As an officer I was given a pass each night. On the recommendation of a fellow shavetail from my class, I went to the Buena Vista in Fisherman’s Wharf. They had what must be the world’s best drink – something called Irish Coffee. It was supposed to be as good as they served at Shannon Airport in Ireland. They had started it a few months before in the fall of 1952. The BV, as my buddy called it, was supposed to be a hangout for TWA stewardesses and, after plying one with Irish Coffee for a couple of hours one night, I was able to get a date with her for all day on Sunday. After a fun day sightseeing in San Francisco, I did spend several hours with her in her apartment on Russian Hill. I still had a smile on my face when we shipped out from Fort Mason on the General W.M. Black two days later. The first few months in Korea were a blur – in retrospect it seemed like a series of vignettes about learning how to be a soldier and how to lead troops. So in early June I found myself in the. But in his dark room, with no sense of morning or evening, days, weeks, months all felt the same. Endless. After being unchained from the wall, Catharine no longer came to visit. She watched him though, he found the camera on a thorough inspection of his room. Two, actually, so there were no blind spots. She’d speak with him as well, her sensual voice floating out of the walls into his ears. He’d begged and pleaded for her to show herself, but it was to no avail, Catharine was as elusive as ever. Yet, through all this, he still craved her. His cravings, longings, musings were something he’d come to hate. He’d hear her voice and his insides would melt, butterflies would fill his stomach. ‘Catharine,’ he spoke into his empty cell, ‘I love you, I need you, please, please come to me!’ Sometimes he thought he heard her laugh, light and sweet, other times he was certain he’d become delusional. She’d left him a note pad and a pen, on which he scribbled love notes, and occasionally sketches.
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