Selective Service
1963: President Kennedy is assassinated.
1964: The “British Invasion” begins and the tone and texture of music in America is changed forever.
1965: 3500 Marines, the first ground combat troops, are deployed to Vietnam.
1966: Thousands of young Americans receive their draft notices. Thousands deployed to Vietnam.
1967: More than to 300, 000 now deployed to Vietnam
1968: Dr. King is assassinated, followed two months later by the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. Riots and anti-war demonstrations are setting cities ablaze all across the country. Half a million men and women are now serving in Vietnam. More than 16,000 already killed. Thousands more wounded. Dubya takes advantage of Papa’s political connections and joins the Texas Air Guard. His service is sketchy, hidden behind a veil of secrecy and privilege. Bubba first got a college deferment then, in order to avoid the draft, enrolled in but never participated in the college ROTC program. Eventually 130,000 would claim conscientious objection, some of whom served as medics, most avoided service all together. More than 30,000 would simply cross the border into Canada.
The sixties by any measure was a time of turmoil and upheaval for every American. Finding or keeping your bearings was a constant challenge. This was the world of Al Amere, a young Boston transplant living in Hampton, working at Pratt & Whitney, watching his draft date rapidly approach. Deficient in musical talent, political connections, or the art of deception, squiggling out of service was not an option. His choices were simple but far from easy: enlist or be drafted. Possessing a clear sense of service, duty and honor, he enlisted with an eye toward flying helicopters. Vision issues interfered with that vision and he was assigned to the somewhat familiar job of servicing and repairing helicopter engines. Within a year upon completing training he was on his way to Vietnam where he would be assigned to the 123RD Aviation Battalion of the American Division based in Chulai and joining the more than half million American service personnel then serving in country.
Welcome to 1969. While nearly half a million hippies gathered on a farm in upstate New York and were treated to a live performance of Jimi Hendrix and his white Fender Stratocaster belting out his unique version of “The Star Spangled Banner”, more than half a million service men and women, our young soldier included, heard it for the first time on their radios buzzing with static in the jungles, swamps, firebases, field hospitals, and maintenance shops of the domino that must not fall.
Like most war veterans, Al never talks much about his experiences there. It came down to daily routine of long hot days in the maintenance hangers or on the tarmac, nightly harassing mortar fire, and the staccato of automatic weapons. With the passage of space and time, some anecdotes can take on the flavor of humor as long as you don’t think too hard about the in-the-moment experience.
He tells of one night when the mortars started coming in. He dashed from his hooch and sprawled into a ditch (more like a depression in the ground) “fully kitted out” in GI issue skivvies and helmet with which to defend life and limb. So far as defensive positions go, it didn’t have much to recommend it. But for a billion hungry fire ants with sharp mandibles and poor social skills, it was home . . .
Working in the heat and conditions of Vietnam, a soldier can sweat gallons. Severe enough, dehydration can be as much of a threat to life as those pesky folks and their mortars lurking outside the perimeter. This young serviceman was not about to let himself become a casualty of dehydration. After one particularly long hot day attending to the care and feeding of Cobras, he made his way to the hydration facility to complete his rehydration responsibilities. Lost fluids replaced, he headed back to his hooch to try to get some rest and prepare for another day of laboring in the hot tropical sun. En route to his hooch he was intercepted by an officer who directed him to repair his ailing chopper. Still exhibiting signs of dehydration, with wobbly legs and cloudy head, his efforts to plead off the assignment were ignored. He was to repair the ailing machine. He cannot say which was the greater challenge – maintaining his balance on the engine deck 12 feet off the ground or actually repairing the machine. All he can say is at some point he made it safely back onto the ground and the bird made it safely back into the air. Unless you actually served alongside him with the 123RD Aviation Bn. of the American Division, that’s about all you will ever hear about his time in Vietnam.
At the end of his tour he flew to Fort Lewis, Washington, mustered out of the Army, and made his way back home to Hampton and back to work at Pratt & Whitney. Home in time to miss the invasion of Cambodia but witness to the deaths of five college students at Kent State. A world gone mad.
His time in the Army and his service to the country may have been complete, but his devotion to family and service to community was only just beginning. It continues nearly 60 years to this day.
Al is quick to make the point that he never actually joined the fire department, and the Army was not the first draft he faced. He guesses he was around 16 when his uncle, the Chief at the time, said “Get in the truck–you’re going.” He got in the truck. He went. And he has been going ever since. First serving as secretary, then the youngest member ever elected as President, and at one time or another, serving in every rank including Chief.
(In the following interviews, except for Al, all names have been either changed or omitted to protect both innocent and guilty.)
“Al, can you recall the first call you ever went on?”
I don’t really remember the first call I went on, but the first call that sticks in my mind was a call to a fire on the second floor of a house on North Brook. My uncle said “Get in the truck” (his truck) and we raced to the scene. When we got there we found two ladies sitting at the kitchen table on the first floor eating their breakfast. They just pointed to the stairs and said, “It’s up there.” Upstairs was full of god-awful stinking smoke. Turn-your-stomach stink. My uncle found an old Army sleeping bag smoldering in the closet. I don’t know what was in that bag but the stench was awful. He just grabbed the bag and tossed it out the window. So while the two ladies were enjoying their breakfast down stairs I was depositing mine out the second floor window and down the side of the house. Going back down stairs we found the two ladies still at the table finishing their breakfast. They looked up, said “Thank You.” That’s all. We left.
“Any other calls that stick in your mind?”
Well, there are so many that they just all blend together over the years.
“There must be more that stick out.”
A long time ago, there was a car fire on Kimball Hill. Patrick and I took the tanker truck and headed to the scene. When we got there, we found a fully engulfed Triumph. The tanker we had at the time only held 300 gallons of water. We ran through that fairly quickly and the fire was still burning. There was no other water source available in the area so Patrick climbed on top of the truck and started emptying the Indian tanks into the main tank. (Indian tanks are the backpack water tanks with a hand-pump pressure nozzle used for brush fires. At the time they were made of metal.) There were just enough full Indian tanks to finish extinguishing the fire.
“What about other members that stands out in memory? Any bonehead stories?”
I probably shouldn’t talk about those.
“We won’t identify them by name or use their real names.”
A pause and a grin starts to show.
We had a guy one time who was supposed to be a professional trucker. He drove big trucks for a living so we made him a driver. Every time he got in one of our trucks he would just lose it. It’s like his mind would snap and he’d go nuts. We had a call to a brush fire. I got there before the truck and waited on the side of the road. Here he comes, flying. Lights, sirens, horn blaring. I’m standing on the side of the road pointing toward the fire and he blows right by me. Never looked, slowed down or stopped. He moved on a long time ago but that’s one reason I always emphasize driver training.
“How about another story?”
A pause for thought.
There was a chimney fire. It was a cold, miserable, wet, snowy night. Smith managed to make his way onto the roof by going upstairs and out onto the roof through a skylight. Before long he’s screaming, “Call a ladder truck! Call a ladder truck! Call a ladder truck!” We didn’t know what was going on. He just kept yelling for a ladder truck. We don’t have a ladder truck so Mortlake was called in with their ladder truck. Back in those days the ladder trucks were open. I guess they thought firefighters were supposed to all be tough–immune to wind, snow, sleet and rain. When the ladder truck got there the driver, barely able to move, damned near frozen solid, got out and says, “Well the truck is here but I don’t know how it’s gonna get home. I’m frozen and not going to drive it.” Turns out in the course of dealing with the chimney fire, the roof had gotten so slick Smith needed the ladder truck just to get off the roof.
Interviewing Other Members
The common response when interviewing other members is: Al is there on almost every call. He’s always watching, thinking. His corrections are always quiet, simple, and direct. And: Al is always calm, never gets worked up or excited.
Every rule has its exceptions:
“You’ve been with the Company a long time. You must have some pointed memories of Al.” The member essentially repeats what others have said and then goes on:
Member 1: We were at a house fire and I’m used to calm and quiet Al. Next thing you know I hear him running around yelling “I need oxygen! Get me some oxygen! I need oxygen! I need oxygen! I need oxygen!” Al was running around with a little dog cradled in his arms. He got the oxygen and saved the dog.
You’ve been an EMT for a long time and Al was a member of the Hampton/Chaplin Ambulance since its inception, you must have some memorable stories to share.”
Member 2: A laugh and . . . Oh Boy, do I. When Al was younger, he was a lot more feisty than he is now. When we’d go out on ambulance calls at night he’d be driving and I’d be in the back. With Al driving, it was not unlike running a class-5 rapids. I’d yell at him “If you don’t take it easy I’m gonna be sick.” From up front would come that low one or two syllable chuckle of his . . . “HaHa.”
Or: Al, if no one is sick, now I will be by the time we get to the Hospital. “Ha.”
I just love Al.
“You basically grew up in the Fire House; any stories you’d like to share?”
Member 3: When I was a kid our families would go camping together. One time I went to the store with Al to get some groceries or supplies or something. When we were in the store a little kid started yelling, “Mommy, look! Mommy look– it’s Santa!”
That signaled the end of Hampton’s most flourishing white beard.
Sixty years of quiet service to country, community and family comes with its share of ups and downs, good times and bad, tragedy and triumph, births, deaths, countless calls, untold sacrifice, endless change and perhaps a couple beers and a shot of bourbon. Hampton owes Al Ameer a debt of gratitude that can never be fully known, expressed or repaid. But then again, as a member of the Hampton Fire Company he does get a free dump sticker every year.
During the month of September, HFC members logged 200 man hours on 20 emergency dispatches, 80 man hours on training and equipment service, and attended two admin meetings.
Stay safe, watch for traffic, and don’t drive distracted.
Firehouse Dog