Gunfights & Gunfighters: Reflections from a Phoenix Police Officer

By Gordon A. Hunsaker

Amid the backdrop of World War II, race riots, and police corruption, a white police officer in Phoenix, Arizona, guns down an on-duty, black cop from his same department.

The communitys residents pick sides, and while the second trial ends in an acquittal, the battle isnt over. The detective, Frenchy Navarre, returns to duty but is shot dead when he encounters Officer Joe Davis, the slain officers partner.

This is just one of the fascinating tales told by Gordon A. Hunsaker, who also recalls: Surviving his youth on the streets of Los Angeles Fighting in the jungles of Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War A series of stories that cops normally only tell each other Piloting helicopters and airplanes while on the job Battling his toughest opponent cancer And much more! This compilation of musings, observations, and police lore is insightful, thought- provoking and, at times, just darn spooky. Any Arizona resident, law enforcement officer or lover of history will be thrilled to enter the exciting world of Gunfights & Gunfighters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450207225

Gordon A. Hunsaker

Gordon A. Hunsaker, a native of Phoenix, Arizona, served in Southeast Asia as a Marine during the Vietnam War. He joined the Phoenix Police Department in 1964, working as a detective and piloting airplanes and helicopters. He retired in 1980 and joined a company of contract specialists.

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Gunfights & Gunfighters

Reflections from a Phoenix Police Officer

Copyright © 2010 Gordon A. Hunsaker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-0720-1 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0721-8 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0722-5 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010900814

iUniverse rev. date: 2/25/10

DEDICATION

Gerard C Jerry Gleich PPD #2233

SERVICE DATES: Jan. 31, 1972 to April 28, 1978

March 16, 1941 – November 16, 2007

Turkey Creek Jack Johnson: Why you doin’ this, Doc?

Doc Holliday: Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.

Turkey Creek Jack Johnson: Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.

Doc Holliday: I don’t. Tombstone (1993)

Jerry was a great guy with many friends, of which I was one. By choice I have very few, of which he was the best.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

DEFINITION OF TERMS AND ACRONYMS

PROLOGUE

FORWARD

PART I:  CHARACTER

Chapter 1: CANCER

Chapter 2: ANGEL-TAP

PART II:  CHILDHOOD—THE EXPLODING NOEMA

Chapter 3: THE GEESE

Chapter 4: PART ONE - THE WORST WHIPPING EVER

Chapter 5: PART 2 - THE WORST WHIPPING EVER—EPILOGUE

Chapter 6: OLD BUCK—A COWBOY’S TALE

Chapter 7: TENT MEETING, CIRCA 1944-1945

Chapter 8: THE EXPLODING NOEMA

PART III:  THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE BADGE

Chapter 9: PHOENIX NOIR

Chapter 10: EL RANCHO BAILEY

Chapter 11: BLUE ON BLUE

Chapter 12: NICK’S CAFÉ

Chapter 13: THE RED WING MOTOR COURT

Chapter 14: THE KRAFT WAREHOUSE

Chapter 15: THE STAR LOUNGE

Chapter 16: TATUM – THE ARREST

Chapter 17: TATUM—THE ESCAPE

Chapter 18: TATUM—THE PURSUIT

Chapter 19: TATUM—CAPTURED

Chapter 20: TATUM—EPILOGUE

Chapter 21: THE DRUNKEN BANKER

Chapter 22: THE RED ROOSTER INN

Chapter 23: THE CREEPS

Chapter 24: A BUCKSHOT BURRITO

Chapter 25: SHIFT 2A/4

Chapter 26: THE ANNEX HOTEL

Chapter 27: THE AIRPORT LIQUORS SHOOTING

Chapter 28: INTRODUCTION TO LEADERSHIP

Chapter 29: ON LEADERSHIP

Chapter 30: THE TOOTSIE ROLL

Chapter 31: POLICE PARTNERS: THE MYTH AND THE FACT

Chapter 32: BIG MAMA JACKSON

Chapter 33: THE BIG SET-UP

Chapter 34: THE DEUCE PRODUCE MARKET AFFAIR

Chapter 35: THE SHADOW PEOPLE AND TUNA CAN HARRY

Chapter 36: FAST EDDIE

Chapter 37: PLAY MONEY

Chapter 38: 927-918—UNKNOWN TROUBLE, POSSIBLE INSANE PERSON

Chapter 39: SERGEANT BOSCO AND THE HAWK

Chapter 40: RED FROG

Chapter 41: MERRY CHRISTMAS GOLDIE FINKLESTEIN—FEATURING THE TINFOIL LADY, THE FLEA, A LATE SEASON SWIM, THE OWL, AND THE LIE-DETECTOR TEST

Chapter 42: THE DOUGHNUT MAKER

Chapter 43: THE HOSTAGES

Chapter 44: THE TESSERACT

Chapter 45: THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT

Chapter 46: LOSS OF INNOCENCE

PART IV:  GANGBANGERS

Chapter 47: POISONVILLE

Chapter 48: GANGBANGERS—2007

Chapter 49: GANGBANGERS—2007—ADDENDUM #1

Chapter 50: GANGBANGERS—2007—ADDENDUM #2

Chapter 51: GANGBANGERS—2007—ADDENDUM #3

Chapter 52: BRECHAS—RASTRO DE LA HORMIGA AND CUERNO DE CHIVO ILLEGAL TRAFFICKERS—GOING SOUTH

CHAPTER 53: ¿DIVISAS? NOSOTROS AIN’T NO CONSIGUIO NINGUNA DIVISA. NOSOTROS DON’ ¡NECESIDAD DE T NINGUNAS DIVISAS! I DON’T TIENE QUE DEMOSTRARLE CUALQUIER STINKIN’ ¡DIVISAS!

Chapter 54: THE MAN IN THE STATUE

Chapter 55: END OF SHIFT

SOME BORDER PATROL STATISTICS

SOURCES AND SUGGESTED READING LIST

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost I must thank my editor Tahlia Day, without whose efforts this work would never have gone into print.

Alex Floyd – Publishers advisor

Michelle Pollientti – Technical editor

Ms. Kay Ellermann – Librarian Mohave Museum of History and Art

Jo (Clark) McKinney - Research Assistant & Cover Photographer

Lee Ayakawa - Research Assistant

Sherriff Jerry Hill – Sheriff Maricopa County, Arizona (Retired)

Major Jim Humphrey – PPD (Retired) – Chief of Peoria Arizona PD (Retired) (Private Investigator/Consultant)

Captain Gordon Selby – PPD (Retired) – Major, Arizona Dept of Public Safety (Retired) (Private Investigator/Consultant - Retired) (International Horseman)

Mrs. Linda Selby – Wife to Captain Selby; Without whose efforts this work would never have gotten into print.

Lieutenant Ron Young – Arizona Dept of Public Safety (Retired) Original and present member of the Arizona Fallen Peace Officers Memorial

Lieutenant Larry Beimers – PPD (Retired)

Sergeant Cal Lash – PPD (Retired)

Sergeant Jessy Stokes – PPD Retired – Lieutenant, Pinal County Arizona, SO (Retired)

Sergeant Rocky Warriner – PPD (Retired)

Sergeant Howard Hunter – PPD (Retired) (Private Investigator/Consultant)

Sergeant Perry Mentzer – PPD (Retired)

Sergeant Murl King – PPD (Retired)

Detective Mike Fraser – PPD (Retired)

Detective Tom Brady – PPD (Retired) FOP Chaplin for the state of Arizona

Detective Steve Peters – PPD (Retired)

Officer William T O’Reilly – Retired IRS Intelligence agent.

Officer Luis Lopez – PPD (Retired)

Officer Wil Tootsie – PPD (Retired)

Communication Specialists PPD - Jo Ann (Craig) Collins 

Communication Specialists PPD – Maureen La Pointe (Retired)

Agent Chuck Jones – DEA (Retired) (Private Investigator/Consultant)

Agent William Loughridge – US Customs (Retired) (Private Investigator/Consultant)

Mr. Dwayne Hushaw – Former colleague, mentor and master book marketer. (Director de marketing excelente.)

Mr. Larry Crosley – Expert on all things retro So Cal

Mr. John Cryer – Expert on all things border

Mr. Don Mecham – A spook and not his real name (Retired)

Mr. Bill Kecham – Another spook and not his real name (Now Deceased)

Mr. Dale Craybill – Media reporter, KNIX Radio, Phoenix, Arizona, (Piloto extraordinario del helicoptero)

Mr. Don Andress – Former PPD Officer, retired America West Captain (Piloto extraordinario del helicoptero)

Mr. Steve Knox – Advisor on all technical aviation matters.

Mr. Jerry Simmons – Life long resident of Phoenix witness to Red Wing Motor Court shoot-out aftermath.

Mr. Enrique Calderon – Witness to Red Wing Motor Court shoot-out.

Mrs. Guadalupe (Calderon) Mestas - Witness to Red Wing Motor Court shoot-out.

Miles Abernathy– Expert on all retouching matters ([e-mail])

Mr. Marshall Trimble – Official Arizona State Historian – My special thanks for his editing suggestions (of which I followed almost all) and his gracious review.

DEFINITION OF TERMS AND ACRONYMS

(CAG) Casa Grande, Arizona (The e is silent – In Spanish it means Big House)

(AJO) Ajo, Arizona (Pronounced Ah-ho, in Spanish it means garlic)

(NGL) Nogales, Arizona

(DGL) Douglas, Arizona

(NCO) Naco, Arizona

(SON) Sonoyta, Arizona

(TUS) Tucson, Arizona

(WCX) Wilcox, Arizona

Gunfighter: An officer who has been in a shooting, shot at and hit someone, preferably killing them.

Blue Radar: (Insight peculiar to police officers)

Buckshot Burrito: A load of buckshot fired at someone, preferably at their head

SAM BROWN: Gun and accessories belt. (Designed by Capt Sam Brown British Army)

Shop: Marked Police Car especially in So Cal areas. (So called because of the large maintenance numbers painted on the roof of the car)

Unit: Marked Police Car, often used interchangeably with Shop

Black & White: Marked Police Car

CI: Confidential Informant: Snitch (never to be trusted)

UC: Undercover

Deep UC: Only one person knows your true ID, rarely meet face to face

Stick: Officers baton

Vogon: Bureaucrat - (See Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams)

998: Officer involved in shooting

999: Officer needs immediate assistance

10-4: OK

10-8: In service

10-10: Coffee break, usually 10 minuets

10-97: Arrived at location

Code 4: Everything is OK

Code 7: Dinner break

Code 54A: Drunk Driver (Old school)

918 – Insane person

927- Unknown trouble

962: Traffic Accident

962A: Traffic Accident With Injuries; ambulance en route

963: Traffic Accident, fatality

Round: Bullet

Tube: Shotgun

Gauge: Shotgun

War Bag: Large Duffel bag (These vary from department to department some have helmet and gas masks in them – most don’t).

Gloving-up: Donning surgical gloves prior to touching someone

Making ‘em do the chicken – Choking someone out

Rosco: Gun (Old school)

Aunt Norma: As in, meet Aunt Norma – Old school, .38 cal (Super Vel) ammunition was made by Norma) to meet Aunt Norma, or to be introduced to Aunt Norma was Cop talk for shooting someone with other than a shotgun.

PROLOGUE

In the rundown building and offices that served as the 77th Street Division of the Los Angeles Police Department in the late 1960’s, there was a small room in which Officers exercised. In that room there was a battered, fly specked and stained sign that read; There are no second-place ribbons in a street fight.

I shot him once and it had no effect. I shot him a second time and it had no effect. I shot him a third time and it stopped the motherfucker long enough to cuff him.

An LAPD car-to-car MDT transmission,

following the arrest of a suspect on PCP.

These officers … do not get paid to lose street fights. They don’t get paid to roll around in the dirt … this is not their job. This is not their duty. And if we as members of the community demand that they do that, the thin blue line that separate the law-abiding from the not-law abiding will disintegrate. These are not Robocop’s, ladies and gentlemen. They hurt, they feel pain, they bleed and they die, just like everyone else. And we leave it to them to take care of the mean streets so that we can enjoy our lives, so that we can raise our families in neighborhoods …

From the book; Official Negligence, by Lou Cannon, Attorney Michael Stone, former Orange County, California, Police Officer who put himself through law school while working a forty hour (plus) week as a police officer. Speaking at the summation for his client LAPD Officer Laurence Powell, in the first trial of the officers involved in the Rodney King affair.

If you thought by buying this book that you were going to read some juicy tid-bit about the Winnie Ruth Judd, Ed Lazar, or the Don Boles murders, The Seventh Avenue Seven, or the AzScam Scandals, you picked up the wrong book. Take it back to the check-out counter now and get your money back.

This is a book about the police officers who lay it on the line day after day, night after night protecting the citizens of their towns, cities, counties and states. For they are the only ones who stand between you and the crazies and it is to those officers whom I’m both dedicated and indebted. Those officers who patrol our state highways, county by-ways, and city streets, in uniforms of dark blue, light brown, dark brown, grey, or some combination therein; officers who wear Smokey, Texaco western , cowboy, or baseball hats, motorcycle, bicycle or pilots helmets; officers who drive cars, trucks, steer boats of all sizes and shapes, fly airplanes or helicopters, ride horses or motorcycles, handle bombs or dogs; "for they all bleed and die, just like everyone else. And we leave it to them to take care of the mean streets so that we can enjoy our lives, so that we can raise our families in neighborhoods …"

FORWARD

WHAT IS IT ABOUT COPS? COPARACTER!

Wilhelm Wexler: Character is easier kept than recovered.

The International (2009)

The following story is the best illustration of cop character that I know:

A black transvestite was brought into the station. He or perhaps I should say she, perhaps even it, was tall and thin, with the jittery eyes and rotten teeth of a main-line Tweaker (methamphetamine user), and ugly beyond belief. A soiled red dress hung from its spaghetti straps on its bony shoulders like damp laundry, and its body, which apparently hadn’t seen soap for a month, filled the room with an odor just this side of Hurlville. However, none of these attributes made the officers on duty in the district station gasp and step back. What did inspire their near-instantaneous revulsion were the sores, some were open oozing sores, some scabbed over and a few in transition. They were visible everywhere on the tranny’s exposed skin, particularly around the mouth. Even officers who had no intention of touching the sexually ambiguous creature were gloving-up or donning their surgical gloves, for they all knew the telltale signs of advanced AIDS.

At some point agitated and hyperventilating, this mass of tormented and suffering flesh lost consciousness and fell to the floor. There were no visible signs of respiration, its lips were turning blue, and its eyes had rolled back. One gloved officer tried for a pulse without success and loudly reported his findings. Someone called for EMS, but none of the officers moved to assist the dying life-form.

Then a sergeant leaped forward; a gunfighter of the Old School, termed Crusty by some and Salty by others none the less one of the Old Breed who took the oath to serve and protect seriously. Without hesitation, he began mouth-to-mouth, there wasn’t time to locate a mouth-to-mouth sanitary shield to try and protect from the AIDS virus, for there was time only for direct contact, mouth-to-mouth, lip-to-lip CPR in an effort to save a perishing soul. Even after the tweaker in its death throes began foaming at the mouth, the sergeant didn’t miss a breath in between his CPR attempts. Eventually, the Tranny gave up his tortured soul—and let’s hope he went to a better place—but the sergeant worked on the lifeless form until EMS arrived some minutes later.

An autopsy later revealed that the tranny-tweaker had died of a massive coronary and suffered from a virulent strain of full-blown AIDS. Neither came as much of a surprise. The sergeant underwent testing for several months, and managed to dodge the bullet and did not contract the deadly disease. I’m certainly not in any way suggesting that the other officers present that evening lacked character, but that sergeant who made every effort to save the tweaker’s life had it in abundance.

What briefing station did this occur in, you ask? The 77th Street Division of the LAPD. And the sergeant’s name? Stacey C. Koon. In a couple of years, he would step into it again and save a man from being shot to death by a female California Highway Patrol officer; that man’s name would be Rodney King. Yah, that Stacey Koon and that Rodney King.

It is the cop character exhibited by men like sergeant Koon on that night later referred to by officers of the 77th Street Division, in that rough humor of police officers as the night that the sergeant frenched the tranny that the public finds so fascinating, and yet it’s not universal among cops—no not by a long shot. Some enter the academy with it, and some learn it later on, but many never have it or strive for it, and sadly, some just plain don’t want it for whatever reason.

That real cop character is the essence of this book. The character that is trying to do a job that at times can be impossible. But they still do it, no matter how frustrating and hopeless that it more often than not becomes. Character; as exhibited by Phoenix Police Chief Charlie Thomas, Captain Gordon Selby, Captain George Sanders, Lieutenant Tom Blaine, and Sergeant Jessy Stokes, Officers William T O’Reilly, Luis Lopez and Wil Tootsie, among others and once acquired; it is not easily shaken off.

I begin this book with two stories displaying that same character, but in very different venues. I take you into a cancer ward where a life and death minute-by-minute struggle occurred. What you read there, what you learn there about character, was forged over the years, in the dust of rural WWII Arizona, a L.A. County high school, the jungles of Southeast Asia, but brought to maturity and polished in the dangerous, dark, and mean streets of a major U.S. city. Every chapter, every story, is another brick in that structure called character, another course of study, another learning experience.

And it is that cop character that so intrigues the public. It is that cop character that women often find so exciting and appealing in the male officers and by the males in the female officers. It is that same character that they then try to harness, capture, and subdue for their own murky purposes that so often lead to failed relationships and the like. It is that character that often causes officers to find it so difficult to reconcile the murder, mayhem, and misery that they come into daily contact with—the violence and depravity that can corrode the soul, the shit-stink of the sewer of the human condition that so often leads to destructive personal behavior and occasionally causes an officer to stumble or falter.

It is like an old dinosaur sergeant once told me; Being a police officer is, in fact, like working in the sewer: the sewer of mans depravity toward his fellow man. You go to work each day, dressed in the proper garb with all of the prescribed protective accessories, and you shovel shit all day long—thick shit, thin shit, runny shit, lumpy shit, but all of it the stinky shit of mans malevolence toward his fellow creature; creatures who are as often as not, unable to defend themselves, the youthful, the infirm in limb and mind, the halt. At the end of the day, you soap up and take a good shower, get into your clean clothes, and go on your way.

This works for days, weeks, months, occasionally even years. And then one day you come home, or stop in to your favorite watering hole, and someone sniffs the air and remarks in all innocence, Is it me, or does it smell like shit in here? In that moment, something changes in you that can never be changed back. That doesn’t mean that you will be any less of a cop, but it does mean that you will forever be different, and that difference may eventually destroy much of what you hold dear.

This book gives you the chance to get right up close to and smell the shit of that human depravity without the risk of going home smelling like it.

This book is not about those officers who never acquire that smell, which leads one to wonder why.

Authors note: If you want to learn what really happened in the Rodney King affair; how the video tape that you saw (and in many cases still see today) was edited and 11 seconds were removed. 11 seconds in which Rodney King, twice tazed, charged officers and how a female California Highway Patrol Officer drew her gun and was about to shoot King until Sergeant Koon interfered ordering her to holster her weapon, I suggest reading Official Negligence by best-selling historian autobiographer of Ronald Regan, Lou Cannon. It is a bit of a read but I guarantee that it will open your eyes no matter where you sit or stand on the Rodney King affair.

PART I:  CHARACTER

People with courage and character always seem sinister to the rest.

Hermann Hess (1877-1962)

Chapter 1: CANCER

Cancer will overtake heart disease as the world’s top killer by 2010, part of a trend that should more than double global cancer cases and deaths by 2030, international health experts said in a report released Tuesday. Rising tobacco use in developing countries is believed to be a huge reason for the shift, particularly in China and India, where 40 percent of the world’s smokers now live. So is better diagnosing of cancer, along with the downward trend in infectious diseases that used to be the world’s leading killers. Cancer diagnoses around the world have steadily been rising and are expected to hit 12 million this year. Global cancer deaths are expected to reach 7 million, according to the new report by the World Health Organization. An annual rise of 1 percent in cases and deaths is expected—with even larger increases in China, Russia and India. That means new cancer cases will likely mushroom to 27 million annually by 2030, with deaths hitting 17 million.—Associated Press, December 9, 2008

As you might expect if you know my history with this insidious killer, I keep myself well informed about it. In all likelihood, one out of every three or four people who read this will struggle with cancer. Some will win, and sadly, some won’t.

Hey, look, boys and girls: I’ve been in a couple of gunfights, more than my share of scuffles, several bar fights, two or three wars, and a revolution or two. I’ve survived helicopter crashes, sinking boats, house fires, and gun and rocket fire—and I’ll tell you right now, I’ve never tangled with anything like this bad boy. If you’re not careful, it will kick your ass.

Preventive medicine is your best bet. One thing you can do that will help you immensely is to achieve and maintain good blood pressure, and do it without medication, if at all possible. Good blood pressure gives you an edge that allows treatment without complications, and it’s the complications that will most likely snatch the life out of you if you tangle with cancer. You can walk, shuffle, run, climb stairs, or ride a bike: going for a 40-minute walk once a day will work, but taking four ten-minute walks each day is even better. Start off easy and work up to a healthy blood pressure.

Of the long list of drawbacks I’ve encountered while boppin’ around this old ball, and there are many, it is my opinion that health concerns top the list. I always kept myself in pretty good physical condition. I had a workout regime that I tried to perform twice a day. If I was aboard ship (instead of aboard my 41-foot Morgan Out Islander), in the early morning, I would usually run the engine room stairs (three floors up, three floors down) for 45 minutes to an hour, and then do the old USMC Daily Dozen for another 20 minutes or so. At the end of my day, often after flying ten hours or more, I’d do a lighter workout and have a light meal. Down around the equator, the nights are short—only about eight hours—so I needed to schedule everything closely to meet all my health needs. You may need to make similar adjustments.

Sometime in late 1978-1979, I began to cough when I ate rough substances, like dark toast. It persisted for several weeks, so I sought medical advice. I wasn’t in a position to see an American-trained doctor in a modern hospital; the best doctor to be found was in a clinic in a dingy Third World city. He told me that I was suffering from throat irritation due to the dusty environment. He may have been correct, but perhaps not. I took the medication he prescribed, and the symptoms abated, but did not disappear.

Several months later, I noticed a swelling under my right ear. Now, I’m one of those unfortunate guys who have been subject to complexion problems since adolescence. Over the years I’ve needed to have sebaceous cysts removed from here and there on my body, usually from my face and neck; I assumed the small swelling was one of these and ignored it.

Eventually, however, the swelling progressed to the point where I was sure something serious was going on. I got myself to the only hospital in the city where I was. The doctor who examined me told me that she was unsure of the nature of my ailment and I needed to see another doctor who was out of town. She refused to expand on her statements, telling me that she was simply unsure. I waited several days for the doctor to return from his travels, but before he did, I had to leave.

It was three months or so later when I returned to civilization. I had made up my mind to see a real doctor, an American-educated specialist, but I had no idea whom to see, as I’d spent so little time in the U.S. of A. in the intervening 19 years.

I called my daughter in Phoenix and asked her to go to the Yellow Pages (it was 1997, and Yahoo! and Google were still in their infancy) and look under Medical Doctors: Ear, Nose, and Throat. I told her to look for a doctor in Scottsdale Arizona with a Jewish last name. I had observed over the years that Jewish doctors were usually more competent, and I believed that if they practiced in Scottsdale, they were probably successful.

Bless her heart, my daughter made me an appointment for the morning after my late arrival at Sky Harbor. I was admitted into the doctor’s examination room only minutes after walking into the office. The doctor turned out to be a not-unattractive woman in her mid-40s. After squirting some stuff down my throat, she peered into my mouth.

In about 30 seconds, I heard her catch her breath. Then she pulled back, looked me in the eye, and announced, Mr. Hunsaker, you have cancer, and although I’ll need a biopsy, I’d say it’s rather advanced. This type of cancer is not very obvious, but I interned at Johns Hopkins Oncology, I know cancer when I see it, and it appears to be everywhere.

Is it life-threatening? I asked.

Not immediately, but you need to get yourself into a hospital without delay.

Do I have a couple of weeks? I asked. I have interests out of the country and I want to set my affairs over there in order, if I can.

My doctor replied, Mr. Hunsaker, if you leave this country, even for a couple of days, you’ll most likely not come back here. In all likelihood, you will die wherever it is that you go. You need to get into the hospital right away. She took a biopsy, gave me a prescription, and told me to call her the next day.

I left her office and returned to my hotel room in a state of shock. After a bit of thought, I called the only guy who might be able to give me the help and advice I needed: Don Meacham. I thought the cancer attack might somehow be connected to a job I’d done for Don a few years earlier, although the answer to that question remains unclear to this day.

Over the years, Don has been my boss, mentor, colleague, and friend—as good a tried-and-true, rock-steady friend as I’ve ever had. Our relationship is not that of the typical boss and employee, but this isn’t the time or place to go into that. Suffice it to say, Don is a no-bullshit, go-to guy who always seems to have the right answers at the right time.

As succinctly as I could, I briefed him on my tale of woe. He was quiet for a few moments, and then he asked me for the doctor’s name and phone number. Gordie, call this doctor tomorrow morning and do whatever she tells you to do, he said. Don’t worry about anything, buddy, I’ve got you covered.

To be fair to the foreign doctors who failed to diagnose my cancer, base-of-tongue cancer is often very difficult to detect. Half of its victims have no history of smoking or drinking. Those of you who watched the recent HBO miniseries Generation Kill might recall that Lt. Col. Ferrando, whose call sign was Godfather, was a victim of base-of-tongue cancer, although he never smoked or drank. When asked why he thought he had been stricken by this monstrous disease, he answered, I don’t know. Just lucky, I guess.

A handful of my friends and acquaintances have expressed sentiments like Well, you were a smoker, weren’t you? or told me that their health regimes will prevent cancer. I certainly wish them the very best of health, but the fact remains … sooner or later, mi amigo, sooner or later. I was a former smoker, but I hadn’t had a cigarette in over ten years, and I had never been a heavy drinker. The medical experts will tell you that once you smoke or drink, you are at greater risk for all cancers, but cancer has little regard for personality. It strikes whom it will.

Just after nine the following morning, I called my doctor. She was direct and to the point. She told me that she had heard from Don Meacham and made some arrangements. At her direction, I checked out of my hotel room and proceeded to the Phoenix VA hospital, where I was told I was expected. I was.

That day, I left my life and stepped onto a roller coaster ride that was to last for over six months. In very short order, biopsies and examinations by humans and machines revealed that I had late Stage Five cancer of the base of tongue, throat, and right tonsil. I was told to make sure that I had an advance directive on file. I took care of it.

I’m a slash-and-burn type of guy when it comes to life’s problems. I educate myself as much as I can and as quickly as I can. I’m a fast reader with pretty good retention, and a quick study. After studying up on my cancer, I came to the inescapable conclusion that for bunions and vague aches and pains, one might choose acupuncture, herbs, homeopathy, shamans, or witch doctors, but for cancer, you need to put hate in your heart and go after that vile disease like you would a cop-killer. Go in and dig it out. Kill it and then kill it again. Waste no mercy, no remorse, and no time; kill it before it kills you.

Keep your focus; forget all else. Don’t let yourself slip into that Why me? It’s not fair! I’m scared! bullshit—because after all that, the cancer is still there, like rust, working away at you. It’s relentless, so you must be just as relentless. Look at it like a bar fight where you’re fighting for your life. Scratch, bite, hit, kick, whatever to get out alive. Overkill? Perhaps, but underkill and you lose. You’re dead, no second chance.

After a dizzying week or so of examinations, I met with a team of doctors who laid out the options available to me. I rejected the complete removal of my tongue; if it came to that, I’d take my chances.

We decided to begin with a complete surgical exploration, in which little snakelike things with cameras on the ends would be put up my butt (while I was awake) and down my throat (while I was sedated and unconscious). I assured myself that the order of insertion would be throat first, then butt—you know, just to avoid waking up with a funny taste in my mouth. (As it turned out, an unnecessary worry; I ended up losing my sense of taste before this thing was over.) While I was out, a tube would be inserted into my stomach through the muscles of my stomach wall. Commonly called a peg-tube, it would be used to feed me if something prevented me from taking nourishment by mouth.

Following the exploratory surgery, I would have a second surgery—a radical right mastoidectomy and a radical neck dissection—then a visit to the dentist to see how well my teeth would hold up under the massive chemo attack that would follow. As soon as I was conscious and out of urgent care, I would begin the first of three chemotherapy regimes; my second round of chemo would be accompanied by a Master Blaster regime of radiation.

In early October of 1997, I underwent the exploratory surgery. The results were reassuring: the cancer hadn’t metastasized. Grim as it was, I only had to deal with the three cancers in my throat and tongue.

A week later came the radical right mastoidectomy. During the surgery, there was a problem: the tumor deep in the muscle at the base of my tongue had grown to the point that it constricted my airway, and the surgeons had trouble getting the oxygen tube down my throat. They ended up removing a couple of my front teeth, but it was still a tight fit, and inserting the tube caused bruising in my throat—bruising that would cause problems later.

I had been out of ICU following the second surgery for less than a day and was dozing in bed when I was awakened by someone pulling on the big toe of my right foot. Bleary-eyed, I looked to see who was maltreating me. He introduced himself as Dr. Kummit, my oncologist. At his suggestion, I began my first round of chemo an hour later. Since I already had an IV, he piggybacked it with a bag of 5FU, a chemotherapy drug used for bowel, breast, stomach, and esophageal cancer. I had that stuff constantly dripping into me for the next few days.

Then I was released to my home for outpatient treatment. Recovering alone from the anesthesia was a struggle, but I managed it until I started a second round of chemo the first week of November.

The new stuff was called Cisplatin—a chemotherapy drug most commonly used to treat testicular, bladder, lung, esophageal, stomach, and ovarian cancers. I got it every Monday morning at the VA hospital for the next five months, and I had radiation at Phoenix Memorial Hospital every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon until mid-March. Trust me, you don’t want to do this at home, kids.

I rented a small efficiency apartment close to the VA hospital and drove myself to and from both hospitals. When you’re on chemo, the doctors set up scheduled cycles, and it’s absolutely critical that you keep the schedule. I always arrived on time and never missed a treatment.

I encountered some heroes in the various cancer wards I visited and some who were somewhat less so. I had great difficulty understanding those who just gave up, but I became rather adroit at spotting them. Often I did my best to encourage them, but I can’t say I had much success. Why they would just give up remains a mystery to me today.

One problem with cancer is the weight loss. As the tumors grow, they begin to take more and more nourishment from your body. As the tumors receive nourishment, they demand more nourishment and grow faster. Somehow in this vicious cycle, you begin to lose your appetite. (Perhaps it’s some by-product of the tumor growth that suppresses appetite; no one seems to know much about that part.) Anyway, it’s hard to eat and maintain weight. If the tumor is taking all your nourishment, you weaken. The chemo suppresses your immune system, and you become susceptible to secondary infection. Complications can arise, and then … well, then you die. Dying is bad, and should be avoided if possible.

Couple the above with radiation treatments to the tongue and throat, and you have double trouble. The radiation treatment for base-of-tongue cancer is a three-shot deal. First, you’re measured for a mask. The mask is used to stabilize your head for the treatments. Then they tattoo small dots in three different locations on your chest; these are used to triangulate and aim the radioactive waves directly into the tumor. After about five treatments, you begin to feel like you just swallowed scalding hot coffee. It never gets better after that—only worse. You don’t want to eat, and even if you did, you couldn’t. It hurts too much just to swallow.

There were other difficulties as well, some of which plague me to this day. The removal of flesh from the area around the base of my tongue allowed food and liquid to leak through into my throat, interfering with swallowing and speech; when I tried to eat or drink, I often choked and aspirated liquid.

Ergo, I began to lose weight at an alarming and accelerating rate. My brother, who was visiting me at that time, suggested that I might want to try malted milkshakes for weight gain. I discussed this with the oncology dietitian at Memorial Hospital. Between the two of us, we came up with a recipe for a shake that would have about 4500 calories, and I began to drink two of these shakes per day. Each shake contained several large helpings of sugar-laden full-fat ice cream, whole milk, a packet of Instant Breakfast, another packet of ScandiShake, and fruit (such as a large banana, a couple of peaches, or a basket of strawberries).

The weight loss stopped, and I slowly began to regain weight, but drinking the shakes was a problem in and of itself. Swallowing