Spam, Anyone?

This next story was written by my grandfather about ten years ago, and he was gracious enough to allow me to post it here. One of the things that I love about this piece is that it takes place in the early 1940s, shortly before my grandfather moved to Bridgeton. At that point in his life, he was stationed in the South Pacific and was not sure whether he would ever make it out alive. He had yet to meet the Golden Girl, had yet to have five children, and had no idea he would one day become a Bridgeton Legend…

Spam, Anyone?
A Memory of World War II

by Robert P. McCormick
22nd Marine Regiment
2nd Separate Tank Co.

On the atoll of Eniwetok, the prevailing winds never seemed to cease. The 22nd Marine Regiment having recently acquired the real estate from the Imperial Japanese Forces were bivouacked here, there, and everywhere on the atoll.

Food was scare, but adequate for survival. K-rations and cans of Van Camps beans were the main staple with plenty of hot coffee. The Navy Medical Corps decreed that screened Company Mess Halls and cooking areas were a requirement to prevent illness before the usual cooked food was provided. This was due to the masses of flies on the recently deceased Imperial Forces. Strenuous methods were employed to inter the remains properly.

In every group of men or women gathered together for whatever cause, there are to be found some enterprising individuals whose minds, innate abilities and inventiveness will improve most situations. One such individual named Schultz, from Minny-sotah (nicknamed, of course, "Dutch"), provided those of us near or in his circle of friends with a long lasting memory.

Spam was in much use during World War II, especially wherever I happened to be. Spam sandwiches with catsup, even today, give me reason to pause---Spam stew, even more so. So much spam was available that I actually saw cases of Spam used to construct holding cells for those Marines who attempted to circumvent the strict rules and regulations. Thirty days on bread and water was not unusual.

Dutch Schultz was not to be denied. A can of Spam and a can of condensed milk, along with a tooth-busting chocolate bar from K-rations provided a real tasty treat and much good fellowship. Dutch's recipe will never be forgotten by me. Slice the Spam into1/4 inch slices. Fry in your mess kit over a medium flame until crispy on both sides. Shave the chocolate bar with your ever handy knife into a can of condensed milk and a can of water. Heat over a medium flame and stir well.

Just imagine the dark of night, a million stars, a new moon, the ever-present ocean breeze under a tent tarp with eight or ten other Marines singing barber shop melodies and eating and drinking the Spam and cocoa. Even today, for me, it is an unforgettable memory. I quite often enjoy at home crispy fried Spam with eggs over easy.

I often wonder how those good men are and hope they have been as fortunate enough as I in these years since the successful conclusion of World War II.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Overlook Nights

This next installment of Bridgeton Legends comes to us all the way from France courtesy of Mr. Bill Fahber. It's was very difficult for me to resist the urge to immediately post it when Bill sent it to me, but now that people are clamoring for more stories, the time is right. Enjoy.

Overlook Nights
by Bill Fahber

Bridgeton's old Overlook Cemetery is a very special place for me. Not only because I have two grandparents laid to rest there. And not because of the enjoyable summer days playing pickup softball games in the field nearby.

The reason Overlook Cemetery is really close to my heart is because it's where some friends and I played our favorite nocturnal summer sport: running from the cops.

The sport never had an official name. Basically it consisted of putting a quarter in the 7-11 payphone late at night, dialing the police station, complaining that there are a bunch of hooligans carrying on in the cemetery, and then running as fast as possible to get to the cemetery before the cops do. Once there and in position, you simply waited until you saw the police headlights racing up the trail. And then, just when they got close, you ran like hell.

Timing the run was critical. Dart too fast and there's no thrill of the chase. Lag a few steps behind and you're a goner. You really had to find that sweet spot—knowing exactly how big those headlights should look before you made your move. It was sort of like base stealing. We were the Vince Colemans and Ricky Hendersons of the Bridgeton Cemetery Cop Fleeing League. Jimmy Kille was All-Conference.

The funniest, though, was the time Kille almost got tagged out.

At night, it gets pretty dark there. Some of the tombstones are visible, but the playing field is hard to read. This was season four, game eight, and Jimmy Kille was going for a record. After seeing the cop cars, the rest of us were already off and running, but this time Kille was still squatting down—like a track star waiting for the gunshot.

We're yelling, "Jim, come on, we're outta here!" and he's still squatting. Then we're hopping the fence. He's still squatting. Then, just when the cars are close enough that we can hear their tires rubbing against the gravel, Kille plunges forward and flies full-speed ahead. Lightning fast. He looked like a glow-in-the-dark Jesse Owens sprinting through the cemetery night. But then suddenly, with a solid thrust, just as he tries to leap between two big bushes…SPLAT!

I swear, if you've ever watched the Road Runner, where the Wiley Coyote smashes flat against a brick wall and then slowly peels off, that's exactly what it looked like. Between the two bushes was a gigantic marble tombstone, totally invisible to anyone not wearing night-vision goggles. Even during the day you could barely see it.

We were sure he was busted. This time we went too far. Somehow, though, he got to his feet and dashed to safety by the skin of his teeth, but not before giving us the scare of our lives. Whoever's tombstone he slammed into, I could imagine the person up in heaven smiling down, thinking, "Ha ha, game over, you knuckle heads."

And it was over. That night was the final run. Jimmy Kille pulled off the impossible and we knew we'd never top it. Plus, it was just a matter of time before we'd likely get caught. Which we would've deserved, since what we were doing was "dead wrong." So in a way, that hidden tombstone probably saved our hides.

But more importantly, it allowed us to finish our Cemetery Cop Fleeing careers with another perfect season. Undefeated.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com

Intercontinental

We've gone global. Bill Fahber wrote me from France, where he has lived since 2000. He works in advertising, is married and has a two-and-a-half year-old daughter.

He promises to send some material ASAP.

Also, there's a story on the way (from a contributor who will remain nameless, for now) that takes place on the U.S./Mexico border, and I have a feeling that Jared's going to have some more things to say about the Middle East.

Finally, there's a man in Peru who I'm hoping reaches out. We'll see.

From Bridgeton to France to Mexico to Iraq and back to Bridgeton again.

That's how far our influence reaches.

E-mail stories to getaholdofkyle@yahoo.com