John Delach

September 2024

Lt. Gung-Ho

“Oh, we’re the boys from 242, we’d like to say hello to you, hello, hello, hello.” That was our little song that we used as an introduction during summer camp as we arrived at another unit’s  head-quarters to hook them up with telephone cables allowing them to talk to the rest of the 42^nd Rainbow infantry Division.

Allow me to step back at this point. The use of the word ‘rainbow’ has been coopted by the gay community in the same manner that the word, ‘gay’ itself was coopted to identify that community. The 42^nd  Division was formed when America entered World War I by recruits taken from almost every state in the union, sort of a rainbow across America. Hence the name.

On this particular afternoon, our leader, Sargent, Mike M led us into an outfit assigned to us. Besides Sgt M, we had our driver, Jorge , and six cablemen. I was joined by my cousin, Bill, the other Bill, with whom I went through basic training, Freddy B, Rico R. and Steve B. Our job was to install the cable. But, Sgt M, Bill and Freddie all worked for NY Telephone so they did the important work while we did the heavy lifting.

We followed Sgt M into this unit’s camp to locate where our cable was to be hooked up to their telephone equipment. Admittedly, none of us were dressed in full working uniforms. Most of us wore hats, but most of us wore only tee shirts, this being a hot day at Camp Drum.

Suddenly, a 90-day wonder, a newly minted ROTC college trained Second Lieutenant full of piss and vinegar began berating Sgt. M on our lack of dress discipline.

We boys stopped doing anything so we could watch this show. We were all familiar with Sgt. M. He was a quiet man who never raised his voice in anger or used obscenities or lost his cool.

Sgt. M listened to Lt. Gung-Ho and took in his bluster and abuse. He said nothing in response until L:t. Gung-Ho finished his admonition. Quietly Sgt M came to his point and simply replied,  “Lieutenant, it appears to me that you do not wish to be able to talk to the rest of the army. Fair enough, that’s your choice. Boys, back on the truck, we’re out of here.”

Sgt M turned and walked away and we followed him. The Lieutenant, (now renamed) Lt. Dumb ass remained where he was as Sgt. M jumped back in the cab and we climbed into the cargo bay. Suddenly, Lt. Dum ass came to the realization of what was happening and how badly he had screwed-up. He sprinted  after SGT Martin practically begging him to come back. Martin, accepted his apology, ordered us off the truck so we could hook them up to the rest of the army. We didn’t sing our little ditty as we finally pulled out of there, but we now had a juicy story to tell everyone else in Charlie Company.  

Riot Control

Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated on April 4, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee causing race riots to breakout across the country. Our armory was located in Hempstead, NY, a prominently Black community. Hempstead was not immune to the riots that followed but we were not activated to protect lives or property as we had not received any training in riot control.

But the authorities did note the proximity of our armory to the troubled zone and it was decided to have us participate in anti-riot maneuvers. Of course, even the Big Brains in the National Guard realized that it wouldn’t be wise to let the community know that we were undertaking this training.

They selected an old Navy training base located in Sands Point a trendy upscale community on Long Island’s Gold Coast. And so, on a warm Sunday in June we made our way to this dormant field  that would eventually become the site of Helen Keller Center for deaf and blind students.

One side of the field faced out onto Middle Road, the main drag though Sands Point. We came off our two and a half ton trucks commonly called “Deuce and a half.” We were dressed like we were going to war. We carried unmounted bayonets, gas masks, web belts, entrenching tools, helmet liners canteens and our M-1 rifles. Both companies, B and C that were assigned to the Hempstead armory formed up into our respective formations.

Our officers decided that one company would play the soldiers and the other company would play the rioters. After two hours, the roles would be reversed. C Company would begin as the rioters and we were instructed to stack our rifles and all other equipment, remove our hats shirts and all other gear that we placed neatly on the grass.

The trucks drove off to a parking area close to the shore and tape was used to construct make-believe blocks. We were told to act like rioters and the action quickly deteriorated to a joke. We sat down blocking the make-believe street and nobody knew what to do.

When we reversed the roles, we quickly discovered that being a soldier was far lee comfortable. We were ordered to fix our bayonets and put on our gas masks. We were hot and sweaty and again, the rioters blocked the street forcing us to stand there and wait.

One irony, as the afternoon went by pretty girls and pretty boys drove up Middle Neck Road and parked their Vets, T-Birds, BMW and Mercede convertibles along the side of the road to watch the soldier men do their thing. They seemed to be having a good time until they got bored and drove off only to be replaced by a new set of rich kids.

We finished about 4 PM, picked up our make-believe blocks, reboarded our trucks and headed back to the armory. We never heard another word about that Sunday and, fortunately, we never were called out to play law and order.                

Since we were members of the 242^nd Signal Battalion, upon graduation from basic training, we faced two alternatives where we would receive our advanced training on communications. One was located here in the Fort Dix training area. The other, more intense, was located at Fort Gordan in Georgia. Fortunately, we were ordered to remain in Fort Dix.

This decision was a God-send! If we had been ordered to Georgia, going home on weekends would have been an illusion. Fort Dix made it a reality. Bill had rented an off-base parking spot and a driver would bring his car onto the base every Friday afternoon. He’d give me a lift to an exit on the Long Island Expressway where Mary Ann would meet me. On Sunday, she would drive me to the Port Authority Bus Terminal where I’d catch my ride back to Dix.    

Our stay in that training company was almost the reverse of my basic training.

First off, an incredible yet tragic event happened as we were moving into our new quarters. On our second day there, our new First Sergeant in charge died of unknown causes. The army couldn’t replace him so the company clerks took over our training schedules and all of us cooperated with their schedule to the fullest.

Good grief, only an idiot wouldn’t cooperate. We were guaranteed weekend passes without any exceptions so long as we kept the peace and reported to our weekly communication classes. As Sargent Campbell had told us, “You guys (reservists) are a summer breeze. None of you ever go AWOL or have run-ins with MPs or the police.”

The army calls specialty training achieving proficiency in our MOS or our job description. MOS, stands for Military Occupational Specialty. We were linemen. But, when researching this piece, I called on my cousin, Bill, to recall ours. We both agreed that it was between 312 and 318, and most likely 316.

When I looked up army MOS during the Viet Nam War, I was shocked to find that the army categorized a lineman as MOS 36. Whatever, 316 or 36, that was my army job.

Curiously, 90% of my training in communications school had nothing to do with what we were expected to do back in C Company of the 242^nd Signal Battalion! Nobody cared, including us. Our goal was to graduate and go home.

We learned how to operate an army telephone switchboard, lay down and hook up field wire, not our job back in Co. C in the 242. The army actually tried to teach us how to communicate using signal flags.

One training task tested my ability, and not in a nice way, pole climbing. The pole I had to climb was 30-feet tall. (Another reason to thank why I didn’t have to train in Fort Gordon. (The word was out that they had 90-foot poles there.)

To climb the poll, I had to fasten climbing gaffs to the bottom of my two boots, fasten leather chaps over the legs of my pants and fasten a working belt around my waist that included a safety belt that I deployed when I reached my working area.

A gaff is a triangular piece of steel that protrudes from a steel plate that we attached to the bottom of our boots with leather straps. When climbing a pole, we’d raise our free leg and kick the gaff into the pole giving us traction to lift our other now free leg. Repetition let us climb the pole one leg at a time.

We had to be careful to anchor each thrust at a 45 degree angle to guarantee it was secure. We were warned to always lean back and never to get to close to the pole. Otherwise, we faced the risk of gaffing out which world send us shooting down the pole. If that happened, our only protection to the multitude of splinters would be our chaps and heavy-duty gloves.

Once we reached the top, we’d attach our safety belt, remove our gloves and go to work.

Our final exam only had us climb the pole, set up as if we were ready to go to work, Circle the poll instead, remove our safety belt, put on our gloves and descend back to the ground. When my turn came, I successfully climbed the pole, circled it and began my descend. About half way down, I made a mistake and gaffed out! I dropped about ten-feet in a shower of splinters before I came to a stop. disgusted and defeated, I quickly finished my descent, stopped at the bottom of the pole, removed my gloves and gaffs, grabbed my climbing equipment, returned it to storage and walked away. Fortunately, I received a passing grade and I never climbed a poll again.

We graduated in May making our active commitment less than four months instead of the six months we signed up for.

In the following editions I will report on the unusual experiences of being in the reserves.                                  

When we arrived at Fort Dix in early February of 1967, we began basic training  by living in transient barracks under the supervision of sergeants who would become our drill instructors (DIs) once we transferred to the permanent home of our new basic training outfit, Sierra Company.

Their job for now was to make sure we accomplished every task needed to begin this journey. First up, haircuts with electric razers set at zero. Fortunately, my cousin, Bill, had alerted me so I arrived with a short crew cut.

We were issued duffle bags. It didn’t take long to understand why as we began to fill them with:

Uniforms, underwear and socks of different types. Two or three fatigue pants and shirts, a Class A uniform, hats, boots and even glasses. Field jackets, Class A overcoats, gloves and anything else deemed appropriate.

Visits to doctors and dentists filled in a good deal of our time as transients. Finally, we boarded buses loaded down with all our stuff and were driven to the home of Sierra’s barracks. After we piled out from the buses, stacked our stuff where told, we lined up in formation so we could meet the newest prick who would control our lives for the next eight weeks, our First Sergeant, Gutman. Sergeant Gutman announced his presence like a major tornado wrecking a town in Kansas. Gutman guaranteed that he now had ultimate control over our very beings.

Hyperbole, of course, but nobody was stupid enough to challenge him. Actually, I found my own escape from his control by silently mimicking his Hitleresque pronouncements. We went to breakfast as a unit and as we entered the mess hall, each of us had to sound off with their Service Number. If a soldier mumbled his number, a sergeant would demand that he repeat it louder. One morning, soon thereafter, when my turn came, I inwardly grabbed a breath deep in my gut. I used the same voice that I used to torment officials at Giants games and let fly, “Sergeant, Private 3-3-1-9-0-7-0 reporting.”

Back in the day, I had trained my voice so that my taunts filled Section 12 at Yankee Stadium. Now my voice filled a mess hall.

Gutman loved it and I became his celebrity that made my life that much easier under his reign of terror.

Our basic training schedule was a winter cycle. The Army restricted what we could do outdoors. Despite this restriction, Gutman announced that we should prepare for a three-day bivouac where we would live outside, eat outside and maneuver outside. I will never know who dropped the dime on him, but the Army’s Inspector General came down on our First Sargent with fire and brimstone forcing him to back off.

His revenge came swiftly. We were too early in our training cycle to be eligible for weekend passes, but being close to Long Island, many of us had visitors on Sunday, our day off. Mary Ann, my fiancé and my mom would visit on Sundays.

About 9 am, Gutman announced that we would be in lock down that Sunday.

Before we knew about his edict, several trainees had left with their buddies or girlfriends. My buddy, Bill, from the 242 was one of them. Gutman arrived after Bill had left, but he was there when Mary Ann and my mom, arrived. I explained my dilemma  to our First Sargent knowing full well that he had exceeded his authority.

He relented so long as we stayed in a parking lot close to the barracks.

When Bill returned, I told him the shit-kickers were coming down on him and so they did. They made the next week the longest of his life with KP in the morning, all kinds of shit during the day and KP at night. I did everything I could to lessen his load, but it was Bill’s strong spirit that got him through it. F***k Gutman, Bill beat you.

The rifle assigned to us was the M-14, the successor to the M-1 Garand rifle that had been in service since World War II. The M-14 entered service in 1958, but by the time we received it, the M-16 assault rifle was already being used by our troops in Viet Nam.

I liked the feel of the M-14 and got high marks demonstrating how to maneuver with it. Unfortunately, my score at the qualifying line fell a few points short of expert that cost me my first weekend pass.

My worst experience came on the grenade range. The supervisors quickly moved us along from station to station. This caused me to lose focus, a weakness I live with. All of a sudden, I was called into the pit to throw a live grenade. The instructor placed a grenade into my right hand, pointed me in the direction where he wanted me to throw it and ordered me to pull the pin. I put my hand back into a throwing position and looked at the target area. In my state of confusion, I saw nothing to zero in on. I threw it, nut not very far.

Next thing I heard was a loud speaker announce, “Short round.”

The instructor ordered me to hit the dirt and mumbled, “Son of a bitch”

He stood looking at it for a few seconds, then hit the dirt too.

It went off with a loud bang, but without doing any harm.

I looked at the instructor. I thought of apologizing, but I realized he was in no mood to hear anything from me.

The rest of basic training melted away, but before we graduated Bill and I and a couple of other guys had dinner with Sergeant Campell. He said, “I love you reservists. Admittedly, you can be pains in the ass, ask too many questions and don’t like the Army way of doing things.”

“But, you guys are a summer breeze when compared to raw draftees. None of you ever go AWOL have run-ins with MPs or the New Jersey Police, or turn on each other including with knives. I’d pick you reservists any time.”

On the Outside Looking In will not publish on August 21, but will return on August 28.

When I arrived at Fort Dix to begin basic training, I found that most of my fellow mates who I shared our barracks with were also National Guard or Army Reserve enlistees who had been members of their home units for one or two years. Most of us had joined these units to avoid the draft in 1965 and 1966.

I joined the 242^nd Signal Battalion based in Hempstead, Long Island in the spring of 1965 shortly before I graduated from college. My cousin, Bill, was already a seasoned veteran and had already served his six months in active duty at Fort Dix in Bordentown, NJ close to Philadelphia, PA. At the time I joined my unit, the reserves were operating in a relaxed peace-time mode.

Bill drove me to the armory where I met the First Sargent of Company C, Harry Coogan. Harry was a nice guy with an excellent sense of humor. He operated in that same relaxed atmosphere. He had several openings available and he signed me up. Harry welcomed me to the unit and said that I would go to basic training that fall.  

Little did we realize that coming summer of 1965, President Lyndon B. Johnson would turn our country’s advisory actions in Viet Nam into a full-scale war against the North and open the draft so he could send hundreds of thousands of young American men into that dirty little war.

Johnson and Co’s actions filled the Army’s training centers with as many draftees as they could handle and then some. All of a sudden, young men eligible for the draft flocked to join reserve units. The 242^nd Signal Battalion was no exception. Every unit filled their quotas and started turning away new enlistees.

We reservists were relegated to training units within our companies. It sucked and nobody liked the concept. We were a waste of time and resources. Over time, it became obvious that we didn’t have a place in the line to go away for training, so at least in Company C, the brass integrated us into the organization.

I joined Bill’s unit that was led by two sergeants, Freddie B and Mike M. With the call-up to war, the army tightened up on our operations and overnight, the relaxed atmosphere disappeared. More weekend drills replaced Monday night meetings and the enforcement of stupid Army disciplines became prevalent. One weekend up at Camp Smith in upstate New York, I got nailed for sideburns, the length that exceeded Army regulations. Stupidly, a sergeant actually measured the length! Mine failed and I was issued an Article-15 for punishment which meant absolutely nothing as far as I was concerned.

The Commanding Officer in charge when I joined the 242, called it quits and said goodbye to us all. His replacement, who shall remain nameless, was a total shit head. If we had ever had to do something serious like go into combat, one of us had to frag him before he killed us all. I knew it was bad when Harry Coogan called it quits and retired.

I finally got the call to active duty early in February of 1967. I reported to the corner of Park Avenue and Thirty-Third Street in front of the old armory to board a bus going Fort Dix. I was part of a small crowd of 25 to 30 reservists on our way to basic training. It was an unseasonable day.

We found our way to a barracks for transient troops for our introduction to the Army.

That night it snowed and it didn’t stop snowing for the rest of February.

Recently, I wrote about the lyrics near the beginning of Billy Joel’s Piano Man, “Son, won’t you play me a memory…”  as being my favorite from his prolific mind. Another is from the less popular Ballad of Billy the Kid,  near the end of the song:

Well, one cold day a posse captured Billy,

And a judge said, “String him up for what he did.”

And the cowboys and their kin

Like a sea came pouring in,

To watch the hanging of Billy the Kid.

Kelly Willis really grabbed me with the first verse of her title song , Talk Like That:

Talk like that

Well, I don’t know where you’re from

But, oh how it takes me back

When you talk some

Well, I can hear my father

And his Oklahoma drawl

I hear my grandmother

I can hear them all

Paul Simon, another genius wordsmith has given us so many. I begin with Verses 5 and 6 from The Boxer 

And I’m laying out my winter clothes and

Wishing I was gone

Where the New York winters aren’t bleeding me

Leading me

Going home

In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out in anger and his shame

“I am leaving, I am leaving”, but the fighter still remains

Whenever I play a collection of Paul Simon’s songs, I end up with America:

Cathy, I’m lost, I said though I knew she was sleeping

I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why

Countin’ the cars on the New Jersey turnpike

They’ve all come to look for America, all come to look for America.

Depression has its place in music and Dorey Previn addresses that in Lady with the Braid:

Would you like to stay till sunrise

It’s completely your decision

It’s just that the night cut through me like a knife

Would you care to stay awhile

And save my life?

I don’t what made me say that

I’ve got this funny sense of humor

You know I could not be downhearted if I tried

It’s just that going home is such a ride

Going home is such a ride

Going home is such a ride

Isn’t going home a low and lonely ride?

This brings me to my last song, one written and sung by a Canadian by the name of Lyn Miles accompanied only by a single guitarist. Its name is self-evident: Loneliness:

Loneliness is an envelope that you can seal yourself into

And send out to a stranger in a place across the sea

Loneliness is a tired old friend

Who carries your baggage to airports and train station for free

Loneliness wears a suit and tie to big city streets

And makes you cry at parties filled with people that you know

Loneliness will take you to the shoreline

On a fogey day to find an undertow

It is the hurt that hurt’s the deepest

It is the ache that you can’t cure

It is the desperation of a late-night call

It is the lover in the shadow

It is the one who got away

It is the cry of the southbound bird in the fall

(On the Outside Looking In will not publish next week and will return on August 7. )

The two puppies were eight weeks old when they arrived at our house on a Wednesday, November 11, 2010. That day also happened to be Veteran’s Day and Mary Ann’s and my forty-third wedding anniversary. Mary Ann had engineered the purchase through a breeders’ network based in Florida who acted as our agent with the breeder. They were sent to us by truck via a pet-oriented shipping company with the unlikely name, PetEx Express. The driver and his helper found us through a complicated series of events, and here they were, two lively and healthy puppies being handed over to Mary Ann and Jodie.

Both gals lifted the pups into the air to determine their sexes. We were taking delivery of the male while the female was Jodie’s birthday gift. Once the right sexes was determined, the grand kids moved in as part of this exciting morning. Both families had already named them, Max and Ruby after the story-book and cartoon rabbit brother and sister. Ruby went off to Fairfield, CT with three kids, ages 11, 9 and 5 and their sister Golden Retriever, Barely, seven-years old. Max stayed in Port Washington with two sexagenarians.

Separating the puppies reminded me of an old Budweiser commercial where two Dalmatian pups arrive and the pick goes to a fire house. The lucky pup sticks out his tongue at his sibling as they depart not knowing that it is heading for Bud’s Clydesdale’s wagon. At the end of the commercial they pass on a road, the shunned pup sitting on the wagon seat with the teamster driving the Clydesdales. The chosen pup sits in the open cab of a fire engine. The shunned pup retunes the gesture and sticks out its tongue at its sibling.

Max became our sixth Golden Retriever. The first was Harry, then came Fred, Bubba, Jumbo and Maggie. Harry was a grand dog. Knowing what I now know about Max, his disposition, attitude, temperament, etc. Harry would have been a great name for this Missouri bred dog. Failing that, I would have pushed for Truman because he is a “show me dog.”

Max was our first pup in a long time. We acquired Maggie when she was ten-months old and a certifiable Looney Tune. Anyone who knows us and knew Maggie will certify that she was f—ing nuts.

Folks we know looked at Mary Ann and me in a way that clearly showed their thoughts: “The two of you are either dumb or crazy.” I too had real doubts about what we had done. The biting, destruction, housebreaking, sleepless nights and other unpleasant happenings and events: WHAT HAD WE DONE!

Admittedly, we had some bad moments, but this new pup was special. He gave us a pass on several fundamental problems. He never cried through the night and he was house broken when he arrived. Max remained happy in his crate and would return to is for naps during the day. In the morning, once we opened it, he usually reacted by looking at us, stretched, got up, stretched again and then began his day.

Max was clean even for Goldens who by nature house break themselves quickly. His only early accidents happened when he was excited and these stopped after a few months. Max also proved to be very trainable. He cooperated for love and he would do almost anything for food.

Biting, however lasted more than a year. Never vicious, he just had the need to use those teeth. Unfortunately, this meant that play sessions deteriorated into bloody sessions, especially for Mary Ann whose thin-skinned arms and hands soon made her look like the victim of a series of knife fights. Mary Ann’s ultimate defense was to cut the toes off of athletic socks and fashion them into shields to minimize the damage to her skin.

Max grew rapidly, almost before our eyes and quickly became known in our development as the dog who proudly carried sticks around in his mouth the size of small trees. A fine-looking dog, one gal remarked to me one day, “Wow, that is a good-looking dog. Why he’s the Robert Redford of Golden Retrievers.

Max retained a terrible flaw as a young dog, he considered children to be play toys, especially those dressed in hoodie sweat shirts. As all of my five grandchildren, each one suffered the same dubious experience of Max grabbing the hood on their sweat shirt, knocking them down and being dragged on their backs along the ground. This finally stopped, but stealing never did. Max stole anything he could get his mouth on, clothes, shoes, towels, throw rugs mats and pillows. He would even unmake beds so he could get to the pillows. He considered  stealing to be retrieving and he would proudly parade his trophy with his plume tail high in the air.

We lost Max when he was twelve, but he was not our last dog. We were done with raising puppies and our last two were adults that we rescued.   

In my time as a frequent business flier, roughly between 1975 and 1998 I flew in more 727s than any other airplane and until 1991 more times on Eastern Airlines than any other carrier. Most of these flights were domestic to other locations from Boston to Alabama. The major exceptions to this rule were flights to Houston and Dallas to visit Reynolds Metals and Exxon. But why Eastern and not Delta?

That decision came early thanks to a Northeast Petroleum, a small oil company based in Boston. The Suez Canal was blocked by ships sunk there as a result of the 1973 war between Egypt and Israel. Without the canal, tanker charter rates exploded leading Northeast to purchase a group of old tankers. I do remember there being at least three named the Caribbean Voyager, Mediterranean Voyager and Coral Voyager. Marsh & McLennan was appointed broker and I was assigned to their account. What was the easiest way to fly to Boston from New York?

The Boston Shuttle. And who operated the shuttle? Eastern Airlines. That was that, my Eastern days began and so did flying their 727s assigned to this run. I soon solidified this relationship by joining their airport club that they called The Ionosphere Club.

Unfortunately, Northeast’s exercise in owning these tankers ended badly and not one of these ships completed a voyage. But as this client disappeared into the night, I was assigned to Reynolds based in Richmond VA and Corpus Christi, TX and Puerto Rican Shipping Authority (PRMSA) based in San Juan, PR. Waterman Shipping Co. based in Mobile, AL joined my assignments. All of these places were served by Eastern Airlines.

My status grew materially when Eastern established the first frequent traveler program. They called it the Executive Travel Club and membership was by invitation only. In fact, I only discovered the club when a colleague showed me a copy of the form he had received to apply for membership. With his permission, I made a Xerox copy of it and, as if by magic, I was approved. A credit card sized plastic card arrived with my name and account number. Together with a list of privileges.

Chief among them were upgrades to first class when available. This was near the end of airline regulation when the FAA still kept control of airlines’ operations and few flights were full. When armed with my membership in the Ionosphere Club, it almost guaranteed upgrades.

One of my most bizarre experiences happened on my flight from JFK to West Palm Beach to attend our annual Managing Directors Meeting then being held in the Breaker’s Hotel. Armed with The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, I made my way to the empty Lockheed 1011 widebody jet for my trip south. Another chap boarded a bit late and in a hurry. I could see from the paperwork he had with him that he too was headed for the same meeting, he was French and he probably had flown to JFK 0n that morning’s Air France Concorde.

I introduced myself and asked him if  he had seen that morning’s  NYT  or WSJ?

“No, no, I have not seen them yet.” 

I handed both newspapers to him. Both contained headlines and stories that Marsh & McLennan had been the victim of a bond scandal and had lost a considerable amount of money. It was obvious that the value of our stock would take a large hit. He looked me in the eye, but all he could say was “Sacre’ bleu, Sacre’ bleu, Sacre bleu, etc.

Turned out he was Raymond Jutheau, one of the principles of our French affiliate. Unfortunately, I certainly ruined his day.

Deregulation ruined a number of traditional airlines like Eastern, Pan American and TWA while others were merged out of existence. New start-ups replaced them and they two are now attempting to merge.

Eastern’s was particularly ugly. By the late 1980’s most business flyers deserted this carrier and  broke and busted, Eastern was liquidated in 1991.

Despite its demise, I still carry their luggage tag on my computer bag that produces the occasional odd look or a smile.       

In my time as a frequent business flier, roughly between 1975 and 1998 I flew in more 727s than any other airplane and until 1991 more times on Eastern Airlines than any other carrier. Most of these flights were domestic to other locations from Boston to Alabama. The major exceptions to this rule were flights to Houston and Dallas to visit Reynolds Metals and Exxon. But why Eastern and not Delta?

That decision came early thanks to a Northeast Petroleum, a small oil company based in Boston. The Suez Canal was blocked by ships sunk there as a result of the 1973 war between Egypt and Israel. Without the canal, tanker charter rates exploded leading Northeast to purchase a group of old tankers. I do remember there being at least three named the Caribbean Voyager, Mediterranean Voyager and Coral Voyager. Marsh & McLennan was appointed broker and I was assigned to their account. What was the easiest way to fly to Boston from New York?

The Boston Shuttle. And who operated the shuttle? Eastern Airlines. That was that, my Eastern days began and so did flying their 727s assigned to this run. I soon solidified this relationship by joining their airport club that they called The Ionosphere Club.

Unfortunately, Northeast’s exercise in owning these tankers ended badly and not one of these ships completed a voyage. But as this client disappeared into the night, I was assigned to Reynolds based in Richmond VA and Corpus Christi, TX and Puerto Rican Shipping Authority (PRMSA) based in San Juan, PR. Waterman Shipping Co. based in Mobile, AL joined my assignments. All of these places were served by Eastern Airlines.

My status grew materially when Eastern established the first frequent traveler program. They called it the Executive Travel Club and membership was by invitation only. In fact, I only discovered the club when a colleague showed me a copy of the form he had received to apply for membership. With his permission, I made a Xerox copy of it and, as if by magic, I was approved. A credit card sized plastic card arrived with my name and account number. Together with a list of privileges.

Chief among them were upgrades to first class when available. This was near the end of airline regulation when the FAA still kept control of airlines’ operations and few flights were full. When armed with my membership in the Ionosphere Club, it almost guaranteed upgrades.

One of my most bizarre experiences happened on my flight from JFK to West Palm Beach to attend our annual Managing Directors Meeting then being held in the Breaker’s Hotel. Armed with The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, I made my way to the empty Lockheed 1011 widebody jet for my trip south. Another chap boarded a bit late and in a hurry. I could see from the paperwork he had with him that he too was headed for the same meeting, he was French and he probably had flown to JFK 0n that morning’s Air France Concorde.

I introduced myself and asked him if  he had seen that morning’s  NYT  or WSJ?

“No, no, I have not seen them yet.” 

I handed both newspapers to him. Both contained headlines and stories that Marsh & McLennan had been the victim of a bond scandal and had lost a considerable amount of money. It was obvious that the value of our stock would take a large hit. He looked me in the eye, but all he could say was “Sacre’ bleu, Sacre’ bleu, Sacre bleu, etc.

Turned out he was Raymond Jutheau, one of the principles of our French affiliate. Unfortunately, I certainly ruined his day.

Deregulation ruined a number of traditional airlines like Eastern, Pan American and TWA while others were merged out of existence. New start-ups replaced them and they two are now attempting to merge.

Eastern’s was particularly ugly. By the late 1980’s most business flyers deserted this carrier and  broke and busted, Eastern was liquidated in 1991.

Despite its demise, I still carry their luggage tag on my computer bag that produces the occasional odd look or a smile.       

I had invited Dave Walker of Better Roofing to inspect our aging roof. As I expected, he didn’t have anything nice to say about its condition. Long story short, it had to be replaced. Our town has peculiar rules and regulations including the need for a permit to change a roof, unless the work is done in one day on a Saturday.

We picked the coming Saturday, June 23^rd. “Dave, you do know we currently have three roofs on top of the house?”

“Certainly, I’m aware of that, but my roofers will rake off all three with plenty of time left to add all elements of the new roof on Saturday.”

On Saturday, Dave’s acting foreman, Jorge, was waiting outside our house by 6:30. The six-man crew arrived at 7, proceeding to place tarps all around our property. At 7:30, a truck began to deliver various roofing material and the crew took to ladders like a practiced army to prepare for ready themselves for the town’s 8 am starting time.

They went to work raking the roof in sections and depositing the bulk of the derbies into an open truck parked on our driveway. The day was hot, part of a heat wave we were suffering through. Temperatures reached the 90s while we were still in the morning. Around 11, I  offered the crew water from our refrigerator. When they broke for lunch at noon, I offered them another round. Every time I did, the bottles of Poland Spring were universally accepted.

It seemed to me the sun was taking its own toll on the crew’s speed and stamina. By 2 in the afternoon, I noticed an area of bare wood that covered three of our four bedrooms. I was facing west, so I didn’t notice the black cloud heading our way from New York City. Not for long, however. It began to fill the sky. True, the forecasters had predicted the possibility of thunder storms, but not until later in the day. Well, they lost that bet as did I. The rain came quickly and it came ugly. It didn’t last long, maybe twenty minutes and the roofing crew didn’t seem all that excited.

Most of them continued to work through the storm unconcerned about the lightning. Perhaps the rain cooled them off. I did worry about their safety, but it seemed I was alone acting this way.

They kept going until after 7 pm including clean-up. As they were preparing to leave, Jorge explained to Mary Ann and me that they still had some minor work remaining and that he and two other workers would return on Sunday at 9 am.

Pizza for dinner. We finished around 7 pm. As we were cleaning up and preparing to watch television, we heard a thump from somewhere in the house. Not too loud, but enough to get our attention. We shook our heads, but didn’t do anything about it.

Instead, we watched our show, or most of it when I asked Mary Ann to pause it so I could use the bathroom. I decided to use the one upstairs off of our bedroom. When I opened the bedroom door, I stopped dead in my tracks. The floor in front me was white. For a second, I was stunned until I realized I was looking at what had been our bedroom ceiling. O.M.G! OH MY GOD, lots of foul language interspersed with calls to Mary Ann to come quickly.

Instead of just standing there, Mary Ann was resourceful enough to take three photographs of the ceiling and its bare wooden rafters. The beddings, furniture and every surface in the room was full of what had been sheet rock, fiber board and insulation. Mary Ann sent the three photos to Mr. Walker with a cry for help.

He did reply rather quickly that he had ordered two workers to our house that evening to dispose of all of the wet debris. We also called our neighbors, Rob and Linda who knew Walker. Linda and Mary Ann removed all of the wet bedding to our laundry to wash and dry it all the next several days. The two men worked past 10 pm and promised that a full crew including painters  would be present on Sunday.

Today is Wednesday June 25 and our restoration continues. We discovered moderate to severe damage to the other rooms on the second floor. My office was so badly damaged that the insulation and wall boards had to be completely removed and replaced. I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out and praise Walker for the incredible resources he threw at this disaster from Sunday to Wednesday. Most importantly, he was there when we needed him. To be Continued,

On the Outside Looking In will not publish again until July 17.

Polo Grounds Glory Days: 1954

April 2023, revised June 2024

Last night, June 18, 2024, while watching the Yankees game, I received the news that Willie Mays had passed away. I dedicate this revised edition about the 1954 World Series to Mister Mays, one of the best, ever.

A last hurrah, the final World Series championship won by the New York Giants at their venerable Manhattan home, the Polo Grounds.

Bill Christman shares his memories of that season:

August of 1954. My Dad took me to a Sunday doubleheader against the Pirates. We had an early, but traditional Sunday dinner of leg of lamb. My Mom made delicious sandwiches of left-over meat and off we went to see Johnny Antonelli and company win both ends of that doubleheader 5-4 and 5-3.

The Giants were my love, but things were rocky. They had lost three straight to the second place Dodgers reducing a 3 ½ lead to just ½ game. But the lead had replenished itself back to two games going into that Sunday. I kept one eye on the scoreboard that showed the Dodgers losing to the Phillies in both games of their doubleheader in Ebbets Field. I can still see in my mind’s eye the man to my right and several rows back yelling, “Philly got five runs.” When the sun set, the Giants lead was four games.

The Giants opponent in the World Series was the Al Lopez-led Cleveland Indians who won a remarkable 111 games that season, ending the Yankees run of five consecutive AL Pennants.

The Giants went on to sweep the Indians, four games to none. The accepted turning point of the series occurred in the top of the ninth inning of Game 1. With the score tied at 2-2, runners on first and second base, Giants manager, Leo Durocher brought in left-handed relief pitcher, Dick Littlefield, to pitch to Vic Wertz, the Indians first baseman batting second.

 Wertz hit a long fly ball deep into “Death Valley” also known as the Polo Grounds’ center field. Willie Mays, playing a medium- ranged center field position, took off at the crack of the bat. The ball and Mays reached the 440-foot mark at precisely the same moment. Mays, with his back to the ball, made a spectacular over-the shoulder catch.

 After catching the ball, Mays used his momentum to pivot 180 degrees back toward home plate. As he rotated, his right arm swung out and around him allowing Willie to release the ball at exactly the right moment with an amazing velocity. His perfect catch followed by his perfect throw forced the runners to hold up. Durocher called time-out to go to the mound. Littlefield greeted his skipper with a great understatement, “Well, I got my man out.”

The game remained tied as the runners were subsequently stranded. In the tenth inning, Dusty Rhodes pinch-hit a three-run homerun to win the game 5-2.

The next day, September 30, 1954, the Giants won the last World Series game ever to be played in the Polo Grounds, 3 to 1. Rhodes again was the hero driving in all three of the Giants runs. The Giants finished the series in Cleveland winning the last two games, 6 to 2 and 7 to 4 to sweep the Indians in four games.

1955 belonged to the Brooklyn Dodgers as “Wait until next year,” fell into the same category that the Boston Red Sox did to “Reverse the Curse” in 2004. By winning the World Series, it just did not matter anymore. The Dodgers won the pennant with a record of 98-55 while the Giants finished in third place behind the Braves.

Bill Christman remembered a Fourth of July doubleheader against the Dodgers.

The Giants and Dodgers hardly ever played each other in doubleheaders which made this a special event. I went to the Polo Grounds with a good group of neighbors and friends on a day that, weather-wise, could not have been a better day for baseball.

My scorecard shows that the Giants did not allow the Dodgers to score a run in the first inning of the first game. The next time they accomplished this was the second inning of the second game. Brooklyn won the first game, 15-2 and the second, 6-1.

Willie Mays hit 51 home runs in ‘55, but the pitching floundered. Leo Durocher resigned as manager on September 25 to be effective at the end of a doubleheader against the Phillies. The Giants won the first game 5-2. Here is how Noel Hynd described what happened in the bottom of the ninth inning of the second game with the Phillies leading 3-1 and the Giants at bat:

With Joey Amalfitano on second base and Whitey Lockman on first, Bobby Hoffman lined a ball to Phillies shortstop, Ted Kazanski. Kazanski flipped the ball to Bobby Morgan, the second baseman, to double Amalfitano. Then Morgan threw to first before Lockman could return there. Leo must have been muttering to himself as he took his final walk to the center field clubhouse. His reign in John McGraw’s old job had ended on the short end of a triple play.

The Giants reign in the Polo Grounds came to an end on Sunday, September 29, 1957. The home team lost to the Pittsburg Pirates, 9-1, before an angry crowd who did their best to demolish what they could. Some in the crowd chanted: “We want Stoneham with a rope around his neck.”

The Giants abandoned New York for San Francisco joining their principal rivals, the Brooklyn Dodgers, who abandoned Brooklyn for Los Angeles. The Dodgers home park, Ebbets Field, was quickly demolished to provide land for Urban Renewal housing.

Curiously, the vacant Polo Grounds was left intact. Good thing: It became the initial home, first for football in 1960 when the newly minted American Football League (AFL)  New York Titans made the Polo Grounds their home field.

When the baseball expansion New York Mets joined Titans successor, the Jets there in 1962, the life of this historic ballpark was extended until its replacement, Shea Stadium, could open in April of 1964. A week before the Mets inaugurated Shea with a contest against the Pittsburg Pirates, the jack hammers went to work beginning the destruction to erase this old friend.

 Frank Sinatra memorialized its passing with a song called, “There Used to be a Ballpark here.”