Buyout to freedom
Remembering my father is always a joyous pleasure when I see the scene in my memory bank archived in the area listed as pure pleasure and delight. Or on those occasions of going to the cookie tin and thumbing through wrinkled photographs with tearstains and the wet fingerprints of sorrow left from the last longing sorrowful sobs of review of the perfect life revisited in that captured and framed vision the photograph. Always the photograph.
Photographs have captured our history. The lamp was lit low, and its yellow glow drifted to the floor and covered the old handwoven stocking rug, which was next to the bed I shared with my mother when he wasn’t at home. By that dimly lit lamp, I see him holding me up, laughing, jiggling me around, and semi-tossing me up in the air. He said, “What’s your name? Ralphie, or is it Bugs Bunny?” I could hear my inner voice saying, “You know my name.”
Mother was standing on that well-worn rug, my favorite warm place to sit and wait for bed. She swept me up into her arms, took my breath away, and said, “Come on, Bugs Bunny, tonight you sleep in your bed!” She placed me in my crib in the far off room around the corner. Left for me was the yellow light that sliced through the crack of an opening between the door and doorframe. She handed me my bear and kissed us both one at a time, first the bear and then me. I watched the process as she covered us both and then placed a hand on my head that said all is right in the world as I drifted into comfortable and needed sleep.
My father’s departure for me was a blur of blinding white uniforms covered with colorful badges and ribbons glowing in the afternoon sunshine, glimmering brass wings reflecting the heat of the moment, and loud music coming from a marching band across the parade field. The heat waves wiggled up to be freed by the fresh breeze that brought comfort to the crowd of well-wishers and families wishing it were a homecoming ceremony rather than the tearful last parting.
The news that he had been killed flying in Korea was a mystery along with the photograph taken of him in that white uniform on that day. That picture is forever remembered as it rested on the low dark wooden coffee table. I can still hear the band playing somewhere in the echoes of my mind when I travel back to my childhood home and look at that small gold frame around his smile.
For many years I did not understand our family history. We lived in Hawaii, where I was born. Both my mother and I were very Hawaiian with deep roots in that beautiful place on earth. But I was Hawaiian and Chinese, and it was made clear to me I was different because I was also Irish and my Irish father had given me characteristics that set me apart from all others including my own mother. I was different, different from all others around me. My mother was different too from other kids’ mothers. She was a great beauty and the first words out of all mouths on meeting her were always, “You are so beautiful!”
She was in several movies that were made on the small islands. With the money she made, we moved to Hollywood on the big island of USA after my father was killed to escape the attention of Timo.
It seemed Timo wanted to take my father’s place, and as a tribal leader he inserted himself in my mother’s life and asserted it was his right to do so. His thugs dressed in tribal cloths wrapped around large fat bellies filled with beer and poi, and their shell necklaces rattled when they came into the house. They always arrived with him and guarded the doors as he took advantage of my mother. I sat helplessly on the floor and played with my metal yellow-and-red truck filled with sharp edged broken records that Timo smashed in a rage when Mother rebuffed his advances.
He was bigger and stronger than my mother and had his way with her as she stood next to me with her leg pulled up in one of his arms. My mother said to me, “Don’t look, Ralphie!” But I looked. After he left, when she asked if I had seen anything, I said, “No.”
We didn’t pack. We just left with the clothes we had on our backs and my bear. I looked at the unwanted truck on the floor and left it. We were off, down to the docks and on the bus for a ride I knew very well because we had made that bus ride many times. We walked until we found a ship headed off the Island to America, and we boarded that ship.
Character actresses cast as Polynesian beauties were few and far between, but with my father’s inheritance, back pay, and benefits for my education, we did very well in that courageous move to the new world of California. California was the big island I had heard of and beautiful in a very busy way.
Mother had a determination that I both respected and depended on. I always went to Catholic schools where my Irish roots seemed to be a plus but even the nuns treated me differently and the other boys pointed out the differences from the first day in class. They used words like, “What are you?” It seems my eyes were almond shaped and my skin was golden brown, and my fine light brown hair bleached out to a blonde in the West Coast sun, in which surfing was second nature to me. I had a natural balance and I was a strong swimmer.
The long summers were spent in activities orchestrated by my mother’s friends and their older children, but my time at the beach was fun. One of my mother’s friends had a daughter that took me under her wing and made her boyfriend take care of me in the water. I loved riding with him on his surfboard and she praised him for his attentiveness, which encouraged him to go farther and do more tricks like hang-ten. It was so much fun!
But Mother became moody and cried a lot. Others were always full of advice that put me someplace secure and freed her for long fashionable lunches at fancy country clubs with movie and television stars. I was cast in a few films as a native boy. Those films always had jungle scenes and I was always holding the hand of a blonde beauty dressed in leopard skin. She was wonderful and we made several movies. I was her jungle boy tagalong, but the cameraman caught my eye, and I caught his too.
George could tell I loved the machines and all the mechanics that went with them. One day he appeared on the set with a small bag and said he had something to show me, but we must wait until the lunch break. George knew my mother and her friends as the movie lot was a small world full of the same people. My mother was the famous unknown actress, and I heard people say, “You know her from the South Pacific film where the drowning navy pilots encounter the beauty. Well, she was that beauty!” They always said, “Oh!”
I wondered if my father’s plane had been shot down at sea, but the Marine Corps never gave us the details of his crash. Just the letter, the flag, and a few of his friends at Pearl patting me on the head were all I remembered. Mother was going by Rena Lee, and I was Ralph Lee also famous for being her son but unknown as well.
The advantage was the initials on our luggage. We were both RL. Mother always gave me a leather bag for Christmas with the initials RL and borrowed it straight away. She was funny about bags and luggage and hatboxes too. One closet was devoted to hatboxes, but she never wore a hat. George said, “When Rena comes for lunch I’ll show you something that will interest you. You know, Ralphie, if the acting job doesn’t play out, you can have a backup job as a cameraman or one of the grips.” I was delighted. The seed was planted.
I found it hard to wait out the lunch break that on this director’s set I was told and came to understand, was never predictable! You could tell by the growling stomachs and short tempers of the extras! But today my mother showed up and the director called for the lunch break when he saw her. I think he wanted to talk with her because when he saw her he headed straight like a guided missile in her direction. She had that effect on most men and he was no exception.
George introduced me to the pinhole camera and told me how simple it was and just how complicated the movie camera had become and that I must understand where we started in 1849, in order that I might too arrive at this point of understanding the process. I was truly fascinated with photography and in a few weeks George presented me with one of his old cameras, a 35mm Zeiss Ikon, completely rebuilt for me. It was a wonderful gift that I treasured and took many shots both on the set and everywhere I went. Mother let George teach me how to develop film in my bathroom. There he helped me setup a small but professional darkroom. The reconstruction and the fumes were all removed by a homemade venting system that George designed and promised my mother would be adequate for the beginner.
After lunch with mother and a long conversation dealing with my future in movies, we all thanked her friend, Collette, for cooking that wonderful meal. I was off and running at an early age. I was going to be a photographer. I just knew it. Never had a choice and never wanted one. I saw the camera and it looked like part of my life.
Catholic school in California was strict, laborious, and uneventful but it opened up the advantage of a good college and I had excelled in French because of Collette.
She was a dancer first, she always pointed out, and a cook second. Close friend of my mother was always in the mix too. Collette was French and had been married to one of the stars for several years. When she was going through her divorce, she spent a lot of time with us and took pleasure in helping me with my French. She was very active, sweet and warm in a very hands-on way that I didn’t mind at all.
She could cook big meals! She always helped my mother with big dinners that I enjoyed from afar. Often I’d walk around the pool and observe the drugs, alcohol, and nude swimming. LA was after all an education in its self and the movie business was a blast to observe.
George was always one of the staple guests. He was a bit older, straight-laced, and winked to me at the risqué behavior of the starlets that Colette called, “La Jeune Vedettes!” Colette was looking for a new husband or so my mother said, which was why she cooked and encouraged my mother to throw the impromptu dinners when a new man was in town, and always helped with the guest list. The best dinners occurred when she was looking and feeling her very best and always on the advice of her astrological counselor.
Colette was very active, very attractive, and very French with large breasts and curly black hair. She changed clothes in the pool house with the door open for the world to see. Once she asked me to help her fasten her brassiere. I did dutifully with a half smile. She said, “I’m 44, do I still have it?” I said, “Yes, you do!” She kissed me on the cheek just ever so close to my mouth brushing past my lips saying, “You are going to break many hearts but not mine today, Ralphie.” My French was very good and I was forever indebted to Colette for tutoring me.
I took many pictures of Colette and George took great pleasure in examining my compositions of Collette. Some were topless and he liked that. I thought George, along with many men, had a crush on Colette but my mother said that Colette needed the right guy as she had enough money to get along by herself.
Mother was doing okay too as long as I was in school and didn’t cost her too much for extravagant cars like some of the local kids. I liked old Volkswagens and did most of my own engine work with help from neighborhood kids. In the Hills we had a young hotrod bunch of guys that raced for money and took building cars seriously. They tolerated my VW and some of the guys built dune buggies so I had help and advice from them.
One of the guys had befriended me because of our local surfing club that was called, “The Deep Water Surfers.” Deep Water was a front for smuggling pot from offshore. Will called his surfboard, “I Will,” and his brother was a serious sailor with a beautiful cherried out 60-foot sailboat, in which he cruised the coast from San Francisco to Guatemala.
Even though Will’s brother was named Chester, everyone called him Whistle. You couldn’t understand what he said because he had lost three teeth in a sailboat race. He was hit by an unknown object, said to be a flying fish, which knocked him out on deck. His bridge always slipped and he talked through the sliding teeth that whistled as he spoke. Whistle was a big blond surfer who lived a lifestyle that needed lots of money. He had fast cars, three slips and apartments along the West Coast, and three girlfriends that kept the three apartments ready for a party with girls, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll band members for color. Whistle was a player, who paid for everything, especially Will’s racecars. I saw him reach into his pocket, peal off 20K, and hand it to Will as he said, “If you don’t win, don’t let it be because of money.”
Whistle met a ship at sea that supplied him with bundles of pot and cocaine. Will and the Deep Water Surfers would then meet Whistle at one of his three drop-off areas along the coast and transport the drugs ashore on their surfboards.
One day two guys approached Will, said they were DEA, and wanted to invite Will to breakfast. They insisted that Will go with them, and over breakfast at a little diner just down the road, they said, “You haven’t heard from Chester, have you?” Will said, “No,” as he ate his toasted whole wheat with Welch’s grape jelly from the sticky plastic container. He sipped the dishwater coffee from the stained coffee cup with lipstick marks much too low down on the side to be made by Raquel Welch. They said, “Your mother hasn’t seen Chester in three weeks, has she?” They stood up and leaned into the table and said, “We killed your brother, and if you try to take over his business, we will kill you.” Then they got up and left him sitting at the table.
Will and his mother moved to Arizona where Whistle had bought their mother a small house. I never saw Will again.
Some of the Deep Water Surfers, especially the twins Billy and Bobby, liked the money and kept a hand in the game to support their girlfriends, but it was never the same without Whistle. One of their girlfriends was a beautiful California blonde chick I’d gone to school with. I had watched Barbara grow up in the halls wearing her blue smock required by the Nuns to be starched and crisp. With great interest, I had watched her breasts develop over the years, so I was interested in her.
One day I saw her with one of the twins so I asked her which one it was and she said she didn’t know, as she couldn’t tell them apart. I jokingly said that they may switch up on her and smiled. She looked amused, cast her eyes down, then looked up through her long blond hair, and said that they do all the time. Then she told me about her first time with both of them which was to purposely wind me up to the point I had to invite her over to my house for a swim. I have always loved that girl.
My father left my mother some property so I didn’t need the money like the other guys. But his sister felt she was in charge of everything so I felt the pinch from time to time. After all, the part-time job with Whistle was an easy way to work my way through high school. My guess was that we were not quite up to the family standards. It seems they were opposed to my father being married to a Polynesian girl, no matter how good-looking she was! And to have reproduced with her was just not done or so mother told me.
Nevertheless she had inherited his part of my grandparents’ orange orchard in Florida. My trust fund automatically received a deposit every time my aunt sold any of our undivided property. She also needed my mother’s signature, and after the cost of my aunt’s labor and realtor’s kickback for the sale we always got something. My aunt had not counted on my mother being friends with so many lawyers. After all, everyone in Hollywood that wasn’t an actor or agent was a lawyer/actor/writer, so my mother said, with a twinkle in her eye!
Mother also said that one day I’d be rich if my aunt didn’t find a way to steal everything first! We really didn’t care about the property that much because life in the Hills was just about perfect.
By my senior year, George had helped me build a real darkroom in the basement, where I spent most of my free time. I’d be going to college soon on the East Coast. It seemed like an adventure to me. My father had gone to Washington and Lee and my name was Lee, so it seemed a perfect fit even though we were of no relation to General Lee. I was told that my father’s family was just simple, hardworking farmers from Florida – and stick to the story!
Colette had organized a going away party with all of her friends as well as several older established agents she had an eye on. It was fun all the same. I was told that now that I was eighteen, I could drink beer and go into bars, a weekend trip into Washington, DC would be great fun, and I’d learn history and diplomacy through osmosis. Colette said that eighteen was a wonderful age but dix-neuf had been her starting point, and she never looked back.
She was growing on me and I’d miss her as much as my mother. She was a big sister, personal counselor, and someone I never had to ask a question. She simply read my mind and then told me the answer. We talked about being different; she was dark like a gypsy with flashing black eyes. She said in Hollywood we were accepted on the merit of our talent but in middle of America I might be taken to task because I was not white like my father’s family. Then she said, “Don’t bother to visit your aunt unless she sends you a round trip ticket – and don’t contact her.”
Lexington was small, shockingly small with no traffic. The dorm room was small and a shaving cream fight was taking place as I looked for room 105. First floor with two corner windows, seemed that was a big deal. The questions started before I got the key in the door. “How did you get a private room?” The truth was I didn’t know I had a private room. “Where are you from?” I was ready. I had been tutored. I said:
I’m from Florida but I lived in Honolulu. My father was stationed at Pearl Harbor Marine Corps Air Base, which is really a navel air station and he was killed in Korea. My mother moved to California to work and send me to school.
I was safe for about five minutes. I heard a knock, opened the door, and a guy said, “I’m 106, my name is Bill McAlister.” I said, “I’m Ralph Lee. Nice to meet you.” I put out my hand to shake his and as he took my hand he asked if Lee was a Japanese name. I said, “No I’m Hawaiian, Chinese and Irish, the Lee is Irish.” He whistled. I smiled. He said, “You going to dinner?” I said, “Yeah, you think they will have chicken chow mien? I’m real hungry.” The student union and cafeteria were very close, just a three-minute walk down my street.
Over a very bad dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green peas with cornbread, I thought about Colette. Even the salad was God-awful because the oil in the ranch dressing wasn’t olive oil but something very strange.
Bill Mc, as he was called back home, said, “What business is your family in? My father has a dealership.” I’d been warned, so before he could blink an eye I said, “Farmers, we have an orange orchard.” That pretty much ended that line of questioning. There’s simply not a lot to say about oranges. We moved on to majors, and I expressed an interest in photojournalism. I’d have a split major in art and journalism. The photography department was part of the art department, and I felt I owed it to George to show them how we did it in Hollywood.
As I got settled in, I joined the Judo Club and hit the gym and track to stay in shape. I started Judo when I was six years old before we moved to California, and when we moved Mother used Master Tu as a baby-sitter. Master Tu was also a stunt coordinator on films, so it was a big family. He was Japanese with roots in Hawaii and like everyone else wanted to please Rena Lee. Master Tu was a great guy, who taught me discipline on the mat and off. He taught me how to meditate for long hours, slow my heart, and avoid becoming upset or anxious. He was a Buddhist and understood that I was a Catholic, something my father wanted and his family insisted on even if my aunt, the only one left, didn’t want to acknowledge me as an heir, or for that matter part of her family. Mother didn’t care. Without my father there was no connection and she had her family along with Hawaiian customs.
I had been a junior black belt for many years and an adult black belt for three years competing in all the local California tournaments. My instructor in the physical education department wanted me to compete locally as part of his team. I explained that journalism was difficult along with other studies, and my mother had extracted the promise of devotion to academics. He understood and asked me to teach two classes a week. I was flattered and agreed to accept his offer as part of a Work-Study program that the university offered. It was a way to give back, as Master Tu had taught me so much, and I was placed there to forward his teachings both on and off the mat.
The photo lab was an exercise in patience. They had less to offer than I had expected, but after George and Hollywood only the fashion industry and advertising in New York City could hold a candle to that West Coast operation. It was journalism that was the hotbed of intellectual energy focusing on the Viet Nam War and asking if they could project an unbiased view of the war.
Bill Mc had dropped out of school in his junior year and joined the army. He wrote me that he was in helicopter school in Texas and it was hot, but he was told it was hotter in Viet Nam. I must say I was curious both as a photographer and a journalism student.
I didn’t excel in writing like some of the kids and I felt I could drop journalism and take the BFA offered and apply to graduate school back on the West Coast at Cal Arts in filmmaking, get a MFA, work in the industry, and live at home with good food. It was a plan, so I talked with my advisor. Cal Arts was a Disney operation and we knew someone. Hollywood was, after all, a very small town. I had all the credits I needed to graduate in three years with a BFA. Journalism was a disappointment, so I took my degree and applied to Cal Arts in the new filmmaking department. They offered a master’s degree in fine arts and my information was it could be very cool at that time. I was a shoo-in. I packed my bags and headed back west without ever visiting the family farm.
I had never received an invitation and I’d never seen where my father was reared or the orange orchards that provided for him and now me.
Washington and Lee University had been fun with trips to DC with Bill Mc and the boys, but the parties my mother threw were a thousand times more interesting. Now that I was twenty-one years old, the bars were open to me in California. I had sent my application to Cal Arts from my counselor’s office at Washington and Lee, so when mother said I had mail in a brown envelope I naturally thought it was my acceptance letter. I had only been out of school three weeks and I was surprised to be holding a draft notice.
I wrote Bill Mc and said I’ve been drafted. He wrote back and said, “You are going to love it!” My mother and many of her pacifist friends were in shock, thinking I was in school and I kind of thought the same thing but George said he had served, my father was a veteran, and it was the honorable thing to do. He also said I’d probably be given some special job which the army is full of. It was a new adventure and I reported to the address in downtown Los Angeles.
While I was standing in line I noticed the marine recruiter’s office down the hall. I stepped out of line and eased down the hall, where I encountered a marine sergeant. I said, “I’ve received my draft notice and I think because my father was in the marines that it is only fitting that I too should follow in his footsteps.” The sergeant motioned me in the office and said, “Take a seat.” He said, “Tell me about your dad.” I said he was killed in Korea when I was three and he was a pilot. He then asked to see my draft notice, which I gave him. He disappeared down the hall and returned saying, “Okay, Troop, you are free to join the United States Marine Corps if you can make it through boot camp and if not you are subject to the draft. When do you want to go? Today?” I said I’d probably better go home and tell my mother. We filled out the paperwork and in the blank that said. “Years,” he said, “Three, four, or six?” I laughed and said, “Two!” He said, “Three, and how many days do you need to prepare? I can give you 180 or you can go today or tomorrow.” We agreed that in seven days I’d return for the bus ride to MCRD San Diego at noon.
This was going to be fun I just knew it. He told me to bring nothing and that I’d be there three months. He also said to tell my mother I’d write her and give her an address, and tell her not to send cookies or candy or any such crap. After three months I’d be home for thirty days and back to ITR. After that I’d be in the Marine Corps with weekends off and thirty days of leave for three years. Then he said, “Can you do a pull-up and a few pushups?” I said, “Yeah.” He said, “Get down and give me twenty. Then get on that pull-up bar!” It goes without saying I was in great shape from Judo and the gym and running cross-country for years. After five pushups he said to hit the bar and once more five was enough. “See you in a week, Troop.”
Mother was somber with the news I’d joined the Corps. My father had cost her emotionally and she felt like history was being repeated. When I found her crying, she put on her brave face, held me tight, and called me by my father’s name for a long while as I dutifully stood there and absorbed her pain.
One more big party and I was gone to the really big party. I was in shape but all the same it was meant to be hard and it was hard. After three months and thirty-five out of seventy-three lined up, I understood the cut was tough on the guys that got sick, broke limbs, or simply couldn’t hack the pace. Home for me and real food then back to ITR, the advance infantry training regiment, as a marine in the Marine Corps.
Now things were going to be better but they lied. ITR was just as difficult as boot camp but in a different way. Grueling marches at night across difficult terrain with little sleep. They were testing me. But I had the advantage of Master Tu’s teaching. I had life energy, the chi, to draw on. But what about the other guys? I saw courage in guys that were hurt from falls in the rocks. I saw marines help other marines, and I understood that the thirty-five out of seventy-three were the guys that could hack the pace under difficult conditions. We had to crawl, run, roll, and carry eighty-pound packs. It was beginning to get hard and we were going uphill for twenty miles.
The “word” was it was over and we were going to the Fleet Marine Force and off to serve our country. A picture was taken so we could remember that muddy place deep in the hills of California. We received our orders in a big envelope and some were going to Marine Corps schools to learn new needed skills. I was going to a grunt battalion.
We had travel time and that was a trip home to swim in the pool and eat real food and examine my choices in my short life. I was aware they were giving me time to spring back but what about the troops that didn’t have money and family close by and the red convertible. What did they do?
I needed to investigate the lives of others and show compassion. I needed to be a bigger person because this was hard on me and I had been blessed with advantages that others didn’t have. I needed to take a long look at what being in the service and what being of service meant. Perhaps there was more to this brotherhood than I had figured on.
As we reported to Camp Margarita, a small camp on the larger Camp Pendleton, I saw a group of marines form into formidable fighting machines with rifles issued to each man along with all the gear he would need to defend our country. As we were divided into companies, platoons and fire teams, it became obvious that someone had a plan and everyone had a place to fill. Talk was all about Viet Nam with guys coming back and guys going over.
A bulletin came around asking for volunteers to fill the flight. I raised my hand along with others, and we were escorted to the office for paperwork. Your will, next of kin, so much paper. For what? What did you want to do with your paycheck? Did you want to take out another insurance policy? I needed to take my car home, tell my mother goodbye, and use words like don’t worry mom I’ll be okay, you will see. I was off on another adventure and it was a hot place on earth.
Bill Mc was now a major on his second tour and flying Cobra gun ships. He had been shot down on his first tour flying dust-off and received a Bronze Star along with his Purple Heart. He gave me an address to write when I got in country.
The flight was long and the landing was rough. We stepped out of the commercial airliner onto a steel tarmac that burned through the soles of our boots. It was hot and the smell of jet fuel cut the vegetation smell that wafted its way up my nostrils with prescience. We were hastily herded to trucks, and our orders were collected in a tin barn.
We were divided into groups and told to hurry up and wait. It was late and dangerous on the roads, so we were instructed to grab a cot in the hardback tents and tomorrow we would be delivered to our designated battalions. That night I listened to the gunfights, artillery, and jets.
The next morning I joined Medevac Mike Company 3rd Battalion 9th Marines 3Marine Division in Viet Nam along a very smelly river, where I was told they didn’t like to be referred to as Medevac Mike. Well, that’s what they call you guys. I was issued ammunition for my M-14 and a box of C-rations and told to wait under that tree over there. I’d be in 1st Platoon and they were out on patrol. I could hear gunshots and the radio started to crackle. There was an anxious feeling in the air.
In the distance I could see a few guys walking in a manner that said their feet hurt, that lumbering lean into the step that drags along just a little too long in the stride. They kept the distance okay. It seemed they drifted in, in no real hurry and slumped to the ground in no real order or purpose. I stood there under the tree as instructed until a sergeant E-5 came over and said, “Hey, Lee, glad to have you with us. Pick up your gear and come on over to the Hawk’s nest.” He reached down, picked up my pack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed over to the boys. He said, “This is Lee. He will take Powers’ place in the 4th fire team. Lee, you are in 3rd Squad with Corporal Elwood. You guys show him where to crap out.”
A black kid named Thomas told me to follow him to a foxhole that had been Powers’ post until he was WIA and Medevac’d two days ago. I didn’t want to ask any questions as I was sure they would tell me what was expected of me when they felt they could trust me or accept me in Powers’ place. Cpl. Elwood came over, said hi, and explained that he had been in the debriefing that took place after patrols that had some action of note. Cpl. Elwood was skinny, tall, and a real country boy probably from Texas or Oklahoma judging by his accent.
He sat down on the edge of the fighting hole and explained that we got probed at night and pointed to a sub hole in the main hole and said:
If a grenade comes into the hole, you got two choices and they are both bad. One, you can jump out into incoming fire or throw the grenade into the sub hole. Or maybe it will be a dud. That happens all the time the gooks throw duds.
Then he said, “Oh, sorry man, about that Gook shit.” I said, “It’s cool. I’m actually half-Irish and one-quarter Chinese and one-quarter Hawaiian. I do have a few very close friends that you would call Gooks.” Cpl. Elwood said, “Sgt. Nocona is from one of the Islands and he was the first one to call the Viet Cong Gooks, so there you have it. Sorry, Troop.” Cpl. Elwood said he would stay with me that night and the next day we would form a new 4th fire team. I asked what happened to the 4th fire team, and he said, “We lost them at the bridge.”
The flies were bothersome and the bamboo was thick and green. As the sun went down, the mosquitoes came out.
I had taken my first photograph stepping off the commercial jetliner on Da Nang Air Base and was about ready to take my first photograph with M Company when I heard a voice say, “What kind of camera is that?” I looked around and saw a rather dirty disheveled figure looming over me holding an Olympus Penn EE. I said, “It’s an old Zeiss ikon 35 millimeter single lines reflex.” The figure retorted, “Shit, man, that’s too technical for me. Mine is an automatic that fits in my pocket.” All the guys had jungle fatigues with large pockets that carried ammo, c-rats and cameras.
Before long several guys were showing me their cameras and looking at mine. There were personal introductions and requests for any extra 35mm film. Well, I had the foresight to buy a hundred rolls of color slide film that George recommended because the Kodak lab in Hawaii would process those with little trouble.
One of the guys had a nice little Pentax but didn’t know how to use it, and we struck up a friendship based on my understanding of photography. I was surprised to see he had a telephoto lens. He said there was a PX in Da Nang and the company makes a PX run every now and then. You simply make a list and give the company driver some money and he buys everything from candy to Rolex watches. He pulled up his sleeve to revel a Rolex Oyster wristwatch. I said, “Wow!” It seems Butch had extended his tour from the first 3rd Battalion 9th Marines Regiment and he had a lot of cash saved up so he told the driver to buy him a Pentax and a Rolex and gave him $500. He knew how to wind the watch but the Pentax was a mystery, but he said he had one.
My knowing the light settings proved to be the icebreaker and soon I was giving photography classes to everyone including the 1st lieutenant platoon commander. Taking photographs of them with their cameras was simple for me but meaningful for them. I think there were more cameras in Viet Nam than guns. I had two cameras and one rifle, as did many of the guys. They went over with a big camera and bought a small one that fit in the jungle jacket pocket. Al, the battalion scout attached to Mike Co., had a 8mm movie camera and said he couldn’t afford to be killed because he had too much money invested in camera equipment.
I took a few pictures on the first patrols but after the firefights started and we had been ambushed, it seemed improper and thoughtless. It didn’t stop Al the Scout but he wasn’t really a member of Mike Co. He was an NCO attached from headquarters S-2 section to observe and report. Someone asked me how long I’d been in The Corps and I said eight months. I had or he had jinxed me. In the next firefight, I was hit in the kneecap and Medevac’d to Charlie Med. And back to the world.
I was in the Naval Medical Center San Diego Balboa, and my mother and Colette were standing there with flowers. It seemed I would have a hitch in my getty-up, and I’d be retired from The Marine Corps with ten months of service. I was promoted to lance corporal and sent home as an outpatient.
I’d come full circle and now I’d be in rehabilitation at the VA health care in LA. I discovered that my years in Judo and running cross-country along with my gym experience and determination would make me a better judge of my rehabilitation than the medical help offered. I consulted with my doctor about the plastic kneecap they had given me and we agreed on a regimen and that I’d check in with them.
I wrote Bill Mc to tell him what had happened to me but the letter was returned with note from his wife saying Bill had been shot down and taken prisoner of war. The only other information was a note from an aerial observer saying he was seen walking with his hands tied behind his back into the jungle.
My gear arrived to a storage area on Camp Pendleton, and I was sent a formal letter dealing with delivery arrangements. I called the enclosed phone number. The sergeant in charge of supply said if I had all the needed identification, I could pick up my one sea bag with contents.
This would be fun I thought and I was off on the short drive down the Coast Highway with the top down on my car which had all the necessary base stickers because it had been less than a year from the time I was last there. I was waved onto the base and headed for Camp Margarita and my rendezvous with that past life briefly lived in the blink of history’s eye.
I pulled up to the supply building, passed all the crisp utility clad young marines raking the gravel and planting ice plant. My mind filled with nostalgia even though I’d only been there a week before volunteering for The Nam. I showed my retired military ID and the supply sergeant had to take a second look. “You are retired?” he asked with a shocked look on his face and continued with a question about just how long was I in the Corps. “I was in ten months before I was retired.” “Wow,” he said “I’ve been in 16 years.” I said, “I got shot in the kneecap and there is no coming back from a knee wound, so they retired me with full pay.”
I could see my sea bag in the heap and I remembered the combination to my lock. The lock was broken and wired back together but still there. After very little paperwork, I threw the bag covered in red Viet Nam dust into the trunk of my car for later inspection over a cold beer at home by the pool. I didn’t look into the rearview mirror as I went through the main gate. That part of my life was now over.
When I got home the house was empty. My mother was off shopping, no doubt. I poured the sea bag out on the clean white tile around the poolside table and sifted through my last days in Viet Nam. I found a letter stuck inside from Butch and Cpl. Elwood that said:
Ralphie, you got lucky. After you got your Medevac, the Dinks surrounded us and tried to overrun our position. The lieutenant was KIA along with the squad leaders from 2nd and 3rd squads. We lost 17 guys WIA and it pretty much took out 1st Platoon. Sgt. Hamilton became platoon leader for two days and then he was KIA also along with Sgt. Bryant and his radioman Pfc. Allen.
All your film is safe in your sea bag. We kept the fresh unexposed film, as you know how hard it is to get it over here. Send us a bill! We kept your new jungle boots too. They fit Pvt. Zimmerman. And he says Thanks! Hope you recover, Troop.
That night I was somber and my mother asked if I wanted to be her date to a party for only a few drinks and we would make it an early night. It seemed that a cousin of Colette was trying to raise some money for a short film he was making on the drug business in the Golden Triangle and over in the Viet Nam area. “Oh, yes, you must dress for this one.” I thought, What the hell, filmmaking is my future. My letter of acceptance to Cal Arts arrived two days after I shipped out for Viet Nam.
That night was life changing. George collared me and said that Rene Petit was a good filmmaker and that if he were younger he would sign on with him for this adventure. I was impressed to hear that coming from George. After the film several people decided to return to our house and Collette would make the big pasta for about sixteen. The wine was on Mother as always, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t burdened with the cooking only the salad, and George always pitched in on the dressing. It seemed he liked mustard dressing, and if he made it he got just what he wanted.
I was drinking a beer out by the pool in the fresh air, looking at the LA lights, and wondering what was on my film. Rene approached me and said, “Does anyone mind if I smoke?” I said, “No, do whatever you want. Once you are past the front door, you make yourself at home.” He produced a monster joint and lit it up. He asked it I wanted a hit and to be polite I took a small toke up didn’t want to get stoned.
I asked about his film and he invited me to come along as a fellow traveler because he didn’t have the cash to hire anyone. Collette had made her way to the joint and gave us a proper introduction in French telling me that Rene was her first cousin on her mother’s side of the family and that they shared an interest in a big coffee plantation in Viet Nam that was run by Rene’s half-brother who was a Vietnamese communist with a capitalist mentality. Seemed he liked money. Rene was impressed with my French and Collette took full credit, rightfully so. She had tutored me in many areas and French was only one. I told Rene that I’d like to tag along and learn as much as I could and that I’d pay my way and help carry the gear. He said he hired locals out of respect for the warlords and that was the way we did business over there. Rene had a backer for his film and it was one of the guys at the dinner, won over by Colette’s pasta no doubt – or that joint!
We would be leaving in a week for Thailand where we would then fly into Laos, go by river, and then walk. I told my mother that this interested me and she understood and supported me. Financially the orange orchard supported me and a trust that kept my aunt out of my business supported me too.
But my mother had to talk with her about my father’s part of the farm. Mother’s Hollywood lawyers had given the aunt hands-off orders she understood and life was good.
Rene advised we would travel light and buy local clothing. But for the camera equipment we looked poor. I suspected that my Asian profile didn’t hurt. Thailand or Viet Nam, same-same GI.
It smelled like rotting vegetation and poverty. We had money wired to a bank in Laos that was connected to a bank in Paris that had ties with the North Vietnamese and the South Vietnamese as well. As the Mexicans say, “Dollars make the dog dance and without them you dance like a dog!” This was fun. Rene knew his way around and everyone spoke French. English was kept in the suitcase on this trip. The river trip was revealing and soldiers were everywhere with AK-47s. Only once did anyone question us, but Rene showed a pass and gave him a small bag of heroin.
We arrived at the coffee plantation that was a villa in the middle of a vast orchard with acres of coffee trees and rubber trees. They had generators, television, radio, lights, and hot water. Also available were good French wine and cold beer from Belgium and the Philippines. This was a really nice operation. They also had Viet Cong guards. I wondered if one of them was the bastard that had shot me.
Rene said his half-brother, Louis, was out working in the field and would be back at night for dinner. Rene showed me my room and said I was to make myself at home because this was his house too. “In the closet you will find clothes to change into and, yes, the shower has hot water!” The bed had a mosquito net and a fan from a ’twenties movie set. The whole thing was a stage and simply over the top.
I found the clothes, showered, got dressed, and moved down the stairs cautiously with an eye on the guards. I could hear Rene talking with someone as I rounded the corner into the big hotel bar-like room. Rene said, “Ralph, I want you to meet my brother, Louis.” Christ! He was 6 foot 3 inches tall, 230 pounds, and much too dark to be French. He was, in fact, an African Vietnamese mix wearing a khaki uniform. With him were two green uniformed soldiers carrying grease guns. We spoke in French and exchanged pleasantries, but he could read me like a book saying, “I’m African via Mozambique and Vietnamese via the North. What are you Ralph?” “Well,” said I, “I’m Hawaiian, Chinese and Irish.” “All good people, Ralph,” he says. I must say I liked him at once.
He started to speak English and asked if I was more comfortable speaking English, and he explained that all the guards on the plantation speak French, English, and of course Vietnamese. I said, “It looks like you have your own army.” He told me he was a colonel in the North Vietnamese Army and a part-time farmer. He said he would provide Rene’s film crew with protection and men to carry the supplies and camera equipment.
Rene said that tomorrow he had to make a propaganda movie for Louis dealing with an American POW and there was no need for me to come along because it might make me feel uncomfortable. I said, “Quite the contrary. I’d been to journalism school and although I dropped my major I had majored in journalism. The war is controversial and it must be reported on from both sides.”
I was in shock when the POWs were led into the barn to be filmed for newsreels in North Viet Nam and France. I was sick and went outside into the open air. Rene said he had told me, and he was right.
The next day we were off on a two-week trek down the river smuggling heroin from one point to another. It was the Ho Chi Min Trail but instead of guns and supplies, we carried millions of dollars in drugs and several young pretty girls bound to each other by chain and wrist bracelets. I said, “What’s this, Rene?” Rene said, “They throw in a few girls for the warlords to keep them happy. They have been doing it for centuries before this troublesome war of yours!” We had a party to celebrate the success of the filming and the happiness brought by the gift of the girls.
The next morning we were on a motor craft back upriver to the plantation. We enjoyed a big dinner that night with good French wine. Louis was there with several of his girlfriends, one or which a French girl who could cook. Over Cuban cigars after dinner and several glasses of Courvoisier Cognac I said to Louis that I was interested in one of the American POWs who had been held for over a year with no news for his family. Louis was, after all, a sport interested in money, a capitalist/communist, drug and slave trader, and a cousin of Colette.
I had some leverage here. I said, “Hey, Louis, now that I see how things work in this part of the world, I want to buy an army officer that is being held POW. Louis said, “Okay, Ralph, give me his information.” At that moment, everything I had been taught by Master Tu about meditation, slowing the heart, and patience all went into play. I thought that Bill Mc’s life was about to change. Rene came in and said, “I see the wheels turning!”
Louis laughed and put a massive arm around my shoulders and said, “Rene, thank you for bringing Ralph to our house. He possesses inner chi and has studied with a master. I feel it in his energy, I see the glow from the light. Tomorrow I’ll take you to Father Ky.”
As the sun was coming through the window, Louis knocked on the door and said, “Let’s go, Ralph.” I got up, dressed, and went downstairs where Louis had an army Jeep waiting with two guards in the back. I said that the Jeep looked familiar and Louis said it had been a gift and smiled. We drove at a high rate of speed down the hard packed road and arrived at a beautiful little church in a jungle clearing with cobblestone walks. Louis said, “Go inside and we will wait.” I walked inside and met Father Ky, who immediately asked when I had last been to confession and I said, “Three weeks ago,” and he smiled. I received his blessing and we prayed. Then he walked me to the Jeep, where Louis was waiting. Everyone bowed to Father Ky and smiled. It was strange to be here but necessary and I said, “Thank you, Louis.”
We were off in a blast of speed. Obviously Louis fancied himself a racecar driver! Rene was waiting for us, and I told him I needed to make a call to the States. We got on a local bus with chickens and pigs and headed into Da Nang. It was a long smelly trip and Louis had a guard go part way with us. The cameras were a pass, we looked like newsmen. Da Nang had a hotel where the newsmen stayed and the phones were connected to New York. However, I needed Louisville, Kentucky and the McAlister Cadillac Dealership.
I placed a call and charged it to my home phone in Los Angles. The fellow who answered the phone was surprised when I said I was a friend of Bill Mc and put me through to Bill, Senior. As I explained who I was, he said he knew my name from Bill Mc. I said, “I need all the info on Bill Mc’s capture,” and he said that he had a file close by and read all the information to me. Bill Mc had been flying support and was shot down on 3OCT66 at An Trach at 14:30. He was seen being dragged from the burning chopper by an unarmed aerial observer flying a Piper Cub out of Da Nang Air Base. That was all the info available. I told him I’d get back to him, hung up, and called my mother. Mother was happy to hear from me and said everything was wonderful in California and she wished I were there.
Rene knew the hotel and some of the reporters so we had drinks at the bar and shot the shit with the news guys before dinner. The food was questionable. I wanted sleep, a few beers, and a shower. Armed with the information Louis needed, we returned to the plantation for real food and good beer and wine. I wondered aloud how Louis did it and he smiled and said he was a smuggler.
The information was dispatched with a runner and it would be several days before we received an answer so Rene wanted to get more footage as he had two more cans of film and he thought good scenes along the river could be important at some point. We loaded up, and the activity did help the time go by. The flies all day, mosquitoes all night, and the damned leeches were a bother, but it was the bamboo viper in a nest of babies that gave pause.
The return was fruitful. Louis said with a smile that Bill Mc was being held by a Viet Cong group loosely connected with another group that could be dealt with. The question was the price. I said, “I’ll pay what they want. Let’s make a deal.” Louis said that Bill Mc was being fed and cleaned up and would be made ready for a trade in a short time. It seemed Bill Mc was moved to Laos and we were to go to the capitol, check into a hotel, and make ourselves comfortable. Louis said it was a done deal as it was a good time for a vacation in Paris and he would go along to make sure everything went smoothly. He liked the capital city. I hadn’t asked the price. You know, if you ask the price you can’t afford it.
The boat ride was uneventful unless you count hiding under trees from American Cobras that could blast us out of the water with one rocket. We arrived at the hotel and I was delighted to get a hot shower. Louis got himself a big room with a balcony and Rene got a more modest room. I was more interested in a room with a bathtub. I wanted to soak for a couple of days.
Louis said, “This transaction will take several days.” It seemed they had a contact in Paris at the bank and the deposits were made in small amounts over a few weeks so the money can be dispersed and divided because everyone needed his cut and the warlord got his larger cut. I said, “I’d like some proof Bill Mc is alive and well.” Louis told me not to worry and that they had been dealing with families for several years now. I was surprised that this was going on undercover without the news media getting a hold of it. Louis said that if too much was at stake they would simply kill the hostage and get another one.
One night after dinner my room phone rang and I answered it. A voice came on that said in French to wait a moment, then with a clear voice I heard Bill Mc say, “Ralphie, are you there?” I said, “Wow, man, how are you?” and he said, “Not as hungry as I had been. Thanks for getting me moved.” I said, “Where are you?” He said, “Ask this guy.” A voice said, “Don’t ask too many questions. This will be over soon,” and hung up.
I went to Rene’s room but he wasn’t in. I went to Louis’s room and, again, no answer. I went down to the bar and there they were waiting. The conversation was in French and the fellow they were talking with was not introduced. He was wearing a gold Rolex Oyster, and I wondered from whom he got that. But this was no time for hard feelings or feelings at all. Master Tu would go into the calming stage of waiting and observing without emotion. That’s what I did.
I ordered a beer and waited. We all talked without using names. I was handed a note with a number on it and the name of a bank in Paris. The note said, “Deposit two hundred thousand in this numbered account.” I called Bill, Senior and left a message for him to call me at any time of day.
The next day I received the return call and told Bill, Senior that I wanted him to know that I had talked with Bill Mc and was arranging finances to payoff his captors. I wanted him to notify Bill Mc’s wife. He said he wanted to come over so I told him how to go about traveling to this area. I called Mattie, my mother’s attorney, and asked him to free up some money and deposit the $200,000 in the numbered account at the Morgan Bank in Paris. The orange orchard had been kind to me over the years and I hadn’t touched my trust fund until now and the time seemed right.
A week had gone by and there was a knock on the door. It was Bill, Senior. He was in the room down the hall with his wife. I said they should take my room as I was waiting for a call and it would be Bill Mc. I said that they will give instructions, and that he should play ball, be calm, and make sure he got all instructions. He agreed and Mrs. McAlister had the baggage moved into my room and I went to their room.
I was in their room when the phone rang and a voice in French asked why I’d moved and told me to go down to the bar. I said, “Please call my room and put my friend on the phone as his father will answer.” I hung up and went to the bar. The same guy was there. We shook hands and I ordered a beer and asked what he would have. He had a hot rice wine. I was puzzled at the choice and he said, “It helps me breathe.” He had been napalmed while hiding in a tunnel. I said I was sorry but very happy he had survived to be there today with me.
He smiled and my teachings served as I quieted my heart rate and showed no emotion. He drank the hot rice wine and got up. A young woman approached and handed me a note. It was the same demand, 200K in the numbered account. Bill, Senior was standing behind me with wet cheeks saying he talked briefly with Billy and was very happy. His wife couldn’t come down. I saw Rene and Louis at a corner table but they didn’t look up. Bill, Senior asked what they wanted and I said another 200K in the same account. He said he was rich and was good for all the expenses. I said, “Well, in that case you can buy my friends a drink and motioned him to Louis and Rene’s table. After an introduction we all had a drink on Mr. McAlister’s room bill.
This was really a step in the right direction, and Rene said it was too bad he couldn’t film it. Louis said they would kill us all even me. Then he said, “There is only one way to do this and it is their way straight without tricks. It is just money.” I told Louis I had made another deposit of 200K in the bank in Paris. He said, “Expect the next payment to be the same but in a different bank and a different number,” because it would be for another player. After that the payment will be for more and end at one million. I did not blink and Louis knew I was keeping my composure through meditation. Even though I was with them in body, I was some place far away.
Mr. McAlister said, “I can do that. When?” Louis said, “Learn from Ralph to wait. That is why he gave you his room with the tub!” How did he know I gave up the tub? The first 200K was for my good friend Louis. But that was okay. I’d give him twice that – but remember Colette was his cousin. The price was the price no matter how it was carved up. The important thing was Bill Mc was receiving food and better care now.
I had to think about the guys Rene filmed and the girls in chains, but if I could get one out all better and if it were Bill Mc, well, we will wait for the others. The question would be: are all POWs for sale? And the girls in chains, do they have a price? Is this another documentary out there? Rene is right about it, but if Louis is right also and they kill us, what is the point unless the greater good is served? The liberation of enslaved people and now the ethics of journalism are in play and that is not my field.
The next call came in the middle of the night and Mrs. McAlister answered the phone to hear her Billy’s voice say, “Mommy, they are taking me to another location, and I have a deposit number and a new bank in Lyon. Go to the bar,” and he hung up. Bill, Senior knocked on my door and gave me the news along with the instructions to go to the bar. The young woman was waiting with a folded piece of paper and it had the name of the bank in Lyon. I called Mattie and left instructions on his machine to transfer the 300K to the bank.
We would wait again to hear what we were to do next. Bill, Senior told me he had freed up all the needed cash and was ready to take over payments and to reimburse my accounts. Louis said he wanted to talk with us and invited everyone to lunch on the terrace that faces the big boulevard. At lunch Louis informed us he had been told that there was unrest in the ranks and North Viet Nam was unhappy with the dealings of their POWs being made into a commercial adventure for the few. We must be ready for the final installment of 300K, making the payment one million dollars total.
As we sat at the table watching the crazy driving tactics of the locals, a black Citron swung to the outside lane in an out of place circular movement, which put the rear window square into our sight. Looking out of that back window was Bill Mc. He smiled and Bill, Senior stood up and dropped his spoon back into his soup. The Citron sped away and vanished into the traffic. Mrs. McAlister missed the event and looked at Bill, Senior in a questioning way.
The waiter appeared at the table like a puff of smoke with a folded piece of paper that he handed to Louis. Louis handed it to me for a translation and I told Bill, Senior that they wanted 500K deposited in a numbered account in a well-known Swiss bank. Bill Mc’s sister was living at the dealership twenty-four hours a day and no matter the hour of day she answered the phone ready to set in motion the final transaction, which would take over three days to complete. We must wait.
I understood the need for Louis to return to his operations and the coffee plantation. His vacation was really baby-sitting and holding hands as so much could go wrong, but it was over and he had done all he could. He had chartered a pilot to fly the McAlisters to Thailand when the time came and had driven me to the airfield and introduced me to the American freelancing for the pay to fly that wasn’t cheap – and cash only. It seemed a body took up valuable weight and space on his old DC-3. The money was divided into three installments that took a week to complete. With the transaction completed and Louis gone, Rene and I simply waited at the bar talking about a documentary on the slave trade as the POW question had been too complicated for the drug dealers and the North Vietnam generals were having second thoughts.
On the fourth day I was handed a room key and told that my friend was waiting. I strolled down the long hall with my heels clicking against the teak hardwood floor and arrived at room 408 and slid the key into the lock. There sitting in a chair by the open window was a very thin Bill Mc. I said, “Let’s get a beer at the bar and I have someone I want you to see!” He had seen his parents from the car so he knew they were waiting. It was no surprise when we entered the McAlisters’ hotel room.
I left them and joined Rene at the bar to hash out our plans for the next project. Rene agreed this was a good story but it could jeopardize the plantation and the money was too good to put it all in danger. The McAlisters appeared at the bar and I could see the porter with their bags. I said, “Have you got plenty of cash in greenbacks? Those bags are going to cost you in weight on this cargo plane.” Mr. McAlister said, “At this point my toothbrush is worth $50,000 to me!”
We were off in a big limousine Rene had hired to take us to the airfield. Sparky the pilot knew the story and he had flown F-4s, so with Bill Mc in the copilot’s seat, both had something to talk about. Sparky had an envelope with instructions for the McAlisters to follow to the letter. Bill Mc would be debriefed and Mr. and Mrs. McAlister would be questioned but the details of Bill Mc’s escape must be kept quiet in case the atmosphere presented another buyout to freedom.
tomvanderzyl 