LIFE STORIES
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A Bit of Water
By Nancy Genoa
July 10, 2008
In the liquid intimacy of a black velvet night, as my husband Joe inched the van forward, we contentedly chatted and quietly smiled over the adventures of the day just passed. A few times during this day, we achieved the amazing speed of 10 miles an hour! Now we were just inching along. It was almost the end of this trip. Our children, Joe, Dave and Marge, ages 6, 5, and 4 respectively, were cozy and snored softy in their sleepers and pajamas tucked among the many boxes of toys, food and sleeping bags in back. The GI Joe's and trolls were stored in their special laundry bag beside a variety of books, comics, and other important miscellaneous necessities nestled alongside my guitar. The dishpan, small square cutting board, and knife that I used to prepare food, while Joe drove on the old unpaved dusty rutted roadbed of the desert, sat between us. It served us well, this small area of ours, turning out our many snacks of salami, cracker, raisins, and peanut butter and jelly as we ventured on our way through the road ruts and washed out tracks of what served as the 1000 mile road running from the California border to La Paz, Baja California in the late 1960's.
We met one other car that day. The Green Angels were a two men team in a green jeep that patrolled this road and provided emergency aid. When a car broke down, they provided a canteen of water and returned with an assortment of interesting repair parts gathered from who knew where. Their return could take up to a week. We would stop, exchange information in our halting Spanish, and decide who would pull off the road to let the other car pass. This was truly a one-rut road, frequently washed out. It was a courtesy born of necessity to wait until the other driver was also on the road. Oftentimes we would pour ourselves out of our car and onto the road to push and shove until a car was unstuck. With an adios and much waving of arms, we continued on our way.
For this second trip, we had prepared well. There were only a few small villages scattered along the way. Forty gallons of water carried in two plastic containers with spigots were securely strapped down in the back of our van. We needed this to last for the next 3 weeks. Sometimes we were lucky and were able to find an extra gallon or two of water. Water rationing was an absolute means of survival, which the kids loved. There were no dripping spigots for us. Teeth were brushed but not rinsed. Dishes were washed with desert sand. Clothes were washed in the ocean and came out salt starched. One time we came upon a river in Mulege and ended up by washing our clothes in fresh water and laying them out on hot rocks to dry. What a luxury. This gave our kids a great opportunity to meet other Mexican kids. Soon they were all laughing, playing, and running through the tall pampas grass down to the beach where we were the only ones camped. Time stood still and we remained for several days. Our kids were easy to find, as Dave was a blonde and the only blonde around. Once, one of the Mexican women who worked at the only fly-in resort hotel offered us a chance to use a real shower and bathroom. It was a veritable luxury with native stonewalls, a grotto, and a deluge of clear clean water approximating a waterfall. My daughter and I laughed, played, and frolicked joyfully splashed each other and ourselves. When we left, I went to thank the woman. Would you believe she did not even recognize us!
At Loreto, a small fishing village, we learned to fish by tying fishing line to a hook and then wrapping it around an empty beer can found on the beach. We traded our dwindling store of walnuts for fresh fish. A puffer fish was being bounced on the dock. I had never seen one that close and was utterly intrigued with the air they inhaled to achieve a balloon like quality. Schools of small fish shimmered in the sparkling sunlit ocean followed by larger fish. Pelicans and other seabirds soon joined with their raucous voices for a feeding frenzy that lasted until all were almost too full to fly.
Then it was back to our desert wandering for several nights. Oh! We found it just over the next rise on the washboard road. It was a beach of extraordinary beauty and it was all ours. We camped in one of the most beautiful spots on the beach. A small shrimp boat dangled on its buoy in the bay, backlit by the setting sun. Morning came, and our 6-year-old son Joe, crept out quietly and rowed our small rubber blow up dinghy to greet the shrimpers. My heart was in my throat as I watched from onshore. Arms reached out to pull him on board. Later he rowed back with a bucket of fresh shrimp and a shit-eating grin on his face as my husband used to say. The shrimp barbequed over an open campfire that night was delicious.
However, our enjoyment was short lived. Droves of whining mosquitoes arrived at dusk and plagued us constantly throughout the night. They were out for blood. We escaped by lying in the warm ocean water under a full moon. When our skin had turned totally pruny and puckered, we retreated to our sleeping bags and tucked our heads inside like a turtle in a shell. Unfortunately, it was 80 degrees so our misery was just plain wretched as we waited it out. As usual, the kids slept thru it so only Joe and I whined. Then it was just I. Joe had a nasty habit of going to sleep when things got rough so it was left to me to moan and groan alone!
Morning perfection in all its sunrise beauty awoke us and we forgot the misery of the night before. With a body full of mosquito bites, which we doused with vinegar, we swam in the bay and collected fresh clams for breakfast. Newfound trails were explored, before we returned to our camp to relax, play games, make up stories, do our chores, sing and of course swim. Chores consisted of cleaning up the campsite, preparing food, digging a latrine, washing clothes and the constant rearranging all the multitude of boxes which stored our supplies. It was glorious. Then it was time to slather on a bit more vinegar. Joe's mosquito bites were enormous, great large lumpy welts. By this time, we started to smell like salad dressing. Early in our trip, I found Wesson Oil made a great body lotion for dry skin.
The combination of oil and vinegar was amazing. During the day, we forgot the mosquitoes, gathered more clams, and played in the water. It was a welcome relief from the dust of the desert. Not giving due attention to the mosquitoes, we decided to spend at least one more night, then ended up cursing the little whiners and their nasty stings when it was too dark to leave. The beach was perfect in so many ways that we stayed for several days before returning to the mysterious beauty of the desert and the road ruts.
Finally, it was sad time. We came to the end of the road. As we arrived at the only campground in La Paz, I was stunned by fresh water everywhere. People were hosing down the roads to curtail the dust. There was running water for toilets and teeth brushing. People washed their clothes and hair in fresh water. I was shocked and a little uneasy as we came out of our 3-week sojourn in the desert where water rationing meant survival. It affected each of us in different ways. For a few days, one of our kids carried a shovel with him to dig a latrine before he remembered there was a real bathroom with running water.
We finished our trip with a ferry ride across the waters of the Sea of Cortez to mainland Mexico. It was a wonderful night ride on the ocean in the velvety darkness with the smell of warm salt water and the shimmering stars overhead. We quietly shared a hidden moment before we arrived at the ferry station. We were blest. We still had a bit of water left to spare.
Am I Normal?
By Dick Lewis
July 10, 2008
At a recent autobiographical writing class after a story about a father's experiences in World War I, there was a brief discussion of the mental problems returning Iraq veterans are having. The instructor knowing I had been in combat during the Korean War said something like "Dick, you're normal aren't you?"
I responded "I think I am," but added I had only been in combat a short tune.
Mental stress from extended time in combat has been a defined problem since the beginning of the 20th century, though I am sure the problem has existed for centuries.
In the 20th century each war had its own name for the same problem. In World War I it was called "Shell Shock." World War II named it "Battle Fatigue." In Korea we had "Combat Neurosis." In Viet Nam it was "Post Viet Nam Syndrome." Now for Iraq it is "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."
A recent newspaper article claimed 50% of returning Iraq veterans suffer PTSD. People wonder why the figure is so high. I believe the obvious answer is the make up of the army. In past wars Selective Service, or the draft, was in effect so there was a large supply of men available. Now with an all volunteer military, soldiers are subjected to more than one tour of combat duty. Time in combat could be somewhat limited in Korea and Viet Nam since the tour was for one year. Many in World War II had extensive combat but I wonder if the cause and goals of the war made it more palatable than the causes and goals of Korea, Viet Nam and Iraq.
While the normal tour in Korea was one year, I was only there three and a half months due to being wounded badly enough to be sent home and retired from the army.
The first month my unit was in reserve about two miles behind the MLR, Main Line of Resistance. We were trucked up to the MLR daily to help improve the bunkers and trenches. It was not stressful as we returned to our reserve area every night.
The next month we moved to the MLR, but my rifle platoon, 35 men, and another platoon were to occupy the outpost, a hill 1500 yards in front of the MLR and a few hundred yards from two Chinese occupied hills. As I wrote in my story "The Outpost," during the day we could get supplies up the back side of the hill. We sometimes received artillery or mortar rounds on us. Certain areas of the outpost were subject to sniper fire (Unlike Hillary I don't misspeak!)
At night we closed the back side of the hill with barbed wire and were isolated. Each night my platoon sergeant and I took regular turns checking the bunkers and listening posts to make sure someone in each was awake. The Chinese periodically harassed us by patrolling up the hill and tossing a few grenades. Every night, all night, H and I (Harassing and Interdicting) fire from 50 caliber machine guns and 40 millimeter guns went over the outpost toward the Chinese hills. I had to lead night ambush patrols into the "no man's land" between our hill and the Chinese. Sleep was intermittent and by the end of the month I was sleep deprived and stressed.
The next few weeks I was at battalion headquarters. Then I became the machine gun platoon leader and we went in reserve. Toward the end of the month our battalion, over 600 men, began preparing to attack a Chinese held hill. I described the attack where I was wounded in my earlier story "My Date with Jane Russell." The whole thing was terrifying and stressful.
I was fortunate to come home after that attack. Instead of spending the cold winter in a bunker in Korea I was in a warm hospital ward at Letterman Hospital in San Francisco. I don't have nightmares but I clearly remember many details of my experiences. If I had to stay the full year and probably spend two or three more months on the front lines or on an outpost and maybe have to attack two or three more hills I don't know how "normal" I might be. If I had to do another whole tour or maybe two more tours, I know I would be seriously affected. Probably KIA!
The Iraq War has been costly to the military not so much hi terms of deaths but the mental problems. Military deaths are always a tragedy and have been less than 1000 a year in Iraq. Consider in Viet Nam deaths averaged over 500 a month. In Korea 1000 a month and World War II almost 9000 a month. If 50% of today's veterans are suffering some sort of mental problem then our military is in serious trouble. How can the army recruit qualified personnel? Why would troops stay in the reserve or National Guard if they might have to do two or three tours? Something has to be done soon!
THE GREAT SS UNITED STATES - 1959
By Andi Pollock
July 10, 2008
Last year, I began to wonder about the ship the SS United States. Whatever happened to it and where has it been all these long years?
My friend, Sheila and I sailed out of New York Harbor May 1959 on the most glorious and magnificent ship we had ever seen. We were returning home to Scotland after living in America for two years. We felt a little sad as the ship took off. Bands were playing and people were waving. Sheila told me to wave and we were caught up in all the excitement. As the ship left the harbor, we saw the Statue of Liberty, a sight I will never forget.
I remember the blue ribbon the SS United States won for the fastest ocean liner in the world. As far as I know, it still holds that record.
Today, as I look back to that wonderful event in my life, I try to remember all the details of the crossing. However, the truth is, Sheila remembers far more than I, such as the great meals and strolls on the deck. The staff was so gracious and we did not want for a thing. Sheila suffered from seasickness more than I did but it was not enough to keep us in our cabin for long. I do remember sailing into La Havre then seeing the white cliffs of Dover as we sailed across the channel to Southampton.
I was able to locate this beautiful ship the SS United States with all her history through the Internet. I am thrilled that I was able to locate Sheila, also, after all these long years. I returned to America in 1960, and soon after, met my husband and now have two grown sons. Sheila is living in Scotland with her husband and grown children. I am so looking forward to discussing all our past memories of a wonderful time!
