of the scenic little churches described by Michener. Well, that turned out to be a pipe dream. In August 1968, Red met me upon my return, and we decided on a very small wedding. With about three days’ notice, we called our parents. My parents were excited. Her mother was decidedly less so. However, we persevered.
2
Watts Riots 1965
August 1965
I hate climbing telephone poles. Twenty feet up may not seem that high, but for someone with a fear of heights, it looks like a very long way down. The Army designated me as a telephone communication crewman. That meant learning to climb telephone poles. Predictably, it did not turn out well.
We trainees were issued gaffs that helped us climb the poles. The gaffs were not curved, so if I got too close to the pole, the gaffs would come out of the pole and down I would go. Safety belts, certainly an oxymoron in my case, were not hooked on until the climber was situated at the top of the pole.
The poles, used by many trainees, were filled with splinters from previous climbers’ gaffs. My anxiety rose, looking down from the top of the pole. Foolishly, I took off my gloves to get a better purchase while trying to hook on my safety belt. My gaffs gave out and down I went, safety belt dangling! Clinging to the pole, it was a horrifying descent. I could feel chunks of wood breaking off in my hands as I plunged downward. My hands looked like wood-filled hamburger. I immediately became the center of attention, standing with bloody hands in the middle of the sandpit where the poles were located. The pain in my hands was compounded by the utter humiliation I felt for letting it happen in the first place. The medic bandaged me up and saw me off to the hospital where they removed most of the splinters. That ended any pole climbing. I went back to my unit and volunteered to be a scout driver.
On August 13, 1965, we reported to our armory for our two-week annual training (AT). We were scheduled to go to Fort Irwin. I was a member of the California National Guard’s 40th Armored Division.
The riots in Los Angeles started a day or two before we left for our annual training. The spark that set the riots off resulted from an escalation of a traffic stop by the police of a black motorist for reckless driving. Some National Guard units had just been activated to help the police. We were in a convoy on our way to Fort Irwin when word came down that we were activated. We were redirected to Los Angeles. We could see the LA skyline lighted up with the flames of burning businesses. Everyone was pretty excited about the prospect of a new adventure. The reality of the tragedy occurring was lost on us. It just seemed better than two boring weeks at Fort Irwin. Ultimately, nearly four thousand National Guard troops were activated for the riots.
On the third day of the riot, our unit was bivouacked in the parking area of a racetrack. It was late afternoon when we got set up, and from there various patrols were sent out. I didn’t spend any time there that I can remember. Eager to get involved with whatever I could, I volunteered immediately for whatever came up. That mostly entailed cordoning off streets and enforcing an 8 p.m. curfew. Whatever we were assigned, I wanted to be right in the middle of what was going on. No doubt it was the same compulsion that led me to becoming an infantry officer, leading long-range reconnaissance teams in Vietnam rather than choosing something a little safer.
The National Guard was in no way prepared for anything, especially riot duty. There is a story, perhaps apocryphal, about a couple of guardsmen guarding our bivouac area one night. One soldier was carrying an automatic weapon with which he was not altogether familiar. They were chatting with each other, he was fiddling with his weapon, and it went off. Across the street, a drive-in theater was showing a cowboy movie. As the cowboys’ horses raced from one side of the screen to the other, little holes in the screen appeared to be chasing them. Fortunately, with all the shooting in the movie, no one took note of a few extra rounds being discharged.
Another story reflecting the National Guard’s struggle with competence occurred as troops were being dropped off on Central Avenue. The press wanted a visual so they set up the filming of a sergeant coming off a truck with others to secure an intersection. The sergeant leaped from the truck, pulled out his .45 caliber pistol, attempted to chamber a round, and in the process, got the pistol all jammed up. The guard issued each rifleman two rounds of ammunition. Officers and NCOs got more. Not good for the visual, so they put him back on the truck to do it over. This time, when he dramatically pulled his pistol, it accidentally went off. Well, that was too much for all involved, so they took all of his bullets away and put him back on the truck. He missed his fifteen minutes of fame. Later at our annual training, he drove his tank into a ditch. It had to be towed out. All in all, he had a pretty rough two weeks.
I was put on a deuce-and-a-half truck (2 1/2 ton) with a bunch of other guardsmen. We were taken to Central Ave., the main street flowing through Watts, and dropped off on each corner. Our job was to cordon off Central Ave. Virtually every store within sight had been burned and looted. Detritus from the looting and burning was everywhere. Liquor stores got lots of attention from the looters. The number of drunken people I encountered was impressive, to say nothing of the language I couldn’t remotely decipher.
I was dropped off on an intersection with a guy I did not know. He was carrying a submachine gun neither of us knew how to work. In other words, we had no clue how to put the gun on safe. As I remember, this guy was a spindly little guy with military issue glasses and a big helmet on a small head. His appearance did not inspire confidence.
But he outranked me. “Curry,” he said. “You get out and stop any oncoming traffic. I will be right behind you. If the car doesn’t stop, just drop to your knees, and I’ll fire over your head.”
Now that really did not sound like a good plan to me! I had absolutely zero confidence in him and no intention of being anywhere near where he pointed his gun. Fortunately, we never had to test it.
One incident stood out in my mind. Our job was to cordon off the street. No cars were allowed. When a car came, weaving down the street, we stopped it. The driver was drunk as a coot. I had absolutely no idea of what he was trying to say in answer to any of my questions. His mumbled answers were incoherent. It was a frustrating few minutes. We were trying to tell him he could not be on that street. As previously instructed when any situation arose, we notified the police. They came and got him, leaving his car there on the street. Hours later, when the police returned him to his car, he looked like he had taken a real beating. He seemed to be missing a few front teeth. I felt guilty for calling the police and pretty much decided from that point to not call the police for any more drunk stops.
During the day, it was well over a hundred degrees. Hot! The street was lined with what seemed to be second-story apartments. All the windows to the upstairs apartments were open. People were sitting at their open windows in order to get the benefit of any draft. Many were fanning themselves to encourage some air movement. We could see those at the windows but not further back in the apartment. We could hear someone we couldn’t see in the window rhythmically cocking a gun, maybe a BB gun, and pulling the trigger. Against a backdrop of a burning city and hearing the occasional gunfire, that sound gave us some anxiety. I think for the most part, residents were happy for us to be on the street. We provided them a sense of security from the chaos of the riot. They occasionally offered some much appreciated courtesies.
For example, the next hot, miserable day, a little black kid dressed in a miniature Army outfit went to each of us bringing cold drinks. It certainly provided a counterpoint to all the drinking and foul language. In the early hours of the morning, exhausted, we lay down on the filthy sidewalk and slept, hoping fervently we would not catch some awful disease.
Eventually, the area was deemed secured, and having returned our two rounds of ammunition, we boarded our trucks for our annual training. Standing in formation at Fort Irwin, a shot rang out from just behind us. We turned and saw an officer with a hole in the bottom of his holster. He rather sheepishly told us we should all check our weapons. It merely confirmed to me that we had some really unqualified people running things.
The riots devastated Watts. There were thirty-four deaths and over $40 million in property damage. Most Watts residents were not burning, breaking into stores, or looting. Many of the stores were not rebuilt. It seemed unfair that those who