The officer in charge of the Marine Corps Recruiting Station in New York City had ordered me, through the station sergeant major, to wash, wax and vacuum a military sedan and be at the airport in sufficient time to meet the commandant at the foot of the ramp. I was to take him to a Manhattan bistro known as Sardi's, which was owned by a Marine reserve officer. The sergeant major's message: "All will go like clockwork. He also intimated that if it did not, I would rue the day that I had reported in to the station. I had been there exactly seven days.

On the appointed day and at the exact time, I was waiting at the foot of the airport ramp for the Commandant. My visual acuity equaled that of an eagle. It had been raised to that extraordinary level by nerves and the abject fear that I might miss him.

Suddenly, I spotted him, General Randolph McCall Pate, former Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, walking toward me. As he got within the appropriate distance I snapped one of the sharpest salutes I have ever rendered. With my senses in high gear, I noticed his right arm begin to move forward, I terminated my salute and reached out to shake his hand -- he thrust his attaché case into my hand and strode out of the terminal with me trailing him, my face bright red in embarrassment.

A few minutes later, as we crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge, General Pate, from behind his newspaper, said, "Sergeant, drop me off at the New York Times."

"Yes, Sir," I said.

The New York Times? The New York Times? I had no idea where the New York Times was located! What happened to Sardi's? I tried to steal a glance at the New York City map I had on the seat beside me, which I had marked with the direct route from the airport to Sardi's. The city traffic was too fast, I had no chance to look at the map.

Once across the Brooklyn Bridge I made a right hand turn looking for something that would lead me to the Times office -- nothing. For about 15 minutes I made turn after turn, trying to make it look as though I was heading somewhere.

"Sergeant," said the General, "Do you know where you are?"

"No Sir!" I replied.

"Do you know where you are going?"

"No Sir!" I admitted.

"Sergeant, how long have you been assigned to New York City?"

"About one week, Sir." I admitted.

"Pull over," said General Pate. I pulled over.

Opening the car door, General Pate said, "I'll get out here. I don't blame you, I blame the nitwits who assigned you to pick me up."

As I drove away I glanced into the rear view mirror. The General was standing at the curb on the Bowery waving his arm for a taxi, and a group of Bowery denizens were approaching him from several different directions. Each one intent, I was certain, on hitting him up him for a donation.

For several agonizing weeks I waited for the summons to report to the main station in Manhattan where I would be drawn over the coals and then banished to the Marine Corps Recruiting Sub-Station, Lake What-cha-ma-callit in farthest upstate New York. But, it never happened! The good General kept his silence and I went on to complete an undistinguished tour of recruiting duty in New York City. At the end of my assignment in the Big Apple, I volunteered for duty as a drill instructor at Parris Island to atone for my recruiting sins.

Semper Fi!

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