After Marine OCS, June 1972 to August 1973, The Eastern Trip that Failed, Part Two

Especially after Daylin went off to USC and moved into a dicey apartment near the campus, I worked out in his parents garage by myself.  I'd even become friends with his brother, Darryl, who was enrolled at the University of California Riverside.  Darryl was not draft eligible because he'd lost vision in one eye due to a childhood accident.  

In the garage I had skimmed through LEATHERNECK magazines that were lying in a stack.  (Daylin's parents may have subscribed to the publication, or maybe the Corps required subscribing.  I cannot see Daylin buying them himself.)

I enjoyed my brief visit with Daylin and his wife in Ann Arbor.  He had grown his blond hair long, a total turnoff to me because I was attracted to guys with "regular" haircuts.  The picture below was the only one I had taken from that visit--I am certain his wife took it for me.  This was January of 1973.

From Detroit I flew to Washington National Airport where I was picked up by John Robertson's wife.  I was going to spend a week with them, trying to reason with the Coast Guard on my application to OCS.  John and I would spend some time exploring the grounds of Marine OCS.  We met up with Dennis Zito and his wife soon after I arrived.  They even invited me to spend a couple of days with them while I was staying in Quantico.  I should have taken them up on the offer.  A few days with the Robertson's; a few days with the Zito's.  But I felt I had come all this way to stay with the Robertson's, and it would be rather tacky to move out after just a few days.

The whole reason for being there, the Coast Guard, ended up being a waste of time.  They were not going to reconsider my application.  Their classes were very small and since I had a couple of poor blood pressure results amidst the good ones, anything that could disqualify an applicant was sufficient since they had to reject most applicants, regardless.  

The next blunder was just embarrassing.  I was lying on the Robertson's couch in the living room as we three were watching TV.  No shoes on of course.  But his wife proceeded to indignantly explain that she did not even allow her husband to lie on the couch to watch TV.  I felt distinct discomfort so I promptly apologized and moved to the floor.  

A day or so later, however, as she and I were waiting in line for gas at the base gas station--John was at work--his wife was driving.  Trey was in a car seat between the two of us in the front seat.  I was speculating aloud about how the war in Vietnam was winding down.  The Marines were fully out.  It may be that, because there was an anti-military, antiwar sentiment building even stronger across the land, and a Congress that was always looking to save money and cut budgets, there may come a time when they might simply disband the Marines.  It was pure speculation on my part.  I was not expressing my own desire to see the Marine Corps eliminated; I had no such desire.  However, his wife shockingly said to her son, who was not yet 1 years old (his birthday was in a day or two), "Trey, hit him."  

To say this was unexpected was stating it mildly.  I tried to apologize.  I had not meant that that was my opinion.  Anyway, I thought that John had not wanted to be in the Marines.  He had left OCS when I did.  Since he had been an enlisted man, he was required to finish his initial assignment before the family could return to Tennessee, to be near the folks.  I did not think he cared for the Marines.  But I was wrong.  His wife had taken my verbal ramblings way too seriously.  She was furious with me.

A below-zero frost had definitely settled over my relationship with his wife, no matter what I tried to say or do.  (The previous weekend I had even gone to their Baptist church--I was no longer a church goer--listened to the service from the minister who had become a family friend.  Had even taken communion with the little plastic cup of grape juice and the Saltine cracker section.  I was expected to go and said absolutely nothing about not really wanting to go.  I was a dutiful guest, so I willingly went.)

Later that evening, after John returned home, and I was able to speak to him alone, I attempted to smooth things over with the family, but he bluntly said something that also surprised and disappointed me, "You probably said that because you could not make it at OCS."  

That was simply not true.  And John knew it was not true.  I left Marine OCS because I did not want to complete the course and become a career Marine--just as John did not.  The staff had wanted me to stay and was disappointed that I was leaving, as I am sure they were with John voluntarily leaving.  Unlike some of the others who had previously left the program, we were doing well.  We were generally well liked in the platoon.  The platoon staff had hoped we would change our minds several times during those final weeks.  I was actually still seriously considering the military as a career, and was trying to get into Coast Guard OCS.  I just did not want a career in the Marines.   

I did not know why John said something in his heart he knew to be false.  But then I never realized that he probably had to take his wife's side in a conflict that I sincerely wished had not happened, that I was trying to smooth over.  The extreme frost had now settled over even my friendship with John.  

The following photos are from our picture-taking excursion around the grounds of Marine OCS before the break in our friendship.  (I need not even remind that John and his wife were devout, church-going Christians who ought to have remembered the power and quality of forgiveness and kindness.)

The top photograph was of their son's first birthday, John "Trey" Robertson III.  Neither John nor his wife had a camera.  I took that picture for them.  When I returned to California, I had three additional prints made, one for John and his wife, and one each for each of their sets of parents.  I sent an accompanying note, again thanking them for hosting me on my visit.  But I got no thank you for the pictures.  Nothing.  They never replied.  I never heard from them again.  

Within 24 hours of our dustup, in their guestroom on the mattress on the floor, I started to feel physically ill.  Feverish.  Bodily aches.  Run down.  Generally lousy.  I was due to fly out the next morning from Dulles but did not feel up to it the night before.  I pleadingly asked if I could stay a extra day since I was not feeling well.  But I was soon told, rightly from their perspective, that they did not want their son exposed to whatever I was coming down with as he had been recently ill and they did not want him to get sick again.  Also, and again rightly, I would need to take a taxi to Dulles the next morning.  It was too far for John's wife to drive me. 

The cab arrived the following morning, I again thanked John's wife for hosting me--John had already gone to work.  She sat at the kitchen table and did not even look up, did not even acknowledge my additional apology or my goodbye.  I closed the door to their apartment, walked down the stairs to the parking lot, got into the cab and off we went. 

While it does not seem so expensive today, the cab ride was $50, a lot for someone who only made $1.65 an hour while working and who was now on unemployment insurance, maybe $200 a month cash.  But I paid the driver and entered the airport, checking my suitcase at the counter. 

It was a United DC-8-61.  I paid for headphones for the flight.  All I had was a $50 bill from change from the cabdriver (we were paid in $100 bills from unemployment in those days).  The stewardess took my $50, promising to get change before we got to LAX.  I never heard or saw her again until we actually landed at L.A.   As we were on our approach, I mentioned the situation to another stewardess, but she insultingly informed me, "Don't worry.  She's not getting off the flight before you are.  You will get your money before that."  Of course, I had not assumed that would be the case--that she was trying to steal my $50.  I only assumed that on a busy flight, the other stewardess may have merely forgotten. 

I was obviously creating all kinds of misunderstandings on this failed trip.