Life of a Guardian: Protect and Serve

By William Benson

The author anticipates the books appeal will be to audiences that will find the book enlightening and interesting in various ways. From a human interest story detailing the struggles of a youths development under unusual and stressful conditions, to one of overcoming the odds and obtaining a career in law enforcement and the ensuing experiences, which included dealing with racial unrest, police attitudes, mistrust, deception, deaths and their causes, describing actual events consisting of the dangers facing law enforcement officers. Results unveiling the strengths and weaknesses that may be surprising to some, having a better understanding of the character of men and women enforcing our laws, exposing imperfections and lawlessness at times, this book ultimately honors their commitment by swearing an oath to protect and serve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504341806

William Benson

Dramatic Life Experiences Experiences that make you the person you are. Glendale, Arizona: Traveled and lived in Europe, Alaska, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Alabama, Puerto Rico, and New York. Experienced shooting vehicles while traveling at extreme speeds and other dangerous adventures involving weapons and physical acts of aggression.

Book preview

Introduction

This book describes a life unlike most. It is the story of an innocent childhood full of hardship, stress, and challenges rarely experienced by a child or adolescent struggling with maturity, social acceptance, and trials---all before puberty.

That child overcame the odds and chose a career in law enforcement, which exposed him to dangerous experiences involving racial tension, murder, police attitudes, mistrust, anxiety, deception, death, the dangers that face law enforcement officers, and a variety of intriguing events. Those experiences resulted in the unveiling of surprising strengths and weaknesses.

This account promotes a better understanding of the character of the men and women who enforce our laws, exposing imperfections and lawlessness at times, but honoring their commitment to fulfill the oath to protect and serve. Circumstances reveal true attitudes and inept political views, with some black, racist politicians stoking the fires of discontent, white politicians trying to be politically correct to favor minorities, and both races raising suspicions of biased authority.

The nonconforming attitudes that often come out toward authority figures are made obvious by race baiters. Politicians are suspected of using their authority to cherry-pick powerful administrators who lack integrity. They are suspected of kowtowing to pressures from the administration's top political powers, and they fail miserably at honoring their oaths of office. Our justice department and those in power exacerbate racial unrest. They appear partisan, catering to the emotional whims of rioters and seeming at times to have antiwhite sentiment. They draw conclusions without engaging rational consideration or a review of evidence.

Opinions based on emotional reactions rather than facts seem to dominate many politicians. This leads to premature conclusions that provoke demonstrations and give rioters a feeling of justification for destruction and theft. Racists of The New Party demonstrate their hate by intimidating voters at the poles, aligning themselves with beliefs expressed by those in the media limelight, and spewing hatred to further divide citizens of all races and religious beliefs.

PART I

The Beginning

Epilogue

Not long before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, I was born to a southern couple in a sleepy little town in the south. My father had only a fifth-grade education, and his mother and father were low-income parents who resided in a state notorious for racial discrimination. My father was a very impatient man, emotionally incapable of dealing with stress, and was somewhat selfish. He came from a poor family and often described his childhood in a negative way, talking about not having shoes to wear until he was nearly grown, and about food being scarce.

He talked about how his parents took very rough disciplinary measures toward him. He mentioned that he would run all over town looking for his father, and find him in a beer hall. He would ask his father for a nickel or a dime to see a movie, only to have his request refused. He claimed that his father was of Irish and English descent and that his mother was half Cherokee Indian. He said his mother was hard core and beat him with tree limbs when he made her angry.

During WWII, economic times were pretty bad, making it extremely hard for my dad to provide for the family. He rented a cabin in the woods in a rough, rural part of the south for us to live in. Our water supply was from a nearby spring that had fish. A small bridge had been built to allow crossing over the stream. I was always fascinated by wildlife, and while standing on the bridge and seeing the fish, I became very excited, according to my mom.

My mother crossed the bridge to get to an area suitable for washing clothes in the stream and getting a bucket of water. She was using the old-fashioned scrub board to wash the cloths and was wringing out the wet clothes by hand---a tiring method, to say the least. She placed all the clothes in a basket, carrying the basket in one arm and a bucket of water in the other, explaining that it was pretty heavy to carry.

She proceeded to the bridge to cross over and return to the cabin. I was still standing on the narrow bridge, excitedly pointing out the fish to her and ignoring her demands that I move. When telling me this story, she mentioned that I was about two or three years old at the time. The day was a fairly cool spring day, and the water from the stream was cold. After several requests for me to move so she could cross over the bridge, and my failure to listen and obey her, she poured the cold water over my head. She explained that I shuddered with shock at being doused with cold water, and I began crying. She tried to console me, telling me she'd told me to move so she could cross the bridge.

During the war, my father worked as a welder on battleships in the harbor of a popular southern port. After leaving our cabin in the woods, we lived in a small row house. The small, one-bedroom row houses were available for poor, working-class families. They had no living room, just a small kitchen and a bedroom. I recall my mother talking about baking apple pies and putting them on the kitchen windowsill to cool. The smell of the pies must have attracted snakes. She talked about small, green snakes trying to get the pies as they cooled.

After WWII my father enlisted in the US Army and was stationed in Korea on maneuvers. When the Korean War began in 1950, my father had already completed his first tour. Returning from Korea, he was stationed at a well-known infantry training post in the south. He received orders again for Korea when war broke out, and he reported for combat operations pending shipment to the war zone. Fortunately he survived the war after serving in combat for a year and earning a Bronze Star. He rarely spoke about his experiences in the war.

CHAPTER 1

Fearful Times

My memories of my relationship---or lack of one---with my father during my childhood are not fond memories for the most part. I was mentally and emotionally abused by my father, which eroded my self-worth and self-esteem. He went about his abusive routine, causing scars that hindered my healthy development and ability to cope with life in many ways when I was young. One result of his abuse was my bed-wetting, which continued even after I joined the military. I suffered tremendous humiliation and embarrassment among the men in my army barracks.

Death of My Infant Brother

The death of my brother Patrick was very traumatic for my parents. Patrick was my three-year-old brother who suffered from cerebral palsy. His body reflexes didn't seem normal to me, but being young and naïve, I really didn't dwell on the causes for his drawn limbs and contorted facial expressions.

I was sent to New Orleans to visit my cousin who was about my age to avoid my being around on the actual day of Patrick's death. My parents were allowed more time to grieve and make the funeral arrangements without having to divide their attention concerning me. My mom's sister and her husband took care of me for a few weeks before I returned home.

Dead Body in the Woods

When I returned home from New Orleans, I continued my adventurous times with my friends, oblivious to the trials and tribulations suffered by my parents while I was gone. My parents' home was across the street from a huge wooded area that had a creek flowing through the middle of it: Bail Creek.

One early evening, two friends and I went into the woods, seeking adventure---and boy, did we find it. We came to the creek bank, removed our shoes and socks, and rolled up our pants to wade across the creek.

As we got to the other side, we began walking up an area where the soil was washed away. The area was a small trench caused by erosion, which was created by rainwater traveling to the creek. In the trench we found a shoe that was in such good condition, it looked new. We marveled at the idea that someone had discarded such a new-looking shoe. As we came to the end of the trench, we spotted assorted change, pens, and pencils.

A few feet farther and off to our right was a large, open clearing. In the middle of the clearing lay a nude body. The body was an adult male who appeared to be in his thirties. His skin was blotched with areas that were bluish purple. The only clothing he had on was a pair of boxer-type underwear that was down around his ankles. Rigor mortis had set in, and his arms were positioned like a person holding up his fists as if to fight.

We stood near the trench, frightened. Of the three of us, we considered Marvin the brave one. Being a pretty tough kid and about a year older, he walked over to the body and poked it in the stomach with his finger to determine if it was a real body or just a manikin. We were about twenty-five or thirty yards away when Marvin yelled to us, exclaiming, Yep, it's a dead guy, all right.

We excitedly rattled on and on about finding a dead person in the woods, becoming more and more convinced that the guy had been murdered and that the killers were still in the area. We even stretched our imagination to believe that they were watching us, waiting for an opportunity to kill us too. We couldn't understand why the guy we found was nude. Too young to consider the possibility of a sexual encounter going bad as the reason for his nudity and death, we puzzled over the nudeness, coming up with bizarre scenarios. We guessed that he had been in a hurry to take a crap, and had ripped off his clothes as he ran to find a clearing. We thought maybe he was squatting to poop when a bad person killed him for his money.

We were not concerned with how he'd been murdered. We were just convinced that he'd been killed and that someone was lurking about, ready to strike at us. Scared to death, we ran as fast as we could to cross over the creek and return home to tell of our exciting discovery. My friends were a little faster than I was and reached the creek bed first. They removed their shoes and socks, rolled up their pants, and started crossing the creek as I got to the water's edge.

I was afraid of being left behind, all alone not far from the body, as I was sure the killer was nearby. I was so afraid of being left behind that I just rolled up my pants up and started wading across the creek wearing my shoes and socks.

Once on the other side, we ran for about a quarter of a mile to get to what we called civilization. We each hurried to our respective homes, telling our story so fast that we had to be told to calm down in order for our parents to understand what we were saying. Once the story was clear, our parents called the police.

We all gathered at Marvin's house to wait for the arrival of the police. Three cars responded: two marked cop cars with two officers in each, and an unmarked car with two guys that were obviously detectives.

They instructed us to get into the unmarked police car and show them where we'd found the body. The sun was just starting to go down, but there was still about forty minutes or so of daylight left. We drove up the street for about two or three blocks to an intersection. We turned left and crossed over a Bail Creek bridge that led to the other side. Shortly after crossing the bridge, we came to a dirt lane that led past some shanty-style houses and traversed a barren, rough trail that led to a dead end. At the end, the police stopped their car, and we began walking into the woods to the area of our discovery. The body was still there, and the police turned to us and said, You kids can go home now.

We were not only surprised but frightened. It was starting to get dark, and the walk home was about three fourths of a mile to a mile. Being as certain of the murder as we were, we could hardly believe the police officers would allow us to walk home alone in the dark. Those stinking cops were all we talked about as we hurried to put some distance between us and the murder scene.

We never heard anything further from the police or our parents about the guy we were so sure was murdered. The truth was that he probably died of natural causes, but who knows? We slowly got over the excitement and fear and went back to our playful times in the woods near Bail Creek.

CHAPTER 2

Fear of Exposure

My father was assigned to a military barracks in Europe, and he placed us on his orders so we could join him. My brother Tom, my mother, and I boarded a train and traveled to Fort Hamilton, New York. There we boarded a troop transport ship called the USS Upshur. It was summertime when our ship docked at Bremerhaven, Germany. We disembarked and boarded a train for travel inland to Munich, which was a quaint, small German town with a lot of old buildings. It was still undergoing reconstruction because many of the buildings had been either partially or totally destroyed by American and British airplanes dropping bombs during the war.

I always had difficulty staying anyplace other than home, being that I was a chronic bed-wetter. My mother had taken me to a number of doctors who diagnosed me as emotionally immature. The doctors attributed my bed-wetting to emotional abuse by my father. My father was an extremely selfish, weak, impatient man who always needed someone else to blame for his mistakes, and my mother and I were his target. After my brother Tom was born, he bore much of my father's impatience and joined the club.

If my