Life with Guitar Accompaniment
One thing about Bob, he was friendly
It was early spring in New England. The last of the winter snow was melting beneath a crystal clear sky that was quickly darkening in the cold Massachusetts twilight. The sidewalk between the white clapboard military barracks was dry. It had rarely been so since I arrived at Fort Devens in early January of that year – 1969. For several months snow and ice had been the order of the day. Despite the barren overhanging branches of the trees along the path that as of yet showed no sign of budding, I felt a hope of spring.
When I first arrived at Ft. Devens from Army basic training in California, I had been depressed and melancholy. The dreary winter days of gray skies and snow-covered earth seemed bleak and hopeless. Today I felt good. I had met several fine friends to be sure, but since most of them lived elsewhere on the post, evenings could be lonely during the week.
The barrack was dark as I approached the door. The porch light had not yet come on. It appeared that I had returned earlier than the rest – who may have already been here and out the door for a typical evening of liquid entertainment at the local EM (enlisted men's) club. But something was clearly different as I stepped into the tiny foyer and carefully shut the door. I heard beautiful guitar music coming from upstairs. Those old World War Two barracks had two floors with two rows of bunk beds – six on each side – and an identical floor plan upstairs. Although I knew everybody, I rarely had a reason to go upstairs. The downstairs was more favored, since the toilets, showers and sinks were there, and who wants to walk down a flight of stairs just to use the bathroom in the middle of the night?
Curious, I climbed up the dark stairs to the equally dark landing. No lights on at all, just the sweet sound of the guitar coming from somewhere in the back. Using what little ambient light remained, I followed the sound. I startled the guitar player, who was obviously a new resident. I complimented his playing and introduced myself. He did likewise – he was Bob Simpson - and he flipped on a light.
“Would you like me to play you something?,” he offered.
“How about Hey Jude ?” I suggested, hoping that wouldn't be too hard. It had been very popular for months at the time and everybody loved it. He played it flawlessly – and sang it word for word. I was amazed and impressed. I came to know in the following months and years just how good he really was. In fact, years later and continents away I joked that some day he would have to have that guitar case surgically removed from his hand, since in or out of uniform, I never saw him without it.
He had just transferred in that day and had not yet begun his training course. I was about half way through mine. He expressed his trepidation, and I did my best to assuage his fears. We didn't take long to discover that we were both born again Christians. I confessed that I was a new convert and he said that he had grown up in the Baptist church. His parents were missionaries in the Virgin Islands. I was really happy and excited. I had never met a real MK (missionary kid) before. He confessed that he had been really depressed since arriving at Ft. Devens, I shared my own story. Then I mentioned that I had met an Evangelical Christian group that met weekly for Bible study on Thursday nights at an off post Baptist church where we often went for Sunday services, as the military chapel fare was so blah. That Thursday night I brought Bob (guitar in hand) to the meeting. He knew right what to do. I realized then that those who have been raised in a church knew a lot more than I did at the time. He knew all the words to all the songs, and could play anything by heart. It is a gift. I always regretted that we did not have a chance to get to know each other well, and as spring had really sprung, and we were involved in our own struggles to get through our training courses. I graduated, and had orders for Viet Nam immediately, and was gone almost in the twinkle of an eye. I remembered Bob and the sweet guitar music the night we first met. Sometimes when I was out “in the field” in Viet Nam, I would sometimes think I could hear him playing At Calvary or Softly and Tenderly somewhere far away.
