Childish Thoughts of a China Laker

As a young boy, I had the best life. You old China Lakers that read here, you know what I mean. Growing up at China Lake in the way and in the time that we grew up will never be repeated in quite the same way. In fact, I'd say it won't ever be replicated - unless there is some other world in another solar system populated with a civilization that is in a similar sort of place (technically & socially) as we were back in those days.

You know what we were - and I speak to my fellow China Lakers here - we were protected. We had miles and miles of high desert and mountains between us and the nearest city of any size. But more than that, we had a special time in that most of us had both parents raising us. Mom stayed home and Dad went to work making, designing, building and thinking about rockets and missiles and bombs. And they worked hard too. Remember when government workers were proud of what they did and of their contributions to the nation, and in our case - to the Navy? They were genuinely proud of the fact that they could take a concept like a heat-homing rocket and turn it into the Sidewinder. And they turned Sidewinder (and many other bits of Navy ordnance history) out in record time. They did it because they loved their jobs, their base, their quiet, little, isolated city in the desert. And they cared for each other. They did. They really did.

I remember the softball games. My dad was a good fast-pitch softball player. He played in the base league for years and years, and I looked forward to going to the ballfield and watching him and the other Bud Eyre Chevrolet players go at their next "victim." And while I liked watching my dad play, after the game when all the adults gathered in front of the beer hut (see my photo spread here called "China Lake Windshield Tour") for a cold beer was a special time for us kids. We'd run the field and tumble and fall in the grass and just generally mess around and have a good time. Nobody cared, and we never hurt each other or had any worries on those cool desert nights. The Milky Way glowed and looked down upon us and our fragile dreams, and we all just knew those dreams would come true as we raced across the outfield. I swear back in those days it seemed like I was running 100 miles-per-hour as the cool grass flashed under my bare feet. For those of you that didn't grow up in the high Mojave Desert, a big field of grass was a special treat for us kids that did grow up there.

I remember games of hide & go seek on Intrepid Road. Big games too - I'm talking 20 kids. We had rules, and we played for fun, but we took it seriously. I remember coming in to Mom's call of, "John, David, time for supper!" We ate together back in those days. Then we'd get a bath, and then I remember watching Cronkite on TV talking about how many Americans were killed in Vietnam on that particular day. We had something like 3 channels back in 1968. But I damn sure got to see Neil Armstrong walk on the moon in the heat of the summer of 69.

Another great memory are the All Saints Chapel's Catholic Parish Picnics. My dad was drafted for many years to lead and organize the picnic. And it was a huge affair. At least 200 people would come to the picnic - in those days it was held at Inyokern Park - and the planning and putting on of the picnic was no easy task. On the day of the picnic, I got to help set-up, and the morning of the picnic started very early. All of the various accoutrements one needs for such an affair had to be gathered, driven to Inyokern Park and put into place. Grills, kegs of beer, racks of burger and dog buns, condiments for burgers and dogs, plates and forks and knives and napkins, side dishes, many tables and chairs, on and on. The food had to be cooked and served, sack races and other games had to be run (the competition was fierce), and the good times carried on into the night. I LOVED the Parish Picnic.

I guess more than anything, I remember the desert and hunting lizards and snakes and roadrunners and coyotes and all the critters we had that roamed the high Mojave. I remember being but maybe 8-years old and climbing B-Mountain with equally-aged friends. By ourselves! Nobody cared. Mom wasn't worried. "Keep an eye out for Sidewinders (the snake, not the missile)." And we did - and we saw or heard one - more often than not.

Of course I remember so many other things. Things like twenty-five cent movies, sonic booms, the Triangle Sport Shop, Sprouse Reitz, Corney's Shoes, every one of my elementary school teachers at Richmond (and Mrs. Dye at Las Flores), The Malt Shop, The Shopping Bag, the base gym and pool. What memories of swimming at the outdoor pool up by the officer's barracks! Shady and cool, and an absolutely PACKED snack bar. As big as that pool was (I'm talking Olympic-sized), I can remember many times where it was almost standing room only in the water.

I've always been proud to have been a "China Laker." The Navy's secret city in the high Mojave gave each of us a taste of a life that will never again be duplicated, and I'd argue, equaled. Of course I'm idealizing and romanticizing our time there, but only a little. Once in awhile someone would steal a bicycle, or break a neighbor's window. And we all know people had affairs and drank too much. It wasn't perfection, but I know this much - it was as close to perfection as humans can get - and it was reflected in the azure sky that went on forever. And I leave you with this final & cherished memory I have of lying in the grass in our front yard on Intrepid Road - just lying there and looking up and wondering. (How many kids do you see doing that these days?) I remember lying there and looking as far as I could into the deep blue and almost being able to see the black of space while thinking, "What is up there? It is so blue and mysterious and so close and so far away and so beautiful." And the possibilities seemed like the sky - endless and bright and hopeful.

Smedley Butler? Can you spend two minutes gaining wisdom?

From a speech by General Smedley Butler. General Butler is one of the most decorated Marines of all time.

“War is just a racket. A racket is best described, I believe, as something that is not what it seems to the majority of people. Only a small inside group knows what it is about. It is conducted for the benefit of the very few at the expense of the masses.

I believe in adequate defense at the coastline and nothing else. If a nation comes over here to fight, then we'll fight. The trouble with America is that when the dollar only earns 6 percent over here, then it gets restless and goes overseas to get 100 percent. Then the flag follows the dollar and the soldiers follow the flag.

I wouldn't go to war again as I have done to protect some lousy investment of the bankers. There are only two things we should fight for. One is the defense of our homes and the other is the Bill of Rights. War for any other reason is simply a racket.

There isn't a trick in the racketeering bag that the military gang is blind to. It has its "finger men" to point out enemies, its "muscle men" to destroy enemies, its "brain men" to plan war preparations, and a "Big Boss" Super-Nationalistic-Capitalism.

It may seem odd for me, a military man to adopt such a comparison. Truthfulness compels me to. I spent thirty- three years and four months in active military service as a member of this country's most agile military force, the Marine Corps. I served in all commissioned ranks from Second Lieutenant to Major-General. And during that period, I spent most of my time being a high class muscle- man for Big Business, for Wall Street and for the Bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism.

I suspected I was just part of a racket at the time. Now I am sure of it. Like all the members of the military profession, I never had a thought of my own until I left the service. My mental faculties remained in suspended animation while I obeyed the orders of higher-ups. This is typical with everyone in the military service.

I helped make Mexico, especially Tampico, safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefits of Wall Street. The record of racketeering is long. I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1909-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916. In China I helped to see to it that Standard Oil went its way unmolested.

During those years, I had, as the boys in the back room would say, a swell racket. Looking back on it, I feel that I could have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate his racket in three districts. I operated on three continents.”