MEMORIAL DAY REMEMBRANCE OF RONNIE PUCKETT

MEMORIAL DAY REMEMBRANCE OF RONNIE PUCKETT

By Mark Reed

Do you remember a day your heart absolutely broke? I mean pain so bad you could hardly stand? Breathing becomes almost impossible? Here is my story.

My best friend growing up, in fact the best friend of my life, was Ronald Eugene Puckett. Ronnie to all who knew him. The best man I ever knew.

He and I were the same age, Baby Boomers, both born in 1946 after our dads came home from the war and married our moms. We grew up in Smyrna, Georgia. We became buddies in the first grade at Smyrna Elementary, and were basically inseparable from then on.

Our dads were friends at the Smyrna American Legion, and Ronnie and I played on those two big Howitzers parked outside the Post many a time.

We were Boy Scouts together, spending many hours in the Scout Hut across from the Legion, and on camping trips with the Troop.

When Ronnie transferred to Belmont Hills Elementary after the 3^rd Grade, that did not stop us from hanging with each other.

We would ride our bicycles to each other’s houses constantly. Our parents pretty much treated us like brothers and dealt with us accordingly. Neither one of us could get away with anything around either set of parents.

Here we are as Freshmen at Campbell High School in 1960.

When we discovered girls, we would have endless conversations about them in an attempt to understand them. Never happened. We doubled dated a lot.

Junior-Senior Prom in High School.

I remember the first time my parents ever let me go on a vacation with someone other than our family, and that was with the Puckett family to Jekyll Island. I wrote a story about that trip.

After High School, I headed to UGA in Athens, and Ronnie took the trek to West Georgia in Carrolton. There were many weekends we would visit with each other at our respective campus.

Ronnie decided to start a fraternity at West Georgia. There were none when he arrived. I had pledged Sigma Pi at UGA, so I supplied him with all our by-laws. His fraternity was founded as the Cavaliers, with him as first President. The school finally recognized and allowed fraternities on campus, and Ronnie became the first President of the IFC (Inter Fraternity Council) at West Georgia.

Upon graduation, he joined the Army and became a Green Beret. I was drafted into the Army upon graduation. We exchanged letters with each other during our Army service. I still love to pull out his letters and read them.

The last time I saw Ronnie was Christmas Eve 1969 at his house where a bunch of us guys, all soldiers, and our dates gathered. I was shipping out to S.E. Asia in a week and Ronnie was headed to Fort Bragg for Green Beret Training, where he earned his Beret.

We corresponded regularly while I was in Bangkok stationed at the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission. He shared with me how tough the Green Beret Training was, but he excelled in all aspects of it, in fact graduating as top student in his radio operator class. The part he loved the most was jumping out of airplanes. With a parachute.

Here is Ronnie with Joe Costner, his closest buddy in the Army at Fort Bragg. They died together.

This last photo above of Ronnie laid out on the ground, is one of my favorites. All of us who served in the military can identify with being this tired.

The last photos of Ronnie were taken by his sister Jan on June 6, 1970, during a visit just before he died.

This last photo is how I will always remember him.

That morning in June 1970, I showed up for duty at the Mission and had just sat down to my first cup of coffee. SP4 Lee Prevost, one of my clerks, was reading the English language version of The Bangkok Post. He announced, “Damn, six Green Berets were killed in a training accident at Fort Bragg.” My heart ran cold. Don’t ask me how, but I knew Ronnie was one of them. I jumped up and grabbed the paper out of his hands, and saw the photograph of a lone combat boot sitting on the ground where the explosion had happened. I scanned the article and saw Ronnie’s name, SP4 Ronald E. Puckett from Smyrna, Georgia, as one of those killed. A part of me died right there. It appeared that during a training exercise with C4, someone made a tragic mistake and attached a hot wire to the explosives. The seven Green Berets standing in a circle around the C4 were blown to pieces. One survived in critical condition, but he died later.

In a state of shock, I walked into my CO’s office, MAJ George Durst, where my good friend, First Sergeant Walt Mills, was going over unit business with him. They immediately knew something was terribly wrong for me to walk unannounced into a private meeting – and I suppose because of the expression on my face. I told them what I had just learned, still clutching the Bangkok Post in a fist. I requested the day off to go back to my hotel, which was approved.

I remember little about getting to my room. I was in a daze. I guess I must have taken a Baht Bus. I do know that I found myself lying on my bed with an open bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. I had not been there long when a knock came on my door, and it was Walt, coming to check on me. He was more like a big brother to me than my First Sergeant. He sat down on the foot of my bed and looked at the bottle of Jack. He said that was not the way to deal with this. Good advice.

After Walt left, I pulled myself together enough to go outside and catch a taxi to Western Union where I sent two messages. The first to the Pucketts telling them I just found out and was heart broken. The second to my parents asking them to do everything they could to support Ronnie’s family. I would, obviously, not be able to attend the funeral.

I received a letter from buddy Tim Huggins the next week, telling me how sorry he was for me to lose Ronnie and told me about the funeral. He said it was the biggest funeral he had ever seen. Ronnie was well loved by many. Tim said he was standing next to Harold Puckett, Ronnie’s dad, who turned to him and said, “Mark is going to blow his brains out when he finds out.” He was pretty close. The Pucketts never received my telegram. My parents did receive the one I sent them. Lovella Puckett, Ronnie’s mom, told me later that if it had not been for my mom being with her constantly in the weeks following Ronnie’s death, she would have killed herself.

I dreamed of Ronnie almost nightly for years afterwards. The dream was similar each time. In the dream, Ronnie came to me and told me it was going to be OK. I’m not sure exactly when the dream stopped, but it was some years later, and while I did come to terms with his death, it was never OK.

When I got my discharge from the Army and returned to the States in March of 1971, the first stop was home where mom had made me what I will always think of as my homecoming dinner…baked ham and potato salad. The second stop, after the meal, was the Puckett home. Harold, Lovella and sister Jan and I all hugged and cried together for a while. When I was leaving, Harold said to hold on a minute, that he had something for me. He went into his bedroom and came out carrying the .380 Italian Beretta pistol he had liberated from an Italian officer during WWII. He told me it was to be Ronnie’s, but I was now his son and it rightly should go to me. More tears. It is one of my most prized possessions.

I spent many an occasion with my second family. As I said, they were like a mom and dad to me. They are both gone now, but they are with me in memory, just as Ronnie is.

I’m crying as I write this. Remembering Ronnie and the great loss the world experienced because of his death. There are more than 58,000 from Vietnam who are in that same category. All those from all our wars. Remember all who gave their last full measure so we could be here to celebrate and honor them.

So, this Memorial Day, I will put on Ronnie’s Green Beret his mom gave me and remember the best man I ever knew.

SAN ANTONIO HONEYMOON

SAN ANTONIO HONEYMOON

By Mark Reed

One of the happiest moments of my life was on Halloween, October 31, 1969, as I drove through the gates leaving Fort Polk, Louisiana, aka Tiger Land, for the last time. Anyone in the Army who was stationed there can probably identify. There was a small town just off the Fort named Leesville. We GI’s called it “Diseaseville.” The people there were not too fond of the Army folks and the feeling was returned. I had been transferred to Fort Polk for Advanced Infantry Training following Basic Training at Fort Knox.

The above photo is the only one taken the entire time at Ft. Polk. That probably tells you something about how pleasant it was.

I have shared in a previous story about how lucky I was to get pulled from the Infantry and made a Company Clerk for a Training Company. It was one of the most depressing places in the world, primarily because all the soldiers going through Tiger Land were headed straight to Vietnam upon graduation. Just being in the atmosphere was a downer. Guys could look to either side of them and see a guy who likely would die or be wounded within the next year. As bad as that was, being stationed there as cadre was almost as bad. It was so bad that the Company Clerk I replaced had volunteered for Vietnam just to get out of Fort Polk. I kid you not, it was that bad.

Anyway, through a huge stroke of luck, orders came through transferring me to Fort Sam Houston, Texas for Medical Administration training. To say I was thrilled would be an understatement. I took my orders to my First Sergeant and told him I was leaving. He grabbed my orders and read them, then threw them down on his desk and announced to me that I wasn’t going anywhere, that I had found myself a home as his Company Clerk. He said no way was he giving up the best Company Clerk he ever had. I guess that was a compliment, but not one I wanted to hear. The week before, I had been selected by him to represent our Company in the Soldier of the Month competition for Fort Polk. I won. He said he planned for me to continue in the competition and be named the Soldier of the Quarter and then Soldier of the Year. He said it reflected well on him and his Company.

He went into our CO’s office and announced that he was getting my orders cancelled. He then picked up the phone and called HQ to speak to the Command Sergeant Major for him to pull strings. I immediately excused myself and called my new best friend, SGT Ramirez, the Battalion HQ clerk, who had just an hour ago handed me my new orders. I told him what was happening and asked for his help. He said to leave it to him. I don’t know who he called, and I don’t care, all I know is that next day the First Sergeant called me in and said, “Reed, I don’t know who you know, but I did everything I could to get your orders cancelled to no avail. Pack your gear. You are out of here tomorrow. If anyone doubts that E-5 Buck Sergeants have pull in the Army, then you are mistaken.

That is how I came to leave Fort Polk. I drove, top down on my GTO, music blaring, to Houston, Texas, where I parked my car and caught a flight to Atlanta for a five day leave before reporting for duty at Fort Sam Houston. I flew back to Houston five days later with a crisp new $100.00 bill in my pocket, a gift from dad as he dropped me off at Atlanta airport. His parting words were, “Don’t spend it all in one place.” When I arrived in Houston and got my car at the parking lot, I found out I had parked my car in Short Term Parking. Cost? $20.00 per day. Total charge? $100.00. Thank goodness dad gave the $100.00, or else my car would still be there.

It was a Friday afternoon when I drove onto Fort Sam Houston in beautiful San Antonio, Texas. I found my way to my new assignment and checked in. I was escorted to a nearby barracks where I was told to take a bunk in the corner semi-private room at the corner of the barracks. Since I was a PFC E-3, I outranked the other new class members of our training Platoon, and me and another PFC were to be Squad Leaders. How cool was that?

I opened the door of the room and carried my duffel bag in to toss on my bunk. There lying on the bottom bunk was another PFC stretched out looking up at me. I introduced myself and he returned the favor. His name was Roy Bokland. As Roy and I talked he told me that he had been married to his sweetheart Ellen the day before he shipped out to Fort Sam. I told him it was a real shame he and his new bride did not get to have a honeymoon. He corrected me, telling me that his wife flew out with him. I was incredulous. I asked him where the hell was she. He said she was in a hotel room downtown waiting for him to be released for whatever time he might get off to be with her. I think my mouth must have been hanging open with total shock. I said you mean to tell me your wife is in a hotel room waiting for you to consummate your wedding and have a honeymoon? He nodded yes.

I jumped up and told him to get his ass out of bed and come with me, that I had my car outside and I was going to drive him over to the hotel to be with Ellen. Now Roy was one of those guys who was a straight shooter and had played by the rules his entire life. He said he asked at HQ when he checked in when he might expect to be released and had been told to report to his barracks and someone would be in touch. He told me perhaps he should stay put. It was Friday afternoon. Our actual training did not start until Monday morning; I had already determined those facts when I checked in. I got behind him and pushed him out the door, telling him that I would cover for him and if anyone came looking for him before Monday morning at 0800, I would call him and come get him.

He called Ellen to let her know he was on the way and I drove him to the hotel. Ellen met us in the parking lot and the first thing she did was hug my neck and say thanks, and then led Roy into the hotel by his hand. I drove back to my barracks and unpacked my gear. As I went to sleep that night alone in my two man suite, I fantasized about Roy and Ellen. Early Monday morning Roy showed back up at the barracks in time to get cleaned up and put on a fresh uniform. We reported for duty together.

Needless to say, Roy and I became fast friends. We became friends with another soldier in our Platoon named Anthony Nolan. We became the Three Musketeers of San Antonio. Upon graduation just before Christmas 1969, the three of us were promoted to SP4 and received orders to ship out to Thailand in January 1970. We went our separate ways home for the holidays with plans to reconnect in early January at Oakland Army Base for transport to Thailand. We found out upon arrival in Bangkok that we were to be sent to Nakhon Phanom on the Mekong River up on the Laotian border. Anything was better than Vietnam. As fate would have it, we three, along with a handful of other soldiers, were kept in Bangkok, being sent to the MEDDAC 5^th Field Army Hospital, where Roy and Anthony were assigned to duty in the hospital.

As for me, I was sent to a crusty old personnel Sergeant’s office with ten other soldiers for assignment. I’ll never forget him; unlit cigar in mouth, saying that one of us was to be sent over to the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission. This little Private E-2 standing next to me spoke up in a squeaky voice saying, “That must be me, Sarge, my orders say EMB right here.” The Sergeant looked at him and said, “It’ll be who I say it is.” He turned to me, the ranking enlisted man at SP4 of the ten of us, and said, “It’s you.” And that is how I ended up at the Medical Mission.

I was assigned living quarters in the Windsor Hotel on Sukumvit Road. Roy and Anthony were assigned quarters at the Prince Hotel on Phetchaburi Road. Roy only lived there long enough for Ellen to make her way to Bangkok when they got an apartment on the economy. Their apartment became our go to place, and our friendship deepened, as we became The Four Musketeers. I like to think my facilitating their honeymoon played a part in our friendship.

The following photos document the next fifteen months together as the Musketeers.

The photo with the four of us together, my reflection in the glass as I took the photo, is the only one of the four of us together. The last photo, fingers in noses, was my going away party my last night in Bangkok.

Fast-forward forty-five years. Roy, Ellen, Anthony and I had all lost touch with each other. Anthony moved to Brazil and married a Brazilian girl in the 70’s. Roy and Ellen lived in the Annapolis area the last time I talked to them in 1980 or so. Last year at Thanksgiving, our family was just getting ready to eat turkey when the phone rang. I would usually let it go to the answering machine, but for some reason, this time I felt compelled to answer it. It was Roy. He had tracked me down on the Internet. What a great Thanksgiving.

CHURCH BELLS IN BANGKOK

CHURCH BELLS IN BANGKOK

By Mark Reed

I lived in Bangkok in 1970-71. I was in the Army and thankful to be somewhere they were not shooting at me. Those of you who were in the military may identify somewhat with some of what I am going to share here. I don’t care where you were stationed, if you were in the military and away from home, there is no way you could experience it without some homesickness and loneliness. For the most part, we were young and many had never been far from home, not to mention going through what most had to go through while in the military. I was among the most fortunate of the fortunate. I was not in Vietnam. Nuff said.

If you think back to your basic training, when you were going through the hell of it, always tired, never enough sleep and lonely even though you were in a barracks with upwards of fifty others like you, you will remember a respite you were given. On Sunday morning, whether you were a churchgoer in real life or not, you were given the opportunity to attend church services on base. Many took advantage of it in order to escape the barracks and the threat of being grabbed for KP or some other duty on what was supposed to be your morning off. No sleeping in, I assure you. You learned that if you were just lounging around doing nothing, even though it was allowed on Sunday morning, you were putting yourself at risk of being “volunteered” for something. So, on Sunday morning, you could count on a couple of hours of uninterrupted “non-being-messed-with” time by going to church services.

I had been a fairly regular Sunday School and church attendee at Smyrna First Baptist Church while growing up. I chose to go to church services because it gave me some comfort while going through the basic training experience, as well as going for the reason outlined above.

I must admit that after Basic and Advance Infantry Training, the pull of Sunday morning church services lessened somewhat when there was no one jumping in your doo-doo all the time. I pretty much slept in that one day a week whenever I could.

By the time I ended up stationed at the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission in Bangkok, I was a SGT and pretty much was left alone on my days off, usually every Sunday and sometimes Saturday. I lived in the Windsor Hotel, one of the handful of hotels that the Army leased for housing the various troopers who were cadre in the Bangkok area. It had an NCO Club on the top floor, so when I was not on duty I spent some time there drinking beer with my buddies. There was always sightseeing or doing any hundreds of things there were to do, I spent some of my free time in my room listening to music on my super-duper component sound system purchased at the PX. There was a swimming pool at the hotel and a tennis court. I actually became a pretty good tennis player during my time in Bangkok, since I usually got off duty before others living at my hotel and the rule was whoever got to the tennis court first played a set with whoever showed up second. You played until you lost. Since I was almost always first there, I was guaranteed at least one set most any day. You play a lot, you tend to get better. Not great, but better. Of course I had my buddies and spent time with them, but when you got right down to it, we all experienced being lonely.

I share all this just to give you an idea of just how good I had it, and still I was lonely. There were very few American girls around (we called them “round eyes”), and most nice Thai girls would not go out with a GI because that pretty much told everyone you were a prostitute. There were exceptions, of course, but this was pretty much the norm. So, for the first time in my dating life, I did not have a girlfriend, which only contributed to the feelings of loneliness. Don’t feel sorry for me. That is not the point of this story. I’m just trying to set the stage for what happened to me one Sunday morning in Bangkok.

I remember this particular day as being a spectacularly beautiful bright and sunny morning, which was pretty much the case except for during the monsoon season or when the humidity was ninety-nine percent and there was no wind and the temperature was over one hundred degrees in the shade (much of the time). I woke up early this Sunday morning, and rather than pull the covers over my head and sleep in, I got up and decided to take a stroll.

The Windsor Hotel was on Sukumvit Road, one of the main drags in Bangkok, which was always busy. But early on this Sunday morning there was little traffic except for the occasional “Tuk Tuk” (a three wheel putt-putt taxi we called the “Baht Bus” because it only took a Baht coin to ride) cruising around looking for a fare.

It was the quietest I had ever experienced Bangkok. As I left the hotel and started off down the sidewalk, no destination in mind, my ears picked up a familiar sound. I could swear I heard church bells. I thought I was hearing things because I had never seen a Christian church anywhere in Bangkok. There were Buddhist temples everywhere, and you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing the gratuitous saffron robed monk.

I stopped and tilted my head to see if I really was hearing church bells. Yes, there was no mistake, I could hear them, but could not really tell from exactly what direction they were coming. I started off following the bells, turning here and there, up one alley and down another, beside a klong (a canal), across a bridge and up another side road. I don’t know how long it took, but the bells got louder and louder until finally I rounded a corner and there it was – a small white wood frame building with a cross on top of the front peaked steeple. It could have been a small church in many towns across the south where I grew up. While it was smaller than the ones we had, it was a church nonetheless.

Almost on cue with my arrival, the church bells stopped. From inside came organ music playing a familiar refrain from one of the hymns I grew up singing in church, and then voices from inside the church started singing the hymn. The voices were singing in Chinese, not English, but I knew the words. I slowly walked inside through the open doors into the small sanctuary. It was full of Chinese men, women and children, all standing and singing the hymn. I stood inside the doorway at the back of the pews and started singing the hymn along with them, except in English. My loud American voice carried through the entire room and almost on cue, every head in the place turned and looked at me, although they were all still singing.

Something really wonderful happened then. Every face broke into a big grin. Three ladies closest to me walked over and escorted me to a place in the pews next to them, where we all continued to sing. There were several hymns sung in succession, which is fairly normal in the Baptist church I grew up in. I wasn’t sure if this was a Baptist church, but it mattered not. They were fellow Christians and they welcomed me into their service. After the hymns were sung, everyone sat down and the pastor started talking. It was obvious he was talking about me, as he was smiling and looking straight at me. Everyone kept looking over at me nodding their heads and continuing to smile. I figured I was being welcomed and smiled back, which made them smile all the more. Then the pastor got down to business.

I have absolutely no idea what the sermon was about that morning, but once again, it mattered not. I was in a place where I felt totally welcome and accepted and had a warm fuzzy feeling inside. I realized it was because of the comfort of being somewhere familiar and not foreign, for I was indeed a stranger in a strange land. It came to me in a flash that I was no longer lonely, and I had not even realized that I had been. It was a wonderful hour or so. At the end, as everyone left the church, almost every person there came up and shook my hand. I have no idea what any of them said to me, but they all smiled and left waving at me. I’m sure they must have invited me to come back, but my Mandarin is pretty poor.

I remember trying to retrace my path from the church to my hotel, but I was totally lost. I was finally able to see some rooftop landmarks that looked familiar and I finally walked out onto Sukumvit Road and made my way back to The Windsor Hotel. I went upstairs to the NCO Club and had a late lunch at the small grill where you could get a fair approximation of an American hamburger.

Next Sunday morning, I got up early and went out to listen for the church bells, but there was more traffic that morning and I could not hear them. Without the bells as a guide, there was no way for me to find the church again. I tried to find that church again on numerous Sunday mornings to no avail. I was never able to find it. But it will forever be one of those wonderful memories that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

A TALE OF TWO BOOTS

A TALE OF TWO BOOTS

By Mark Reed

There is a group of us guys who grew up in Smyrna, Georgia together, from Elementary School, through High School and College. We have basically known each other all our lives. We have been in each other’s weddings, partied together and still hang out together when we get the chance. We know each other pretty well. We have been gathering, for the most part, over the last ten years at what we call our annual “Guy’s Weekend” at one of our buddy’s cabin on Lake Nottely in Blairsville, Georgia. These weekend trips consist largely of good food, good drink, good company (well, OK, maybe that is arguable…hah), shooting weapons, maybe a trip to the Murphy, NC Flea Market, smoking cigars and talking about old times and memories. We like to say we sit around and tell lies. But you know, it’s hard to tell lies to guys who have known you your whole life.

On this particular trip I’m writing about, the decision was made to go to the aforementioned Flea Market, buy some item, and that night after dinner to tell a story about the item you bought. To make it more interesting, we each threw $10.00 into the hat, and the group would vote after everyone told their story, the winner pocketing the cash, which was pushing $100.00.

At the Flea Market, which is huge by the way, we split up and went in search of our item. I happened upon a table covered with books, and right there on top was one about the Civil War Battle of Gettysburg. I bought the book and decided to tell my story about my relatives in the battle.

That evening, after dinner when we were all well lubricated, we started our stories, taking turns pulling out our item and telling the story. When it came my turn, I showed them my book on the Battle of Gettysburg and explained how running across it at the Flea Market, I was prompted to share a bit of family history. Here is my story:

During the Civil War, my namesake, William Reed from Pennsylvania was a soldier in the Army of Northern Aggression. Another namesake, Marcus Bird from South Carolina was a soldier in the Patriotic Army of The Confederacy. They both fought in the Battle of Gettysburg. As a result of the battle both received serious wounds, which resulted in the loss of a foot. William lost his right foot and Marcus lost his left. But they survived the battle and the war, heading home afterwards to continue their lives. You can imagine the problem of having to buy a pair of boots and throw one away.

Fast forward ten years or so after the war to St. Louis, Missouri. As fate would have it, William and Marcus happened to be in St. Louis at the same time and also happened to be frequenting a well know boot maker’s establishment where they would have the boot maker make them a single boot. They met each other in the store, introduced by the boot maker. He told them they had something in common that may work to their mutual advantage. William needed a left boot and Marcus needed a right boot. Fate further stepped in with the fact that they both wore a size 10. They bought a single pair of boots and each took the one they needed.

They decided this should become the start of a partnership of the boots. They vowed to meet in St. Louis the following year where they would partner together by buying another new pair of boots. This went on for years. As a result of this partnership over the years, they became good friends as did their wives, and subsequently so did their children. In fact, the son of William ended up marrying the daughter of Marcus.

My father was named William Marcus Reed, named after the two old soldiers. I was named William Marcus Reed II (there is another story why I was not a Jr.), and my first son is named William Marcus Reed III. And it all started with two opposing soldiers on the field of battle, both losing a foot.

I was very emotional telling the story, and in fact a few of the guys listening to my story wiped away a tear or two. Needless to say, I won the competition and pocketed the cash. As we were sitting around afterwards enjoying another cigar and cocktail, one of my buddies told me how much he enjoyed my story, how touched he was, and asked if I minded him sharing my story, which I gladly agreed to. He asked me if it was really true.

I believe strongly in not lying to anyone, especially not your friends. I told him, no, I made the whole story up. He was a little upset with me at first. Everyone had a great big laugh about it. I kept the cash.

After the guy’s weekend, I happened to pick up the book again and started leafing through it. I flipped to the rear where there was an appendix of names mentioned in the book and on what page in the book the mention was printed. I found William Reed and Marcus Bird. Go figure.

PERMIT TO DANCE

PERMIT TO DANCE

By Mark Reed

Sometime in the 1980’s, Michelle and I visited our friends “The Crazy Crosses” in Nashville, Tennessee. Mike and Marilyn Cross were one of our best couples friends and we partied a lot together. This visit may have been the time we went up for the Jimmy Buffet concert (he made his entrance on stage sitting behind the controls of a life size air boat aircraft that filled the stage). It may have been the visit when we went to see K.T. Oslin in an outside free concert when her hit, 80’s Ladies, was big.

This was back in the day when we drank em up big, before I gave up that crazy inducing activity. Damn, it did generate some memories…and probably made some better lost. But I remember this one.

We hit the bars on Music Row, having a drink or two at each place while listening to great house bands. It seems every bar had their own great band that you found hard to believe had not hit it big. Lots of great musicians in Nashville. It attracted performers from all over the country, with stars in their eyes, where they came to try and break into the big time. The local bars, and those who frequented them, were the beneficiaries of some great music.

We were in this packed joint, tables almost up to the stage, almost completely covering what should have been the dance floor. My memory is vague on what song the band struck up, but it might have been Rocky Top, always a crowd pleaser in Tennessee honkey tonks. That’s when Marilyn jumped up out of her chair and started clogging. She worked herself up to in front of the band, giving it all she had. That girl could clog. She was the only one dancing and the crowd, already going wild over Rocky Top, went even wilder cheering her on.

As she clogged away, abandoned to the music, a gentleman approached her and tried to get her attention. Since her eyes were mostly closed, she didn’t see him. I don’t remember if he touched her arm to get her attention, but she finally saw him. She smiled her hundred-dollar smile and kept dancing. He was saying something to her, which no one but the two of them could hear.

She turned, nodding her head, and still smiling and clogging like crazy, she danced back on over to our table and sat down, to thunderous applause from the crowd. As I said, that girl could dance. The band finished its rendition of Rocky top, a song that makes me throw up a little in the back of my throat, and the decibel level in the joint returned to a level where you could carry on a conversation. We asked Marilyn what the man had said to her. She said he identified himself as the manager and told her she could not dance because the bar did not have a Permit to Dance. We all got a big laugh out of that one. I guess that explained the almost nonexistent dance floor in front of the stage.

We finished our drinks and departed, looking for a place that had a Permit to Dance. RIP, Marilyn. I bet you are dancing in Heaven, where no permit is required.

SPECIAL FORCES AT CAMP PAWAI IN LOPBURI

SPECIAL FORCES AT CAMP PAWAI IN LOPBURI

By Mark Reed

In October of 1970, I was ordered to take our officers, doctors and medics of the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission for weapons qualification. Most of them had never held, much less fired, an M16. This should be fun.

We were to transport from Bangkok to Camp Pawai in Lopburi, Thailand. Lopburi was approximately 100 kilometers due north of Bangkok. Camp Pawai was the 46^th Special Forces Special Warfare Center for training purposes and staging for missions into Laos and Cambodia (where the U.S. military did not go. Hah!). The Green Berets were deployed there to assist the Royal Thai Army in resisting Communist guerrilla activity, primarily along the Laotian border. They did specialized training for the Thai Special Forces and Border Patrol Police, as well as units of the Cambodian military, the Khmer Special Forces. They were sure to have their hands full with our squad.

D-Day of our “mission” was 12 October 1970. I requisitioned a military ambulance and had all the stretchers removed in order to accommodate our twelve soldiers. After loading into our vehicle, we headed to the armory where everyone checked out a M16. No ammo was issued, thank goodness. Off to Camp Pawai we went.

I remember the trip up being about two hours. When we arrived, a team of Green Beret NCO’s greeted us and escorted us to a staging area before going to the range where we would be firing our weapons. After a short indoctrination session, and realizing they were dealing with a bunch of amateurs, they drew straws to see who would have to actually accompany us to the range. The loser was a SFC who hung his head. Fortunately there were a couple of us who had actually qualified on weapons, so we assisted. We all had a M16, but a few of us also had a .45 side arm. The Green Berets had a few other weapons for us to fire. I remember the M60 as being the one I enjoyed most that day.

I’ll never forget a particular Major, a doctor, who said the last weapon he fired was a .22 as a boy. How anyone can be in the Army for a year or two and not fire a weapon is a mystery to me. He actually did OK firing down range, until he was allowed to fire a full 20 round magazine on full automatic. We were taught to fire a short burst, two to three rounds, otherwise the recoil would cause the barrel to rise and you were only shooting sky. He killed the hell out of the sky with one continuous 20 round burst. The SFC made sure to stand directly behind him, as did I.

Everyone got to shoot a couple of magazines. The SFC had brought his personal M14, which he swore on. It happened to be my favorite weapon, also. He let me shoot off a magazine or two.

At the pistol range, only a few of us were able to actually put a .45 round through the target with our 1911’s. I had the benefit of having fired them before. In fact, the first pistol I ever shot was a .45 at Lake Allatoona when I was a boy. One of the Fouts brothers, or maybe it was Harley Morris, an old Marine, had one and allowed me to bust a cap. I think most people are afraid to shoot the beast because of the recoil, but I personally claim it as my favorite side arm. In fact, I have my dad’s from WWII, but that is another story.

Anyway, it was a great trip, and every member of my team had a smile on his face as we left. As I said, the ride up had taken about two hours. The ride back took a little longer. My driver and I were sitting up front, and SP4 John Broder, one of the funniest human beings I’ve ever known, suggested from the back that I stop for beer. Now, it is usually not advisable for individuals to possess weapons and beer at the same time, but we had expended all the ammo they had at Camp Pawai (my .45 had a full magazine). I was the NCOIC, even though all the doctors outranked me, and they all reacted like children begging to stop at the ice cream store. The enlisted men just stared at me with hungry eyes. I figure “What the hell.” I knew I might face some repercussions, but I figured it was worth it, on the off chance of seeing the Major drunk. He was a surgeon, and professed not to drink, but he was all in for a tall Singha beer.

I had the driver stop at the equivalent of a Thai package store in Lopburi where we all marched in and each bought a Singha, the Thai national beer. It is, to this day, my favorite beer, and even though for all intents and purposes I no longer drink, I do make an exception for a Singha from time to time when I eat Thai food. FYI, the Singha beer there was in a big liter bottle and the alcohol content was akin to drinking a bottle of wine.

If you were ever in the military in the back of a vehicle fully armed and drinking beer, you know just how much fun that can be. If you did not serve and never experienced that joy, then take my word for it, it was Out Damn Standing!

With a little coaxing, fueled by the Singha, SP4 Broder was prevailed upon to do his stand up comedy routine, which featured his pantomime of a baby being born and then deciding it wanted to go back inside mommy. I chuckle even today thinking about it. We all laughed our butts off. You have to remember we were all soldiers, even the doctors, and there is nothing more profane than a GI drinking beer. I’m not saying if we made another beer stop. I made sure to police up all the empties before turning the vehicle back in to the motor pool. We turned in our weapons at the armory and headed off in different directions. Me and my fellow NCO’s headed to the NCO Club on top of The Windsor Hotel on Sukumvit Road, where we added Bud to our Singha.

Next day, my First SGT, Walt Mills, called me over to his desk and said in a low voice, so no one else could hear, “Reed, tell me you did not stop for beer on the way back yesterday.” It sounded like an order to me, so I said, “I did not stop for beer on the way back, First SGT.”