It’s not difficult to imagine my confusion when Bill Mays, 92, told me he was a Marine captain of a rifle platoon and followed up saying, “I still have my bamboo pole hanging in my garage.”
I couldn’t make the connection while sitting with Mays at a Spokane, Wash., Starbucks along with a small group of vets called the Gentlemen’s Coffee Club. While the rest of the guys shared service stories and talked about the Super Bowl and the government shutdown, Mays told me his prowess as a pole-vaulter in high school earned him a scholarship to the University of Southern California. He was coached by Dean Cromwell, who was nicknamed “Maker of Champions.” He was later in the Marines and told me he was supposed to fight in Korea, but when they found out he could pole-vault, they kept him in Camp Pendleton as a member of the track team.
“So I didn’t go to war. I was lucky. Spent my time in the Corps pole-vaulting,” he said. His coffee cup did not hide his grin as he took a sip, and although he sat among this group of veterans, his thoughts seemed off at some old track meet, soaring through the air.
“What did you study in college?” I asked.
“Music composition.” His fingers drummed the table purposefully. “Piano. People said, ‘How’s that gonna help you?’ But I loved it. I’ve made so many friends through music.”
I wanted to ask if he could still play, but he’s 92, and if he could no longer play, I was afraid my question might bother him. He didn’t wait for me to ask. He said, “Once you learn to play piano, you always know. The fingers keep going. I have a 95-year-old Steinway concert grand in my living room. I play it all the time.”
He told me other stories about his life. He appeared in the 1950 film, “Born Yesterday.” He received what was a lot of money then — $500 — just for coming down a flight of stairs, bumping into Broderick Crawford and saying, “Pardon me, sir!” I told him I’d bump into people for less and we both laughed.
He spoke fondly of his years as an elementary school teacher and junior high school principal. “I’m 92. All my students are grown up, have kids or grandkids now. I still remember them. Of course, some of them aren’t around.”
Then he told me again he had the bamboo pole from his time in the Marines hanging in his garage. That was not the only aspect of his long life and service story that he repeated. But I listened patiently. I was amazed. I wanted to see that bamboo pole that had kept him out of the war in Korea and probably saved his life, one of those long-shot miracles that seem to happen in the military more than in ordinary life, the pole that might very well have made it possible for the man to be in that coffee shop talking to me.
“You say you don’t like sports.” Mays marked positions on the table with his fingers. “But infantry tactics are a lot like football.” As a combat engineer, I was drilled in these tactics, and I was pleased to join the discussion. At 40, I was 52 years the man’s junior. But we still enjoyed a connection through the coffee club and our military time.
“I was very very lucky,” Mays said later, reflecting on his service and long life. And so was I, for the privilege of hearing his story.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa Army National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a year’s tour of duty in Afghanistan.
