Almost Pinkerton Detectives

Almost Pinkerton Detectives

August 7, 2017

After graduating from Edinburg High School in 1955, Charles Alexander, Jerry Kaml and I were having some problem deciding on our future courses of action.  What were we gonna do with our lives?  I asked my Dad if maybe I could join with him to become partners in his farming-ranching operation but he was adamant.  “Farming is a huge gamble  One year the weather is right, you produce big crops and the price paid for your crop is minimal.  Or, the rains don’t come, you produce a small crop and the prices are high”  he said.  “Go to College, get a degree, get a job so you can have a dependable source of income.” 

OK, I thought Dad’s advice was probably good, so I registered for classes at Pan American College in Edinburg — majoring in agriculture.  But my heart was not in it, my grades were unexceptional and I quit after a semester or so.

Jerry, Charlie and I hung out together and somehow came under the influence of an older fellow named Terry Cave — who was maybe 30 years old.  He brewed his own beer, mixed Seagram 7 & 7 Ups and shared them both generously.  He claimed that he was a Pinkerton Detective but had a job as a watchman or something on the Pan American College campus.  He sported a very nice pistol and told lots of stories that I can no longer remember.  But, one of his stories was that he was gonna take a job in Mexico protecting gold or silver shipments — or something — and that he needed assistants.  So, if Jerry, Charlie and I could acquire some guns, maybe he could get us well-paid jobs and we could live exciting lives in Mexico and might also become Pinkerton Detectives.  After waiting for a few weeks for the jobs to materialize, Terry finally admitted that there were no such jobs.

So, we had dropped out of college, were almost certain to be drafted into the Army and we fell under the influence of another older guy — a local Marine Corps Recruiter.  He explained that if we were drafted into the army, they would decide what kind of menial job we would have and most likely be carrying a rifle and polishing boots.  But, if we voluntarily joined the Marine Corps, we would be in control and could choose some specialty job with our own MOS (Military Occupations Specialty).  I chose to be an Aircraft Flight Controller — which sounded much better than being a lowly rifleman or something.

Anyway, our recruiter convinced Jerry, Charlie and me to join the Marines.  However, he had already filled his quota for this month so he asked that we wait another month to sign up to help his quota for the next month.  No problem — we had nothing better to do.  A month later, we caught a bus to San Antonio where we were sworn in, then flew to El Paso — where we were delayed long enough to have a few drinks across the border in Ciudad Juarez. 

When we finally arrived at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, CA we found that they had just filled a platoon and it was necessary for us to wait a week until we could be placed in Platoon 296.  During that week we did KP duty such as cleaning up in the Mess Hall, hauling trash and such.  We soon excelled at mopping, sweeping and swearing.  We quickly learned that we were the lowest form of life on earth and that it would be necessary for us to receive a promotion in order to exceed the status of an earthworm.  There we no gentle voices offering instruction — even the simplest of orders came in a loud, demanding voice filled with expletives and insistent upon an instant “Yes, sir” while standing at attention.  Failure to carry out the simplest of instruction very rapidly carried the threat of spending some time in the brig (Marine Corps jail) or some other form of punishment.

For a kid who had grown up in a family of nine kids and whose parents often had no idea where I was, I had led a very carefree life with incredible freedom.  All that came to a screeching halt in Boot Camp.  I quickly learned what it was like to live in a completely totalitarian system where we lived in a virtual prison and were forced to instantly obey commands and “Big Brother” was always watching.  Although I realized that a little discipline in my life was likely a good thing, the amount we got in Boot Camp turned my life into a living “hell” — at least for a while.

I will spare all the details of life in Boot Camp but explain than after graduation, Jerry, Charlie and I were sent to Camp Pendleton where we were separated into different outfits.  I was placed in the Second Battalion, Jerry in the Third Battalion and Charlie someplace else — where he took an exam to qualify for NavCad (Naval Air Cadets) to become a Marine Corps pilot.  Passing that test changed Charlie’s life forever.  From that time on he was associated with flying jets in combat and folks started calling him Chuck instead of Charlie.  After retiring from the Marines, he flew commercial airliners, taught in flight schools and worked for Aramco.

Neither Jerry or I got the jobs we had been promised by our recruiter in Edinburg.  We were handed a rifle and a pair of boots to shine.  Oh well!

Terry Cave shot himself in the head — or so we heard.  We wish our Marine Corps recruiter well — or maybe not.

Jerry obtained an early release from the Marines to attend college, got a Ph.D. at the University of Michigan and taught school in San Luis Obispo much of his life — and where he has been a pillar of his church and city.  My time in the Marine Corps made me realize that I did not want to spend my life in the military.  So when I was discharged after 3 years in California, I returned to Texas, learned how to study, got married, obtained a couple of graduate degrees and spent almost 30 years of research and teaching at Texas A&M University. 

Anyway, none of us became Pinkerton Detectives but we all have achieved various degrees of success with our professions and families.  At least, we all three finally decided what to do with our lives and never ended up in the brig.  Now in our 80s, we have come a long way from drinking Terry Cave’s homemade beer and listening to his wild stories.

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