Truk 14 — Battle for Berkeley

Here I was, riding in back seat of the fourth, yet uncrashed, car Chevron had provided, sipping wine from a large beer mug, traveling up Hwy 65 (a two lane road), exceeding the speed limit by 30 mph & chomping spicy pork rinds. Greg, who like myself, ate no dinner, was not used to drinking wine & very rarely ate pork rind, Just a few miles north of the contiguous developed area surrounding Sacramento (Roseville) Greg, who was seated in the center position of the back seat, suggested that he may regret his eating like that. William & Greg change places so that Greg had a window in case of stinky gas. I had the other rear window because I was prone to motion sickness. Although I was a legendary flatulater, my farts were rarely stinky but wine & rinds may change all that. I specialized in style, volume & duration with my toots — not smell. During my teens & early twenties, I had superior sphincter control plus great strength in the muscles involved. As a very gross party trick, I could loudly play Yanky Doodle (or other simple tune) with my expulsions — to the amazement, or disgust, of those nearby. I knew I could hold any flatulent promoted by wine & rinds until I was out of the car. I hoped I could control my car sickness as well. Both Greg & I made it to Chico without any discharges.

The car continued through the three block business of Lincoln slowing to 80 MPH due to a slight curve in the road. At the one-block-long town of Sheridan, our pace dropped to 70 MPH due to there being a railroad crossing in the middle of the “S” curve. No curves existed on Highway 99 within the five blocks making up City of Wheatland — 105 MPH through Wheatland’s 25 MPH zone. A mile north of town Glen saw the red lights flashing in his mirror.

“Hide the wine” he commanded. The California Highway Patrol (CHP) pulled behind us as Glen parked on the shoulder; the CHP got out of his vehicle & walked to Glen’s open window.

“Where you boys going in such a hurry?”

“We are trying to catch up with the rest of our National Guard Company and join the convoy heading to Berkeley”

“I am so sorry I stopped you — I didn’t know. Please don’t let me slow you down more but drive carefully — we don’t want you to get in a wreck and not make it to Berkeley. We all really appreciate what you boys are doing to make our state safe from those lawless traitors”

“I’ll drive carefully”

“We will radio ahead to make sure no one else stops you.”

“You have a good night, officer.”

“You boys take care & do us proud at Berkeley.”

Never mind that the vehicle smelled like red wine and we were traveling 80 MPH over the speed limit, the CHP’s concern was how he could help us get to Berkeley to fight the rioters.

The Dodge full of Guardsmen pulled onto the highway and accelerated back to its cruising speed (90 mph). The CHP was still parked, talking on his radio as we left. Within a few minutes, the CHP was riding our bumper — he instructed, on his PA system, that we should follow him. His siren & lights went on as he pulled in front of us & increased the speed to about 110 as the road turned into the Hwy 70 freeway. The CHP slowed slightly as we went through Marysville & Yuba City on surface streets. North of Yuba City, the CHP pulled off wished us good luck over his PA system. We laughed & commented regarding what an adventure our drive had become. Two beer mugs full of wine were returned to the front seat. We were now again on a two lane — Hwy 99. Glenn sped back to his comfortable 90 mph & maintained it through a small empty town called Live Oak. The next town would be Gridley with traffic signals, with night time commercial development fronting on the highway & with city police who may not know of the CHP’s directive for us to exceed the speed limit & run red lights. There was discussion of how fast we should pass through Gridley. The discussion was interrupted as the speed was set for us — a Butte County Sheriff with lights flashing overtook us then ordered us to follow him. He turned on his siren but slowed our speed to about 50.

Gridley’s developed area was about ten blocks long — all blocks, as we sped through, were lined with cheering pedestrians. Some were waving American flags; high school cheer squad in uniform waved pom poms at us; some wore military uniforms & some were holding signs (couldn’t read them all). One sign read “WEEKEND HEROS”, another “”GIVE A HIPPIE A BATH”, “GOD BLESS AMERICA” & so on. We later learned the Gridley folk were there for the National Guard convoy that would be heading south; however, cheering for the northbound Guardsmen turned out to be an extra bonus for them. There was little traffic & no development for the remainder of the trip to the Chico Armory. Glenn traversed that section of Hwy 99 at over 100 mph. Even with our rapid rate of travel, we missed getting on the convoy.

We arrived at the Chico Armory as the convoy of Army trucks was departing for the Yuba City Armory. We were ordered to pull in behind the Chico convoy, follow to Yuba City where we would leave Glen’s car until we returned from riot duty. As soon as the last truck of the Chico convoy was out of sight, we six headed for Denny’s Diner.

Two of the Guardsmen snuck travel mugs full of beverage into Denny’s then concealed the contraband wine beneath the table of the twelve person booth we captured. We ordered our breakfast and engaged in loud disorderly banter. As 2 AM rolled around & the bars closed, many Chico locals came into the dining facility who were acquainted with member of our group; they came to our table to joke about our attire (Army fatigues) and about our mission of riot duty in Berkeley. Chico being a university town had many residents who did not favor of the Governor’s activating the Guard to fight students. There were however, as in many towns, veterans (especially at all-night diners) who did not share the sentiment of the students. A group of such vets came from the far side of the restaurant to defend us from those they perceived as hecklers. The vets offered to escort the civilians at our table to the parking lot where the civilians would be given a lesson in respect for the military. With a lot of reassurance that no disrespect was intended & a little sharing of our contraband wine, we convinced the vets to let the civilians leave. The vets did; however, they posted a person near our table to prevent any further disrespectful acts. It was time for us to leave for Yuba City so the respect enforcer’s job was short lived.

We headed rapidly southward down Highway 99, the road on which we had traversed northward only a few hours earlier. Our fans in Gridley were no longer out on the sidewalks. Live Oak was dark as we sped toward our destination. We arrived at the Yuba City Armory just as the convoy of Army trucks was leaving the yard. The first sergeant, from his jeep, was screaming something about us not following orders & that we were to go directly to the Sacramento Armory. We could have spent the whole night in our own beds & just driven to the Sacramento Armory early Saturday morning. The Guard’s idea of breakfast (coffee & “C” rations) was served; we stood formation & then loaded on trucks heading for Berkeley. Four of us from Glen’s car occupied the back of a ¾ ton truck in which two hammocks were hung by the truck’s occupants on the Chico to Sacramento leg of the journey.

We four guardsmen fell asleep before the trucks left the Sacramento Armory parking lot; we remained asleep for hours as the convoy traveled to Altamont Pass. As was required by the Army, all trucks with hammocks would travel with the back flap closed. The back flap being closed forced air movement from the enclosed rear of the vehicle into the cab. Four Guardsmen who spent the night eating pork rinds with red wine produced gaseous expulsions the fragrance of which was reported to be overwhelming. Then there was my specialty, farting loudly with character; even in my sleep. We were awaken as the drivers opened the flap and loudly began complaining about the fragrance escaping from the rear of the truck. The drivers described to four hour trip from Sacramento to Altamont Pass.

“It started off as humorous with loud snoring from the four in the rear. The situation then turned disgusting as the flatulating began. As the farts grew louder, stinkier and more frequent, the humor returned. The two occupants of the truck’s cab joked about their ordeal throughout the tour of riot duty suggesting they had already exceeded what any guardsman should have to give for his country.

We arrived in Berkeley late Saturday evening; the troops all unloaded at the Berkeley Yacht Harbor. After a short break to use the portable toilets & stow the duffel bags, the enlisted men stood formation as the plan was spelled out. All canopies were to be removed from trucks. The trucks would drive through Berkeley in convoy as a show of strength. Each Guardsman would then be assigned a station in a protective line to contain the enemy & prevent them from crossing to the area (mostly government buildings) behind the line. Before loading into the trucks, we were read the rules by a thirtyish year old lieutenant with a very bad haircut:

“Don’t take food, pamphlets, or anything from demonstrators — those items may be covered in LSD dust. Taking something from anyone other than guardsmen is a court martial offence.

“Don’t talk with any demonstrators -they may have a hidden mike & your words may be misquoted in an enemy publication or on their enemy radio station. Talking to any person not in the National Guard is a court martial offence.”

“Don’t hesitate to use force if the situation calls for such action. Those lawbreakers are trying to destroy our American way of life & it’s your patriotic responsibility to show them that you are in charge. You won’t get in trouble for being patriotic. Not using appropriate force against the enemy will be a court martial offence.”

The list of orders was long with the threat of court martial if the orders were not obeyed repeated over & over.

We enlisted men loaded into the trucks, seated ourselves with bayonets mounted & rifles held high. The several hundred trucks moved slowly toward Campus along University Avenue. Photographers & onlookers poured into the streets to observe & document the spectacle. The convoy was led on a route that looped around Peoples Park then traveled back to the downtown area. There the convoy stopped & each truck was assigned it’s final destination. The trucks dispersed to locations throughout the city. Greg Baldwin & I were stationed outside the County Building several spaces away from each other along the sidewalk near the main entrance. The other four ex-guardsmen at the restaurant were stationed in the commercial area near People’s Park.

The night was very quiet — almost no civilians near the County Building. There had been no significant demonstrations Friday or Saturday before the Guard arrived. The Guard promoted the gathering of crowds but those crowds were just there as spectators — not demonstrators. I saw a few customers who went to the 24 hour bail bond facility across the street from the County Building. There were four lost young Asians who spoke no English — they asked Greg for directions. Greg’s orders were to say nothing but simply block the path of any civilian trying to access the County Building. Greg instead tried to help the lost foursome. He used both words & gestures in an effort communicate what was going on plus how the four could get inside the building. A group of officers located a quarter mile away watched intently. We all knew Greg was in big trouble; especially when the officers asked our platoon leader for Greg’s name.

We stood outside the County Building until after midnight when the platoon leader sent me to the basement to take a break. In the County Building basement there were soft drinks, coffee & doughnuts. I sat at a table by myself sipping coffee — other guardsmen across the room sat together eating donuts. Two Alameda County Sheriff walked into the big basement room — they were dressed on blue coveralls. The two hung the blue garments plus equipment on a rack by the door, they grabbed a couple of cups of coffee & joined me. After a courtesy greeting & a request to share my table, the two talk between themselves. They spoke of how they were drawn into overreacting when being confronted by demonstrators. The Sheriffs evidently physically retaliated against the demonstrators & now felt regretful. Some National Guard brass overheard some of the conversation & mistakenly thought I was leading the discussions. One of the officers hunted down my platoon leader & instructed my platoon leader,

“Place that man on permanent KP for the duration of the People’s Park operation. We don’t need his kind on the front lines.” the officer declared.

Back out on the sidewalk, the spacing between guardsmen was increased to allow half of the soldiers to go inside & get a couple of hours of sleep. At sunrise, all except a few reservists were taken back to the Yacht Harbor. That morning (Sunday), I reported to the cooks & asked how I could help. The cooks explained that there were only C-rations being served & the officer’s mess was the only place they could use me. My being placed on permanent KP & all enlisted men’s meals being C-rations gave me much spare time. As a permanent KP, I was supposed to hang out at the Yacht Harbor & be a go-fer. I ran into Oakland on numerous shopping trips plus I delivered things out to the front lines. I was also on rotation to serve at the officer’s mess which was kind of neat because I overheard amazing discussions amongst the officers. Eighty per cent or more of my time was spent trying to look busy while doing nothing. My grandfather had taught me to whittle. He had me carve a chain, a ball in a cage & other non-artistic but challenging projects. I decided to perform some wood carving during my down time. I felt this activity would make me look as if I were busy.

When the Guard first arrived in Berkeley & we established our base at the Yacht Harbor. There were some who felt it would impress the “rioters” if there were a big tent set up as the headquarters for the anti-riot operations. The tent poles were laid out & the fabric was being unfolded when a deuce & a half truck backed over the tent. The poles were broken into pieces & the build-a-tent effort was abandoned. The fabric was taken somewhere & the splintered poles were stacked near the foundation of the Yacht Harbor building. The poles stayed there throughout our anti-riot operation. Most of the wood was all splintery & yuck; however, one 12" section of a 1–1/2" diameter pole was unsplintered & the ends were clean cuts (as if cut with an axe). I grabbed that 12" section & stuffed it in my duffel bag. I thought I’d cut it into 3/8" thick 1–1/2" diameter disks, burn a ten word explanation of its origin on one side then route or burn a significant graphic on the other side. I was told that the poles were lemon wood which has tight uniform grain structure but little character. The lemon wood seemed the right medium for my intended use. A tiny eye screw installed at the edge & it would make a nice Christmas tree ornament. Three inches of my pole section never made it to the tree ornament project; I developed an urge do some carving on that 3" piece during the massive spare time I found while on KP.

In my mind, I could see the carving that the 3" section of pole would become. I saw a right hand gesturing a peace sign. The hand would be skinny with exaggeratedly bony fingers with enlarged joints. I intended to, once back in Sacramento, drill a small hole through the hand from the thumb to pinky. I intended to run a leather thong through the hole allowing the hand to be worn around the neck or hung as an ornament. I noted the lemon wood was whitish & would fail to show the details like finger nails & knuckle wrinkles — I intended to rub the carving with linseed or other oil when I got home. I made test patches on some scraps of wood & I found that gun oil gave the wood the character I was looking for; I decided that was the treatment for finishing my carving.

It would have been nice if I could have borrowed a knife from the Army kitchen; however, no knives were unpacked because everyone except officers were eating C-rations. Officers meals were prepared in the Yacht Harbor’s kitchen & they wouldn’t let me have a knife (the only sharp knives they had were on sets). I did manage to slip a whetstone in my pocket planning to return it before we left Berkeley. I thought of procuring a knife during one of my shopping trips in Oakland — no shopping trips occurred after my starting my carving project. I then planned to carve my hand with a bayonet. The Irony of this whole project was coming into focus. The peace symbol hand was carved during the “riots” from a broken tent pole that was intended to be part of the headquarters for battling the demonstrators; carved with a bayonet from the same battle & finished with gun oil that lubricated the rifles carried by the Guardsmen. No other carving implement could be used at this point.

During basic training, trainees receive bayonet combat training. In recent years, I know of no battles in which bayonets were used as a weapon. Bayonets are used for drill & ceremony plus now (evidently) riot control. Because bayonets were not used to stab people in recent times, the devices had no sharp edge or tip. I found another use for the bayonet (carving my wood hand) but the bayonet would need a sharp edge & tip for my purpose.

I borrowed the whet stone before I knew a bayonet would be involved in my carving project. That whet stone I knew would be essential for my project — even a very sharp butcher knife would need the edge dressed during a wood carving project. Hours were spent working on the bayonet blade before I achieved the slightest semblance of a wood carving device. The almost sharp knife (bayonet) was suitable for roughing out the basic hand form. Another two hours were spent dressing the blade before I could work on details of the hand. The details came out better than I expected.

I rubbed the finished hand with a healthy dose of gun oil then wiped off the excess — it reacted differently than my test patch. It appeared as if I’d ruined my carving. The gun oil emphasized the wood grain rather than the hand details as I intended. There was also an undesirable film of gun oil that kept oozing from the wood. This film would prevent the carving from ever being worn as a pendant. Hoping to salvage something, I grabbed some Clorox bleach from the janitor’s closet & scrubbed the oil off. It worked (almost). The grain delineation disappeared; however, the oil in the crooks & crannies of the carving clung tight. My god — I just stumbled into the look I was seeking without meaning to. The bleach also got rid of the oily film that was so objectionable. I was tempted to give the hand a second Clorox treatment to increase contrast so I performed a little test at the stump of the wrist where it wouldn’t show. The test gave me a big white circle that shouted “KEEP THAT BLEACH AWAY FROM ME”. Later I would realize that the white circle with a darker narrow outer ring helped imply the hand was covered with skin. Although I found each irregular move seemed to improve the hand, I needed to stop messing with it. I was worried that something I did may be irreversible. I wrapped the carving in a half dozen layers of cushy fabric then packaged it in a leftover C-ration box. The box was tucked deep in my duffel bag.