Author's Preface:
This is the third in the Alternate Memories Series. The first was entitled NORFOLK and the second, DAYTON. You might want to read these in order, but each is written to stand alone. Enjoy.
About two years ago, I received an unexpected letter from a woman named Maribeth who I had dated for a short time in the fall of 1965 as I was finishing up my last semester at the University of Dayton. After graduation, I had accepted an ROTC commission in the U.S. Army and had subsequently deployed to Vietnam the following year. As is common in such circumstances I had lost touch with Maribeth, so it was with some surprise that I discovered that she had not only found me, but reached out after all these years.
To make a long story short; Maribeth told me that she was extremely ill and was fighting cancer for the second time. Her Doctor's prognosis was not encouraging, but she was determined, and I remembered that she was a fighter. In her letter she brought me more or less up to date on her life which, as with us all, had both up's and down's, but for her, mostly the latter.
On the up side, she had risen to the top of her profession as a clinical psychologist and had earned a doctorate in that field with multiple honors and awards.
However this was more than counterbalanced by a horrible childhood, a stern aloof mother and an unknown father. A failed marriage of her own followed by several less than desirable attempts with other relationships. No children and no relatives, and a series of medical problems that could bring several individuals to their knees. As she wrote;
"As I look back on my life, the one and only time I ever felt really happy was the few months I spent with you."
For a long time I pondered on how I should respond to Maribeth's letter. She lived a thousand miles away, I was married for almost 50 years and had three grown children and four grandchildren. What could I possibly do to reach across all those years and, in some way, aid Maribeth in her latest struggle?
We had corresponded for a while when I had the germ of an idea. Often, Maribeth would remark that she had few good memories of her life and so I began to consider the possibility that perhaps, through my writing, I could replace those bad memories with better, more exciting ones.
This was the genesis of a series of stories that I have collectively titled "Alternative Memories." While these are fictional accounts, the people, places and events in them are real and evoke a realistic timeline that Maribeth could adapt into her mind and actually achieve the intended purpose.
Maribeth has since joined in this project by adding her own new memories which is serving to heighten the realism and impact. Obviously I hope that these "Alternate Memories'' will make Maribeth's burden easier to bear. If so, I'm satisfied with that. But, in truth, I wonder about myself. What are memories anyway, and who's to say these stories weren't real.
Does it matter after almost 50 years? What is reality anyway? Consciousness creates everything we take to be real and true and my opinion is that...
If it feels real, it must be so. You be the judge.
(July - December 1966)
The drive from Dayton to Ft. Meade was pleasant enough. With temperatures in the high eighty's the top was down most of the way. The new Interstate 70 was a vast improvement over US 40 which would have been the most direct route previously. It was almost 6 p.m. when I pulled into the BOQ parking lot. The Bachelors Officers Quarters would be my new home for however long I would be stationed here. I gave a copy of my orders to the Sargent at the front desk, signed a few registration forms for myself and 'Charlie,' and got a room assignment and two keys which I had to fork over a $2 deposit.
The room was quite spacious. In addition to the bunk which surprisingly was queen sized. There was a small kitchenette with a small table and two chairs and a sitting area with a couch and a chair, a couple of end tables with lamps and a TV that had to be about 24", so it was about as big as any I had ever seen. Black & White of course, the new color TV's were just then being commercialized, and I hadn't seen one of those yet. There was a nice sized bath with no tub, just a shower and a huge closet and dresser parked inside. This room was by far the biggest and nicest I'd lived in for quite awhile. Maybe ever.
I looked at my watch and found the usual pay phone at the end of the hall by the ice machine. Fortunately I had enough change that I didn't have to scrounge around for any, so I placed a call to Maribeth, hoping that I had remembered correctly that she would be home and not at work. She answered immediately and I gave her my new mailing address and told her about the trip which had been uneventful. We exchanged some small talk with lots of double entrande references to our time together in the last few days. It was a short call, maybe only about four minutes, but already I was missing her terribly.
The settling in took most of the next day. I had to register 'Charlie' for a blue base sticker which got me past the M.P.'s at the gate and being blue it identified me as an officer which got me a salute. A quick stop at the Commissary got me the basics; bread, milk, beer and hot dogs and prepared to report to my new unit the next morning.
The 566th Transportation Company was located at the far end of Ft. Meade, not far from the huge NSA complex. I was wearing clean fatigues with shined boots and the first person I met was the First Sargent, who as all senior enlisted do, gave me a good look over. I gave him a copy of my orders and he told me to have a seat and Captain Buffardi would see me shortly. He then went back to whatever he was doing. No small talk, no how are you, nothing!
About fifteen minutes later, I was told that the Captain would see me. I knocked on the door and saluted and told him I was reporting for duty as ordered. He returned a half hearted salute, then stood and shook my hand. He introduced himself as Louis Buffardi, but he wanted it known that I, and everyone else, would prefer to him by his rank. It was obvious that no mornings would begin with, "Hi Lou, how are you?"
I was informed that I would be leading the company's first platoon and that, in fact, other than the Captain, I was the only other officer in the unit so far. The 566th had just been reactivated two weeks prior so all of its personnel were new. I was told that the platoon was training in the motor pool area under the platoon Sargeant whose name I understood to be Rivera. It turned out to be Revis. Either I misheard or even the Captain didn't yet know who his troops were.
Sgt. Revis was an E-6 from Puerto Rico and we hit it off well enough. He had had some experience with breaking in new second lieutenants and I explained I was aware of what I did not know, and I was hopeful that we'd jell as a team. He asked if I wanted to speak to the men, and I said only to introduce myself which is basically all I said except that I added that I had grown up in the military and was the son of a Sargent so I knew a lot about how how enlisted men regarded a lot of officers, and I would try diligently to not be one of those.
While the scuttlebutt was that the unit was being mobilized for deployment to Vietnam as part of an entire battalion, there were no actual orders yet. Another interesting tid bit, was that we had no equipment. We were a truck company with no trucks! So to qualify driver's and to do other training we begged, borrowed and 'stole' trucks, jeeps, radios etc. from other units in the base temporarily. I suspect the various sargeants pulled all of this off, since that's what Sargent's do.
In the next ten weeks things settled into a routine. Mostly training, some in classrooms, but most hands on with equipment. Morning PT for everyone, Captain Buffardi led but only required a three mile run every morning. I did my other two on my own time since I didn't want to break the habit. To my surprise Sgt. Revis sometimes tagged along. I was enjoying his company.
The unit's other two platoon leaders reported as well as a maintenance warrant officer, so we had our full compliment. I wrote letters about every other day to Maribeth, and maybe once a week to my parents. Monday night was set aside for a telephone call to Maribeth, since it was the one night of the week she guaranteed she'd be home. Usually Friday and Saturday nights were out to bars with other guys, usually from the BOQ group. The other lieutenants in the company were Lt. Bodnar who was married and who I never saw in off hours and Lt. Mosier who apparently was not living in the BOQ, but never had much to say and also didn't run in my social circle. Sunday's were usually watching the Redskins play on the TV at the officer's club. The trips off post were few and far between. I had gotten paid four times since I'd left Dayton, and with few expenses my net worth had grown to almost $1,000.
Actually my closest friend in that timeframe was a warrant officer in a helicopter unit who lived down the hall in the BOQ. Bill Rigney hailed from Joseph, Alabama and was a crusty red neck. He was 40 and stood over six feet and weighed in at around 240, and was twice divorced. He had served in the Korean War and was nearing retirement at the ripe old age of 40. We obviously made an odd pair, but we seemed to enjoy each other's company.
Our routine was usually Rusty's Bar & Grill on Fridays and Sledgehammer on Saturdays, both establishments were just off post in the little town of Odenton which snuggled up to the south gate of Ft. Meade. We talked to plenty of people, including quite a few women who were on the prowl. A few got familiar enough that it was obvious they were fishing for a date, but while they were attractive enough, I was still caught up about Maribeth. No one else seemed to fit me quite as well as she did. Bill was less picky and several times he disappeared for the evening only to pop up the next day, usually with a story about how the previous night had played out and the great taste of the ladies who invited him into their beds.
