SENIOR DITCH DAY, February 1948, REWOUND

Palm Springs Hospital, California
February 29, 1948
8:45 pm

"Ah, yes, is this Mrs. Meggs?"
"Yes."
"Ah, Ma'am, this is Officer Jonesmore, Palm Springs Police Department. I'm sorry to call you this late in the evening, but we have a juvenile male, by the name of Brown, here at the Palm Springs Hospital, who claims to be your son."
"Yes, he is. Is he injured?"
"Ah, no. He is here with three other underage males, one of whom is seriously cut. Brown is driving a jeep registered to you. Are you aware he is in Palm Springs, and does he have your permission to be driving this vehicle?"
"Yes!"
*

Black Foxe Military Institute, Loa Angeles
February, 1948

The Pack Rats

The Seniors of the Class of 1948 were an odd bunch, as different from each other as night and day, as yin and yang, as Bruins and Trojans. Back then the interests of the class members were very widespread with the exception of our interest in the ladies, which was rather focused.

Senior Ditch Day was set on someone's calendar, certainly not mine. The first I heard about it was when a secret notice was circulated among the Seniors. The notice announced a meeting to decide what, where and if we wanted to have a group destination. Knowing a meeting of that type was like going to a Mexican Hat Dance, I declined participating. The majority opinion would rule. Besides, among the various cliques in the class, my little clan would have had little voice. We all had similar interests, but none of the others in the class shared ours. Regardless of where the class as a whole decided to go, our group's participation would be limited. We were independent cusses.

Our group was essentially leaderless, but we all liked the out-of-doors, you know, hunting and fishing. Brown Meggs had a jeep, the only wheels in the group, so I guess that made him our ipsofacto leader on this day. While our little assemblage on other outings included members of the Class of 1949, only Seniors were invited to this "dance." Our little band of Ditch Day participants included, other than Meggs, Dick ("Rick") Cole and me, Bob Robinson. Bob May and Frank Madia weren't able to attend the outing, leaving one extra seat in the jeep. Joe Wolpert, not a regular in our pack, accepted our invitation to fill out our foursome.

The class as a whole chose Palm Springs as the group goal. Why, I still have no idea. Perhaps some of the more moneyed parents of one or more of the Seniors had a party-house there. If so, we were unaware and uninvited, but to us this mattered little. We would go to camp and hunt. No, not girls! We were planning to shoot varmints. We did this frequently, but not previously in Palm Springs.

*

Near Palm Springs, California
February 27-29, 1948

The four of us were squashed into the jeep with enough camping equipment to last a week, sleeping bags, ground cloths, food and more. More included at least four rifles and enough .22-cal ammunition to oust Col. Qadafi from Libya. Yes, we went more to shoot than to hunt. I'm not sure we'd ever endangered a varmint in four years of "hunting".

Palm Springs was smaller back then, much smaller. We drove through it in a flash, not much there to interest or excite us. We probably ended up on the Indian land west of Palm Springs, but we didn't know. There were no signs announcing the reservation. Empty land is empty land. Shoot, there are probably homes or hotels built on the old camp spot now. Anyway, we pulled off the lonely road onto a sandy area and set up our simple camp. No tent. Palm Springs seemed a long way off.

We had heard some of the other groups were going to camp, also. Those of that mindset trickled in well into the night hours. Finally, the last car or two with BFMI stalwarts, intent on desert camping, pulled up. I might add that the sun was hanging low even when we arrived. Freeways weren't what they are today, and the trail from N. Wilcox Avenue to Palm Springs was slower. This was Thursday evening. We had departed from campus just as soon as we could after class, probably around 5:00 P.M.

Night-time temperatures hovered in the 30os F. I've camped many times, but this particular night and the next were was not ones of memorable quality. One of the late BFMI arrivals, Jim Doran I believe, stuck the rear wheels of his buggy in the sand. Meggs and jeep to the rescue! We needed a tow chain. A few miles back down the road we remembered seeing a Mom & Pop Service Station. (You surely remember what that was: A place where someone came out, checked your oil and tires, put gasoline in the tank, and cleaned your windshield for you. The leaded gas was around $.25/gallon. Dang! These oil companies were making a killing. Oil was about $3/barrel.) The station was closed. Never fear the Meggs' gang was here! We found a tow chain that had not been put away properly. Ah ha!

The sun was well set before we had extracted the sunken land cruiser. There seemed to be no sense hurrying back to the Service Station with the tow chain. There was no one there. Mañana!
At dawning's first light, the two or three BFMI cliques sharing the campsite, split. We saw none of them again that weekend but learned their most memorable adventure was on Sunday. A bunch of them went to the Salton Sea with Staff Advisor, Captain Riggs and wife, rented three small boats and spent the day trying to sink one another. I'll bet that super-salt water felt good in their eyes.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the first chore was to return the chain. At the service station, now open, the proprietor came out to greet us with a frown. We explained why we borrowed his chain, which we were returning unbruised. What a grump! You'd think we had borrowed his daughter. We dropped the chain in a heap, where we had found it, and departed. Friendly Palm Springs, humbug!

Returning again to the camp, we packed up the jeep and went scouting for a suitable shooting ground, which, of course, we soon found. The spot was along the base of the San Jacinto Mountains. Huge boulders from the steep slope above littered the area.
"Get the guns out; we've arrived."

We found scant varmints. So, what's new? We found ample beer bottles and cans skulking in the bushes and behind the boulders. Ammo was cheap in those days and we burned it up like there was no tomorrow. I won't say how much of it, but if the 7th Cavalry had half that much, General Yellow Hair would have died in bed with his boots off, assuming he was a gentleman.

Our shooting aroused no interest from the local Indians or Sheriffs. I'm constantly amazed at what we used to do in those days with no interference from governmental agencies, local or federal.

Somewhere among the rocks late Sunday afternoon, we lost Dick. (The fearless "Rick" had not gotten the "Rotten Rick" moniker yet.) Dick climbed aboard another large boulder and leaped to the next one. His jump was awe inspiring. Too bad he didn't quite make it. He plunged toward terra firma, his right hand out to break his fall. He swept past a sharp granite outcrop or the sharp sights of his rifle. Zip, a deep, four-inch slash across his palm.
"Oh God! Dick, let's see the wound!" The party was over."

He unclenched his hand. I kid you not, we could see tendons. We unloaded the chambers, helped Dick to the jeep, hid the fire irons from curious eyes and headed for Palm Springs. Meggs turned on the headlights. The sun was setting.

We drove around looking for the hospital but couldn't find it. Finally, we asked directions. At the ER the Receptionist wanted answers. She didn't like ours. The police officer said that the wound looked like a knife cut.
"No way! He just fell down. You don't know Dick!"

We didn't look like gang bangers, if that was what they called them in those days.
Maybe that is why our inquisitors finally gave up that line of questions and started another.
"How are you going to pay for this?" Good question. "And does yo Mama know where you are with that jeep, if it's really yours." At that moment we had enough cash, by pooling our funds to pay, but we didn't know until later how much it was costing us. Meggs thought his car insurance might cover wounds to luckless passengers.

Now, Meggs' mother was a really cool number. To hear that her son and his three friends were at a hospital in Palm Springs, involved in a possible knife fight and possibly a stolen jeep, did not faze her.

*

Palm Springs, California
February 29, 1948
8:55 pm

The officer was still having trouble generating any anxiety in Mrs. Meggs or finding us guilty of lying from her answers to his questions.
"Well, yes, ahhh, but whose going to pay for the emergency treatment for the boy with the slashed hand?" He was about to give up.
"I am," she answered.
"Don't you want you talk to your son any more?" he asked.
"No, he knows what to do. I trust him. Do you have any more questions for me? If not, good night, Officer."

Now, that's cool!

Actually, Meggs and Dick argued heatedly over who was going to pay the 14 bucks for the stitches and iodine. Dick still argues over whose money was put forth. Meggs, understandably, doesn't have much to say about it.

Senior Ditch Day, 1948, was over for the four of us.

"THE CULPRITS"

MEGGS ('48)

ROBINSON ('48)

WOLPERT ('48)

COLE ('48)

*
The Pack Rats, Today

"Rick" Cole and I, Bob Robinson, still lumber along to this day.
Brown Meggs passed to his reward a few years ago.
Joe Wolpert, a retired dentist, resides in Santa Monica.
Bob May, did well in the oil business and splits his retirement between Catalina and Wyoming.
Frank Madia was last heard as a student at USC Dental School, a long time ago. Since then he has fallen off the radar screen completely. If anyone knows anything about him, please let old Rick know.

Note: Some excerpts in this tome were borrowed from the pen of Colby Ross, Jr. as printed in the KAYDET, March 3, 1948. Colby was the Editor-In-Chief at the time.

ATTENTION BFMI CADETS!

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Pat O’Donnell, Class of ’49

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