This is some stuff I know (or think I know) that I think might be interesting to my descendents. In most cases there is at least one other person that knows it too, but a number of them are now dead. The memory is a treacherous thing

This isn't mostly about me, because you don't want to know about nothing when it comes to sex in the service. It is, however, about what I observed in that regard.

It looks like a lot of soldiers are interested in sex. Sgt. Bill E. was my boss in the Inspection Section of the 568 Ord HM Co. We inspectors were all housed in one tent, but he was never there at night. He had a cot and foot locker like the rest of us. He had a family back in the 'states that he loved dearly. He said he could not abide not having a family life. What he was doing was forbidden but he just 'adopted' a family; wife, mother and father in law and brothers and sisters anyway. He lived with them every night in their cramped, makeshift abode not far from our quarters. He scrounged food, furniture and other goods for them and had a family life. He taught me to play chess.

Lou G. was a corporal, pudgy, wide faced and humorous. On one night he managed to sneak one of the NCO club whores back to our squad tent after lights out. They went at it right there; kept us awake for nearly an hour, I suppose. ThoughThough it was fairly easy to get her to the tent, getting her out of the compound after they were through was another matter, but he did it somehow. His adventure was the talk of the unit next couple of days because to have been caught would have had serious consequences. Since Lou was a short timer, he probably felt he was immune from any meaningful punishment as he would be gone before any paperwork could be generated. I never got to know him very well before he rotated out.

Mike L. was a sergeant, large, and muscular. Typical Wisconsin Pollack, and that’s a compliment, not a slur. He was celibate for thirty days and then went to town. He announced regularly how many more days before he could 'break over' as he called it. Some kind of rationing, huh?

Mike left after I had been there 4 or 5 months. He gave me his pair of 'Mickey Mouse' boots. These were made of rubber and constructed much like a thermos bottle, which made them outlandishly large on the outside, thus the nickname. They were only issued to front line troops for winter wear and who had no permanent living quarters. Mike had inherited them from an infantryman rotating back to states and he gave them to me for wear when on guard duty during the coming winter. They were a boon to my feet. Our NCO club was not restricted to NCOs but was open to all enlisted men and so I went there a time or two when I first arrived at the 568. There was lots of beer and booths and a number of Korean girls, ostensibly waitresses, who circulated among the reveling troops. Sitting in a booth with a couple of other guys, I was approached by a nice looking Korean gal in western clothes and nicely made up who promptly sat in my lap, put her arms around my neck and began to squirm, saying "You wanna hoochie koochie GI?" She said "Tenchie hut!" pigeon English for "Atten, Chun!";!"; the military command or in this case, the assumed hardening of one's pecker, which mine didn't. She lost interest and left for other parts by the time I said "No." for the third or fourth time. I gave up on the NCO club except for an occasional beer after work.

Then there was Joe S., a darkly handsome second generation Italian about 18 years old from New York. A really nice guy and hard worker. He had to have sex a lot. He would go to town every night, find a whore and go at it. He then would come back to the tent, sit on the edge of his cot and stare at his pecker until lights out, waiting for the drip to start. It invariably did. He then went on sick call, got the humiliation treatment and penicillin shot in the ass and thirty days restriction to post. As soon as the restriction was over, it was back to town for another dose. When asked why he did such a thing, his only answer was "I got to." What a life.

It was said that there were troops in Korea that had venereal diseases that US medicine could neither diagnose nor treat and they weren't going home until they were cured or dead. I wonder if any of them are still over there. While I'm at it, you may have noticed that 'venereal' has dropped out of the lexicon. I thought the word is derived from 'venal' , which is related to sins of human weakness, but it isn't, its root is from the Latin Venus, the goddess of love, since those diseases come from making 'love'. Since sex outside of marriage is no longer considered a sin among the trend setters, the new term 'STD" has replaced it. I guess that means sex outside of wedlock is no longer a sin and certainly has nothing to do with love.

Gonorrhea was so rampant at one point in my tour in Korea that our whole company was restricted to our barracks compound for thirty days. The company commander had a meeting with the entire outfit in the NCO club after supper describing the situation and the consequences. The orders had come directly from Eighth Army HQ. It was only twelve days later that the next case of the clap occurred in our company. Whacha gonna do? The CO, a Captain White, a retreaded Buick dealer form Kansas whose only wish was to get back home, was replaced by Major Blaylock. He was a hard career soldier, part Lumbee Indian, and somehow he got the clap epidemic stopped. Don't ask me how, I wasn't involved in it.

I gravitated to the GIs who were not involved in all of the sex activities. There was handsome Bob Wilson, a curly haired, rosy cheeked Mormon from Oregon, Walt Bobo, from Shelby Kentucky, a taciturn, strong, rural, down to earth type, William Allison (never Bill) short, blonde and highly fundamentally religious, from Indiana. and Couture, (Cooch) the supply sergeant, PX manager and mail man. Though he was interested in having a little, he was kept too busy to ever get out of the supply room except for meals, a few beers and a few hours sleep. A lot of the more sexually active troops looked upon us as somehow unmanly, or at least weird, I think.

When I was on R & R in Tokyo, the cabbie took me to a small, cheap hotel in which to stay. Each GI there was assigned a girl to act as a sort of guide and provide a lay if one was so inclined, as was virtually every GI. My assigned escort was Sally (pronounced Sahdi). We shared the bed in my room. She wore western clothes, and was no Geisha girl.

While I'm at it, the Japanese are much entertained when westerners recite series of English words like days of the week, makes of cars and so on. It the hotel sitting room in the evenings we would gather with the staff; it was more like a family visit than staff and patrons, we would converse as best we could, explaining the various words and phrases of our respective languages and describing the varying customs of our countries. I learned there that they answer the phone by saying "Wushie wushie" which means "Here's me", more or less.

When the minor earthquake struck in the middle of the night, Sally woke me in a state of near panic and hurried us both down the stairs and outside, which was the standard practice in earthquakes. The street was thus crowded with GIs and Japanese in various states of dress and undress, all of whom milled around until the shaking subsided. The manager of the hotel looked at me with what I suppose was meant to be a reassuring look. His own fear showed through. All I noticed was the paper sliding doors inside the hotel had oddly shuddered and rattled as we departed.

Sally calmed down after we were outside, but was reluctant to re-enter the hotel until nearly everyone else had gone. The Japanese had all experienced or been told of or lost a loved one in a violent earthquake in their homeland and feared what ‘could’ happen. I'd never been in an earthquake and so this was the worst I could relate to, thus it wasn't scary to me.

Sally and I would go to restaurants that served American food. She thought it funny that I didn't want to try the Japanese food. I don't eat anything I can't recognize and shun a good bit of what I can.

After a meal, the girl would pick her teeth, as do all Japanese women, but courtesy demanded that she cup her free hand before her mouth so that one could not see the actual operation. Although I often simply went out into town by myself to shop or sightsee, she took me to the Ginza, Tokyo's mammoth flea market and to the grounds outside the Emperor's Palace where we had a sort of picnic, and also to a beautiful Budist Temple. It was she who took me to the places where I could buy the things Sam had asked me to get for him.

Taking a cab to get around was exciting. There was a growing car culture in Tokyo in the mid fifties, but most cars were still imported. Mr. Honda was just getting started making motorcycles then. Fuel was costly and so the technique was to accelerate in low and second gear and then coast in neutral as far as practical and then repeat using second gear. The favorite taxi was the Henry J. In case you don't know about it, let me say it was one of America's early flirtations with 'economy' cars. Two doors in a pseudo fastback style, with a too-short wheelbase, tall and narrow, small tires, four cylinders in L-head configuration offering about 50 or 60 horsepower; it was a cousin of the WW II Jeep engine, and a column shift. It had cartoonish little tail fins copied after the 1948 Cadillac but which did not hold any tail lights. There were, instead, little round lamps like something you'd find at J. C. Whitney mounted in the lower body end panel. Sears Roebuck sold them as the Allstate for a couple of years until people found out what horrid little cars they were.

Many streets in downtown Tokyo were one way and had four or more lanes. Each cabbie struggled to get to be first at the stop light, and so you might be in a race with half a dozen or more cabs vying for first place at the next red light. You probably think Rusty Wallace and Dale Jarrett cut in front of and zoom around other cars with abandon on the Winston Cup circuit. You ain't seen nothin'. Talk about playing chicken!

Just as in most of the rest of the world at that time, cars drove on the left in Japan. It always made me pucker when the cab would be in the left lane and make a left turn hugging the left curb. I only relaxed when I saw the oncoming traffic was way over there on the right side of the street. The domestic cars were all right hand drive and a very few of the imported cars were as well, but all of the Henry Js and most other American cars were left hand drive. It was a bit confusing to decide whether the cars around you had a driver where he belonged or not.

The Japanese hotels have a community bathtub arrangement. It is like a small swimming pool of tile about ten feet square and deep enough to submerge all but the head of a 5-and-a-half foot tall person. It is for the use of all, guests and staff alike. No soap was on hand. I chose to bathe when every one else was gone.

On the ninth and final night of my stay Sally asked me why I didn't hoochie coochie with her. She said: "Chahdee, you no likee me?" She fretted that I didn't think her to be attractive. She showed me her fidogie card (no VD). Having no good answer to such a question, and she being a pretty good looking girl, we hoochie coochied. It was clear that the earth didn't move for her. I believe it never does for prostitutes. I knew it wouldn't for her. My sense of guilt probably had something to do with it. It seems that there are many things I'm not very good at besides algebra.

COUSINS

It is June 12, 2004. My cousin Newt Merricks died night before last. It is time to give you a rundown on my 16 cousins so you can put them in place with me.

Uncle Emmet, the oldest of 6 uncles had three daughters, Jane, Frances and Elizabeth. Jane married “Doc” Hatton in her second marriage, had 2 kids who don’t acknowledge Keadle descendants. Frances worked for Appalachian Electric Power when I was paying the folk’s electric bill as a kid. Elizabeth taught me American History. All were old enough that I looked upon them as aunts, not cousins. All have passed on.

Uncle Roy, next oldest, had 4 children; Howard died of heart failure at age 56. He was a fount of knowledge about the Keadle history. Lucy who was unwed and a social worker died of Alzheimers, Harvey who is in Arizona retired from BF Goodrich. He has just been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and Harriett Pyles, the only one of those 4 younger than I, is a widow living in Fairmont WV. Her husband was a paratrooper during the Korean War era.

Uncle Okie had 2 daughters, Betsy McCreight, one year older than I who died of cancer about 10 or 20 years ago. She was a very active Presbyterian and (liberal) Republican; and Sally Richardson, a very active liberal Democrat; a friend of Jay Rockerfeller. Under Carter she was Administrator of the Medicaid System. She now lives in Charleston WV.

You know about Mingo Keadle and his 2 sons, me and George, but less about Ruth who died at age 12 in 1936. Her tragedy is recounted elsewhere in this piece.

Uncle Alonzo had one child, Jim B, who lives in Ohio, born of his first wife. Alonzo married again but had no more children. He was a salesman for Weirton Steel Co and died at a railroad crossing coming home for Christmas about 1940. He was a pilot in the Army Flying Corps during WW I in France.

Uncle John Sam was a captain in the 101^st Airborne Div. He was a combat engineer and was at the Normandy invasion, the Battle of the Bulge and Operation Market Garden. He died of stomach cancer in 1981. He had one son, John Thomas who lives in Beckley WV and is a traveling salesman, maybe retired by now. We always hit it off ‘cause he is a car nut too.

Aunt Kate was married to ‘Cap’n Brockus’. He was #2 man in the WV State Police before retirement. They had 2 children, Jim, a fighter pilot in WW II with 2 children I never knew; he passed away in 1980 or thereabouts, and Lucy Eads, married twice. I never knew her first husband with whom she had one child.

Aunt Mary was wed to Micajah “Max” Merricks. They had 3 children, Newt, John Max and David. John Max was a football coach great enough to have had the stadium in which his teams played named for him. He was first to pass away. David lived in Brookneal VA and I saw him once as an adult at nephew Scott Keadle’s wedding in Salisbury, NC. His widow, Anne is a most endearing woman.

And so of the 18 cousins, one third of us are left. George and I are the only siblings not yet split apart by death. Tommy is an only child and so he doesn’t count.
DYING

I've spent a good bit of time considering death. Not just my own, but others'. For instance, a short list of my favorite actors contains the names of Richard Jaeckel, David Jantzen, Lee Marvin, Frank Lovejoy, Steve McQueen, David Niven, Montgomery Clift and Nick Adams. They all died comparatively young. A number of other actors have died young too, but they weren't my favorites. Then there is Maria Callas. God, what a voice. There's never been an equal to it. She died too young too. A true loss to humankind. What they all have in common is that they died way before their statistical due date.

Likewise, many of my friends and relatives have gone before their expected time. There's Johnny Nickels, Ed Price, Roydon Williamson, the afore mentioned Billy Gene, Jerry Sherman, Ralph Kirby, Cecil Winstead, John's friend Matt, and of course Bruce Smith who never saw a stranger and held so much promise, to name just nine among a lot of others. I am one of 18 cousins, only 6 of us remain, and all 12 of the dead ones have passed away long before they reached the age I am now except for cousin Newt, who made it to 78. When I asked my brother-in-law why it was not me, who was never blessed with physical robustness and never took much care of my body; instead of them, who seemed mostly to be careful of how they treated their temples, he told me God wasn't through with me yet. How God could be through with Cousin Betsy McCreight, the model of decency, virtue, niceness and physical fitness and not me is beyond explanation.

I think I have to go back and read "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People" again.

As a youth I had, as did my folks, high expectations for my life. If God isn't yet through with me, He had better hurry with whatever it is He has in mind for me to accomplish.

Smoking is the scourge of twenty/twenty first century man. Tom Bibb and Ezra Berman both smoked and died of cancer way before their time. Ralph Kirby and Tom Dzubay never smoked and both died of cancer way before their time. All four worked at EPA when I did. The one thing common in their history is not diet or life style or smoking or religion or place of abode; it is that they worked at EPA. Does that mean that statistically, working at EPA is more hazardous to one's health than any of the other factors? You must remember, ninety percent of smokers do not die of cancer.

Then there is the definition by example that brought laughter to my heart: The difference between participation and commitment. “As regards breakfast, the chicken is a participant, but the pig is committed.” Which brings me to a question for each of you. Look deeply inside your hearts and make an honest list:

For what are you willing to die, and why? If you answer honestly, you will at last be able to know yourself as well as does God.

Then get this; the only thing about a living human that has no mass is his consciousness. As long as his systems work, new inputs are taking him farther and farther into his life creating in the final years an immense mass of memories and sensations, some so buried that one has no awareness of them. When one dies, there are no more inputs because the sensory systems no longer function, the body decays. The memories, every one of them, though measurable as signals within neurons and synapses inside the living brain, do not disappear at death, because they had no physical constitution to begin with. The dead, having no new sensual inputs, suffer no clouding of memory by ongoing new experiences and so after death, every event, sensation, thought and word in one's life is clearly and continuously recalled from the instant the brain is developed sufficiently to store memories. Nearly everyone who just misses being killed by falling or drowning reports that “their whole life passes before them.” Could that be the beginning of what is contended here? Furthermore, this may be why it is that most abortions are wrongful. No one yet knows how to determine when a fetus begins to amass memories, but it surely begins before parturition. And to destroy one with memories, no matter how primitive, is somehow murder, for there is no ‘due process’ as called for by all of those governments that acknowledge that rights come from God, not man.

That mass of memories, the total continuum of a life of action, sensations and experience, the hopes and fears, the joys and heartbreaks; one’s entire life in brilliant clarity are what one has as his reward. It may well be called one’s soul. Those memories are therefore, your heaven or hell. For most of us, it is a bit of both. The more virtuous have good and proud and pleasant memories punctuated by a few lapses of evil, weakness, ill fortune or shame. The fiends, beasts and hellions among us have, on the other hand, mostly memories of cruelty, venality, greed and filth punctuated by an occasional event of good fortune or kindness.

Christians have the benefit of forgiveness. It comes from true faith in the belief of the resurrection and immortality of Jesus; His oneness with God and a sincere repentance for sins. It is thus that we are truly redeemed by Him; we are allowed the blessing of having our past sins and lapses forgiven and thus forgotten. (I refer you to the previous section on New Math.) So far as I am able to determine, no other religion promises what Jesus promised those who believe in Him.

Therefore true Christians have the prospect of a literal heaven where, having all memory of sins, lapses and wrongs forgiven and wiped away will only experience, through their eternal memory, the good and the happy parts of life, the glorious relationship with loved ones, and the fortunate and effective parts of their existence on this earth. These things must be so, otherwise what could be done for those dear helpless souls afflicted with dementia and Alzheimer’s syndrome, or a newborn, or one who lapses into insanity of one kind or another? The memory, being the only thing that can exist after death of the body, is also the only thing that can give them something akin to the heaven, which we believe through faith, is our reward.

Disagreements among Christians arise over whether heaven will be a place where we meet again those we knew and loved in life. Some believe that is so, others do not. If the memory is the basis of one’s heaven, it is easy to assume that we will indeed be with those we loved and knew in life, for we will be allowed to remember them clearly; to recall all of our interactions with them as when we were still housed in our bodies. And they likewise us.

Who would believe such a silly thing? Why, me, and probably some others. There is a paperback entitled What Happens One Minute After You Die by Edwin W. Lutzer. The second paragraph of the introduction, page 10 in part supports what I believe.

Nearly everything I have written here is about the past. Right now I want to tell something about the future, sort of.

I don’t gamble, but I would pretty safely lay heavy odds on my never seeing any of the following:

Astronauts landing on the moon, again, or any planet.

An economically successful hydrogen-fueled automobile.

The completion of the I-540 Southern Loop.

A full commuter train going to RTP from east of there.

Inauguration of the 45^th President of the U.S.

My beloved Beverly or Jasmine graduating from high school.

Guess which of these I really care about.

Lee Marvin played Sgt. Stryker in a TV movie of the same name. He was sent secretly behind enemy lines on an important mission to discover how the enemy was learning of US plans before they were acted upon. So secret it was that no one except the officer who sent him knew about it. While adventuring in North Korea, the officer who sent him was killed.

When the sergeant finally accomplished his mission, he returned to the south and was taken prisoner because there was no record of his mission and he was thus suspected of desertion and collaborating with the North Koreans. He was going to court martial. An army lawyer had to represent him naturally, and no one wanted to defend a turncoat rat. One was finally assigned and was in the Officer’s Club the night before the trial was to start.

In conversation with another army lawyer, who had evaded being tapped for the unwelcome job, he was told: “No matter how it comes out, you will be a pariah. You know what a pariah is don’t you? A pariah is sort of like a martyr, but he suffers more and has less class.”

Oh, in case you were worried, Sgt Stryker was exonerated. Don’t ask me how.

SADDEST LINE IN A DRAMA

One of my favorite actors was Lloyd Nolan. In one episode of Perry Mason he portrayed the part of a retired US Navy captain. He had served in the Pacific during WW II with distinction and valor.

It was now the 1960s and anti-war fever was at its peak. Each morning he would go to his front yard and raise the Stars and Stripes on a pole he had installed there.

A new neighbor moved in next door; an anti-war/military zealot. This person got into frequent confrontations with the captain and was verbally abusive to him for his patriotism. The captain began carrying a pistol outside his house so terrorized was he of the younger, larger abusive neighbor. When finally the neighbor tore down and desecrated the captain’s flag it was too much. The captain shot and killed him.

The trial ended in a conviction and severe sentence. The captain was allowed to address the court before being led away: “This is my country, and I love her, but I don’t know her anymore.”