about Jim Scott

Last week, against the backdrop of the ten year anniversary of 9/11, I went to a military reunion in San Francisco.  The event was the 45th anniversary of class 1-67 of The Basic School. (yes, the T is capitalized) This was a group of 183 freshly minted Marine Second Lieutenants organized into a training company at Quantico, Virginia. The mission of The Basic School has not changed over the years, it is still a five month course in learning to be a rifle platoon commander.

Not that all of us became infantry officers, over half became pilots and the rest of us were scattered amongst many other crafts. This is a stellar group, 21 were graduates of the Ivies. 182 of us spent thirteen months in Vietnam. 16 died there and several more in training accidents and causes related to the war.

My roomie at TBS, Bob Schmitt, has been the guy to research people, organize the reunions, and write the newsletter. Bob was a Notre Dame grad and fancied himself a modern day Yossarian. His attempt to be as crafty as the central character of Catch 22 was a miserable failure as he ended up flying 424 missions in the back seat of an F4.

We know the whereabouts and fates of about 150 classmates and for the most part, everyone has done fairly well in life. There has been only one suicide that I know of, and he was probably tired from a life of constant physical pain resulting from wounds. The rest of us seem to be at peace and oddly enough there was only one retired person among the 25 at the reunion.

People who show up at reunions, and there have now been four spaced five years apart, are sometimes thought of as not representative of the class but in this case I think they were. These old warriors, when you poke them, have their tales and scars and this time around I learned even more about this group. Sometimes you have to get the story from someone else, the participant doesn’t want to talk about it.  The rest of know, we are brutally honest with each other. The emotions run so close to the surface you can feel it.

Since we parted ways in late 1966, most of us need to be reminded of names and faces at these reunions. Once we recognize and remember, we are as close as we were then, a bond that only those who did these things can know about.

To me the highlight of the event was at the banquet Saturday night. People were giving one and two minutes speeches around the room and a two tour infantry guy told a story in the third person.  It described a young officer, leaving the field for a hot shower, and flying eight hours to meet his wife in Honolulu for R&R. He told of how when they met they both recognized the gorilla in the room, that the 120 hour clock was ticking, the amount time they had before, as he put it, “saying goodbye or maybe saying goodbye for the last time.”

As he told this tale about this fictional officer and his wife, I listened to him but I was drawn to watching his spouse. She smiled up at him, both proud and happy. As the story went on to the part about the 120 hour clock, her face told anyone watching the rest of the story.     

So I was at the gym this morning on the bike. All of the cardio machine are facing and up against a wall of windows. In the morning, it is necessary to close the blinds so that one can see the television. So this guy walks in front of my machine, keeping in mind there are about 15 machines and only two occupied, opens my blinds without some much as an acknowledgment. Then he plops down two machine over and begins his workout. OK, I am almost finished so I will let this slide, but then I was overwhelmed by his smell–he must have just finished a cig or two before coming in the gym. He reeked so much I cut my workout short and left.

I know this is small stuff but come on. He was about my age but with wire rimmed glasses, long flowing white hair and matching beard. The goatee portion extend at least 4 inches below his chin. Maybe he does not have a calendar. In is not 1965 and Jerry Garcia is dead.