NOT JUST POKER

In the late 1950’s, when the draft was still in effect, I was scheduled to go for a physical one Monday. The night before, I started experiencing pains I had never encountered before. The pains  were so sharp, so severe that I was up the entire night.  Instead of worrying about what was causing the pain, I was concerned with getting to my physical for Selective Service in the Armed Forces and what might happen if I did not show. The result of that physical would rate my standing in the draft. Since I was in relatively good health, I knew I would be rated 1A and that I would be called up  soon after my physical.

Very early that Monday morning I contacted a cousin of mine, a medical doctor, and described my condition.  Soon after, I was under going an appendectomy in the hospital, the Montefiore Medical Center in the Bronx.  Prior, the only few times I had ever visited Montefiore, was to see relatives suffering from severe cancers.  I thought Montefiore was a hospital at which one came to die.  To my delight, after a few days, I was sent home.

The doctor contacted the Selective Service System and stated that I should not indulge in any strenuous activity for six months.  Given this ironic reprieve I busied myself trying to find a placement in either the National Guard or Armed Forces Reserve. If I could get into either of these programs, I would have to serve active duty of only six months. If I were to get drafted, I would be forced to serve a minimum of two years in the Infantry.

I contacted Armed Forces centers throughout New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.   There were no openings in either Reserve or National Guard units. I was getting quite concerned that I might end up going through the draft system.  I lucked out.

Another cousin (Fortunately, I have a lot of relatives.) who worked for an airline based out of Miami, FL, informed me that he heard that there were openings in the Air Force Reserve unit at Homestead Air Force Base, not far from Miami.

At this juncture I’ll move ahead, leaving for another tale the humorous story of how a young lady joined me when I flew down to Miami for enlistment and how she ended up in jail.  I took a battery of tests: written, oral, and physical. I scored well enough that I was given a choice of schools to attend after my four weeks of basic training at Lakeland Air Force Base in San Antonio, TX.  The committment for Air Force Reservists included basic training, followed by “schooling,” followed by balance of six month tour at originating unit, Homestead AFB.

Of all the school choices I had, I chose whichever of the schools was the shortest. So it was I ended up in the Military Police, Air Police to be precise.

There are many stories to be told of when I was in Texas, many humorous–many, sadly, just a sorrowful sign of the times. While in the service, I was quite fortunate financially.  I had cut a deal with my business partners, albeit my mother and brother-in-law, that I would receive $75 per week (as opposed to the $200 per week I was earning at the time) for the six month period I was in the service.  In the late 50’s, $75 a week (especially with no overhead) was a lot of money for a single guy.  We received no leave time until after basic training.  Sometime after my first few weeks of  Air Police school, also at Lakeland AFB, I got a two-day, weekend pass.

I rented a Pontiac convertible. I asked a young black man from Columbus , OH, I had befriended, if he wanted to join me.  I soon discovered that I was the only Jewish person my friend had ever met. Together we headed for downtown San Antonio– no River Walk, no Spurs, no fancy anything as I recall. (As a matter of fact, if you wanted to give the United States a good enema, San Antonio in the late 1950’s was a good place to insert it.)We went out to eat at a very ordinary restaurant.  We were stared at as some kind of weirdos.  As I looked around, I realized that he was the only black face in the restaurant.

This weekend turned into a disaster.  As we went from motel to motel, hotel to hotel, no place would rent us rooms together.  Finally, I had to drop him off at some seedy-looking motel, where he checked-in.  Worse than San Antonio proper, were the outskirts where he had to stay. We would meet during the day and sight-see.  Sadly, we spent no more weekends together.  Anyway, I diverted from my tale.

I spent ten weeks training to be an MP (AP).  I experienced physical training I thought I could not endure. I learned to  toss grenades and how to fire and clean many weapons including M1 rifles and BAR’s (Browning automatic rifles) and two different pistols. I learned judo and to direct traffic. I became familiar with all procedures surrounding military funerals. The worst of the chores was securing the scene of an aircraft crash–bodies, limbs, horror. Then, there was the hours and hours of classes and the UCMJ, the Uniform Code of Military Justice.

After Texas tour and five-day furlough in New York, I packed my car and drove straight through to Miami, staying awake on dexidrine and caffeine. I reported for duty. I was given two days to get my affairs in order.  I rented a furnished apartment in Miami Springs, where, thanks to my cousin and his stewardess friends, I had a very pleasant three months.

Day to-day tasks at Homestead AFB were routine.  Except for planes being hijacked from Cuba and being parked at the base, there was not much that required AP services. Every now and again I would be sent to Miami International Airport or to some bars to check on a minor complaint. Mostly, my duties were confined to the base.  Our schedule was three days 8 A.M. to 4 P. M., three days 4 P. M. to midnight, three days midnight to 8 A. M., and three days off.

One of my first assignments was the overnight patrol, securing the perimeter surrounding a few of the planes hijacked from Cuba.  I was on base two days when my sergeant instructed me to take the  Military Police  Chevy station wagon and secure the perimeter. I told him that I did not have a Military Driver’s License.  As I recall, he said that he didn’t give a shit.  So, he tossed me the keys. Then, the “fun” started. I went to start of the Chevy, only to discover that it was a manual transmission wagon. Since the only experience I ever had with manual transmission was on my college roommate’s Dodge, which had Fluid Drive and was just partially manual, I was more than just a little concerned at my ability to actually drive this wagon.  Since the sergeant was not too pleased about my lack of a Military License, I was not about to tell him that I could not drive a manual transmission.  So, that is how I learned to drive a standard shift car.  Now, any of you, who have seen me drive a standard transmission vehicle,  might better understand my “clumsiness.”  I chugged and stalled and stalled again, finally getting the hang of driving without Hydromatic or Jetaway, whatever it was that automatic transmission was called then.

Marching prisoners (there were only two) to and from chow was the most formal part of my daily activities. Ironically, it was these two prisoners who got me involved with Tonk.  I now realize, I no longer remember how to play this card game. If you are interested in specifics of this game, there is a great web site that explains the game in detail, www.pagat.com/rummy/tonk.html

During many of my night shifts, I would chat with the two prisoners, both black, both serving time for stealing some cash from the PX (base store). Coincidentally, both of these guys were from Georgia. Both were older than I and very street smart. The two often sat and played Tonk. So it was, I asked them to teach me. We played for cigarettes, a cheap commodity at that time, especially tax-free at the PX.  When just the three of us were in the brig, I would let them out of the cell, they shared, and we would all sit and play Tonk for hours on end.  I started to like the game and thought that playing for other than cigarettes might be fun.

One of the prisoners mentioned to me that there were nightly Tonk games on base in many of the barracks.  Because of my Sam Browne gear (intricate leather belt that held night stick, hand gun, handcuffs, many keys, whistle, etc.), I was not too welcome at the first game I approached(Hmmm? Maybe it was the color of my skin. I was the only white guy there.)  Anyway, I removed the belt, the holster, and all and found a game at which I was accepted. Even then, I was the only white face at the two games going-on simultaneously. So many nights, after working the four to midnight shift, I would head to a game of Tonk, with my newly found friends on base, who, by the way, were the only fellow airmen I befriended while I was on active duty.

At first, I was the welcomed neophyte. The players were happy to take my money.  After a while, my game improved.  I started to win and kept winning. 

If you were expecting a poker tale, sorry for wasting your time.