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J. GEISTER |
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GOES TO MOROCCO |
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She has a new job there,
but will she be left behind?
By PATRICIA J. GEISTER
of TheColumnists.com
December 30, 1961, Charleston, South Carolina.
I was waiting for available space on an outbound plane. Uncle
Sam was sending me to Morocco. I had an exciting job waiting
for me. The OSI (Office of Special Investigations) wanted me
to be an Administrative Assistant. OSI is the Air Force's equivalent
to the FBI. Tommy Joe, a very nice chief master sergeant from
the local office, had been acting as my personal tour guide for
a few days. We saw it all--from the best places in town to the
locals in a shabby, dimly lit, unlicensed beer joint/gambling
hall. Originally it had been a private home. Now it had a few
tables, a dozen slot machines, a crap table, and a juke box off
in the corner. The floor was hard-packed dirt. I swear there
was a pink Cadillac sitting in the front yard. The good 'ol boys
wore baseball caps, flannel shirts and bib overalls. Nary a smile
was in evidence. They didn't talk much. That was what the GIs
were for.
CMS Tommy Joe wanted to try his luck with the dice. I wasn't interested. He gave me $20 in nickels and dimes and told me to have fun. Before I could choose a slot machine, a sailor swaggered up to me.
"Hey, baby, you look like my lucky charm. Come on, I'll buy you a beer and you pull the bandit's arm for me." Sure thing. I was in the mood for a little sophisticated, Saturday night fun. For this part of the woods, it was high toned. It didn't get any classier.
We laughed a lot and had fun. Sailor boy gave me several nickels at a time, I'd put 'em in and pull 'em off. Bells would ring and out would come maybe $2. He'd shout, wave his long neck beer bottle.
Don't ask me his name. It never occurred to us to exchange such information. All we wanted were the beers and nickels. A buddy came to announce that unless he wanted to walk back to the ship, he'd have to leave now.
"Girlie, you sure were my good luck charm. Here, you keep 'em. Bye." He handed me a plastic tub with over $10. Hey, not a bad haul. I started with Tommy Joe's $20, now I had another $10 plus.
Tommy Joe made a few bucks at the table. It was time to leave before the good 'ol boys wanted their money back. We headed to the base and parted until breakfast.
December 31, 1961.
I was on an Air Force
passenger plane going to Nouasseur Air Base, 19 miles south of
Casablanca, Morocco. Seated next to me was Sergeant Charlie,
a cook. Our immediate destination was the base in Hamilton, Bermuda.
After a couple of hours there we'd take off for the Azores.
Charlie and I had decided it was only fitting that we find someplace to have a New Year's Eve drink. We hired a cab to take us to the NCO Club, only to find out we couldn't get in without a reservation. Next it was off to the Officers Club where I had enough rank to get us in. We got the same refusal. That left the Base Transit Quarters Hotel. We knew we could sit in the lobby and have a soft drink.
Conversation began to wear thin. Charlie became interested in the local Sunday paper. All of a sudden he looked up at the wall behind me and let out a yell.
"Good God Almighty! What time did they say we had to be back on board?"
"Seven, I think. It's only six now." That's what my watch told me.
"Not according to the clock on that wall! Oh, God! They don't wait on anybody!"
We begged the desk clerk to get us back to the flight line any way possible.
"When they ask why we're late, don't you dare say a word about the hotel! If you do, they sure won't believe we never left the lobby!" Charlie warned me.
The cab screeched to a stop right at the bottom of the portable stairway. An attendant was about to close and lock up.
"Do you know we've been waiting for you more than an hour? Do you know we could have left you here? Do you know the next plane won't come through for another three days?" We failed that test. Nobody was happy. The pilot informed me the weather was changing fast over the Azores. Forget about landing there.
For 16 hours over the Atlantic, severe turbulance pounded our plane. I didn't sleep. My guilty conscience told me that because I'd forgotten to change my watch to the local ground time, we'd never land. I knew our fate was to crash into the ocean, never to be found. Well, we didn't crash, but we did run out of fresh water and food. I felt like a heel. All the families with children voted me the loser of the year.
Finally we landed at Nouasseur. Charlie was off to Ben Guirer Air Base outside of Marrakesh. He asked me for a local address on the base. I told him to look me up at the Office of Special Investigations.
"You mean I was traveling with a cop? You're a cop?"
"Yeah. You got a problem with that, cookie?"
"Nah, guess not. Hey, you take care, hear? Remember to set your watch."
"Sure, Charlie. You stay out of hotel lobbies."
Now, 40 years later, I
don't even leave the house on New Year's Eve. Charlie, Tommy
Joe, if you read this, let me know what you're doing for excitement
these days. Thanks for showing me a good time, guys. I hope life
has been good to you. Believe me, I always, without fail, set
my watch for local ground time wherever I am.
© 2002 by Patricia J. Geister. The illustration is from
IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San
Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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