Race and all that....

All American Means Just That!

Race relations in the 82d – at least from my experience was left up to the individual soldiers. Oh, we had the required classes and such, but people befriended others who had similar likes and dislikes. Don't interpret this posting that everything was rosy and we all got along, there were rifts and antagonisms from both ends of the ethnic/racial spectrum. However, We were all brother paratroopers and with this one exception I rarely heard of any overt racist activities.

Some time in mid-1982 I encountered the most blatant case of racism I ever encountered in the army. A young black sergeant had just PCSed to Mother Bragg from the 1/509^th ABCT – my old unit. We knew each other casually, not buddies by any stretch of the imagination but he was a good enough guy – he was fairly new E-5 and seemed a perfect fit for an open team leader’s slot. But I was advised by my then-platoon sergeant, “we didn’t need to have one of THOSE people in a leadership position. You know what I mean?” Yeah, I understood perfectly. Claude* went to a different platoon.

Most of my mentors were of different races and ethnicity and I still remember the names of the men who were my role models and the lessons they shared with this naïve Iowa Farm Boy. The color of their skin didn’t make one bit of difference.

Another, funnier story about Claude – not long after he got to Fort Bragg was that he got mugged in downtown Fayetteville. To hear him talk about it, he said very emphatically that, “I tell you what, the muzzle on that gun was this big!” He then mimed a dinner plate sized hole to emphasize his point.

The Latinos Weigh In

Race relations weren't always black and white. There were many other ethnicities that fit into this puzzle. There were a couple of Hispanics that got assigned to the company about the same time. I don't remember exactly where they hailed from but I seem to remember it was in So Cal because on their first weekend off duty they dressed like your stereotypical Hispanic gang member. To each his own right? Eventually, after they spent more time in the Deuce, one of them slowly began to integrate in his own right. His clothes, speech and mannerisms became less Barrio gang banger. Despite our differences he and I became pretty good friends. In fact I eventually ran into "Aggie"during my first assignment to SF. Once more the Army's brilliance shown through and a fluent Spanish speaker was assigned to an Asia-oriented Group!

… But I digress….

In the winter of 1982 I attended the Northern Warfare Winter course at Fort Greeley, Alaska, I got to be friends with a few folks from around the army, but also a couple other 82d Troopers who were also attending the course.  One of these guys will play an important part in my Grenada Raider story later on.

When we weren’t training in the Black Rapids training area there wasn’t much to do at Fort Greeley except drink and tell stories. During one of our late night BS sessions one of the other 82d soldiers – a black guy – mentioned something that he witnessed at “The Spectrum,” a club just off Murchison Road. I used to live in a trailer court near this particular nightspot so I was familiar with the establishment. I had never been in there, because it was, well, a black club frequented by African Americans – civilian and military alike and white guys weren’t necessarily welcome. No biggie-da, I didn’t care for the music anyway – come to think of it, I was going through my Country music phase at the time so I was frequenting the Nashville Station (long since closed) on the other side of Fayetteville.

Anyway, after having a few beers, this guy shared a story from one night on the Murch’. He was hanging out with some buddies at the bar when in through the doors walked a white guy. Just like that bar scene in “Animal House,” the music stopped and a hush fell over the crowd until someone spoke up, “That mother-fucker is either crazy or he got a gun.” With that the music started up again and the patrons went back to their drinks.

Or Did It?

When I was a young trooper, new to the company, I worked at fitting in to the platoon the best that I could. However, Woody was about to learn a very valuable lesson one night in the dayroom. 

With no car and little money, I was a bit of a barracks rat at first. One particular evening while hanging out in the company dayroom, I racked up a game of pool on the decrepit beer-stained and cigarette-burned pool table. When in through the doors stumbled a guy from my platoon. It was obvious that he was quite drunk but I called over to him and asked if he wanted to shoot a game of eight ball. "Jim"* was an American Indian and although he wasn’t a big guy,  as I remember, he was an excellent member of the Platoon’s machine-gun squad. Wobbling on his feet, his rheumy eyes finally focused on me with a look of intense dislike and anger. He then leaned over the pool table and with a sweep of his arm scattered the pool balls across the table. With a mumbled, "Fuck you," he took a defiant pose as if to taunt me into a fight. My reaction was one of shocked silence because I had never experienced something like this before, I stood there silently for a moment and thought, "well, I guess he doesn't want to play pool."

As I said, I was a real cherry at that time so I didn’t know that although he  was a pretty good soldier and quite friendly when sober Specialist Jim, pretty much hated white people when he was drunk - which  was as it turned out was most of the time. This was a little fact that no one deemed important enough to share with Private Woods. But, ironically, I WAS warned about a certain AWOL soldier who was up on charges for drug possession, I had been assigned his old bunk and I was warned that if he happened to show up at my room that I should vacate the room as quickly as possible. More on the Jumping Junkies in a later post!

Back in the dayroom

Suddenly, in a lightning move that defied his intoxicated state, he snatched the pool cue from the table and swung it at me. Luckily, I was able to dodge his swing and stood there flatfooted as he mumbled another "Fuck you." He then threw the stick down and stumbled back out of the dayroom leaving a very confused Woody standing there amidst the chuckles and catcalls from other more seasoned paratroopers in the back of the room.

With that, I decided I didn’t want to shoot pool either and headed to my room as well. A short time later, my roommate asked me what the hell I had on my face. I glanced in a mirror and noticed a streak of blue chalk right beneath my right eye. Damn! If that little fucker had been a little faster or I’d been a little slower the night things would have likely ended badly for both of us.

The following day Jim was as friendly as usual, never acknowledging what had transpired the night before.

Some time later Specialist Jim left the army, rumor had it that he’d become a heat casualty during a field exercise and it was found to have had a canteen full of Jack Daniels instead of water. And with that infraction it was just a matter of paperwork to send him on his way back home.

Race Relations at Mother Bragg and in Fatal-burgh

It is customary for each military base to publish a list of off-post establishments that are off limits to soldiers, it is posted prominently on every bulletin board and reviewed frequently to add and delete offenders. Usually a fairly extensive list, it includes known areas of drug dealing and prostitution. Some old-timers referred to it as the Michelin Guide to Fayetteville's night life. However, the list also contained a sizable list of residential areas that were deemed off limits as well. From crooked landlords to high crime literally dozens of trailer parks and residential areas in Fayetteville were verboten. Of course this was before the big cleanup in the 1980s that pushed the prostitutes and dealers elsewhere.

Being down South in the late 70s and early 80s, it wasn't hard to tell that in many areas throughout the Piedmont there were still racial tensions. Having come from white bread America, I quite couldn't grasp what it was all about. The basic fact was that in some places it was percolating just under the surface and the wrong colored face showing up in the wrong area could very easily end violently for a young soldier caught unawares.

This climate of simmering hatred was prevalent throughout the South.  I still remember vividly the one weekend during infantry school at Harmony Church at Fort Benning in 1977, when the entire training battalion's weekend passes were canceled and everyone was restricted to the barracks. Apparently, the Command had been warned of a Klan rally that was going to be held not far away. AIT was also the first time I was ever called a "Cracker," I had no idea what it meant so I asked a couple of my buddies. My education continued apace.

A few months later, after I'd made it to the Replacement Detachment for the 82d, we cherries had the whole weekend off to go exploring. a half-dozen of us piled into one guy's car and off we went. Since at the time Fort Bragg was an "open" post, meaning no guard shacks and gates at the entrance to the military reservation and if you weren't paying attention you could end up somewhere out in Cumberland County without a clue where to go. That's what happened to us, while cruising along drinking beer, long before GPS and without a local map, we kept going hoping to find a road sign - nothing. 

Finally, we saw a billboard in the distance. We all breathed a little bit easier as the gas gauge was getting well into the empty zone. As we got closer we could see figures riding on horses on the sign, "Oh good, a rodeo," spouted someone. One passenger, the lone black guy got really quiet and sunk down into his seat. "Hey, guys we need to get out of here." Finally, we got close enough to read the sign. 

It was an billboard advertising the Klu-Klux-Klan! 

Holy Shit! 

F-U-U-U-U-CK!

We need to get out of here! 

We all got really quiet as the driver tightened his grip on the wheel and increased our speed. 

Eventually, we found a major road intersection and gas station and rushed back to the safety of the Fort and it was some time before we ventured off-post again.

Much later, a young black man showed up in the unit with his duffle bag and a serious case of the ass. Private Wilson* had two heroes: Malcolm X and Bruce Lee. He was okay for the most part, but it seemed that he always steered conversations towards race and discrimination. Many of us would just sit and listen to him, his rants were sometimes informative and always entertaining, he even filed an EO complaint about some of our cadence calls:

"Coon skin and alligator hide, makes a pair of jump boots just the right size...."

As I said, "Wilson" was really into martial arts, Kung Fu to be specific, he would frequently be seen walking the hallway spinning a set of nun-chucks just like his hero Bruce Lee, that is until one of the NCOs would tell him to knock that shit off. Legend had it that one night around 0200 hrs, as the Charge of Quarters was trying to stay awake, all of a sudden someone dressed all in black, wearing a black ninja mask dropped down the stairwell into a crouch staring at the now-wide awake CQ. Before he could say or do anything, the black-clad ninja scurried down the hallway, disappeared into the other stairwell and vanished into the darkness. I don't know if they ever confirmed it was him, but I suspect Wilson AKA "Animal," was the night-warrior in question.

"Animal" seemed to believe that most if not all whites were racist and eventually he separated from the Army in what I would hope was an honorable discharge. I hope he sees himself in this description and gets in contact with me, I really did like the guy despite his anger.

Finally, Again.

As a side note, many years later, a good friend of mine ended up as the First Sergeant of the company in the 82d where Neo-Nazi PFC Burmeister was assigned. Kratz told me about the nightmare that followed when that fuck-knuckle murdered an African-American couple near Hay Street, and if Kaveman gives me permission, I will share that story with you some other time.

* I've changed his name to protect his privacy.

How Cold Steel Bravo got its name

How Bravo Company became “Cold Steel Bravo”

When Sergeant First Class (promotable) Steven Crews took over as company first sergeant he definitely made sure everyone knew there was a new sheriff in town. Where the previous Top Sergeant had fellow NCOs hanging out in his office at all times during the duty day, First Sergeant Crews ran them out. He told them to get out of his office and get back to their platoons.

Beware the Black Mamba!

A large African American, the 1SG didn’t waste any time establishing himself as top dog within the company. He jacked up a couple black NCOs who tried to get chummy with him. Something along the line of, “I’m not your damn brother, now get the hell out of my office!” About this time a nickname was created that fit SFC (P) Crews to a tee. He became known as “The Black Mamba,” a mean-spirited snake indigenous to Africa that was known to hold a grudge and actually hunt humans. It also had venom that was some of the most lethal in the world – all in all, a perfect name. The First Sergeant seemed to dislike everyone. 

If the commander is supposed to be the brains of a unit, the first sergeant is the heart and soul (or at least should be). It didn’t take long before everyone in the company knew First Sergeant Crews was not someone to be trifled with. One day he was standing in the hallway looking at the bulletin board with his back to the company office doors.  The CO stepped into the doorway and glanced over at the 1sg. Without turning around, Cold Steel somehow knew he was being watched and asked in his usual gruff voice, “What the hell you looking at sir?” Without saying a word, the CO stepped back in his office and gently closed the door.

The Sky Blue Gran Torino

No one really knew if the First Sergeant was married or not. He didn’t offer up the information and no one that I know of had the guts to ask. I don’t believe he even owned any civilian clothes because no one ever saw him wearing anything but Army Green. He did have a car that was the talk of the battalion. I recognized it right off as a 1972 Gran Torino, just like the one I had in high school, but this one was slightly different. Well taken care of, you could see that it had some miles on it. It kind of creaked and groaned as it passed and belched just a bit too much exhaust when the First Sergeant pushed on the gas pedal. The most unique thing about it was the color. It was sky blue. I’d never seen another car with that kind of hue – it wasn’t long before I found out why. Top Crews carried a few cans of spray paint in the back seat of his car and if he ever found a ding, scratch or bare spot he would pull out one of those cans of spray paint (Sky Blue of course) and touch it up right then and there. The guy had class.

Hot chow And Cold Desert

During the fall of 1979 we were deployed to Fort Irwin, California. Just a stone’s throw from Death Valley, Fort Irwin would eventually be revived into the National Training Center but at the time there really wasn’t much to it. However, we had barracks with heat, hot water and hot chow so we were happy. That is until the legs gassed us on the first night we were in the cantonment area! Revenge was foremost on everyone’s mind, but the BC made it clear that if anything happened we were going to move out into the desert for the remainder of our deployment – and grudgingly we accepted his edict. Eventually we did indeed go into the desert to be the aggressors against the armored brigade out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

On the first day in the field Bravo Company got the order to dig an anti-tank ditch to block an avenue of advance through a valley. Doctrine dictated that an anti-tank ditch be of considerable dimensions (see the diagram to left) and span from obstacle to obstacle to be effective against armored vehicles. So there we were, a light infantry company trying to scratch a trench across a mile-wide hard-packed valley with entrenching tools and a handful of pioneer tools. Needless to say we were a surly bunch when the CO finally told us to stop well after nightfall. Final instructions were to move up the slope of the hill and establish a company perimeter. Once in place we were told to hunker down for the night – and oh yeah, the First Sergeant had gone to the Battalion Trains to pick up some hot soup and coffee.

By this time the wind had picked up and the temperatures plummeted. The only way to get out of the wind was to dig down into the sand and get as low as possible. I remember distinctly curling up as small as I could and tried to get whatever sleep I could – at some point during the night I felt something run across my back. Never figured out what it was and didn’t really want to know!

Eventually, we could hear a quarter-ton jeep grinding its way up the valley. Top had finally arrived with some hot chow and coffee. By this time I’d finally gotten relatively comfortable and decided to just remain in my little hidey-hole until stand-to. I could hear the crunch, crunch of steps down the hill as some of the company made their way to the bottom of the hill. Murmuring voices floated up the hill until finally the company executive officer “The Sparrow” called up the hill, “Hey B Company, we have hot soup and coffee for you!” Someone answered his call with a resounding; “Fuck you!” followed by laughter and catcalls from the darkness.

You could almost see the sparks fly when the First Sergeant bellowed, “Who said that? Get your ass down here!” I involuntarily cringed at the thought of someone actually owning up to it, but of course no one did. The following morning Cold Steel chewed out the platoon sergeants, the platoon sergeants chewed out the squad leaders and the squad leaders chewed out us troopies. The Black Mamba had struck again.

An Ass Chewing and Vaseline

A drinking buddy of mine, Jim Crawford, a half-creek Indian from Helena, Montana had done something that he shouldn’t have and was supposed to report to 1SG Crews after PT. Specialist Crawford showed up at the appropriate time and the First Sergeant waved him into the office. Having just gotten out of the shower, Top had nothing more than a towel wrapped around his waist.

Jimbo was getting worried about his fate as the 1SG lit into him. Then, without warning, Cold Steel reached in a drawer and pulled out a large jar of Vaseline! Jim said later that his blood turned ice cold when that jar smacked the desk. He said later that all he could think of was that the First Sergeant was going to fuck him – literally! As if to answer Jimbo’s silent question the First Sergeant spun around in his chair and asked (told) Jimbo to apply some Vaseline on his back since he couldn’t reach. Breathing a sigh of relief that his virginity was going to remain intact, Jim quickly obliged the request and dutifully applied the Vaseline. His transgression never mentioned again.

Somewhere along the line, Top Crews became Bravo Company, Bravo Company became his. And his nickname, the one only the old-timers knew about, “Cold Steel,” became B Company’s title, with the company sign repainted to match our newly acquired name. About this time the 2^/505^th became known as “Task Force 2/505,” and somehow someone had the “great” idea for a Battalion PT shirt design and soon we were stylin’ up and down Ardennes Street in our brand new infantry blue shirts and our gawdawful yellow shorts. We were – as far as I could tell, the first unit in Division to adopt a unique PT uniform to get away from boots, fatigue pants and OD T-shirt.  We quickly became known as “Battlestar Galactica,” after the TV series of the same name, a moniker intended as an insult, but we thought it was pretty cool.

This is a photo stolen from Charlie Company, but you get the idea.

Stories, oh so many Stories

In a previous story I told you the story about Lt. Keith Bonn our platoon leader, and as I told you, he was a raconteur of prodigious standards. Like many other platoon members, I just liked to listen to his stories so whenever the opportunity presented itself I would sidle on down to the platoon CP to sit in on whatever discussion was ongoing, that December 7^th was no exception. The machinegun crews were cleaning pistols for an upcoming inspection so as we gave our pistols a once-over we got to listen to the LT tell another story. I do believe Sergeant First Class Ralph Bloomenhagen (sp?) was the platoon sergeant at the time. Ralph was another storyteller so it would be hard telling where the conversations were going to go, I sat there cleaning my pistol and taking it all in. The conversations varied from serious job-related topics, the mundane, the bawdy, to the arcane. 

During one particular discussion Ralph said something that has stuck with me to this day – having seen a lot of combat in Vietnam, he shared a comment that shook me to the core:

“There is nothing heavier than a dead American.”

Heavy stuff – literally, and something I never forgot.

Woody, Sergeant Rose and The Black Mamba

 Friday was supposed to be an easy day indeed, I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was going to be a half-day, which happened to coincide nicely with the weekend AND a platoon party that night at Sergeant Rose’s house. I don’t remember much about Sergeant Rose; looking back on it he might have been a rehab transfer from another unit. A nice enough guy, but kinda pudgy and didn’t appear to be any great shakes tactically either – but he volunteered his house for the platoon party so he was aces as far as Specialist Woods was concerned!

Once finished cleaning my sidearm I started to head down to the arms room, but the Platoon Sergeant stuck out his hand and motioned for me to hand over my weapon. Handing it over, I watched  as the pistol seemed to fall apart as he checked for cleanliness - and as quickly as he disassembled it the weapon seemed to reassemble itself all on its own. Ralph did a functions check, locked the slide to the rear and handed it back to me for turn in. And this is where the story really begins…

A Sneak Attack on Pearl Harbor Day

As I turned to head down to the arms room Sergeant Rose reached out and grabbed the barrel of my pistol and my right forearm! What the fuck?!? He was attempting – I found out later – to disarm me. Towering over him I had the mechanical advantage. However, he wouldn’t let go, he then lowered his shoulder and shoved me into the side of a wall locker. For whatever he was or wasn’t, he didn’t quit and slammed me hard into the locker. With the second impact, Specialist Woods lost his temper and all those hours in the sawdust pit during Basic and AIT finally paid off. I stepped back with one leg behind Sgt Rose, pivoted and stepped into my attacker throwing him off balance and did a classic side throw just like in combatives class. It worked! Next thing you know Sgt Rose is flying over my shoulder and headed towards the ground with me following on top of him with elbow to the solar plexus. He let go of the pistol.

As we landed in a heap, with him on the bottom I was astonished to see that it had really worked, but before I had a chance to congratulate myself I heard a distinctive ‘CRACK!’ followed by Sergeant Rose’ plaintive cry, “My leg, my leg!” Holy Crap! I broke him! Immediately everyone in the CP jumped into action and began treating him with first aid – that is everyone but me. I got up, dusted myself off and stared incredulously at Sergeant Rose rolling on the floor as Luther Hankins and a couple other platoon members tried to immobilize the apparent fracture suppressing their laughter as the pudgy Sergeant Rose whimpered on the floor clutching his ankle

Somewhat dazed and unable to help I stood there for a short while with Sergeant Blumenhagen giving me that, “What the fuck have you done now Woods?” look that I got so often. Ralph instructed me to go turn my weapon in as someone else called the ambulance to haul Sergeant Rose off to the hospital.

The Black Mamba Strikes

Specialist Woods didn’t have long to contemplate that thought. The Black Mamba reared his head from his lair and shouted, “Woods! Get you ass in here!” I hustled into the First Sergeant’s office as Cold Steel glowered over me. I remember his words verbatim, “Woods, what the hell you doin’ breakin’ my sergeant’s ankle?” I stammered my response, “Oh gee Top, I don’t know! It was an accident!”

After a few more choice words the First Sergeant told me to get the hell out of his office! As I hustled out the door I could have sworn I saw the faintest wisp of a smile flash across his face, but I was probably mistaken.

It was awfully quiet in the platoon CP after that. The PSG just shook his head and gave me that half-smirk he always gave when I pulled a bonehead stunt. Then Lieutenant Bonn patted me on the shoulder and said quietly, “You really should have just let him disarm you…”

Later, after the ambulance carried the patient off to the hospital the question on everyone’s mind was, would we still have the platoon party?

Party On Dude

The answer to that question came a few hours later after Sergeant Rose had been discharged from Womack Army Hospital in a cast – yes, we would have the party and yes, it would still be at Sergeant Rose’s house! Whew! I was sweating bullets.

I must admit I almost didn’t go to the party that night. I did feel quite guilty about breaking one of “Cold Steel’s Sergeants,” but my bunkmates wouldn’t hear of it and goaded me into going along with them.

Entering the front door was awkward but since the party was going in full gear on our arrival, music blaring, beer flowing I thought I could slide in unannounced, However, there was Sergeant Rose sitting in his recliner with his plaster cast emblazoned with the names and well wishes of the Platoon. Upon seeing me, he motioned me over and extended his hand and told me there were no hard feelings – we shook on it, but I don’t think Mrs Rose was as forgiving as her husband.

Throw Down

As with most platoon parties there was much alcohol to lubricate the evening and an enormous amount of lies too I’m sure. One aspect of the party was slightly graver than the others. One of our younger troopers “Private Smith”* had a penchant for punching other people without the slightest provocation, and of course this activity was exacerbated when there was alcohol involved. A pretty good soldier except for that one bad habit, Lt. Bonn forbade Smith from drinking and tasked SSG Baker to keep within arms reach at all times that night and keeping him under control. Well, it worked – for a while – SSG Baker turned his back for a moment and WHAM! Smith threw a solid punch that smeared another “Private Jones’”* nose all over his face. “Shit!” How the heck did that happen? Smith was just as surprised as anyone! The blood was cleaned up and the music continued. As I recall a couple shots of Tequila took care of the broken nose until medical attention could be sought. Smith and Jones were friends again and Tony Baker could relax just a little bit.

The Christmas Spirit

Eventually, the party began to wind down as Lieutenant Bonn called for everyone’s attention. At his feet he had a couple OD green Laundry bags that seemed to be overflowing with gifts. This being so close to Christmas the LT took it upon himself to buy each member of the platoon a small gift that he’d selected specifically because of a funny story, not so funny story or just because it fit. We sat there laughing with every gift he pulled from the sacks his description of the event and person more hilarious than the last. I even forgot about the day’s events. Finally he reached in and continued, “Now for Specialist Woods….” He recounted the day’s event in minute detail but reaching into the bag he pulled out a bottle of cognac – or as I’d described it after I drank a shot at his place while watching “A Bridge too Far,” French gasoline. Handing me the bottle I could see that he’d replaced the label with a hand drawn one with “Cognac de Francais le’ Petrol,’” he was always a class act and a good time was had by all.

Eventually, SGT Rose healed up, I went off to Italy, Kit went to Brigade, and I do believe that Private Smith punched his way into an administrative discharge. First Sergeant Crews eventually pinned on his third rocker and diamond and was on his way to Division Headquarters to terrorize the rest of the Division. Airborne, All the Way

Postscript

As most of you know, I eventually went off to the Special Forces Qualification Course and once I earned my Green Beret and Tab, I was reassigned to Fort Lewis, Washington. As I was getting ready to leave Fort Bragg I had to sign out at One Stop which required me to be in uniform – besides, it was really cool to have another reason to wear my hard won Green Beret.

On my way off post for the last time in September 1984, I decided to stop at the Melanie village gas station, a place I almost never went to, but it was on the way off post so I thought I’d just gas up there and get on my way. I had five hundred miles to go before dark and I was burning daylight.

As I got out of my pickup, I pulled on my beret and with extra care smoothed it out, gave it a tug so that it would hang just so and began filling my gas tank. About that time I glanced over to the other side of the pumps and there sat a sky blue Gran Torino with a very large Sergeant Major filling his own car – it was Top Crews! “Wow, what a surprise First Sergeant! Er, I mean Sergeant Major!” He looked up and for a moment he didn’t recognize me. Then, as he scanned my face and a glance over my uniform his face lit up and by God, I saw what I do believe was a smile. He extended a beefy hand and we shook hands for just a moment. He looked up and down my uniform and he smiled that half-smile of his and remarked, “Damn, Woods, you’ve really come a long way from the last time I saw you – Staff Sergeant, Green Beret, Master Wings and a CIB. I’m impressed.”

Holy crap! I impressed Cold Steel?!?! I stammered my thanks and tried to tell him that he’d really been an inspiration and kind of a northern star of what a good NCO was supposed to be. He patted me on the back once more and wished me luck as he climbed into his mighty fine ride and left me standing there in a blue cloud of exhaust.

I’ve thought of him many times since then and I truly hope he retired and is still cruising around in his sky blue Gran Torino. Thanks Top.

* Some names have been changed to protect their privacy