As I learned in A.A., God does indeed take care of drunks and fools. I qualify on both scores. Monday, April 12, is the 65th anniversary of my being hit on Okinawa, a place I had never heard of and took me a while to remember how to spell. And while everyone seems to think that at my advanced age that I am now living in my golden years, I can assure one and all of the pure bull shit of that conclusion.
My golden years started in my callow youth and ended in my late 70's. Those in between years including the ones in the service were, in retrospect, my golden years. I was a profligate spender my entire life...on my family, my friends and certainly myself. I was always certain that I could replace the considerable amount of money that I spent every day. And replace it I did into my late 70's. I loved every minute of giving it away and spending it.
The first sign of the end of my golden years came when my dick started to die. I went from hookers galore, loose and easy, to a once in awhile triumph of being able to do it. Hookers, as I have often said, were wonderful. For a few hundred dollars, I got to fall in love for a half an hour a time. I didn't have to make any conversation and the burden of proof was never on me. And when it was over she was gone. No cuddling!! My decline during my Golden Years became really apparent when pictures of naked, beautiful young women with big boobs (aka tits) failed to titillate me. Then when people started asking me if I was retired, I knew that my golden years had, for the most part, ended. I lived my golden years believing that moderation was fatal and plenty fucking boring as well. In my ongoing view, very little done in excess was very little done.
I did for doing's sake, not to generate a reward. I have always wanted to, and still want to, touch people's lives and the devil take the hind most. Putting myself under the gun (as in spending more than I made) provided the impetus (aka adrenaline) that I needed to keep me in money making motion. Sadly, I think my contretemps wore my first ex wife out by the time she was 23 (She was 22 when we were married). I am sure, in retrospect, that she actively disliked me very soon after getting married. Probably within the first two weeks of our marriage. Her bedtime headaches became legion. But I ended up with four great kids with her.
So here I am, 65 years after taking one on Okinawa, as happy as a pig in shit with at least 70 Golden Years. The last five years haven't been too swift, but with 70 Golden Years out of 86 total years my life has been more than just okay. My Golden Years started with my first erection at around the age of 10. Getting hit on Okinawa 65 years ago, is something to remember and for some weird reason, something I'm proud of. And who the hell is Simon Murray?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Jumping the Devil, Again
Thursday is 65 years to the day, Easter Sunday April 1, 1945, when U.S. troops landed on Okinawa. It was a bright beautiful day with the battleship's cannons roaring. While I didn't participate in the initial landing (landed the 2nd or 3rd) the noise and ferocity of the bombardment by the battleships with troops landing simultaneously was an unforgettable moment in my life.
There was no resistance to the landings and the biggest risk was getting wet. The fighting came into being when the infantry moved into the hills where the Japanese had entrenched themselves. At the same time it started pissing rain and everyone was up to their asses in mud. As a communication/radio outfit our initial chore was to establish communications with Saipan. None of the other dot dit guys could pull it off. So up jumped the devil again. Captain Gooch sent for me as a last resort the filling station operator reluctantly called on me. The walk in the thigh deep mud to the radio tent was unfucking real.
When I did raise Saipan, my big moment in the service, he was happy that we connected but annoyed that the Bronx, loud mouth Jew had pulled it off. I must comment that in some regards, while I did take a bullet in my leg, some of our WWII efforts in the field don't compare with the trials and tribulations of the kids in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Those guys and gals are true heroes.
There was no resistance to the landings and the biggest risk was getting wet. The fighting came into being when the infantry moved into the hills where the Japanese had entrenched themselves. At the same time it started pissing rain and everyone was up to their asses in mud. As a communication/radio outfit our initial chore was to establish communications with Saipan. None of the other dot dit guys could pull it off. So up jumped the devil again. Captain Gooch sent for me as a last resort the filling station operator reluctantly called on me. The walk in the thigh deep mud to the radio tent was unfucking real.
When I did raise Saipan, my big moment in the service, he was happy that we connected but annoyed that the Bronx, loud mouth Jew had pulled it off. I must comment that in some regards, while I did take a bullet in my leg, some of our WWII efforts in the field don't compare with the trials and tribulations of the kids in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Those guys and gals are true heroes.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The Undying Hate of Captain Gooch
There was not an officer born who liked me when I was in the Army. And not very far behind were the non coms. I was a street kid from the Bronx with a firm belief that unless you were from New York, you were a hick who didn't know shit. I had the big, loud mouth to go with it. That attitude kept me a private for a very long time.
After I returned to my outfit from radio operator's school, I taught myself how to type and became a high speed radio operator and the second fastest dot/dit guy in the radio group. Lieutenant Hamlin then called me in his office to proudly tell me that he was going to put me in for PFC which came with a $4.00 a month pay raise (the base pay was $50 a month). I told the Lieutenant that I would pass the promotion. I was the ranking private in my barracks, a private longer than anybody else in the barracks and liked that distinction. So I told him to "give the $4 a month to someone who needed it".
That brilliant move really accelerated my application to get transferred to an outfit that was going overseas. Ah, the folly of youth. Hamlin couldn't wait to get rid of me, so I was sent as a high speed radio operator (with a high speed confrontational big mouth) to Ft. Lewis to join the 241st Signal Corps Group which was attached to the Sixth Army. The 241st was out of Boston consisting mostly of Boston Irish from Scollay Square. They were tough mothers who always wanted to beat the shit out of any Jew. But embarkation on the troop ship saw the end of that attitude. We also had a few homos, as gays were called in those days, and no one gave a fiddler's fuck. People who never served with gays don't know shit, only ignorant prejudice.
Captain Gooch, the Commanding Officer, who had owned a filling station in civilian life, was our fearless National Guard leader who thought that enlisted men were dirt. About a week after my arrival, some guy was packing his duffle bag and I asked him where he was going. "Home for a 10 day furlough". Officers got "leave", grunts got "furloughs". Like I was shot out of a cannon, I was in the Headquarters Office asking the Master Sergeant to see Capt. Gooch. The Sgt. asked me why, and I told him I wanted a furlough as I hadn't been home for 18 months. He said no chance because we were getting ready to ship out. I told him that was bull shit because of the guy I spoke with. The Sgt.'s comment was "No wonder, with soldiers like you we might lose this fucking war". But he did allow me to see the Captain who turned me down with that same lame alibi. And my big mouth went into high gear culminating in a threat to turn the son of a bitch into the IG (Inspector General) if he didn't treat me like everyone else. That really pissed off Captain Gooch, and he never forgot the confrontation.
When I made Sergeant because some poor bastard was killed, Captain Gooch could barely contain himself. But my fuck you and the horse that brung you attitude got me the furlough and the undying hate of Captain Gooch.
After I returned to my outfit from radio operator's school, I taught myself how to type and became a high speed radio operator and the second fastest dot/dit guy in the radio group. Lieutenant Hamlin then called me in his office to proudly tell me that he was going to put me in for PFC which came with a $4.00 a month pay raise (the base pay was $50 a month). I told the Lieutenant that I would pass the promotion. I was the ranking private in my barracks, a private longer than anybody else in the barracks and liked that distinction. So I told him to "give the $4 a month to someone who needed it".
That brilliant move really accelerated my application to get transferred to an outfit that was going overseas. Ah, the folly of youth. Hamlin couldn't wait to get rid of me, so I was sent as a high speed radio operator (with a high speed confrontational big mouth) to Ft. Lewis to join the 241st Signal Corps Group which was attached to the Sixth Army. The 241st was out of Boston consisting mostly of Boston Irish from Scollay Square. They were tough mothers who always wanted to beat the shit out of any Jew. But embarkation on the troop ship saw the end of that attitude. We also had a few homos, as gays were called in those days, and no one gave a fiddler's fuck. People who never served with gays don't know shit, only ignorant prejudice.
Captain Gooch, the Commanding Officer, who had owned a filling station in civilian life, was our fearless National Guard leader who thought that enlisted men were dirt. About a week after my arrival, some guy was packing his duffle bag and I asked him where he was going. "Home for a 10 day furlough". Officers got "leave", grunts got "furloughs". Like I was shot out of a cannon, I was in the Headquarters Office asking the Master Sergeant to see Capt. Gooch. The Sgt. asked me why, and I told him I wanted a furlough as I hadn't been home for 18 months. He said no chance because we were getting ready to ship out. I told him that was bull shit because of the guy I spoke with. The Sgt.'s comment was "No wonder, with soldiers like you we might lose this fucking war". But he did allow me to see the Captain who turned me down with that same lame alibi. And my big mouth went into high gear culminating in a threat to turn the son of a bitch into the IG (Inspector General) if he didn't treat me like everyone else. That really pissed off Captain Gooch, and he never forgot the confrontation.
When I made Sergeant because some poor bastard was killed, Captain Gooch could barely contain himself. But my fuck you and the horse that brung you attitude got me the furlough and the undying hate of Captain Gooch.
Monday, March 15, 2010
God Takes Care of Drunks and Fools
We shipped out of Fort Lewis December 1944 on our way to God knows where. But the trip was aborted and the troop transport ship had to go back after two really rough days in the Pacific with lots of vomiting (most of us had never been on a ship before). And then we were on our way.
We stopped in Hawaii and were ensconced in Schofield Barracks. It was there that I made corporal, much to Captain Gooch's chagrin. I had made myself into a high speed radio operator and was being assigned to General Buckner as his personal radio operator. Captain Gooch couldn't send a private and say that I was above average in competence. The Captain literally said that he hated to make me a corporal but felt that he had no choice (why he disliked me is a story in itself). So I dragged my ass over to headquarters and was soon on a half track learning how to use a 50 caliber machine gun which had very little appeal to me.
When I was told that I was expected to dig the General's latrines, I was determined to fuck up and be sent back to my outfit, the 241st Signal Corps Group. I dropped radio equipment and even books as we were getting ready to ship out, doing everything to look like a klutz. I was successful (it was easy) and was sent back to my outfit. General Buckner and his radio operator were killed on Okinawa which once again proves that God takes care of drunks and fools.
We stopped in Hawaii and were ensconced in Schofield Barracks. It was there that I made corporal, much to Captain Gooch's chagrin. I had made myself into a high speed radio operator and was being assigned to General Buckner as his personal radio operator. Captain Gooch couldn't send a private and say that I was above average in competence. The Captain literally said that he hated to make me a corporal but felt that he had no choice (why he disliked me is a story in itself). So I dragged my ass over to headquarters and was soon on a half track learning how to use a 50 caliber machine gun which had very little appeal to me.
When I was told that I was expected to dig the General's latrines, I was determined to fuck up and be sent back to my outfit, the 241st Signal Corps Group. I dropped radio equipment and even books as we were getting ready to ship out, doing everything to look like a klutz. I was successful (it was easy) and was sent back to my outfit. General Buckner and his radio operator were killed on Okinawa which once again proves that God takes care of drunks and fools.
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