A Man Among Men Has Left Us

 

I haven't made any blog posts for quite a while, I know. To be honest, I think I'd just lost my passion for writing.

Until today.

It took some terrible, terrible news to get me in front of my laptop in order to tell you about Joe.

I first met Joe Wendling in August of 1984, during my first few months at Mansfield PD. He was one of four Wendling brothers to serve the citizens of our city while wearing a badge. One brother, Jim, had already retired from the department before I started, having been shot in the line of duty during a very short gun battle. Jim killed his assailant during the encounter, but suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen which ended his career. I've yet to have the pleasure of meeting him. John, Joe and Jan were still working, though and, through the coming years, I'd get to know each on a personal level, at one point serving on night shift under Joe's command. Great, great policemen, all of them highly-decorated by the city and veterans of the United States Marine Corps.

All four brothers saw combat in Vietnam. A lot of it.

There are many memories I could recount involving the brothers and the police department; some comical and others tragic. It was when I interviewed Joe for a story about his service in the Marines, years after we'd both put down the badge, that I gained a totally different insight and level of respect for this man. Not that I didn't respect him before but I was to learn just how decent, honorable and...well, heroic... he was over the three hours we spoke.

It was a late autumn afternoon when I rang the bell on Joe and Candy's house, a spacious, two-story stone and brick affair in a quiet suburb southwest of the city, the lawn meticulously trimmed to perfection. Joe, his usual affable self, invited me in. We sat at his dining room table, looking through photographs from that time so long ago when the young Marine was nineteen or 20, dropped into the middle of green, stiflingly hot jungle to defeat Communist insurgency.

Joe wanted to tell me about Operation Union 2 but he couldn't; this man, who I'd witnessed arrest hardened criminals, was lost for words, tears welling and voice strained by the memory. Instead, he handed me his Bronze Star with valor device citation summary, which recounted his actions when his company came under fire as soon as the transport helicopters landed.

Entrenched Communist troops. hidden in thick vegetation at the edge of the LZ, opened up with machine gun, mortar and recoilless rifle fire on the exposed Marines, killing or wounding many of them. Joe, who'd been returning fire with the M-60 machine gun he carried, ran 100 meters into the clearing and dragged/carried four wounded men to safety before collapsing due to heat exhaustion.

The corpsman attached to his company thought he was dead.

"My brother came to inside a body bag" his brother Jan had told me after the story had been printed. I cannot comprehend the horror Joe must have felt; I fully understand why he hadn't spoke of it.

Joe served two tours in Vietnam, his interview giving me more than space would permit in the newspaper. I had a word count, you see, and his story was very tough to cut down in order to meet that count.

After retiring in 2009, I asked Joe why he hadn't every applied for the Chief's job; he would have been perfect for it. "I don't want the headache of dealing with all the politics involved", he'd told me, which I should have expected. Joe would have always put his street coppers first because he was a true leader.

At the end of the interview Joe thanked me for listening. This man, this true American hero, showed his gratitude by giving me a chromed bayonet. I was at a loss for words and didn't want to accept the gift, but he insisted. "It meant a lot to have someone listen."

Joe Wendling, retired Lieutenant of the Mansfield Police Department and also retired Lt. Colonel from the Ohio Air National Guard, died this morning...

...and I will grieve and miss him greatly.

God rest your soul, Joe; you earned it.

Joe Wendling, 2017

                                                        Shouldering his M-60 in Vietnam

New Posts Coming Soon

 

It's been a while since the last post, I know; I've been out of state tending to Mom but will have a couple of new stories very soon.

Iwo Jima, Tasers And A Dirty Cop

 Being a student of history, particularly from WW II, I've developed an immense respect for those who fought and sacrificed in that war, a war that was fought on two fronts against three enemies: Germany and, to a lesser extent, Italy in Europe and the Japanese in the Pacific theater.

When I was writing the veterans stories for our local newspaper, my favorite subjects to interview were the veterans from the Second World War. That generation of men...they were just a different breed from a bygone age. They are and were, truly, America's Greatest Generation.

I mention that in order to tell this story.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of seventeen years ago I was working night shift with my pal Troy Weaver, who's now a captain at Lexington PD, and another guy I'll refer to as Goof, a man that should never have worn a badge.

Goof was probably 6 foot two and, in his mind, handsome. Arrogant doesn't begin to describe his attitude, coupled with a distinct lack of respect for those who commanded him. Here was a man who'd never, in his ten-plus years on the job, done anything he could hang his hat on. Goof would do the bare minimum in order to get by on the job.

This night, dispatch got a couple of calls from a local nursing home about a resident who was highly agitated and armed with a club and a large shard of glass, threatening staff. 

The man had also recently had open-heart surgery.

The three of us arrived at about the same time, rushing inside. The nursing supervisor, obviously distressed, led us down a hallway until it terminated at a crossing hall. To the right, in a dead-end area that served as a waiting room, stood our subject, totally naked and bleeding from his recently acquired surgical scar, which ran from just below his throat to his belly. In one bleeding hand he held the piece of long, jagged glass; in the other a table leg, which still had the metal triangular fitting which had attached it to the bottom of said table.

He was somewhere around eighty or 85 years old.

"He had bypass surgery two weeks ago", exclaimed the supervisor, who was now huddled behind a large desk with a few other nurses. "He wants to see his wife."

Hearing those words, the man said, "You're damned right I wanna see my wife, now call her up and get her down here!" He then turned to us and semi-crouched, as if ready to attack. "I ain't afraid of no cops! I fought the Japs on Iwo Jima!"

The agitated man was a World War Two veteran and, if he'd been on Iwo, definitely a Marine.

About a year or so before this incident we'd had Taser training, qualifying our officers to carry and use the electronic device. I had conducted the training, having attended a week-long instructor's class.

The device delivers 50,000 volts of short, very quick waves of electricity, and is designed to sort of 'short-circuit' the connection between nerves and muscles, temporarily incapacitating its target. In my experience, if delivered correctly, it is very effective; however, at that time there were three instances in which it was NOT to be used: on obviously pregnant females, on subjects who would be injured by falling from elevation and on heart patients.

Naturally, Goof draws down on the man with his Taser.

"DO NOT use that weapon!!" I screamed. "He's a heart patient!"

Goof didn't care, keeping the Taser trained on the man. I stepped into his line of fire. "PUT THAT THING AWAY!"

He did, wearing a sneer on his face.

"I WANT MY WIFE!", shouted the old Marine.

The nursing supervisor crept up behind us, wary of the elderly man who no doubt would do harm to anyone who approached him. "His wife's been dead for three years", she loud-whispered to us.

Troy and I had a quick discussion and came up with a plan: while one of us kept the man talking and at bay, the others would retrieve two hospital-bed mattresses. We'd use them to pin the cardiac patient to the wall and disarm him. Meanwhile, we had nursing supervisor call for a rescue squad, as the distraught veteran would need more medical care than the nursing home could provide.

Weaver and I rushed the man, who'd tried feebly to swing the table leg, the blow cushioned by the mattresses. Once he was pinned, we successfully disarmed him. The man started crying, calling out for his deceased wife.

He was transported to the hospital; that was the last I ever heard of him. 

Goof? Well, all I'll say is that he eventually resigned...after a search warrant had been served a few months later on a local drug trafficker and Goof's business card, with his home phone number written on the back, was found in the drug seller's coat pocket. It seems they'd had a cozy relationship, often riding their motorcycles together; we'd planned and pulled off the search warrant without Goof getting a whiff of it, otherwise, I'm certain Goof would have warned the mope. I probably should mention that, in addition to drugs shipped from overseas and cash, a .45 caliber Desert Eagle was seized from the doper.

Who knows what would have transpired had the trafficker been forewarned.

I sometimes think about that incident, knowing that the WW II Marine is probably gone from this earth by now, and wish I could have written about his military service. 

What a story he could have told.

 

Making A Difference Over 20 Years Later

 I'm home alone during the week, save for my usually snoring dog, Roscoe. He's a thirteen-year-old pit bull and also my best buddy in the world; I spend more time with Roskie than I do my bride, who is still among the working class.

It can get very quiet most days, especially in winter, when I can't get outside and tend to the flower beds or mow our little slice of heaven. I take great pride in our home and don't consider its upkeep as work. In winter, however, there's only so much to do as I await the arrival of spring. The quiet...well, that is an advantage I didn't see when I first retired, but I've come to savor the solitude.

A guy can watch only so much television, right?

The silence affords time to think, reflect and remember, to recall, mostly, the job. Sometimes I relive the hilariously funny episodes that occurred while wearing a badge from the fall of 1979 to early August of 2013; other times, its the moments that normal people never see or encounter, times that have drawn tears and reopened old wounds in the soul.

Sometimes, though, an encounter with someone from my time as a cop brings me sheer joy. Today was one of those times.

Stacy only works a half-day on Mondays and we've gotten into the routine of going out for lunch when she gets home. As she usually does, my wife called just after noon to let me know she was on the way, and asked if I'd be interested in eating in town; of course I would! I'm a big fan of food, you see.

Shaving while awaiting Stacy's arrival, I ran through the list of possible eateries we might visit and settled on one of our favorite locations, knowing she'd agree. We bustled out the door of Black Gold Homestead a mere five minutes after she got home. Arriving in town, I slid to a stop at a parking meter in front of The Mansfielder (not the restaurant's actual name), dropped a dime in the meter and walked inside with my redheaded angel.

I'm not going to describe the eatery in detail because I wouldn't want to reveal the identity of the person I'm about to tell you of; suffice it to say the place is nothing fancy and has been around for awhile, and the food is always good.

After being seated and reviewing the menu I looked around the place, sitting as I always do, facing the door. There were probably five people working in the place, but one in particular piqued my interest; I knew the woman from somewhere, but where? Even though she was wearing a surgical mask (is anyone else getting sick of seeing them?) I knew I'd come across her before sometime back when I was on the job.

Stacy and I ordered (the mystery gal wasn't our waitress) and I told my wife about the woman behind the mask, that I knew her from somewhere. Once our food arrived and we'd started eating, the cop part of my brain worked in the background, trying to remember...

Then it hit me. I'd arrested her for drug possession a little over two decades earlier. This story, however, has a bit of a twist to it.

Back on that day, as she sat in an interview room at the department, she was a little scared and apprehensive, as she should have been. It was her first arrest for drug possession. I knew her from another restaurant in town, one I'd visited a lifetime ago (read: back before I met and married my wife) on a semi-regular basis. I was surprised this woman (barely out of her teens back then) would be involved in drug use.

"Annie (not her real name), you know me; I can't tell you how shocked I am."

Tears started flowing down her face.

"How do you get from being a young, beautiful girl with your entire future in front of you to sitting in a police station in handcuffs?" I should mention here that Annie had dropped off the radar, leaving the restaurant where she'd worked about a year before this episode, and the ravages of dope use had taken a toll.

That began an extended conversation about the pressures of life as a single mother and succumbing to drug use. We talked about getting clean, of changing your environment, including who you hung out with, ways to make it in this world, of inner strength and considering the effects your actions will have on your family and children.

I took a lot of time with Annie because I knew she could be better. I knew she was worth it. I hoped my erstwhile counseling session took hold.

Now, all these years later, here's Annie again. As she passed by our table I stopped her.

"Excuse me, but do you know who I am?" The heavy, gray goatee and added age lines in my face, I was surprised by her reaction.

"I sure do! You're the policeman who saved me!", she said, pulling her face mask down to reveal a beaming smile. "That talk we had...I can't tell you how much it meant to me. I've been clean for almost twenty years now, I'm married to a great guy and have three kids, and...well...thank you."

Annie's eyes started to tear up; this old copper had a lump in his throat.

Not wanting to embarrass her (or myself), I changed the subject, introducing Annie to my wife; we chatted about Covid and the weather. Before she left our table, though, Annie remarked to Stacy, "He was one of the good ones."

By taking a few minutes out of the decades I wore the badge, I made a difference in just this one life. Maybe more, I'll never know, but seeing this former addict alive and flourishing...

It was worth it.

Covid...A Term I Never Want To Hear Again

 Several times across my sixty-four years on this earth I've gotten absolutely sick of an assortment of words and terms, most often because of their repetitiveness and over-saturation in society.

Disco comes to mind. Hillary. Star Wars. Global warming, which morphed into climate change. Hanging chads.

More recently? Social justice warrior, or SJW. Politically correct. 

Now comes Covid 19.

Turn on the television or radio and you're guaranteed to hear that word within 15 minutes. It dominates the news and social media, platforms in which everyone is an expert while simultaneously being astoundingly ignorant.

Mask up. Slow the spread. Flatten the curve. Lockdown.

My wife, especially since she's employed in the medical field, stringently followed Covid protocols...yet still came down with the virus. Thankfully a very mild version, as her only symptoms resembled a head cold.

She's fully recovered now and has been back to work for a week. Simultaneous with her infection, though, I was quarantined from participating in cardiac rehab until she got clearance to go back to work. 

I went back for exactly one day, Monday the 11th of January.

That evening the China virus decided to hit me.

Suspecting the worst, I went and got tested on Tuesday; Wednesday, the nurse practitioner called and advised that the test had returned as inconclusive and inquired if I would be so kind as to return to the testing site and have my nasal passages vigorously violated once again?

I did and this time there was no doubt....I have the virus. I don't really feel all that bad, though, suffering a low-grade fever off-and-on, its highest temp having been 99.7, but the headache has been the worst. I'm also occasionally coughing but not with any consistency. I notified my physician, Dr. Becker, who is setting me up with something called monoclonal infusion. No scientist am I, but it has something to do with introducing Covid antibodies into my system, which is supposed to keep symptoms minimal. President Trump underwent that treatment as part of protocol and he was back to work in four days.

We'll see.

Meanwhile, I'll keep downing Ibuprofen every few hours, watching TV and tending to the stove.

Geez, can't believe I still hate disco so much...