Saint Patrick's
Day Massacre
by Don Drewniak
Realizing the
importance of my senior year in high school and
given the close calls of the previous three years,
I vowed to steer clear of anything and everything
that might get me in trouble.
My grades,
though not spectacular, were decent until the
final marking period. Work at Schwartz Lumber and
Hardware continued to go smoothly. I stayed away
from trouble.
Decisions
always have consequences, some insignificant,
some life changing. It was the night before St.
Patrick’s Day. Having no homework, I went to
Sambo’s. As I pulled into a parking space, a
couple of Durfee High School guys came over to my
car.
“Some
guys are going to meet at the school tonight at
ten and have a little fun.”
I thought
about the bras-in-the-tree episode. During an
overnight attack, an unidentified group hung
upwards of two dozen bras high up in a tree in
front of one of the two Durfee High buildings.
This, of course, caused pandemonium the following
morning.
“What
kind of fun?”
“I’m
not sure.”
That didn’t
smell right, so I concocted an excuse for not
going. “I’ve got a paper to finish for
Carroll.”
Carroll was
Mildred Carroll, my English IV teacher. She was
the best of all my teachers of English, including
my college professors.
Thankfully, I
went home.
There was a
throng of students circling the old building as I
approached Durfee the next morning. I found a
place to park (not always easy) and made my way
through the crowd.
Stunned is a
mild descriptor of what I felt as I looked at the
granite section of the old building. Extending in
both directions were green painted drawings of
shamrocks, four-leaf clovers, pots ‘o gold,
and a few other symbols, as well as “witticisms”
such as “Erin go find your own bra.”
Most of the entire bottom of the building had
been defaced.
Thank
goodness I went home.
Little else
was talked about for days. The police were called
in to investigate. The rumor was that they worked
with a list of “prime suspects”
provided by the school administration and
gradually picked off the perpetrators until
dozens were implicated. Those involved were
expelled. Parents had to make restitution for the
sand blasting that was required to remove the
paint.
“How
could they have been so stupid?” was a
question I asked myself and my friends over and
over. I did not get an answer until six years
later.
Following four
years of college and two years of teaching public
school sixth graders, I was drafted into the
United States Army courtesy of Lyndon Baines
Johnson in September 1967. Along with dozens of
other potential pieces of human fodder for the
Vietnam War, I arrived in Columbia, South
Carolina for basic training after a 29-hour train
ride from Boston. This included a two hour stop
in Washington, DC. On the tracks directly to our
left was a train with open boxcars. Every boxcar
was carrying coffins draped in American flags.
We arrived at
Fort Jackson a few minutes before midnight. It
wasn’t until 3:00 AM that we were allowed to
“sleep.” A drill sergeant flanked by
two corporals rousted us out of our beds an hour
later. Among the pleasantries were a three mile
run and the shaving of our heads. Then came mess.
Tray of food
in hand, I walked into the seating area of the
mess hall and hunted for a seat amidst a sea of
bald heads. No sooner had I sat down when I
recognized a familiar face sitting directly in
front of me, Rubber Tyler. Not only had he been a
Durfee classmate, but he was also one of those
expelled for the St. Patrick’s Eve defacing.
He instantly
recognized me and swept his right arm in a semi-circle
as if to say, “Look at this insanity.”
We both broke into uncontrollable laughter that
was not only for the absurdity of our situation
brought about by the Vietnam War. It was also a
false laughter born of the fear of what was to
come.
Rubber Tyler (given
name Robert Tyler) “earned” the
nickname Rubber for supposedly leaving a 26-foot
strip of rubber on the street separating the two
Durfee High buildings
With respect
to his obtaining the Immortal ’48 Plymouth (see
note at the end of this story), a relative of his
owned a wrecker and was given the job of bringing
it to a junkyard. He asked Rubber to give him
help in righting the clunker. Instead of a
junkyard, it ended up in Rubber’s backyard.
Once the
laughter subsided, I asked him how he became
involved in the St. Patrick’s Eve debacle.
“Don, I
had no idea how many were going to be there, nor
did I know what they were going to do. If only
two or three had been there, I would have walked
away. But I was swept up into the crowd. It made
no difference to the cops if you sprayed the
building or not, if you were there, you were
guilty.”
He, along with
the others, were expelled. All was not lost. He
went on to get a GED, complete two years of
junior college, and worked at a good paying job
until he was caught in Johnson’s Vietnam web.
“What
happened to the old Plymouth?”
“It took
a lot of time and work, but I eventually sold it
for $99.00 ($1050 on January 1, 2025).”
“How did
you do that?”
Managed to tap
out most of the dents. Bought a rear bumper and
rear right fender from a junky in New Bedford.
Carl and Joe P helped me rebuild the engine.”
That was the
last time I saw Rubber as we were in separate
platoons.
The Immortal ’48
Plymouth
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