The Thing About Legends...
Part 1
Hello my friend!
I’m experimenting with some storytelling ideas. You’re the guinea pig. Part one is below and you’ll get the debrief in Part 2 in a few days. It’s a little long but hopefully will keep your attention, even if you don’t particularly care for history or tales of war.
Remember, I write things that you’re supposed to read when you have time and need a break. Like a smoke break without the cancer-causing culprits. Or that bag of fun-sized Snickers bars in the bottom of your drawer. This is one of those things. When you need a break and need to escape, but don’t want to feel guilty about wasting time watching cat videos. Although cat videos to me are what I want my posts to be for you.
On that note, settle in while I tell you a little story…
The place smells unique. Old people smell. A mix of industrial-strength disinfectant, mothballs, and urine. Even in the cleanest, most expensive nursing homes, it’s still there. Just a little fainter.
I don’t want to be here. Stupid homework assignment. Interview an old person and write a two-page paper on their life.
“Everyone has a story to tell,” Mrs. Wallace, my 10th grade teacher creative writing teacher said. “The older the person, the more story they have.”
We didn’t get many instructions for the project. Mrs. Wallace suggested Sunny Dayz Senior Estates as a place to start. When I told my parents, they laughed.
“That’s God’s waiting room,” Dad jokes dryly. “Where the lucky old people, the rich ones wind up. You start in independent living and graduate all the way to hospice without ever changing parking places. Too bad your grandma can’t afford it.”
Dad’s gotten a lot more cynical since his mom, my grandma, moved in with us last year. Alzheimer’s. Unlike the lucky ones at God’s waiting room, she didn’t plan for retirement or her long term care. Now she’s dad’s responsibility. She has a bad habit of constantly rearranging his underwear and sock drawer while he’s at work. Plus the incessant repeating of stories. It pisses Mom off too. Of course it doesn’t take much these days to piss mom off. My grandma never liked her. That is more evident as her filters slip away. More than once I’ve seen mom mouth “that bitch” while near grandma. I don’t think she cared that I saw.
Mom drops me off at Sunny Dayz and tells me she’ll be back in two hours.
“Two hours? Shit, Mom.”
“Watch your language. And be nice.”
As I walk toward the front door, I see a room full of old people, mostly women. Nearly all of them are in wheelchairs. A television sits in the center while a group watches Drew Carey host The Price Is Right. An old man with only his left arm sits apart from the others, staring out the window. He looks angry.
I would be too, I guess.
I check in at the front desk and show my student ID.
“Another student from Mrs. Wallace,” the receptionist says. “She told me about you. Suggested you speak with Mr. Spencer.”
“She did?” I ask, wondering why I’ve apparently been assigned somebody.
“Yes. She said he’s the perfect person for you to interview.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“That man in the wheelchair by the window. That’s Mr. Spencer.”
Great. The angry old man with one arm. Lucky me.
What do I even say? Hey, old man, I need to interview you about your interesting life for a homework assignment. I hate this shit.
But it’s got to get done.
I walk over, working up my courage.
“Hello, Mr. Spencer?”
He slowly turns toward me and looks me up and down.
“Who are you?”
I tell him my name, instinctively reaching out my right hand to shake his. Then I remember he’s missing his right arm.
Awkward.
His face softens into a grin as he raises the little stump where his arm used to be. He wiggles it and laughs loudly.
“Gotcha!”
The old women focused on the game show look over and shake their heads disapprovingly. His smile shifts to a frown as he looks back at them.
I laugh in relief. I’m sure I’m not the first one to fall for that.
I tell him about my assignment. He says he doesn’t have an interesting life. Nothing worth bragging about.
I press him.
“Okay, fine,” he says. “My story isn’t that interesting, but I’ll tell you a story about somebody who’ll blow you, your teacher, and your classmates away.”
“Sounds good to me,” I answer. I just want to get this over with.
“Alright, get comfortable,” he says. He has a thick, New York accent.
“Boy, you ever hear of the United States Marine Corps?” He emphasized a hard “U” in United.
“Of course,” I answer. I’ve been a WWII history nerd for as long as I can remember. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Wallace assigned me to Mr. Spencer. This might not be as bad as I thought.
“Well, I came in December 1943,” he says. “Not because I wanted to. I could give two shits about serving my country.
“I got into a little trouble. Well, I got caught doing some trouble. That was my mistake. Suddenly it looked like I was going to jail.
“But I was smart enough to know I didn’t want worse. So, when the judge gave me a choice between the Marines or jail, I told him to go fuck himself. I wanted jail.
“Probably the worst mistake I ever made. He took that as a challenge. Figured the war would cure me. So, I found myself at Parris Island.
“Boot camp was a joke. I grew up on the streets. Nothing’s tougher than that. Show me something tougher than the Bronx after midnight and I’ll believe you.”
He chuckles to himself, almost like this is an inside joke and I’m lucky enough to be brought into it.
“I got through it. Had a few setbacks, but I made it. I knew enough to show respect when I needed to and look out for myself first. I figured once my enlistment was up, I’d be free.
“Except the Japs and the damned war had other plans.
“I got assigned to K Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division. The famous K/3/5.
“When I joined my unit in late June of 44 on the island of Pavuvu, I was unpleasantly surprised. What a shithole! Terrible heat. Rotten coconuts everywhere. Land crabs jumping out all over the place. And this was supposed to be our luxurious base camp.”
Mr. Spencer shifts in his chair, coughs loudly, and clears his throat.
“Boy, do me a favor and get me some water.”
I head back to the desk and ask the receptionist where the kitchen is. She points toward the rear of the building. I grab a plastic bottle of water from the refrigerator and bring it back.
“Thanks, boy,” he says. “Never go anywhere without water.”
I have no idea what he means, but I’m pretty sure he’ll explain.
Mr. Spencer opens the bottle, downs half of it, and crinkles the plastic. Then he continues.
“And there were some weird fuckers out there too. Pavuvu was a way station. Like a bus station for Marines, soldiers, and sailors. The same people you see there. Transients, runaways, weirdos. People always coming and going.
“The ones leaving were the worst. They looked different. Even the ones not visibly wounded. Just changed. They weren’t much older than me, but they looked like my parents. The war aged them I guess.
“I found my unit. It was a mix of guys who’d seen action at Cape Gloucester and even a few who’d been at Guadalcanal. The rest were boots like me.
“The new guys bonded together. The older ones stayed distant. Probably because they didn’t want to get attached.”
He drinks the rest of the water, wrinkles the plastic bottle loudly, and belches loudly. The old ladies glance over again and shake their heads in disgust. He looks at them and gives them the finger with his remaining hand. I’m learning to love this old guy. He’s like an evil grandpa.
“We spent the next few days getting organized before they put us on work parties. I was scrubbing out oil drums, getting them ready to hold drinking water.
“Then one Tuesday morning I’m walking behind the head near the makeshift showers, and I see this crazy old naked fuck standing there scrubbing his balls with a wire brush. The same kind we used on the oil drums.”
“He’s muttering to himself about cleanliness being important. And this dude is old. Probably damn near fifty. Strangest thing I’d ever seen.
I can’t help laughing.
“Seriously? A wire brush?”
“Yeah, no bullshit. So later I ask some of the senior guys about him.”
A corporal grins.
“’Hah!’ he says. ‘You must’ve run into Pop Haney. The man is obsessed with cleanliness. All over.’
“’Yeah, I guess,’ I tell him. ‘What’s his story?’
“The story is this guy’s a legend. One of the old breed. Fought in World War I. Then he got out, became a teacher, later sold vacuum cleaners. Guess life got too boring for him, because when the shit started in the Pacific, he left home, hopped a freighter, wound up in Hawaii, and enlisted again.’
“He looks at me and says, ‘Would you believe that old bastard’s forty-nine?’
“So, he’s an old legend,’ I ask. ‘What’s he like under fire?’
“That’s when the corporal breaks into a full smile.
“‘That’s the best part. It’s almost like he lives for combat. Soon as the shooting starts, he turns indestructible. There’s no place better to be when shit gets real than near Gunny Haney.’”
Mr. Spencer pauses and scratches at the stump of his missing arm.
“Then he told me more about Haney. How he got pissed at a junior officer who mishandled his pistol on the firing range. How he threw a handful of coral gravel at him, and the boot lieutenant didn’t do shit about it. It was almost as if Haney was a secret weapon and didn’t need to follow the protocols the rest of us did.
“But he had his own protocols. Daily fieldstripping and cleaning his rifle. Spending hours practicing bayonet drills alone. Almost as if he were killing a whole platoon of Japs by himself. And talking to himself. All. The. Time. Like he was in his own private world.
“One of my buddies, a mortarman by the name of Eugene Sledge, suggested that Haney, let me try and remember how he said it, was ‘not a man born of woman, but that God had issued him to the Marine Corps.’ Yeah, I’ll never forget that quote. Sledge must have gone to college to talk like that. But it fit Haney perfectly.
“Well, we stayed on Pavuvu and trained for a few months. Then, on September 4, we shipped out to Peleliu. We couldn’t wait to get off that shitty island. I had no idea that soon I’d be wishing for it again.
“Peleliu was MacArthur’s idea. He was so hell-bent on retaking the Philippines that he looked at any strategy that advanced that plan. He was worried about the airstrip on Peleliu, and since Roosevelt loved him, he blessed the plan. That’s where we came in.
“Scuttlebutt said it might take four days. The way the Japs fought, they’d probably do a banzai charge the first night to kick us off the airfield. We were ready for that. Guys were bragging that they’d take out a whole division by themselves. Before 0900.
“I didn’t know what to expect, so I looked at Haney.
“He sat alone. He didn’t speak to anyone. And that worried me.”
On the morning of September 15, we were served the traditional pre-landing breakfast: steak and eggs. Then guys lined up for the shitter. Most got their business done quickly.
Except Haney.
He dropped his pants, settled in, and took his time. Nobody hassled him.
“All the support ships, the battleships and heavy cruisers, were blasting the landing beach. Smoke was everywhere.
“We mustered on the back of the LST and boarded our landing craft. The bay doors opened and the coxswain revved the engines, filling the hold with thick black diesel smoke. Finally, the boat powered forward into the bright sunshine.
“The water was crystal blue. Just like those Sandals commercials you see on TV. You could even see fish down there. Then you looked up and saw the smoke covering the spot you were about to land on.
“That’s when it got real. Japs started firing at us from the beach. We thought the Navy cleared them out. Boy, were we wrong!
“The guy next to me yakked all over my boots. Somebody near me shit himself. I didn’t know who, but my nose told me the general direction of where it came from.
“Then I looked back and saw Haney. No expression. No anger, fear, or anything. He just looked focused. Like he had a really important job to do. And almost like there was no place he would rather have been.
“Seeing that made me feel a little better.”
“The closer we got to the beach, the louder the gunfire. Then the Navy stopped blasting. They didn’t want to hit us from behind. All the fire was coming from the front. Fast and furious.
“I looked over the side of the landing craft and could see the bottom. Barely. The water was stained red. I saw body parts floating by. Fish were nibbling on them.
“My hands started shaking. Hell, my whole body was shaking.
“The coxswain put the boat on full throttle, and we ran up the beach. Sand sprayed down all over us from the explosions.
“Haney was the first one up. He started grabbing us and telling us to get off the boat. We didn’t argue.
“But it wasn’t any safer outside the boat. Guys were getting cut down left and right, but that crazy fuck Haney was on his feet. Pulling us, pushing us, yelling at us. In full control, standing in the middle of the worst chaos I’d ever seen.
“And as scared as I was, seeing him standing there made me feel invincible.”
“Within an hour, we moved off the beach and headed toward the airfield. And that’s when it hit all of us.
“We were thirsty.
“Most of us drained our canteens immediately. Then we discovered there was no water. And it was hot as hell. Not to mention we’d pissed and sweated everything out of our systems long ago.
“I’ve never been that thirsty since. It’s why I always keep water nearby. Plus, I don’t want to die from a UTI like some of these old people in here do. Talk about indignity.”
He nods toward the old hens ogling Drew Carey.
I laugh, but then remember a UTI killed my grandpa a few years ago. I make a mental note to drink more water.
“Back to the battle,” he says. “We’re now at the edge of the airfield. The very thing that brought us out there. Our job was to cross it, secure it, and head into the surrounding hills to kill everyone we saw.
“Haney rounds us up. Tells us that on the signal we’re to haul ass across that runway. When we get across, take cover and provide covering fire for the guys still crossing.
“That’s one of the last things I remember.
“One moment Haney’s giving us the plan, and the next we’re running across the airfield.
“I hear gunfire and mortars thumping around us. I feel thirst burning in my throat. I smell cordite and dust and the metallic tang of blood. I see Haney in the middle of it all, standing tall and forcing us forward.
“I swear I’d have followed that man straight into Hell. He seemed invincible.
“And then I felt nothing.”
He stares out the window now, his voice quieter.
“Just blackness and silence. Like floating. A quiet silence that still let in the faint sounds of screaming and explosions. Then even that was gone.
“The next thing I remember is waking up on a hospital ship wrapped in bandages and missing my right arm. I’d been there ten days. Had a raging headache too. Someone said it looked like a mortar hit near me and took me out.
“And that’s when I realized my war was over. I didn’t even last a full day.
“Jail would’ve been a better choice. At least I’d still have my arm.”
“What did you do next?” I ask.
“I recovered in Hawaii for a while. They fitted me with this claw device to replace my arm, but I could never get the damned thing to work right.
“I learned how to do everything left-handed. I got out of the Marine Corps, went to college on the GI Bill, got married and divorced twice, never had any kids, and now I live alone in this shitty nursing home.
“That’s my story. Told you it wasn’t that interesting.”
“Don’t you ever have reunions with those guys? Did you ever find out what happened to them?”
“Not really. Most of us never talked about it. I never felt that sense of patriotism, and I was pissed about losing my arm. But I did hear from a few of them over the years.
“Eugene Sledge went to college and became a professor. I had no idea he kept notes about the battles in his Bible during Peleliu. That shit was against the rules. But he wrote a book, With the Old Breed or something like that, a few years later. He might still be alive.”
Mr. Spencer looks back out the window.
“As for Haney, I have no idea. He survived Peleliu, but after that? I don’t know. I’d like to think he’s still around. I can’t imagine him being mortal. Not sure heaven wants him, and hell is probably afraid of him.
“That’s what you ought to write about, boy. A person who may or may not have even been human, but because he was who he was, saved a whole lot of us.
“Now that’s a story worth writing.”
Next: Was Pop Haney a real person?