Thanks, Wally

My Dad, Sterling W. Camden III, always cultivated a reputation for being a bad-ass, even when he was a 125-pound nineteen-year-old Airman Third Class stationed in Germany.  He got into so many fights that his commanding officer decided to teach him a lesson by making him room with Walter Dale Goss – a hulking six-foot four-inch Cherokee who hardly spoke to anyone and spent most of his spare time lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling.

Airman Camden discovered Goss in that pose when he burst through the door, dropped his duffel bag, and took out a piece of chalk.  He drew a line across the floor between their bunks, up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the opposite wall.

“All right, you big mother-fucking Indian,” says Camden.  “You cross that line and I’ll kill your ass.”

Goss turned his gaze from the point on the ceiling towards the scrawny but vehement form that stared death and destruction back in his direction.  He laughed.  “C’mon, I’ll buy you a beer,” Goss said.  And therewith began a lifelong friendship.  Camden found his new giant friend extremely useful, and Goss was happy to have a companion who believed that he possessed “potential.”  They became blood brothers, Camden making much of the fact that he, too, could claim Native American ancestry.

Goss was pretty disappointed to lose his roommate when Camden married my future mother while on leave in the States.   Not long afterwards, Goss left the Air Force to join the Hells Angels, vowing to my father that “you’ll never see me again.”

One evening a couple of years later, Dad was outside our student housing at Syracuse (where the Air Force had him taking Intermediate Russian).  My playpen had been left outside and Dad was struggling to disassemble it in the deepening darkness.  Suddenly a blinding light engulfed him, and behind the flashlight he could just make out a looming figure, from whom boomed a deep but familiar voice: “What the hell are you doing with a playpen, you idiot.”  It was Goss.  He had re-enlisted, and the Air Force had sent him to Syracuse in the Intermediate Russian class right behind Dad’s.

Ever afterwards he became the roving member of our family.  We called him Wally, though he was variously known by others as “Walt” or “Dale”.  He’d visit once a year or so, always with some new adventure under his belt.  Once he had driven to Alaska and back in his Austin-Healey convertible.  His idea of trip-planning was to draw a line across the map from his point of departure to his destination, using a ruler, and then follow it as closely as possible.  The Healey was covered with mud, and Dad asked, “Don’t you ever wash that thing?”  Wally replied, “I let God wash it.”

Dad wanted to drive the Austin-Healey.  Wally got in the passenger seat, and they took off down the Pittsville Road.  When they neared the sharp left curve at Jack Mason’s Garage, Dad glanced down at the speedometer: 80.  He cut to the inside of the turn just as a ‘57 Ford popped into view from the other direction.  Dad cut back to the outside, sliding through the gravel of Jack’s parking lot (sending Jack running for cover).  He skidded back onto the road and continued as if nothing had happened, except for the adrenalin shakes that kicked in along the next straightaway.  And for as long as Wally owned the Healey, it bore the imprint of Wally’s ten fingers in the passenger side of its padded dashboard.

When I was five, Wally visited on leave from the Viet Nam War.  He brought us gifts from Thailand.  Mine was a real Siamese sword with a blade almost two feet long.  Wally handed it to me and said, “Here, kid – go get your sister.”  So I unsheathed it and ran after Roanna, who screamed through the house while Dad and Wally lay on the ground laughing as hard as they could.  My mother finally stopped me.  I still have that sword.  I keep it in my office in case of Ninja attack.

My sister Roanna, who was four, had a crush on Wally.  She informed him that she would marry him one day.  “Forget it, kid.” he replied.  “By the time you’re grown, I’ll be old, fat, and bald.”  “But Wally,” said my sister, “you’re already old, fat, and bald” — at which point my father spewed his beer across the room.

One Thanksgiving, Wally arrived with a huge turkey.  Naturally, Dad made all the appropriate wisecracks about the Indian joining us pale-faces for Thanksgiving.  We had a huge feast, and for dessert Mom offered pie.  “Is it homemade?” asked Wally enthusiastically.  “Why, Yes!” responded Mom, as she began to cut a large slice for him.  “Oh, I don’t want any then” said Wally.  We all laughed, but Mom made sure that he didn’t get any.

I believe Wally was there the Christmas that Dad shot Santa.  Wally introduced me to Heinlein, his motorcycle, and his .357 magnum.  Dad always said there were two things about Wally that were never adequately explained: why the Air Force had always allowed him to carry that .357, and why they allowed him to fly while wearing contact lenses when he was legally blind in a number of states.

Dad and I drove to Texas to visit Wally when he became an officer.  It was a trip I’ll never forget.

Wally met his second wife in Crete – Geraldine Andrews, who is full-blooded Irish from Dublin.  She instantly became another member of our family.  She accompanied my mother and us kids to church once –Geraldine had never been to a Methodist church before (she being Catholic, of course), but she was warmly greeted by a congregation that was about 80% Andrews – many of their ancestors having emigrated from Scotland and Ireland centuries before.

I lost contact with Wally and Geraldine when I went to college, and didn’t see Wally again until my father died.  The next day, as my sister Roanna and I drove to the airport to pick up my sons for the funeral, Roanna suddenly asked me if I maybe thought that…

“.. that Wally helped Dad out?” I interrupted.

“Yes!” said Roanna.  “He didn’t tell me so, but you know that the agency trained them how to do it so you couldn’t tell.’”

“Last night Wally told me that he had come close to killing Dad back in 1972” (That was when Dad had set himself down to drink himself to death).  “I wondered at the time why he volunteered that information.  Well, if he did it, then I’m thankful.”

I never asked Wally about that.  We’ve corresponded by email over the years, but I’ve never seen him in person again since Dad’s funeral – and I never will.  I received a message this morning that Wally passed away.  He went peacefully, I heard – and for that, I’m thankful.