Working as noncommissioned officer in charge of the largest communication center in the world, the Pentagon, I met many high-ranked people from the other governmental agencies in the metropolitan Washington, D.C. area.
Here I was, an old Kentucky hillbilly rubbing elbows with all these folks.
With the workload they piled on me, I knew it was time for me to retire. After I put my retirement papers in, I knew they would give me time off to take care of personal things. Was I mistaken! One of the four master sergeants working for me would have to be trained to replace me during those last 90 days.
On night while driving home to Dale City, about 30 miles south of the Pentagon, I see a nice 1932 Ford for sale in this driveway a few blocks from my home. I’ve always wanted one of those, and pulled up next to the car to check it out.
This fellow came out. He talked so low, and was so secretive, almost whispering. He made me nervous.
He kept looking at my Pentagon badge that allowed me to go anywhere in the Pentagon.
His wife came out, saw my tags on my car that had Jenkins, Kentucky on it, and said she was from Pound, Va. When I told her my wife was from Pound, she knew her.
The young man came up behind me and said in a very low voice, “I work for the FBI.”
Needless to say I went home. I just did not want to talk to him.
My last week in the military, I met with the high-ranking officer who bought my house. He was buying a lot of houses for his retirement years. We were at my house doing all the paperwork on the house.
The young man with the Ford I wanted at one time came by to tell me he had lowered the price. I told him I had made other plans, and he left.
My house buyer was watching out the window, and wanted to know how I met Bates. He said Bates worked in his department as a mail clerk, and that he was a very strange person.
I did not have the heart to tell him Bates told me he worked for the FBI.
Contributing writer Everett Vanover lives in Fairfield, Calif.