TWENTYFUCKINGEIGHT
By Gerard J. St. John
Once upon a time, I lived in a gated-community. The year was 1959. The community was “Marine Corps Base Quantico.” Even the town of Quantico was located inside the gates of the base. The 25th Officer Candidates Course took place in the Training and Test Regiment area, which was then known as “T&T.” We called it “TNT.” In case you hadn’t noticed, things tend to change over the course of time. Sixty years have gone by and the T&T area is now generally known as “OCS.” Our brick barracks is no longer there. We did not expect the old barracks to last forever, but we were surprised to learn that the present barracks building has central air-conditioning. It is not like the Old Corps.
The old barracks was a two-story structure, shaped like an “H.” It was designed to accommodate four platoons, one platoon in each of the four spaces known as “squadbays.” The squadbay had a wide center aisle, flanked on each side by thirteen double-bunk steel frames. Berthing in the squadbay was arranged in alphabetical order. Jerry Rollins was the last of the “Rs” and I was the first of the “Ss.” He had the top berth of our rigid steel “rack” and I had the bottom. Each of us had a 6-foot metal wall locker and a large wooden foot locker that was stowed under the lower bunk. It stayed that way from September 15, 1959 through December 14, 1959, when we were commissioned second lieutenants.
Jerry Rollins was about 6-feet, 2-inches tall, with dark hair and sleepy eyes. He had a degree in electrical engineering from Lamar College, in Texas. He seemed unsure of himself. Maybe that was because he was in very poor physical shape. It may have suddenly dawned on him that the Marine Corps prides itself on physical fitness. If there was any doubt about Jerry’s lack of fitness, it was removed when we took the physical readiness test, which was comprised of push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, squat-thrusts, and a quarter mile run. The test had a maximum possible score of 600; the average score was about 400.
Sergeant Alender announced the results of the test to our platoon. Sid Mook had the highest score in the battalion at 550. Then came the bad news, “The lowest score in the battalion was Rollins, with a score of twentyfuckingeight.” That was pretty low. Twentyfuckingeight said it all. Jerry must have had a strong temptation to drop out of the program then and there. However, he did not quit. He gritted his teeth and plugged on.
A few days later, we had a three-mile march over the “hill trail” behind our training area. The hill trail terrain is mainly red clay, which gets very slippery when it rains and when hundreds of boots go marching up and down again. I was barely up the first hill when Jerry lost his footing, slid backward and plummeted past me to the bottom of the hill. The medics placed him on the “light duty” list, and he went through the remainder of the program on crutches. When the platoon hiked into the boondocks for field exercises, the two or three candidates on light duty – and their crutches – were transported out to the field in a jeep marked with a Red Cross. Seeing Jerry constantly on crutches, I thought that he would be dropped from the program as had been the case with a few other candidates. Jim Tully, our “old hand,” had a different point of view. “Rollins doesn’t have to worry,” Tully said. “He’s got the highest IQ in the battalion, and he’s headed for flight training. Not everyone can fly planes. They wouldn’t dare drop him out of this program.” Tully was right.
On December 14, 1959, we were commissioned second lieutenants – and then we went our separate ways. I went to The Basic School, and then to Camp Pendleton and later, to the Far East. Jerry Rollins – and Jim Tully – went to flight school in Pensacola, Florida. Again, Tully was right – not everyone can fly airplanes. Tully washed out of flight school in about six months. He spent the rest of his time in the Corps as an infantry officer – a highly decorated one. Meanwhile, Jerry Rollins got his wings and flew fighter aircraft. Although our assignments were in fairly close proximity to each other, our paths never crossed.
Jerry’s first assignment was to MAG (“Marine Aircraft Group”) 15 at Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, California – just north of Camp Pendleton, which was my first assignment. While based at El Toro, Jerry was assigned to a two-week escape and evasion course at the Mountain Warfare School, Pickel Meadows. Not too long before, I had attended the cold weather training school at the same location. I did not see Rollins in either place.
In October 1962, when the Cuban Missile Crisis flared up, Jerry’s squadron was assigned to Atsugi, Japan, with detachments being sent to Iwakuni, Japan and Naha, Okinawa. I was already there. I had been in the Far East since January 1962. In fact, two months after Jerry’s arrival, I took a one-week vacation trip to Tokyo, during which I stopped at Atsugi and Iwakuni before returning to Okinawa – but I did not see Jerry Rollins at any of those places.
As my time on active duty wound down, I briefly gave some thought to applying for flight status as a radar intercept officer, flying in the back seat of the new aircraft known as “Phantom II.” Maybe I should have done that. I might have run into Jerry Rollins. He spent his last three years in the Corps as an instructor in the Radar Intercept Officers Training Unit. But that was not to be. I could taste the dream of law school, and I knew that would be a quickly fading dream if I signed up for another hitch in the Corps.
I did go to law school, graduating in 1969 and joined a major Philadelphia law firm. On occasion, my firm represented Delta Airlines, which is headquartered in Atlanta, Georgia. I had no idea that Jerry Rollins was then a pilot for Delta. My main contact at Delta was a lawyer in the Atlanta headquarters.
On September 14, 2009, the 50th anniversary of our entry into the Corps, the old gated community held a reunion at The Crossroads Inn in Quantico, Virginia. The Crossroads Inn is another one of those things that appeared on the scene after a passage of time. In effect, it is a two-story motel that replaced the old transient barracks for housing personnel assigned to the base for short periods of time. It is pretty much like most economy motels that you have seen. The main entrance opens into a sparsely furnished lobby. The registration desk is on the left; and a small cafeteria with Formica tables is on the right. Off of the center of the lobby is a decent size conference room.
After checking into the Crossroads, I looked across the lobby and noticed Jim Tully sitting at a small table, talking with Norm Davies and a person I did not recognize. I wanted to say hello to Tully because I knew that he would be leaving early, but I did not want to interrupt his conversation with someone that I did not know. Instead, I decided to walk through the lobby and see if I could find Jerry Rollins. The lobby was pretty crowded. We had a good turnout, but no Rollins. I casually mentioned my search to Charlie Simpson, and he immediately responded, “Rollins? He’s here. He is over there at that small table talking to Tully and Davies.” I did not recognize him. His hair was steel gray. He was in great physical shape. The eyes were alert, and his bearing was right out of the Marine Corps Manual.
The following evening, after dinner at the Globe & Laurel Restaurant, Jerry and I had a chance to sit in the lobby of the Crossroads and compare notes. I was curious about his experience in flight school, particularly with Tully washing out of the program. Jerry was very much at ease with the experience. “Not everyone is meant to fly,” he said. He then went on to describe flight training. One aspect of the training comes into play after you have learned to fly solo. At that point, you have the skills necessary to fly, but the more flights that you make, the more that you hone instinctive skills that are necessary to progress as a pilot. It is like an athlete benefiting from getting “reps” with the first-string team. Jim Tully was not getting the benefit of those additional reps, and was not improving despite the passage of time.
Rollins said that Tully knew what was happening. He described one afternoon when he walked down the flight line at the end of the day. The area was pretty much empty, but Jerry saw Tully sitting under the fuselage of his plane, holding his head in his hands. Jerry stopped to talk. Tully said that he was just not able to reach the level of proficiency that he needed to succeed as a pilot. He did everything that he was instructed to do, but his skills were not improving. He knew that the inevitable result would be dropping out of flight school, returning to Quantico, and continuing his career as an infantry officer.
We talked a bit about Jerry’s flight experience as a pilot for Delta Air Lines. Five members of our Quantico community became pilots for commercial airlines. Four of them worked for Delta at one time or another. (Tom Troestler flew solely for American Airlines.) I asked Jerry whether international flights presented any particular difficulty, and he responded with a story about being grounded in a European airport, and waiting for the problem to be cleared. While they waited, the flight crews were required to stay with their planes. At some point, it was brought to Jerry’s attention that there was a class of school students among the passengers affected by the stoppage. Rollins swung into action, and set up a tour of the aircraft for the student-passengers. I asked whether any of the other pilots made similar arrangements, and he said, “They don’t think that way.”
Another significant experience with Delta was meeting his future wife. Sandra was a stewardess for the airline. I was reminded of Sergeant Alender’s frequent admonition that, “If the Marine Corps wanted you to have a wife, it would have issued you one.”
Turning to more current events, Jerry described the investment opportunities in Panama City, Florida. Panama City’s major activity was the construction of multi-story luxury condominiums. Everyone thought of himself as a financial wizard. It was common to buy two condos and then lease one of them at a high rental that was sufficient to pay the carrying costs of both units. In effect: the investor was getting something for nothing. However, the real estate market suddenly collapsed, and with it went the value of the condos. It was almost impossible to rent the units at the previous prices. Sale prices dropped below the amount necessary to pay off the outstanding mortgages. Even if the owners could sell the units, they were still on the hook for a substantial part of the original mortgages. Condominium management was another story. Jerry wanted me to teach him about condominium law. It brought to mind a recent complaint of one of my former law partners who sent me a copy of a book he wrote about how he was frustrated by the board of his own condominium.
At that point, Jerry’s demeanor became very serious. He said, “I learned a lot from you back in the officers school, and it got me through the program. I came to this reunion so that I would have the chance to talk to you face-to-face, and thank you for all that you did.” I was stunned. I mumbled something to the effect that I was not trying to teach anybody anything. I was just trying to get through the program myself. However, if that was of some help to him, I am happy about that. At that point, Jerry said that he would be leaving Quantico in the morning. I decided that I would get up early and offer to drive him to the train station. As it turned out, the first train left earlier than I thought. When I arrived at the breakfast area, Jerry had already left the Crossroads. He walked to the train station in town.
Jerry and I continued to communicate by e-mail, but none of it was about our officer candidate experience or what he might have learned from me. Much of our contact was about my short stories and the memories in the books that I published. Jerry liked my writings.
In 2013, four years after our reunion in Quantico, I received an e-mail message with an obituary for Jerry Rollins. The obituary suggested that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the American Cancer Society. More often than not, suggestions of that type are a pretty good indicator of the cause of death. I wonder whether Jerry had that diagnosis before he came back to Quantico for our reunion.
A diagnosis of cancer is a tough bullet to chew. It is the medical equivalent of twentyfuckingeight.
