Safe At Home

There’s no argument that I carry a load of benefits. I’ll be the first to admit that being of white, northern European descent, I’m privileged. On the other hand, I’ve learned that those benefits don’t always prevail. I found that out in Charleston South Carolina one night while I wore the uniform of the United States Navy, along with my white face.

I wised off to this police officer, see. Not a real wising-off, just one of my patented “smart mouths,” as Brenda calls them.

Well, with a billy club on my throat, his partner standing by, and my buddies all be done “di di mao’ed” like cockroaches when the light comes on, the officer told me just how much he enjoyed working a sailor over, using quite colorful language, some of which I’m sure he learned during his own stint in the service.

I believed him, for I had seen what they did to poor Danny Altman a couple of weekends before. Charleston was a nasty city then. May still be. Don’t know. I don’t go there anymore. I’d eat at a Chick-fil-A before I’d go back to Charleston. Poor Danny was a small guy, whom the others called, “Shorty.” I always called him “Danny,” for I felt he needed any small bit of respect he could gain. They put him out of the Navy on a “good of the Service” discharge and he died a few months later trying to save a young girl from drowning.

Anyway, he was a mess that Monday they carried home back aboard the ship.  I’ve never smarted off to police officer since. And I’ve never had my head bashed in. I was especially careful for the remainder of my military service in Charleston.

Yeah, I know I’m white.

Let me tell you what happened last time I found myself pulled over by a police officer. I had bought this truck I drive now, and I had my head up my, uh, let’s just say where it didn’t belong, coming home from working in Searcy and hit the limits of the little town of McCrae, Arkansas. I was speeding. There was no doubt about it. I shouldn’t have been. I was sure the officer was about to agree with that. Oh, by the way, he was a large black officer, very large and very black.

By the time he reached my window, I had my registration out. I shook my head when he reached me, got myself ready for a fray, smiled, and said, “Officer, you got me fair and square. I wasn’t paying attention and should have been. I’ve no excuse.”

You should have seen the look on his face. He tried not to, but he finally smiled and said, “Mister, I’ve been doing this for 23 years and that’s the first time I’ve ever had anyone say that to me.” He walked back to his vehicle to check me out, shaking his head and laughing.

He gave me a warning ticket and we both went on our ways. I knew the Mayor of that town well. When I told him that story, he laughed and told how that officer carried an ice chest filled with bottled water in the trunk of his police car and would always stop at the local park and give the youths a drink.

Yeah, I know I’m white. Yeah, I know I have that “Get out of jail free” license plate that maybe one in ten thousand Americans (most former service members) respect. Yeah, I can only faintly imagine what it’s like to be targeted for undue scrutiny by the police. Yeah, I know that of the, (up to) 850,000 police officers in the United States, some are jerks of the highest order, and should be weeded out. In my heart, though, I feel that the police officer "jerk percentage" is lower than that for TV evangelists and I know its much lower than that for national politicians. Yeah, I know I owe a debt of gratitude for simply being the result of a particular-favored male sperm. And, yeah, I know life ain’t that great for others.

But yeah, I know I’m getting a little tired of listening to that crap about police officers being the epitome of evil. I know that when I was in a battle zone and things got hairy, I didn’t want “Johnny Good Shoes” on the next bunker. I wanted the craziest son-of-a bitch in the company waiting with me out on the edge of the jungle. They are the ones who stand there when the stuff starts flying.

Same thing here. We want those who are crazy, or bold, or dedicated enough to drive the gang-infested streets at two o’clock in the morning, seeing things that no human should have to witness, putting up with things nobody should have to bear, while we sleep at home in a warm bed on a full stomach. We just don’t think they should let it affect them.

I, for one, don’t plan to screw around with them and find out if it has.

Youthful Heroes

Have you ever had such a pleasant surprise that it changed your life? It happened to me once maybe 20 years ago. Pleasant wasn’t the word for it.

It happened this way.

I had responded to a call from a worker at our state’s Office of Volunteerism and had agreed to some pro bono work for the City of Alma, Arkansas. That’s a nice community in the far west of the state, almost to Oklahoma. Yes, you remember right, it’s where Buck Barrow and another of Bonnie and Clyde’s gang members murdered a town marshal back in the 1930s. Anyway, it’s a long way from Little Rock.

 I figured I would drive there and do my thing, then drive back. But no, the man from the state insisted on driving the both of us in a state car.

Drats. I barely knew him. His name was Hal Naylor, and was a fastidious sort of guy—tall, thin, neat, and no-nonsense. And here I was, well, much the opposite in some ways. But I was stuck with Hal for maybe four hours in a car, just the two of us. Maybe I could keep him occupied by relating my fascinating life’s story. Maybe not. Drats.

We took off. Somewhere about the western city limits of North Little Rock, something motivated him to tell me about his life. First thing was, he was distantly related to Dwight Eisenhower, the Dwight Eisenhower. Hal told about how, when he was a young boy, the Colonel had stopped by to visit family when passing through Kansas. Hal had met him and still remembered how splendid he looked in his uniform and highly shined boots.

Then it really got interesting. Hal was a college student when World War Two broke out. He left college, joined cadet pilot training program, and, at age 21, found himself piloting a B-17 Flying Fortress and its nine-man crew, ten counting Hal. Holy wingspan! Now, I’ve nothing against the youth of today. I’m only thinking how few 21-year-olds I would let take my car in for an oil-change.

Oh goodness. On the flight over to England, the Germans hacked the plane’s communications and he landed in a neutral zone. After being hustled out, he made it to England and began bombing runs over France and into Germany.

We were halfway to Alma by then, but I hadn’t even noticed.

On, if I remember right, their sixth mission, they got shot down. Being the pilot, he was the last one out, barely making it through a hatch jammed by the heavy winds of a fast descent. His parachute was tied to his leg, so he had to slip it on as he fell. Somehow, he made it onto German soil.

I’ve always thought it interesting that he, although quite talkative, didn’t have a lot to say about how they carried out his rescue. He just said, “I walked through Germany to a designated spot.” Still classified after all those years? Maybe. Anyway, his rescuers told him to hide in the woods at the edge of a clearing where, a plane would land at 0130 Hours, a while after midnight. It would turn around, a hatch would open, and he had 30 seconds to be through the hatch before the plane took off.

He’s 21 years old, mind you, in Germany and facing certain death if anything went wrong.

The plane came, landed turned and waited. The hatch opened and our young escapee started running.

“Then,” he said, “I heard all the footsteps behind me. I made the conscious decision that if they caught me and killed me, I would be as close to that plane as I could get.”

Somehow, he reached the plane before they overtook him and he dove through the hatch. Another body dove in behind him. Then another, and another and another. Soon, the cargo space was full of young Americans and the plane took off for freedom. Seems they had all been waiting with no knowledge of another person anywhere around.

On that day, I took the shortest ride to and from Alma, Arkansas that I ever took. Gee, I wish I could take it again.