It's just a fantasy!

Note: A friend of mine suggested who I am writing about and after checking her yearbook photo, this is probably the person. I sent her a message and any contact will be up to her.

In my book, I speak about dealing with ghosts I met as I traveled throughout the country. I hope this isn't about ghosts. But it has haunted me for more than half a century.

 

The setting: senior year of high school, 1966. The place: Morristown, NJ, a now suburban community with a rich history dating back to colonial times. The person: I don’t remember her name. The issue: Love at first sight.

 

At the beginning of the school year, I needed one more credit to graduate. So I joined the school choir, despite the fact that I had absolutely no talent. The teacher evaluated me and then said “For men, there is bass, tenor and baritone. You are none of those. You are a monotone.” She wasn’t trying to hurt me. She was simply stating a fact. I had absolutely no musical training. But I did have a unique gift: I could mimic. So if you put me next to a good singer, my ear would pick up the notes and duplicate them. And so, I wound up driving Barry Liss crazy. But the teacher was happy.

 

In addition to the usual activities such as school concerts, we did a couple of performances around Christmas. One Wednesday night, we performed Christmas carols on the town’s historic square, known as “The Green”. Why Weneusday? Because in those days, stores were only open on Wednesday night. That meant a decent audience. We parked ourselves in front of Bamberger’s, an upscale department store owned by Macy’s.

 

The next week, we went to the town’s big hotel and performed at a service club. There were at least 100 people, including women (wives, I suppose). The concert combined our regular songs with holiday music. 

 

On the way home, I wound up sitting next to a girl I’d never met and we began talking about stuff like the holiday and what we planned after graduation. Somehow we wound up holding hands. She later described it as “romantic” as she signed my yearbook. 

 

I discovered she actually lived around the corner from me. I offered to walk to school with her the next morning and she happily agreed.

 

That night, I couldn’t sleep as I thought about her. She was, by no means, a great beauty. But she was attractive. This was senior year, and plans for the future were a huge part of our existence. I wondered if we had one together? As I thought about it, I envisioned her as not just a girlfriend, but also as a potential wife. In those days, it was not unusual to marry your high school sweetheart right after graduation. She had everything I wanted. She was warm, calm, friendly and by the time I got up the next morning I was in love.

 

I walked to her apartment the next morning. The first thing I noticed was it was not an expensive place. While clean and neat, it was at a basement level for a much larger apartment building. This made me happy. Neither of us came from well-to-do families. 

 

And so, I knocked on her door and she opened it with a smile. I was introduced to her father. He was very rude and had a somewhat strange voice, very low combined with a slur. I thought he was an alcoholic. After leaving, we went to school talking about inconsequential things. Like the asshole I surely was, I decided this was not going to work. Both my parents were alcoholics, especially my mother, the drama queen. And so, I did not see her again until the last days of school where she signed my yearbook telling me she would never forget the romantic night together on the bus. 

 

I felt like a cruel bastard and didn’t know what to do about it. I should have asked for a second chance, but I was too ashamed to do so. And I lost the yearbook so it was impossible to find her name.

 

You see, I had entirely different plans for that morning walk to school. I wanted to tell her about how I had been thinking about her all night and would ask her to skip school with me so we could become much better acquainted. I thought we could have breakfast at the local coffee shop which was an “in crowd” after school hangout. We would then go back to my mother’s apartment where we could both talk and perhaps make out. But that didn’t happen.

 

After graduation, I started working as the office boy for a big financial company. We had a bowling league and went to an alley in Parsippany, a nearby town. And there she was, working at the snack bar. We talked for a little while but I had to join my team. That night, I bowled the best game of my life: 217. After we finished, I returned to the snack bar, but she had finished work and was gone. 

 

The next week, I went back to the alley intending to see her. I wanted to take her out for dinner at a local diner (New Jersey if famous for them) but she was gone. The manager said she had quit. I wondered if I was the reason and felt a great deal of regret. Another opportunity to make amends with someone I cared about was wasted,

 

But I never, ever forgot that night on the bus. Through the years, I have had frequent fantasy moments about her. This is especially true over the past year as I have alone in Florida, where I never wanted to live but had little choice.

 

Several times, I have looked through the high school yearbook trying to find her. I have long since lost my copy that she signed, but a friend of mine made a copy of her book and I just can’t find her. And so, dear MHS ’66 reader who may know who I’m talking about, let me know her name and anything else you might know about her.   She lived at the intersection of Colles Road and Mt.Kimble Avenue (Route 202).

 Its Labor Day. I have very mixed feelings about both the labor movement and Americans.
During the great depression, my father helped organize labor unions in the printing industry. It was something that helped create a middle class and prosperity following the Second World War. He was frequently beaten up for his efforts. 
But the printers’ unions remain quite strong, despite losing jobs to technology. In the early 1960s, there were more than a dozen newspapers serving New York City. But labor costs destroyed them. The Herald Tribune, the World and the New York Journal were forced to merge due to union demands, and they went out of business due to a strike.
After graduating from high school, my first full-time job was, as aa sales clerk at Bamberger’s, New Jersey’s largest department store chain. My union dues were $4 per week. That left my earnings at minimum wage. That $4 bought three plus mels at McDonalds, or 80 candy bars, or four packs of cigarettes. I didn’t stick around very long.
 
With some exceptions such as Costco, today’s retail jobs have very low wages. When I worked at Wal-Mart, about a third of the employees needed public 
assistance such as food stamps and Medicaid. In Canada, the 12 technicians in the automotive department voted for a union and Wal-Mart closed the store. I was made a department “manager,’ which meant I got an extra dollar per hour and lost several employee rights. As a manager, I had to go to an all-day session on union busting at an off-store site. 
And, of course, many jobs have been lot due to technology and cheaper foreign labor costs. In the automotive industry, workers have been replaced by robots. And “American” brand cars are made in other countries, especially Mexico where Ford’s sedans are a made there. Not to mention many parts are built elsewere. Even the most iconic American brand, Harley Davidson, makes its motorcyces in Europe these days.                                                                                                   
Yet there is an immense need for labor unions in many industries, Fast food and many grocery workers can’t get full-time jobs. Health care workers not only have low wages and long hours, but many of them risked or lost their lives due to Covid. 
 
Restaurant and hospitality workers get well below minimum wage and depend on tips, suffering a great deal due to Covid where the tips died due to take-out only situations.
 
But the major impact of Covid is over and it is time for every person in America who wants a job to get one that will keep them above the poverty line. And unions, weakened through lack of support and internal corruption, seem to be the ony answer. But the fact is, most Americans purchase foreign items because they are cheaper. 
 
From the 1940s through the 1970s, the International Ladies Garmet Workers Union filled the radio waves with its “Look For The Union Label” song. The ILGWU doesn’t even exist any longer, having merged with other unions in the 1990s.
 
And so, America, enjoy your extra day of rest, at least those of you who aren’t being forced to go to work. And to those of you who are buying inferior crap from Communist China, enjoy killing American jobs.

Morristown, NJ and Vietnam

 MORRISTOWN AND VIETNAM

 

I consider Morristown as my home town. I lived here from 1958 through 1976 and graduated from MHS in 1966. I was a member of the very first class at County College of Morris.

 

But I would like to share a few things about Vietnam and the town from a Vietnam-era veteran’s perspective.

 

I never heard of Vietnam until I was a sophomore when my European History teacher, Joseph Dempsey had us write a paper about Vietnam. I focused on the Buddist monks who committed suicide by pouring gasoline on themselves and then setting themselves on fire to protest the South Vietnamese government. It was an assignment Mr. Dempsey gave for several years and it helped many of us understand a little about the war that became so divisive. (More about this later).

 

I turned 18 in September of my senior year registering with Selective Service that day without a thought of military service. It was legal proof that I was18 years old. In those days the legal drinking age was 21 in New Jersey but 18 in New York. Many of us would head to the Northern border to places like Greenwood Lake or the Village in the city. Very few of us thought about getting drafted. That same year, military recruiters came the high school. I was a competitive swimmer and had lifesaving, instructor and SCUBA certifications. I spoke to the Navy people about becoming a frogman and doing underwater demolition. I was told it was impossible due to my eyesight. I asked about lifeguarding and teaching swimming but those posts went to NCOs and it would take several years to become one. I also called the Coast Guard office in Newark about search-and-rescue and was told the same thing about my eyes.

 

After graduation, I worked at a couple of office jobs in Morristown and one Saturday, I picked up a copy of the Daily Record to read on the Green and learned one of my best friends, Tristian Hayes, died in Vietnam. It was a shock and I thought about this brilliant, wonderful guy who wanted to be a soldier since middle school had sacrificed his young life in a war very few cared about. At the end of this article you will learn much more about him.

 

When I started at CCM, I was a few years older than most students, but all male students had to be registered with Selective Service. I appeared before the Draft Board to request a student deferment claiming I could not afford to go to college until CCM opened. My request was granted. This was in 1968, a very controversial year with the murders of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. With the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, the war heated up under the Lyndon Johnson administration. I became something of a wanna-be hippie and attended campus protests and an all-night vigil on the Green.  I never did drugs though. A high school classmate, the son of a very popular MHS teacher, took LSD and killed himself by putting his head on the railroad tracks and was run over by a Lackawanna train near the Morristown station. I was too terrified to try them. I had enough problems with self-control.

 

While at CCM, I began working as a freelance newspaper reporter for the Morristown Daily Record covering town meetings in the western part of the county. Since I was a college student and registered for the draft, I was assigned to try to cover Nixon’s draft lottery. “See if you can find someone who has a high number,” the editor told me.  I started to listen to the lottery and had absolutely no problem finding someone. I was number 2. 

 

Many months before, I had gotten on the waiting list for the local Army Reserve unit and I went to their office and asked the Sergeant if it was possible there was an opening available and he gave me the Army’s version of an IQ test. 

 

There was. I could become a drill sergeant! 

 

The unit was designated as a “training” unit. The concept was that if there was a need for cadre to train troops, we would be activated. I would go through Basic Combat Training, a month-long leadership preparation course, Advanced Infantry Training (Vietnam) and Drill Sergeant school.

 

So I had a choice: Enlist in the regular army for three years, the Navy or Coast Guard for four years, get drafted and wind up in the Army or Marines (!) or spend seven months to become a “shake-and-bake” drill sergeant and spend two days a month and two weeks in the summer for the next six years. I chose the drill sergeant opportunity.

 

And so on Jan. 3. 1970, about 30 of us from different parts of our 78^th division, a/k/a “Jersey Lightning” boarded a Delta Air Lines jet to New Orleans and then transferred to a 1950s era Trans Texas Airline propeller aircraft where the pilot welcomed us by telling us the aircraft had flown half a million miles without any problems. But then he introduced our stewardess who was wearing tight denim bell bottoms and a tight blouse. She got a wild ovation from us.

 

After deplaning, we got a different reception from Drill Sergeant Russel and friends who began screaming at us to get into and dress up our line. After finding temporary barracks, getting dinner and falling asleep, we were woken at 0-dark-30 to do KP. Later that day, we were given haircuts. Unlike previous weeks a new regulation went into effect as of the new year stating we didn’t have to get our heads shaved, but long hair was long gone. Following the unpublished “Hurry up and wait” regulation, we stood on line to get our uniforms and vaccinations. The next day, was perhaps the funniest day of our orientation. We had an ice storm. You had to understand that we were in the South and many of the base’s permanent party had never seen snow or ice. Soldiers were falling all over and we Jersey guys laughed our butts off as we saw several cars spin out of control, one slamming into a fire hydrant.

 

So much for fun, that night we were moved to the barracks of Alpha-one-two and revived our acquaintance with Drill Sergeant Russell and his friends. We were divided into four barracks. Barracks One was National Guard people from Texas, We Jersey boys were in Barracks Two, and Barracks Three and Four were draftees and enlistees. 

 

We learned to march and do other drills. In about a week we stated to march to rifle ranges. We were introduced to the command “At Ease, March. Drill Sergeant Russell set the pace. He was about 6’3” and had long legs. He set a very rapid pace that had us either tripping or jogging to keep up. By the time we reached the range, we had many people puking up their breakfast. The next day, many of us changed from fried eggs and bacon to a hard-boiled egg. toast and juice.

Most of our training was with the M-16, which included an automatic fire mode we rarely used. We also used the Korean-war era M-14 and Colt .45 caliber pistols. 

 

But the most interesting part of our training was with hand grenades. In the morning, we played with practice ones that we could toss at targets. We also were introduced to grenade launchers that were attached to M-16 rifles. That afternoon, we got to throw real grenades. We stood behind a bunker with a sunken area to take cover in in case someone dropped their grenade before tossing it. In turn, we would throw our grenade over the 8’ wall. I wasn’t thrilled about the distance mine went because I compared it to a baseball. I really didn’t see how far it went. I then watched the guy next to me throw his. Instead of going out, it went way up. I immediately dropped to the pit on the ground with my hands covering my helmet liner. The grenade exploded on the other side of my wall, shaking me off the ground. But I was alive and the guy next to me was given special instructions (500 pushups) from the range sergeant while other cadre were laughing about my duck-and-cover elementary school drills were so well remembered. 

 

We marched to cadence, with a sergeant calling out different songs that we repeated, many of them ribald. But everyone’s favorite was our countdown. “X more weeks of polish and brass, then Fort Polk can kiss my ass!” And finally came the day it could. We participated in a graduation parade with about 1,000 others. The parents of three of my Morristown comrades showed up and treated us Morristown men to lunch.

 

And then it was time to return to the real world until I was to return for more training. I took a bus to the New Orleans airport and flew to Newark. Then I took the train to Morristown and since Mom moved while I was away, I went to her law office next to the Chinese restaurant, showing up in my uniform. They gave mom the rest of the day off  and we went to our old place on Wetmore Avenue where I picked up my car and then went to the new place in Jacob Ford Village. 

 

Leave was spent renewing friendships and girlfriends. Mom came home early and threw a fit when we were caught in bed.  Mom, born in 1908 to an Irish Catholic family, wasn’t so upset about our bed activities as she went wild because the girl was Jewish. I had no clue she was so prejudiced. 

 

After that, I took my car, an eight-year-old Rambler convertible, to Seaside Heights to sort of clear my head. On the way down, I came across two girls hitching and eventually they asked why my hair was so short. I told them I was on leave from the Army. 

They started talking to each other and in a few minutes they asked to be let out. As I pulled away, one of them screamed “baby killer.” Hell, I never had been to ‘Nam, much less was involved in combat. I only shot at paper targets.

 

I spent most of the day on the beach and headed home early to avoid traffic. Around Mt. Kimble Ave. and Colles Ave., there was a girl hitching so I said to myself “what the hell, why not!” I pulled over and seven MHS kids piled into the car. They were heading to Morris Plains and we drove twice around the Green yelling and screaming. As we drove down Speedwell Avenue, we talked and they learned I was in the Army. They started to welcome me back and as they left the car thanking me for the ride, one of the girls kissed me. Morristown people had made a bad day fantastic!

 

When I was in town, I went to the First National Iron Bank at the corner of South Street and Madison Ave. to get some cash from my checking account only to discover it was suspended for inactivity. I showed them my military ID and they re-opened the account with a promise to not close it. On payday, I sent my mother a money order to add to the account. But I had purchased some civilian clothing from the PX with a check that bounced and there was hell to pay until I gave them the business card of the branch manager and they confirmed what happened. 

 

I returned to Fort Polk for Leadership and infantry training, then to Fort Knox for Drill Sergeant School. About 18 months later, I was activated. I returned to Morris County but lived in Randolph and Roxbury, only to spend some days visiting my mother after getting married and living in Queens.

 

After 33 years of marriage, we divorced and I roamed the country for many years. But when in the East, I spent much time with my 1966 senior prom date. We went to our 45^th and 50^th reunions together and lived together coping with the Covid-19 lockdown. When we decided to break up, I moved to Florida and stayed with another classmate while finding an apartment. One of the things I bought was a “Vietnam-Era” baseball cap and people frequently thanked me for my service. 

 

But before I end this, I want to share one last thing about Morristown and Vietnam. It was probably the finest moment of my life.

 

***

TRISTIAN

I graduated from Morristown (NJ) High school in 1966. During that time, I was on the school’s stage many times: receiving athletic awards, appearing in plays and in concerts as a member of the school chorus.

 

But the proudest moment of my life happened on that stage, about 45 years after graduation. 

 

Before I describe that moment, it is important to understand a little about Morristown. It has a long and proud history. The town headquartered George Washington’s revolutionary war army during two winters, one of them being the worst in the colonial era’s history. Throughout the town there are many statues and three areas of a National Historical Park:  the Ford mansion headquarters, The troop area in Jockey Hollow, and Fort Nonsense at the highest part of the town. It was there that I lost my virginity to a Morris Township girll and got married to a Brookyn woman.

 

The center of the town has a green that is the site of many parades and festivals. I also remember attending an all-night anti-war protest there. There were several Memorial Day parades when I marched with my Boy Scout troop.

 

Samuel Morris invented the telegraph here. Thomas Nast, the newspaper cartoonist who fought Tammany Hall and gave us the images of the Republican Elephant, the Democratic Donkey and even Santa, lived here. The house I lived in was built just after the Civil War and it featured many of the ideas advocated by women’s magazines at that time which included the early concepts of childhood and adolescence. 

 

In other words, the town is very aware of and promotes its past. 

 

When I attended the high school, the main entrance featured a dual staircase, called the “senior staircase.” Its use was restricted to senior students and during the school’s last week of every year, there was a “senior skip day” when the seniors decided not to go to school. On that day, the juniors would “rush” the stairs and occupy it for a brief time as they made their claim to it for the next school year.

 

Since then, the school has a couple of expansions and the stairs no longer occupy the central status it once did. Instead, it has been changed to a “Wall of Fame” where distinguished alumni, teachers and athletes are featured on plaques. I suppose it means little to the current students, but visitors can share memories and inspiration from the many names there. 

 

The school hosts an annual “Heritage Day” where those who are to be added to the wall are honored and announced at an assembly. When I learned about this new tradition, I was quite pleased especially since the senior stairs concept had ended. I never liked the undemocratic “clique” system that had created so many rivalries and emotional pain for those who weren’t permitted to use the stairs simply because of their date of birth. 

 

So anyhow, I had some unfinished business with Morristown and I made it my job to see that Tristan Whitney Hayes, class of 1967, would have a plaque there to honor him. 

 

I met Tristan when I was a freshman and he was in eighth grade. We were both in the same boy scout troop and I was a patrol leader and he my assistant patrol leader. We planned many events such as campouts together and also became close friends. I remember we once visited Times Square in New York City and browsed many stores. He was especially interested in the metal soldiers representing historic battles such as Napoleon’s downfall at Waterloo. Even at that age, he wanted to be a soldier. 

 

We grew apart as our interests in school varied. I was into sports, debate and drama while he was more academic, though he played football. Without a common interest, we drifted apart.

 

During those high school years, the war in Vietnam began to heat up, especially after President Kennedy was murdered and Johnson replaced him. In 1963 and 1964,Joseph Dempsey, our European History teacher, had us all write papers about the war that was starting to involve more forces. In retrospect, those papers gave us some information about a war that would become so divisive.

 

Tristan graduated a year after me and as soon as he graduated, his family moved to Massachusetts. The last I heard about him was a brief newspaper article that he was killed in action in Vietnam; quite possibly the first from our town to die in that war, but certainly not the last. 

 

Many years later, I was chaperoning my son’s eighth grade trip to Washington, DC, and visited the Vietnam Memorial Wall. I found out where Tristian’s name was listed and spoke about him to the students and how he was more than just a name. Many adults gathered around while I was speaking and listened to Tristian’s story.  

 

A decade or so later, I looked him up on the Internet, which had finally become a major research and social phenomena. His story was incredible. Then a private first class, he was on patrol with his platoon when they were ambushed by the Viet Cong. His sergeant and platoon leader were cut down by enemy fire and Tristian carried him out of danger to safety. Carrying a several more soldiers, he also took over the platoon and led them to safety. In doing so, he was wounded and died a few weeks later. He received a bronze star with valor, purple heart, Combat Infantry Man’s badge and Vietnam service medals as a result of his actions. 

 

In the early 2000nds, I became a social studies teacher and every Friday before Memorial Day weekend, I had my students look up Tristian’s name, reminding them that he was my best friend at their age. This was after 9/11 and I hope it gave these students, who lived under the shadow of the World Trade Center, an idea about the middle east war.

 

In 2010, after separating from my wife, I contacted the school’s alumni association and asked about how to nominate Tristan for the school’s wall. I got the forms and sent them in. In March, 2011, I got a call from the president of the Alumni Association.  Tristan would be given the award but there was no one to make a speech on his behalf. An only child, his parents were long dead. He died at 18 years of age and had never married so there were no children. There was a distant cousin, but he had never even met Tristian. Would I do the speech for his award? I suppose there really was no more qualified person, so I agreed. 

 

 

So in April, 2011, I returned to the stage. I was the first one to speak and began by asking the audience to stand. 

 

“Attention to orders,” I barked out in my best drill sergeant voice. I then read his citation.

 

“For exceptionally valorous service in connection with military operations against a hostile force. Private First Class Hayes distinguished himself by exceptionally valorous actions on 9 September 1968 while serving as a rifleman on a combat operation in the Republic of Vietnam. When artillery rounds began falling into the company's surrounding area, numerous casualties resulted. Seeing that his squad leader was missing and that his squad was disorganized, Private First Class Hayes immediately directed his squad to dig in. He then left the safety of his position to look for his squad leader. Upon finding his wounded squad leader, he carried him to safety and to medical aid. Several times Private First Class Hayes left the comparative safety of his position to carry wounded comrades to safety and to medical aid. As a result of his unceasing determination and concern for his comrades, the wounded received the medical attention they needed. Private First Class Hayes' personal bravery and devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.“

 

I then began to speak. I pointed out an aging Mr. Dempsey, sharing how he forced us to understand Vietnam and educating us to be able to make choices about the divisive war. 

 

Then I said: “Mr. Dempsey, once an all-state football player for this school in the 1940s, also coached Tristan and me. One day, during practice, Tristian stopped chasing someone. Mr. Dempsey grabbed Tristian’s face mask and told him ‘you keep playing until the whistle blows.’ It was lessons like this that gave him the incredible courage he displayed in Vietnam.”

 

I thanked people; told them they could be seated. They didn’t and I left the stage to a standing ovation. I suppose timing is everything because my cell phone started ringing as I walked off the stage as the ex started demanding money. I turned the phone off and sat down next to a friend. As I sat in my seat, I thought that since Tristian’s family had moved away, a long-delayed need for the community to say good bye to its hero had finally been met. As I said, it was the proudest moment of my life.

  MORRISTOWN AND VIETNAM

 

I consider Morristown as my home town. I lived here from 1958 through 1976 and graduated from MHS in 1966. I was a member of the very first class at County College of Morris.

 

But I would like to share a few things about Vietnam and the town from a Vietnam-era veteran’s perspective.

 

I never heard of Vietnam until I was a sophomore when my European History teacher, Joseph Dempsey had us write a paper about Vietnam. I focused on the Buddist monks who committed suicide by pouring gasoline on themselves and then setting themselves on fire to protest the South Vietnamese government. It was an assignment Mr. Dempsey gave for several years and it helped many of us understand a little about the war that became so divisive. (More about this later).

 

I turned 18 in September of my senior year registering with Selective Service that day without a thought of military service. It was legal proof that I was18 years old. In those days the legal drinking age was 21 in New Jersey but 18 in New York. Many of us would head to the Northern border to places like Greenwood Lake or the Village in the city. Very few of us thought about getting drafted. That same year, military recruiters came the high school. I was a competitive swimmer and had lifesaving, instructor and SCUBA certifications. I spoke to the Navy people about becoming a frogman and doing underwater demolition. I was told it was impossible due to my eyesight. I asked about lifeguarding and teaching swimming but those posts went to NCOs and it would take several years to become one. I also called the Coast Guard office in Newark about search-and-rescue and was told the same thing about my eyes.

 

After graduation, I worked at a couple of office jobs in Morristown and one Saturday, I picked up a copy of the Daily Record to read on the Green and learned one of my best friends, Tristian Hayes, died in Vietnam. It was a shock and I thought about this brilliant, wonderful guy who wanted to be a soldier since middle school had sacrificed his young life in a war very few cared about. At the end of this article you will learn much more about him.

 

When I started at CCM, I was a few years older than most students, but all male students had to be registered with Selective Service. I appeared before the Draft Board to request a student deferment claiming I could not afford to go to college until CCM opened. My request was granted. This was in 1968, a very controversial year with the murders of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. With the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, the war heated up under the Lyndon Johnson administration. I became something of a wanna-be hippie and attended campus protests and an all-night vigil on the Green.  I never did drugs though. A high school classmate, the son of a very popular MHS teacher, took LSD and killed himself by putting his head on the railroad tracks and was run over by a Lackawanna train near the Morristown station. I was too terrified to try them. I had enough problems with self-control.

 

While at CCM, I began working as a freelance newspaper reporter for the Morristown Daily Record covering town meetings in the western part of the county. Since I was a college student and registered for the draft, I was assigned to try to cover Nixon’s draft lottery. “See if you can find someone who has a high number,” the editor told me.  I started to listen to the lottery and had absolutely no problem finding someone. I was number 2. 

 

Many months before, I had gotten on the waiting list for the local Army Reserve unit and I went to their office and asked the Sergeant if it was possible there was an opening available and he gave me the Army’s version of an IQ test. 

 

There was. I could become a drill sergeant! 

 

The unit was designated as a “training” unit. The concept was that if there was a need for cadre to train troops, we would be activated. I would go through Basic Combat Training, a month-long leadership preparation course, Advanced Infantry Training (Vietnam) and Drill Sergeant school.

 

So I had a choice: Enlist in the regular army for three years, the Navy or Coast Guard for four years, get drafted and wind up in the Army or Marines (!) or spend seven months to become a “shake-and-bake” drill sergeant and spend two days a month and two weeks in the summer for the next six years. I chose the drill sergeant opportunity.

 

And so on Jan. 3. 1970, about 30 of us from different parts of our 78^th division, a/k/a “Jersey Lightning” boarded a Delta Air Lines jet to New Orleans and then transferred to a 1950s era Trans Texas Airline propeller aircraft where the pilot welcomed us by telling us the aircraft had flown half a million miles without any problems. But then he introduced our stewardess who was wearing tight denim bell bottoms and a tight blouse. She got a wild ovation from us.

 

After deplaning, we got a different reception from Drill Sergeant Russel and friends who began screaming at us to get into and dress up our line. After finding temporary barracks, getting dinner and falling asleep, we were woken at 0-dark-30 to do KP. Later that day, we were given haircuts. Unlike previous weeks a new regulation went into effect as of the new year stating we didn’t have to get our heads shaved, but long hair was long gone. Following the unpublished “Hurry up and wait” regulation, we stood on line to get our uniforms and vaccinations. The next day, was perhaps the funniest day of our orientation. We had an ice storm. You had to understand that we were in the South and many of the base’s permanent party had never seen snow or ice. Soldiers were falling all over and we Jersey guys laughed our butts off as we saw several cars spin out of control, one slamming into a fire hydrant.

 

So much for fun, that night we were moved to the barracks of Alpha-one-two and revived our acquaintance with Drill Sergeant Russell and his friends. We were divided into four barracks. Barracks One was National Guard people from Texas, We Jersey boys were in Barracks Two, and Barracks Three and Four were draftees and enlistees. 

 

We learned to march and do other drills. In about a week we stated to march to rifle ranges. We were introduced to the command “At Ease, March. Drill Sergeant Russell set the pace. He was about 6’3” and had long legs. He set a very rapid pace that had us either tripping or jogging to keep up. By the time we reached the range, we had many people puking up their breakfast. The next day, many of us changed from fried eggs and bacon to a hard-boiled egg. toast and juice.

Most of our training was with the M-16, which included an automatic fire mode we rarely used. We also used the Korean-war era M-14 and Colt .45 caliber pistols. 

 

But the most interesting part of our training was with hand grenades. In the morning, we played with practice ones that we could toss at targets. We also were introduced to grenade launchers that were attached to M-16 rifles. That afternoon, we got to throw real grenades. We stood behind a bunker with a sunken area to take cover in in case someone dropped their grenade before tossing it. In turn, we would throw our grenade over the 8’ wall. I wasn’t thrilled about the distance mine went because I compared it to a baseball. I really didn’t see how far it went. I then watched the guy next to me throw his. Instead of going out, it went way up. I immediately dropped to the pit on the ground with my hands covering my helmet liner. The grenade exploded on the other side of my wall, shaking me off the ground. But I was alive and the guy next to me was given special instructions (500 pushups) from the range sergeant while other cadre were laughing about my duck-and-cover elementary school drills were so well remembered. 

 

We marched to cadence, with a sergeant calling out different songs that we repeated, many of them ribald. But everyone’s favorite was our countdown. “X more weeks of polish and brass, then Fort Polk can kiss my ass!” And finally came the day it could. We participated in a graduation parade with about 1,000 others. The parents of three of my Morristown comrades showed up and treated us Morristown men to lunch.

 

And then it was time to return to the real world until I was to return for more training. I took a bus to the New Orleans airport and flew to Newark. Then I took the train to Morristown and since Mom moved while I was away, I went to her law office next to the Chinese restaurant, showing up in my uniform. They gave mom the rest of the day off  and we went to our old place on Wetmore Avenue where I picked up my car and then went to the new place in Jacob Ford Village. 

 

Leave was spent renewing friendships and girlfriends. Mom came home early and threw a fit when we were caught in bed.  Mom, born in 1908 to an Irish Catholic family, wasn’t so upset about our bed activities as she went wild because the girl was Jewish. I had no clue she was so prejudiced. 

 

After that, I took my car, an eight-year-old Rambler convertible, to Seaside Heights to sort of clear my head. On the way down, I came across two girls hitching and eventually they asked why my hair was so short. I told them I was on leave from the Army. 

They started talking to each other and in a few minutes they asked to be let out. As I pulled away, one of them screamed “baby killer.” Hell, I never had been to ‘Nam, much less was involved in combat. I only shot at paper targets.

 

I spent most of the day on the beach and headed home early to avoid traffic. Around Mt. Kimble Ave. and Colles Ave., there was a girl hitching so I said to myself “what the hell, why not!” I pulled over and seven MHS kids piled into the car. They were heading to Morris Plains and we drove twice around the Green yelling and screaming. As we drove down Speedwell Avenue, we talked and they learned I was in the Army. They started to welcome me back and as they left the car thanking me for the ride, one of the girls kissed me. Morristown people had made a bad day fantastic!

 

When I was in town, I went to the First National Iron Bank at the corner of South Street and Madison Ave. to get some cash from my checking account only to discover it was suspended for inactivity. I showed them my military ID and they re-opened the account with a promise to not close it. On payday, I sent my mother a money order to add to the account. But I had purchased some civilian clothing from the PX with a check that bounced and there was hell to pay until I gave them the business card of the branch manager and they confirmed what happened. 

 

I returned to Fort Polk for Leadership and infantry training, then to Fort Knox for Drill Sergeant School. About 18 months later, I was activated. I returned to Morris County but lived in Randolph and Roxbury, only to spend some days visiting my mother after getting married and living in Queens.

 

After 33 years of marriage, we divorced and I roamed the country for many years. But when in the East, I spent much time with my 1966 senior prom date. We went to our 45^th and 50^th reunions together and lived together coping with the Covid-19 lockdown. When we decided to break up, I moved to Florida and stayed with another classmate while finding an apartment. One of the things I bought was a “Vietnam-Era” baseball cap and people frequently thanked me for my service. 

 

But before I end this, I want to share one last thing about Morristown and Vietnam. It was probably the finest moment of my life.

 

***

TRISTIAN

I graduated from Morristown (NJ) High school in 1966. During that time, I was on the school’s stage many times: receiving athletic awards, appearing in plays and in concerts as a member of the school chorus.

 

But the proudest moment of my life happened on that stage, about 45 years after graduation. 

 

Before I describe that moment, it is important to understand a little about Morristown. It has a long and proud history. The town headquartered George Washington’s revolutionary war army during two winters, one of them being the worst in the colonial era’s history. Throughout the town there are many statues and three areas of a National Historical Park:  the Ford mansion headquarters, The troop area in Jockey Hollow, and Fort Nonsense at the highest part of the town. It was there that I lost my virginity to a Morris Township girll and got married to a Brookyn woman.

 

The center of the town has a green that is the site of many parades and festivals. I also remember attending an all-night anti-war protest there. There were several Memorial Day parades when I marched with my Boy Scout troop.

 

Samuel Morris invented the telegraph here. Thomas Nast, the newspaper cartoonist who fought Tammany Hall and gave us the images of the Republican Elephant, the Democratic Donkey and even Santa, lived here. The house I lived in was built just after the Civil War and it featured many of the ideas advocated by women’s magazines at that time which included the early concepts of childhood and adolescence. 

 

In other words, the town is very aware of and promotes its past. 

 

When I attended the high school, the main entrance featured a dual staircase, called the “senior staircase.” Its use was restricted to senior students and during the school’s last week of every year, there was a “senior skip day” when the seniors decided not to go to school. On that day, the juniors would “rush” the stairs and occupy it for a brief time as they made their claim to it for the next school year.

 

Since then, the school has a couple of expansions and the stairs no longer occupy the central status it once did. Instead, it has been changed to a “Wall of Fame” where distinguished alumni, teachers and athletes are featured on plaques. I suppose it means little to the current students, but visitors can share memories and inspiration from the many names there. 

 

The school hosts an annual “Heritage Day” where those who are to be added to the wall are honored and announced at an assembly. When I learned about this new tradition, I was quite pleased especially since the senior stairs concept had ended. I never liked the undemocratic “clique” system that had created so many rivalries and emotional pain for those who weren’t permitted to use the stairs simply because of their date of birth. 

 

So anyhow, I had some unfinished business with Morristown and I made it my job to see that Tristan Whitney Hayes, class of 1967, would have a plaque there to honor him. 

 

I met Tristan when I was a freshman and he was in eighth grade. We were both in the same boy scout troop and I was a patrol leader and he my assistant patrol leader. We planned many events such as campouts together and also became close friends. I remember we once visited Times Square in New York City and browsed many stores. He was especially interested in the metal soldiers representing historic battles such as Napoleon’s downfall at Waterloo. Even at that age, he wanted to be a soldier. 

 

We grew apart as our interests in school varied. I was into sports, debate and drama while he was more academic, though he played football. Without a common interest, we drifted apart.

 

During those high school years, the war in Vietnam began to heat up, especially after President Kennedy was murdered and Johnson replaced him. In 1963 and 1964,Joseph Dempsey, our European History teacher, had us all write papers about the war that was starting to involve more forces. In retrospect, those papers gave us some information about a war that would become so divisive.

 

Tristan graduated a year after me and as soon as he graduated, his family moved to Massachusetts. The last I heard about him was a brief newspaper article that he was killed in action in Vietnam; quite possibly the first from our town to die in that war, but certainly not the last. 

 

Many years later, I was chaperoning my son’s eighth grade trip to Washington, DC, and visited the Vietnam Memorial Wall. I found out where Tristian’s name was listed and spoke about him to the students and how he was more than just a name. Many adults gathered around while I was speaking and listened to Tristian’s story.  

 

A decade or so later, I looked him up on the Internet, which had finally become a major research and social phenomena. His story was incredible. Then a private first class, he was on patrol with his platoon when they were ambushed by the Viet Cong. His sergeant and platoon leader were cut down by enemy fire and Tristian carried him out of danger to safety. Carrying a several more soldiers, he also took over the platoon and led them to safety. In doing so, he was wounded and died a few weeks later. He received a bronze star with valor, purple heart, Combat Infantry Man’s badge and Vietnam service medals as a result of his actions. 

 

In the early 2000nds, I became a social studies teacher and every Friday before Memorial Day weekend, I had my students look up Tristian’s name, reminding them that he was my best friend at their age. This was after 9/11 and I hope it gave these students, who lived under the shadow of the World Trade Center, an idea about the middle east war.

 

In 2010, after separating from my wife, I contacted the school’s alumni association and asked about how to nominate Tristan for the school’s wall. I got the forms and sent them in. In March, 2011, I got a call from the president of the Alumni Association.  Tristan would be given the award but there was no one to make a speech on his behalf. An only child, his parents were long dead. He died at 18 years of age and had never married so there were no children. There was a distant cousin, but he had never even met Tristian. Would I do the speech for his award? I suppose there really was no more qualified person, so I agreed. 

 

 

So in April, 2011, I returned to the stage. I was the first one to speak and began by asking the audience to stand. 

 

“Attention to orders,” I barked out in my best drill sergeant voice. I then read his citation.

 

“For exceptionally valorous service in connection with military operations against a hostile force. Private First Class Hayes distinguished himself by exceptionally valorous actions on 9 September 1968 while serving as a rifleman on a combat operation in the Republic of Vietnam. When artillery rounds began falling into the company's surrounding area, numerous casualties resulted. Seeing that his squad leader was missing and that his squad was disorganized, Private First Class Hayes immediately directed his squad to dig in. He then left the safety of his position to look for his squad leader. Upon finding his wounded squad leader, he carried him to safety and to medical aid. Several times Private First Class Hayes left the comparative safety of his position to carry wounded comrades to safety and to medical aid. As a result of his unceasing determination and concern for his comrades, the wounded received the medical attention they needed. Private First Class Hayes' personal bravery and devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.“

 

I then began to speak. I pointed out an aging Mr. Dempsey, sharing how he forced us to understand Vietnam and educating us to be able to make choices about the divisive war. 

 

Then I said: “Mr. Dempsey, once an all-state football player for this school in the 1940s, also coached Tristan and me. One day, during practice, Tristian stopped chasing someone. Mr. Dempsey grabbed Tristian’s face mask and told him ‘you keep playing until the whistle blows.’ It was lessons like this that gave him the incredible courage he displayed in Vietnam.”

 

I thanked people; told them they could be seated. They didn’t and I left the stage to a standing ovation. I suppose timing is everything because my cell phone started ringing as I walked off the stage as the ex started demanding money. I turned the phone off and sat down next to a friend. As I sat in my seat, I thought that since Tristian’s family had moved away, a long-delayed need for the community to say good bye to its hero had finally been met. As I said, it was the proudest moment of my life

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nukes

The Badlands National Park area contains more than the incredible views dating back millennia. 

 

I often visited the area while working at Wall Drug, the summer tourist trap. My job was to sell toys. It was a lot of fun as most of the sales were from the sale of toy cap pistols and rifles. As a kid in the 1950s, I constantly wanted these toys a I watched Hoppy, Roy and Gene as well as the Lone Ranger and the Cisco Kid. 

 

Part of the area includes a now-decommissioned control station for a number of Minuteman nuclear missiles.

 

Open to the public, I was able to view a bunker where the orders to launch the missiles was executed. The top floor was the living quarters for the men who manned the station when they were off duty. But downstairs was the control room. It was configured like a bank vault that was mounted on heavy duty springs, which were designed to handle the impact of a nearby enemy nuclear explosion. It would not survive a direct hit.

 

The officers who ran the vault, and actually controlled the launch of roughly 25 missiles, were all single men who were childless. While they had to pass strict psychological standards, the thinking was the single men would have less reluctance to launch. There was an interesting touch of dark humor painted on the door. Taken from a delivery company, there was a pizza box showing a missile heading to the Soviet Union. Painted on the box was “When it absolutely, positively has to be delivered in 20 minutes or the next one is free.”

 

About two miles away, there is a decommissioned missile silo containing an unarmed, unfueled missile which is completely covered and includes a glass viewing area. I visited this area several times as I remembered the Cuban missile crisis as a high school freshman. I had a deal with my girlfriend that if missiles were launched as we ducked and covered in the hallway that we would kiss each other’s ass goodbye.

 

Anyhow, I ran a cash register and one day I had a customer who handed me their credit card. Per our rules, I also asked for a photo ID. I was handed a military ID and was stunned to read the name Paul Tibbitt’s.

 

Never heard of him? Then you’re probably under 60 years of age. We Baby Boomers knew the name quite well. He was the bomber pilot who dropped the first atom bomb over Hiroshima during the second world war.  He was also the commander of the air wing and supervised the follow-up bombing of Nagasaki. 

 

Well I knew the man standing before me wasn’t the same person. That pilot had to be well over 120 years old. It turned out he was the grandson, an Air Force general.

 

In another life I majored in history and was a licensed high school social studies teacher. I had my students do an extra-credit essay, imagining they were the ones to drop the bomb. How would they feel about it? 

 

Well, I knew for sure who my next ghost would be and after work, I visited the missile silo around twilight.

 

He appeared to me dressed in an. Army Class B uniform. It had many, many medals on the shirt, but full bird coronel’s insignia.

 

“I met your grandson today. You must be very proud of him.” 

 

“I certainly am,” he replied. “His duties are far more complicated. We dealt with one bomb at a time. If there is a war, we would be launching hundreds of them.”

 

As an eighth grader, I read “Hiroshima,” the definitive account of the bombing written by John Hershey. Other books included “Fail Safe.” “Alas Babylon,” and “A canticle for Leibowitz,” three classic fictional accounts about nuclear destruction written in the 1950s. I asked him about the mission.

 

He told me that preparation for the mission was classified until the very end. Keeping the secret was difficult over several years of training. He said there were two very scary parts of the actual mission. First was the bomb was actually armed during the flight. Among other things, there was some air turbulence and inserting the nuclear matter and its trigger was very exacting. He also said that the moment the bomb was dropped, the plane had to execute a 180 degree turn to avoid the blast. Surviving the shock wave proved to be very exciting as the plane rocked and vibrated as it moved away from the blast at top speed. 

 

Prior to the bombing, he had gone to Nevada to observe the first test. “I was amazed,” he said. “I was looking for a huge conventional explosion and the flash, shockwave and the mushroom cloud were unexpected by me. The colors were incredible.”

 

I told him about the essays I had assigned in school and asked him how it felt. 

 

“I was glad to see the test so I had an idea about what to expect,” he said. “I knew thousands would instantly die and many thousands more would die from radiation poisoning.”

He said he had to realize that there was a choice to either drop the bombs or invade Japan with troops, which would result in tens of thousands of deaths and wounds by American soldiers. He pointed out that the Japanese military would fight to the last man as had happened during the fighting at various Pacific islands. He also noted the desperation of Kamikaze pilots who would crash their fighter-bombers into American naval ships while sacrificing their own lives.

 

I noted that the plot in “Fail Safe,” revolved around a single nuke bombing Moscow. In order to stop an all-out war, we had to bomb New York City. The pilot committed suicide after dropping the bomb. 

 

“I did not feel suicidal. We had to end the war. My biggest regret was learning that a hundred American prisoners of war also died in the blast.”

 

I thanked him for taking the time to talk to me. As he started to fade, I saluted him and he returned it.