THE MALLARDS

THE MALLARDS

By Mark Reed

(This story is written from the perspective of an event participated in over 50 years ago. I could not have written it without the collective memory of a number of CHS classmates, most particularly the two other living ’64 Mallards, besides myself, Tim Huggins and Ray Golz. I make no claim on the accuracy of everything I relay below, but the story is based upon real events by real people.)

For those of us who attended Campbell High School in Smyrna, Georgia during the 60’s, unless you were living in a vacuum, you are familiar with The Mallards. I’m not sure of the exact historical point in time that The Mallards came into existence, sometime before 1964, because I became aware in 1962 as a sophomore. It probably started innocently enough before then with some guy or guys painting duck foot prints on the pavement in front of the school. There was a long tradition at CHS of raiding other local High Schools and painting “Panther” footprints at their entrances. We at Campbell were the Fighting Panthers.

Anyway, that was probably the inception of the idea for duck prints, which someone started calling Mallard Tracks, hence those who painted them came to be known as The Mallards. The identity of The Mallards was always a closely guarded secret, known only to those who became Mallards. It is amazing, if you think about it, that a secret such as this could be kept for so many years. The really funny part was when some imposter would claim to be a ’64 Mallard, but the real Mallards knew he was a liar.

As I mentioned above, I think in 1962 when I was a sophomore at CHS, The Mallards struck by painting Mallard Tracks on the floor inside the school. There might have been a dozen or more foot prints. An interesting thing about those tracks, or maybe it was the one’s in 1963, was they went up a wall ending at the ceiling, and then inside the classroom on the other side of the wall, the prints continued from the ceiling down to the floor…pretty witty. Obviously, this was frowned upon by the powers that be. A big deal was made of it and all sorts of threats of punishment for those responsible were levied by Principal Bob “Awful” Alford. No one was ever brought to justice, to my knowledge. I talked with buddy Wit Carson, CHS ’62, about this. If something was going on at CHS, Wit was either involved or knew who was. He says he remembers there being talk about Franklin Brooks, CHS ’62, maybe being involved, but he can’t swear to it. If anyone knows Franklin, and he is still around, ask him.

When I communicated with Ray Golz about my writing this story, his concern was whether the Statute of Limitations was up on this, pointing out that the U.S. Government hunted the Weathermen for years. I’m going to go with the position that the Statute of Limitations has certainly expired by now, some 53 years after the fact, and I guess it is safe to tell the entire story about the 1964 Mallards. Truth be told, we Mallards “came out of the closet” in 1984 at our Class of ’64 20^th Reunion at Marietta Country Club, where the attached Mallard footprint with our photos inside was distributed to attendees. That was the first time any of us had publicly admitted to being the culprits.

OK, back to our Senior Year in 1964 – a group of us guys got together and brainstormed over how we could do a “Mallard Attack To End All Mallard Attacks.” David Brown, Ray Golz, Tim Huggins, Ronnie Puckett and me, decided to become the 1964 incarnation of The Mallards. Interestingly enough, we even had tacit approval and even some surreptitious help from Mr. Golz, who spied us out, but didn’t really know what to make of our activities. When he called us out on it, we told him what we had planned, and good sport that he was, and by the very nature of his knowledge, became an accessory after the fact. We even used his ’55 Chevy to haul our contraband. We staged our preparations in the Golz garage.

The story and plan was as follows: We stole, er permanently borrowed, the 6 foot tall metal policeman, at night of course, from outside an elementary school over near the Covered Bridge, the name of the school escapes me. We loaded it up in the aforementioned ’55 Chevy in the back seat like a passed out date. You remember those policemen – used as traffic control at crosswalks and various intersections. You probably remember what they looked like – a Policeman in blue uniform and cap with his hand held up to stop. One funny detail Ray remembered was that the back side of the policeman had “Drink Coca Cola” painted on it. We decided to paint the policeman gold. He would be set into a 3’x3’x1’ deep wooden box we constructed (exactly premeasured to make sure it would fit through a school window), said box being filled with cement to hold the policeman stationary. The box was painted green (of course) and had an inscription painted in white saying, “Mallard Award to Mr. Duncan.” We cut Mallard footprint stencils to be used to paint the requisite Mallard Tracks inside and outside the school. As you surmise from the inscription on the box shared above, the major focus of the Mallard Attack was to be the classroom of Mr. Duncan, a particular teacher chosen because of his “winning” personality.

You would think I would remember the actual date of the attack, but over 50 years of dead brain cells prohibit pulling that up. Ray and Tim remember it was a Friday, because we wanted the concrete to have a couple of days to harden before being discovered on Monday.

The day of the attack, I made sure to unlock one of the windows to Mr. Duncan’s classroom so we would be able to gain access to the school. Later that night, we gathered to load all our paraphernalia into the ’55. Our gear consisted of the metal policeman (already painted gold), the box, 6 bags of concrete mix, buckets to carry water and mix concrete in, shovels for mixing the concrete, a Mallard footprint stencil for each of us, a can of spray paint for each of us (none of the three of us remember the color paint, although a witness to the results says they were silver), and individual flashlights.

Into the ’55 Chevy we piled and Ray drove us to dear old CHS. If you remember, on the north end of the school was a gravel/dirt drive, which cut around the end of the school to a chain-link gate for access to the plateau overlooking the football field behind the school. Here is an interesting factoid: During school that Friday, Ray was checking the gate we would come through to gain access to the rear of the school. He noticed a rusted chain dangling from the gate. For some reason, these gates were left unlocked. At the last minute, Ray decided to bring a padlock with him to lock the gates behind us using the rusty chain, to give us security as we worked our Mallard magic. As it turns out, as you will read, that probably saved our butts. We drove behind the school and around to the area next to Mr. Duncan’s classroom, where we unloaded everything. Ray then drove the ’55 Chevy back out to Atlanta Road where he parked it off the road, then ran back to the school. As he came back into the gate, he closed it and chained and locked it, for maybe the first time in years. Then to work.

Ronnie Puckett was chosen as lookout and was boosted up to the roof. His job was to warn us if anyone showed up, particularly the police who might be patrolling the area. A couple of us entered the classroom and the policeman, wooden box, stencils and paint cans were passed through the window to us. The two outside started mixing up concrete in buckets, which were passed through the window to be poured around the stand of the policeman standing in the box. He was positioned standing front and center at the chalkboard beside Mr. Duncan’s desk.

About half way through this process, Ronnie called frantically from the roof, warning us that the police had driven up to the gate and were shaking it, probably surprised it was locked. The jig was up. I scrambled out of the window, closely followed by my inside partner in crime, and along with our other two delinquents, made a dash for the embankment down to the football field, leaving Ronnie laying on the rooftop. I remember hitting the edge of the embankment running full speed and immediately tumbling head over heels down the red clay bank, but coming up on my feet running across the football field to the tree line beyond. We gathered in the trees looking back at the school, just then feeling remorse for leaving Ronnie behind. We could see the stationary headlights of the police car parked at the gate. After what seemed like a lifetime, but was probably only a few minutes, the police car backed up and drove away. The padlock saved our butts.

We made our way back to the school, climbing the red bank. We were all filthy with sweat and red clay from head to toe. We gathered at the window and gazed up to see Ronnie’s smiling face from the roof giving us the thumbs up. Back inside two of us went and the task of mixing and transporting all the concrete into the box was completed. The outside twosome, joined by Ronnie, scrambled inside through the window and headed out to our pre-assigned Mallard Track areas. We painted Mallard Tracks on the floor from the policeman, up walls and down and out the door to the hallway and throughout the entire hall back onto the main front hall. Witnesses to the aftermath tell me we also painted Mallard tracks on the breezeway between 300 and 400 hall. There were footprints all down the hallway to Duncan’s classroom, running up the wall lockers. Supposedly they went into the girls restroom. There was a final footprint on the inside window glass of the classroom where the mythical Mallards exited.

Someone took the time to leave a message on the chalkboard for Mr. Duncan. None of the three of us survivors can remember the exact message, but several witnesses relayed the following:

“You’ve caught me once, I’ve struck again – Look at the tracks where the Mallards have been.”

“You caught us once, but we struck again – Look at the tracks where the Mallard has been.”

“Dear Mushmouth: We’ve struck before and we’ll strike again. Look at the floor where the Mallards been.”

The fact that these three separate remembrances of the message from three different people are so similar suggests that these are pretty close to what it was.

Ray says that one of us also left a message saying something along the lines of, “Mallards arrising to avenge mistreatment of the Class of ’64.” Interestingly enough, whoever left that message misspelled “arising.”

We decided to shift the policeman, but were unable to move it an inch. It probably now weighed 500 pounds if it weighed an ounce. We all high-fived each other.

We crawled out the window, gathered all our gear and headed back to the ‘55, making sure to carefully remove the padlock from the chain at the gate. Once in the car, we sped away from the scene of the crime, laughing our heads off. We had done it! I guess Ray delivered everyone back to their cars or dropped them at home. We were all giddy with excitement over the weekend to see our handiwork on Monday morning.

Monday morning when we arrived at school, there were hundreds of students standing outside, with Alford and Bennett roaming the crowd all freaked out. The school was basically in lock-down mode while the Mallard Attack was dealt with. Police were there, teachers were milling about asking questions, trying to find out anything they could about the “desecration” and vandalization of CHS. Of course, no one knew anything but the five of us, and we sure were not telling.

When we were finally allowed into the school, you could see where the exceedingly heavy policeman had been dragged out of Mr. Duncan’s classroom and down the hall to an exit, leaving gouges in the floor tiles, some of which had to be replaced. A witness to the removal said it took two maintenance workers with hand trucks to remove the policeman. Although I did not witness it, I am told they used pick axes to break up the cement from around the policeman, destroying the box in the process. I was told Mr. Duncan kept the painted “award message” from the front of the box. Rumor has it that Coach Joe “Atos” Lattanzi kept the policeman in his garage for many years afterwards. I have tried to confirm this with young Joe, but no word on that.

Back to when we were all allowed back into school – the Mallard Tracks had been scrubbed off the walls and floors, although there was no mistaking what they were. The messages on the chalkboard had been erased.

I understand that many different people were called to Mr. Alford’s office to be “hot-boxed” and interviewed about their role in the Mallard “Affair” as it was called. Guys were told, as they were interviewed, that someone had ratted them out and the best thing they could do was to come clean, admit it and take the consequences, which would be worse if they lied and said they had nothing to do with it. None of the five of we Mallards were called to the office. Let this be a lesson to you. If you want to keep a secret, tell no one. After a week or so, the interviews stopped, although we heard that rewards were offered to anyone who would turn the culprits in. Never happened.

Am I proud of what we did? Well, in a perverted sorta way, I guess so. We pulled off a major attack with no casualties to our attacking force (except for the bumps, scrapes and bruises from tumbling down the embankment). Over the years, at reunions, the talk always came back to The Mallards, always wondering who they were. As I said, I ratted us out publicly at our 20^th Reunion, but I had gotten permission from each Mallard, except Ronnie, who died as a Green Beret in 1970.

What would have happened to us five if we had been caught? No diploma? Jail time (or in our case, Juvenile Detention)? How we managed to keep it a secret for so long is commendable.

The Mallards returned in ’65, with Larry Brown’s widow, Teresa, recently sharing with me that he had been one of the ’65 Mallards. I believe that was the attack that resulted in a Mallard footprint being burned into the football field. No word on who his partners in crime were. Larry was credited with perfecting a “Mallard Call.”

One sidebar relating to people claiming to be one of the Mallards: Ray shared that while sitting at a table at a Class of ’64 Reunion, an individual at the table shared how he was a part of the Great Mallard Attack. Ray kept mum.

David Brown passed away recently. This story was prompted by someone seeing the Mallard image on the photo memorial I made for David on Facebook, and asking me why David and us were called Mallards. Now you know. Quack.

DAVID BROWN – A MEMOIR

DAVID BROWN – A MEMOIR

By Mark Reed

RIP David Lee Brown – August 2, 1946 to March 21, 2017.

David was one of my best friends during our formative years at Smyrna Elementary and Campbell High School in Smyrna, Georgia. His family and mine were connected through our father’s (Robert and Bill) friendship at the Smyrna American Legion, and more importantly, the fact that our mothers (Elise and Jenny) were best friends. We grew up playing together and climbing on the cannons at the Legion (I still go by today, more than sixty years later and climb up on them). We were in the Boy Scouts together, and went on many camping trips together.

When I got word that David had died from a stroke, I was shocked. Like it is most times, it was unexpected. He and I had recently been in touch about our upcoming CHS ’63-’66 All-Class Reunion this summer at the Legion. Since I no longer live in the Smyrna area, having moved up to Lake Lanier, a trip to Smyrna could take an hour and a half, so my infrequent trips to Smyrna limited our visits. We would primarily reconnect at our class reunions or from time to time at the Legion or at a City of Smyrna veterans event.

I am prompted to write this memoir, not as a history of David, but as a scattered remembrance of numerous stories from our past together. The real impetus for writing this story came from a “Memorial Service” I attended at the Legion the other night, where a group of us stood in a circle and took turns sharing memories of David. During that time, I actually shared a story or two about David, which I had never shared before. I was blessed to hear some stories from his gathered friends that I had never heard and learned some things about him I did not know.

As I mentioned, we first met when we were children and classmates at Smyrna Elementary in the 1950’s. We were in the same class a number of years…the most memorable for me being the 5^th Grade in Mrs. Melton’s class in 1957…she is still my all-time favorite teacher. By this time, our friendship was sealed for life, as happens in the case of many young people.

The stories are many, the memories coming back on me in a flood…some worth sharing, and some better left unsaid.

On a particular Boy Scout camping trip to Camp Dobbs (maybe it was Camp Dodd), in north Georgia, it was one of the coldest weekends of the year. I remember us being in one of the old Baker Tents, sleeping on folding wooden cots in our sleeping bags. My sleeping bag was pretty basic for the time…a far cry from the high-tech super-duper bags of today, which would keep you warm in subzero temperatures. I was freezing to death. David’s dad, Robert, came in to check on us, and brought these old Army Surplus green Army blankets. You know the ones, if you ever saw them. He tucked one around David, who said to check on Mark, and then he turned to me and asked how I was holding up. Through chattering teeth, I told him, “I’m freezing.” I’ll never forget how he half lifted me off the cot and tucked the blanket beneath me , still in my sleeping bag, and then folding it over me. The sensation of almost immediate warmth, was unforgettable, so much so I share it here.

When we were maybe thirteen years old, my family owned a cabin at Lake Allatoona up in the Acworth area north of Smyrna. We had a 14.5’ ski boat with a 33 ½ HP Scott At Water outboard engine, named the Jimbo (I think that was the name painted on the boat when dad bought it, because there is no connection I know of for the name Jimbo in our family or circle of friends from the time). Believe it or not, at age 12, dad turned over the keys to the Jimbo to me and turned me loose on the Lake. I doubt there was an inch of the lake I had not explored. Thinking back, I can’t believe he gave a 12 year old such freedom. It was a different time, for sure, but I was a responsible little boy (some stories giving credence to the contrary). Anyway, David was up visiting me at the lake, and one evening we decided to take a boat ride across the lake from where we were in the Victoria Landing area over to Galt’s Ferry Marina on the west side of the big water. We lost track of time, and by the time we started back, it was fast getting dark. We had a flashlight, but that was it. I had been across that stretch of water a hundred times, and knew full well where the mud flats from a peninsula stretched out far into the lake. I was using dead reckoning getting back and miscalculated my route and sure enough, sheared a pin on the muddy bottom. If you don’t know what shearing a pin is, basically it was a metal pin about an inch or two long, the circumference of a 10 penny nail. If you don’t know what a 10 penny nail is, then you have lived a life bereft of full enlightenment. Anyway, it held the propeller to the drive shaft of the engine, and would shear when hitting an obstruction so as not to ruin your engine. So, there we were marooned in the middle of a dark lake, and of course I had no extra shear pins on board (I went through them pretty fast exploring the lake without the charts we have today.

Boy Scouts that we were, we knew Morse Code, particularly the code for distress – SOS – dit dit dit, dah, dah, dah, dit dit dit – and we proceeded to take turns sending our distress call on our flashlight in the general direction of our cabin, where my mom was probably frantic by that time. As the batteries died in our flashlight, we looked at each other and decided we were in for a long night. About that time, in the distance came a boat with a searchlight swinging back and forth. It was dad and his friends come to rescue us. We were never in mortal danger, but as twelve year olds, we made this, in our minds at least, a shared life threatening moment, which sealed our friendship for life.

David and his family lived on Lee Street, the house where he lived when he died. I lived on Bank Street, a few miles away. We would visit each other via bicycles most weekends. I remember the many times we would zoom down Dunn Street past the Legion toward his house one street over on Lee Street. There was the meanest dog in the world residing on Dunn Street. A big vicious Chow, that would run out and chase you down the street trying to bite your feet. You had to get up a big head of steam and go as fast as you could go down the street with your feet held high off the pedals, which the Chow would bite. It was truly terrifying. I shared this story the other night at the Legion remembrance of David, and Mickey (now Mike) Terry shared what happened to the Chow. One of the older brothers of one of our buddies decided to take care of the problem. He rode with the group of boys down Dunn Street, with the younger boys ahead with their feet in the air, him close behind, holding a brick in his hand. When the Chow turned his attention to the following older boy, this hero leaned over and cracked the Chow in the back of his head. His bike chasing days were done. I hear he just sat on his porch and growled at the bikes going past after that.

Everyone from that era of Smyrna remembers the old water tower in downtown Smyrna next to the Fire Department. As was the case with most water towers, local hooligans would climb the tower and paint various messages, usually “CHS” for Campbell High School. Yes, I was one of those hooligans. On my first foray to paint the water tower, David was my partner in crime, as he stool watch near the base of the tower, to give me a special whistle to warn me that someone in authority was approaching. If I heard the whistle, I was to lie down on the catwalk around the tank, with my bucket of paint (green of course) and paint brush (this predated the ubiquitous can of spray paint). I have no memory of David joining me up there, but David was much more intelligent than me.

I shared the following story for the first time the other night. Dad gave me my first weapon when I was a 10 year old. It was a .22 1897 Model Winchester pump that originally belonged to my grandfather, B.F. Reed Sr., ended up belonging to my uncle B.F. Reed, Jr., who traded it to my dad for his WWII Colt .45 he carried in combat. B.F. wanted a large intimidating pistol as his behind the bar weapon at the Don-Reed in Marietta. I always thought that was a bad trade, dad’s 1911 .45 for the .22, but otherwise I would not have received the .22. Anyway, back in those days, kids could ride around Smyrna on their bikes with a rifle or shotgun on their handlebars and the cops did not look twice at you. The reason I share this now is that my attorney, Mr. Cheatham at the Law Firm of Dewey, Cheatham & Howe, assures me the statute of limitations has expired on the following offense. David and I rode our bikes down Bank Street from my house with my trusty .22 strapped to my handlebars, with a box of fifty .22 shorts in my pocket. We parked our bikes in the woods abutting S. Cobb Drive, where a new business had a dirigible advertising balloon on a cable high in the sky over their grand opening. David and I put 100 holes in that dirigible (one in, one out). We shot that sucker down. I guess you could say it was the precursor to our time in the Army ten years later.

Another time found us training in explosive devices. Back in the day, dad would buy these really powerful fireworks for me as a kid for the 4^th of July. This was when a Cherry Bomb was a Cherry Bomb and an M-80 was an M-80…not the pale imitation of those sold today. One of those things could destroy a mailbox, so I’ve been told. David was visiting one July, and he and I, along with my stash of fireworks stowed in my dad’s German Army leather map case around my shoulder, went out to see what we could destroy. There was a vacant lot catty-corner across Bank Street from the Bacon’s house (yes the future father/son Mayor duo of Smyrna – Arthur and Max). David and I dug a hole/cave in the red clay bank beside the street where we proceeded to weave several fuses together for a Cherry Bomb demolition. As I lit the protruding fuses, we jumped back to watch our handiwork. No sooner did we jump back, that we noticed a Smyrna Police Car drive up and come to a stop directly next to the cave. This was the time when everyone knew everyone in Smyrna, and the police officer knew my dad and me. He stopped and rolled down the window of his police cruiser (Please, No, God!) and smiled at me, leaned his head out the window and asked, “How is it going, Mark?” He didn’t say, “How is it going Mark and David?” As I said before, David was much more intelligent than me. He was long gone into the bushes on the vacant lot and the woods beyond.

The explosion was deafening, as the three Cherry Bombs went off simultaneously. The police cruiser was splattered with red mud, as was the face of the police officer, peering through the open window, as was the inside of the vehicle. What could I do? I couldn’t run. He knew me. He was friends with my dad. To his credit, he just sat there, calmly blinking his eyes, taking in what had just happened. He had to be a combat vet, he was so calm. He slowly got out of the cruiser, wiping his face with his handkerchief, and slowly walked over to me and held out his hand to me motioning for me to hand him the leather case filled to the brim with fireworks. I handed it to him. He stood there for a minute looking me right in the eyes. He finally said, “We’ll just keep this between us.” He turned, got back into the cruiser, and drove away. He never told dad, or if he did, dad never mentioned it. David, on the other hand, mentioned it every time we saw each other for the rest of our lives.

During our Senior year at CHS, David, Tim Huggins, Ronnie Puckett, Ray Golz and me, decided to become the Class of 1964 incarnation of The Mallards. Probably only those of us who attended CHS in the 60’s know what The Mallards were and what they did. For those of you not familiar with it, suffice it to say, it was basically where a delinquent or delinquents chose to vandalize and deface dear old CHS with painted “Mallard Tracks” either outside or inside the school. My first memory of it happening was in 1962 when I was a Sophomore. There was another Mallard attack in 1963. We five decided that we would stage the Mallard Attack of Mallard Attacks. Without going into the entire story here, we became legends for over 20 years, and are still viewed so in some corners even more than 50 years after the fact. There will be a separate Blog Story about the 1964 Mallard Attack.

As happens with childhood friendships, we graduated from High School, went off to college, and subsequently each into the Army, not to see each other again until our 10^th CHS Reunion in 1974 at Atlanta Country Club. David was still in the Army at the time. I asked him what he was doing in the Army, and he leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner and winked and whispered, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” Now that is a phrase that has become famous and used much in the lexicon. But this was the first time I ever heard it used. I give credit to David for inventing the usage and uttering it for the first time.

Over the years, we lost track of each other. I have learned since that he traveled and worked all over the world. We reconnected in the last couple of decades through CHS Reunions. It’s funny how friendships from so long ago, can be renewed so easily, despite the many years apart. That was the case with David and I. We had many fond reminiscences together at CHS Reunions, and also when we would bump into each other at the Legion or at Memorial Day or Veterans Day ceremonies in Smyrna.

As I mentioned above, we recently communicated in regard our upcoming Reunion this July. I remember the last two times we saw each other.

The next to last time I saw David was at an impromptu gathering at the Legion with a group of us old CHS classmates to have fellow classmate Evelyn Bailey Delong do a reprise of her infamous rendition of Patsy Cline’s “She’s Got You.” If you have not seen this or one of the hilarious renditions online, let me just say that the performance entails Evelyn/Patsy pulling items out of her bra during the performance. Anyway, that night, David was there, and he knew I would be there, and he brought along a magnificent full color book by a B-17 Bomber Pilot from WWII, autographed by the author, given to me in honor of and in remembrance of my dad, Bill Reed, who was a B-17 pilot during WWII. What a great gesture.

The last time I saw David was at the City of Smyrna program honoring my Uncle Raymond Reed and our family at the special presentation of the Smyrna Historical Society program on the Reed Home on Atlanta Road. David approached me and said he had something for me. He then handed me a photo of my mom, which I had never seen before. David told me it was his mother’s favorite photo of my mom she kept in a frame at her home. David’s mom had passed away not long before that. I remember being touched by the thoughtfulness of David to give me the photo.

There are more memories of David I’ll just hold private and close to my heart. I will miss him. One of my oldest and longest friends.