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saved me from the brig ©
slumber. He interviewed me as he took
copious notes, including the name,
“Bunker Hill.” He departed as quickly as
he had appeared. He recited “my” story to
civilian press people at a briefing later that
morning over hot breakfast and fresh coffee
in the Seoul press billets.
(Aside: Civilian correspondents putting
their by-lines over information obtained by
front-line, anonymous military reporters
was S-O-P. It was a shrewd arrangement
applied by the Eighth Army to minimize
civilian traffic into combat areas. A bar
and dining room in the press billets helped
it work. I became aware of the practice
after moving into the billets in the spring of
’53.)
The most satisfying part of returning to
battalion from Bunker Hill was taking on
the challenge of saving two newborn,
motherless kittens another Marine brought
back. One survived—but that’s the “kicker”
of this yarn.
Forward to Yokosuka Naval Base. It’s
October. I’m waiting for orders to go to
Tokyo as the token Marine at Pacific Stars
and Stripes. Smitty, a buddy since Parris
Island boot days, now the communications
NCO, strode up as I stood in chow line and
Following presentation of the
first prize color award in
Photography Magazine’s 1952
international contest in New
York, publisher Bernard Davis
(center) presents a color print
of the photograph to Marine
Corps Commandant General
Lemuel C. Shepherd, Jr., in his
Washington headquarters. The
award recipient, Sgt. Frank
Praytor, participated in the presentation
to General Shepherd.
“Oh, yeah,” he snarled. “You’re that guy who won that photo
first prize.”
“Yes, sir,’ I answered, tactically employing the unobligated
“sir” to show respect he deserved as distinctly my elder.
“Well,” he countered, “you can be glad you didn’t win second
prize. Major (whatever his name was) downstairs drew up
court martial papers on you! The Commandant tore ‘em up!”
declared:
“Praytor! You lucky sonavagun! You
just got a speed letter from the
Commandant (General Lemuel C.
Shepherd, Jr.) ordering you to New York
City! You won some kind of photography
contest!”
It took me a minute to figure out what
he was referring to. Then it hit me.
Next day, I was about to leave headquarters
building with my freshly cut
orders and almost collided with an officer
coming inside. We recognized each other.
“Guess what, sir,” I chirped. “Do you
remember that camera we discussed in
your tent?”
“Yes, I remember,” he answered, quite
civilly.
“A photo I took with it has won first
prize in Photography Magazine’s contest,
sir. They’re sending me to New York
City!”
“Izzatso?” he responded. “That’s nice.”
He continued on his way.
I flew MATS to San Francisco. The
magazine paid my airfare to New York.
In the offices of Photography
Magazine, I was surprised and pleased to
be introduced to my photographic subject,
Cpl. Tony Pirelli. He referred to himself as
my “reluctant model” and we quickly
became friends. He was fresh out of the
Naval Hospital in Bethesda and had been
at his parents’ home in Asbury Park, NJ.
We spent a week being treated royally
and receiving, each, a large mounted print
of the color photo during a ceremony in
Grand Central. I was impressed by the
investigative work of people in the Corps’
P.R. function who had identified Tony by
tracing him to the May daylight raid and
delivering him to the magazine.
Together we made the media rounds
with Photography’s P.R. guy, including television
interviews with a local celebrity
comedian named Ernie Kovacs and TV
personality Jinx Falkenberg and with several
talk-show hosts at local radio stations.
Both Tony and I had difficulty focusing on
the Kovacs interview because of a stunningly
beautiful blonde observing us from
off-camera. She was Edie Adams, later to
play “Daisy Mae” in the Broadway hit
musical, “Li’l Abner,” and to marry
Kovacs.
After the last hurrah, Tony and I left for
our respective homes. I had a 30-day leave
coming before I was to report to Marine
Corps headquarters in D.C.
Forward to the Commandant’s offices
in Washington DC. Stepping up to the desk
of a chisel-faced master sergeant whose
dour expression made Jim Galloway’s
seem angelic, I reported “as ordered.”
“Oh, yeah,” he snarled. “You’re that
guy who won that photo first prize.”
“Yes, sir,’ I answered, tactically
employing the unobligated “sir” to show
respect he deserved as distinctly my elder.
“Well,” he countered, “you can be glad
you didn’t win second prize. Major (whatever
his name was) downstairs drew up
court martial papers on you! The
Commandant tore ‘em up!”
He set me up for a dressing down by
General Shepherd. Instead, I was greeted
cordially and reintroduced to the publisher
of Photography Magazine, Mr. Bernie
Davis. We exchanged pleasantries and
posed for a photographer as Bernie pre-
Continued on page 65
31
The Graybeards
May – June 2009