GeneB wrote:
A lot of brothers from Vietnam service here. Thanks for standing up and coming home. I say welcome home to you all, nobody did back in the day. Coming home then was a day we all looked forward to but where shocked at the treatment we received then. Those people that hated us were lined up at the airports waiting for us to yell and spit at us. They picked the wrong targets. The real targets were in Washington DC. Still are.
Once, on leave for Christmas, I put on my uniform and was dropped off by a friend on I-75, south of Atlanta. December 24, 1966. I hitch hiked to St. Petersburg. Within a few minutes, I had a beer bottle thrown at me from a car probably driving the speed limit. Could have been deadly. Missed. I did get picked up and driven to Americus, Georgia, about a third of my journey. Sign at the beginning of town, "No hitch Hiking." As I carried a stuffed duffel bag through town, a Highway Patrol Officer pulled over and hit his siren for a quick alert. He waved me to approach. I opened the passenger door. He asked if I was hitch hiking. I responded: "Not in town." He asked where I was headed. "Get in." He was now off duty and heading home for Christmas with his wife and two young children. He would drive me about sixty miles further south.
After a few minutes of conversation, he said it was okay if I wanted to take a nap. He must have been joking. He was driving a hopped up Pontiac V8 with three on the column. Curvy roads. He knows them well. There was no way I could sleep, with both my feet practically pushing through the floorboard as I pushed on the imaginary brakes on my side. Speed limit 55MPH. He'd shift to second as he'd hit the curve at 75MPH.
Cars we'd come up on that were also doing 70-75 would quickly slow as they saw his red bubble gum machine. "Damn! I wish they knew I was off and would maintain the speed." As soon as the road had any straight he'd throw it back into second and pass. Holy Shit!
We stopped at a government refueling station. The prisoner attendants wore black and white stripes. They asked the man for some Christmas money. They knew my driver. He gave them each a dime.
From there, we drove to the expressway. Hid under an overpass, in the shadows. No radar, just a feel for speeding semi's. "Here's one!" Red light and siren on, he'd pullover the speeder. Three times, he'd get back in the car, "not going your way."
Fourth stop, "He's glad to give you a ride to St. Petersburg, in exchange for no ticket."
Ya gotta love a man in uniform.
The trucker ran around and grabbed my bag and opened the door. We both waved at my GHP Officer. Four hours later, "Thanks for the ride and Merry Christmas."
My uniform meant different things to different people. This is a wonderful memory. Scariest goodwill ride of my life.