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.

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.