Anchor Struck

I ended my stint in the Marines at a supply center near Albany in south Georgia. It was blissfully uneventful, greatly eased when Bob Adcock transferred to the center. Bob was also an admin clerk. He too had been a casualty reporter in Vietnam, and even had to run some patrols in the bush. We were similarly bitter, so we hit it off instantly. We also made sergeant at the same time.

Most important, we were set to be released from active duty just a week apart. We kept up each other’s spirits as we slouched toward those days. One particular day was easier to digest than the others. Bob and I were part of a detail awarding a combat award (Bronze Star, I think) to another Marine. Our detail of 60 or so were marched to the ceremony by a really young second lieutenant.

The honoree had killed 30 or so enemy. I was so fed up with the culture of violence that I was tempted to throw down my rifle and walk away, but that would have put me in the brig, the very last place a Marine wants to be. So I toughed it out, as did Bob, and we started marching back to our staging area. For some reason, the lieutenant called us to a halt. But he was too far back in the detail and the front half kept on marching, leaving the halted half laughing as he chased down the front half.

It’s the little things.

Bob was from the Atlanta area. He told me that when he got out, he was going to have a party there and I was invited. A few days before that I was working alone late in our office and a young WM (Woman Marine) came in. She also worked in the office, though we rarely interacted. I just assumed she was some innocent kid. However, she told me that she was Wiccan and told me that a great many things were going to change in my life that weekend. She went into substantial detail. I brushed it off.

Friday came and Bob got his release papers. He told me where and when to meet him, then split, as happy as a human could possibly be. As soon as I finished work that afternoon, I went home and grabbed my friend Jim. Jim was the fellow Marine and college buddy I had shared a birthday beer with in Vietnam (“made it!” on July 12th, below). He and I had planned to head out to Mexico the following week after I was released from active duty.

Yes. I was going to abandon my son and pregnant wife.

Jim and I found Bob at a hippie coffeehouse. We went out to a van where I took my first tab of acid and first toke of weed. We went back into the coffeehouse and I went to the back room, which had a lighting display on the wall that worked like a giant Etch-a-Sketch. I was playing with it when Jim came in and said “Come on, man. We’re going to the party.”

“I just sat down,” I told him.

“No, you’ve been here half an hour. Let’s go,” he replied. That was my first exposure to how psychedelics jangle your perception of time.

We went to somebody’s apartment, about 20 of us. We listened to Super Session, the phenomenal jam album by Al Kooper, Mike Bloomfield and Steven Stills, the best $13,000 ever spent in rock history. I was really coming on from the acid. During “Season of the Witch” I thought “so this is what it’s all about”. I looked at Jim, who was sitting across the room. He smiled and nodded. It was eerie.

Time continued to span. I went to pee and it seemed like it took an hour. I was afraid there would be a line waiting outside the bathroom. There wasn’t. We went on a donut run. One of the bakers was a very pudgy man. With his hands deep in a ball of dough, he looked like he was emerging from it.

And so it went. When I came down from the acid I sat on a curb and cried. I realized that I couldn’t abandon my family. Jim and I drove back to Albany. I told him of my decision. He understood. He helped me pack for my move home, then headed back to the scene in Atlanta. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.

The next time I saw the WM who had so accurately predicted how my weekend would go, I thanked her. Probably because we were surrounded by others in our office, she acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. I took the hint and shut up.

I was released from active duty on a Friday. My actual release date was the next Monday, but the government had a program of early release to save a few bucks. You know how frugal the government is.

The last time I drove off the supply center, I stopped at the gate. One of the MP’s was a strapping black man. He and I were on friendly terms, smiling and sometimes flashing the peace sign as he waved me through. This time, though, I jumped out and hugged him.

“I’m out, Bro!” I exulted. He laughed and reminded me not to get any kind of trouble for at lease 24 hours, or the Marines could claim jurisdiction on my freshly-civilian ass.

I had a long drive from Albany to Shreveport, where my wife Suzy and son Chris awaited. I took my time, starting to put the turbulence of the last three years into some perspective and wondering what civilian life would be like. I picked up a lot of different Top 40 radio stations on the way. It seemed like every one of them played the gospel smash “Oh, Happy Day”.

And it was indeed happy. I rolled into Shreveport that evening to hugs and kisses from Suzy and Chris. None of us knew of the trudge ahead.