Duffle Bag Diaries

Fifty-three years ago this June I met Taylor H. Davis as we began our mutual yet individual journeys through three year careers in Uncle Sam's Army.  The place was North Fort Lewis (now JBLM) and the occasion was BCT (Basic Combat Training), an unbelievably terrible but somehow beneficial eight weeks in our young lives.

Anyway, over the past half-century my fellow BCT bunkmate and I have managed to keep in contact with each other.  Below is an email Taylor recently sent me to share with you all.  Enjoy!

Dear Gordy; 

Your dedication to feeding the fires of friendships over the decades has returned to you a wealth of people who hold you in high regard. Count me among them. I can only imagine the number of friendships you have which have lasted more than 50 years. I have a handful, with you being one of them. 52 years, ol’ chum. 

Gordy, here is my first entry of true Army stories which you can use in your blog. 

Duffle Bag Diaries By Taylor H. Davis Volume 1, Issue 1: 

“The Deceptive Songwriter” 

Winters at Ft. Lee, VA can be harsh. It’s not unusual for everything to be coated in ice. Everything. Total silver thaw. And, yet six pages later in the calendar, summer can be just as extreme. Late August in 1967 found Ft. Lee sweltering in heat with curlicues of heat radiating and pulsating off the streets and sidewalks, and every Quartermaster training class taking extra breaks to either cool off or, in the case of classroom-type training, to try to wake up. The Vietnam War was in full-tilt rage and had to fed with replacement forces continually. The voracious consumption of trained soldiers had Ft. Lee conducting Quartermaster-related training around the clock. “24/7” as they say today. 

One such training program was the 8-week “Stock Control & Accounting” advanced individual trading (AIT) course, and one specific classroom of about 25 trainees, all sitting at desks in the stifling heat, was struggling to concentrate on the droning words of the Specialist 4 Instructor standing on the raised platform above them. Most of the class was able to maintain contact with consciousness and actually learn, while, understandably, there were those few, predictable, bobbing and drooping heads. One individual in that group of mostly conscripted sufferers, however, didn’t seem to be affected a whit by the choking heat or the monotonous delivery of the Instructor. This trainee’s attention was riveted on the 

page he was writing on. It was like he was on his own island, as he seemed totally apart from the activities of the rest of the class. After a while, his nearby classmates took notice of his distracted ambivalence to the course being taught. So, during one of the breaks, out on the sidewalk in front of the aluminum-sided classroom, 3 or 4 of his classmates asked him, “What’s up, man? What are you doing in class? You know if you fail this, they might bounce you down into the Infantry, then straight to Vietnam and then your ass will be cooked for sure!” The unaffected soldier replied, “I’m writing a song. And I think it’s gonna be pretty good”. He beamed when he made that declaration, and it took the rest of the guys off-guard, surprised that he wasn’t ruffled by the possible specter of dying in Vietnam. “Yeah, it’s good. You wanna hear what I’ve written so far?”, he offered. “OK, but hurry. As soon as this cigarette goes out, we’re back in class.” 

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket, opened it, and began reading: 

You've long been on the open road. You've been sleepin' in the rain. From the dirt of words and mud of cells Your clothes are dark and stained. 

But the dirty words and the muddy cells Will soon be judged insane. So only stop and rest to yourself And you'll be off again. 

And take off your thirsty boots And stay for a while. Your feet are hot and weary From a dusty mile. 

“That’s it so far. You guys like it?”, he asked. “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe if you play it for us in the barracks, it’ll sound better”, one man offered. Just then, the Instructor stepped to the door and called all the trainees back in the classroom. 

Over the next week, variations of the above scenario repeated themselves, until during one break, the fledgling, doomed-soldier (but-ever-focused) songwriter said his song was complete. “It’s finished”, he said, as he proceeded to read the remaining verses to all: 

And maybe I can make you laugh And maybe I can try. Just lookin' for the evenin' And the mornin' in your eyes. 

Then tell me of the ones you see As far as you could see. Across the plain from field to town A marchin' to be free. 

And of the rusted prison gates That tumble by degree. Like laughin' children one by one They look like you and me. 

So take off your thirsty boots And stay for awhile. Your feet are hot and weary From a dusty mile. 

And maybe I can make you laugh And maybe I can try. Lookin' for the evenin' And the mornin' in your eyes. 

I know you are no stranger Down the crooked rainbow trial. From dancing cliff edge, shattered sills Of slander shackled jails. 

But the melodies drift from below 

As walls are bein' scaled, Yes and all of this and more my friend Your song shall not be failed. 

Then take off your thirsty boots And stay for a while. Your feet are hot and weary From a dusty mile. 

And maybe I can make you laugh And maybe I can try. Just lookin' for the evenin' And the mornin' in your eyes. 

Then take off your thirsty boots And stay for a while. Your feet are hot and weary From a dusty mile. 

And maybe I can make you laugh And maybe I can try. Lookin' for the evenin' And the mornin' in your eyes. 

“I’ll play it for you guys tonight. This time I’ll sing it instead of reading it, and my guitar will make it sound better, too.” 

The prospect of his highly anticipated musical debut that night must have made the remaining, intervening hours of afternoon class drag by for this poor, misdirected soul. But like all things, the class that day did come to an end. And that night, as promised, he sang his lovely song. It was truly beautiful. 

I was there, and I’ll never forget that first impression I had of his gentle artistry. 

2.5 years later, in January 1970, after I’d returned from Vietnam, I was in a Portland, Oregon hippie-type record store, Music Millennium. I picked up a 1965 album by Judy Collins, entitled “Fifth Album”, - flipped it over and I was both shocked and deeply disappointed. There, on Ms. Collins’ album, in my very hands, was a song, “Thirsty Boots”, written by one Eric Anderson, which he’d been performing in Greenwich Village since the early 60’s. It seems that my military colleague, back in 1967, had simply recalled the lyrics from her album, jotted them down over time, and then basked in his hijacked glory as he introduced us to an actually wonderful song. I thank him for that. And for making those sweltering weeks at least tolerable, way back then during those Ft. Lee days, which today, I look upon fondly. 

Here’s the link to “Thirsty Boots” by Judy Collins on You Tube (by the way, I prefer John Denver’s version): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckPMoLH-c2s