Welcome Home, Son

By Ken Brawley

OUT YONDER? OUT %$ING YONDER? WHERE THE HELL IS OUT YONDER AND WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU FROM? Right over there (pointing) that big clearing up there on the side of that hill. Lets send Dickson out there with a white flag and see if we can get him like a tree. Bet I can bust his ass with one shot, if you will order him to stand still. Roscoe, Texas YOURE FROM ROSCOE, TEXAS? Aw, come on Sir, dont tell me you have actually heard of Roscoe, hell, Rand McNally never heard of it. Capt. Robert Willis of Ruidosa, New Mexico was speechless. But just for a moment. Shaking his head, %$ING ROSCOE, TEXAS, I DONT BELIEVE THIS, I USE TO DRIVE THROUGH THAT WIDE SPOT WITH A GRAIN ELEVATOR ON THE WAY TO COLLEGE STATION. At the mention of College Station, a silly grin slowly spread across my face. He saw this and just about exploded. GO AHEAD BRAWLEY, MAKE MY DAY, JUST ONE LITTLE AGGIE JOKE AND BY GOD, I WILL HAVE YOU SHOT. GET OUT OF MY SIGHT BEFORE I DO IT ANYWAY. I almost saluted before going back inside the center but figured that might indeed be the straw to ruin a fairly good camel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2004
• ISBN: 9781468518504

Ken Brawley

Ken Brawley was born in Roscoe, Texas, in September of 1943. He grew up mostly in and around Roscoe but did travel across the world a bit more than the normal cotton farmer’s kid from West Texas. His world travels took him all across the USA and around the world two and one half times. Today he lives in Ft. Worth, Texas, with his family and works in the Civil Engineering/Surveying fields.

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Contents

Foreword

A Very Long Boat Ride

Welcome To The Lunatic Fringe

Three Fourths of the World West

Back in the Arms of Madam Nu

Go North, Young Man, Go North

Homeward Bound

Post Script – Flash Forward 38 Years

About the Author

Also by Ken Brawley

REMEMBERING NGUYEN

A Different Look At Vietnam

JOURNEYS HOME

The Confessions of a Cross-eyed Cotton Farmer

Dedicated to my Uncle Joe.

We buried him on the first Monday in July.

Foreword

I was born in a different time. A time when love of country and service to her meant something that I fear has been lost to the youth of now. The men on both sides of my family were patriots from the heart and were sired from generations of same. My dad, two of his brothers and a number of uncles all served in the military. Those during that little mess widely known as World War II. So from a very early age, I was imprinted with the idea that service to my country was an honor one could not escape. I grew up believing that every manchild born on precious American soil was duty bound to serve in the military, like it or not. This is something that I was eager to hug to my buxom.

I remember well the day I turned 18 years old. At that time, the law of the land said that any male American reaching this plateau was required to register with the Selective Service. This put one’s name in the hat. I was bursting with pride the day, September 14, 1961, my 18th birthday, that I proudly marched into the County Court House in Eastland, Texas and did my legal duty. I did this never really knowing what such action might foretell. And really, being young and invulnerable did not really give a huge shit what the consequences might eventually be. I already knew that sometime, some day, I would wear the uniform of my country.

Then almost two years later, during a time of financial uncertainty, plus worries of legal entanglements, I joined the U. S. Army. But, at that time, Vietnam was a place unheard of in the little town of Roscoe, Texas.

The years passage has revealed a plethora of thought. I went to Vietnam twice and while it is true that some think this is a vile and repulsive thing, I personally have a deep and abiding pride within me for this service. I treasure my stint in the U. S. Army and service during a difficult time in it’s history. I have suffered the ire of those not nearly so committed to this idea. I have not always espoused this pride to gathered friends and acquaintances simply because oft times the aftermath of such revelation would cause harsh words and ill feelings. The fact remains though through all the ridicule and different thought, I am a veteran of the military of my country. While I do admit that the decisions and directions of our elected leaders did not and does not always fit my ideas, the fact remains, my Country sent me to Southeast Asia. I did not hesitate to go and I can live with that.

Those two separate journeys were completely different from each other. Their one and only commonality was the heat and humidity of Vietnam. The first trip was more of a humorous adventure with occasional moments of incredible horror while the second was mostly terrifying. Writing WELCOME HOME, SON was my way of slaying the lingering dragons of a trying time.

A Very Long Boat Ride

In mid July 1965, I was languishing in the fleshpots of Roscoe, Texas and had been doing so for 25 days. I have to admit here that there are times when languishing does wear thin. And since Roscoe fleshpots demand a huge chunk of imagination, the thin was fast approaching transparent. I was home for 30 days leave between South Vietnam and Germany. I had requested a second overseas assignment and was overjoyed to be going to Europe. This, after all, had been my original motivation in joining up to Be All That I Could Be. I knew there would never be any way that I could ever see more of the world than what was visible on a clear night from atop the town water tower except at Uncle Sam’s expense. So after three weeks in Roscoe, the lure of further adventure was honed razor sharp. And too, my heart had finally resumed a normal pace after that magic night with ALICE, so something needed to be done.

Then came the telephone call. It was my friend Fisher from Kansas. He and I were both going to Germany only he had not left Vietnam until three days after I had. However both of us were required to report to Ft. Dix, New Jersey on the same day. He had decided to visit Roscoe for a day or two before he and I headed out for New Jersey. This just tickled me to death. Fish had heard all about Roscoe, my friend Snake and various adventures had by Snake and me in Roscoe. He was anxious to meet the seeds of what surely will be legends in another hundred years or so. And I wanted Snake and Roscoe to meet my friend Fisher so I picked him up at the Greyhound Bus Station in Sweetwater the next morning.

Fish spent three days in Roscoe. During that time, he got stung by a scorpion, visited six local boot leggers and had uncountable cups of coffee at Haney’s Drug Store. Fish was so impressed too, hell; he was a Kansas farm boy so Roscoe was big time to him. I didn’t have the heart to dispel his illusions. Finally, it was time to consider our trip. As it turned out, a local semi-friend from Roscoe was going to Dallas so Fish and I hooked a free ride. We had to leave a day earlier than we had planned, but this was a good thing really. Fish didn’t have time to completely digest the Blackland Divide so the myth remained strong within him. Also, as I said before, the trip was free. A huge plus considering the military pay scale of the times. We both had left Vietnam in early June so our last payday had been the end of May. Here it was near the middle of July, so available funds were meager indeed and relief was not immediately forth coming. So, about noon on the 11th of July of 1965, Fish and I said our good byes and left for Dallas.

Along the way, I pointed out landmarks to Fish. He had been as far as Abilene where he and I had spent an evening in the NCO Club at Dyess Air Force Base. But past Abilene, Fish was a neophyte. I showed him Cisco where I had matriculated at Cisco Junior College. Cisco was also part of my heritage since my family had roots in and around the town. The actual roots were south of Cisco at Nimrod but nobody ever heard of Nimrod so Cisco had to suffice. Also along the way, I had been telling Fish all about Texas. I told him of the Texas Ranger mystique. He was a bit skeptical here because he had seen the Lone Ranger TV shows and thought that the whole Ranger myth was naught but the fantasies of a warped Texas mind. I told him the old story about a town in early Texas where a riot broke out. The sheriff of this town was caught somewhat flat-footed and didn’t really know how handle a riot so he telegraphed Ranger Headquarters in Austin. Headquarters responded that they would indeed send help and sure enough, a couple of days later, a lone Texas Ranger rode into town. The Sheriff was just livid. Damn it all, I got civil strife and unrest running amok here, how the hell come the State sent me just one Ranger? yelled the Sheriff. To which the Ranger replied, You only got one riot, don’t ya? Fisher thought I was nuts. Until we arrived at Dallas Love Field and strolled through the lobby of that state of the art airport at that time. There in the very center of the lobby, to this day, resides a statue. This statue is of a life size bronze Texas Ranger, complete with huge Texas hat and a bronze plaque saying, One riot, One Ranger. When we paused at this landmark, Fish slowly took it all in, in typical Fisher fashion, then looked at me and whispered, Fuck you, Tonto.

Compared to Saigon International Airport, Love field was like Xanadu on the banks of a river. There were gorgeous women everywhere. Fish and I arrived in this Garden of Delight right about 5:00 p.m. and noticed right away that the pleasure potential was huge indeed. We ogled our way across the lobby to the ticket counters and inquired about flights to Fort Dix, New Jersey or points near by. We found out that American Airlines had a flight leaving at midnight for La Guardia Airport in New York, City with a stop at Dulles International in Washington, D. C. We booked seats on this flight and promptly returned to the lobby to watch the short skirt, lots of leg parade. We agreed that the fashion of dress, really mini mini-skirts on round eyed women just beat the hell out of the small busted oriental girls in that Vietnamese dress/pant suit thing we had been most lately accustomed to. And as agreeable at this was, we were all too soon kidnapped by hunger. Fish and I made our way across the lobby to an airport eatery, in fact, the Dobbs House Café. We had a cardboard sandwich and a beer. Food of sophisticated gentlemen the world around when not trying to impress. Then, of course, back to our prime seats right at the bottom of the staircase going up to the second floor. It is really amazing just how short those skirts were at ground level. Damn, get ‘em going up stairs and they shrunk quick. Something Fish and I found to be quite refreshing.

All too soon, it was time to leave our lotus garden and go find our airplane. We found the right concourse, Love Field is big on concourses, found our gate and found ourselves totally alone. The place was deserted. I had decided that somewhere along the line we took a wrong turn. Then a rather rotund American Airlines agent came strolling down the concourse. She oozed behind the counter and picked up her little microphone. She welcomed us all (me and Fisher) and told us that our flight was on time and boarding could commence shortly, but first, everyone must check in. To expedite things she would be checking in First Class passengers first, then children traveling alone and folks that might need special care in boarding. She paused for a moment, looking panoramically around the area. Then she announced that she was now checking in cabin class passengers and once again scanned the room. When she finished with that overpowering task, she announced that she would be checking in all other passengers, including military stand by (spoken with a curled lip and dripping scorn) passengers. That was Fisher and me. We approached her counter and handed her our tickets. She looked us over, looked at our tickets, called her supervisor, checked her lipstick, straightened her hose, flipped her head to toss back her page boy hair-do in a provocative manner and consulted her computer. Lo and behold, there were available seats for military stand-by passengers, but according to the rules, she had to check all passengers in before she could allow me and Fisher seats. Please wait just over there, she smiled, waving her hand toward an empty waiting area. We walked across that empty lounge to first row seats in the waiting area. Then the clack, clack, clack of high heels on concrete became hearable. The clack, clack belonged to a somewhat pudgy girl. Cute girl but the pudgy part kind of trumped lust. She walked up to the check-in counter and presented her ticket to the American Airlines girl. That American Airlines girl was overjoyed. She had a for real, genuine (all be it, cabin class) passenger to check in. Her whole day was a success after all. After checking in the high-heeled heifer, American Airlines girl announced that all remaining passengers, military, stow away or indigenous could now check in. Fisher and I figured that was us. We re-approached her counter, presented our tickets and were rewarded with a huge, glowing smile. She gave us boarding passes and asked that we please wait until the boarding rush was over before we got in line to get on the plane. After all, we were flying at a ridiculously low fare simply because we were in the military and since American Airlines was a flag waving company, it was the least that they could do, provided they had to. In the end, we got side by side seats on the plane. Which actually was somewhat silly given that besides Fisher, pudgy girl, and me the only other people on the plane was the flight crew. And that is the way it was all the way to Washington D. C.

That ride on an airplane was a study in absurd. The flight attendants, who I can happily add were definitely top drawer, were still required to go through the whole regular, full plane ritual. They all stood in their legally mandated places, pointed at doors, dropped little yellow air masks and demonstrated how to attach this to the face but without mussing their coifs. Smiling like Mr. Magoo’s golf balls all the while. The captain made his obligatory speech, turned on no smoking and fasten seat belts signs. Then the initial rush down the runway, actually my favorite part of any flight. I truly love being pushed back into my seat by acceleration and feeling the first shudders of flight. As soon as we were flying, pudgy girl pushed her seat back as far as it would go and promptly went to sleep. There was absolutely no question that she was sleeping either. That girl could snore. She sounded like my grandpa. Even over the sound of the jet engines right out side the windows, one could hear the Harley Davidson quality of her slumber.

There was a rule regarding military stand-by flying. The military person had to look military. Both Fisher and I were properly attired as rule did require and we did look good. That’s one thing I can say for the U. S. Army, while the uniform may first appear rather plain, when properly fitted, dressed and worn, it did look good. And it seemed that two of the less than overwhelmed cabin attendants thought me and Fish looked good. They came to us and told us that since there were first class accommodations and perks not being used, Fish and I could have benefit of same if we wanted. We could also go sit up front in the bigger seats, on the other side of the curtain and be attended by the snooty attendant who pulled the curtain in the first place. Or we could stay where we were, reap first class benefits and be entertained by two really lovely ladies. Me and Fish chose the latter. They brought us free drinks and snacks, then assumed places in the row of seats in front of us. They perched on their knees, backward in the seats with forearms resting on the top of the seats and devoted their entire attention on us. One girl was named Lori and I have no idea what the other ones was. I think Fisher knew and I also firmly believe he had no idea what Lori’s name was. Lori had eyes that wrapped one in a satin sheet at a glance and cleavage that would startle a blind Baptist preacher. What’s-her-name was a girl, I think.

Just as things were beginning to look a whole lot more amiable than I ever thought possible, the HOOONKKK SNARKKKK of peaceful slumber kicked up a few notches. Pudgy girl was putting on a clinic. Lori cast a frowning glance back over her shoulder. Then she cast an inquiring glance toward that other person by her side and as one, they nodded. Fish and I were invited to join them in the stewardess’ lounge at the rear of the plane. We had no idea such a place existed but sure enough, it did. It was behind an ordinary looking panel in the very back of the cabin and looked somewhat like a huge circular booth in the corner of a drug store. Except it could be closed off from the entire rest of the plane. Not that that would have mattered much given that the only other passenger that night was dead to the world.

Fish and I slithered around the leather seat and sat almost shoulder to shoulder while Lori and what’s-her-name slid in next to us. During the whole 4-hour trip to Washington, DC that night, they brought us what ever we asked for and some things we didn’t. We ate first class meals, drank free first class drinks and snuggled up with some definitely first class women. All in all, it was one of the more pleasant flights I have ever taken. Unfortunately, it ended way too soon.

When we landed at Dulles Airport in DC, Fish and I had to return to our seats. The stop at Dulles was very short. Just long enough to load any passengers who happen to be boarding there and there were plenty of those. A whole plane load in fact. Fish and I never got off the plane which was a good thing, cause if we had, chances are we would have been bumped. It seems that early morning flights out of Dulles headed for New York were very popular with a large commuter pool. We left Dallas at midnight, four hours flight time plus one hour lost to time zone changes and another hour on to New York would put us at La Guardia Airport at Six A.M. Prime time for commuters to begin their daily drudgery.

Arrival at La Guardia was shocking indeed. La Guardia was New York’s stepchild airport. It was old and neglected. In fact, it was down right nasty. First off, there were no jet ways, only rolling stairs, so we had to walk across cracked concrete and broken asphalt to the terminal, which was a shabby place. The chairs in the waiting areas were broken and worn. All the ashtrays and trashcans were overflowing. Trash littered the floor. There were holes in the walls and graffiti in the hallways. Exposed piping and conduits ran along the ceilings of those hallways lending to the overall unkept appearance of the place. It really was something of a jolting sight. Hell, even the Saigon Airport was cleaner and much better maintained. All my life, I had wondered about New York City and my first impressions of it were not stellar at all. The really sad thing about this was, those impressions went down hill from La Guardia.

We finally found the military information desk and learned that we still had something of an adventure ahead of us. We had to go from La Guardia to the Port of Authority Bus Station and catch a bus to Ft. Dix, New Jersey from there. Only problem was, the taxi drivers and city bus drivers were all on strike which left only the subway. The girl behind the information desk strongly advised against us hillbilly rookies from even thinking of the subway. She was a typical New York person. Heavy accent, obvious disdain for non-New Yorkers, not a real friendly person at all but I guess she did have some human kindness left. She told us that a military bus was available but it only went to the Eastside Bus Terminal which was close to Port of Authority, however a walk of roughly a mile would be necessary. It was either that or walk the whole way so we took the bus offered.

Eastside Bus Terminal was a pigsty. Like nothing I ever even imagined conceivable. There were bums sleeping in corners covered with newspapers, trash everywhere and the smell was incredible. I have seen cleaner drive-in movie bathrooms. Exactly what I would imagined the Skid Row I had always heard about would look like. My preconceptions of New York City were somewhat blurry from the start but hard evidence was jolting.

The next step was finding out what was next. We finally located a person, I think. She was the only visible source of information no matter how unreliable that information might be. She was wearing a fuzzy pink sweater, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but an off center pony tail. This one hung out just behind her left ear. She was chewing gum vigorously and filing her nails. She did not seemed pleased that we were about to interrupting this paramount task. Fisher and I approached, somewhat hesitantly. We asked directions to Port of Authority. What we got is still something of a mystery. I didn’t understand a word she said and neither did Fisher. We paused. The deep Bronx accent eluded us the first time around. On the second trip however, we found that we had to walk ten blocks. We were directed to exit through the indicated double glass doors, turn left, and go 10 blocks then cross the street to the right. There we should find "Puhthorteee."

We figured, what the hell, if we miss it, we can ask somebody else and out the door we went. Not 14 steps past those doors, I was approached by a fellow. He was what cotton patch people would call a bum or wino. He had a six-day-old five o’clock shadow. He was wearing layer upon layer of old, dirty, holey clothing and worn, tattered black high top tennis shoes. He also wore an antique and faded squirrel hunters cap with the earflaps and tie strings hanging down and dangling. Between two fingers, a roll your own cigarette was burning perilously close to his deeply yellow stained fingers. He offered to carry my drum tight duffle bag for a dollar. I told him we were going to Port of Authority and he said no problem, for a buck, he would not only carry my duffle but also direct us to our destination. I looked him over and figured he probably weighted 95 pounds even though he stood nearly six feet tall. He noticed my reluctance and lowered his price by half. No problem, man, I’m wiry, says he, how much can that little green sausage weigh? Army dictate said that a fully packed, drum tight duffle weighed 66 pounds. I told him this. No problem, man, I’m wiry. I handed over my duffle and he shouldered it, staggering just a little. He stepped off, semi-smartly, leading us, his chargee’s, to our goal. At the first cross street, he stopped at the curb, threw out a left arm and hand to indicate that we await his clearance. He looked left, swiveled my duffle and his shoulders clockwise, looked right and indicated it was safe to cross the street. So we did.

About half way down the next block, I noticed his knees beginning to quiver. Each step, more quivers until I became somewhat concerned. Then he started to cough a deep, wet nasty cough. It sounded like all the toilets in a major airport bathroom flushing almost at once, in machine gun fashion. I was starting to think that his very next step would be the beginning of his winding up as the meat in a sidewalk/duffle bag sandwich. Finally, I could stand it no more. I took my duffle, gave the man a dollar and left him sagging against a lamp post for support. His mumbled thanks lost inside another coughing spell. That little stroll through that particular part of New York City was nerve wracking indeed. I expected at any moment to be set upon by Leo Grocey and the Bowery Boys. Slapped senseless with some little delinquent’s hat. But that, to my immense relief, did not happen and we did find Port of Authority.

Up to this point, I was convinced that the Eastside Bus Terminal was the most distasteful place I had ever visited in my entire life. The first step into Port of Authority cancelled that idea completely. Port of Authority was a huge, multi-story building setting on the corner of 8th Avenue and 40th Street. From the outside it looked worn but venerable. Inside was a whole New World. There was a long room running all the way from the front doors to the ticket counter on the opposite wall, about a block away. Along the left side of the room about every twenty feet there were staircases going up to the second floor. The alcoves under these staircases were home and hearth to the underbelly of society. Whole families with all their worldly goods actually lived there. Along the right hand wall, there were benches; each bolted to the floor and wall. Most of these benches were occupied by sleeping people, covered with newspapers. The floor of the room was littered with trash from wall to wall. It was filthy, smelling of piss and puke. Walking the length of this quagmire certainly did not please my spit-shined shoes and I flatly refused to allow my duffle to touch the floor. Hell, I would have to have rabies and leprosy shots for the next six weeks from just passing through, absolutely no way I would allow any passengers to adhere to my bag.

At the ticket counter, we secured passage to Ft. Dix and instructions in bus station navigation. The purpose of the staircases came to light. The busses all left from the second floor. A very strange concept to a west Texas mind set. The mere thought of any kind of vehicle being upstairs was just incomprehensible. I marveled at that. However, there were buses upstairs. Lots of buses all parked angle in fashion along a center aisle of raised concrete. There were no benches or sleeping people. There were no wayward families but there was a noticeable absence of trash. It was dimly lit with a pall of blue smoke hanging from the ceiling. The odor of burned diesel clung to all that passed this way.

We found our bus, shoved our bags into the baggage compartment and had our tickets whack-whacked by the driver’s hand held ticket puncher. Then we took side by side seats and somewhat nervously anticipated getting back on ground level. Soon the door wheezed shut and we backed out of our parking space, adding more blue smoke to the prevailing cloud. Passing bus after bus, we started down a long ramp that brought us to the streets of New York City. As we rolled through metropolis, I saw tribes of yellow taxicabs darting from lane to lane with horns blowing and clinched fists of angry drivers shaking outside windows. I was remembering the Eastside Pink Sweaters comment about striking taxicabs with some rancor. I saw merchants wheeling carts of