Rogue Journey: Asia 1935 -1975 The Way It Was

By R. Stanley Miller

Reared in a industrial city during the 1930s depression a young man leaves to find overseas adventure and a passage into adulthood. The seeker eventually gets much more than he bargained for. This book takes the reader through the gates of delinquency, cheerless military service, struggles, failures, and troubling acts including cold war espionage, and concluding with ten consecutive years in war torn Vietnam. This is a story of a youngster's lengthy transition into maturity. Parts of this story should not be read by the moralist or the squeamish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456759209

R. Stanley Miller

The writer of this memoir has resided in foreign countries for well over 50 years and continues to do so today on an island off the coast of Singapore. This first time author vividly remembers experiences in Asia during the height of the cold war while in Japan, Korea, and in Vietnam where he spent ten consecutive years with his family during one of America's most controversial and tragic conflicts. He is an eye witness to the 1968 Tet offensive and left the country within a few days of the fall of Saigon but that's only half the tale. The most controversial parts of the this extraordinary story begin well before Vietnam in the United States and in several Asian cities where the young man was often sidetracked by passion, crime, poverty, recklessness, and drawn into subversive activities no patriotic American should admire. He reveals his story in a strikingly personal and provocative style. This tome you hold in your hand may be a kind of stark "Catcher in the Rye for mature adults.

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ROGUE JOURNEY

Asia 1935 - 1975

The Way It Was

R. Stanley Miller

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2011 R. Stanley Miller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  06/15/2023

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5921-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5919-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-5920-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011904744

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DEDICATION

To those few whom I lived and worked with over the years and thought they knew me.

INTRODUCTION

ROGUE JOURNEY

1935-1975

R. STANLEY MILLER

A young man’s Journey in America, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam

THE UNEXAMINED LIFE HAS NOT BEEN WORTH LIVING.

SOCRATES

A LIFE TIME SPENT MAKING MISTAKES IS NOT ONLY MORE HONORABLE BUT MORE USEFUL THAN A LIFE SPENT DOING NOTHING.

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

ONLY THE SHALLOW KNOW THEMSELVES

OSCAR WILDE

WRITING A BOOK IS AN ADVENTURE; TO BEGIN WITH IT IS A TOY AN AMUSEMENT, THEN IT BECOMES A MASTER, AND A TYRANT; AND  . . . JUST AS YOU ARE ABOUT TO BE RECONCILED TO YOUR SERVITUDE—YOU KILL THE MONSTER AND FLING HIM . . . . TO THE PUBLIC.

WINSTON CHURCHILL

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Author’s Commentary

ONE THE EYES OF A CHILD

TWO NEW HOME

THREE RETURN TO REALITY

FOUR A HOME AWAY FROM HOME

FIVE BREAKING AWAY

SIX THE RECKONING

SEVEN ARMY TIMES

EIGHT BASIC TRAINING

NINE ASIA AWAITS

TEN OKINAWA: ISLAND MISSION,

ISLAND DUTY (1952)

ELEVEN BACK TO THE BOXING RING

TWELVE TALES OF ARMY MEDICINE

THIRTEEN RETURN TO THE FIGHTING STABLE

FOURTEEN LOSING MY VIRGINITY AGAIN (1953)

FIFTEEN HAZARDS OF GARRISON DUTY

SIXTEEN STOCKADE SHOWDOWN (1954)

SEVENTEEN ARMY OUT, CIVILIAN LIFE IN (1955)

EIGHTEEN SAYONARA, UNTIMELY

DEPARTURE (1956)

NINETEEN THE SEAMAN’S LIFE

TWENTY THE SEA AROUND ME

TWENTY-ONE FAULTY ENTERPRISE-SINGAPORE

NIGHTS -NEW YORK PAYOFF

TWENTY-TWO CONFESSIONS OF A CATHOLIC

COOK, AND UNDERSTANDING

VERA COFFEY

TWENTY-THREE IDEOLOGY

TWENTY-FOUR FLEEING DETROIT (1958)

TWENTY-FIVE ASIAN NIGHTS

TWENTY-SIX FORGOTTEN DREAMS OKINAWA,

KOREA

TWENTY-SIX KOREA BECKONS

TWENTY-EIGHT A KOREAN TALE OR TWO

TWENTY-NINE UNDER JAPANESE RULE

THIRTY FALSE START (1959)

THIRTY-ONE YOKOHAMA NIGHTS (1960)

THIRTY-TWO SHIPPING ABOARD THE EAGLE

THIRTY-THREE ESCAPE FROM THE EAGLE

THIRTY-FOUR BITTER RECOVERY (1960)

THIRTY-FIVE CONTACT WITH THE EAST (1961)

THIRTY-SIX BACKGROUND TO A COUP (1961)

THIRTY-SEVEN KOREAN CHRONICLES

THIRTY-EIGHT BLIND DISLOYALTY (1963)

THIRTY-NINE THE END OF THE DANCE (1964)

FORTY KOREA TO VIETNAM (1965)

FORTY-ONE WITH FRIENDS LIKE JOE WHO

NEEDS ENEMIES

FORTY-TWO MAFIA JOE BERGER REVISITED

FORTY-THREE A SINGLE DEATH IS A TRAGEDY,

A MILLION A STATISTIC

FORTY-FOUR ON SAIGON DOCKS (1966)

FORTY-FIVE ANIMAL TALES, PEOPLE TALES

FORTY-SIX INTERNAL ASSIGNMENT (1966)

FORTY-SEVEN OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS (1967)

FORTY-EIGHT SAIGON, DAY OF TET CHINESE

LUNAR NEW YEAR (1968)

FORTY-NINE AFTERMATH

FIFTY THE EXPERIMENT

(EVERYBODY’S DOING IT) (1968)

FIFTY-ONE GETTING STARTED (1968)

FIFTY-TWO RUSSIAN SPRING

FIFTY-THREE A MAN CALLED JOHN.

FIFTY-FOUR VIETNAM TALES

FIFTY-FIVE MORE VIETNAM TALES

FIFTY-SIX BACK TO THE FUTURE (1973)

FIFTY-SEVEN VIETNAM II (1973)

FIFTY-EIGHT DANANG AIRBASE (1974)

FIFTY-NINE NHA TRANG AIRBASE

SIXTY A PLACE IN THE SUN

SIXTY-ONE FLIGHT FROM NHA TRANG

SIXTY-TWO SAIGON FAREWELL (1975

VIETNAM EPILOGUE

THANKING THOSE MORE KNOWLEDGEABLE

AUTHOR’S COMMENTARY

IT IS SAID EVERY PERSON HAS A MEMOIR IN THEM AND THAT’S WHERE IT SHOULD STAY.

Every person has a story and the one and only individual reading my draft a few years ago said it is an excellent place for it to stay and be concealed, but for this writer there is an interesting tale to tell of perverse appeal to the reader in a manner both alarming and predictable. My narrative takes place largely in Asian countries where I struggled and at times barely survived. Nonetheless the diversity of experiences never impeded my adventurous spirit for very long. Remarkably I have subsisted and thrived overseas for well over fifty years and continue to do so today on an island near Singapore. Not revealed in this volume will be experiences in Iran, Saudi Arabia, the Oman, and Indonesia coming years after and by comparison pales over time. This extremely personal biography centers on my first quarter century abroad by far the most fascinating, exciting and controversial, and may be for the reader as well. Nothing in my life compares with the search for youth’s passages in Japan and Korea during the cold war years of the 50’s and 60’s and in Vietnam where I spent ten years during one of America’s most tragic conflicts. Mine is a tale of a young adult drifting for lengthy periods with few gratifications or victories, frequently sidetracked by recklessness, passion, unjustified optimism and subversive ideas. Some of what follows may disturb the conventional reader as well as the seasoned sojourner, but I’m not concerned because this volume is meant for a very few.

TOKYO, JAPAN

WINTER 1960

The next morning I took the rail from Yokohama to the capital and taxied near to the Russian Embassy. I knew the exact location with its sturdy walled edifice in downtown Tokyo, situated mockingly close to the American Club, and my old employer Wellington Trading. Totally composed I would approach the front gate without dread or trepidation for what I was about to do. In my judgment the act was principled and of no personal consequence. Although having a loving wife and a secure position I was unwavering in my conviction. Recent years of scarcity and joblessness while observing others in privation led me to justify an act of flagrant disloyalty. Over recent months, I had programmed each step to be taken when contacting the Soviets. The year before I had passed the embassy and visualized entering and initially say and do should access be gained.

I halted the taxi a hundred yards from the entrance and walked toward the compound. Soon I entered through the wide gate and proceeded toward the consulate office as if to acquire a visa application. A few feet from the door I changed directions and veered my steps to the right and headed for the gated interior. Not surprisingly I was immediately challenged by a rough unshaven guard in casual civilian clothes. The man gruffly confronted the intruder by shouting in a thick accented Stop. What are you doing? He quickly approached somewhat puzzled as I said I want to see an intelligence officer; I have information. The man hesitated a few seconds with a blank look on his face, turned his head and motioned to a second man standing behind him between the interior fence and the guard house. In English the guard uttered Wait here. I was now sure I would gain entry.

VIETNAM

LUNAR NEW YEAR

1968

After witnessing midnight fireworks to usher in the Chinese New Year we turned in for the night knowing the next day would be a pleasant one. It would be a family affair playing with the kids and relaxing around the house, a nice respite from the daily grind of work. We expected a good night’s rest before our quieter late morning activities. Suddenly at four in the morning an explosion shook the house, followed by a second louder explosion, and shortly a third accompanied by small-arms fire. The blasts appeared close and in the direction of nearby military facilities and Tan Son Nhut Airbase. Within a moment clusters of five or six Vietnamese gathered on the streets nervously listening to the sounds of war and the smell of gunpowder, explosives, and residue fireworks. The sounds of battle continued to erupt as I walked among the small groups. Shortly the firing faded into the early morning darkness only to resume minutes later seemingly closer with echoes of automatic gunfire in the distance. We were of course startled, perplexed by the rude awakening. What was happening in Saigon, on the base so near our home? Was it a coup attempt or a Vietcong attack?

Bewildered for the moment the answer was beyond us. I had thought as others, the United States was making progress toward ending the war, and within a year or two the Cong and their northern allies would be degraded in ignominious defeat or forced into a one sided negotiation. I had viewed General Westmorland on television proclaiming his version of victory akin to being a few more battlefield triumphs and our boys would bring victory home. Apparently it seemed success was just around the corner. I believed in those words as many did. The U. S. had the force of arms, the technical knowledge and a massive logistical support network, with a half million men in country. I wondered at this late date, how could the enemy enter into the heart of the command and possibly Saigon itself to cause disruption and wreak havoc?

Inquiring of the events taking place and not feeling intimidated, I bid a reassuring goodbye to my family and left for my assignment within the base now under siege.

The motivation that brought me to Vietnam and the morning of Tet 1968 began more than 30 years before in another city, a community very different from the densely populated tropical Saigon. It was an American industrial center where after eight years of economic depression, preparation for a different kind of war, a bigger war, was just beginning. So, I will mawkishly begin there.

CHAPTER ONE

THE EYES OF A CHILD

1935-1942

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER,

THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN,

THE LITTLE WINDOW WHERE THE SUN

CAME PEEPING IN AT MORN . . . .

THOMAS HOOD.

I took my first breath in the month of June, 1935 in the industrial city of Detroit, Michigan. At birth I was Ronald Stanley Gulcowski, born to a working class Polish -- Belorussian couple who were the children of immigrants. During my first six year of life, I vaguely remember my biological parents who were practically kids themselves when I came along. Their names were Mary Kolpak, later a.k.a. Mary Miller, and Matthew Gulcowski, a.k.a. Matthew Miller. I never quite understood, was baffled in my early years, as to why at the height of World War II against a German enemy, my parents changed their Eastern European names to a Germanic sounding Miller. Later I came to realize the change was for brevity in preparation for striking out on their own in business, although for years after they continued to work in factories. Seemingly cast aside by my biological parents in early years for reasons known but to them, I bonded with my hard working Eastern European maternal grandparents. Those were tough times for them and for just about every American in the 1930’s, historically one of America’s most devastating economic periods. Several years after my birth my parents were fortunate to gain employment in assembly plants. The mobilization for the coming world war was getting underway and soon became the nation’s number one priority. The years of the 1930s Great Depression and 1940s Wars were not an era many choose to remember kindly. The majority of today’s younger generation may envision the age through media documentaries, or yarns from oldsters, but today’s general public could not possibly experience the depth of despair felt by the many during the era. These were years of enormous poverty and public discontent as well as tremendous challenges and sacrifice during the war. The 30’s and early 40’s left a mark on many of America’s older witnesses as well as me. As a child I remember shortages and the talk of large numbers of people out of work. But I also glowingly recall the collective virtues and strengths grudgingly extracted out of the turbulence, and how the American people coped with the bad times. From my childhood vantage point, I observed a marvelous goodness in people and at times the distressingly unpleasant.

Those Depression years significantly contrasts with current decades of abundance and more recent imprudent and irresponsible prosperity. I do happily recall though with thrift and determination our family had just enough to make it to the end of the week, or to the end of the month. Also remembered during those early childhood years the many common symbols of the period completely unknown today of naked light bulbs, pull down window shades, the clicking of a peddled Singer sewing machine, hanging fly paper, linoleum kitchen floors, snapping mouse traps, and those expensive nickel telephone calls that provide the background for the time herein.

There weren’t many telephones around in those days, let alone anything like television, cell, I phones, or Blackberries commonly used today. Our original phone in 1938 was a three party-line. For refrigeration most families utilized ice boxes, actual wooden and metal boxes holding blocks of ice. The ice was delivered by truck and carried up stairs on the backs a perspiring Iceman who would shove the chunk into the storage compartment each week to assure a family several days of cool food and drink. The dark brown metal handled containers stood where large modern multi-purpose refrigerators stand today. Used too in many homes were wood burning pot-bellied stoves for cooking and for heating bath water for the whole clan a few times a week. Unavailable to our East European immigrant family and taken so casually today, were electric appliances: washers and dryers, vacuum cleaners, toasters, juicers and coffeemakers, widely distributed and in nearly everyone’s home. These were not in households when I was a young lad, and for many years thereafter. Washboards, tubs, cloth spins, rope lines were for washing and drying everything wearable under the sun. Our foremost entertainments were radio, short-lived family discussions, and occasional black and white films in neighborhood theaters. For me talkies had been around for five or six years, and color in 1946 the beginning of the Golden Age of Hollywood. Only one of my uncles owned a car. The vehicle was used to transport family members and neighbors to work, or on weekend countryside joy rides. Housewives worked much harder in the home of course, but some tuned in to their favorite afternoon soap operas. For male diversions sports programs dominated as well as the popularity of pool halls, and corner bars. Bars were often referred to as saloons then. Corner saloons, bars, drinking establishments were always prevalent in industrial cities and towns. Factory workers in Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, Pittsburgh, and Gary, Indiana, and in southern manufacturing centers labored hard and often drank harder. However, the immigrants that I knew weren’t Irish, and to me at lease, they didn’t appear to have the luck of the Irish.

My very first memory during this unfortunate period in American history was perhaps at the age three or four. I awoke one morning and happily looked out from my grandparent’s bedroom window to see a bright new summer day. It was the moment of awakening, an epiphany. Many years later in the deserts of Saudi Arabia, the Oman, or in the tropical jungles of Vietnam and Indonesia, I would turn back to that first moment of awakening 76 years ago. Life would never be as simple or as carefree for a child and the grown man again. I’m not alone in remembering. We all had the first feelings of awakening. Saying it’s going to be a great day, it’s going to be all right. This is the first genuine day of my life and it always was no matter our personal best or on the most dreadful of occasions. It was a good start at a bad time.

My grandparent’s address 7264 Marjorie Street is etched in my memory forever. The ram shackled three bedroom house on the edge of Briggs Auto Factory was to me the symbol of happiness and security for many years. Fortunately at this home I had two kindly Polish grandparents a grandmother whom I called Bopka Babcica in the Slavic tongue, and a grandfather, Dziadek, whom I called Jodak. The pair of immigrants spoke no English I can recall, and so I first began to converse in the language at the ripe old age of six. Until the time I spoke either Polish or a form of my own jumbled Slavic.

As I dearly remember, Grandma Bopka was a pleasing East European woman and my most devoted grandparent. The woman was certainly overburdened with household chores besides taking care of me. She was always much too busy washing, ironing, cooking, and caring for the garden as well as canning vegetables and fruit for the winter months. As mentioned there were many fewer electrical appliances in the 1930’s so I remember each morning her toasting bread in a frying pan heated by a wood fired stove. Although overstressed she was to me always warm and considerate, without fail she showed a special kindness toward her grandson, the first grandchild, and a male child at that. She spoiled her charge as others would jokingly or sternly say spoiled rotten. Typically grandmothers do, but not like her. The difference was consistency, as she watched over this little one 24 hours a day, seven day a week, for years. During my early childhood it seemed I could never do anything wrong. Grandma always afforded the greatest deference to my many impetuous childhood faults and very bad habits. Someplace within this old overworked peasant woman’s heart, it was always unconditional love, and to this day I never remember her ever becoming angry after my most outrageous worst behavior.

In the years of the Great Depression, the shortage of money was pervasive in our family, no different than many other families in the multi-ethnic neighborhood. With an unemployment rate of 30% in the state and industrial production lagging by 60% throughout the nation this was true for almost every one we knew. There were few or no exceptions. As I remember, we seemed always on the verge of being broke. Even at this early age I could sense the conflict over money issues. At the time I did not of course fully comprehend those problems. Yet, with pleasure I remember never being in want of anything necessary for my wellbeing, or needed to ease our austere existence. After our weekly walk to a credit grocery, Bopka or Aunty Pauline would always find a penny or two for a sweet, or a piece of licorice just for me. Although I never asked, or don’t remember asking, they always provided the kindly treat.

Being spoiled by grandma came with the advantage of protection from adults and impending hardships. Those became apparent with the start of the world war in 1941, but in the meantime I was the pampered master of the house. Once I carried decrepit spidery lumber into the home and onto a clean linoleum floor in front of the kitchen sink where grandma was washing dishes. I began to pound boards into a rough makeshift boat. It was by any sense of the word a dirty soiled earthen mess. My mother’s brother Stanley was visiting at the time. He piped up to his mom with criticism saying in the harshest of tone Tell that kid to stop making that mess. In reply she would say, and she always did, in her slow Slavic voice Let him go on.....he’s not hurting anyone... Let him alone. As we know grandchildren are treated differently from the originals as I can attest and am sure they are today as well.

Having free reign of the household, I made havoc fabricating toys all through the rooms of the modestly furnished house, always leaving an untidy residual behind. While manufacturing a non-flying kite one afternoon, I nearly torched the house while striking matches and igniting paper under my grandparent’s bed. Luckily Aunt Pauline, single and living with us at the time, noticed or heard the flame’s roar while passing the bedroom just at the right moment and saved the house from going up in smoke. With further daily unruliness, I must have ruined a few mattresses jumping in what seemed to some like hours while pretending to fly or as an imagined battle harden paratrooper. The excessive noise of my childhood adventures never seemed to be a problem while on Marjorie Street.

Other recollections were of the bicycle riding ice cream vendors, and the organ grinder who came around the neighborhood with a red vested monkey. It was to me always an uneasy feeling between wonderment and cautious care while handing the coin over to the exotic creature while it held out a tin cup. I knew the monkey had secured the nickel when hearing the clink. At three or four it was the sighting of my first horses pulling carts down neighborhood streets and alleys as vendor’s harked produce, and household goods. More often I would view one or two men in the back street collecting junk and placing it into wagons. We now and then got a dime for an old discarded tire. My first given task at age four was being encouraged to take a spade and scoop horse manure off the newly asphalted street for garden fertilizer. The grandparents had a considerable backyard garden, referred to as a flourishing Victory Garden during the Good War. When WWII began, my admiring eyes observed the Air Raid Warden, who came around with his yellow armband and a flash light to remind us to close our shades and darken windows to avoid serving as a guiding light for an enemy bomber’s target. Unusual today, once or twice a month during the summer a photographer would come by with a small pony. Families would take their children to front lawns for photo shoots on the back of tame shaggy horses with cowboy gear furnished, complete with hat and a six gun furnished. I was one of those youngsters prodded into taking the photo. The cost was about two dollars for the setting and the eight by ten photo delivered right to our door a few days later.

I suspect the reader is becoming bored with these reminiscences before the somewhat less mature, disruptive, exciting, and sexual parts of my life begin, but stick with me. These early events may have a psychological bearing on the story later. I don’t mind you skipping a few chapters. Actually the story doesn’t enliven until reaching age sixteen, and later in Singapore, Tokyo, Seoul, and Saigon so hang on. Remember this is a memoir.

My Grandpa Jodek was a solemn, thin bodied, hard working alcoholic who often doted on me. It was especially true when he was inebriated which was often. He loved his payday Friday or Saturday nights when he drank to excess. The old man was a happy drunk most of the time. For a long while I guess the worst one could say about the man was when he wasn’t drinking he was Sober but sober or blinded drunk, I knew he dearly loved me. When sobriety struck was when his personality changed, often for the worst. Bopka was always concerned, and sometimes fearful of her husband’s moodiness as well as his spending habits. These often centered on frequent misappropriation of family funds in saloons, and towards store bought Dixie Bell Gin.

Jodak was content during the weekends when he stayed drunk, or as the polite euphemism describes it feeling good. On those weekends, while sitting on the floor playing with toys, I would watch him happily stagger from room to room, stopping occasionally to smile and pat me on the head, while the radio played music or a speech on one of his Slavic stations. When I asked about him tripping and falling down, they would say grandpa was just feeling good with a knowing grin. At such an early age, I recall those many special weekend nights, when he would shake me from slumber for late night games. Grandma would try to prevent gramps from waking me in the dead of night, but he would roughly push her aside saying in a loud threatening voice This is my house. I’m the boss. Go-a-way. It made no difference to him if it be twelve o’clock at night, playing card-war or spinning nickels for the loser’s change. Frequently recalling during these nights he would repeatedly hoist me in the air and toss my small flexible body onto a sofa or bed as I screamed with joy. He was as happy then as I was. Those few lively late nights contrasted with my lonely days left as an only child with protective grandparents. I was watched and restricted from going out alone among the older kids, who were said to be Rough Necks. During the clouded cold winter months I had little to do except to make trouble and draw attention to myself in the house or snow filled back yard.

Despite Jodak’s weekend good humor, I noticed his sharp temper during most early mornings. Well before sunrise his demeanor often contrasted from the night before. Usually he would glumly take his coffee never smiling, saying nothing. Never failing Bopka would prepare his breakfast. Although I was about three or four seated near the kitchen table, she would table a small cup of coffee for me with a heavy dose of milk and sugar. A little later we’d stand by the door to watch him disappear into the cold winter gloom of early morning or the heat of the new summer day. Although Jodak had frequent hangovers, I never knew him to miss a day’s work. The man was at times unwell with arthritis and stomach ailments, but continued to toil at the foundry, plant, shop, or as a janitor week after week at the Plymouth Auto Plant. I never really understood what Jodak did to earn money. I just knew by looking at him it was hard work. At my age I didn’t care what he did, but I never once heard the old man moan or complain as some do today. It just wasn’t his nature to do so. As a recently arrived immigrant he resigned himself, as many did, to the fates and drudgery expected of his class. I could plainly see during the 30s most folks were just plain damned glad to have a job, any job that paid the bills.

It was a stroke of fortune my grandparents had seven fruit trees in the back yard where apples, pears, and Cherries were picked at peak season. Not only were the shade trees esthetically pleasant to view during the spring and summer, they had an essential purpose to help feed ourselves with the luxury of fresh picked fruit. Not long after Pearl Harbor we, like other patriotic Americans with a little spare land, started gardens in back yards, or nearby empty lots and fields. Ours was actually an expansion of a smaller one, tilled out back which grew token patches of corn, carrots, radishes and rhubarb. Also cultivated were slightly larger spaces for tomatoes and potatoes. We would often consume these vegetables during summer evenings on the front porch with an abundance of salt frowned upon these days by doctors. The remaining few vegetables and tree fruits were preserved in Mason jars for economic winter consumption. In October grandma and I would pick the green tomatoes and wrap them individually in newspaper stowing them in cardboard boxes in the dry attic until Christmas. In the late autumn jarred fruit would appear. The basement had two shelves along one wall for canned fruits and vegetables, while on the damp cement floor were several ceramic crocks filled with maturing wine and sauerkraut. Unimaginable today the woman made soft drinks, known to consumers then as Pop. Noncarbonated artificial root beer, strawberry, and cola like drinks were available during summers. Usually the drinks were consumed well before the arrival of the hottest weather. To my knowledge we never made beer, but other households did, and occasionally a few bottles of homemade brew would show up as gifts. For visitors and our own consumption wine was available. Commercial gin and whiskey were accessible on holidays and occasionally for a special guest a popular brand beer would emerge out of nowhere, or more likely, a hard to reach corner of the ice box.

I had two uncles named Stanley. One Uncle Stan was my mother’s brother, and the other had married Aunt Pauline. Pauline’s husband was a slim Slovak-Czech whose last name was Jurgis. Their occasional noisy arguments would sometimes disturb the household. Stanley Jurgis was a drinker too, just like grandfather, but his habit was moderate and controlled. After a work day he would take me on evening walks to see the neighborhood sites. At my age Uncle Jurgis would often physically carry me, or I would slowly amble by his side. We would walk to nearby Van Dyke Avenue, two short blocks away, while he continually castigated the very bars he visited on weekends and often after work. Uncle Stanley Jurgis would say There are more bars than any other kind of business in this neighborhood, and there should be a law against it. There are too many. It’s no good. At the time, it was commonly accepted saloons were the only practical and convenient gathering places for the working class community.* Where else could you bum a quarter, or on occasion a free sandwich and the latest gossip or rumor? Maybe hear of a job coming up? I looked forward to our walks.

One late evening Uncle Stan took me directly to a pharmacy. I remember carrying an empty jar in my little hands unable to reach completely around the glass. Soon I found the container’s purpose. It was to be used for the purchase of a few leeches for Grandpa Jodka’s most recent black eye. The old man would get into scrapes during weekend fights. I stood in amazement when leeches were placed under and alongside his eye. It worked. Unfortunately nothing could be done about his teeth. Sadly enough, Bopka required the same treatment after her arguments with Jodak.

I played with only a few kids around our East European-Italian neighborhood. Being so young, I often didn’t go far. Winters isolated me more than not. Being in the center of the Great Lakes, Michigan had some of the most frigid damp winters in the nation, more so I believe than today. I’m sure meteorologists and Al Gore would bear me out. There was of course the usual bully. We had one too. He was a few years older. The chunky Bozo just wanted to punch somebody, anybody, sometime without warning. (The old sucker punch) more benign and definitely more attractive was a pretty little girl who lived a few doors down the street. Under our porches Patsy would take off her cotton panty to show me hers. Of course at four or five years of age I wondered what had happened to her peeny and because she never lifted her legs very high, I never saw much of anything, even if there was something to see. (It was my first sexual experience)

With such a large back yard at our disposal there was room for pets. I had a cat and a white puppy named Prince. The female feline was named King, not queen, because I barely knew the difference and I liked the royal title. The cat would be around only at meal time, periodically having disappearing litters of kittens under the back porch. My favorite for a short while was a snowy white puppy. One Sunday afternoon, as the men listened to the ball game in the living room, we heard a loud screech, as if a car had to suddenly brake. The puppy was killed. There would be similar incidents of course, but this was a first encounter with death. We buried the pup next to our one blossoming cherry tree. The animal was to me a lovable little pooch, but I noticed how casually the adults viewed the dog’s demise. It didn’t in any way affect them in the slightest. One of the uncles assured, the cute little puppy was only sleeping and would go to heaven where there were other dogs to play with. After patting down the shallow grave the men turned away and went back to the ballgame. I assumed right there and then, Prince had no problem in death, as we being alive.

During a summer afternoon there occurred a minor, but to me a significant happening that may have altered the course of my life. As usual during the Depression years of mass unemployment, men folk were driven to do small services for pocket change. One of these was a young fellow who came by with three inch square balsa wood blocks to carve it before our innocent eyes into a propeller. The charge was a penny for making the airplane part. Kids would provide a cylinder similar to a few inches of broom handle or any another suitable stick with a small fitting nail. Like the others I ran to get a handle that Grandma would hurriedly hack and cut from one of her old mops. Joyfully swinging the fabricated toy with other over enthusiastic children the accident happened. My fragile propeller broke in half. I felt dejected at being partly to blame for the inevitable collision with another free swinging child. I was saddened at no longer having the toy, but didn’t say a word. One of the older boys brought the mishap to the enterprising carver’s attention. Immediately sensing my gloom and having empathy for a four year old, the young man said Do you have another penny? I meekly shook my head no. The fellow’s face lit up saying Don’t worry about it. Right before my eyes, with the others watching he withdrew a fresh block from his sack and within a minute carved a second propeller. The fellow handed it to me with a smiling face and said Don’t lose it. I was delighted to get the replacement and to become just like the other kids with their airplanes. To this day I don’t remember thanking the young man. Probably not, I was unmannered and spoke no English. The man’s good-hearted gesture stayed concealed in my memory for years. Reflecting on his kindness, I thought people were basically good, and someday I too would help another who had miss-stepped in the same way the young man had favored me. Perhaps unknowingly the fellow placed a meme in my mind to surface years later. I’m convinced the unexpected replacement gift to a child played a part in ultimately, eventually in transforming me into a better person.

From the back yard I would notice during hot summer months trash collectors gathering refuse from steel drums and deposit the material into rickety rusted dump trucks. The Garbage Men as they were known were always black men. Grandma hearing the racket of metal drums hitting the back of the truck would summon me from the yard and instruct me to bring a jar or two of cool tap water to the sweating workmen. Those few appreciative men were the first black people I had ever seen. At about the time during summer months I observed strangers softly rapping at our screen door asking for food. When directed to the back porch grandma would hurry to the kitchen to prepare a pitcher of Kool-Aid and a plate with bread and a few slices of bologna. I would watch from a distance as the man sat on the steps and wolfed down the snack. These were indeed the toughest of times for many Americans.

What may astound the reader today is doctors frequently made house calls. It was not considered unusual in the 1930’s and early 40’s. There were a few times when a physician was summoned to examine and prescribe remedies for me or for grandpa. The doctor always carried a black leather bag and the first item drawn from it was a stethoscope. As I remember the visits wouldn’t last long, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, but to show our appreciation for his service the practitioner was temporarily captured and implored to stay a little longer and not to leave without drinking a nickel soda, or taking along a bit of pan cake and of course the fee. The remuneration may have been two or three dollars including the capsules left behind for the patient. I’m sure the cost of some visits was less, but assuredly a packet of garden vegetables was provided. Readers may have question of a two dollar doctor visit, but the average wage in the United States at the time was about a thousand dollars per year. During those tight money days remaining healthy was a priority. Getting sick was too expensive. We were often admonished for not wearing enough warm clothes in the winter, and prudently advised to wear dry clothing during rainy springs and autumns. When leaving the house on damp days there were shouts of don’t get sick.

These were my remembered experiences during my first years meld in Depression and the coming world war. Being of course a naive child in the earliest stages of growth, these historically calamitous years were taken for granted and accepted as rather typical. I thought there would always be something similar to hard times and wars, and in later years I wasn’t often disappointed. The redemption for me was: These were the happiest years of my life.

I would see my biological parents occasionally on Sundays when they once or twice brought gifts. The couple seemed to be visitors, strangers. The pair remained unfamiliar and distant until I relocated to live with them at age six. Up to then I had gone to kindergarten once after turning five, but knowing no English my brief appearance was less than successful. On entering the strange menacing building I immediately longed to be home on Marjorie Street. When introduced into the room among a few dozen children, I made a fuss. After only one episode the teachers told grandma not to bring me back unless I was disciplined. After an unsuccessful visit I remember she would carry me and my tears nearly the whole distance back to the safety of the familiar household. So, there I was six years old, going on seven, and I hadn’t attended one full day of school. Suddenly, unexpectedly, my happy independent balloon was pierced forever with an occurrence that changed my childhood prospective on life and love, and not with a happy ending.

One Saturday evening in early September my parents showed up. They informed grandma, I was to attend school on Monday. That was bad enough, but also I had to spell and print my full name, or I would not be accepted into the first grade. I had never written my name before, knew nothing of English lettering, or the number system. My understanding of English was hello and goodbye. I could count to ten in Polish. While confined to the kitchen table I repeatedly cried over the next two and half hours. Holding a #2 pencil in my numbed fingers, with white sheets of paper before me my stern unwavering mother supervised my efforts in writing my name by rote. I wrote every letter, and printed my first and last names over and over again, so they could be read by any grade school teacher. The sudden unanticipated demand by my parents was a traumatic experience. Arriving unannounced, these two strangers, interloper actually, forced me to do something I was completely unprepared for. After the severity of the exercise, and I with tears stained face, my parents abruptly left only to return Sunday night to collect my cloths and a very unhappy despondent child. Since the two hour encounter I never hesitated to hold resentment for the unexpected upheaval. I trace a goodly measure of my hostility in later years to the one Saturday evening while tearfully seated at grandma’s kitchen table. At six I knew little of those outside my grandparent’s household, and of a father and in particular my mother’s impulsive authoritative nature. A sense of bitterness came over me. I had experienced unquestioning authority for the first time and I didn’t like it.

Sunday evening I left my grandparent’s sheltered haven on Marjorie Street and began living with my parents in their tiny apartment. On Monday, as planned, I started first grade. Talk about an uncompromising Tiger Mom.

*At the time Detroit had one saloon for every three hundred people.

CHAPTER TWO

NEW HOME

1942-1946

While my maternal grandmother was consistently affectionate, Mother Mary by contrast was a stern disciplinarian. She tended to have disturbing symptoms of recurrent mood swings similar to what we know today as bipolarism. Moreover, there may have been an element of teenage guilt hidden in her behavior as well as earlier years of disappointments of unfulfilled teenage dreams and fantasies unrelated to practicality.

Over the years I came to vaguely recollect a suspicion Matthew, my dad, was not my biological father. There was faintly whispered gossip of a teenage Mary drawn into a back door affair with a boy down the street by the name of Johnny Chirhon and becoming pregnant shortly before marriage. The only time I met Johnny Chirhon, a returning WWII sailor, I stood uneasily as he stared into my face, and closely studied my features, as if trying to draw something from my appearance. I felt strangely uncomfortable as he stared into my eyes. No one had ever looked at me in that way before or since. Over the years there were other misgivings. I didn’t have my father’s dark Mediterranean features, and the rumors may well have been true. Although I didn’t closely resemble dad, I acquired his mannerisms and our father-son connection never was directly questioned outright to my knowledge. I didn’t care to know one way or the other, and never probed the question deeply. Dad and I always had an agreeable relationship even in times of uncommon family stress. Nevertheless, many years later I remember being slightly perplexed by questions I never asked and remain unanswered to this day. Questions only a DNA laboratory analysis would clarify. I did wonder at my parents neglect during those first six years of childhood, and of not often being permitted to interface with neighborhood children. Suspicious also was mother’s brother, Uncle Stan who never acted kindly toward his nephew, or to his sister for that matter. By this late date of course, I didn’t want to know of any indiscretion. By my mid-teen years, I myself had made foolish embarrassing errors, as well as serious mistakes.

Clearly mother was never physically abusive. Mother Mary‘s method of exacting compliance was manifest through tension and intimidation. Her reproach was enough to cause apprehension and strict discipline in any child. On first arriving at my new apartment home, I was immediately held to a higher standard of conduct never known before. The contrast was extreme. At grandma’s house I had no schedule. I got up when I wanted and went to bed when I felt like it, but now my free-wheeling activities were abruptly curtailed on entering the second floor abode. First I was urged to avoid making any unnecessary noise because a family lived downstairs. This included walking softly at all times. The tiny one bedroom dwelling was cramped compared with the three bedroom house with basement, attic, and large gardened yard where I had roamed freely, getting stung by bees and chasing cats. In the apartment we slept in one small room. I on a metal military-like cot inches from my parent’s double bed. I was told to brush my teeth every day to my recollection rarely done before; moreover, I was given a hot bath daily. Not that I had been particularly dirty in the past. Bapka used to render a quick wash each night and a hot bath every week often with Grandfather Jodak in the same tub. Quickly I found meals less sumptuous than on Marjorie Street. Breakfast would invariably bring out the Rice Crispies and cold milk, a small glass of watered-down juice. Rarely served was an egg on warmed bread. For days there was no fruit. The shortage of food was understandable of course because it was wartime 1942, fruits and many other tasty foodstuffs casually consumed today were in short supply and difficult to obtain, if not impossible. Should you want a particular kind of food favored or rationed, such as sugar, one would have to arrive early in the morning, line up with earlier arrivals to purchase the commodity. If the item was out of stock, you were out of luck. At dinner we would have one large helping of vegetables with meatloaf, or a thin stew, on occasion a pork chop or two. Lunch was often a grilled cheese sandwich or the house favorite bologna. Overheard with my own little ears beef and ham were several times more expensive than chicken. Choicer cuts of meats could be purchased, but not often in the earliest war years. My paternal grandfather was a butcher, and his position invariably helped. It was most appreciated when a preferred piece or a clump of delicious juicy beef would miraculously appear on our plates. Tomato Ketchup on white bread was a worthy snack. We would devour the delicacy waiting for an overdue dad to return home from the factory, or meeting with friends. I didn’t taste peanut butter or jam until after the war or see much rationed butter either.

After Japan’s December 7 Pearl Harbor attack and Germany and Italy’s immediate declaration of war on the United States, ten hour work days became the norm for many of the city’s men and women. With the advent of heavy fighting in Africa, Europe and Asia the inevitable severe shortage of everything we preferred or desired to use in our daily lives became a reality. Without being prodded patriotic Americans willingly, fervently you may say, participated in home front programs in support of the war effort. Beginning in early 1942 most any article deemed useful or reusable was saved for turn-in to government collection centers for reprocessing. Citizens held scrap drives to collect salvageable junk metal and paper products. Refuse we would discarded into trash cans and dumpsters today with barely a second thought were saved, hoarded for delivery to salvage stations to be reconstituted for military use. Newspapers were bundled and forwarded to help the home front in an enormous recycling program. During most of my seventh through tenth year of childhood (1942-1945) I was an eager participant in defense conservation. Among the retrievable were kitchen ware, paper, rubber tires, and crushed tin cans. The smallest of items like cigarette pack foils and empty tooth paste tubes were stashed for later deposit. Excess animal and vegetable fats were siphoned off after meal preparation and turned into local butcher shops for process into an ingredient for explosives.

With these public contributions, my personal commitment was to accumulate newspapers and paper products of all sorts. I faithfully solicited these from nearby relatives and neighbors, but not always. I would walk a mile, towing a wagon on the promise of a few bundles from a distant contributor. It would appear perhaps as an unimportant chore for a seven year old youngster in modern America today, but to me it wasn’t insignificant at all. At an early age with blue and gold stars appearing in windows of homes, I grasped the gravity of soldiers dying on world battlefronts to protect democracy and I wasn’t alone in my feelings of patriotism. It was a rare period in recent American history when the people came together in the best interest of the nation. Enduring the Depression and pursuing the war engendered, as we know, one of America’s greatest generations.

The war news was another obsession. I tuned into radio reports of campaigns and accumulated maps mostly clipped from newspapers to follow the progress of the war in Europe and the Pacific. Occasionally I joined the family or neighbors evenings to listen to news over a stand-up vacuum tube RCA, and later a smaller Zenith radio. At the time I didn’t realize news bulletins were slanted to favor America, no matter the outcome of the battle. Later I would be astonished to learn of the numerous casualties inflicted on U.S. and allied troops. The deception was necessary and understandable during all out war. The government was attempting to keep morale at high pitch while the nation was undertaking a tremendous challenge to prevent catastrophic defeat. More than not the reportage succeeded in boosting spirits. In the words of Winston Churchill In time of war the truth is so precious it must be surrounded by a guard of lies. The omissions, evasions and fabrications of facts dispensed by the government during the conflict did not seem to have the deliberate duplicity and manipulation of a more recent maladroit and bungling administration.

The general public including kids of course, had favorite allies like Great Britain and Russia. They were celebrated for their heroic stands. Under overwrought wartime conditions, youngsters and adults verbally heaped contempt on Hitler, Mussolini, and Emperor Hirohito. These and other enemy leaders were mercilessly and justifiably trashed in newspapers, radio, and in film. If the less sophisticated media in those years were to be believed all Germans and Japanese were monsters or sub-humans while Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin were praised as great statesman-leaders and admired as defenders of freedom. As a lad during the war years I was fascinated to hear these wise men on radio and occasionally see them in film clips.

Inevitably as Americans fought, other sacrifices were necessary. Rationing of meat, eggs, butter, sugar, shoes, gasoline, and tires were mandated and enforced by laws and regulators. For workers there were monetary obligations dubbed the war tax to be withheld from a worker’s wage each period. Volunteer blood drivers were not merely encouraged they were often mandatory for the able bodied in factories and other places of work. The procedure provided employees a gratuitous day off to recover from the inconvenience. The minimum contribution people were expected to make during the Big War, the Good War was participation in government programs, salvage drives, volunteer services, and a strict adherence to rationing. There was one more of the greatest importance, public monetary donations. From coast to coast bond drives were endlessly promoted by film and radio personalities. Collections were often taken among attendees in movie theaters. People were expected to give whatever they could. World wars were not only deadly, they were expensive.

Like other families in the neighborhood we owned an old car. Ours was very, very old, a model T-Ford with a rumble seats I occasionally road in. Much later during the war and a few years after, dad had other second hand cars he bought and quickly resold for a profit with names Willys, Hudson, and Studebaker. Several years after the conflict he purchased a brand new Plymouth sedan. I can remember the aroma of the interior’s metal gray fabric. It would be several decades later in Saudi Arabia when I was to catch the same scent again in my own new family car.

It was at the age of seven in 1942 when I first became repeatedly ill with childhood diseases: Chicken Pox, Whopping Cough, and Measles followed. The ailments occurred within the course of a few years. In the midst of this unhappy period, I often had strep throats, tonsillitis, and mild fevers lasting days. These intervals of poor health were lengthy and troublesome for the family, but my parents were grateful I never contracted the scourge of the period polio mellitus. Those were the years before Jonathan Salk’s miracle vaccine. Whether these illnesses were attributed to wartime diet, the stresses of authoritative parenting or a faltering education, or all of the above, I didn’t know. The diseases came on so rapidly they impacted my learning. Likewise, an undiagnosed dyslexia affliction became apparent to me and suspected by others. Parents and teachers didn’t understand the extent of the physical handicap at the time, or how to adequately approach the defect. I did not hear the term Dyslexia defined until well into adulthood. Parents and teachers thought children with the dysfunctional failing were merely slow learners; therefore, were likely to be shuffled into the category of Well, he just gets words mixed up he’ll grow out of it. Let the next teacher take care of the problem.

The earliest interaction with my parents was more than just troubling. It was distressing. After arrival at the new apartment, knowing but a few words in English, I was told to speak only in my new language and forget Polish all together. Favorably with this direction and my mother’s persistence I began to rapidly learn the language. If not I would be at a loss communicating in the apartment. Her dictatorial lessons served her only son well as I became fluent in a mid-western dialogue with no trace of a foreign accent. However in school due to my handicap, I could barely read a word of what I could say.

When mother was in a good spirits she was a first-class teacher, but held to the view schools were responsible for instruction and not parents. Having attended strict Catholic schools, both parents had adequate educations although they hadn’t graduated from high school. This oversight was due primarily to the Depression. I assume going to Catholic schools had its expense aside from public. Tuition, clothing, books, and contributions for three siblings added up to a near unacceptable cost in the 1930s. Most likely, parents hastily turned them out to find jobs in support of household budgets. As children of immigrants they were at first stricken by scarcity. When their parents arrived from Eastern Europe social services were for all practical purposes meager or non-existent. There were few dominant unions per se and those existing often had a closed shop policy that didn’t encourage employment for newcomers. Immigrants had to work harder, more diligently to be accepted. They were often subject discrimination and exploitation, just as many legal and illegal Mexicans have been and are today. With few arriving Einsteins among them, assimilation in the new nation meant committing men and boys to the drudgery of unskilled back breaking labor. Almost immediately daughters were given the narrow choice to find work or get married. On rare occasion mother would comment on her education, taught by uncompromising nuns who she said Didn’t spare the ruler applied to the knuckles when a student was daydreaming or missed submitting an assignment. I’m sure the coaxing greatly facilitated Mother Mary’s learning. Mom was no immigrant country pumpkin or in any way a dumb person. She was smart, efficient, and in some ways quite wise. The lady had potential, but was born at the wrong time. Today’s glass ceiling was then made of concrete.

Mother Mary was an insatiable movie-goer and seeing films greatly enhanced my English. The woman would drag me to theaters by day or night at every opportunity to see movies I often didn’t like. Usually it was Friday evenings and Saturdays, but often during the mid-week. The late hours attending didn’t improve my aptitude or disposition. After a while, understanding her affinity for films, I soon wished to go with her and developed a liking for films. We would attend two or on rare occasions three double features in a single holiday weekend. There were several theaters in proximity to the apartment and it was convenient to attend while dad worked days at the factory and sometime weekends. Our small apartment was easily tidied in minutes and meals were simple and quickly prepared. Toward the end of the war and soon after, the previous hard to obtain canned foods were easily purchased off the grocer’s shelf and become popular again. It seemed to be the In-thing with housewives for quick meals. So, mom found the hours to indulge in her silver screen fantasies with me in tow sitting by her side. She used the movies as a form of escapism from a life in which she felt trapped.

I never cared to be called Ronald and for a few teen years, as a mild form of rebellion I preferred Don in lieu of Ron. To me it sounded more masculine, which of course it didn’t, but for a while kids outside the house addressed me a Don, while at home I was Ron, or Ronald. Through mother’s deference for Hollywood productions and male lead actors of the day, I’m sure with in her keen fan intellect she yearned to name her son after one of them. I was probably named for the most popular matinee idols of her day, Ronald Coleman. She delighted in following the lives of stars as I often found dog eared fan magazines laying about the apartment. Over years this fantasizing appeared to be Mother Mary’s only escape from the hardships experienced as a child and in teen years. (Come to think of it, I could have easily been named Clark after Clark Gable.)

In short order, because of mom’s influence I also became enthused. To this day I enjoy well produced and acted films with creditable story-lines, Godfather I & II, Lawrence of Arabia, Pulp Fiction, Platoon, Mystic River, and among them great comedies Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, and the subtler Death at a Funeral, the British version.

Favoring the silver screen certainly wasn’t always my choice. I paid my dues sitting through some of the most god-awful tedious movies a child could attend: Foreign Correspondent, Rain, Withering Heights, Rebecca, The Scarlet Letter, Of Human Bondage, and Gaslight were a few of the worst. At age seven I could not understand Sumerset Maugham’s plot in the film Rain at all. It just rained all the time. Naturally I preferred mixed action-adventure films and cartoons as any child would. A few years ensuing I got to attend more of what I liked. Special time for movies came