Creative Nonfiction

          Chapter 1
                  Hello! You Are Married? 

     A voice rang across the town square of Tangiers.
                            Hello! You are married? Hello!

A shoeshine boy darted through the crowd and ran up  to Kevin and me. He set down his work box and beamed up at us, his face open and happy as he exclaimed again, “You  are married!” I felt like a celebrity bride being announced by  the town herald. I was even wearing a white coat.  

I was used to Kevin having a lot of friends, but I was  astonished to see a local in Tangiers light up to see him.  We had just arrived after our wedding the week before in  nearby Gibraltar. “He shined my shoes when I was on my  way to meet you,” Kevin explained. A pleasant snapshot  formed of my good-natured bridegroom chatting while getting his dress shoes polished and buffed, telling this boy  that he was on his way to get married. 

Later I would learn that most servicemen wore sneakers  to town to avoid the overzealous attention of the shoeshine kids. But on my first day in Morocco, this was flattering and  reassuring. The sun was shining, the shoeshine boy loved us,  and a tall Moroccan in a long white robe circulated like a  pleasant host offering pastries stacked in an artful pyramid  on a brass tray. For an extra touch of drama, the tray was atop  his head. He swooped it down to display maamoul cookies  for a dirham coin—sweet dromedary dates chopped into a  paste, encased in a golden crust, and coated with a snowfall  of powdered sugar. 

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                    Chapter  4

                      The Telltale Sheets  

    My red kitchen curtains turned out to be a fitting  symbol for our building, as we soon realized that two of our  neighbors were prostitutes. They were nice young women.  Amina, in the apartment next door, had two dark-haired,  sparkly children, a son and daughter six- and eight-years old. Their chatter was a pleasant background during the  day, but they stayed elsewhere at night.  

   Downstairs, a blond woman was frequently at the  clothesline in the morning hanging sheets that were distinctive colors of jewel-toned blue and jade green. On my  first shopping trip to the base Exchange, I learned that lin ens were limited. There were two choices for sheets: jew el-toned blue and jade green. Judging from the clothesline, the sailors kept their ladies well supplied.  When Kevin had night watches and I was home alone,  late night footsteps and male voices on the walkway out side our door were reassuring rather than frightening. I  knew they were American, which meant an ally and pro tector. Later we learned that our apartment building was  on the official list of places off limits to U.S. military personnel. Ah, well, the things I didn’t tell my mother.

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            Chapter  6

                Flags and Play and War

Beneath sunny surfaces was a recognition that there was a war going on in Vietnam…  

          For me, new experiences in Morocco were discoveries or adventures. For Kevin and his friends, everything  was a consequence of the onerous draft for the Vietnam  War that obliged them to be in military service. It was a  war most Americans opposed, and our young men were  giving their lives to it. Though we were distanced physically in Morocco, the war was a relentless backdrop. Every  sailor I knew counted time until his tour of duty was up  and he could go home. There was a refrain you heard from each one, stronger as his time to ship out neared. I  can hear a typical chant,  

                 2 months  

                 3 weeks  

                   5 days  

                and a wake up. 

I was a step removed and could enjoy Morocco at a  level the sailors could not. Without their military obligations, I could focus on our broader surroundings to better appreciate the culture, beaches, countryside.  

  Kevin enlisted in the Navy in 1966. Two years earlier, the Federal government started a draft to provide troops for  the escalating Vietnam War. Every young man in America  was required to register with his local draft board when he  turned 18. Each was issued a draft card and serial number.  Then separate “lottery numbers” were randomly assigned by  birth date, running to 366. Every man from that time knows  his number. Kevin was 167, low enough to be reached.  

   The country was fractured over the war. There were demonstrations in opposition, public burning of draft cards,  and the decision of President Lyndon Johnson not to run  for re-election. Americans became outraged with the war’s  high casualties and disillusioned with its stated goal of stopping a domino effect of Communism spreading in Asia. The  year of Kevin’s enlistment, the number drafted was highest,  reaching almost four hundred thousand.  

     Kevin’s “Letter from the President,” as the guys called  them, arrived when his student deferment ended after he graduated from Hudson Valley Community College. His draft notice was issued by the local draft board in Albany, delivered to his home by his regular mailman, and read,  “Greetings: You are hereby ordered to present yourself for  the Armed Forces Physical ….”  

...Beneath sunny surfaces [on base in Morocco] was a constant awareness that there was a war going on in Vietnam, that young  men were dying every day, and that servicemen on our  base were sometimes awakened in the middle of the night  and given transfer orders to leave immediately for another  station. Medical corpsmen stationed in Kenitra were completing training before shipping out to hospital, helicopter,  and field assignments in the Vietnam war zone. There was  a hushed, high esteem for them. They were a close-knit  group, and their privacy was respected. 

     Technically, we were on a Moroccan training base.  A small contingent U.S. Air Force staff provided flight  instruction and technical training to Moroccan military pilots and airplane mechanics. The Moroccan fleet had  eleven jet planes, all repurposed from American service.  They used the same runway that had been in place since  World War II.  

      We eventually learned that a secret handshake agree ment between President John Kennedy and King Hassan  II of Morocco, a moderate in the Arab world, kept our  three bases open when the United States officially with drew troops from Morocco ....After we returned home to the States, there  was an uproar in the American press about the U.S. presence in Morocco. A New York Times story broke. Its head line read:  

NY Times: Senate Unit Finds U.S. Has Secret  Base In Morocco for Navy Communications 

   We were in Morocco on June 5, 1968, when Senator  Robert Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles. He  was shot leaving his victory celebration in the California  Democratic primary for the U.S. presidency. Because of  the time differences, it was midnight in California, 3 AM  in New York, and 8 AM in Morocco. I heard the news  on our small transistor radio, channeled through the base  radio station.  

By that time, we had moved on base. Kevin was out  driving a patrol that took him by our corner every half  hour. I used our private signal to turn on the lamp in our  streetside window if I needed him. “Robert Kennedy is  dead!” I gasped when Kevin came to the door, “Shot!” He  already knew what had happened from base police communication. I sobbed into Kevin’s shirt, his arms warm  around me. Through tears, I asked, “What is happening to  our country? So many good leaders shot, too many killed.”  

     This was the third assassination in five years—President  John F. Kennedy in 1963, Martin Luther King just two  months ago, and now Robert Kennedy. All were reformers who appealed to the youth of America, ourselves included.  Our generation had seen the charismatic young John Kennedy elected to the presidency, inspiring us with the creation  of the Peace Corps and plans to land on the moon. Our ide alism had been shattered with his assassination. Four years  later, at the height of the civil rights movement, the power ful leader Martin Luther King was murdered. Now President Kennedy’s younger brother suffered the same violent  fate. Together Kevin and I listened to the famous baritone  of newscaster Walter Cronkite, the devastating words re peated over and over as he began bulletins with, “As those  on the East Coast are waking up, we bring the news of ….”  

    Robert Kennedy’s assassin, Sirhan Sirhan, was an  Arab. There was fear of American reprisals against Arabs  in Morocco or violence from the local Arab community  towards Americans. Our base went into lock down. Any  Americans living in town were moved into temporary  housing on base. The military censored transmissions on  the base radio station. The broadcast went blank or cut  to music (not very subtly playing the same song) if tapes  included any U.S. news. We had no television or state side newspapers to see the images of Robert Kennedy on the ground bloody and still, shot in the head. Perhaps the news blackout did its job. Perhaps the long collaboration with Morocco played a role. I heard no angry sentiments toward Moroccans, and there were no hostile Moroccan actions towards Americans. 

  Over time, I  learned much more. Information showed Sirhan to be a  complicated man—a Palestinian and a Christian, a citizen  of Jordan who was born in Jerusalem. He opposed Israel’s recent seizure of the West Bank and other territories,  though Israel saw this as justified spoils after the Six-Day  War. It was a conflict where each side described the other  as aggressor. The fighting over the West Bank and Gaza  continues, escalating in ways we never imagined.  
See the full text of this chapter in the book.

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          Chapter  7
              My Enlistment and Service  

                    By Kevin McCarthy, YN2  

            Military service during the Vietnam War years was  an intense, complex experience. The war was going on. I  knew my time to be drafted into the Army was fast approaching, and I did not want to be in the Army. A draft had been activated because of the war. It re quired military service for men over 18 years old. My school  exemption ended when I graduated from Hudson Valley  Community College, and I would soon be drafted. The only  exceptions for the draft were a low number in the draft lottery or having an exemption for health, education or an other special status. The year of my enlistment, close to four  hundred thousand young men in America were drafted. 

            The night before I was directed to report for my draft  physical, I went over to the Reserve Center on Washing ton Avenue and joined the Navy. Since military service  was inevitable, I preferred, as the saying went, having clean  sheets in the Navy to mud in tents. I still remember the  day after I signed up. My mother was at the sink doing  dishes, and I told her. Her shoulders slumped. I could see  the sadness in her face and hear her sigh.

  ...All Navy personnel from the East Coast processed through the Brooklyn  Navy Yard. Back then, you were not treated with a great  deal of respect if you were seen outside in a military uni form. If I had the night off, I could go out. I sometimes  saw a Broadway play in Manhattan. Uniforms were re quired if I went out off base and when I had a weekend  pass and took the bus home. But it was wise to be careful.  My experiences included name calling and spitting. Some  sailors and soldiers suffered physical threats and assault  because of opposition to the Vietnam War and the military in general. It didn’t matter that our government had  drafted us, and we were meeting this obligation.

    After a couple of weeks in Brooklyn, my passport and  orders arrived for me to go to Morocco, Africa. By coincidence, I had met a guy in Hudson Valley Community College who served in Morocco, so I at least knew there was a  base there. People sometimes confused the name Morocco  with Monaco, but they couldn’t be more different. Monaco  is a tiny but very rich country within France. I wasn’t going  there. Morocco was a poor country in North Africa.  

 ...We left New York City in the morning and arrived  in Rabat, Morocco at 1530. We flew in a huge Pan Am  double decker, commercial flight with civilian and military  passengers. I was seated towards the front of the plane  with about thirty other sailors and a group of Peace Corps  volunteers. Some of the sailors went on to Ethiopia. There  were twelve other men assigned to Morocco. 

         I have the most vivid memory of going down the stairs  to get off the plane and noticing the brightest blue sky I’d ever seen. The air smelled amazingly clean and fresh...We were taken to the barracks, shown which bunk  and locker was ours, and told, “Do not unpack, we don’t  know how long you will be here, and you are going to have  guard duty shortly.” I arrived in Morocco several months after the Arab-Israeli War and close to the North Korean  capture of the USS PUEBLO, a Navy spy ship. The base  in Morocco was part of a secret spy station. Nobody knew  what was going to happen next. After being confined to  the base for three days, things began to get looser. Life for  me on a Navy Base began. 

          After getting checked in, the next order of business  was to be assigned a job. I had already trained in adminis tration as a Yeoman due to scores on Navy screening tests,  my Associate Degree in Business, and my knowledge of  office procedures and equipment. I also had a Top-Secret  clearance. I was assigned to the Security Department in  Morocco. This unit was responsible for the safety of peo ple and goods on the base. I would become a Yeoman to  the Commander of the unit and also perform the duties  of base policemen. The Security Unit issued me a tan police uniform, a Colt 45 pistol, an ammo belt, and a wooden nightstick. I carried that nightstick for two years. My  gun and ammo belt were always passed to the next watch  coming on duty. The nightstick came home with me every night. When I checked out of the Security Office for the  last time, the head of desk duty handed me my nightstick  and said, “Here, you can have this as a memento of your  service in Morocco.” I still have that nightstick.  

      Civilian clothes were required off base in Morocco due to the secrecy of the American presence there. However, military uniforms were not worn in public in the USA for a vastly different reason. The Vietnam War was so unpopular  that military service often was not respected, for both career  commitments and draftees. There were incidents where servicemen in uniform were attacked and beaten up. It is only in recent years that the military service of my era has gained respect from the general population. It is good to be proud to wear a cap or shirt with the word  “Navy” in public now and to have people say, “Thank You  for your service.” 

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                                   Chapter  18
                                        Tangiers 

    Tangiers tumbles down a hillside overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar and arcs into the sea like the torso of a woman lying on her side with an arm beckoning towards Europe. It is the gateway to the Mediterranean, with a long history as a freewheeling, international city.

     The main boulevard makes a wide sweep along the coast with a lush border of palm trees and flowers on each   side that ends at the harbor. On that promenade, the world came to you. I suspect almost anything—legal or not—could be purchased, and much was offered...diamonds, sweets, drugs. As you neared the harbor area, shops and businesses gave way to cafés that offered Coca-Cola or hot mint tea and nightclubs that broke with Muslim tradition and served alcohol along with belly dancing.

    The Koutoubia Palace nightclub was legendary. The colorful expressionist artist LeRoy Neiman captured its energy in a painting in 1969 while we were living in Morocco. Most sailors on base had been there, and the name was said with reverence. It must have been very good belly dancing.

    Behind the clubs and cafés on the beach, camels made a romantic picture standing tall or reclining on the beach, waves lapping at their feet. I don’t know what they carried in their woven saddlebags, but one day we started to go closer, and a shopkeeper dashed out from a building with both arms windmilling to warn us off, “Don’t go down there! You don’t want to go down there! You will never be seen again!” We didn’t go down there.

    The kasbah of Tangiers is atop a hill at the highest part of the city, the location an age-old defense strategy for the original and oldest parts of Moroccan cities. The Moorish wall and entry arch show their age, dating from the 15th century. Wooden gates open onto the kasbah’s modest courtyard. Beyond this are homes, shops and the Dar al Makhzen, the Sultan’s Palace, now a museum of treasures. A guide explained that the kasbah was deliberately small to create a secure fortress for the ruler. From the height ofthe kasbah, Kevin and I gazed down on two continents, Africa and Europe, and watched ferries departing for Spain and Gibraltar.

    I saw my first snake charmer on the stone walkway to the Tangiers kasbah. Nothing prepared me for the sight of a cobra emerging from a woven basket to the mystical rhythm of flute song. A brass badge certified the snake charmer as an official worker. Kevin and I gladly shed coins into a battered brass collection plate. Like many things in Morocco, the experience was up close and inti-mate. No bleachers around a circus ring. We stood in the street elbow to elbow with other tourists, as well as with the snake itself, if it had possessed elbows, to enjoy the show. Snake charmers would approach, flute in hand and lidded basket nearby, to indicate a display could be had. Some went ahead and released their snake, assuming people would ante up. Any tour guide nearby enthusiastically promoted the entertainment.

    In the heart of the city’s energy was our favorite hotel. In the midst of the bustle of downtown Tangiers, it was an elegant oasis of calm, serving cool drinks in its lobby atrium at small tables around a shallow tiled pool, an immersion in filtered sunlight and languid blue timelessness.

    We saw our shoeshine boy on a return visit to Tangiers. He was standing in front of a travel agency, his eyes filled  with longing as he gazed at a poster advertising Miami Beach, Florida. “I am going there!” he told us with his usu-al enthusiasm, then added, “someday.” Many Moroccans wanted to visit Miami, or so they said, telling us they had been there or had a cousin or other relative there. It fascinated me that they lived in a place we considered exotic and glamorous, but they were unaware of it, that it was ordinary to them. Perhaps that is always the case.

    Our shoeshine friend was a person who had a radiance inside, a special luminosity that glowed. Whether he made it to Miami or not, I hope his light still shines.
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                          Table of Contents

Introduction ....................................................................................... xi

PART I — LABESS, MOROCCO, HELLO...................... 1

1 · Hello! You are Married?................................................................ 3

2 · Gibraltar to Kenitra........................................................................ 5

3 · Rue Za Zaglue.................................................................................. 8

4 · The Telltale Sheets..........................................................................15

5 · To Morocco: Getting to Know You ...........................................17

6 · Flags and Play and War..............................................................19

7 · My Enlistment and Service (Kevin McCarthy).................29

8 · Our Very Own Quonset Hut......................................................34

9 · The Puzzle of Kenitra...................................................................40

10 · A Love Story (Kevin McCarthy)...........................................46

11 · The Lost Honeymoon..................................................................49

12 · Fatima and Women of Morocco..............................................52

13 · Friends and a Steak Roast........................................................59

14 · Three Climates and Hot Mint Tea ........................................67

15 · Civil Servants in Fringed Hats.............................................71

16 · The Art of the Bargain...............................................................75

17 · Alms.................................................................................................79

PART II — TREASURES, TRAVELS, ARTS.................81

18 · Tangiers..........................................................................................82

19 · Gibraltar........................................................................................87

20 · Rabat...............................................................................................94

21 · The Exotic Gardens..................................................................101

22 · Casablanca..................................................................................104

23 · The Arts of Morocco..................................................................110

24 · Beaches, Beaches ........................................................................114

PART III — SETTLED IN......................................................119

25 · Settled In.....................................................................................120

26 · My Work in the Security Dept. (Kevin McCarthy)......123

27 · A Tour of the Base: Barracks to Belly Dancers ................129

28 · The Sailors...................................................................................139

29 · News.............................................................................................143

30 · Mrs. McCarthy, Schoolteacher ..........................................150

31 · Jangles..........................................................................................153

32 · Society and the Dinner Dance..............................................156

33 · The Plane in Spain...................................................................160

34 · Transportation: Camels and 16-cent Gasoline...............163

35 · A Guest from Home.................................................................169

36 · A Party.........................................................................................173

37 · Cream Puffs at Christmas.....................................................175

38 · Our Magic Carpet ...................................................................178

39 · Love and Peace..........................................................................182

40 · Connecting the Dots................................................................186

PART IV — WELCOME, CHRISTINE.........................189

41 · Christine Arrives (Mary and Kevin)................................190

42 · The Bishop and the Christening...........................................199

43 · Farewell to Kenitra .................................................................204

Epilogue ..............................................................................................207

Maps .......................................................................................................208

Appendix..............................................................................................209

Acknowledgments .......................................................................210

About the Authors.....................................................................211

                                     Introduction

Kevin and I started our marriage on a secret military base in North Africa during the Vietnam War years. It was a multifaceted experience and an unexpected opportunity to see another part of the world. Though the war in Vietnam was a vicious backdrop, the Navy base provided a protected place for us as young lovers to deepen our relationship and begin a life together.

Morocco includes the legendary cities of Tangiers, Rabat, and Casablanca. All were in our circle of life there. We lived near them in the town of Kenitra on the Atlantic shore. Over time I have increasingly valued the gifts of Morocco—the influence of the immersion, the benefits of ongoing and new connections, and the deeper insights that have enriched life. This is our recording and our perspective of a piece of life in that former time. I hope these reflections shine light on everyday details and global issues of a unique experience in the 1960s. 

As Steve Jobs, founder of Apple computers, said, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backward.” And so, I look back to connect the dots and share their constellations. I invite you on this journey to Morocco with me.

                                                                     Mary Armao McCarthy

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