New Year's 1970

It was about one A. M. on New Year’s 1970. I was pulling duty at the Camp Pendleton Brig armory. I was lying in bed in the back room when the buzzer sounded from the window at the front of the armory. I went to the window to see who it was.

A Corporal and his prisoner stood outside. The prisoner had his hands cuffed behind his back and he stared at the ground.

“I have a prisoner for you,” the Corporal said.

“You’ll have to check your weapon and then we need to get him some linen,” I said.

We walked to the end of the building and climbed the stairs to the small linen loft on the second floor. I gave the linen to the Corporal.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He walked into the NCO club tonight and killed a Sergeant with a .45 automatic. He was drunk when he did it,” the Corporal said.

The prisoner was silent and stared at the ground while we talked.

We walked back to the armory. I tried to imagine what was going through the prisoner’s mind now that he was sober and realized he’d killed a man. Simple disbelief I supposed. The regret and remorse would come later.

The Corporal came back from the prison compound several minutes later. I returned his pistol.

“The mess hall down the road is open right now if you want some chow,” I said.

“Thanks, I think I’ll do that,” the Corporal said. He left.

Now, at two A. M., many years later, I think of the prisoner who entered the gates of Hell that night, and I think of the Sergeant, who most likely survived a tour of duty in Vietnam only to be shot dead on New Year’s Eve at a Camp Pendleton NCO club.