SCAVENGER HUNT

SCAVENGER HUNT

By Mark Reed

In January of 1966, I went through “Hell Week” initiation into Sigma Pi Fraternity at UGA. This was back in the days when “Hell Week” was not an exaggeration. Thankfully that has pretty much bit the dust and is no longer done. At least it is no longer condoned by the National organizations, and most local chapters have discontinued the really bad stuff. It is now called hazing, and as such, not only do the Nationals prohibit it, but the Universities do also, and in certain circumstances the local police do as well.

But this story is not about “Hell Week.” Well, OK, it is sorta, but what it is really about is the very last part of “Hell Week” that is actually a lot of fun. It was the culmination of a lot of crap ending and a coming together of the pledge initiates in an activity that is a blast…the Scavenger Hunt. It happened on a Friday evening, as I remember.

I forget exactly how many of us were going through initiation, but it was probably around twelve, because I remember us being divided up into three groups of four pledges each, who would compete against each other in gathering the Scavenger Hunt items. We were told was that the group that was able to gather the most items no later than 8:00 AM Saturday morning would be exempt from the most awful part of “Hell Week” yet to come. This was to give us motivation to bust our butts getting as many items on the list as possible. My group was determined to get everything on the list. What we did not know was that there was no “most awful part to come.” The Scavenger Hunt was in fact the culmination and end of “Hell Week.”

My group consisted of: Johnny Murphy from Columbia, SC; Bob Phillips from Pine Mountain, GA; Mike Murphy from Moreland, GA; and yours truly from Smyrna, GA. We were handed our list and we piled into Bob’s mom’s station wagon and hit the road.

The list, as best I can reconstruct it:

• A pair of panties signed in the crotch by Effie, the madam of the historic house of ill repute there in Athens.
• A live chicken.
• A beer can with a Banks County beer tax stamp on it.
• A condom filled with un-melted Pistachio ice cream.
• A Peachtree Road street sign.
• A nickel run over by a train.
• An ashtray from the notorious Whisk ‘A Go-Go nightclub in Atlanta.
• A group photo of the four of us.
• An unopened empty beer can.
• A railroad tie.

There were a few other innocuous items on the list I cannot remember, but these were the main items. We did a quick prioritizing of the items and put them in the order of how we would go about gathering them. Since Johnny was the only one of us twenty-one, he would be the one to snag the ashtray. In those days, to get into an Atlanta nightclub, you had to wear a coat and tie. First stop was his apartment to grab his sport coat and tie. Second stop was Allen’s for a quick burger and a beer.

We decided we should grab one local Athens item first before heading out of town. That would be the panties from Effie’s. I wrote another detailed story about that part of our adventure, but the cliff notes version is as follows.

When we arrived at Effie’s, red porch light and all, the discussion was who would go in. Mike said his mom would kill him; Bob said he didn’t have enough money on him to go in; Johnny said Sara, his girl friend, would never forgive him; so it was me by default. In I went, met by a scantily clad young thing. She asked me, “What do you want, College boy?” When I explained I was on a scavenger hunt and wanted Effie’s signature in the crotch of her panties, she laughed and said that Effie had been dead for years. She bent over, stepped out of her panties, took my pen and signed with a flourish, “Hugs and Kisses, Vala.” When I returned to the car with my prize, the guys wanted to know all the gory details and whether I got anything besides the panties. I’ll tell you here what I told them then…a gentleman does not tell. I’ve always wondered what happened to Vala. One down on our list.

The beer can with the Banks County tax stamp on it was up next, since it would have made sense to run up north toward Royston before heading south to Atlanta. This is where my misspent youth kicked in and saved the day. I was a profligate beer drinker back in those days, and had traveled to get beer in all the surrounding counties. I just happened to know that Banks County was dry. This was an item they knew we could not get, and my knowing the County was dry saved us a wasted trip to Royston, the opposite direction from Atlanta. We headed to Atlanta. Two down.

We went straight to the Whisk ‘A Go-Go. Of course we picked up a case of PBR to ice up and drink on the way. It took over an hour and a half to get to the club. That equated to about four beers each. Johnny went into the club, having his ID checked at the door. He said to keep the motor running and the station wagon headed out of the parking lot. He wasn’t in there more than five minutes before he busted out the door, holding a cocktail in one hand and an ashtray in another. Two big bouncers closely followed him. He dove in the car, spilling his drink on Mike, and Bob left a wheelie and smoking rubber leaving the parking lot. John explained that he got inside and realized he didn’t have any money on him after ordering the drink. His rationale was he had no choice but to make a run for it. Three down.

We started making the rounds to every package store we could find looking for an unopened empty beer can. We figured that any package store that displayed beer cans in the window would surely let us have one of their display empties. We struck out every place we tried, being told there was no such thing. I’ll never forget this one place on Ponce de Leon Avenue, which had two big doors swung open to the street, as it was an unusually mild night. When we drove up, the headlights illuminated Johnny from behind as he walked up to the counter and started talking to the guy behind the counter. As he talked, he kept looking over his shoulder at us and giving is this big s—t eating grin. We did not know what that was about. Then he turned a little sideways and we saw that he had pulled out Little Johnny and was peeing on the front of the counter. Remember, we had been drinking PBR steady since leaving Athens. Good grief! We were afraid we would have to defend Johnny from being beat to a pulp if the guy saw what he was doing. To make matters worse, or good for us on one level, the guy behind the counter turned out to be a great guy and pulled out a new unopened full beer can, unfolded his big pocket knife, and with the point, pried open the seam of the can and beer started fizzling out. He said to just hold it outside the window for a while and pretty soon it would be empty and no one would be the wiser about the sprung seam. Four down.

We needed the Peachtree Road street sign. There was one on every corner all the way from downtown up past Buckhead to the north. We drove up Peachtree toward Buckhead. I pointed out a side street, which was shaded by a big tree limb so the street lights did not illuminate it so much. Bob pulled down the street and let Mike and I out. Mike was tall and heavier than me, so we decided that I would stand on his shoulders and manhandle the green street sign plate off. We had no tools, but that did not matter. We were PBR fueled and I figured that I could bend it back and forth enough to break it free. It wasn’t that easy. As I leveraged my body back and forth gripping the sign tightly, poor Mike was having his shoulders bruised big time. But he was a champ and barely cried. Besides, he was well medicated with PBR. As I swung back and forth on the sign, I happened to glance over toward the curb on Peachtree. There sat an Atlanta Police car. The officer was sitting there watching me go to town on the sign. My heart sunk, but I continued to try and pull the sign off the top of the pole. The police officer and I held eye contact for a moment, and then he just shook his head and drove off. I have no idea why he didn’t arrest us. Then the sign broke free. Five down.

We headed back to Athens to get the remaining items. The nickel run over by a train was next. By this time, we were all very intoxicated, having bought another case of PBR. On the outskirts of Athens, we came to a railroad crossing. Since I was the only one with a nickel, I went out and sat on the gravel beside the railroad tracks with my nickel and a fresh PBR. I’m not sure how long I sat there, but in memory it did not seem like so very long.

Here came a fast freight train, barreling down the tracks, just a foot or so away from where I sat. Clackety clack, clackety clack, the wheels flashed by me a mere second or two apart. I sat there trying to not fall over onto the track and spilling my beer, or my blood. After getting the timing right in my drunken stupor, I reached out and placed the nickel on the track after the first clackety and picked it back up after second clackety. I was now holding a nickel the size of a half dollar. And I still had my hand. Go figure. Six down.

We knew there was a photo booth at the Athens Bus Station. We drove over there and the four of us crammed into the booth, me on bottom. The only way you can recognize me is that in one photo you can see my teeth in a smile. Yeah, that’s me. Seven down.

Believe it or not, there was a little convenience store near Bubba’s Bait and Beer Shop where, wonder of wonders, they actually had Pistachio ice cream. We flipped to see which one of us would give up the ancient never to be used condom we all carried in our wallets. You know, the one that left a distinctive ring on the outside leather of the wallet. Bob lost. He didn’t need it anyway. Eight down.

We had two items remaining. The live chicken and the railroad tie. We decided we would get the railroad tie last since it would be the most difficult to lift and load into the station wagon and would likely get us all dirty and nasty. We knew where there was one…I saw it by the tracks when I was getting the nickel expanded. So we decided to get the chicken.

The University of Georgia Agricultural School had, at the time, three big chicken houses on a hill overlooking a pasture at the edge of west campus. The four of us left the station wagon on the side of the road and made the trek up the hill across the pasture to the first chicken house. We were able to force open the big doors and walk into about ten thousand chickens running around. They were none too pleased to see us. We figured it would be a piece of cake to grab one. Excuse me. Those suckers are fast and can cut left and right on a dime. The four of us were all over that chicken house, diving and missing, rolling and scrambling, through piles of chicken dookie. We wanted to stay clean before getting the railroad tie. Good luck with that. Johnny finally leaped out and caught one in mid air, almost like a wide receiver catching a TD pass. The poor chicken’s beak was broken, but we had our chicken. Nine down.

We drove back out to the railroad crossing and manhandled the railroad tie into the rear of the station wagon. I have no idea how Bob got that tar and oil off of the inside of his mom’s station wagon. Success! Number 10 done!

We drove back to the fraternity house and unloaded everything on the front porch of the house. We found a cardboard box for the chicken, which he or she shared with the rest of our booty, including the condom filled with rapidly melting ice cream. It was right at dawn and we were the first team back. We won. We four collapsed on the couches in the TV room and went to sleep. The couches had to be thrown away because of the chicken poo and railroad tie grease. We burned our clothes.

When Annie, our fraternity cook arrived that Saturday morning, she made the four of us a wonderful breakfast in exchange for the chicken. The Saturday newspaper had front-page news about the vandalism the night before at the Ag School where ten thousand chickens had been released. There was a photo of the hillside going up to the chicken houses completely covered in chickens. Authorities never found out what scoundrels did such a terrible thing. I am personally shocked. Mike said he closed the door behind us when we left.

ARE YOU AFRAID?

ARE YOU AFRAID?

By Mark Reed

I haven’t thought about this event in many years. Not sure why it has jumped into my consciousness again, but here goes. In 1978, I was doing real estate acquisition for a client. The area I was working was in the Forsyth County, Cumming, Georgia environs. That area was a lot less developed back then, although much of it is still considered rural today. My point is that it was the boonies.

The property owner I was trying to contact was difficult to reach. I was finally able to reach him on the phone and set up an appointment at his farm out in the sticks. The only time he was willing to meet with me was in the evening after dark. I followed his directions to find his place, thankfully very detailed directions, otherwise I probably would have gotten lost. We are talking back roads, unpaved and unnamed as far as I could determine.

After winding around on these almost nonexistent roads, grown over trails really, I finally showed up at his place. It was a partially converted barn, he had explained to me. He said he had an office in the back of the barn, and apparently that was the only light I could see at the far end inside the darkened barn. When I walked into the barn entrance, I called out his name. No reply. I was beginning to think I was in the wrong place and called out again. As I was about to turn and leave, a low voice came from the rear, saying, “Come on back.” The only place to go was toward the light peeking around a partially open door in the rear darkness. I walked toward the door across a dirt floor covered with straw. There was an earthy smell, which reminded me of freshly turned earth.

When I got to the door, I knocked on it and announced myself. The low voice said, “Come on in.” I pulled the door open, not knowing what to expect. I was surprised. It was actually a nice office with a big desk back against the wall facing the door. The man was sitting in a big executive chair with a fedora hat shading his eyes from a hanging chandelier type fixture over the desk. There was no other light in the room. The walls were of some sort of dark paneling and were covered with framed photographs. The floor was carpeted. All in all, it was a very nice office for a shabby barn in the woods. There was a single chair facing the desk, and without a word, he pointed toward it indicating for me to sit down. I did.

The desktop was empty except for a large revolver lying directly in front of him. I must admit I felt a pause about whether or not I was safe. I wasn’t afraid, although maybe I should have been. I still had not seen the man’s eyes. Then he looked up at me with these piercing dark eyes. He had a gaunt face and a thin, mean looking mouth. He did not look friendly. The fedora hat did not go with the overalls he was wearing.

He still had not said anything to me since I had entered the office, so I introduced myself again and asked if he were Mr. Smith (I’m making up a name here). He looked at me for a minute and then finally said, “Yes, I’m Smith. What do you want?” I reminded him of our telephone conversation and whom I was representing and what I wanted to acquire from him. He sat there motionless, except for an almost imperceptible nodding of his head in time to my words. His hands were both flat, palm down, on the desk on either side of his big revolver. It was a western style pistol, maybe a .45, and it looked old. It did not have a shine of oil to it, instead appearing to have a light coat of dust. It had either been sitting there for a while and dust had settled on it, or else it had been in a dirty place prior to being placed on the desk. It looked like a gun that was much used.

When I finished my spiel, he just stared at me for another moment. It was an uncomfortable situation. Finally he leaned forward toward me, not changing the bland expression on his face, and said, “Are you afraid?” The funny thing is, I wasn’t. I asked him, “Should I be?” He said, “Don’t you know who I am?” I said, “Yes, Mr. Smith.” To which he said, “So you don’t know who I am or what I’ve done.” It was not a question. At this point, I had no choice but to play along with his game. He obviously was trying to intimidate me, perhaps even scare me. I’d be damned if I would give him that satisfaction.

Instead, I smiled my biggest good old boy smile and said, “Why don’t you tell me.” He stared at me a little longer. I was, at this point, wondering if I could make it to the door if he picked up the revolver. Nope. I was going nowhere. He was going to do whatever it was he was going to do. I sat and kept my smile on my face looking him straight in the eyes. Then he smiled back at me, if you can call what he did with his lips a smile. He even showed his teeth a little. Then he said, “I’m a dangerous man. I have killed men.” What do you say to something like that? What I said was, “Well, should I be afraid?”

Then he laughed. It actually sounded like a real laugh, but at this point, for all I knew, I was dealing with a crazed psychopath. But I still had my smile on my face. He then laughed again and with one hand pushed the revolver over to the side of the desk, and he said, “Let me see what you have there for me.” We then proceeded to have a normal real estate negotiation. He read the document I put in front of him. He looked at the plat I had brought showing his property and that portion of it I wanted to acquire. He asked me a few questions and finally asked me what I was offering him. I threw out the price I had already decided on offering, and he nodded his head and said, “Where do I sign?” I wrote him a draft for the agreed upon amount right then and there. He picked it up and held it up to the light, as if checking it for authenticity, and then laughed again.

He said, “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Reed. You can show yourself out.” I must admit that after we shook hands, him still seated, and as I turned my back on him and walked out of the lighted office into the dark barn, I almost half expected to hear the loud roar of the revolver going off. Then I would drop dead on the straw covered dirt floor, to then be deposited wherever that strong smell of fresh turned earth was coming from.

But that did not happen. I walked out to my car, got in, started up, swung the car around with my headlights sweeping the barn door opening and briefly thought I saw him standing in the darkness inside the barn watching me go. Man, I was glad to be out of there. I didn’t realize the tension I had been under. It was then I glanced at my illuminated reflection in the rear view mirror. I still had my smile frozen on my face.

TONSILS

TONSILS

By Mark Reed

Kids have their tonsils removed all the time. I am told that they are eating ice cream shortly afterwards. Not a big deal. Whoa, Nellie…not so for those of us advanced beyond childhood.

Other than pneumonia as a one year old, I have been blessed with pretty much good health. Sure, I will get the flu sometimes or the assorted sinus infection, and as I get older I experience some other pesky ailments from time to time. Oops, I did leave out kidney stones – more than a pesky ailment, but that’s another story.

Have you ever had strep throat? I had never had it until I started dating Ellen when we were in High School. She shared it with me. Kissy, kissy and all that. We used to joke about her inflicting me with it. We would trade it back and forth. It is really no joking matter while you are suffering from it. From that time on, I could count on getting it a few times a year. Thank goodness for antibiotics. They knew me by first name at the UGA Student Clinic, and even stopped asking what I was there for.

After graduation and being drafted, I had it off and on over the next couple of years in the Army. The thing about the Army was that a little case of strep throat did not keep you from duty. You played through the pain, as an old coach used to tell us. I was stationed at the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission in Bangkok in 1970-71. My CO was MAJ George Durst, MD. He also happened to be my personal physician.

In January of 1971, after a year of repeated cases of strep throat, MAJ Durst suggested that I get my tonsils removed and perhaps that would stop the frequent recurrence of the malady. He pointed out to me that I might as well take advantage of having it done free while I was in the Army, pointing out that I would be discharged in a couple of months, and sooner or later I would have to have them removed. Made sense to me.

By this time, the Medical Mission was working out of the U.S. Army Hospital after the Mission had been destroyed. Another story. The surgery would be performed right there in the Army hospital where I would be surrounded by friends. When the surgery was scheduled, it turned out that all the Army surgeons who would have done the surgery were either traveling or otherwise engaged. A local surgeon was retained by the Army, a Chinese doctor named Dr. Choo. My wife wears his shoes, (if you don’t get the joke, Google Jimmy Choo). I was told Dr. Choo came highly recommended. He was a protégée of Dr. No.

I had written home and told mom I was having my tonsils removed. She had written back telling me she wished she could be there to take care of me, but I assured her I was surrounded by friends who would take care of my every need. As it turned out, I needed them, but didn’t want them, as you will read.

After the operation, I came to in the recovery room. What the hell? My throat felt like the Roto Rooter man had paid a visit. Pain? Duh…yeah! I had heard that adults had a worse time than kids having their tonsils out, but I did not realize how bad it was. Eat ice cream? Fugettaboutit! I couldn’t even drink water.

They kept me hooked up to an IV so I would get hydrated. They gave me various pain medications through the IV, but my memory is that the relief was fleeting at best. I have a pretty high tolerance to pain, but let me tell you, I was a big baby here, and I didn’t have my mommy there to take care of me. I knew all the nurses, and they were great, checking on me all the time. But you know how mommy is best in these situations.

A few hours after the operation, now in a general ward with a number of other patients, one of the nurses brought me a bedpan. I just could not take a pee in that thing. The nurses came in frequently during the day to check the status of the bedpan, and finally told me it was important for me to be able to take a pee to show them that my urinary tract was working. I’m not so sure why that was so damn important, but they insisted. Friends and neighbors, I am a private person and, truth be told, I need to be alone to pee. I was in such pain, and in such a weakened condition, that I could not walk to the bathroom, besides, I was hooked up to an IV on a pole attached to the bed. I was shackled to the bed, so to speak.

After 24 hours of no pee, six nurses, all friends, came to see me. They were all smiling, which I would, under different circumstances have taken as a good thing. Not this time. They were smiling that smile that usually means they are up to no good. You know that smile.

I was informed that unless I was able to pee, one of them was going to have to insert a catheter you know where. I was informed that they were drawing straws to see who won. This had little or no appeal to me. It was nighttime and I was informed that if the bedpan did not have yellow liquid in it in the morning, operation “Yellow Release” would commence. I was left with my bedpan as company for the night.

At some point during the night, I realized that this was just not going to work there in the bed. I swung my feet off the bed and sat there for a minute looking at the IV bag attached to the pole on the bed corner. I reached up and figured out how to detach it from the pole. As I lowered the bag, I noticed my blood going back up the tube toward the bag, so I knew I had to keep it elevated over my head. I carefully got out of bed, wobbling a little, grabbed the bedpan with my free hand, and started the slow trek to the bathroom across the hall. I must have been a sight, walking with the IV held above my head with the bedpan counter-balancing me as I wobbled to the bathroom.

I will not detail the procedure I went through, but I was finally able to pee in the bedpan while sitting on the toilet, and I was able to keep most of my blood out of the IV bag, too. Getting back to the bed was another story. If I thought it was difficult getting to the bathroom, getting back was far harder, and under no circumstances could I afford to spill the bedpan. If I did, one of the six nurses would show me how cold her hands were.

Suffice it to say, I finally made it back to my bed and got my IV bag hooked back up, although it now contained pink liquid. Early next morning the “Six Witches of Bangkok” showed up. They were all aglee (a word I invented) over the prospect of releasing the yellow. They informed me that they all drew the same size straw, so all six would assist. I told them that while I absolutely appreciated their dedication to duty, I was sad to say that I had a present for them, and presented them with my almost full bedpan. I’m not sure if they were happy or not, although they did laugh their asses off as they left with the bedpan.

That bullet dodged, I tried to rest and get my strength back and hopefully be able to finally drink and eat something and get rid of the IV. That night, the night duty nurse came in and woke me and informed me that I had a long distance phone call from London. What the hell? After confirming that she was not kidding, she helped me out of bed, and she held the IV bag over my head as she slowly walked me to the office where the telephone was located. I answered the phone in my cracking voice, and I heard the word, “Mark?” just as the line went dead. I sat there for a minute not believing I had made that tortuous trek to hear someone say my name. As I was about to be helped back to the ward, the phone rang again. The nurse answered, and sure enough, it was the international long distance operator with a person-to-person call to Mark Reed.

This time when I answered, the connection held. A voice, said, “Mark? It’s Ellen.” I must admit she was the last person in the world I expected to hear from, not having talked to her in years. As it turned out, my mom had talked to her mom and told her I was having my tonsils removed in order to hopefully stop the frequent cases of strep throat. As I mentioned above, Ellen and I used to joke about her having given me strep the first time and was basically responsible for my suffering with this illness. She was calling to tell me she was sorry to have put me through this operation. It hurt to laugh, but I did. She told me her mom had written her that I was having the operation. The letter was waiting for her when she arrived in London from Afghanistan, where she had spent the last year traveling the region. She always was the adventurous type. What a hoot. Although I was still in a lot of pain, the call was a real spirit lifter, and was icing on the cake after avoiding the “Six Witches.”

THE MARK REED MUSEUM

THE MARK REED MUSEUM

By Mark Reed

Some of you know me better than others, having not only known me for most of my life, but also getting to know me in a manner that goes beyond the limited surface knowledge most of us know about others. My wife, Michelle, probably knows me best. We will have been married (continuously) for forty-three years this October, in addition to having dated for over a year prior to getting hitched. She knows the good, the bad and the ugly.

But she also knows that I am a sentimental fool. My “stuff” is important to me. When I say “stuff,” I am not talking about possessions in the normal manner of speaking. I’m not even talking about anything that has any intrinsic value to anyone but me for the most part, with exceptions of course. You know the saying, “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” You may think I have a lot of junk. I choose to view my stuff as treasure. Most of my stuff will be things that have a connection to a person or event from my life. Maybe it is a rock picked up on a beach in San Francisco. Maybe a four-leaf clover found, pressed and given to me by my son. Or, that which is the most numerous of items – photographs.

Did you know that I take a lot of photos? No? Well, let me tell you. I’ve been taking photos since receiving my first little box camera when I was maybe eight years old. I still have it. It is part of my stuff. Since that time, I have owned numerous cameras, gradually working my way up to some pretty expensive equipment and lens. I have started the trend downward from the expensive angle, primarily because with the advent of greater technology and digital cameras, the cost has diminished greatly. Heck, the camera on our iPhone is about as good as most of us will ever need, although I have better cameras I can pull out if I need a “special” quality photograph.

My favorite camera for some time now is a Fuji FinePix S9000 digital camera, with a built in 28-300mm lens with optical zoom, which I have actually worn out several times and have invested more than it is probably worth to repair. It has all the bells and whistles, but I mostly shoot in automatic. It has the capability to crop and edit on camera, which I love. But nowadays, most of my photos are taken on my trusty iPhone, and you can even do basic photo manipulation, cropping, editing, lightening, color enhancement, etc., which is a lot of fun for me.

Someone once asked me how many photos I take a year. I had absolutely no idea, but I knew it was a lot. At the time, I was still going to Wolf Camera and getting all my photos developed into 4”x6” glossy color prints. It was an expensive hobby. You will not believe how many photo albums I have. I asked Wolf who their best customer was, and they laughed and said, “No contest…you.” I was doing a scan on my computer one day, and just happened to notice the status telling me it was scanning my photo albums. The light bulb went off in my head and I wrote down the first file number of the January 1 album from the previous year. I then wrote down the last file number from December of that year. I did the math and was astounded. When the issue comes up now, I ask people to take a guess. I tell them to guess high and then double it. The most anyone has ever guessed was 10,000. I took over 22,500 photos that year, and I only take more now. Good damn grief. By the way, I no longer get all my photos developed and put in albums. They are all digital now – saved on CD, DVD and on my computer – all redundantly backed up, of course. I have an excellent color printer, which I use primarily to reproduce 8×10 glossies.

But I digress. This is not about photos. This is about my stuff. I think an explanation is in order, especially in regard the title of this story – The Mark Reed Museum. This is where it came from. Michelle and I were with a friend who was going to drop by my office for a visit in the next day or so. They had never been to my office. Michelle made the off-hand comment, “Yes, you will be entering the Mark Reed Museum.” The friend asked what she meant. She explained that I was surrounded by my stuff on display in one way or another, either hung on the walls, on shelves, on my desk, etc., but my stuff was everywhere. The friend said they could not wait and asked the price of admission. Free for him. When he did visit, he was blown away. He started asking about different stuff he saw. He would pick up an item and ask the significance. Everything has a story. I think I could tell you exactly when and where most every single item originated from and give you the story behind it, and the significance it has for me.

We are not talking about just at my office. We are talking about my basement. My storage building. My drawers and shelves at home and at the cabin. I moved my Reed Realty office into our Cabin at Camp Reed at Lake Lanier. It was a family cabin, which we used for weekends, family getaways and entertaining, especially when the boys were younger. When I moved my office there, everything would not fit, since it was a functioning cabin, so a lot is in storage, but there is plenty to see.

I’ve been asked why I have this idiosyncrasy, as some call it, for surrounding myself with my stuff. I have given this question some serious thought. I think I have it. As a kid growing up, I had an eight-years younger brother, Bruce. He is a great guy. But as a kid, he broke just about everything I owned. Not much survived my childhood, at least in regard toys or keepsakes. I do not hold a grudge, Bruce. All I can tell you is that my stuff gives me comfort. I have no doubt that when I die, Michelle, Bill and Lew will toss most of it, except for some special items they may know the story on, but I know most of it will be gone. It is, you know, just stuff. I can’t take it with me. Well, I may have them put a piece or two of certain special items to go in the ground with me. But you know. It really doesn’t matter, because I will be gone, too.

You want some examples? I could write a catalogued book about all the items, but that would be too much here, so just a few. Here you go.

There is this baseball sized brown glazed ceramic looking object that has a finger-sized hole in the top. The bottom has a flat area so it will not roll around. At first glance you might guess it is a candleholder. Dad found it in Smyrna back in the 50’s when he was developing a small subdivision on Quarles Avenue off Lee Street. He was building several houses. The bulldozer unearthed it. It sat on his desk at Reed Realty, unidentified other than where it came from, for the next twenty years. When I became partners with dad in 1971, I asked him if he minded if I took it with me to ask around and find out what it might be. He said sure. I had a friend who had the hobby of collecting old Native American Indian antiquities. He identified it as a ceremonial “Finger Paint Pot” for applying color to your face with one finger. Who know how old it may be, but it was probably Cherokee Indian in origin from hundreds of years ago.

I have a small gray clay oil lamp from Israel. It fits in the palm of your hand. It is unremarkable looking. It has a little reservoir for the oil and a place for the wick to stick out of a spout, which is what would be lit. When I was in Israel, I decided that I was interested in bringing home something that Jesus might have used. So it had to be two thousand years old. I went to an antiquity dealer in Jaffa, on the south side of Tel Aviv, which happened to have license # 1, as the first antiquity dealer licensed after the reestablishment of Israel in 1948. I kept this lamp on our coffee table at home for years, until one day walking in from work I witnessed my toddler son, Bill, holding and tossing it up and down, catching it. I almost had a heart attack. If he dropped it – fragments. I moved it to The Mark Reed Museum.

After writing the above two paragraphs about the Indian artifact and the Israel antiquity, I went to my office to take a photo to go with this story. Nowhere to be found. Obviously packed up from the move.

There are rocks picked up here and there over a lifetime. Sea shells gathered from distant shores. Various bullets from long ago hunting trips, and some recent. Some of dad’s military stuff – his wings and ribbons, his bomber jacket, and probably my most treasured item, his Colt M1911A1 .45. But, of course, items like these are beyond the norm for most items in The Mark Reed Museum. Some of my military stuff is scattered around. Mugs and glasses. A gavel from when I was Sage (President) at Sigma Pi at UGA. The last small wooden cross on a string from a trip to Haiti when I gave out a hundred of them. A piece of glazed mosaic tile from the temple ruins in Jerusalem. A small bottle of water from the River Jordan. Small wooden boxes – I used to collect them. A turkey feather picked up on a hunting trip. Assorted Indian arrowheads and a plethora of shark teeth. Hats. Many hats. From when I used to wear hats. A Derby Hat from thirty-five different Derby’s. Various other caps, mostly UGA related. A scale model car or three of a car I used to own. A model of a B-17 bomber which dad flew during WWII. A dental mold of the teeth in my mouth for a crown. An actual wisdom tooth that was removed and which I had mounted and hung on a neck chain for Michelle. She won’t wear it. I don’t blame her. It was a joke.

There is a laminated Press Pass from the Sigma Pi Fraternity Emerald Magazine. It actually got me through some pretty hairy spots in Haiti after the earthquake. There is an unhatched light blue bird egg. A carved wooden head from Haiti of a bald man, which all my Haitian friends insisted I had to buy because it looked like me. An actual UGA football helmet. Great story how I got it, but for another time. A carved duck decoy. A leather molded face hanging on the wall. A tin lizard from the Tin Factory in Port au Prince. A paper mache macaw bird head. Various flags. A fat lady cookie jar. A small sterling silver pill case in the shape of a brief case engraved with my initials. A carved wooden wall hanging spelling out the name of Jesus. And a small tin of Sun-Dried Georgia Possum. Eclectic, eh?

Do you get the drift? I haven’t even scratched the surface. So, go ahead, tease me. Make fun of me. Roll your eyes at me. I’ll just smile and remember that sunset when I picked up that small seashell on Sanibel Island.

HOT PIE

HOT PIE

By Mark Reed

There is nothing better than a hot pie fresh out of the oven. My mother, and wife Michelle, took and take the position that a hot pie needs to cool before being cut. I’m not sure who came up with that foolishness, because a bite of hot steaming pie is about as close to culinary nirvana as you can get, in this man’s humble opinion. It can be a fruit pie, the apple variety being the most common, but I’m partial to blueberry, since we have blueberry bushes. An egg custard pie is my all time favorite, with Michelle’s chocolate pie a close second. She taught son Lew how to make her banana pudding with home made egg custard last night, and that’s what inspired me to write this story.

My mom was famous for her version of Big Mama’s egg custard pie, and I spent many an hour slowly stirring the custard as it cooked and thickened. To tell the truth, the reason I never minded stirring the custard was because of the spoons of custard I was able to sneak. Dad always had mom make extra custard so he could have a bowl of custard alone. It never ceases to amaze me how the egg whites can be whipped into the wonderful meringue, which tops most pies and puddings.

My dad would tell stories about his mother, Big mama, being famous for being able to whip out a baked pie in no time flat. He said she had a big metal container of flour in the kitchen by the stove, which she called scratch. That was her little joke about her pies being made from scratch. Dad said she could make a pie from any fruit, but his favorite was her rhubarb pie. Believe it or not, you can actually find a rhubarb pie in the Kroger bakery-deli area from time to time. Not bad.

We all remember the stories of hot pies being placed in an open window to cool, and how little boys, or other dastardly characters, would steal them. That’s another reason why I say you should eat it fresh out of the oven. Anyway, dad said Big Mama would cook several pies at a time in their big wood burning iron stove, which Big Papa used to sell as a traveling stove salesman at the turn of the century. I have written another story about that. The smell of Big Mama’s pies would drift down the railroad tracks in front of the old Reed home there in downtown Smyrna.

During the Depression in the 30’s, dad said the wonderful smells drew many a hobo traveling the rails. In fact, Big Mama’s soft heart for handing out a free meal, and her wonderful cooking of course, made her famous up and down the rail line during the Depression. Dad said he rarely remembered a morning when there was not a line of hobos outside the back door with their tin plate in their hand waiting for a meal of some kind from Big Mama.

Big Papa owned a lot of farms with tenant farmers. The depression pretty much eliminated the tenant farmers from being able to pay Big Papa in cash, instead paying him in crops and other foodstuffs. Dad said that they may not have had much money, but they always had lots of food to eat. Big Mama liked to share. She told dad that but for the grace of God, there go you or I. So she fed them. The hobos were very protective of the Reed home. There was never any event of anything be stolen or any vandalism. In fact, the hobos kept the place looking spotless. They knew a good thing when they had it.

Dad used to exaggerate that Big Mama cooked a million pies during the Depression. I sure wish I had tasted her rhubarb pie.

SQUISHY

SQUISHY

By Mark Reed

In the summer of 1962, at the advanced age of fifteen-years-old, I accompanied my best buddy, Ronnie Puckett, and his family on vacation to Jekyll Island, Georgia. I think this was the first vacation with other than my family, not counting summer camp and Boy Scout camping trips. Ronnie and I were really excited about the prospect of picking up chicks on the beach. We had heard that is what teenage boys did at the beach.

We stayed at the Wanderer Motel on the ocean. I wonder if it is still there? My most vivid first impression of Jekyll Island was the terrible smell of the pulp wood factory as you drove across the causeway bridge to the island. At least that is what Mr. Puckett said the bad smell was. Once you got on the island, the ocean breezes blew the smell inland. Too bad for Brunswick, Georgia.

Here is the truly amazing part of this story…we actually did pick up two chicks. We met these two pretty girls on the beach from Lake Okeechobee, Florida. I can’t, for the life of me, remember their first names, but I sure remember their last names – Flatt and Scruggs. Now if you are a Grand Ole Opry fan, you will recognize those names. Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, of Foggy Mountain Boys fame, later just known as Flatt and Scruggs. Ronnie and I were not Grand Ole Opry fans, but we sure were fans of these two pretty girls.

We spent a couple of days hanging out on the beach with the two, and it was a marvelous time. The most vivid memory of the trip, though, was a specific event that happened. Ronnie’s sister, Jan, joined the four of us on the beach. We happened upon this small sea creature laying at the edge of the surf. It was grayish brown in color with speckled colored spots, and was about half a hot dog in size.

We surrounded it, looking down wondering what it could be. I reached out with my foot and tapped it with the toe of my tennis shoe. It immediately shrunk in size. It was still alive, whatever it was. I tapped it again with the toe of my shoe, and it shrunk up yet again into a much smaller roundish ball. We were all amazed that it could shrink up that small. I tapped it once again with the toe of my shoe, and this time it shrunk a wee bit more, but then exploded. The other four with me were splattered, head to toe, with the nasty blood and guts of the exploding “sea slug” or whatever it was. I, on the other hand, was unsplattered.

You can imagine the exodus from our little circle as the four ran spitting and gagging into the surf to wash the guts off, and gargle seawater to get the crud out of their mouths. I stood there amazed at the amount of goo that emanated from the little round ball. Believe it or not, this did not end the friendships with the girls. Ronnie and I exchanged letters with them over the next year.

I wonder what the hell that thing was?

MILITARY JUSTICE

MILITARY JUSTICE

By Mark Reed

Those of you who know me, know that there are few bigger supporters of the military. I am proud to be a veteran of the U.S. Army, having served my country from 1969 to 1971. I spent fifteen months stationed at the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission in Bangkok, Thailand.

I write this story, not to find fault in any way with our military, or the military justice system, but to share a story that I quite frankly have tried to put out of mind for over forty-five years. I probably have not thought about the following incident for decades. While there are negative things I will share in this story, I can say unequivocally that it did not stop me from loving our country, the U.S. Army or my fellow military service members. Most importantly, this is no reflection on any modern day patriot who serves or has served his or her country.

In 1970, I was the NCOIC of Medical Administration at the Mission. I was primarily responsible for all medical records for the military service members in multiple units in and around the greater Bangkok area. That included government civilian employees associated with the Foreign Service and multiple associated governmental organizations. This also included all their dependents. In other words, we supplied medical care for hundreds of thousands of people. Not only that, we provided medical care to the thousands and thousands of military personnel of all branches who happened to come to Bangkok on R&R. We were a very busy duty station.

We were staffed and run by a combination of career Foreign Service personnel, both diplomats and medical people, which included doctors and nurses. We were also staffed by U.S. Army personnel to run the daily operation of the medical clinic. We had an array of doctors, some of whom were Army officers. The military Commanding officer of the Medical Mission was MAJ George Durst, M.D. The Director of the Medical Mission was W.F. Shadel, M.D., U.S. Embassy First Secretary. The head of Nursing Services was career diplomat and long time nurse, Ann Laskaris, who served as Head of Nursing Services.

The Head of Nursing Operations was Barbara “B.J.” Sheagren, another career diplomat. Like every soldier and Foreign Service male in Bangkok who knew her, I had a heavy crush on B.J. She was a beauty in her mid-30’s, and my mid-20’s self cared not a wit for the ten years difference in age. We spent a lot of time together on and off-duty, but there was no romance going on, as much as I would have welcomed it.

As for our Army personnel, under our Commanding Officer there was an adjutant who changed periodically, and was usually a 1LT or Captain. SFC Walt Mills, who became my closest friend in the Army, filled the First SGT slot. He was 15 years older than me, but he and his family, wife Helga and three kids, adopted me into their family as more of a younger brother to Walt. I’ll write more about Walt in another story.

As the NCOIC of Medical Administration and Medical Records, I had several Army records Specialist soldiers assigned to me.

I also had what everyone referred to as “SGT Reed’s Girls.” Suree “Nancy” Pongsook, a lovely Chinese woman, was my local head-staff person in Medical Records. She had ten local Thai women working under her as medical records clerks. The rest of the Mission military personnel served in various positions, such as SP5 Terry Randall, the Mission Pharmacist, who was my roommate in the Windsor Hotel. Terry was from Omaha, Nebraska, and a great guy with a wonderful sense of humor. We had a full blown infectious disease lab staffed by Army Specialists, all of whom were highly educated with advanced degrees, who had been drafted and were doing their two years in the Army, just like me.

I used to joke that at the Medical Mission, with my BBA Degree from UGA, I was the least educated individual person assigned there. Not really so, but you have to understand the type people I was serving with. All were outstanding in their fields. Of course the few privates and lower ranking Specialists who served there came and went. They were your basic young High School graduates who were serving their time in the military. Some were R.A. (Regular Army), and others were draftees, like me.

Let me say right here that I consider myself the luckiest man in the U.S. Army. I had a good war, I like to say.

Back to the reason for this story. One of my responsibilities was the control of a petty cash fund consisting of several hundred dollars, which was used to make change for instances where some medical services were supplied to personnel who did not necessarily get free medical care. There was never a large amount of money on hand, rarely over $500.00. Once a month, I would do reconciliation and turn in the excess over the $100.00 fixed amount kept on hand.

I had a small safe in my office where I kept these funds. The safe would be unlocked during business hours, but locked up at the end of the business day. I had the combination, along with the Adjutant, who at this particular point in time was a 1LT. A nice enough guy, who recognized that I knew what I was doing and pretty much left me to do my job. The only person who really had any supervisory position over me was Walt, my First SGT, and we were close. When I was assigned to the unit in January of 1970, there was no NCOIC of Medical Administration and no one with any formal training in medical records. I was there less than a month before being promoted from SP4 to SGT E-5. At the time, only having served in the Army since June 26, 1969, with right at six months in the Army, I was told I was the fastest promoted SGT E-5 in Army history. I don’t know about that, but the point is, I made rank fast for an enlisted man.

We had a guy, every unit in the Army had one like him, who was a royal screw-up. We called him Red, because he had red hair and red freckles all over his face. Red had been given every job in the book, and had managed to screw every one of them up in one way or another. I was not quite sure whether it was because Red was stupid, which was what most thought, or if he screwed up to get out of being asked to do anything. After Red royally screwed up being trained as a medic (another story), he was assigned to me in the Medical Administration office, where I was asked to find something he could do. I tried him out with the petty cash fund, since the math was pretty easy. Even then, he still screwed it up. I handed him over to Nancy/Suree in medical records, much to her protest. Of course, he misfiled every medical record he touched. We finally wrangled a transfer for Red to the Military Police. They were in desperate need of warm bodies to patrol the strip on Petchburi Road, where most of the R&R bars (and whore houses) were located. Sometimes, all it took to keep the peace was the presence of an MP with his white helmet, baton and .45 on his hip. I heard anecdotal word of mouth stories from friends in the MP’s, who said Red was as big a screw up there as everywhere else he as assigned. I heard he married, without authorization, a little bar girl/hooker and lived off the grid in the Wild Wild West of the menagerie that was downtown Bangkok.

Maybe a couple of months after Red had left us, I was doing my monthly reconciliation of Petty Cash funds, and the bookkeeping entry said I should have around $600.00 in cash on hand, but there was less than $100.00 in small bills in the safe cash box, looking like a pile of money. It was meant to throw me off from seeing an apparent missing amount of money until the end of the month when I would do my count. It looked like a lot of money. Holy crap! Someone had stolen approximately $500.00 in funds from petty cash. I immediately notified Walt, and he took me, along with my cash box, up to the Commanding Officers office to report what had happened. George (MAJ Durst to everyone else) immediately notified the proper authorities and they sent an officer over to take my report.

The officer who came and took my report was an Army CPT. We all knew who he was by reputation. He was purported to be the oldest CPT in the U.S. Army. He had been passed over for promotion so many times, that his present tour of duty would be his last. As I understand it, at some point, if you are a career officer and do not get prompted in a certain length of time, you are forced to resign from the service. That’s who came to see me. He first interviewed me, then the other personnel in Medical Administration, and then up the chain of command. He told everyone he interviewed not to talk to each other or anyone else about what was going on. We were not to share the questions he asked, and to do nothing beyond continue our official duties. We were to carry on as if nothing had happened, all while he did his investigation. I did as ordered.

A month later, I was called into my Commanding Officer’s office, along with Walt, and the 1LT to meet with the CPT. He announced that his investigation was completed and he had determined that I was responsible for the loss of the funds by virtue of dereliction of duty for not following all rules, regulations and procedures as spelled out in the Code of Military Justice and in some innocuous and obscure book of regulations I did not even know existed. I was to be demoted a rank to SP4, and my pay docked for the some $500.00 missing from the petty cash fund. I made about $250.00 per month. The only basis for his finding was that I had neglected to have the combination changed on the safe on a monthly basis. There is one point here I would like to make. As far as could be determined, the combination of this safe had never been changed in the years it had been at the Medical Mission.

The CPT announced that the 1LT would have a letter placed in his permanent 201 file indicating that he had failed to give the necessary oversight to me, which resulted in my dereliction of duty. We were all completely blown away. The CPT had apparently done NO investigation as to what had happened, concentrating only upon casting blame on me for allowing it to happen. We were to be the sacrificial lambs.

I protested loudly that this was BS, Sir, and that I refused to be made the scapegoat. The CPT said I could demand a court-martial, but if I were smart, I would accept his finding and not risk going to military prison for theft. I demanded a court-martial.

I left the office and went down stairs and talked to everyone in the unit that the CPT had talked to. They all told me that they had been instructed to not talk about it to anyone until the investigation was completed. I told them the “investigation” was complete and that I was being blamed. Everyone was shocked. I explained that I was demanding a court-martial.

After talking to everyone, I was able to confirm that the CPT did absolutely no investigation directed toward finding out how the money was stolen, or who did it. His entire focus, from the beginning, had been on me and how I did my job and who supervised me. I was furious.

I decided to do my own investigation, now a month after the theft was discovered. I figured that the only time the money could have been taken was after the Mission was closed for the day and the safe had been locked. During the day, the safe was unlocked, but either I, my clerk, SP4 Prevost, or Walt were in the office. The idea that someone could have come in and taken money when one or all of us were there was impossible.

I knew that the money was accounted for at the reconciliation at the end of the month prior to my discovering the money missing. That meant that there was only a one-month window of opportunity for someone to have done it after duty hours, and of course that demanded that they would have to know the combination. The Medical Mission had an after hours sign-in logbook for all visitors to the Mission after duty hours. The access to the Mission, and the control of the sign-in logbook were under the control of the soldier standing guard duty at the Mission. I had pulled that duty and was very familiar with the procedures.

Therefore, I went to the front reception desk where the logbook was kept and examined it. I specifically looked at every date during the month the theft had to have taken place. Anyone want to hazard a guess what I discovered on this, my very first attempt to investigate who might have been a suspect? During that entire month, there was only one person who had visited the Medical Mission after duty hours and had signed in. Are you ready? PVT Red, MP, had signed into the Mission on the 2^nd of the month in question. That would have been just two days after I had done the month end reconciliation, and four weeks before the next reconciliation would be done. In other words, the money would likely not be missed for four weeks.

I am not a brilliant man. I am, however, blessed with above average intelligence, and while I may be a southern boy from Georgia, I had not just fallen off the hay wagon. There it was. Red was the only person with the opportunity to steal the money, and it just so happened that he had actually worked in Medical Administration under me, and was aware of the funds on hand, and oh yes, BY THE WAY, knew the combination.

I put together a full report on the findings of my investigation, and copied everyone in the chain of command aware of what was going on. That included the CPT’s commanding officer, and the Commanding Officer of the MP’s in Bangkok.

A week later, I received notice there would be no court-martial hearing and that all charges had been dropped against me and the 1LT. I was also told that Red was relieved of his duties. I was also notified that the CPT had been relieved of duty and shipped back to the U.S., where it was reported he was discharged from active duty short of the completion date of his current enlistment. I received a personally delivered verbal commendation from the Commanding Officer, Bangkok Detachment of USARSUPTHAI (United States Army Support Thailand-support for troops in Vietnam), COL John L. Blackwell. COL Blackwell turned out to be a good friend through the rest of my tour, him addressing me as Doctor Reed thereafter. That is covered in another story.

Once again, this story is not a bad reflection on the U.S. Army or the Military Justice system. It is an indictment of the CPT who was a POS. You can figure out for yourself what those letters stand for. Hint: It is not an acronym for a military term.

WHEN I CAME HOME

WHEN I CAME HOME

By Mark Reed

Every veteran remembers when he got his discharge and left the service. Many will have the date indelibly etched in their mind, along with the date they entered service. I remember my induction date of 26 June 1969. I remember it like I remember my birthday. My discharge date was 27 March 1971, and I likewise remember it, and in fact that date is more akin to a birthday than the induction date.

By the time of my discharge, the war was winding down somewhat, although a lot of guys were still yet to die, and servicemen and servicewomen were, in some cases, given the opportunity to apply for an “early out.” I heard that active duty personnel serving overseas could apply for and receive an early separation from the service of up to three months if you were enrolled in college. I availed myself of this opportunity and applied for a three-month early out to go back to UGA. Although I had already graduated from UGA with a BBA Degree in 1969, the only requirement for an “early out” was to show proof of acceptance at a college, regardless of whether or not you were working toward a particular degree.

I made application at UGA and upon receiving my acceptance, applied for the “early out.” It was approved and I received orders from the Army that I would be separated from service on 27 March 1971. The Spring Quarter at UGA I had been accepted for actually started a few days earlier. I asked for a waiver from the Army to give me an earlier discharge date so I could be at school for registration, but the “early out” program was very specific in that it would only give up to three months and no more. I would just have to be late to register for classes. Below is my “Short Timer Calendar.”

I don’t know how the discharge process worked elsewhere, as I only did it once. Because I was on active duty, stationed at the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission in Bangkok, Thailand (actually all Mission personnel had been transferred to the U.S. Army Hospital since the Medical Mission had been destroyed), I had to be sent back to the United States for discharge. In my case, I received orders to report to Oakland Army Base in Oakland, California where I would be processed out of the Army and given my discharge.

My orders transferred me to Oakland Army Base, and I was given a DEROS date. In the military, many things are give an acronym name based on the initials of whatever it referenced. DEROS stood for “Date Eligible for Return from Overseas.” In the Bangkok command, at least in my unit, you were given your last four days in county to go through out-processing steps. It actually took that long to go to every unit that had responsibility over a certain aspect of your 201 Personnel file and military records. In other words, for example, you had to physically carry your 201 File to Medical Records where you received the necessary stamps and notations in your file, and in the case of Medical Records, you were actually given your medical records file to carry with you. Did I mention that I was in charge of Medical Records for all troops in Bangkok? You can imagine that this step in the out-processing procedure went very quickly without a glitch. More about the other steps in a minute.

It is important to mention here, for the purposes of this story, that I had a few connections and friends in the highest levels of leadership in Bangkok Army circles. In fact, COL John L. Blackwell, INF, Commanding Officer of Headquarters Bangkok Detachment, USARSUPTHAI (U.S. Army Support Thailand), was a friend of mine. He called me Doctor Reed.

This part of the story demands a little explanation, and since the statute of limitations has expired, and this story happening forty-five years ago, I feel comfortable sharing it. As the NCOIC of Medical Administration at the Mission, I was in charge of the Medical Records for all service personnel stationed in Bangkok. More importantly, as you will see, I was the keeper of the “Stamps.” The stamps were those little wooden things with a rubber face I would ink and stamp the immunization book for each service member as they received an immunization. For example, since we were stationed in a third world country, everyone was required to receive a yearly GG shot (gamma globulin). This immunization was given as a temporary boost in a patient’s immunity against certain disease, in this case, primarily hepatitis. If you ever had a GG shot, you know it is painful. It is given in the fatty area of the hip.

In 1970, each unit in Bangkok received orders to report to the Medical Mission, in mass, to receive their annual GG shot. I remember the Command SGT Major of Bangkok Detachment Personnel ushering his troops into the Mission to receive their GG immunization. Each soldier had his little yellow immunization book which I would stamp after they received their shot. The SGT Major, leader that he was, came to the front of the line as an example to his troops to be the first to take his shot.

We were training a new Medic – Red was what we called him due to his red hair – a PFC who was a real piece of work. Red could screw up a crowbar, if you know what I mean. The SGT Major dropped his pants and bent over for Red to give him his shot. This was Red’s first shot. Not only did he not plunge the needle in quickly in order to lessen the pain of insertion of the needle, he injected the thick GG too quickly, which was even more painful. Then, upon the completion of the injection, Red pulled the syringe out at an angle, causing the needle to separate from the syringe. I sat there watching the freshly injected GG squirt out of the SGT Major’s buttocks through the still implanted needle. Red reached out in horror and grabbed the needle and yanked it from the buttocks, causing further pain. Through it all, the SGT Major stoically handled it with only a few low groans. He had to receive another shot, but not from Red. That was his only shot of the day.

As I stamped his shot record, he turned to Red and called him over. He looked Red in the eyes and told him he planned to remember him. He turned to me and said, “When it comes time for him to DEROS, his Personnel File is likely to be in Thule, Greenland.” He asked if I was in charge of the shot stamps. When I replied in the affirmative, he said he would be in touch.

True to his word, the SGT Major called me the next week and said he was sending a car to pick me up and deliver me to HQ to meet COL Blackwell. He told me to bring my shot stamps. Good soldier that I was, I followed orders. At HQ, I was ushered into COL Blackwell’s office. He was accompanied by a dozen or so other officers in his command. He proceeded to inform me that I was under no duress to do so, and if I declined, no harm, no foul, but he would appreciate it if I would stamp his shot book showing he had received his GG shot. He said he would appreciate it if I did the same for his junior officers (LT COL down to 2LT). I did so. I am not necessarily proud that I did this, and I surely hope none of them got hepatitis, but I decided to do it. As I finished, each officer shook my hand, including COL Blackwell, and he said, “Thank you very much, Doctor Reed.”

After that “doctor’s visit” in his office, I received calls from the Commanding Officer of each unit in Bangkok, asking me if I would come meet with him and his junior officers. So it began. As I said above, I had friends in high places. My path would cross with COL Blackwell from time to time, and each time, he would address me as SGT Reed, but when no one could hear, he would address me as Doctor Reed.

As fate would have it, our paths did cross on two significant occasions afterwards.

On 2 December 70, a “fire” destroyed the Medical Mission. It was actually a bomb, but that is addressed in more detail in another story. I was the first man stationed at the Mission to arrive at the burning building as fire crews fought the blaze. COL Blackwell was there with his officer staff. As I came running up, the COL recognized me and asked what we needed to do about medical records and classified documents inside the building. I told him I needed 10 men to go with me into the burning building and I would show them what needed to be saved. He assigned me his full staff of officers and told them, “SGT Reed is in charge. Do what he says.” We salvaged everything from the building.

In February 1971, I got a call from my CO telling me that he had just received a call from HQ requesting him to send a soldier to participate in the USARSUPTHAI Bangkok Detachment Soldier of the Month competition. He told me he knew I was “short” and did not give a damn, but to shine my shoes, polish my brass and get my ass over there. The competition consisted of basic military knowledge, i.e., the muzzle velocity of the M-16, military bearing and appearance, as well as current events. Since I read Stars and Stripes and the Bangkok Post daily, I had that down. The irony is that I won. And yes, I had a photo op with COL Blackwell.

Back to my DEROS. COL Blackwell had told me that when time came for me to leave country, for me to let him know. I called and told him I had received my orders and that I was to start out-processing in a few days. He said he would get back to me. He called and told me that he would be sending his private driver in his official vehicle to pick me up and usher me around to each stop – Personnel, Finance, etc., to get my stamps and records. His driver picked me up and drove me to each unit where we were met by an officer standing at the curb waiting on me, who would stamp and sign whatever right through the car window. What normally took four days, took me most of a morning. The driver delivered me back to my hotel where I proceeded to work on my tan by the pool for the next three and a half days. Not bad for a young Army SGT E-5 from Smyrna, Georgia.

I caught my charter jet “Freedom Bird” four days later and cheered with every other trooper on board as we lifted off. I don’t remember much about the trip back, except that we did stop in Manila, Guam and Hawaii for refueling, before finally landing in Oakland. The out-processing was a blur. My duffel bag was emptied and gone through by inspectors, I suppose looking for contraband or drugs. They took some of my military gear and kept it. At this point, I could care less. Besides, my duffle bag now only weighed seventy-five pounds instead of one hundred pounds. I was issued my last Army paycheck, given my discharge papers and then caught a bus over to San Francisco airport.

I was in for a rude awakening. I was still in uniform, carrying my duffel bag on my shoulder. I was worn slap out, but so looking forward to catching that final jet home to Atlanta. I could not get a porter to take my duffel bag. In fact, they ignored me, and in some cases gave me dirty looks. What was up with that? As I entered the airport, I noticed some dirty looks and heard a few under their breath comments directed towards me. What the hell? Then a young longhaired guy spit at me and called me a baby killer. Folks, thankfully for him and me, he was far enough away from me that his spit did not reach me, for if it had, I would probably be writing this story from Military Prison at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, where I would be serving a life sentence for murder for killing the kid with my bare hands. It was if someone had thrown a cup of steaming hot coffee into my face, the shock and outrage were so intense. After he got the “stink eye” from me, which backed him off in fear, I proceeded to my gate where I caught my flight back home.

When I arrived in Atlanta Airport, about mid-day, I proceeded out to the curb to await being picked up by my family, who I had called to tell when I would arrive. My sister, Cynthia, was to pick me up. As I stood there, ignoring the looks of civilians passing by (of course I was officially a civilian, too, at this point), I saw Cynthia driving up in dad’s big old Cadillac. It was a wonderful feeling, standing there, seeing my ride drive up to me. She slowly drove right past me, to my dismay. I ran after the car and beat on the trunk to get her to stop. She got out and hugged me, saying she did not recognize me. In hindsight, to give her a break, I did look a little different. I had gone into the Army weighing 187 pounds and here I was, all 140 pounds of me, looking gaunt and thin as a rail.

I threw my duffel bag in the trunk and hopped in the passenger seat. Not having driven a vehicle in over 15 months, I allowed my sister to chauffeur me home. Mom had prepared what I have ever since referred to as my “Army Homecoming Meal” – baked ham, potato salad, stewed peaches and green bean casserole. My mouth is watering just sitting here writing this.

As I end this story, which I was prompted to write by seeing someone’s Facebook post about their dad’s return from Vietnam and being spit on, I want to make a statement.

Never again in the history of America can we allow our soldiers to be treated the way those of us during the Vietnam era were treated upon our return. Tell every veteran you know “Thanks for your service and welcome home.” Tell every soldier you see in uniform, “Thanks for serving our country.” Never again, OK?