A KEYSTONE COPS MOVIE IN THE MAKING
This event occurred on Guam in late November of ’69 while the ship was being decommissioned. The ship’s galley had been deactivated leaving the officers to buy their meals where they could. One evening the Supply Officer (Scott Taylor) and I drove to dinner on top of one of Guam’s tropical mountains. The two lane paved road wound its way up the steep grade past a restaurant. The restaurant was on the high side of the road and required a right angle turn with an immediate sharp incline into the parking area, also at an incline. We had used the only vehicle at our disposal, a Navy jeep.
As we were finishing our meal the front door of the restaurant swung open and in came three Armed Forces Police personnel. The three were made up of one each from the Air Force, Navy and Marines. These are not professional policemen, but rather a composite collection offered to serve by the military services stationed in the local area. The men were attired in helmets, their respective service uniforms, black armbands, jump boots, and large black utility belts. Police batons, handcuffs, and whatever else hangs from those belts gave them a menacing appearance from which they enjoyed deriving the intimidation factor. Like a scene out of an old western melodrama, they made their way from table to table questioning the patrons. Each had his thumbs behind his front belt buckle; and, as they ambled through the diners their batons would knock against the tables. Scott and I were sitting toward the back and they finally assembled three abreast in front of us. “Are you men driving the military vehicle parked out front?” one asked. Scott answered, “Yes.” and as he began to explain he was interrupted with an admonishment. “Military vehicles are not to be used for personal entertainment.” There were no officers among these men and even though we were in civilian cloths they had not bothered to ask if we were officers. They seemed eager to make an arrest and their manner of speech was taking on overtones. We opted to simply describe our situation rather than use our rank and provoke an incident.
As Scott attempted to explain about our ship being deactivated and the jeep being our only transportation, the front door burst open again. This time it was a local Guamanian who called out to all, “Who’s driving a black truck?” One of the trio turned slightly and answered, “We are!” “Well it just rolled down the hill and into a house!” was the report. There was an instant scramble as the three bumped into tables and chairs getting out the front door. Scott and I did the automatic “Check please!” paid up and went outside. In the enthusiasm to capture the jeep violators the driver of the police truck had parked it on the steep entrance to the restaurant and failed to use the hand brake. The truck was really an old-fashioned paddywagon that looked more like a car from the front and had a large bulbous enclosed body with rear door exit. It had rolled backward out of the parking lot, across the main road, down a short embankment into a local family’s home. Fortunately, no one had been hurt. The truck had crashed through a picture window and was lodged sticking half way out of the front living room. The hysterical homeowner was out defending his turf standing in front of the truck yelling “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!!” Our three former antagonists looked like defeated men with their whole careers passing before them. One assumed the position of directing traffic that was slowing down to look at the spectacle. You could not help feeling sorry for the men. We asked the traffic director if we could help and he spontaneously shook his head and said, “Just go.” We took his advice and left immediately. We drove the back roads back to the barracks just in case any of their superiors pressed them about why they had stopped at the restaurant in the first place. If the event had been captured on film, I’m sure it would have resembled a Keystone Cops movie.
