Oscar Wilde & Okinawa

Was it Oscar Wilde who said that it is too bad that youth is wasted on the young? 

Getting old can be fun but being old ain't for wimps or sissies. When you're old you sure can't buy green bananas or fuck with small trees.

All that fitness stuff that I read fails to mention that at 30,40,50,69,70, even 80 you have stamina that is a warm memory at 89. To think that I rode,on my Merckx, 3,500 to 4,000 miles a year going into my late 80's is almost disgusting.

Now, peddling on my bike to nowhere, doing intervals and being a borderline wimp, I quit after 30 minutes and often think of how much of my youth I wasted with cockamamie excuses of why I didn't get off of my lowercase Bronx, Jewish ass and do something besides thinking of work, sex and getting a piece of ass. That, in spite if the absolute fact that I couldn't get laid in a whorehouse if I had a $100 bill stuck to my forehead.

Except when I was on my way home from Okinawa/Korea on a hospital ship. We we stopped in Yokohama and were allowed off the ship for a few hours. Being mostly mobile (When you're young, schlepping a shot up leg to a whorehouse made no never mind. The whorehouse was an attainable goal), I was let off the ship for a few hours, along with other mobile GI's, and off we tramped excitedly to a whorehouse.

To hell with booze and a steak. An orgasm was the deal.

Arrived safely at the house of ill repute, paid my money, stripped own to my bare ass and climbed in bed with a naked Japanese, flat chested hooker. In those days,if you contracted a 'social disease' like gonorrhea, known then as a 'dose', you couldn't get out of the fucking Army for at least 60 days or until you were declared cured, whichever came last. 

I decided that the moment of relief wasn't worth 60 extra days in the Army. I had about a minute and a half of 'non-intrusive sex', got dressed leaving physically relieved but mentally frustrated and dysfunctional. Back on the ship, everyone talked about getting laid, except me. I was too ashamed to confess to a 'hand job'.

Thank God, that I always believed  my Pop who used to say, in Yiddish, "In America, the money is up to your knees.You just have to know how to bend down and pick it up"..Yeah, a non sequitur. 

My Pop entered my stream of consciousness. 


This photo was taken in 1946, aboard the USS St.Mihiel which was serving as a hospital ship. It hauled my ass from Korea to Los Angeles by way of Yokohama and Honolulu. The trip took over a month. Wrote my folks almost every day with mailings from the stops. Hard to believe that I was ever 22 years old.

Golden Years

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?

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.

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.

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.

Veteran's Day Musings

Today I was remembering being in Leyte, Philippines to practice landings. We had to go over the side of the ship into a landing craft which was a really scary procedure. It was one of the very few times in the service that I was truly frightened. (When you're 20 you mostly think that you are fucking invulnerable and will live forever.). We climbed up and down on Jacob's Ladders which were rope. As you climbed, they slammed ever so little against the slightly rolling ship. Every so often some poor son of a bitch would slip, fall and drown with his back pack, rifle and shoes that weighed a ton. Yeah, it was plenty scary, but God takes care of drunks and fools so I was okay.

The other time that I was scared out of my mind was when I was flat on my back in a hospital tent after being hit waiting to be transported to a hospital ship. The Japanese planes flying back overhead were plenty fucking unnerving. Enough to make a grown man piss in his pants from fear. But my pants had been cut from me so I was okay. Nothing to do for those few seconds (which seemed like a life time) but be bone chilling scared...

There were more scary experiences. I was in a hospital/recovery facility on Saipan and had been assigned to a desk job in a tent/office. The Japanese hadn't been totally cleaned out and there were some still holed up in the hills. Every so often they would come out of their caves and attack some American troops. Those bullets from the hills would come into the camp. Everyone scattered and I was under the desk. I had learned by then that bullets could raise hell with me. And every so often, waiting on the Coca Cola line, those bullets would start raining down on us and we would "fly" into the ditches. We all knew by then, after being hit once, that we could get hit again. Getting back to our units was the prime drive. Very few thought of going home and getting out.

Easter 1945

Well this upcoming Easter Sunday marks 64 years (1945) since I was hit on Okinawa. Actually the first U.S. troops landed on April 1, 1945 which was a beautiful Easter Sunday. (My group landed on April 4.) I can still see, in my mind's eye, the flashes of the cannons of the battle ships as the guns were fired incessantly. The roar was unbelievable, and it was also unbelievable that all hell was being unleashed on an Easter Sunday in a place that no one had ever heard of, Okinawa.

But feelings of camaraderie and awe as we spoke of "our turn" will never be replaced. Jews, Catholics, Gays (Yeah we had Gays in our outfit and absolutely no one gave a fiddler's fuck), Straights, Blacks, Whites, Episcopalians...we were all one. It stayed that way for the remainder of the war. I never thought that I would look at those days nostalgicly, but I do in the twilight of my years.

As Joe Gruss would say, "Goodbye, good luck, so long."

Sleepless Christmas Eve 2008

So here is Christmas Eve and guard duty at Fort Lewis Christmas Eve 1944 comes to mind. I had volunteered for guard duty so that a Christian GI could go to church. And as I walked the perimeter of Ft. Lewis, I could see the houses on the other side of the fence across the road, all decked out with Christmas decorations. I can still see it in my mind's eye including the people in the houses celebrating Christmas. And I remember, vividly, that overwhelming feeling of loneliness as tears streamed from my eyes. So Christmas Eve these past 64 years has always been special to this Old Jew. And I feel blessed that God put me in the army, gave me the opportunity to serve my country and still allows my tears to stream, 64 years later after a rich and fruitful life.

After being hit on Okinawa, April 12, 1945 the Army shipped my ass to the ambulatory hospital on Saipan which was not a "cool" place to be. And I'm not talking about the weather. When everyone around you is a war casualty, it's hard to elicit any sympathy because I could barely walk up that fucking hill to the mess hall. Where else would the army put the mess hall except in the most inconvenient, pain inducing location? There were Japanese soldiers with ammo still left in the hills who didn't know or care that the U.S. had taken the island. Almost every day machine gun fire would erupt from those hills, and we'd all scramble like crazy for some kind, any kind of cover. Once hit, twice shy.

When that bullet went through my leg on Okinawa, I realized for the first time that I was not omnipotent. I had lost my cherry on Okinawa. Bullet wounds do hurt and really can kill. As one did to Sgt Boggs. What really pissed everyone off was that machine gun fire coming down from the hills would come when we were in the Coke line. You absolutely lost your place in the line when scrambling. Not being too mobile meant that I was always ended up at the end of the God damn newly formed line. While on Saipan, I would go on sick call almost daily and complain about my difficulty in navigating the walk up to the fucking mess hall hill three times a day with constant discomfort (aka pain). And for awful food to boot! Those ass hole, newly minted lieutenants in their crispy, clean stateside fresh uniforms would tell me that there was nothing wrong with my leg, and that I was just bucking for a discharge. I also was accused of trying for a Section 8 discharge for mental disorder because of my bizarre behavior concerning my leg and otherwise.

A starchy clean, schmuck of a newly arrived doctor really got annoyed with me and shouted, "Do you want me to hold your leg?" To which I replied "Yeah, for as long as it would help" where upon he went off the fucking wall and threatened to have me court martialed. He did, however, send me to another doctor, a pediatrician in civilian life. He took the time and trouble to really examine my x-rays and discovered that all the bones in my knee were shattered from the impact of the bullet going through the flesh and bone of my leg. However knowing what was wrong with me didn't make mess hall hill any less steeper or shorter. And my Jewish ass really missed those ass hole Boston Irish from my outfit, so I started making noise to leave Saipan and rejoin my outfit on that other Garden Spot, Okinawa. Back I went to rejoin my anti Semitic (and who cared) buddies again.

Radio Days

"With guys like you in the army, no wonder we're losing this fucking war!" the First Sergeant of my outfit "lovingly" said to me for no particular reason. He just looked at me and reacted. He was “Regular Army", which generally meant that he had gone into the service during the Great Depression or earlier. Those regular army guys went into the service to get a job and make a living. Pragmatism not patriotism combined with a ton of prejudice were at the core of their beings. So when I returned from radio operator school, he sent my ass to Camp Hayden out on the Olympic Peninsula near Port Angeles….knock out place. The radio shack overlooked the Straits of Juan de Fuqua and Crescent Beach. The big thrill was that I got to drive the jeep from the camp to the lookout installation.

I taught myself how to type and became a high speed radio operator. As a reward the Lieutenant wanted to promote me to Pfc and get $4 a month raise. I really pissed him off by telling him to give the $4 a month to someone who really wanted it. After all, I had been a private longer than anyone in my outfit. I didn't want to lose the distinction of being the ranking private in the barracks.

I should go back to my radio school days which were fairly brutal. The mornings started with reveille and the sergeant screaming "Drop your c..ks and grab your socks!" He was a barrel of laughs. Every fucking Saturday we went on a 15 mile forced march loaded with full gear. If you were on or near the end of the line, you always running to keep from getting your ass chewed out for falling behind. And hot? Heat in the low hundreds and that after spending the night in tar roof barracks which was like spending a night in a sauna. The camp had previously been a Japanese detention center. A truly terrible facility.

No three day passes, so I did every thing imaginable to get the hell out of there including grinding my heel into the lens of my glasses. The camp had no way to replace it, so I got a three day pass. Worked for the three days at an almond packing plant (constipated for a week). I unloaded freight cars for the Southern Pacific working at the foundry for 16 straight hours for $1.00 an hour for the first eight hours, $1.50 an hour for the second four hours and $2.00 an hour for the next four hours.

I then went back to camp with new lens and enough money to be able to shoot craps and to get plastered on my next overnight to Sacramento. I was a great craps shooter. Made money almost all the time.

Virginity and Army Life

Losing my virginity on the front lawn of the Capital building in Sacramento, asking to be transferred to a unit going overseas, making Corporal, my Father wanting to get a General friend of his to get me into OTC and me turning him down.

It all started with me going to the draft board and jumping up and down to get into the service. I asked to have my 4F status reviewed, which they did and stamped my papers "Not to be shipped overseas" at my insistence (ignored later on). The day I went into the service, March 30, 1943, I felt like King Kong as my folks said goodbye to me at Pennsylvania Station. This scene is still emblazoned in my mind's eye. I was on my way to Fort Dix, NJ for "indoctrination". Then after a few days, it was off to Fort Sill, Oklahoma for basic training in the field artillery.

Taking a Bronx Jew like me and slapping my ass into Oklahoma was traumatic. Lawton, Oklahoma was not quite like 42nd Street in N.Y. Being the only guy from NY, I was sure that no one else in my unit knew jack shit. I had little difficulty in pissing off a lot of people. But after being in a few fist fights and getting my head handed to me a few times, I toned that rhetoric down a lot. Passive aggressive behavior then became fun for me.

Marching to "Over Hill Over Dale" with a heavy rifle (no carbines at basic training) and a back pack that seemed to weigh 100 pounds was not like spending a day at the beach. I found that Oklahoma had absolutely nothing to recommend it. Downright ugly with downright ugly weather. Basic training was not, on any level, fun. Constant discomfort with everyone pissing and moaning and groaning over the physical stress plus something less then gourmet food became my lifestyle. Intellectual stimulation was no where to be found.

Then, I was shipped to Fort Worden and the Coast Artillery. It was on the Olympic Peninsula, very beautiful. The fort is currently a National Park. I "pulled" KP duty for my first three weeks there. My big mouth and my general fuck you attitude did me in again with the First Sargent. After three solid weeks of peeling potatoes, I saw a guy packing his duffle bag and I asked him where he was going. "To radio operator school outside of Sacramento," he said. I quickly realized that I had just discovered my exit from a lifetime of peeling spuds and washing giant pots and pans. It was my day off (2 on 1 off, the "on" days were 16 hour days). I hustled my fat ass down to headquarters and was allowed to see the company commander. He wanted to know why I wanted to go to radio operator's school. I told him the truth, that I just wanted get the hell out of my new career of "pulling" KP. I guess the truth startled him so that he said okay and told the First Sargent to draw up the papers. I was gone the next day on a beautiful train ride from Seattle, past Mt. Shasta to Sacramento and my introduction to California. Very exciting stuff.

A Sea of Mud

So there I was in a fox hole, minding my own business with all hell breaking loose on the ground and in the air. But I was confident that if anyone was going to get hit, it would be someone else. When you're young, you think that you are omnipotent. Something like those poor guys in Iraq in their Humvees.

My fox hole buddy was Jerry Maloney, a New York Irishman who was tough as nails. Suddenly I felt this awful thump on my left leg. I turned to Maloney and said "Jerry, I think I'm hit." His response was that I was full of shit. I kept insisting and he lost his patience and told me to look at my leg. I did and promptly went nuts. There was a hole in my leg that looked big enough to shove a silver dollar through it. I became furious and plenty indignant screaming that I had never heard of fucking Okinawa and what the hell was I doing there in that sea of mud anyhow.

The medics came and hauled my sorry ass to a tent to wait to be carried to a hospital ship. Then those God damn airplanes started roaring overhead again. I was under the bed before you could say "there is one scared Jew." That was only one of two times in my entire life that I was truly frightened.

I was shipped off to Saipan for recovery. Saipan was an experience in itself. There were Japanese still in the hills and very so often they would fire into the compound. They never hit anyone but did manage to keep us all very nervous. Once when I was in the Coca Cola line, they started firing and everyone scrambled and jumped in the ditch in a heart beat. The Coke wasn't worth taking another bullet.