Scouts Dishonored E-Book

Clayton Smith

• Herausgeber: Spines
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Scouts Dishonored is a true story of my life growing up as the son of a Marine Corps fighter pilot, where I experienced early on in life tragedy and shame of what has been described as the second biggest cover-up in history. The Boy Scouts of America abused many thousands of boys. The healing can begin through the amazing work of Andrew Van Arsdale and the AVA Law Group Inc.

Leseprobe

Clayton Smith

Scouts Dishonored

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Clayton Smith

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by BooXAI

ISBN:978-965-578-728-3

Scouts Dishonored

A True Story of a Survivor

Clayton Smith

This book is dedicated to my Grandmother, Phyllis Smith, who was only in one chapter and was with me through every stroke of my pen. When I told Grandmother this, she replied:

 “That is so kind of you to say; however, I would have rather been in more chapters!”

Preface

To determine just who you are in life is a question that involves many different and difficult factors to explore. I was a product of the sixties and seventies. Being a child born into a military family, I was exposed to a regiment of sameness. For example, the simple changing of the seasons was apparent by my father's uniform to work that day. A khaki shirt with short sleeves and his rank insignia on the collar meant we were in summer. It was winter if he wore a green coat, green trousers, and a long-sleeved shirt with a khaki tie. 

Everybody looked the same from top to bottom, the same haircut down to the color and style of the shoes they were allowed to wear. It was always just more of the same everything. 

So naturally, when I was older, I opted for variety in almost everything in my life. I had a variety of cars, a variety of relationships, houses, clothes, furniture, and wristwatches. I ran away from sameness at a sprinter’s pace. As you read, you will see exactly what I am talking about.

* * *

The military family deserves as much recognition as do the many active service members and veterans. It is not without sacrifices that we all have experienced as dependents and descendants.

* * *

Introduction

Scouts Dishonored is a true story of my life growing up as the son of a Marine Corps fighter pilot, where I experienced early on in life tragedy and shame of what has been described as the second biggest cover-up in history. The Boy Scouts of America abused many thousands of boys. The healing can begin through the amazing work of Andrew Van Arsdale and the AVA Law Group Inc.

* * *

What should have been a Norman Rockwell experience was more like something painted by Salvador Dali.

* * *

What happened to me at camp, Boy Scout Jamboree camp to be precise, was not only devastating, but it has had a long-lasting, even to this day, effect on many facets of my life.

I highly suggest that any other victims of any abuse, whether it be the Boy Scouts of America, the Catholic Church, or any other situation, sit down and write about it. It is the best way to find peace and reach a well-earned conclusion. 

I want to share the realization and, more importantly, the conclusion I produced after years of shame and guilt. If you do not read any other word in this book, please consider the following discovery: I pray that anyone who has lived with constant shame can sort it out and most likely will benefit from my simple conclusion.

 No one needs to keep bottled up inside events of horror that happened yesterday or fifty years ago. No self-worth should ever be lost over events that were out of our control. The answer can be found in the very definition of shame.

* * *

  A painful feeling of humility or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior. Shame is a painful feeling that is a mix of regret, self-hate, and dishonor.

* * *

We have a very good place to start by bringing whatever happened into the light. I would have never ever dreamed of discussing the subject with anyone until I fully understood the actual definition of shame. This is where we can find the real answer. Read it very carefully.

* * *

“Caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.”

* * *

Foolish behavior shows a lack of good judgment. The lack of good judgment was not my judgment but that of my abuser. I am in no way responsible for the behavior of a predator. Therefore, the shame is in no way mine. Just the opposite, all shame exclusively belongs to our abusers.

* * *

WITHOUT BAD JUDGMENT, THERE CAN BE NO SHAME.

* * *

Scouts Dishonored is an autobiography about my life and how one devastating event can alter our path. Please enjoy my journey that started in the early sixties and continues from childhood until now.

Contents

1. Don’t Pull the Red Handle

2. ADHD And Dyslexia

3. The Optometrist

4. The Neuse River

5. Swimming Lessons

6. Quantico

7. To Tell The Truth

8. Boy Scout Camp

Young Clayton

9. Tempie

10. I Got This One

11. Jet Set

12. Lounge Singer Overboard

Robert Cameron

13. Algeciras

14. The French Riveria

15. Gaeita Italy

Mom and I in Italy

16. Riverside Military Academy

The Watch

17. Working For Mitch

18. Two Marines at the Door

Mom, Dad, and Robin

19. Running Away From Home

20. Arlington

21. From The Bun To The Bar

22. Meeting Marie

Marie's Driveway

23. Progressing

24. Wedding Bells

25. Adios Amigo

26. Canton Ohio

27. When Life Calls

28. Reflection

29. Along Came Marty

30. The Jacket

31. Thanksgiving

32. Old Ebbitt Grill

33. Italy

34. Back To Ohio

35. Poolside

Afterword

Chapter1

Don’t Pull the Red Handle

When I was about eleven years old or so.

Every military base is entered from a main gate. Standing guard was always a sentry, a Marine sentry. His neatly pressed blue trousers were sharply creased, and a bright red stripe ran down the side. Spit-polished black leather shoes mechanically snapped together, causing a loud, proud explosion. His right arm was raised, and his starched white-gloved hand angled precisely towards his visor. With a smooth glance and a similar gesture from my father, his salute released the sentry’s arm to return to his side and rested beside his black leather holster. 

“Daddy, how does that man know you?” I asked. 

“He doesn’t know me. He recognizes the insignia on my bumper, which tells him I am a high-ranking officer, and he directs me to come on the base.” 

“Oh,” I answered. “What would happen if you forgot to put your stickers on your car?” I asked inquisitively.

 “He would stop me and ask for my ID card,” my father replied. 

“Oh. What if you didn’t have your ID card? What then?”

 “I always carry it with me,” he said, ending the interrogation.

 “Oh,” I answered. “What would happen if someone like a Russian spy entered the gate?” 

“The sentry would tell him to halt, or I’ll shoot,” my father answered.

 “Would he shoot him, just like that?” I asked.

 “No, he would fire two warning shots in the air, then if he didn’t stop, then he would shoot him,” Dad said. 

“That seems fair,” I said.

 “It seems to work so far,” he answered.

 As we drove to the Marine Corps Air Station in Beaufort, South Carolina, I rode in the front seat of our car with my father, a proud, handsome Marine Corps Fighter Pilot. It was summer vacation, and I was a young boy filled with curiosity heading into a candy store of opportunity. I was going to spend the entire day delighting my intrigue and watching the commanding officer of a Marine Corps Fighter Jet Squadron doing what he loved. By the end of the day, I would have firsthand knowledge of everything that was part of VMF AW (all weather) 451. My excitement level was elevated, my eyes opened wide, and my hands itching to touch everything as we headed in. As we pulled into the parking lot, there was a large two-tone sign that read, Reserved for the C.O. The military is simply a system of rewards and awards, and, as you advance, the rewards get bigger.

 “Good Morning, Skipper!” said a young officer. 

“Good morning, Captain Jones. Everything going okay?” 

“Yes, Sir, Skipper.”

 Captain Jones was the duty officer of the day. A fill-in commander, while the real commanding officer was not on station, it was his job to keep everything ready in case of a surprise attack by some deranged, hostile foreign government. From what I could observe, he seemed to be doing a good job, and my father was pleased. 

“This is my son,” Dad said, as he introduced me to the Captain. I reached out and shook his hand, studying it, and counted his fingers until he pulled away.

“Nice to know you, Sir,” I replied. 

“I brought Clay with me today, so give him a good look around,” Dad said.

 “Affirmative,” replied Jones. “I’ll show him around.” 

“And Jones, keep him away from anything classified, top secret, and, of course, any explosive devices and ejection seats.”

 “Yes, sir,” replied the young captain. “I understand your orders clearly.”

 “Well, what do you want to see first, son?”

 “I don’t know. How about everything?” I answered. Captain Jones did not realize how serious my father was when he said to keep him away from anything I could turn on or off, assemble, disassemble, take apart, or change position to get a better look inside it. I have always been interested in the internal workings of almost everything. My curiosity has never been satisfied. I have always carried a pocket screwdriver, both flathead and Phillips, to investigate any assembled device I would encounter during the day. Parked right outside the hangar was a jet fighter with the canopy open and a ladder attached to its side an A-4 U. 

“How about we start here,” I said. 

“Have you ever been inside of an A-4 U?” 

“No,” I answered. But that’s all going to change now! I thought. “Is this thing gassed up and ready to go?”

 “She sure is,” he replied.

I climbed up the ladder and into the open plane. This was unreal! There were thousands of switches and buttons, all within reach. However, the one thing that caught my eye was the red handle just above my head, with a large warning sign. 

DANGER ARMED. “What happens if I don’t touch the ejection lever; the seat will blast out several hundred feet in the air.” 

Capt. Jones must have thought of the lifelong mark this would leave on his record if a kid pulled the ejection ring and shot himself out of this plane and landed in a hundred pieces all over the base. 

“We’ll come back to this later. Give me your hand.” 

My assignment in this life is to find out what makes things work. I needed to remove covers on machinery that hid the inner souls of a device. The ones marked “do not remove” had to come off first. After all, a few screws were all that separated me from viewing the moving springs, the live electrical wires, and the grinding wheels that make up life. As we looked around, we ended up back in the ready room where pilots could monitor the air traffic and listen to the tower, ready to scramble on a minute’s notice. The radio was on, and I could hear conversations between the ground and the planes ready to take off and land.

 “What happens when you call the tower, and they don’t answer?” I asked. 

“Well, I don’t know, they always do,” Jones said. 

“What if the guy in the tower needs to go to the bathroom?”

“He has to hold it until someone else comes in.” 

“Oh,” I said happily. 

It seemed that my questions did not bother Capt. Jones. Was he being nice, or was he afraid my dad would yell at him if he were not amiable? That day will always be part of my memories as I played with all the squadron had to offer, and, to top things off, I sat in my father’s chair in the ready room, ate a tuna sandwich from a box lunch and drank Pepsi out of a mug with the name “Skipper” engraved next to a gold set of wings.

This was long before Tom Cruise glamorized being a Naval Aviator and Top Gun. Who wouldn’t want that?

Chapter2

ADHD And Dyslexia

ADHD and dyslexia are different brain disorders, but they sometimes overlap. Early on, nobody knew what these two elements did and how generations of us were wrongly diagnosed with laziness.

Summer was over, and it was now time to face the humiliation of returning to the one place where June, July, and August had offered refuge. It was time for school. I had failed to be promoted to the next grade. I asked myself how someone could return to the classroom and face the embarrassment that would surely raise its ugly head. I did not fear the new classmates; they had no idea what happened last year. My old classmates were now in the next grade. They would see that I was held back and make fun of my inability to advance. I would be looked upon as someone without worth, a big failure. My secret would be revealed to the entire school.

As I approached the bus, I thought about how I could gracefully handle this difficult situation. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I wanted summer to continue. This would erase my fears of being ridiculed and offer an escape from the embarrassment that was surely waiting at the end of this bus ride. I sat close to the window in a position I would become very familiar with.

Looking out the window on the way to school offered an opportunity to daydream about changes that would remove me from this point in time. I could be the “teacher’s pet.” I could be at any place in time by simply gazing out this two-foot-wide window. I heard the familiar sound of metal pressing against metal as the brakes squealed, announcing that the bus had stopped rolling and was ready to unload the kids in front of the school. The bells rang, signaling the new school day and thus, the new year had begun. I entered the building and returned to the classroom that was familiar to me from last year. I sat at my old desk, which had previously held my books and papers. The class looked the same. Above the blackboard was the alphabet containing twenty-six letters that made up all the words that confused me. It was pure torment not being able to remember things presented just hours, even moments earlier.

Mrs. Riddle was going to be my teacher this year. I did not know her, but I assumed she was well aware of my repeating the grade and of what had happened in the past. I hoped that she would not think any less of me and would not call attention to my inabilities, alerting the others in the room that they were in the company of a failure. As she looked around, I could see her stop and take a second glance at my seat. I made eye contact, but my heart was pounding so fast I thought I would pass out. What was she staring at? Was I just overly paranoid, or was something wrong? Before I could imagine anything else, Mrs. Riddle spoke.

“I wonder if you might be more comfortable in one of the bigger desks in the back of the room.”

Her voice sounded as if it was a kind one and that she was genuinely concerned for my comfort.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied.

“I’ll change them around,” she said.

Our first exchange seemed to me a pleasant one. I felt that maybe this fear, this anxiety, was at this time misplaced. Mrs. Riddle seemed to like me, and her voice did not indicate that she had prematurely formed an opinion of me. I moved to my new seat. It was a little more comfortable. Over the summer, I had grown a couple of inches taller than most other children who had started the second grade that day. The teacher introduced herself and went down the aisles, reading off each student’s name. She announced that it might take her a few days, but she would eventually remember each of us. I did not want her to remember mine for any other reason than that I would answer some questions correctly.

In the excitement, the morning soon disappeared. Mrs. Riddle then announced that it was time for everyone to stand, form a line, and walk single file to the lunchroom. The older students stood in line in front of the younger students, and those in the middle stood behind them. I felt good about the progression of this first day at school when they spotted me. The kids that stood behind us in line were my classmates from last year.

“Hey, there he is. Look, it’s the kid who failed. It’s Clay Smith. He stayed back with the babies!” One started, and then they all joined in.

“Look, everybody; it’s the stupidest kid in school. It's dumb-dumb! Hey dumb-dumb, how stupid are you?” 

This went on for what seemed like forever. I moved forward in line, but the kids did not stop.

“Hey, stupid, you like to eat with the babies?”

As they taunted, I kept looking straight ahead. Why didn’t they stop this embarrassment and leave me alone? My turn now came to pick up a tray and silverware; all I could think of was not to look back. Surely, they would tire of this name-calling and ease up on me. I placed the lunch tray on the counter and watched the lunch staff fill each compartment with food. My heart hurt to be called names by people who did not understand what it felt like to experience mortification. A soft hand touched my shoulder as I stared straight down to hide my shame.

Mrs. Bamberger had been alerted to what was taking place and had come to the cafeteria from the Teachers’ Lounge. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “We’ll get through this together.”

I moved on through the lunchroom, but the humiliation had removed any appetite I had previously had. I looked down at my tray and wished to be anywhere but right there at that time. I could not let anyone see the aching that failure had produced.

Chapter3

The Optometrist

After several years and a series of the same comments from all my teachers, my mother looked for an apparent solution. The problem, she thought, had to be an optical one. Military bases all have their own medical facilities, and these hospitals have optical departments. Many doctors will accept a six-year contract with the Navy in exchange for a full scholarship. Most Naval doctors were just there repaying their debt to the government and wanted to be in private practice; therefore, most had very little patience. My mother had made an appointment on a school day, which delighted me. She would pick me up right after recess.

“Ready to go?”

“I sure am!”

I was always ready to escape the prison that a schoolroom was. At this time, the school I attended was off base and was actually in the civilian community. We drove out to the base hospital.

“What are they going to do to me?” I asked.

“They’re going to give you a simple examination.”

“Will it hurt?”

I had always had a fear of needles and got queasy just walking into any medical facility. I even once had a root canal performed without Novocain to get around the needle.

“Mom, I’m sure this will take the whole day, so afterward, maybe we could grab some lunch; there probably won’t be enough time to return to school.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s only going to take about a half hour. Don’t worry; you’ll be able to finish the rest of the day.” 

Now my wheels were turning, I would somehow have to find a way of prolonging the appointment. 

“Good morning,” said a corpsman. “Who are you here to see?” 

“We have an appointment with Dr. Isler.”

The corpsman laughed. “Appointment?” he exclaimed. “This is the military; nobody has appointments.” 

“Okay, then, we are here to see Dr. Isler. Is he available?” my mother asked.

 “Down the hall, third door on the right.”

 We walked down the old hallway that had that smell of alcohol and sterilization. 

“Here it is, Mom.”

 “No,” she said, “that’s the third door on the left, he said right.”

 We opened the entrance and walked in, where there was an unshaven Navy doctor in a wrinkled examination coat. In his pocket was an odd-shaped tubular flashlight with a scoping device attached. It appeared to be removable, but I would look into that later. 

“Chart this man and send him back!” barked the disheveled officer. 

“Yes, Sir!” replied the corpsman as he turned to me. “Name, rank, unit, reason for being here, small-pox, large-pox, whooping cough, and most recent assignments.” 

“Hold on,” I said, “I’m just a kid!”

 The military had only one set of charts exclusively for their personnel (one size fits all), so these questions had nothing to do with a dependent.

 “Dr. Isler will see you now.”

 I walked into his office, which held a chair with equipment similar to binoculars attached to an arm that swiveled. He had a few charts on the wall and a picture on his desk of what I assumed was either his wife or his favorite dog. 

“Look forward at the chart and cover your left eye—you’re other left eye,” he said, as he glanced at me.

“A, E, B, C, L, P, O, T.”

“Next line.”

“E, A, B, L, P, T, O, N.”

“Next line.”

“O, C, B, L, D, A, P.” The doctor made a notation on his clipboard, “20–20. Now, cover your right eye.”

 Through the elimination process, I could comply with this command without comment. 

“Top line.”

“B, ah, C, ah, looks like ah an L.”