A Life Beyond Infinity

By Elvin C. Bell

Author Elvin C. Bell began life as the fifth of ten children in a migrant farm labor family. From a one-room cabin in a cotton camp to the White House, and everything in between, hes lived a rich and colorful life. In A Life beyond Infinity, he shares a collection of essays of the people hes met from his experiences in the US Air Force, his assignments in the White House, as a reporter and writer, and as an elected representative.

Bell mixes sparkling smiles, smarts, sass and sorrow in describing his visits, conversations, and friendships to provide close-ups of everyone from Presidents Kennedy, Nixon, Johnson, and Carter, to Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon, John Wayne, Gregory Peck, Milton Berle, and many other notables.

In A Life beyond Infinity, Bell describes his encounters with some of the most well-known movers and shakers of the times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532015960

Elvin C. Bell

Elvin C. Bell served sixteen years as an elected public office in California. He is a former correspondent for Time Magazine, and a retired USAF Colonel. He lives in Fresno.

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Copyright © 2017 Elvin C. Bell.

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 author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1597-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1596-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902661

iUniverse rev. date: 02/28/2017

Contents

Foreword

Dedication

A Measure of Respect

Also by Elvin C. Bell

Part 1

Frank Sinatra

Marilyn Monroe

John Duke Wayne

Robert F. Kennedy

Abby, the Keeper, and the Disguised Angel

Call Me Fred

The Doolittle Raid

Kevin D. Greene, the Bell Sheep of the National Football League

The Anatomy of Leadership

Youth Responsibility Today

The Citizen and the Dynamic American System

Smokie Joe Jacobson

Dr. Deborah G. Gibbs, the Go To Combat Veteran in the White House

George Washington’s Special Christmas, 1776 …

Celebrating Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation …

Can We Wave The Flag Too Much?

How to Write a Letter to Your Congressman

A Satire on Fresno Follies

History of the Vietnam Memorial Wall

Remembering a Patriot, Glen D. Massey

Part 2

Elvis Presley

John Lennon and Yoko Ono

A Tribute to My Fresno City Council Seat Mate, Mayor Floyd Hyde

Duke Kahanamoku and Doris Duke

The President’s Executive Secretary, Rosemary Woods

The Nixon-Brezhnev Summit Conference

Saturday at the Farmer’s Market

Goose Hunting and Finding a Scoundrel

The Horse Shrink and Bud Moore, Truman’s Campaign Manager

Jimmy Carter, A Presidential Condidate, and his Fund Raiser, Robert E. Sears

The Meux Home Museum and the Freeloader

The Sacrifices of Our Early Ancestor Patriots and the Signers of the Declaration of Independence

A Messy Fight and an Expensive Lesson

Hello, Gilroy Garlic Galaxy Farewell, Candlestick Park

Houston, Tranquility Base Here, The Eagle Has Landed. …

Mr. Neil Alden Armstrong

Lieutenant Colonel Edwin Eugene Aldrin, Jr

Major Michael Collins

The Apollo Astronauts

One Big White Candle

It Looks Very Much Like The Pictures.

Part 3

Welcome to Russia, Don’t You See.

A Czechoslovakian Dissident

Starting Over – Starting New in Poland

Ratifiction of the U.S Consitution

The Historic Underground Gardens

Fresno’s, Premier Crimianal Lawyer Robert E. Sears

Slow Pitch

Being Politically Correct in 1968

How I Met Billie Sol Estes, The Fast Talking Texas Scoundrel

Uncle Howard and the Crockell Sisters

Jake Kast

An American Aviator’s Story

Part 4

President Kennedy’s Last Thanksgiving Proclamation, Our Power … Our Peril

On The Brink of War, Part 1: The Cuban Missile Crisis

On The Brink of War, Part II: Terrorists and the Bomb

The Statue of Liberty is a Colossal Lady

Part 5

Lieutenants Audie Murphy and Shelton Miller, Company B, 1st Battalion, 3rd Division, 7th Army

The Battle of Calais

The Battle of Haneau

The First American Soldier to Enter Heidelberg

The Battle of the Quarry

The Siegfried Line

The Battle of Ensheim

A Soft, Safe Bed of Manure

Street Fighting a French Bull

The Battle of Budinger

Dealing with a Coward in Combat

Taking the Heidelberg Castle

We’ze Belly Button Shootahs

Little Timmy, The Combat Giant

The Battle of Mannheim

Germans Captured and Returned My Soldiers

Part 6

The Supreme Round Up

The Tow Truck Trekkie

Hod Carrying in Reno

Ink-A-Dink-A-Doo with Jimmy Durante

The Senator’s New Desk

Business Men and Women in Politics

A Salute to Teachers

The Fresno Mall

Deny Yourself Nothing

The Long Wait

The Reunion

Wayside Chapel

The Best of the Best

Part 7

Hollywood’s Sam Peckinpah and his Family

Stompin’, Fast Pickin’, Bluegrass and Muscle Music

The Masters at Augusta National

The Honorable Philandering Scoundrels

The Senator From Louisiana

The Senator from Nevada

The Senator from Rhode Island

The Congressman from Louisiana (Yes, that State Again)

The Congressman from Ohio

The Congressman from Mississippi

The Senator from South Carolina

The Speaker of the House

The Senator from Colorado

The Congressman from Arkansas

The Congressman from Kentucky

The Kennedy Brothers, John and Robert

The Congressman from Pennsylvania

President Bill Clinton

The Democratic Nominee for Vice President

Part 8

This Exclusive Club

David E. Hayden, USN, Medal of Honor Recipient

Gregory Pappy Boyington, USMC, Medal of Honor Recipient

Rodolfo P. Rudy Hernandez, USA, Medal of Honor Recipient

George Bud Day, USAF,Medal of Honor Recipient

Part 9

Some Interesting Events at Fort Leslie J. McNair, Washington, D.C.

Dr. Edward Edwin Teller

General Alexander Haig

United States Senator Barry Goldwater, Major General, USAF Ret.

Speedy Newman

Astronaut Scott Carpenter

Pierre Salinger, President Kennedy’s Press Secretary

Greer Garson

The White House Years of Eleanor Roosevelt

Vic Damone

Lana Turner

Aretha Franklin

Kris Kristofferson and Rita Coolidge

Sister Mary Aquinas Nimitz,Daughter of Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz

Unclehood with Daniel

Part 10

The Experienced Bicycle

Gregory Peck

Walter Brennan

Wild Bill Elliott

Hugh O’Brian

Redd Foxx

David McCallum and Jill Ireland

Red Skelton

President John F. Kennedy

and Congressman B. F. Sisk

Jimmie Carter, Democratic Nominee for President and Robert E. Bob Sears …

President Ronald Reagan

Part 11

Pilgrimage West to California

Eisenhower Golf Course

General William Westmoreland and Anatoly Dobrynin, USSR Ambassador to the U.S

Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, Jr., Chief of Naval Operations, and Congresssman Bob Mathias, Capt., USMC

Fred J. Russell, Secretary of the Interior and Rosemary Woods, Nixon’s Personal Secretary

Karen and Richard Carpenter

Admiral Hyman Rickover

Pierre Salinger, President Kennedy’s Press Secretary

Leo, the MGM Lion, Was My Pet

Mrs. Lenora Romney and Son, Mitt

Bud Moore, President Harry Truman’s Campaign Manager

President John F. Kennedy and Congressman B. F. Sisk

Lyndon B. Johnson

Democratic Nominee for Vice President

Part 12

Faye Dunaway and Steve McQueen

Walt Disney and the Shah of Iran

Michael Jordan

Loren Green

Mac Davis

O.J. and Nicole Simpson

The Rev. Billy Graham

Bill Daley, Mayor of Chicago, Carl Albert, Speaker of the House, and Eugene McCarthy, U. S. Senator

A Daring Rescue on a Greenland Icecap

Part 13

Senator Hugh M. Burns

Maxine Bland

Aboard a United States Navy Submarine

Society Journalism

Looking for an Agent

Contestants and a Game Show Host

The Barefoot Greek Handyman with Cheeks

Infantry Officer Candidate School

A Bunch of Saturday Basketball Players

Sewing on More Stripes

Some Biblical Humor

My Alma Mater

Foreword

I ’ve known Elvin C. Bell since he was 17, and I remember the date our paths crossed. It was April 27, 1954 in the Quonset hut orderly room of an Army National Guard infantry company at Hammer Field in Fresno, California. At that time, Elvin was a junior at Central High School where he was active on the track and basketball teams, editor of the school newspaper, on the Honor Role, and had three part-time jobs to help support his mother and five younger siblings. At that time, Elvin was a nobody with a somebody des tiny.

Since that early date when Elvin enlisted as a Private in my Guard unit, he has served with distinction as a City Manager in Florida, Mayor Pro Tem of Fresno, and earned university degrees in law, journalism, public administration, and a doctorate in business administration.

He retired as a USAF Colonel after 31 years of active duty and National Guard service. I attended his poignant and colorful retirement ceremony at the Pentagon.

Elvin’s remarkable talent accomplished three critically acclaimed assignments in the White House; one of which was his Presidential Advisory role during long and intense but successful negotiations with Russia’s General Secretary, Leonid I. Brezhnev. Those discussions led to the first US/USSR Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty (SALT-1).

During Elvin’s service to his country he commanded seven different units, and led highly risky and sensitive intelligence missions during the Cold War years into Poland, Czechoslovakia and Russia.

In addition to his 19 years in municipal civic leadership, he was also a reporter for The Fresno Bee, Los Angeles Times and Time Magazine.

A Life Beyond Infinity, is a sip and flip thriller. In it he shares many short stories about noteworthy people he has met, some lectures he gave and a tall tale on Halley’s Comet that leads into a discourse on the meaning of patriotism.

Readers will feel a kindred love for Elvin’s surrealistic talent as he mixes sparkling smiles, smarts, sass and sorrow in describing his visits, conversations and friendships with such megastars as John Wayne, Gregory Peck, Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon, Ronald Reagan, John Kennedy, Neil Armstrong, Eleanor Roosevelt, Richard Nixon and some 70 other notables.

Elvin’s life, as the fifth of ten children born into a migrant farm labor family, has truly been blessed. From a one room cabin in a cotton camp to the White House, he has a background as colorful as the characters he writes about; lives that are truly beyond infinity.

I hope you enjoy my protégé’s 12th book that I so aptly named, A Life Beyond Infinity.

Phillip V. Sanchez,

United States Ambassador

Dedication

T hose who provided invaluable help in the process of preparing this book were a wonderful collection of talent, inspiration and brains who so expertly guided the flow and arrangement of material, and constantly copy read and proof read so the flow never stopped.

Those gifted dear friends are Gayle Glover, Denise Hillis, Rawlins Campbell, Tara Beard, Sean Justi and Jennifer Macias.

A special thanks go to a special friend, Lynn Storey.

This book is dedicated to them.

If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write something worth reading or do things worth writing.

—Benjamin Franklin

A Measure of Respect

Comment: There are several honest and honorable people featured in this book who served our country in uniform. This page is an additional measure of respect I have for each of them, and all comrades-in-arms who have served, and those who are serving.

Some of our wars were undeclared, limited or police actions, and such wars are alien to our tradition. For example, the US never had a defense treaty with South Vietnam. All we had was a diplomatic treaty which gave us permission to have an Envoy’s office in Saigon. More than 50,000 American fatalities and more than 120,000 casualties occurred in that war; all over an Envoy’s office!

Our soldiers, airmen, sailors and Marines fought, as did their brethren before them, not for loot because there was none; not for glory for there was little of that around; their homeland, in some instances, was not threatened; their fellow countrymen at home made no companion sacrifices, and there was no crusader’s zeal that drove them on.

The question still remains: What made them do it and do it so well beyond the minimum requirements that the uniform ordains?

It has been said that they were professional soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines, but young men and women at seventeen or eighteen are professional at nothing, certainly not at managing the meeting of life with death.

They fought, they endured even though, sometimes, they did not understand the geopolitics of the distant war they were in; even though thousands of their countrymen told them every day, in protest and parade, that the war they fought was a senseless war. But our young GIs kept on marching in step, shooting at moving targets, facing another Tet Offensive or, after Ramadan, dodging adherents of Islam wrapped as human bombs who walked into nursery schools, offices and markets and killed innocent people.

The real answer on why our military is so dedicated to our survival must lie deep in the tissues of whatever is the substance that keeps America from becoming unglued; it must have something to do with their parents and teachers and pastors, with their 4-H clubs, the Y, Little League, Vacation Bible School, Scout troops and neighborhood youth centers.

It has to do with the sense of belonging to a team, with the dishonor of letting them down. But it also has to do with their implicit, unyielding belief in their country and their national belief in themselves as persons—persons who believe in God.

Whatever the full answer, it is a considerable thing that they have done and are doing when they stick at this kind of war, fighting without universal support, and fighting for results obscured in the mist of the future.

Official weeks and days are impersonal symbols to take note of something intensely personal. But they provide an opportunity for the rest of us who are not covered with mud and weariness and nightly fear to pay a measure of respect.

I salute you, my fellow comrades-in-arms; past, present and future.

Elvin C. Bell

Colonel USAF Retired

Also by Elvin C. Bell

I n addition to being a former reporter for The Los Angeles Times, The Fresno Bee and Time Magazine, Elvin C. Bell wrote graduate level syllabuses for California State University, Fresno, and California Coast University, Santa Ana. He also wrote three books for the United States Air Force on international relations with emphasis on South America and the Middle East. In addition to more than 20 magazine articles, his other award winning novels and non-fiction books are:

Part 1

Frank Sinatra

"But now the days grow short …

I’m in the autumn of the year.

And now I think of my

life as vintage wine

from fine old kegs …

from the brim to the dregs.

And it poured sweet and clear …

It was a very good year."

It was a very good year.

—By Frank Sinatra

M y friend, fellow Shriner, neighbor, hunting companion and cribbage partner, Jake Kast, asked me if I wanted to ride with him later that afternoon as he led a police car convoy to the Fresno Air Terminal to escort Frank Sinatra and his band to the Hacienda Inn.

Sure, I would love to go, was my quick response.

After all, the thought flashed through my mind, how often do you get to go pick-up ol’ blue eyes and take him to his own concert?

And, with Jake’s help, I figured I would have a good chance to get a choice seat up front.

Jake and I lived close to each other. I was on the southeast corner of Garland and Agnes, and Jake was on the northwest corner one block south.

His timing, as usual, was perfect. The police convoy came by for me at 5:30 sharp. It was the first and only time that four black and white police department patrol cars with armed cops in each unit were parked in front of my house. Since I had been elected Mayor Pro Tem, and had generated the traffic that seems to go with that position, my normally patient, but sometimes curious, neighbors didn’t know what to expect from day to day.

What’s the occasion for Frank Sinatra to come to town? I asked Jake as I got settled in the back seat.

Governor Brown is having a fund raising dinner for his re-election campaign at the Hacienda and Sinatra is coming in to sing two or three songs. Then we escort Sinatra and his band back to the airport. Our part of the event will last 93 minutes. That means I’ll have you home in 108 minutes.

I shook my head in disbelief at Jake’s scheduling programs.

Jake was a B-24 bomber crew chief who racked up 32 combat missions during the war. Everything he did was timed to the minute, or second.

And nothing he saw or heard since the war ever got his paddle wound too tight.

Like when we went deer hunting last October, it never fazed him when he got an 8-point buck that weighted out at 175 pounds. But the rest of us were sure excited.

So we’re going to greet Frank Sinatra and escort him to the Hacienda, I said. That’s great.

Jake nodded his head.

Our convoy coasted to a stop in front of the Executive Airport which was on the west abutting side of the terminal.

Chief, one of the officers said pointing to the east end of the runway, there’s the chartered United Airlines plane. He’s here, sir.

Very well, Jake said matter-of-factly as he spit a black stream of chewing tobacco onto the tarmac. We’ll wait until their limos and vans are loaded then we’ll escort them.

Yes, sir, the officer replied.

Jake and I got out of the car and stood by the hood. I craned my head around Jake’s square shoulders and got a good view of the United plane as it landed and taxied to a stop about 75 feet in front of us.

The front right door finally opened, a stairway unfolded and a flight attendant descended.

She stood at the foot of the stairs.

Then I saw him.

Chief, an officer said, there’s Frank Sinatra standing in the doorway.

That’s who we were expecting isn’t it? Jake deadpanned.

Frank Sinatra approached us while trying to light a cigarette but the breeze kept blowing out his lighter flame.

Hi, Jake said holding out a lighted match in cupped hands.

Frank Sinatra leaned over and Jake’s light worked just fine.

Everything Jake did, I knew, worked just fine.

Frank inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out through his nose.

I’m Deputy Chief Jake Kast. We’re your escort to and from the Hacienda.

Jake glanced my way. And this gentleman is our Mayor Pro Tem, Elvin Bell. He wanted to meet you and he’ll be with us for the duration of our escort duty.

While Frank and I shook hands, his hot tobacco ashes fell on my coat sleeve.

Suddenly a line of limos and vans arrived and the loading started.

Jake announced to his men that his unit would lead, Sergeant Cartwright’s unit would trail, and the other two units would be the pacesetters.

As we got ready to leave, Frank asked me if I would like to ride with him.

Silly question. Do I want to ride in a limo with Frank Sinatra?

I hated the ride with Frank. Everyone in the limo, except me, chain smoked all the way to the Hacienda. I was a sick mess when we arrived.

We entered the Hacienda through a back entrance that led directly to the stage.

I could hear a lot of people talking on the other side of the curtains.

I watched as each member of Sinatra’s seven piece band finished his preparation and nodded to Frank. The whole process took only about six minutes.

Frank stood front and center of the stage and looked at the band with a smile. He raised his right arm for just a moment, and then lowered it in a quick motion.

The music started and the curtains parted.

I was standing on the far left corner of the stage. I looked out and saw a full house of standing and applauding people.

Fly Me to The Moon, was Frank’s opening song.

Another standing ovation.

All The Way, was next.

Then more standing and clapping.

I Did It My Way, brought another standing ovation.

Thank you, thank you very much and have a great evening, Frank said as the curtains closed but the applause continued.

I could still hear the applause as we climbed into the vehicles and headed back to the airport. This time I rode with Jake.

I’ll see you for coffee in the morning," Jake said as he dropped me off.

As I got out of his car, I looked at a burn mark on my coat sleeve.

Sinatra’s cigarette burned a hole in my coat, I said.

Things like that happen around smokers, Jake said as he spat a long streak of black fluid onto the street.

I glanced at my watch. You were a little off on your time, I said.

What do you mean?

You said you would have me home in 108 minutes.

I knew I had him this time. He was off on his time calculation. It was a first.

That’s right, I did.

No, it’s now 112 minutes, I said.

I had you home in 108 minutes. You’re the politician. You’ve been talking for the last four minutes.

He was right.

I’ll see you for coffee in the morning at the Hilton, he said. And don’t be late.

Having morning coffee with Jake was far more pleasurable than riding in a smoke-filled car with Frank Sinatra. But the ride, each way, was only 14 minutes.

The burn mark on my coat sleeve was the size of a quarter. It couldn’t be mended, according to my friend Merle Ginsburg, owner of Coffee’s Men’s Store where I had purchased the coat the previous month. But he was kind enough to sell me a new one.

How did Frank Sinatra make a difference?

Just ask anyone who enjoys a great singer.

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Marilyn Monroe

In a note to her new husband Arthur Miller, Marilyn wrote:

"I hate Hollywood, I don’t want it any more.

I want to live quietly in the country

and just be there when you need me.

I can’t fight for myself anymore."

T he fourth floor corner room in the Mapes Hotel in downtown Reno was more spacious than I had expected, especially at the discounted military rate I was given. The two corner windows afforded picturesque views of the Truckee River on the north and downtown Reno on the east.

It would have been a pleasant respite to stay in the room and enjoy the panoramic view, but I had to unpack and change into my Class B uniform. I had a couple hours to kill before my mid-day appointment at the Nevada Army National Guard bivouac site, and my ride wasn’t due for another hour.

I reluctantly left the room, took the stairway down and walked around the huge, beautiful resort lobby, and paused several times to window shop at a variety of charming boutiques.

The aroma of the fresh cut flowers throughout the lobby caressed my senses.

A comfortable lounge chair provided a view of giant urns that contained sprays of blue larkspur, gladiolus and gardenias that beckoned me so I settled in and unfolded The Bee that I brought from my home in Fresno.

A rather small, frail looking woman was seated across from me at about the 10 o’clock position. I couldn’t help noticing her. Even with a white scarf over her head that seemed to be snuggly knotted at her throat, she looked and acted like she was ill and possibly afraid of her surroundings.

Our eyes met. I smiled and offered her my newspaper. She shook her head. I got up and approached her. Ma’am, I’m starved. Would you care to join me for a late breakfast or an early lunch in the coffee shop?

As she studied me, I couldn’t help but think what a fool I must seem to her.

Well, I guess it would be all right, she finally said through perfect teeth, seeing how you’re a soldier and I’m early for my ride and a little hungry.

She rose and more out of instinct than desire, I suppose, she took my arm. She walked in short, uneasy steps as we entered the coffee shop, and I helped her into a seat at a corner table.

She ordered a Caesar salad, a grilled cheese sandwich with just one slice of wheat bread, a glass of Chianti and water, no ice. I craved a cheeseburger, fries and 7-Up.

I guess I shouldn’t drink this early but I’m not scheduled for another shoot until sundown, she said in a whispery, sultry voice.

I had no idea what she meant by a shoot, or who she was or what she did for a living.

It was those teeth that I couldn’t ignore. They were the most perfect teeth I had ever seen.

What do you do in the army? she asked.

Ma’am, I’m Lieutenant Elvin Bell, and I’m in the California Army National Guard. I’m with an infantry team. We’re here for two days on temporary duty to help a few of the Nevada Guard units prepare for their annual inspections.

It immediately occurred to me that I had said the words too fast and possibly with a touch of drill instructor blandness, or in an authoritative voice as if I were reporting for duty.

Her tilted facial look and partially closed light blue eyes told me she had no idea what I had just said. Then, without thinking, I asked, And what do you do here in Reno?

She managed a smile.

I’m Marilyn and we’re filming a little north of Reno in the hot damn desert. It’ll be out next year, but by the time it opens at theaters we’ll all be dead I suppose.

Once again, I had no idea what she did, why she was in the hot desert this time of the summer, what was being filmed, or why they will all be dead.

I had just finished four grinding and grueling years at Fresno State for my bachelor’s degree. During those years I worked three part-time jobs, plus my National Guard duty as an infantry platoon leader and tactical officer. I couldn’t remember the last time, even if I tried, when I had seen a movie, so the frail, sickly, seemingly frightened woman seated across from me by the name of Marilyn meant nothing more to me than sharing conversation and a meal with a stranger on a business trip.

It did occur to me that they could be filming a toothpaste commercial, because she sure had the perfect teeth for that kind of job.

She picked at her food with a fork and her fingers and each small morsel she selected was followed with a couple sips of Chianti, then water.

It’s very nice of you to invite me to join you, she said.

Oh, not at all, I said. I enjoy your company. Besides, I’ll be here for the next two days. How about dinner in the dining room tonight?

I couldn’t believe what I had just asked. The words had popped out of my head without any thought, hesitation or mental reservation.

I’m shooting my last scene today at sundown, and it’s just a close-up with no audio, so I could be back here within about an hour after sundown. How’s that?

Just come into the dining room. I’ll be waiting.

She smiled at me. I’m so happy right now, she said. I’ll look forward for dinner. And the meal is on me this time.

Before I could say anything, she tossed her napkin on her plate and looked at me with those diamond-blue eyes and flashing exquisite teeth.

Everyone is arguing with everyone else on the set so I had to get away from it all.

Her brow furrowed and pain showed on her face

Humiliations and insecurities are never far from my mind, she said, picking up her napkin, folding it and placing it back on her plate.

I hate arguments and fights.

She paused and inhaled slowly. It was easy to see that something quite difficult was on her mind and it weighed heavily on her heart.

Clark Gable will probably not live much longer, she said matter-of-factly. And Thelma Ritter is sick all the time, Montgomery Cliff has a severe disease he won’t talk about, John Huston and Eli Wallach argues all the time and I’m going to divorce Arthur as soon as I get back to New York.

She downed the last sip of wine followed by some more water.

I have a trailer on the set but I rarely use it. I have to get away from all the fights, so I stay here in the hotel.

She looked at her wristwatch. I could tell that she needed to leave.

Can I walk you some place? I asked.

Why, yes, she quickly said. My driver should be waiting for me in front. Will you walk me to my car? The way she spoke sounded like a plea.

She was the charm on my arm as I followed her lead. We walked deliberately slowly from the coffee shop, through the large lobby, made occasional brief stops at boutiques, meandered around decorative containers of fully blossomed flowers, passed by the gift shop, acknowledged a greeting from the front desk and glided through the huge rotating front door panels.

A big brute of a man in chauffeur’s attire stood beside a black, stretch limo. He looked at us with disdain.

Be sure and save me a place at your table tonight, she whispered.

The big brute opened the rear door and she entered. She looked at me and waved. As I waved back, she blew me a kiss.

The rear wheels burned rubber as the limo cleared the property, ran a red light and headed north.

I stood in front of the hotel with The Bee still folded in my hand. I tried to recall everything that had just happened during the last forty minutes. But it was just one big blurry, obscure image. Except for the teeth. I did have a clear vision in my mind of her beautiful teeth. I looked at my watch. My ride was about due. I unfolded The Bee and glanced at the front page.

Lieutenant Bell, the voice sounded from the guest parking area. Over here, sir.

I returned the corporal’s salute while walking toward the dirtiest, dented, dinged and banged-up military jeep I had ever seen. It had no front window, the gas tank lid was missing and there was no back-up spare for any of the slick, bald tires.

Sir, my driver said, I’m Corporal Davidson, Bravo Company, Second Regiment. I was told to take you directly to our bivouac area where you will conduct your training classes, sir.

He glanced in my direction. Is that a Roger, sir?

Corporal Davidson looked like he had spent too much time walking behind a mosquito fumigation truck. His fatigue uniform reeked of field odors, his combat boots were scruffy, a haircut and shave were over-due, his helmet was about two sizes too big, his teeth needed a dentist who liked challenges, and a set of clippers would help trim lengthy nose hair and extended fingernails.

Very well, Corporal, just hang close and get me back to the Mapes when I give you the high sign.

Will do, sir.

By the way, I said, "what’s the chance of getting a different jeep next time with better tires on it?"

This is our better jeep, sir, with the best tires.

His comment caused me to ponder the Nevada Guard’s contribution to our national defense effort.

The bivouac area was a typical Army National Guard desert terrain training site for simulated combat exercises. It had all the usual bivouac elements such as diamond back rattlesnakes, coral, copperhead and king snakes, scorpion, scorpion fly, white fly, ticks, red ants and a few other varmints that prefer cuddling in warm spots like human hair, arm pits and groin.

The rest of the day was spent on pre-inspection training on the first semiautomatic rifle ever issued to an entire Army, the Garand M1 rifle. That training was followed by a lecture and discussion on the 8.1 mortar and the 4.2 mortar.

I had learned early-on during Infantry Officers Leadership School at Fort Benning, Georgia that the field stripping, or disassembly, cleaning and assembly of the Garand M1 rifle was not an easy procedure to teach or to learn. It is an exact science. Each of the 20-odd parts must be removed in perfect step-by-step fashion, and replaced step-by-step exactly where they belonged. There is a place for everything and everything has its place. One miss-step and the price in combat could be fatal.

To add an element of humor to the M1 rifle exercise, I started each hands-on weapons class by having Corporal Davidson tie a thick, black blindfold around my eyes.

Then, as I had instructed, I clapped my hands and the class started counting the seconds as I immediately went to work on field stripping and reassembling the M1.

We did the same kind of exercise for the 8.1 and 4.2 mortars.

The classes I taught that day demonstrated respect for the M1 rifle when I mentioned that more than four million of them were made and their 9 pound 8 ounce unloaded weight was always a favorite of the Infantry.

The same level of respect was not shown for the 8.1 and 4.2 mortars because they were the most unreliable weapons the Infantry ever had. But when an Infantry unit calibrated them accurately and missed an enemy target by a hundred yards and still inflicted some damage, the mortars were worth transporting to the battlefield.

I kept looking west toward the Butte and Sierra Mountain ranges and the sun displayed a lot of patience about staying in the western sky and not falling behind the mountains.

I was ready to leave and get back to the Mapes Hotel, and my blonde dinner date.

After the class was given a 45-minute introductory briefing and some reading assignments on the 30 caliber and 50 caliber machine guns, my instruction for the day was completed.

Corporal Davidson, I yelled, let’s saddle up.

Yes, sir.

The wind was in our face during the 50 minute drive to the Mapes and for that I was thankful because it spared me the dreadful odors that emanated from Davidson’s body and the jeep’s interior.

On the way, I asked Corporal Davidson if he knew anything about a film crew or an advertising firm filming a commercial in the north desert.

He gave me the full scoop, the names of Hollywood stars and all. He said his unit’s public information officer went to the site to take pictures for their Guard newspaper, but the officer and photographer were kicked-out by a bunch of drunks. He said the whole Hollywood gang was drunk.

Everyone was drunk like Clark Gable, Montgomery Clift, John Huston and the film’s playwright, Arthur Miller, who’s the husband of the female star, Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn Monroe is in that film?

Yes, sir. She’s the real sexy star, Davidson said.

So, I thought to myself, that’s who Marilyn the blonde is. My dinner date is the sexy star!

What’s the film about? I asked.

Well, the corporal said, the film’s title is The Misfits, and it’s about a real sexy divorcee who’s leaving her husband and falls in love with an old cowboy who’s struggling to maintain his muncho mojo outdoors lifestyle here in Nevada.

Husband? I asked. Did you say Marilyn has a husband?

Yes, sir, that guy Miller is her husband but they fight all the time and our PIO says that the rumor has it they’re separated and she’s filing for divorce citing incompatibility of character as soon as she returns to New York.

New York?

Yes, sir. According to what our PIO found out, Marilyn Monroe is heading back to New York and her west coast real estate agent is looking for a house for her to buy in Los Angeles so she can move back to California. She doesn’t like camping out in an old fixer-upper house way out in the sticks in rural Connecticut.

Corporal Davidson filled me in on all the gory details of the arguments and fights going on at the filming site for a movie. I sat there in that dirty jeep that was going its maximum speed of 45 MPH with bald tires and felt like I must be the only person in the world who didn’t know who Marilyn Monroe was. But I also knew that I was on my way to dine with her for the second time today!

But I felt like I knew too much.

As he braked to a squealing stop, I returned the corporal’s salute and hurried into the hotel for a quick shower and change of clothes.

While I waited patiently at the front desk for my room key, I saw her sitting in the lobby in the same chair as before and wearing the same outfit, scarf and all.

The desk clerk finally dropped the key in my hand.

I turned and looked at her.

Even at a distance, her partially covered face exhibited a stately, exquisitely sculpted angelic stature that demanded a second look.

She saw me as I approached.

Well, Lieutenant Elvin, she said with a smile that could launch a thousand limos, I waited here instead of in my room because I didn’t want to miss you.

She looked at me with those gorgeous blue eyes and slightly puckered lips and whispered, I’m starved and I was wondering if you would join me for dinner.

She took my arm as we entered the dining room and the maître d’ led us to a table that featured a RESERVED sign next to a vase of long steam red roses.

As we were seated and the host ceremoniously snapped his fingers to summon the sommelier, the only thought that ran through my mind was simply this: I most sincerely hope that Marilyn will remember that she said she would pay for the dinner. Otherwise, the sommelier, alone, will cost me at least a month’s pay.

Just as Marilyn, the soon-to-become former Mrs. Arthur Miller, delicately sipped the last of her Manhattan, and I downed my bourbon and seven, the cocktail waitress arrived with another round. That delivery was immediately followed by the head waiter and his assistant placing four different plates of appetizers in front of us, and the sommelier dramatically displayed in his well-manicured hands, with towels draped over each arm, two bottles of wine; a French Chardonnay and a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.

Another thought entered my mind. It was this: if Marilyn doesn’t pay for this feast, I wonder how long I will sit in a Reno jail cell before my commanding officer and a bail bondsman can spring me?

Lieutenant Elvin, Marilyn said through puckered lips that framed her smile as she winked her partially closed deep blue eyes that glistened brighter than a perfectly cleaned and oiled M1 rifle, how was your day, darling?

The memory of visiting the bivouac site at a snake-infested section of desert terrain and standing in a long line at the officers’ mess tent with a mess kit and canteen cup in my hand flashed through my mind.

It was not near as nice as the arrangements you have made for us, I said as my hands waved and pointed at our table that was gladdened with crystal, fine china, appetizers, highballs, two ice buckets containing rare, properly cellared wine, and French Onion Soup that was approaching on a tray held high by the out-stretched arm of our waiter.

Oh, thank you, Lieutenant Elvin, she said. I wanted to host this dinner because you were so kind to me this morning.

I breathed a sigh of relief. There would be no pauper’s grave or a debtor’s jail cell for me tonight.

Think I’ll have another bourbon and water.

Don’t you think some Dom Perignon champagne would go well with our soup and salad? she asked.

Of course, I said. That’s an excellent choice.

Two hours later, after the five course dinner and some help from two bellmen, we packed Marilyn’s luggage in a limo and I rode with her to the airport.

She was taking the red-eye to New York and, just as the Corporal Davidson had told me, she would file for divorce against Arthur Miller.

During the course of that unforgettable evening I learned:

Marilyn grew tired and bored living in an old run-down two-story house on Topher Road in Roxbury, Connecticut where she had hoped to lead a normal life with her new husband, Arthur Miller. It didn’t take long before they had trouble combining their schedules, habits and interests.

The contrast between Marilyn’s dreams and indifference to money, and Arthur’s realism and notorious frugality became impossible to comingle.

A housewife’s routine in a run-down house built in 1783 that sat amid a 325 acre orchard, with no other house in sight, was not the charming existence Marilyn could endure.

A normal day for Arthur was writing alone in his study each morning, then whiling away the afternoons replacing rotten timber and repairing leaking plumbing.

Within three months, and some luck by a realtor, Marilyn moved back to California.

Her new 2,900 square-foot Spanish colonial-style Hacienda with adobe walls and red-tile roof located at 12305 Fifth Helena Drive on a quiet cul-de-sac off Sunset Boulevard in Brentwood cost Marilyn $77,500; half in cash and a bank mortgage for the balance. It was her first sole and separate property, home.

After living in foster homes and an orphanage and accumulating 53 different addresses, having her own home was especially important to her.

At first, interest in living in a on a 325 acres of land in Clark Gable had a distinguished military career during WWII as a lieutenant in the Army Air Corps while stationed in Europe and at Tyndall Field in Panama City, Florida. His picture in uniform still hands on an office wall near the Tyndall flight line.

Playwright Arthur Miller, who was self-sufficient and used to solitude, was a better carpenter, electrician and plumber at his run-down fixer-upper house with rotten timber in Roxbury, Connecticut than he was at romance or caring for his incontinent basset hound.

For their roles in Gentlemen Prefer Blonds, Marilyn’s agent got her a contract for $18,000, while walk-on freelancer Jane Russell got $105,000.

The famous skirt-blowing scene that was filmed at Lexington and 52nd Avenue in New York was the primary cause of her divorce after ten months of marriage from jealous, hot-tempered Joe DiMaggio.

Montgomery Clift could never work two consecutive days because of the debilitating illness from his nightly gay life-style.

The dinner Marilyn and I had was the first time she could recall in her entire movie career when a meal with a man was not followed by being violated later by the man as a requirement from a Hollywood producer or a director.

Comment: Marilyn was sadly correct in her prediction that by the time the movie Misfits showed in theaters, the actors who played in it would all be dead.

Clark Gable left the Misfits filming set without attending the farewell party, and died from a heart attack ten days later.

Following her Madison Square Garden sensuous rendition of Happy birthday, Mr. President, to John Kennedy, Marilyn returned to California and underwent two major surgical procedures. Her death from a drug overdose combined with alcohol is still questioned by many people because it occurred while she was under constant medical attention.

She died in the Brentwood house she had lived in for only five months.

Deaths in quick-succession followed for Clift, John Huston and Thelma Ritter.

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John Duke Wayne

"And you … of the tender years …

come know the fears …

that your elders grew by."

—Jean Renoir

E very now and then, a person comes along who serves as a strong and healthy reminder to our get-rich, sex obsessed society that there’s no expiration date on pure, unadulterated talent.

Actor, director, producer, Academy Award winner, legend, American hero, biggest box office draw of all times, Presidential Freedom Award Recipient, Congressional Gold Medal Recipient, and member of the Sigma Chi Fraternity. He was all of the above.

I’m taking about my fraternity brother, John Duke Wayne.

We met for the first time at the Space Needle in Seattle, Washington during the World’s Fair.

Here’s the way I described it back then:

The big guy lit a cigarette as soon as he stepped from the elevator. He looked up at the towering Seattle World’s Fair Space Needle that stood 605 feet tall and quipped, That’s the first time I’ve had lunch in the eye of a needle that was bigger than me.

Some objects were bigger than John Wayne, but few people were.

So you’re still waiting? he asked as he looked at me and exhaled a puff of Camel cigarette smoke.

I had just returned from lunch and a tour of the space needle when I took the elevator down and saw John Wayne waiting in line with his family. As I approached him, his face split into a big grin when he saw the Sigma Chi White Cross on my lapel.

His big right hand reached out and I took it with a smile.

Have you been up? he asked, pointing with the thumb of a fist.

I told him that I just came down, that I had seen him in the needle’s restaurant and after I took the elevator down I waited to greet him.

After he introduced me to his family, he pointed to a vendor’s display and said, Let’s walk around some. My doctor said I should exercise when I smoke. Can you believe any doctor would say that?

We both laughed.

During our walk, Duke told me he had almost died from heart failure about three months ago, and when he had emergency surgery the physicians corrected his problem by sewing a pig’s valve to his heart.

Now, he said lighting another Camel with his Dunhill, I was born in Iowa and I’ve been a life-long beef eater, and here I am walking around with a slab of pork attached to my heart.

He laughed and slapped my shoulder. I had to laugh, too. It was funny the way he said it.

Furthermore, he said with a big grin, I’ll bet that pork valve still has some Iowa corn embedded in it somewhere.

Two hearty gut-wrenching roars of laughter bounced off walls as we strutted forward.

We spent about an hour together and during that time he invited me to his ranch home in the San Fernando Valley on the 15th of the following month. He was hosting some Sigs from the University of Southern California, his alma mater, and he said I would fit right in.

As we shook hands, he asked, What Sig house are you from?

Fresno State.

Oh, hell, he said with a smirk. Come anyway.

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It was a spread worthy of his remarkable reputation. The ranch covered six rather secluded acres on a large semi-forested hill. The ranch home sat on the top of the hill and provided a picturesque view of the pool house that appeared to be dug into the lower side of the hill.

The ranch was surrounded by tall brick walls with only one entrance that was protected by an electronic gate. In case of an incident, four armed Pinkerton security guards were capable of handling any issue.

On a clear day, such as the day Duke and his wife, Pilar, hosted the party, he pointed out distant urban areas such as Thousand Oaks, Santa Monica, Riverside, Pasadena, Beverly Hills and Burbank.

Our host was the master of perfect dishevelment. His comfortable and casual attire complimented every word, motion, statement or gesture as he played the part of the cordial and gracious host.

One could only hope that his polished persona, void of braggadocio, could be contagious.

For example, his description of the two parking lots, one near the entrance and the other mid-way up, left out the parts about his design features that allowed parking for 60 cars and an array of golf carts, with wet bars, for the short ride to the pool house.

His comments on how he selected the pool house site and designed it to handle 80 party-goers, left out the part he included: Dressing rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, private showers and lockers for each guest.

His comments on the racehorse track just inside the electronic gate omitted his love for animals and his long-time practice of buying, keeping, feeding and caring for all of the mounts, dogs or other animals that he worked with in the movies. The animals he could not keep on his ranch were boarded at the nearby World’s Jungle Compound, and were cared for under the watchful eye of a veterinarian.

All of us Sigs at the party already knew that Duke and Pilar had a huge soft spot for animals, children and the needy. We also knew that they were extremely generous—around $2 million per year—to local charities.

He had a special twinkle in his eyes when he showed us pictures of his little boat that he had recently acquired and kept at the Marina Del Rey near the LA airport.

The little boat was not a boat. It was not a yacht. It was a ship!

His ship was a former Navy Minesweeper that was retired from service. It stretched out to nearly 140 feet long. Duke remodeled the ship to fit his life style: Ceilings were raised to accommodate his 6-4 frame; a master bedroom abutted a wet bar; pool tables were the main attraction in the recreation room, and a well-supplied kitchen and staff that could serve 40 meals three times a day for 25 days without restocking.

For a tough cowboy, John Duke Wayne was the biggest, but most secretive, teddy bear I ever knew.

And everything John did was big.

Comment: The house he was born in at 216 South Second Street in Winterset, Iowa, is one of the state’s top tourist attractions. John was born Marion Robert Morrison, but his middle name was soon changed from Robert to Mitchell when his parents decided to name their next son Robert.

I’m just glad they didn’t name me Sue, he chuckled.

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Robert F. Kennedy

It was a summer of wisteria.

—William Faulkner

I t was a brisk two block walk from my city hall office to the Del Webb TownHouse and I needed to arrive early for the breakfast meeting with Senator Robert F. Bobby Kennedy and his sisters Patricia and Eunice. As the master of ceremonies, I wanted to make sure that our special guests were warmly welcomed, although I was not a member of their political party.

I was asked to serve as the host because I had developed a friendship with Bobby during two previous meetings and, as Fresno’s Mayor Pro Tem, I was the senior elected official at the event.

I knew it would be uncomfortable for Bobby to act cheerful and friendly at the breakfast because he had suffered a devastating defeat in Oregon just a few days earlier.

He had lost the 1968 presidential primary election in Oregon to Senator Eugene McCarthy, and with that unexpected defeat hanging around his neck like an albatross, Kennedy arrived late last night at the Fresno Air Terminal.

He was only 42, but he looked the role he was in; a beaten, tired and completely worn-out candidate who was, literally, the worse for wear.

I was among only a few greeters at the airport when his chartered airplane landed two hours late at 10:45 p.m., and I had a brief conversation with him as I greeted him and we walked to his waiting limousine.

He told me that he would leave after our breakfast meeting and would check into the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles where he would watch results of tomorrow’s California Primary Election.

He mentioned his cautious optimism about TV and newspaper election polls that showed him ahead of Senator McCarthy by a slim but favorable margin of four points, with a percentage of error swing margin of two points.

After we left the airport and reached First Street, the Kennedy convoy turned south toward downtown and I went north to the home I had left 16 hours earlier. That long day for Bobby and his sisters was three hours longer.

As I drove, I thought about what Bobby told me. I could only imagine the painful ordeal of the Oregon campaign and the record setting long, bitter and costly struggle that ended with the Kennedy family expecting yet another landslide victory but instead suffering their first shocking, gut-wrenching political defeat.

I had a much more satisfying visit with Robert Kennedy two months earlier when he spent 13 remarkable hours in Fresno as he campaigned for the presidential nomination.

Just a few weeks earlier than that visit, on March 31, President Lyndon Johnson had stunned the nation by going on TV to say he would not run for re-election.

Liberals wondered who would carry the Democrats’ party banner.

Would it be Senator Eugene McCarthy from Minnesota who seemed to be a candidate for something every year?

Vice President Hubert Humphrey was always part of the discussion but he was an early and ardent supporter of the war in Vietnam. Could he carry the party with his heavy baggage?

Or would it be Robert, the younger brother of John F. Kennedy, who played a key role in ending the Cuban missile crisis?

After Robert Kennedy’s loss to McCarthy in Oregon, all of California’s political pundits were united in their opinion that Kennedy must win the Golden State’s primary election to re-claim his role and kick-start the much needed momentum he needed to be successful in the remaining primary elections leading up to the party’s national convention in Chicago.

It was a mild, calm Monday morning, June 3, 1968, as I walked through the north side swinging doors of the Del Webb Townhouse. I looked around our almost vacant meeting room and saw enough round tables to seat at least 150 persons for breakfast.

It was hard not to notice some worried expressions on the faces of Kennedy’s staff.

Between the staffers and Kennedy’s permanent security detail, I counted 23. I then counted the guests, including myself, and got 14. It appeared to me that everyone had a worried expression.

The expressions, I knew, were not necessarily about the poor turn-out for a Kennedy event in a democratic strong-hold such as Fresno.

Breakfast with Bobby Kennedy was not the only news of the day.

The entire nation was caught up in a series of bad news items such as North Korea’s capture of the U. S. S. Pueblo, the North Vietnam Tet Offensive, more than 500,000 American troops in South Vietnam, LBJ calling it a career, and, just two weeks ago, Martin Luther King’s assassination in Memphis.

And Americans could not brush off their segregated history because George Wallace, who served two nonconsecutive terms as Governor of Alabama and was the American Independence Party candidate for president, was venting class and cultural resentments by barn-storming around the nation and spewing sinister lectures about the correct place for blacks who lived in a white country.

It was a rough start for the year, and I was among many who hoped that the rest of 1968 would not turn out to be just more of the same.

There was some light applause as the Kennedy party entered the room led by Patricia, the wife of actor Peter Lawford, and Eunice, who founded America’s Special Olympics, and was the wife of political activist Sargent Shriver, a long-time Kennedy advisor.

I rose and motioned for them to sit at my table. As they approached, I pulled out a chair for Patricia and she gave me a warm hug before taking her seat. Eunice whispered something to Bobby and he sat next to Patricia while Eunice sat on the other side of Bobby.

It soon became obvious why the sisters wanted their brother to sit between them.

It was painful for me to look at Bobby Kennedy. His shoulders stooped, his arms rested on the edge of the table and he seemed to glare not at me but over me and somewhere out in space. If he had gotten any sleep last night, it didn’t show. He looked at least as tired and wasted as he did at the airport when he arrived late last night.

As some servers started pouring coffee, others began distributing individual plates of sausage, toast, scrambled eggs and fruit. When they came to our table, Eunice told them to remove everything but eggs and fruit from our three plates, as she motioned to herself, Patricia and Bobby.

I understood. In addition to being on the campaign trail and living out of suitcases for a solid 18 months and losing energy, composure and rectitude, they had also lost their appetite.

As the servers started with seconds for coffee, I got Bobby’s attention. It’s my pleasure to introduce you for a few words. May I start now?

He managed a smile, nodded his approval, winked and said, Break a leg, Elvin.

I had no idea what to expect from Bobby as I stood, welcomed everyone, said a few words about our special guests, Patricia and Eunice, and introduced, The distinguished senator from the great state of New York and the democratic candidate for president of the United States, Robert Kennedy.

The crowd that now numbered about 40 stood and applauded with such hearty gusto that they sounded like a 100.

I had watched and marveled at many platform speakers in my career, but I had never seen anyone who looked as frail, fatigued and fragile as Bobby make such a miraculous recovery as he did as soon as he took the podium.

His powerful gesturing and energetic oration lasted for about fifteen minutes.

Somewhere in the old trouper, political and vaudeville genes of the Kennedy clan, life is rejuvenated at the sight of TV cameras, reporters, a microphone and an audience.

Of course, I knew he was a fighter. He had that reputation.

As the United States Attorney General in his brother’s Administration, Bobby strongly advocated for the African-American Civil Rights Movement, crusaded against crime and the mafia, and, earlier in his career, gained national attention as the Chief Counsel of the Senate Labor Rackets Committee from 1957 to 1959. It was while serving as the committee’s counsel that Bobby publicly challenged Teamsters President Jimmy Hoffa over the corrupt practices of the union, and published The Enemy Within, Bobby’s first book about corruption in organized labor.

He didn’t waste any time as he stood at the podium, adjusted the mike and looked at the age mix of people in the audience.

He acted as if someone had just turned on his turbo-power switch.

People around the world don’t really believe we want to seek a peaceful solution to our agonizing troubles in Southeast Asia, Kennedy said with a rising vocal tone and the responding sound of applause.

He called for a new ‘spirit of youth’ by saying, Youth is not a time of life but a state of mind.

He paused and looked searchingly at the faces of additional college-age young people who had just entered the room.

"The most dangerous threat to world peace wasn’t to be found in international or racial conflict but between those bound by the past and those freed for the future.

I stand with the spirit of youth and I think that is where America stands.

Roars of approval and loud applause filled the room. The shouts and clapping grew louder and louder during the standing ovation.

Bobby stepped back from the podium to savor the moment.

He looked at his sisters, then me. He smiled. He looked like a young man; a young man with many years of public service ahead of him.

He raised his