No Ordinary Joes (45 page)

In 1980, Gordy and Janice left Portland and moved to central Oregon, and two years later they purchased the ten acres and prefab home near Culver. When they first moved in, there was no plumbing or electricity, but Gordy’s handyman skills helped build them a comfortable home. They were, however, $91,031.18 in debt, the big majority of it owed on the house. Within ten years, though, they paid off their loan and became debt-free, owning their land and house outright. In 1991, Gordy retired and started collecting Social Security, which supplemented his VA compensation. Janice retired in 1997.

Ron’s move to the Bay Area did not solve his problems. He spent a couple of years in prison on a drug charge, and then was busted again on charges of fixing cars with stolen parts. As badly as Ron’s life had gone,
Sharon’s was a success story. She was still married to the man she eloped with at sixteen. They had raised a family and made good money running a storage-tank business in Klamath Falls, Oregon, with nice cars, boats, and a big house to show for it.

Then, in October 1991, Gordy got a call from Ron’s ex-girlfriend saying that Ron was in a hospital and close to death. When Gordy got to the hospital, he learned that Ron was infected with HIV. According to Ron, he had gotten infected from a shared needle.

Gordy stood next to his son’s bed, holding his hand; he felt Ron squeeze back. Gordy felt it was as if Ron was letting his father know that everything would be okay.

Ron died later that day. Gordy had him cremated and then brought his ashes back to Portland, where he buried him in the cemetery next to Jeanne.

Gordy and Janice had made the trip back to the Portland VA Medical Center again for another series of tests. Vets filled the waiting room; every seat was taken by men waiting to be called for their appointments. There were canes, walkers, wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks, but no smiles. One man was so fat that he couldn’t button his pants, leaving his belly exposed. Most of the men looked like they had served in Vietnam, maybe a few from Korea. In the cancer ward, where as an inpatient Gordy shared a room with a Vietnam vet, he was the only World War II vet.

The tumor in his chest had continued to grow, but the doctors had decided not to operate. They said that Gordy’s lungs weren’t in good enough shape. But it was now over two years since he’d been diagnosed, already doubling the doctor’s prognosis for survival, and Gordy was nowhere close to throwing in the towel.

He stepped outside to a courtyard to smoke. Leaning against his walker, he looked frail and sickly, but he’d clearly lost little of the orneriness that had served him well during his hardscrabble life. Over the past few months, he had poured his energy into writing a detailed account of his life in longhand. Janice entered the text on a computer and assembled
the pages—including photos, maps, and statistics on American prisoners of war—in an 8×10 spiral-bound notebook with a powder blue cover. The narrative began with an apology: “Knowing that flunking English in school does not qualify for great writing, I’ll proceed.” On the final page was a drawing of a pelican with a squirming frog hanging out of its mouth. The caption read: “It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.”

Gordon Cox was that squirming frog. Toward the end of his account of his life, he wrote this: “It irritates me when I hear someone from Viet Nam complaining today that they had no parade when they came home like the World War II vets did. There were no parades for most of the soldiers and sailors that fought that war. The celebrations were over by the time we got home.

“How long did it take to get over the effects of prison camp? My answer is that you never get over it. You just live with it. Any man who served in a war on the front lines, where men are killed, shelled, blown to bits, whether he is doing the shelling or the dying, will never get over it. These things change a person. You just live with it in your changed condition.

“My injury is a constant reminder of what happened and where. I got it on the
Asama Maru
in 1943, and it still plagues me six decades later. As the body gets older, these old injuries make their presence known.

“I have always believed that the government should have done more for the returning soldiers, sailors, and other fighting men. It spends a fortune to make them into killers, and then when they returned, they were just turned loose on society. I guess what gripes me is how our government tried to sneak out from under its responsibility to returning vets, and especially the POWs.

“We as POWS had in our mind that once we got out of prison camp, everything would be all right. All our ills would clear up. The doctors had to know that wasn’t so.”

A
lthough he was physically absent from the last two
Grenadier
reunions, there was no shortage of conversation and speculation about Tim McCoy. Over the years, he had taken on an almost mythical status with his old crewmates. One story had it that he got court-martialed for punching another sailor through a portal. Another one said he’d given away over a million bucks to his church.

It was hard to know what to believe.

Like many of his crewmates immediately after the war, Tim felt uncertain about what to do next. He’d dropped out of high school, and because the war had broken out shortly after he enlisted, he had never really had the time to learn a trade. So he reenlisted. Until he retired in 1965, he spent his entire Navy career assigned to some form of submarine-related duty, including submarine rescue vessels, submarine tenders, and submarine support activities of the Pacific Fleet. By the time he left the service, he had reached the grade of second lieutenant.

Tim had first thought about an insurance career as a teenager in Dallas; he had even moonlighted selling fire and casualty insurance in Chula Vista during his last couple of years in the service. After his retirement from the Navy in 1965, he moved to Austin, Texas, and became the director of the military division for National Western Life Insurance before being promoted to director of all its marketing divisions.

Tim’s financial star started to skyrocket in 1973 when he founded NEAT (National Employees Assurance Trust), a niche insurance company specializing in policies for seniors, specifically to cover burial costs, cancer care, Medicare supplement, and supplemental support for current and retired military personnel. Although he turned the running of the company over to his son Tim Jr. when he retired in 1999, he continued to serve as chairman of the board and showed up at the office every morning at seven thirty.

In the entryway at NEAT Management Group in Austin hangs a ten-foot-high painting of Tim McCoy, the old-time cowboy movie star; it’s impossible to miss. Tim, now in his early eighties, pointed to the painting with a self-satisfied grin. “Tim McCoy, larger than life,” he said with a big ol’ Texas accent. “That’s me.”

In his ready-for-inspection office, the phone rang. It was his wife, Jean. He spoke to her briefly, then stood up and excused himself.

“She has an appointment at the beauty parlor today and it’s my job to get her there,” he said, smiling, pleased with his assignment. “I’m a honey-do husband.”

He met Jean in San Diego in December 1945, three months after returning from the war and after Valma had returned his engagement ring and money for the trip to America. He had moped around for a couple of weeks after he received her letter, but quickly decided to move on. Like so many returning vets, he was drinking pretty hard and searching for love. He and Jean were set up (their parents knew each other in Texas), and for their first date Tim took her ice skating, figuring he could impress her with his slick moves on the ice. For him it was pretty much love at first sight—Jean had light brown hair, a great smile, and a nice figure. In his eyes, she was the marrying kind. But there was a problem: she was only fourteen years old.

Patience was never Tim’s strength, but he and Jean did wait a year and married on December 27, 1946. She was fifteen; he was twenty-two. A year later they had a son, Chuck. Five years later, they had another son, Tim Jr.

Tim spent most of his Navy career on shore duty, a majority of it stationed at Pearl Harbor. Jean was the quintessential Navy wife, staying home to raise the boys and support her husband, while Tim gained notoriety for his athletic skills, hot temper, and drinking.

On the base football team, he played defensive back, earning a reputation as one of the most hard-nosed players in a league that included many former college stars. He took up handball and within a couple of years won the Pacific region all-service championship. He traveled to Washington, D.C., to take part in the Navy’s deep-sea-diving training and soon became known as one of the best divers around Hawaii. To keep fit, he regularly went on ten- and fifteen-mile runs, long before the jogging craze struck. To help earn extra cash, he worked at an ice-skating rink, and was never shy about demonstrating his fancy spins and jumps. When Chuck reached Little League age, Tim took on coaching duties, and in 1960 he led the Pearl Harbor team all the way to the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. They didn’t win the championship, but it wasn’t because they hadn’t been drilled in the fundamentals.

Tim put as much energy into boozing as he had into outmaneuvering the guards in prison camp. He often overindulged, either blacking out or staying out all night. The carousing took a toll on his family. On several occasions, Jean warned him that if he didn’t quit she was leaving. He’d be contrite and promise never to do it again, but then he would.

With his sons, he was a demanding, gruff, no-nonsense, intimidating disciplinarian. He wouldn’t tolerate lying and maintained strict rules. If the boys didn’t come home by the assigned time, day or night, there was a good chance they were going to get their butts beat with a belt. From their mom they heard a lot of “Wait until your dad gets home.”

But the one thing the boys always knew was that he loved them. He could be fiery mad one day but over it a day later. They came to understand that it was just the way he was—passionate about everything he undertook. When he was coaching Little League, Tim was famous for getting the team pumped up with his motivational pep talks. He could be tough on his players, especially Chuck, who was an excellent shortstop and catcher. But
he would also give him or the other players a hug when he thought they needed it. He wasn’t afraid to tell his sons he loved them. On long drives, he often reached into the backseat and affectionately tugged on their legs.

He required that they go to church every Sunday and take part in family prayer. He also demanded a strong work ethic. He’d worked hard as a boy, learning the value of a nickel, and he was determined they would too. He didn’t give them an allowance, and by the time they were teens they were expected to earn their own money, whether it was by mowing lawns or by flipping burgers. If they went out on dates, they were expected to use their own money to pay for the evening and behave like perfect gentlemen.

Tim frequently lectured them; the subject might be money, or manners, or morals, the talks often taking the form of mini-sermons. There could be no back talk. He demanded respect, something he’d learned from this father and in the military. He was the commanding officer of the house, and his orders were not to be questioned.

After an afternoon visiting the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas, Tim eased his big new Cadillac onto Highway 290 and headed east toward Austin and home. He swerved to miss an oncoming car that he hadn’t seen.

“No fear,” he offered. “We’re as safe as if we’re in the hands of Jesus.”

Located on a six-acre site in the heart of the Texas Hill Country, the museum is “dedicated to perpetuating the memories of the Pacific Theater of World War II in order that the sacrifices of those who contributed to our victory may never be forgotten.” Tim had come to the museum to tour its many exhibits, but he was even more interested in seeing his new plaque embedded on a wall next to the Veterans Walk of Honor. Donated by his family, it included a picture of him in his dress whites and commemorated his Purple Heart, Silver Star, and service on the USS
Trout
and
Grenadier
.

The visit had put him in a reflective mood. “I’m a better man for having been a POW,” he claimed. “It taught me so much about myself, primarily that I possessed the inner strength to survive real adversity. When I lost my oldest son, I think I was able to call on that same inner strength.

“I’m sure some of my crewmates thought I didn’t always do the smartest thing in camp. But I was not going to cut the guards any slack. I was not going to be intimidated by them, nor was I going to let them break my will. If anyone was going to return from a Japanese prison camp, it would be me.”

Unlike many of his fellow survivors, he said he held no grudge against the Japanese. “At the time I kept thinking that if this was another time and place I’d kick your ass,” he continued. “But at some point after the war, I made a decision. As much hate and resentment as I’d built up against those people, I knew I had to do something or I would never get over it. I prayed a lot for guidance. Most of the Japanese were extremely cruel to me, but a few actually tried to help me, despite risking serious punishment by their superiors if they got caught. To some extent they were victims, too.

“When I was going to deep-sea-diving school I met a Japanese man who was a little younger than me. I asked him what he remembered most about the war and he told me that on his fourteenth birthday in 1944 his mom gave him a full bowl of rice. He hadn’t had a full bowl in over a month. That was his most vivid memory of the war. That drove home the fact that they had also truly suffered. When I left prison camp and headed for Tokyo, I saw the damage our bombs had inflicted. Total devastation.

“I came to realize that we’re all prisoners in one way or another. We might be trapped by cancer, or financial hardship, or a bad relationship. I knew that to forgive would be to set the prisoner in me free, and that all the hate I had for those people—and trust me, nobody hated them more than I did—could only keep me a prisoner of my own thoughts. So I forgave them. I could do it because I was a Christian. I simply forgave them and put it all behind me as best I could and got on with my life.”