I’ve Been Had

         Jack Spicer was a nephew to Uncle’s Bud and Matt. Usually we refer to that “chip off the old block” bit when thinking of father and son, but it can apply here equally as well.

         Jack passed away a couple years ago. I worked with him many years,knew him well. He was one of my very best friends, but then Jack was a friend of every one he met. His was a personality that just grew on you, and even folks meeting him for the very first time felt they’d known him all their lives.

         Yeah boy, everyone liked old Jack, and a big reason for his popularity was because he was a teller of tales. One of the very best! I’m going to tell you a little story which I heard Jack recite at least 70 times. His narration never varied, was voiced exactly the same way every time. Jack told of a harrowing experience he’d once undergone in a serious vein, and he expected all who listened to believe. I think it’s true, after all I was acquainted with the man more than 30 years . Never once in that timespan did I catch him in an untruth. Come along and re-live his trying ordeal as Jack once again is in rare form,

         He was a man who possessed a rare and unique ability to make every job---no matter how hard, dirty and back-breaking it might be---seem easy as “fallin’ off’n a log”. Considering what he once got himself into this talent served him well. It occurred back in 1939; Jack had entered the army and his first duty station was Fort Story, down in the Norfolk area of Virginia’s coastline.

         His unit was standing Company formation early one beautiful morning, and the First-Sergeant was asking for one volunteer. One man this top sarge did need. And for those not “in the know”, make no mistake---Sergeants run the army.

         A little chore needed tending to, and this particular Sarge was requesting one soldier be a real man . To take one giant stride forward. To stand tall. To volunteer!

         For those who have never been in service and thereby have not witnessed the spectacle of a First Sergeant addressing his Company, then brother, you’ve missed somethin’. Boxers—wrestlers—pro football players—all tough, all macho men. Shucks feller, I’ve met First Sergeants who would’ve chewed’em up 4 at a setting!

         First-Sergeants use loud and colorful language. I’m going to tell  a few utterances spewed forth by this one on a morning 40 years ago. Then again, most of his talk can’t be printed.

         He was addressing his company, and man how he loved this part of his duty. Here were 200 men under his direct control to command. This man with lotsa’ stripes on his sleeves had put in 20 years. Married to the army he was; the notion of retiring to civilian life held no appeal whatsoever. He was goin’ for 30!

         Already he’d said (  maybe screamed  ) lotsa’ stuff to the assembled ranks that morning. In fact, he was the only person on the scene who was saying anything. The American army of 1939 was a disciplined one, thus 200 men could only stand and listen. Sarge was commenting at this very moment.

         He was asking for one man to take that single step forward, throw out his chest, show his pride and patriotism. This simple gesture would set the individual apart from the run-of-the-mill soldier. The top-kick then said a lot more. But even after all this rah-rah stuff he was meeting with little success. Not one soldier seemed overly anxious and willing this morning to do a good deed for country and fellowman.

         Now understand---Jack was a green recruit , new to the army. So green and raw he hadn’t yet heard about the unwritten law which clearly states: whie in the army one never, but never, volunteers for anything. Great are the perils of volunteering.

          A brilliant idea struck the Sarge. He was coming up short-handed this way, so a change in tactics was called for. He hadn’t been  in this man’s army 20 years for nothin’. When a headlong charge fails---skirt the flanks! Sarge now made that flanking movement.

         A bit of revealing news will be injected at this crucial point---army sergeants absolutely refuse to take NO  for an answer! It’s a despicable scenario, not an option to be tolerated.

          The top soldier then proceeded to tell how that volunteer would be rewarded. With a 3 day pass!---the prize would be issued the very minute this little chore was completed. That couldn’t fail to get the needed man, old Sarge was thinking. He was oh so right!

         This was Jack’s first trip away from home. Doggone it, old Jack was homesick! When mention of the 3 day pass entered into the mix, this boy from the hills didn’t hesitate. Though 199 other men stepped forward, none came close to matching Jack’s blinding speed. He beat them by a mile, and as a result his hide now belonged to that Sergeant.

         With that the greenhorn from Hungry Hollow was loaded aboard a truck and away they went. It was only a five minute ride to their destination which, by the way, was still unknown to Jack. As the old familiar phrase would aptly describe it---“he was totally in the dark”.

         As they were riding along on their merry way, old Sarge’s jaws were still  being exercised briskly. According to him, Jack had made the wise choice. Then he uttered something about how proud he was to have men of Jack’s caliber serving under him ( more rah-rah ).

         Hearing all those things brought a glow to the recruit’s face. His feelings at this moment were that he’d surely be promoted within the week. The brass more’n likely would make him a sergeant! That alone reinforced a previously made statement---Jack was only a green, raw recruit.

         Sarge then laid the best part of this unfolding scene on Jackie Boy. This spanking new addition to the United States Army ---fresh from the hills of Southwest Virginia---was finally told his mission. “You need only to bury a fish out here, boy. I’ll type out that pass the very minute you’re finished”.

         What?! Holy cow, was that it?! Jack’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. This indeed seemed his lucky day. What were all those bad things he’d been hearing about soldiering? A pack of lies, Jack muttered. The young lad from Hungry Hollow  was on cloud nine!

         He’d get this small chore over with in a hurry,pick up his pass, purchase a train ticket and ride the rails to NARZ. This man’s army was a great organization, run by the best people on planet Earth. Jack envisioned a long career in the military, at least 20 years, perhaps 30. He would try and talk all his buddies back home into “joinin’ up”.

         About this time the truck popped over the last sand dune. There was the beach and Atlantic Ocean. The sight that greeted his eyes caused an exaggerated drooping of his shoulders, the broad smile vanished faster than an elusive will-o-the-wisp.

A huge whale had washed up on the beach during the night. There it lay--- a huge carcass so vast it delayed the sunrise a full 2 hours! The task (or project ) of disposing of the durn thing before it created an odor had been turned over to the army. The big-wigs had decided the best way to carry out this mission was to dig a hole and bury the thing right there on the beach. Jack became the army’s tool to carry out this major operation.                                      It’s progress would be monitored closely by the local command, with daily communiques being forwarded to the Pentagon and Joint Chiefs of Staff. The military ( always wanting to project a good image for Congress and other civilian authorities ) was giving serious consideration to filming the event. Something about public relations, they said.

         “Boy, you might even get in movin’ pitchers” ( correct spelling. I merely enter it as pronounced by Sarge ). No doubt you’ll end up in Hollywood”. In an almost inaudible voice Jack told him where to go.

         Ordering Jack to dismount from the truck, the long-time sergeant handed him a long-handled shovel. “The diggin’ will be easy”, observed the veteran soldier. “Like playin’ in a sandbox”.

         Jack always maintained that if the situation had been in a civilian surrounding he would’ve informed the sarge where he could  shove the shovel. Yeah man, even 40 years later that statement about playin’ in sandboxes caused a killer instinct to rise in Jack.        

         Told someone would be watching his hourly progress, and that chow would be coming in the form of delectable C-rations, Jack was left with the job at hand. The lad from the hills knew he’d been had, taken to the cleaners and run thru “them thar” wringers.

         But by jingo’s, he’d see this thing thru---Jack would not renege. Besides, one can renege only in civilian life. This was the army. Totally different, pilgrim ---totally different! Quite simply there was no way out ; Jack had himself a whale to inter!

         The dimensions of this pit had to be known. A tapeline was sorely needed, but the only tool available to Jack was an army-issued long-handle shovel. Oh well--- time for ingenuity. Knowing the digging implement was 6 foot long, it could handily be used as a measuring instrument. Jack could always be relied on in difficult situations, and this was definitely something of that category.

         Walking along the length of that whale from nose to tip of it’s tail,Jack laid the shovel down 21 times. Six multiplied by 21 meant the ocean-going creature was 126 feet long. At the broadest point across it’s back, the shovel was gently placed down 6 times. Six times 6---this monster of the deep measured 36 feet wide. Jack figured he’d just estimate how deep the hole must be. Stepping back to better get an overall view, he guessed 40 foot would be deep enough for the excavation. That ought to accommodate the whale’s carcass, and leave enough room for about 5 foot of sand to cover it. That should be sufficient to keep repugnant odors from reeking thru to the surface. Jack was very good at making “on the spot” decisions. In trivial matters such as this, he certainly didn’t need the brass hanging around.

         A hole 126 feet long---36feet wide---and 40 feet deep! No doubting here. This was a good-sized whale! He’d have no trouble whatever swallowing old Jonah, and alongside him that old shark called Jaws would be as a minnow!

         Jack set in to digging, and he buried the whale. However, he didn’t get to pick up his pass for 5 months. It had taken him that long--- digging around the clock day and night, weekends too,--- to get the job done and make the environment once again an enjoyable place for sunbathers.

          Now the fact that the whale is a warm-blooded, air-breathing mammal and not a fish has no bearing whatsoever in this matter. This has, after all, been a fish story---who on God’s green earth ever heard of a mammal story?!

         I read in the paper just this past week about a group of archaeologists being into some “digs” down there on the coast. And what they’ve discovered has the scientific world standing on it’s ear.

         While building sand-castles and digging for seashells, they’ve uncovered a gigantic, intact skeleton. Quite predictably, this group is proclaiming yet another “startling discovery”. Truth of this matter is very simple---those yokels in long white lab coats have no idea what ‘s been found in the sand. Most are leaning to the opinion it’s some as yet unknown prehistoric amphibian form of life. This group believe the creature’s reign on earth pre-dated the dinosaur by millions of years.

         This “great discovery” has caused rumblings and dissension among  those “diggers”. I’ve heard talk the archaeologists are in quite a hassle among themselves. Six have been hospitalized with serious injuries, sustained when a fight erupted over what Latin name those bones oughta’ be tagged with. How about it, Jack?

         There are many more stories about Jack in my aged, yellowed manuscripts. If I were to sit down at this very moment and begin telling, 5 years from now the story would still be incomplete. Jack remained in the army for the duration of World War Two, and the tales he told of his experiences would fill volumes.

         But of course I would remind the reader once again. New York and Hollywood people say there’s nothing left to write about. What’s wrong with those two urban centers of population?  “Ain’t neither ever been home to a few “characters”?…