway, “What do have we here?”

“Stand at attention when an officer is talking with you,” said the other one as they made their way into the tiled and brick room. Their voices bounced off the stalls and the communal showers. The two new ones were older than the boys by a few years, but they were similarly dressed, except both had ribbons over their left breast pocket and each had a black and gold cross centered on the left pocket.

The two boys immediately went to attention, even though they had water running and were in the process of trying to clean up.

The taller and larger one with the nametag of Windsor examined both of the boys before turning to the other, “What have we here first-sergeant?” Then turning back to them, “Have you all checked in from G.O.? It’s almost taps.” He then looked a little closer at the two, “Have you two been fighting?”

The two boys glanced at each other, “What are you doing looking at each other? Lt. Windsor asked you a question!” First Sergeant Selfridge bellowed.

“Um, not each other sir.”

“Sir?! I’m not an officer,” Selfridge said moving into their faces, “I work for a living! So what happened between you two?"

Brooks finally couldn’t take it anymore and bowed his head and started to cry.

“What are you crying for?” Selfridge asked.

Windsor moved up then and ordered, “At ease. Let’s hear what they have to say first-sergeant.”

Hudson went to a modified parade rest, while Brooks got his crying under control. “Now, tell us what happened,” Windsor said as he motioned for Selfridge to back up a bit.

“Sir,” Hudson began and looked over at Brooks to make sure he was getting himself under control, "we were up at Wellivers’ Drive Inn. We wanted to get some ice cream before coming back to campus. We hadn’t yet ordered when a car loaded with four Boondogs pulled up besides us. They started laughing and pointing at us. At that time I wanted to get out there and finally got Brooks to agree. By that time they had gotten out of their car and were coming up on us. We started to walk away, but they had us surrounded. About that time, three more joined us.

“They then started -o push and shove us, and that’s how Brooks got his noise blooded. They shoved him, tripping him and he fell on the ground and hit his face against the sidewalk. Seeing the blood, a couple of them left. It was then we took off. The problem was we were running away from campus. They started to chase us. But we did good at dodging them and we lost ‘em. We still ran to make sure. Then we started back to campus.”

Selfridge stepped back into the hall, “New Boy!” he yelled.

A scramble of feet could be heard and a number of cadets appeared before the First Sergeant in many stages of dress and undress. He immediately focused on one that was dressed, “Becko. Go find the CO and ask him to join us. The rest of you get ready for lights out.”

With that the crowd that had been there quickly dispersed.

“Well ‘Stretch,’” Selfridge said softly to Windsor as they watched the two boys wash blood and dirt off, “what do you think is going to happen? I mean, this is just the first 8 weeks of school. Usually we never have a problem until spring.”

Windsor had folded his arms and looked down at his small charges, “I don’t know Tom. We’re from here and yet we're not. I am betting on the Tyrell’s; it sounds like their style: gang up on those smaller than them.” Then, “Go get the company’s first aid kit, we can use the alcohol and clean up some of those scrapes. I don’t think they have anything worse than that.”

Before either could move, the swinging wooden door into the latrines were slammed open and a couple of people were hurrying in. “Attention!” Windsor ordered when he saw who it was. Not only was it his company’s CO, but also the Battalion Commander.

“Rest!” he ordered and then turned to Windsor: “Report.”

Moving to a modified parade rest Windsor retold what happened. He ended on, “We’ll get the first aid kit and patch them up. Doesn’t look any worse than football practice.”

All the time he was getting the report, the cadet Battalion Commander stood looking at the two who were finishing up what they could do; and were becoming increasingly uncomfortable at all the attention.

Turning to Delta Company’s CO, the B.C ordered, “Get your company ready for a formation on the court. I don’t know how long until we do it, but listen for the bells.”

“Formation on the court sir?”
A strong fire could be seen in his eyes as he thought things through, “Yeah. We are putting a stop to this shit.”

“Yes sir,” the Delta’s CO replied. “Uniform?”

“D’s, field jackets and black gloves. It’s going to be cold.” He turned and was almost to the door when he turned back and nodded, “Glad you boys are ok.” Then back at Delta Company’s leadership he sighed, “I’m sorry it happened to your people, but I hope to put a stop to this. Remember, listen for the bell. First call, fall out onto the court and make sure everyone is there and ready by the 2nd bell.”

A chorus of “yes sir” from the leadership followed him out as he left.

“What do you make of that?”

Selfridge watched the door swing back and forth and stop before replying, “Don’t know sir. Sounds like we are heading for a war.”

How this may have ended was having our president at the time, a retired two-star general talking the 8-yr cadet battalion commander from marching the whole Corps up town and cleaning house. He had the college company in civies and the rest of the Corps in olive drab battle uniforms. Closet rods and broomsticks. And we were standing on the court at 2300 hrs.

If you were never at Kemper you wouldn’t understand why this bonds you. This bond, for many started at 7th grade. For me it started my high school freshman year and it continues today. I now know why men and women who have been to Kemper yearn to reunite. Not to tell stories or look at old pictures. Not to laugh or cry. Old Boys gather because we long to be with the men and women who once acted their best, who made us better people, better leaders, better human beings…men and women who also suffered and sacrificed…who were stripped raw in front of us, right down to their souls. I did not pick these men and women. They were delivered by fate to us at Kemper. But I know them in a way I know no others. I have never given anyone such trust. They were willing to guard something more precious than my life. They carry the memory of me at that time, a better me than I am now. It was part of the unspoken bargain we all made…the reason we are so close. A bond like no other; broken not in buildings being torn down or even in death. That is why there are those that are jealous and will never understand. We are Kemper. That’s all that needs to be said. No other explanation needed or given.

3rd generation Old Boy
Numquam non paratus

I always wanted to be a writer...

I always wanted to be a writer. I had a subscription to Writer’s Digest before my one to Soldier of Fortune.   My mother said I used to sleep with an old typewriter in my crib. Why? No idea. It might have been one of those old wives’ tales.  Anyway, I remember using mom’s typewriter and writing a war story in grade school using my plastic 1/35^th scale military models and friends. My only experience at that time was through my Sgt. Rock comics and the war movies I saw on TV. I do remember taping the pages together to form one long roll. I held it up while I was on the kitchen stool and it fell to the floor, so probably about 7 or 8 feet long.  Also, my mother always said that Samuel Clements’s dog ran across our dog’s path. Translation; I am distantly related to Mark Twain. I have always liked to think some of his blood runs through my veins.  

Over the years I have been lucky to have met and know quite a few professional authors.  And some of my long-time friends have also started to become writers, to the point where they are going to be published either through self-publishing or through a publishing company.  I can’t complain. I have had my shot.  Let’s see; I remember writing a very small article about the Bermuda Triangle; I think I entitled it ’32-year-old Bermuda Triangle Mystery Continues.’ It was published in the Glasgow Missourian in December 1977.  I have no idea why in the world they would publish that; I only got my info from books that I had read on the Triangle. It was on the Flight 19 disappearance. God, the local paper would publish almost anything at that time-being a weekly newspaper. I guess my being at Kemper and that I had won the 8^th grade science fair with my display about the Bermuda Triangle; I guess I could have been a ‘local expert’ on the subject.  I actually am embarrassed by that.   

Over the years I had two small booklets of my poetry published. This would have been considered ‘self-published’ at the time and I had approximately 52 poems also ‘published.’ I say it that way, as I had to buy the anthologies they were published in. It was just a way to get people to buy overpriced books with their writing in them. At the time I didn’t realize that.

I even ordered business cards that said I was a freelance reporter from some kind of independent writing service. I always wanted to think of them like INS from Kolchak; the Night Stalker.  That’s who I always wanted to be.

I was on the yearbook staff as a photographer and I did have one or two things published in the Kemperite. When I got to Mizzou, I joined the Campus Town Journal as a features writer. It was a publication to challenge the Maneater, which was the main campus paper. I remember that this was before computers, when you still had to do mock ups. It was very much Ernie Souchak (John Belushi’s character) from Continental Divide. Two articles I remember writing; one was about heroes. Mine was John Wayne of course. The other was actually a two page, center spread, on Dungeons and Dragons. I would have been prouder of that, if they hadn’t screwed up the columns, making it hard to read.

After that, I believe my next claim to fame would have to be the d20 module I wrote for D & D; Red or White. I was part of the company (Guildhouse Games) that put it out. I remember two reviews of it; one loved it the other not so much.

Then while working for the Missourian I did have a few articles published in their local writer’s weekend columns.  The best, in my opinion, was the Safe House story from GenCon.  Now I have a blog, Facebook posts, a short Shenny story in fanfic, etc. A medium sized fish in a very small pond in my mind.

I am very happy for my friends who are writers-the already well established New York best sellers, and the up-and-coming ones. Just something else that I almost was.

As a writer, the mantra is always ‘write what you know.’  I know a lot, I think. Maybe. Sort of. The only thing I know is, well was, Kemper. And I have written things about it. Sometimes the same thing over and over.

I just have to get over whether it’s good enough. Talk about intimidating when you know men and women who write professionally about things that they make up in their heads. Me; I’m just telling what happened at Kemper.  Not exactly The Lord of the Rings, but for those of us who were there or who lived it, much more real.

You have to forgive my slightly self-deprecating writing. I went to the dentist yesterday and had 1 cavity filled and three teeth extracted over a 2-hour period. So have been taking pain meds; also haven’t been feeling 100%. I always get a summer cold, or just my allergies acting up about this time of year.

Besides, not too many people will read this. For me writing is a way to get it out of my system, out of my body, out of my soul-a catharsis. For me the written word is man’s highest achievement. More than fire. More than anything; we record our thoughts, events; we send our words, letters and numbers out into space. Some say I am a good writer. I think anyone can write something that brings forth emotion and paints a picture someone can relate to.

I used to write long profiles for the single sites I was on. I would go into detail, becoming ‘lazer-specific’ on what kind of man I was and what kind of woman I wanted.  And like a lot of woman who accuse men, I don’t think many read all I had written. Or more likely, my picture scared them off. Whatever.  I tried to explain to someone that I realize I wasn’t authorized a woman to love; wasn’t in my TO&E. Had to explain what a TO&E was. They still didn’t get it, but then they weren’t in the military.

Ok, pain meds kicking in. Out of here. 

Another friend passing away

Well, I lost another friend two days ago. Wayne was a nice guy and I knew him for 20 years. We were in Starfleet together. Hell, he wasn't even 40.  I lost a new friend in Fleet, the C.O. of the USS Valiant around the turn of the year.  And then right before him, Paula, my ex-wife passed away.

Of course I can't forget Walter, whose ashes I spread in the Missouri river after his final Archon. Rick Gale, who I miss for his undying friendship and counsel. Randy Wright, the first of my Kemper group to have passed. Randy was always a hard charger, but still. And then if I am keeping track, Hawk, way back in '05. Lost him right after I got my job with the Missourian.

But the first one of my friends I lost was way before that. On the farm you learn about life and death; circle of life and everything. Also, my parents drummed into me my faith. I have no problem doing seeing that done for their kids. Without it, they are like sailboats without rudders. If they don't want to believe what the parents believed in, fine. At east they have a base line. But I am digressing.

I lost my first friend, one that I personally knew-who I knew from Kemper, back in 1979. He was the assistant squad-leader of second squad, second platoon, Delta Company my New Boy year. He was a year ahead of me. His initials were the same as mine and for some weird reason we became friends. And that was a no-no. Old Boys and New Boys don't for obvious reasons. Yet we did. It didn't affect how I was treated by him or how I treated him. I understood, or was just too scared. I'll go with that last one. He was the first, non-relative I lost.

My faith has taught me that they are in a better place. Out of pain, or whatever the situation was. They are at peace and watching me. When my father died, to me it was just a transition. I know how my father was, what he would say, what he would think. I do wish I had more time with him because I was just getting out of the age where I didn't want to hang with him.

One of my most cherished memories was going to a Mizzou football game with him. He took me all around and taught me about tailgating. My father was never shy and knew just what to say or do. And if that didn't work, he had a boot flask of Jack Daniels. And while that was fun, it was the dinner later at Bobby Buffords. I remember having an 'adult' talk with him about the pros and cons of owning farm equipment to renting out the land. We were sitting by the windows, the sun was going down and the talk was great. He treated me like an adult, listening to what I had to say. I also responded and we had a great talk. Never before had we had such  a talk, and unfortunately never repeated. But that memory will stay with me until I meet him again.

With Wayne, I believe that he is out of pain, wearing perfect wings. The last time I saw Wayne was at the Region 12 Summit in 2015 in Overland Park. I talked with Wayne once or twice after that on the phone.  He was a super-nice guy.

All those who have gone before I know I'll see again. And I know they are watching me. Not all the time, well except maybe my father. Who I know will give me shit about stuff that I have done. I know what he'll say. Just like I can still hear Holme's voice in my head. I can see him in his uniform. I know what he would say; that goes back to all the things I have written about Kemper and how close you get to people. I just know.

Anyway, when people pass, it gets me thinking. I'm not scared of death. I know its a natural thing. The great equalizer. I also have my faith that there is something better waiting for me.

For a long time, during my childhood, I wanted to win the Medal of Honor. Not for the glory or anything like that. One; It meant that I had saved my friends. And that they were ok. Remember, this was before I knew exactly what the MoH was; comics and movies were my frame of references. The second thing was that I would be remembered.

As I grew and learned, the passion still burned. I still wanted to be the one to throw himself on the grenade, to stay behind to allow others to leave, etc. The obsession and passion to do that grew more when I met the men and women of Kemper. I can not adequately explain how much in awe I was and still am of them all. They are some of the finest examples of human beings I have ever known. No, not a one of them is perfect. "There was only one perfect man and he died on the cross." And they are not angels by any means, but what they have gone through to get where they are, are stuff of books and movies and legends. I am so lucky that I went through what I did with those people. There is not a one of them that I wouldn't throw myself on a live grenade for. Why? Do I think so little of my life? No, I am still attached and have a vested interest in my own skin. But I was the typical farmer boy from a small town when I went to Kemper. There were a few us that had that wide eyed innocence. Gullible. Naive. Virgin. Whatever you wanted to call it, there was a cross section of us there. Mix that in with the guys from the islands. Places where the sun rises on the United States. People who had never seen snow. Men and women whose parents were divorced and put them at a military school because they were so busy; too busy to raise a son or daughter. Kids from the rough side of the street. We came together and became a family. That's why I would do anything to save them. I had the good life. But I wasn't really living as I have come to figure out. With them I was the best version of myself. They helped keep me on track.

Being remembered; "do something worth writing about or write something worth reading" or something like that. I have tried to write some things worth reading and maybe that will survive. I doubt it. Do something worth writing about-those days are long over, Mr. Shaw is gone.

I know that when my time comes, the friends that are still here will remember me. Not all the time, I wouldn't want that. But maybe when they look into the night sky and hear an old song come on the radio, they smile because I liked it and they hated it. Or see something relating to Star Trek. Then my memory comes flooding back for a time. Yeah, that would be how I want to be remembered.

I will remember my friends in that way. They are never really gone as long as we remember them. And memories are like starlight; it goes on forever.

To sleep, perchance to dream...

I remember a M*A*S*H episode where the men and women of dreamed. Of course most were not the good time.  At the end Charles uttered the quote about 'perchance to dream.'  That kept everyone up for a while.  They didn't want to dream. But most night time dreams are the nice kind. Then you have those that scare you. Falling, being chased, attacked, whatever. Lots of people put lots of thought into what they mean. Dream interpretation. And yeah I have done it. Most seem to be about unresolved issues that seem to be common sense ones that if you could be a detached and impartial reviewer you would know what and why you dreamed that.  

 

Then you have those dreams.  Not, not talking the sex ones. These are the ones where, there really is no overtly obvious reason you are having it. It doesn’t make sense and it leaves you unsettled the following day. Maybe you can’t remember the whole dream. Maybe you can only remember a part of the dream as the memory of that dream fades like fog before the rising sun. I hate those dreams. It’s like the itch you can’t scratch. Why? It doesn’t make sense. It only serves to depress as far as I can tell or as a wakeup call to do some internal soul searching.

 

Still.

 

I hate those dreams.