Our Hero--Ensign Glen H. Rickelton, USNR

The Korean War was a two and a half year war the U.S. participated in as part of a general military engagement with other U.N. countries.  Their mission was to force the North Koreans back across an invisible line that is currently called the “DMZ” or the “Demilitarized Zone.”  Generally, historians and movie makers casually skip over this military engagement so often that this “police action” is called the “Forgotten War.”

I know about this war because I watched “M.A.S.H.” as a youngster and my Uncle Jimmy flew fighter jets during this conflict—and so did Ensign Glen Howard “Rick” Rickleton, USNR.

                                                                    

                                                                                                Ensign Glen H. “Rick” Rickelton,
                                                                                                USNR, age 23 at time of death

Usually, I change the names of the people I write about, but Rick is pretty famous here in Farmington—one of 592 New Mexico residences who died in this small engagement, most Americans do not know happened.  He’s one of my neighbors.  Liz told me about him, since he was honored last Memorial Day; and, of course, I had to find him.

Looking for Rick was easy.  He actually has several listings on Google and his military record is pretty complete on Ancestry.com.  What surprised me was the lack of details about his life and death.  There is a published diary he wrote, but I’m too poor to order it.  Besides, he wouldn’t have written about the details of his death.

 The USS Essex CVS-9 1951

I started doing some general research, and as I learned about his ship, the USS Essex, about his bunkmate, a little known astronaut named Neil Armstrong, and the fighter squadron he flew with—51 aka “The Screaming Eagles,” I started to see what happened in my mind.  Perhaps it was because I’d seen the movie “The Bridges at Toko Ri” starring William Holden, and/or my imagination got carried away.  I could clearly see the jet’s instrument panel—Holden flew a Banshee (I think), and not a Panther, which was what Rick flew.

I saw a tan colored gloved-hand on a stick, a hose of the air mask, and dials moving as if I was flying the jet—as if seeing out of Rick’s eyes.  When this happens—and I’ve experienced such p-o-v visions a handful of times—it really shakes me up, because I actually feel as if I’m going through the person’s experience—the sensations are eerie and long lasting.

The terrain around the blue painted aircraft seemed desolate, white with thick snow, the trees barren of foliage which could be surprisingly dense in the humid heat of summer.  I got a good view of the target—a rail-line that slithered like a constrictor through the bleak contours of low lying hills, pockmarked with muddied boils from previous bombing runs.  At 25,000 feet I heard a male voice order the other members of the mission to drop to a lower altitude, to keep an eye out for MIGs and strafe the hell out of the railroad tracks which were resupplying Chinese infantry harassing U.S. Marines a mile away at a forward operating base.

 

The run went well at first, bombs were dropped, as tracers from Double A from the ground streak white-hot passed the aircraft going over 450 mph.  As Rick seemed to pull up and bank left I heard tiny sounds—thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk as they hit the aircraft, causing it to shimmy.  The projectiles moved from the nose back along the sleek fuselage.  One large chunk of metal ripped a large hole on Rick’s port side and cut a bloody line under his arm, through his chest, exiting at the top of his right shoulder.  He died instantly, and was why he didn’t eject from the plane after his squadron mates saw the left engine burst into flames.  A half a second later, the jet seemed to roll over like a dead sea lion on the surface of the ocean.  The calls of his friends reverberated in the smoke-filled cockpit.

 

The jet crashed into a hillside; fire and smoke of the explosion created a mini-mushroom-shaped cloud which rose as if to greet the other Panthers who flew cover, raking the enemy’s anti-aircraft gun placements with deadly 50 caliber bullets which are as long as a man’s hand and as thick as a finger. 

The Navy pilots mark the downed plane’s location, but that is all they can do—reinforcing gunfire from the ground and the arrival of four MIGs shoo the jets from the burning carcass that was once a F9F-2 Panther fighter jet.

Only after the cessation of hostilities did those pilots who had survived into the summer of ’53 remembered where their fallen shipmate had died.  His skeletal remains, badly charred but still wearing a flight suit, were recovered and sent home to find a place of prominence in Farmington’s Memory Gardens Endowment Cemetery.  There he was honored, cried over by friends and family as the wailing of a single trumpet sounding “Taps” resounded through the newly laid lawn of the gardens which had recently opened for permanent residence in 1954.

In one of the sites, I found this tribute letter from one of his former shipmates who served aboard the USS Essex. 

To Ensign Glen Howard Rickelton, USNR October 24, 2006 Dear Glen, This letter is 54 years late, but it's my way of reminding myself how fortunate I've been since the 6th of January 1952 when your plane was hit by anti- aircraft fire and you crashed and burned over Korea. You were a very likable person to have worked for; you treated your subordinates as friends. You were easy going and it was a pleasure to have you as my boss. You've missed so much by being one of the pilots that didn't return. We were all very young and secure in that nothing could happen to us. But as the air group's losses increased I'm sure that your initial cockiness became wariness. You were our 13th pilot to be lost, with 5 more to follow before the Essex returned to the States. Were you with us now you'd be amazed how life has changed technologically over the 54 years. You'd likely be a husband and Grandfather, retired and living a wonderful life. You'd be showing your grandkids photos of yourself as a skinny Ensign all decked out in your flying gear, standing by your fighter plane. But unfortunately that wasn't to be. In 1952 I was discharged. I returned home and got my first car and a job at Sperry Gyroscope Company, working nights in a very boring job. By 1953 I'd found employment as a Field Engineer for IBM. The job entailed servicing Data Processing machines in customer's offices. There I met my wife and married in 1961, we raised 3 wonderful children. I retired after 39 years of a job I loved. I prospered and now own a home in New Jersey and a summer home at the shore in New York. Our health is good and we're looking forward to many enjoyable years ahead. As a historian I've been able to retrieve all the reports our air group filed with the Navy Department while we were deployed with the carrier Essex off Korea. From the reports, I compiled a list of the 50 planes and the 18 pilots lost. Your whole life was reduced to 3 lines on 6 January 1952. Quote: "Ensign RICKELTON of VF-51 flying a Panther on a rail cut rec-con mission when hit by flak, went into a shallow glide from which he never recovered, and crashed into a hillside." One of your Plane Captains Bill Curtis ( William J. Curtis )

 

Part One--People behind the Memory Gardens--Liz

Improving the look of Memory Gardens has been the summer-long goal of those who labor in the cemetery, especially the landscape crew—I’ve gotten to know two by sight, but there are at least three or four more men and women.  Yet, the driving force behind these efforts to green-up the garden is the event planner, Liz, a woman of average height, a friendly and kind smile, and filled with the abundant energy of youth.

For a while I have wanted to tell you about some of the employees of my next door neighbors, and even though Liz works in the front of the office, I’ve come to see her as the little engine, whose wheels move things along. 

The back offices have two more women managing the finances and the finer details that go into carrying off a funeral with grace and dignity, and I’ll tell you about them in due time—as well as the office’s cleanliness manager who also doubles as a landscaping specialist—and the hardworking, and usually heat-exhausted landscapers—the so called “grunts” of the business.  I want to tell you about each and every one.  I admire their love for the garden and the residents they serve with such affectionate care.  Today, I will focus on Liz.

A few entries ago a mentioned her; since then, I’ve discovered her drive, her dedication, and her devotion to the job she has had for only a year and a half.  She amazes me.

I happened to be in the office chatting with her when a potential client called.  Her conversation enlightened me, not only about the daily operations of the office administration but affirmed my suspicions about her commitment to her position.

The Memory Gardens are under the hospices of The American Cemetery Association which helps fund the burials of any veteran of any military branch and allows these honored dead to be interred for free.  The gardens provide discounts for spouses to sleep beside them.  To my surprising, I discovered people who lived in Farmington, sometimes decades earlier, have had their beloved departed shipped to the gardens from as far away as Pennsylvania and Texas and a bit closer like from Colorado.  They come here perhaps to be with family already in residence, or because they were veterans, or maybe because once you have had “home” imprinted on your soul, you will always return alive or dead.

Liz knowledgeably answers any question, those coming from people on the phone or from a nosey neighbor.  There are parts of any job generally loved and hated by those who work at their occupations, and Liz seems to love many more tasks than those which may be undesirable, such as going to a county fair and suffering the heat for entire week.  I couldn’t blame her for that, this being my first summer in Farmington—but it is as hot here as it is in Utah and Idaho—and for the last two weeks as hot and humid as Omaha, which sits on the blanks of the Missouri River.

She knows stories, and I plan to dig out of her. For now, I will say, Liz is a vital cog in the machinery that has been working on improving the gardens, much like those mentioned in a parable of the Biblical lord who sent his servants into his vineyards.  The garden gathers its own to its vast lawns, sublimely ornamented with bronze and marble, both counterfeit and genuine blossoms of every hue, dark purpled butterfly bushes, clumps of heavenly light lavender, and divine and patriotic statuary.

The dogs and I enjoyed a cool morning stroll, and took a hot and steaming saunter through the park which is home to so much life and bathed in streaming light which slants so strongly in a New Mexican mountain desert.

 

A very short entry--frustration abounds!

I spent all day looking up a veteran of World War I, a sailor in the Unites States Navy Reserves.  I couldn't find any records of his service except for his enlistment.  I had great plans of describing sea battles with German U-boats or protecting troop transports or bar-room brawls.  Nope, I didn't find anything.  I found a mountain of stuff for a Rough Rider and a US Marine Corps pilot who flew in WWII, but for Warren, nada, nothing, nil, zip, bplllllahblat-fackinbleepincusswordsforever!

Tributes, Eulogies, Honors and A Few Chuckles

“In Loving Memory…”  “Beloved Wife…” “…Husband…” “…Daughter…”  “…Son…” have been as constant greetings as an old, abandoned billboard along a lonely stretch of rarely used road.

Every now and again, tramping over areas of the garden the pups and I seldom tromp over, I’ll come across chiseled messages that inspire the soul, generate a prayer, cause a poignant tear, or spout a generous guffaw that will last all the way home.  I like those best.  People who rest in the gardens usually died with a good sense of humor; it is too bad that such sentiments cannot be carved into headstones or name plates that indicate the decease’s tendency to laugh at a funny situation a friend gets himself into, or giggle like children after a practical joke or an out of place pun.

The most common messages show devotion to God by the grave’s resident.  I don’t mind those, since I often read scriptures.  But sometimes I wonder if the person under the sod really went to church every Sunday, or if it is a case where the family only offers the appearance of piety when the occupant occasionally held the Good Book let alone read any of it.

On this evening’s walk, I made a concerted effort to look for the unusual, the heart-wrenching, the profound, the silly, and even the hilarious.  Here is my banquet of the sublime and the puerile, which may have fit the lodger both in age and action.

On one long married couple, on the back side of their headstones, family had added sayings which I believed showed the common sense of the dad and the loving sweetness of the mom.  His said, “Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, or Do without.”  On her side it read, “God couldn’t be everywhere, so he created mothers.”

On another couples’ stone was something more touching:  “May the God of hope fill you with all the joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” Romans 15:13.  Like I said, scriptures are popular, such as ‘Oh that you would rend the Heavens…” Isaiah 64:1 or my personal favorite from Luke 24:5 “Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

Better yet are the ironic sayings that usually the people ordering the stone didn’t quite get.  The one which caught my attention belonged to a young man who died at the age of 21.  The saying was simple but made me choke on the incongruity.  It said, “David So-and-So, Daring and Lucky.”  How lucky could he have been if he died at such a young age?  Was he so daring that he did a stunt that landed him under the sod of Memory Gardens?  See what I mean—ironic.

 Sarah’s tribute from her family was true and poignant:  “Mother will live on through the actions of her children and by the state of her friends.”

Another devoted mother’s ever-lasting accolade read:

“Upright and faithful in all her ways,
a wonderful person to the end of her days,
a loving mother true and kind,
a beautiful memory she left behind.”

A gentleman had this engraved upon his head:

“God took him home,
It was His will,
But in our hearts,
He liveth still.”

Another couple’s children gave this eulogistic quote: “Together forever with a lifetime of golden memories.”  I’d would have put that on my own parents’ graves if I could.

A 59 year old semi-truck driver’s homage was more practical and accompanied by a picture of a big-rig.  It simply said, “On the road again.”

Another young man had this honor:  “His courage, His smile, His grace, Gladdened the Hearts of Those who had the Privilege of knowing him.”  I was told days earlier he had died of cancer.

A few blogs ago a wrote about Ethan, who always makes me smile, but I laugh when I read the back of his headstone:  “Our Little Worm….It’s a long way to the top if you want to Rock N’ Roll.”

On still another couple’s read granite headstone reads the familiar poem:

“Love bears all things,
Believes all things,
Endures all things,
Love is forever.
Love never fails.”
The postscript (the best part) lets the passer-by know the most important part:  “We’re good.”

I shall leave you with my favorite. 

 

Whenever I am too depressed to function, I find Marguerite’s stone—I know exactly where she lies—next to her son who died two days after her own passing.  This is a woman after my own heart.  Above the dates of her life it reads: 
“I told you I was sick.”

I would have believed you, Marguerite.  Perhaps I might have even taken you to the doctor.

 

I’m still laughing.

Walk Through Memory Gardens Cemetery--the film

I couldn't think of a better tribute to all the soldiers, sailors, marines, and those who left those who loved them too soon than this film I made this morning.

I hope you found the video interesting and as I described it.  The pups and I still go there for a walk twice daily, expect on Sundays when we only go once.

Martha in an Unmarked Grave

One of the saddest things at Memory Gardens Cemetery are the number of unmarked graves--over twenty--perhaps thirty that I've come across on our twice daily walks. 

Yesterday, I passed one in the middle of the veterans section in the center of the cemetery.  I got about six paces passed it when something hit me like one of the poor schmucks on America's Funniest Home Videos who gets hit in the crotch or runs head-first into a garage door.

Obediently, I returned to the depressed green and brown grass, stood at the foot of the bed and said, "OK, I'm listening," closing my eyes.

I got nothing at first so I was about to open my eyes and walk the dogs homes when I got a voice.

"Martha."

"So you're name's Martha?"

"Martha, Martha, yes."

"What do you want, Martha?"

"Bury my son."

"I don't get it; you want me to bury your son?"

"No, Barry, my son."

"Oh, I get it.  Barry is your son."

"Yes, yes, yes."

"Why didn't he give you a headstone or name plate?"

"Not living in New Mexico.  He's gone--gone."

"He could still have ordered you a stone from where he is.
"Hates me--doesn't want to have anything to do with me."

"That's horrible!  Why would a son desert his mother without marking the place where her dead body lies?."

"Hates me.  He hates me."

"I don't understand.  Did he do something to start such feelings?  Or did you do something?"

"Me, me--I did it."

"This is surprising.  What did you do?"

"I nagged and nagged until I drove him away."

"I'm sorry, Martha.  That's hard."

"I nagged and nagged.  I wanted him to be the man I knew he could be, but it only drove him away."

"That's pretty brave of you to admit you made the mistake.  Most would blame the other person."

"I wasn't a good mother.  But I love him.  I really love him."

"As mothers do--or should do."

"I'm forgotten.  No one remembers me.  I'm alone."

"Martha, I'll be your friend.  I'll make sure the pups and I walk by your grave and remember you, alright?"

"That's very nice of you, young lady."

"My name's Beth."

"Martha."

"No last name?  No, wait, I don't want to know it.  Martha's good enough.  It was nice meeting you Martha.  See you tomorrow morning."

"Good-bye, dear."

"Bye."

This morning I found one of my old flower pots decorative sticks that has "relax" on the top.  I found a card, and wrote a message for Martha on it then put it at the head of her grave--feeling pretty proud of myself.

This afternoon, I found the sprinklers had knocked the card off the stick, but it was only four inches away.  I fixed it and stuck the stick back on her grave.  Told Martha I was thinking of her.  A warm, sweet feeling swept through me.  Thanks Martha, I enjoyed meeting you, too.

Where Martha lies forever.

Poor, old men and the medals they didn't earn.

I am learning that finding a story to write on everyday for this blog is difficult.  I see a lot of names, meet a lot of people, but it surprises me how similar their stories are--like the young Army Sargent and his mother the pups and I met last night.  "Troy" had managed to survive two tours in Afghanistan only to come home, hop on his motorcycle and die in a horrible crash.  (By the way, his mom did not look old enough to have a twenty-three year-old son as handsome as Troy.)

Another problem is, when I get a name, it takes me one to two days to do all the research I can which either validates what I feel about them, or completely surprises me--I told you I'm running about 50% with my "intuitions."

On our walks last week, I met one World War II veteran I'll call "Donny."  His granite and copper head-plate announced his service as a p.f.c. (private first class) in the army air corps, and that he had been the recipient of a "Silver Star" one of the U.S.'s three top medals for valorous conduct above and beyond the call of duty a soldier or sailor or pilot could earn.

Two days later, I met "Charlie," who was also a private and had an engraved announcement he had earned a "Bronze Star"--also one of the three top honors as well as a purple heart.

Since I was, of course, curious to learn exactly what feats of amazement under enemy fire they had performed, I spent several days trying to find their precise military service records, the units they were in, what theater they fought in (either in Europe or in the Pacific), and a description of their citations.

I searched for hours after discovering a site that had all the names of all the men and women who earned the top five meritorious medals, including the purple heart--earn for receiving a wound in combat--for all major wars and conflicts, from the Civil War to America's War on Terror. 

The people who control the site have been fastidious about dates, names, award, and the description of the citation--as well if the soldier died due to his heroic actions, and if he saved others in the course of what any recipient would say was "just doing my job." 

The word "hero" never comes out of their mouths if you're lucky enough to get one of them to talk about the incident--most won't even mention the experience, let alone describe what they did to get the award.

I spent so much time looking for Donny and Charlie's names on the rolls of honor, I thought perhaps the site was incomplete, so I had to find another only to come up with the same results--nothing.  Then it hit me--why don't you look up a name of a Marine you know won several awards, and if he's on the site then Charlie and Donny should be there, too.  So I looked up my Uncle Jimmy, and sure enough, there he was and his three citation for meritorious service--two during World War II and one during Korea.

Quickly I looked for Donny and Charlie, careful to spell their names correctly before clicking "search."  Each time I got the same result.  "Sorry, no results for ---- could be found."

What came to my mind was sad, pitiful and a bit tragic. 

Both men had come home from the war, not very proud of their service--I learned Donny hadn't even left the States.  Once they got home, friends, family and town-folks all demanded to know what happened.  Talk about peer pressure.

Not wanting to sound as if what they did was little more than shuffle papers or supplies from one combat unit to another, both men told stories about how brave they were--about how patriotic--ready to stare the enemy in the eye and do something so miraculous even they didn't know how they survived the events. 

I can see them telling the same story or stories again and again, first to family then to friends, and finally to grandchildren who were enraptured that the old man telling the story was ever young enough to have done the heroically described tale.  The more the two old men related their fictions, they even started to believe they had actually performed those courageous actions, believed it so vehemently that if they had taken a polygraph, the machine would not indicate deception.  That's the sad part.

The tragic part is, even if all they did was shuffle papers, reports and communiqués, even if all they did was count rolls of toilet paper, cans of beans, or belts of ammunition, even if that was all they did for the two to three years they were enlisted in the US Army, they were doing vital and important jobs--jobs they should never have felt ashamed of doing. 

If these two men hadn't shuffled those reports or counted those cans of food then how could the combat units have been able to do all they did in order to be called "American's Greatest Generation."  If an intelligent report doesn't reach the correct hands then a unit of Marines making an amphibious landing on some Japanese held island wouldn't have known what they were facing.    If those belts of meticulously counted ammo didn't reach the B-2 airborne units who made bombing runs everyday over targets in Europe, they wouldn't have been able to protect themselves from the German fighters who attacked them before reaching their targets.

Yes, they did vital, important, and necessary jobs, but they weren't proud; in fact, they were ashamed--they must have been because they told their families they had won medals.  Perhaps they even found some military surplus store and bought the actual medals in order to validate the stories they told.  That's the pitiful part.


My Daddy Lt. Commander
Rufus W. Boldman
I had to beg my dad, Rufus Wilson Boldman, to tell me some of his war experiences he endured while working first as an ordinary sailor to finish the war as a chief petty officer.  He didn't win a single medal, although he did get honors for facing the enemy--honors written in reports that didn't come with a piece of shiny metal--only raises in rank and pay.  Now I know the stories he told were heavily edited--were stories that gave him nightmares twenty years after they happened (when I was pestering him for them).  I loved knowing my father saw combat and on his World War II service ribbon got to have a small metal star set in the middle--displayed on his khaki suit coat or his khaki shirt to show his service--even as the gold colored oak leaves pins told everyone he had earned the rank of lieutenant commander (that's like being a major in the army).  He wouldn't never agree with me he was a "hero."  But he was my "hero" even though he didn't even get a purple heart.  When he told me he hadn't gotten one, I said, "That's alright daddy.  It means God protected you all the way through the war 'cause He didn't want you getting hurt."














Seaman First Class, Rufus Wilson Boldman




It was my Uncle Jimmy who was the "real" decorated family hero.  He had enlisted before his brother, and had joined the U.S. Marines.  Since he had gone to college he got to be a first lieutenant--daddy was only in his first year he had started at the bottom, as he would say. 

Uncle Jimmy, that's Lieutenant Colonel James Dean Boldman (his rank at his retirement), had had the adventures one could write a book about--and a man he knew only in passing--Pappy Boyington--eventually did.  My uncle knew navy and marine giants--like Boyington and Jimmy Thatch, who won the Congressional Medal of Honor and created the "Thatch-weave," a tactic needed in
order to bring down a Japanese Zero because the Navy's aircraft, prior to getting the Chance-Voight Corsair, were inferior to the superb banking and climbing ability of the Mitsubishi enemy plane.

the only picture I have of Uncle Jimmy on Orcas Island in the San Juans

As a U.S. Marine, Uncle Jimmy earn two meritorious medals for valor in World War II, but I like the story about the third better--liked it so much I used it in one of my novels set during World War II. 

He was a captain in Korea, the commanding officer of an air group, and the small air field they flew out of was continuously being shelled first, by the North Koreans then by the Chinese.  One day, when the enemy started the mortar hoping to take out his groups' aircraft, Uncle Jimmy got so pissed off, he grabbed the nearest enlisted man, handed him a radio (those were large box-like instruments that had a telephone receiver but needed to be wound up to generate enough electricity to send a verbal communication).  The two marines got as close to the enemy as they could; Uncle Jimmy confirmed the story after I hounded him about it.  He swore and told me daddy's version was full of "sh--" and he had to set the record straight because daddy couldn't tell a story correctly even if he was paid to do it. (Daddy was in NIS and wrote accurate reports as part of his job.)


"We got so close to the Chinese we could smell the rotten kimchee on their bad breath," Uncle Jimmy said--his way of saying they were close enough to see them while keeping themselves from becoming obvious targets.  They wound up the radio and gave map coordinates to their artillery units who were supposed to protect the airfield from mortar attacks.  The two men stayed there, under fire for over an hour--long enough for the artillery to hone in on the Chinese mortar crews and wipe them off the face of the earth.

He told me directly--eye to eye--"I was doing my job, girl, so don't go calling me a hero.  I didn't want any more of my planes destroyed or any more of my pilots wounded or killed.  I did what needed to be done.  That's all.  End of story."

He was angry as he told me--I think he was mad that daddy had told me his brother was a great warrior and pilot.

I grinned at the old Marine, proud of him as much as I was of my dead father. 

Because Uncle Jimmy didn't want me to think he was so great, he told me a story about how five Kiwi (New Zealand) pilots had saved his ass from being shot full of holes from four Japanese Zeros which had managed to jump him, after he got separated from his unit and wingman while heading back to Henderson Airbase on Solomon Island.
 
"They killed three and the other two bugged out," he said, suddenly sounding younger than 70, his face changing, hardening, one hand trembling unconsciously.  "After I limped home and got out of that damn death trap (his Corsair), I threw up all over myself.  Heroes don't puke on themselves, girl.  I wasn't a hero."

I didn't believe him.  His denials confirmed my suspicions that he was, indeed, a hero--one who desired the medals he received for actions in combat.

But so were Donny and Charlie.  If men like them didn't do their jobs, my daddy and uncle wouldn't have been able to do their jobs.  If only they could have realized how important a role they played, they wouldn't have had to make themselves liars. 

No, they didn't win "pretty-trinkets" as Uncle Jimmy called his citations; no, they weren't the "heroes" killed in movies; but they were heroes.  They were doing the jobs that needed to be done in order to save U.S. property, but more importantly, to save lives in combat zones--places neither of these two old dead man ever came close to seeing up close and personal.

                     My Uncle Jimmy getting the Bronze Star during World War II.

Catching up with some of those I've met in the Gardens

Sorry I haven’t blogged for two days.  I had a blog entry on Thursday but erased it—it was too personal.  I don’t think people want to read about my strange love-life.   I’d rather write about people I meet in Memory Gardens—which is why I started writing this blog in the first place.

I did some research the last couple of days though:  the first was a major in the U.S. Army who happened to be a veteran of both the Korean and the Vietnam Wars—for some reason I couldn’t find his service records in the National Archives.  Then I learned that was because he died in 1979, and the public isn’t allowed to see on-line after 1951.  If the military died in action, there are those lists everywhere.  Still, I kept feeling a strong, capable, decisive man as I searched.  I did find a photo of him on a deployment in the forest of Germany in the 60’s? 

 

The major in Germany.

 

Boy, he was handsome and in his late 40’s when he died.  I get the impression the major died due to an illness—not a sudden only like a heart attack—something like cancer—something that science couldn’t fix.  I liked him because he had the traits of all the soldiers I know—both alive and dead.  Even though he never saw action in those conflicts (another impression), and even though he might have been a tough boss when it came to his troops, when it came to his family, he was an old softy, generous, good-humored, loving, protective.

The second person I looked up was a little boy I’ll call “Bear” due to the fact his parents wrote the nickname on his headstone—along with the appellation of “Our Little Worm.”  (That made me laugh.) He was four years old when he passed, and the smile on his picture makes me want to go out of my way to see his grave when I take the pups out.  The dogs like his headstone and often sniff around it, even lay down next to it, as if Bear is there, wanting to play with them. 

 

Buster on the left--Beanie on the right.

 

Bear knows he died, but I can’t tell if he died due to illness or from a car accident—I’m leaning toward accident—a crash, where he was not in a car but one plowed over him.  He went quickly and met by a relative he knew; so he isn’t crying, wanting his mommy and daddy.  He told me he visits them often, but his mother cries a lot and can’t hear him talking to her.  He’s a great kid—a celestial angel—truly special.

One lady name Magritte has a marker with one of those funny notations on it.  She lies next to her son who died two days after she did.  She really must have had a great sense of humor because her family wrote under her name “I told you I was sick.”  I laugh every time I walk past her eternal bed.

A few yards away on the other side of a gravel path, one of her neighbors put one of my favorite scriptures on her headstone—“Why seek ye the living among the dead.”  Clearly, a woman who grasp of the spiritual was dead on (bad pun intended).

There is another baby in the “Kindergarten.”  I wouldn’t go by this lawn if I could help it, but it’s one of Beanie’s favorite places.  The baby’s name is “Sonny.”  He was a month old at the most when he died—the specific dates are not on the tiny head plate that must have matched the size of the little coffin his grieving parents laid him in during the 70’s.  I think Beanie and Sonny like hunting the lizards together.  These diminutive reptiles are three to four inches long and like sunning themselves on paving stones and gravel landscaping.  Once I thought I heard a baby’s laugh when Beanie practically buried himself in the middle of a pine bush where a couple of the little creatures live.  After I pulled him out, he stood there and cocked his round, black head back and forth, listening for his intended prey, the baby giggling when he came out of the bush empty handed—or should I say, with a mouth full of pine needles.

Beanie in the lavender chasing lizards

 

Although I didn’t see his grave, I met the mother of a local police officer who shot himself over a decade ago.  He left a devastated family behind.  His mother mourned as if it had happened yesterday.  I couldn’t find any fault in that emotion.  She didn’t know why he did it—didn’t understanding the pressures of the job he did. 

Her story had a silver-lining for me.  It made me glad that though my daddy suffered from PTSD after World War II, having seen, smelled, and lived through the hell of such ghastly events at Iwo Jima and Okinawa, he hadn’t picked up one of his many personal weapons or service handguns.  I don’t doubt such thoughts flashed through his insecure and occasionally depressed mind on some incidents in his life.  Yet his profound sense of professional duty—and also his eternal duty to his family kept such contemplations fleeting and at bay.  What the young police officer didn’t do was talk about his feelings to family or friends.  Pride kept him from going to another officer to admits his fear, his guilt, his hopelessness.

When I was a teenager, I can remember over-hearing my mother and father talking through the door of their room or through one of my walls which adjoined theirs.  Sometimes I could hear him complaining or expressing his fears to my mother, who really was a great listener.  She never said much until he had finished, allowing him to get what he needed to off his chest.

I also remember thinking, if I got married, I would be that kind of supportive wife.  Too bad the young police officer didn’t have a relationship like my daddy.

I’m glad the dogs have added a second walk to the routine of their day.  The light of the fading sunset bathes the garden in a comforting glow, softening the edges of the plaques and headstone  to match the rounded corners of the lawn sections, the gravel crunching under the pups’ little paws; the dirt rats and the lizards long-settled into borrows and crevices for the evening.

When the light of the cemetery’s sign begins to cast a glow on the grass and the bronze, I know we’ve stayed too long.  Bad people come out when it gets dark—their souls black, gloomy, angry. 

Memory Gardens just before dark.

 

Once we didn’t start home until dark started to engulf the park, and a heaviness entangled my feet, as if vines or thick mud made them weighty; I couldn’t walk fast enough to get home.  The pups didn’t pull at their leashes as was their habit; instead, they almost hugged my legs like children might on Halloween.  That was when I vowed never to get caught in the garden after dark again. 

I prefer the light, even the intense heat in comparison.  I revel in the sunshine, the happy glints and sparkles that blaze off the bronze plates and the shiny granite polished to such a high sheen you can see yourself or an ephemeral reflection in the multi-colored stones. 

Yes, I much prefer the garden in the day.  The light brings out a better sort of people.

 

Memory Gardens in the spring and in the morning.

 

 

Day 11--Damn that Heroic Son of a Gun!

Have you ever thought you knew someone and when you started looking, you discover you didn’t know them at all? 

(Note to reader:  this entry isn’t about someone I met in Memory Gardens.  Since I’ve been writing about so many “dead” people, I’ve been thinking about this man for quite some time; and I feel I need to write about him.)

More than eighteen years ago I wrote a novel about the Rough Riders; it centered around the officers and soldiers of Company A:  men such as their captain, William “Buckey” O’Neill, and the “heart” of Second Squad—Sergeant Henry W. Nash.

It was a project, I added to, read and re-read, and edited with love and care.  The first draft was 535 pages long—which somehow, I miraculously started and finished in a mere 10 days—a feat I’ve never duplicated while writing my other 19 novels.  At one time in a fit of literary frustration, I took out so much of the plot it ended up being an anorexic 370 pages.  Nonetheless, the manuscript has ebbed and flowed until I told myself, no one will ever want to read it and abandoned it on a disk, a computer and a soft-covered manuscript like pieces of garbage strewn along a rarely travelled highway.  I thought of the novel as a craft project I generally finished but didn’t frame; a quilt I had spent years sewing only to have no one want to use it on a winter’s night.

Over the years, I molded and rounded off some of the sharp edges of many of the soldiers as I learned bits of information about one or another (I had used the names of real men and real events in order to make my “great American novel” as “authentic” as I could).

One of my favorite characters was Sergeant Henry W. Nash.  In spite of searching every written source available to me in Utah and beyond (remember, there wasn’t an Internet and huge megabyte data bases online in the 1990’s when I did most of my research for this particular novel), so who this man, in truth, was eluded me.  That meant I had to make up a backstory for the non-commissioned officer—had to create a realistic man from what I had in the dozens of pads of notes I had in my home library as I typed on a blue-screened computer now considered so old it was a step up from an electric typewriter. 

While I crafted the first draft, I often “heard” his Midwestern voice that was interwoven with a western twang.  We would “communicate” for hours, until I came to love him as a friend, admire his intelligence, his common sense, and self-sacrifice he had for the men he led and loved like brothers.  But when I “saw” Hank (I called him that but now I know friends and family preferred “Harry” which I don’t like that much) in my mind since I never found a photo of him, I saw an older man, tall, in his early forties; a man quick to laugh, but not quick to settle a problem with a gun.

Perhaps because he had such commendable qualities, I naturally thought only an older man and not a younger one could have such wisdom which originated from so many life experiences—experiences which built him, which he exuded like a sweet smelling after-shave I remember from the old-time barber shops with the red-white swirling contraptions outside their doors and big, bay windows to advertise their occupations.

Since I was becoming so good at looking up people on genealogical sites due to focusing on my blogging, finding sites with more information than I could get in ten history books, I thought, “Why the hell not look up Henry Nash; you like him, so do it.”

After an all-afternoon search, I found information I would have loved to have gotten my hands on at the time I was researching for my "magnus opus."

The first piece of info I gleaned was his death—1902—which ironically fit with the plot to the sequel of the Rough Riders’ Snake Eyes entitled Debt of Honor.  In that story I dramatically and poignantly killed Henry Nash at the evil hands of the Klu Klux Klan in Arkansas.

Henry actually died in Globe, Gila County, Arizona.  His occupation listed in the 1900 census as “miner”—not unexpected since I knew he had gone through many occupations—from gunman, cowboy, stage coach shotgun and coach driver, wrangler, farmer, grocer, etc.—all before becoming a member of history’s famous all volunteer cavalry unit. 

By 3:30 p.m. I got access to his military and pension records which were difficult to navigate to since they are controlled by the government.  When I saw the digital records with its too familiar greying envelope adorned with his name, I about cried.  There it was—the enlistment sheet, his pay stubs—even a medical note which informed me he had been absent at roll call at Camp Wilkoff due to an illness—“a malarial fever” he had picked up in Cuba.  I also found facts I already knew—like all the action he had seen on that hot, tropical island—Las Guisimas, the Kettle Hill engagement, and action at Santiago.  There were also succulent tidbit--entries when he became a corporal—May 4, 1898—and when he had been promoted to sergeant, on May 14 in San Antonio where most of the Riders’ war training occurred—their form of “boot camp.”

The most important material the “jacket” had was his age—29 9/12 years.  It floored me!  The guy I saw in my head as this wise, well-versed almost white-haired sergeant—the man who had kept out of trouble, yet had seen enough of life to give me sage counsel, the man who comforted me when I got frustrated with the research, the writing and the editing—the man who whispered “Don’t worry, missy, it’ll be awright, trust me” was younger than I was in 1995.

He was born in Indiana, a place called Mt. Sterling—but no longer exists.  “Hank” or “Harry” as his men called him was born sometime in September 1869, the youngest of two, his older sibling was a sister named Carrie Louise—named after her mother Louisa Walden Nash, who married George Welding Nash (after his father) on December 30^th, 1863.  “G” was born in Delaware, Ohio.  Henry Nash’s birth-state had plagued me for two decades.  I kept thinking—he was born in Ohio, Illinois, Indiana—some place like that, but since I couldn’t actually find his specific place of birth, finding his information had been impossible!

At 11, Harry lived in Vevay, Switzerland County, Indiana and between 1880 and 1902 lived the western life he had told me about late at night when I lay in a darkened bedroom in Orem, Utah in 1995 missing my momma who had recently died and cried that the novel wouldn’t be good enough representative for men such as Sergeant Nash, Corporal Cade Jackson, Private Tom Freeman, Private William Wallace and their leader who I had fallen head over heels in love with like a teenager with a schoolgirl crush—Captain William Owen “Buckey” O’Neill.

Nash lived in Globe with his sister and her husband John Henry Thomas (on January 1, 1887 in Yavapai County—where he had met Buckey who been sheriff of that county when Henry had been a boy.  Buckey had taken the younger Nash under his wing and considered the “young” man a good friend—which is why Henry became a Rough Rider—because Buckey had formed the unit and Henry was determined to go in order to watch over his friend). 

Uncle Harry had a room next to his sister’s two daughters, Louisa and Ellen.  Carrie had given birth to five children by 1900, but only the two girls had lived.  It bothered me that such a great man like Nash had not married according to that record.  When he died in Globe at the very young age of 30, I cried.  He died from injuries sustained in a mining accident, but that ugly malarial fever raised its pernicious head and complicated his health, which worsened until he succumbed on July 5^th. 

It’s so typical of Nash to help me find all this personal information like a flash flood then leave me with a mystery after all was read, written down and done. 

In 1930, a man by the name of Velasco C. Murphy, (an interesting combination of Spanish and Irish uh?), who I couldn’t find anything on, requested the U.S. Government to give Henry W. Nash’s unmarked grave a headstone, which they did in 1933—this is noted on Harry’s military jacket by the way, along with a mysterious name—“Nina Nash Burger.” 

(An interesting side note:  I used the name of “Burger” as the tormentor (step-father) of my serial killer in Snake Eyes, because all good novels need a well-rounded “bad” guy.)

This mystery “Nina Nash” resided at 1602 N. Edgemont Street, Los Angeles, California—this address was accompanied by an odd notation—10-25-65.

Who is “Nina”?  As far as I knew Henry never married.  He didn’t have a brother who would have given her the “Nash” part of her name.  And Carrie didn’t marry a second husband who would have added the “Burger.”  So who is she?

The romantic writer in me would love to create a lover for Henry.  He did live in a mining town with its many unofficial brothels—was Nina’s mother a lady of the evening?  Or perhaps her mother was a young lady, maybe 18, who fell for a handsome older man who was once a famous Rough Rider. 

And who the heck was Velasco C. Murphy?—a local citizen whose altruistic bent just made him want to see Henry W. Nash receive the recognition a hero deserved?

It is just like Nash to do this to me:  give me information which will bother me until I go back and edit the two novels I wrote with “Hank Nash” as an essential character; then leave me with two names with mysterious relationships to him which, of course, will annoy me more than smart students who won’t do their homework.

If I could, I’d slug you in the arm as hard as I could Henry Nash, even as you laugh at my discombobulation.  It’s times like these I wish I’d never met you.

Alright, that’s a lie. 

I’ll get you back for this Nash!  I don’t know when or how, but I’ll get you back.  Think you’re so funny, don’t ya, you cowboy, soldier, minor—hero.  Urggha!

At camp in Tampa Bay, Florida


Above--after the charge up Kettle Hill then in support of the U.S. Army Regulars up San Juan Hill.  TR looks real smug while everyone else looks tired of having to pose for yet another Roosevelt photo and are glad just to be alive--don't you think?

 

 

 

Cleaning weapons--Krag/Jorgensons--not the best weapons to have in combat--they tended to jam and were slow to load and fire.  Ironically the U.S. Govt.  wouldn't let the Riders bring the Browning's automatic machine guns--which are such good weapons Navy S.E.A.L.s still use the .45 automatic today.  The Riders couldn't have them because they would have killed the enemy "too quickly."

Cleaning up after chow in San Antonio

'

 

After the surrender at Santiago--which meant they were going home.

At the dock at Tampa Bay where the Riders are told they can't take all their horses nor would all the companies be allowed to go on to Cuba.

 

Reading about themselves in Florida--the newspapers by Hearst who had basically started this shin-dig.