Below: Letter from Smith to Pinkey prior to their visit.

(Note: Written in May of 2019, prior to a commemorative event.)

I was recently asked by Jonathan Pinkey, my friend Mike Pinkey’s son, to write something about my time with Mike as a Marine military correspondent and journalist at Marine Corps Air Station, Cherry Point, NC in the early 1970s.

First off, I was so sad to hear of Mike’s untimely passing, and that the world lost a great wit, talent and person of myriad interests and depth.  I am happy to have served with him and known him as a friend.

I told Jonathan that it might be a bit awkward for me to write this, due in part to Mike’s love/hate affair with the Marines. I don’t ever recall him ever saying in clear terms how he ended up in the Corps.

And, my apologies if this runs longer than it probably should for its intended purpose, yet I found it hard to condense things easily.

Sometimes I got the feeling that growing up an Army brat, as well as his dad the Colonel, had something to do with his military enlistment….that maybe he felt he should try it out.

Yet, at times, I was surprised that he had indeed ended up being in the Corps.

It was such an odd time and place for us all, being Marines in the waning days of the (by then) very unpopular Vietnam War, as a lot of combat vets rotated back Stateside and mingled with us newbies and Cold War warriors.

At least that’s what I called Marines like Mike or others that served at home, or as I and Paul White did with NATO deployments.  It was strange ending up being sent to places like Norway vs. getting thrown into the jungles of Southeast Asia.  I think a lot of people tended to overlook that the old Soviet Union was still a major threat to us and they were constantly up to mischief in the North Atlantic, along the borders of West Germany, Norway and Finland.

That was a reality of the Corps that many people seemed to not think much about, yet it was very much a real issue for those of us serving during that period of time.

I have always considered Full Metal Jacket one of my favorite but sort of crazy movies.  It was a pretty accurate rendition of the story of Marine boot camp and subsequent perils of a combat correspondent in Vietnam.  That was the fate and duty that I, Mike, Paul White and the others of our time as USMC public information specialists (aka combat correspondents) faced, had our number rolled up to go to Vietnam or some other combat hotspot that might have flared in the Middle East, Europe or elsewhere.

I was told by one of our senior NCOs that had served in Vietnam that our job specialty had among the highest casualty rates percentage wise of any during that war—as only about 150 or so sergeants and below were in the field—it was small and select.

Yet, Mike, Bob, Paul, Andy and I, along with the rest of us younger guys and gals, ended up with a divergent role and sets of duties of our own, in the “peacetime” side of things.  But, we too took risks and went through our share of issues, problems and dangers along the way.

Mike was, like most of us younger Marines, caught up in that sort of insane, topsy-turvy aspect of life in general, and the Corps of the time, in particular.  We had Admiral Zumwalt that took over the Department of the Navy, which was grudgingly admitted as the “parent” of the Corps.
 
Zumwalt began some policy changes (such as allowing sailors to wear beards) that were controversial and just added to the pull between the civilian world, added internal tension within the military, and ruffled the hard-Corps traditions of the Marines that we were all still expected to (at least mostly) maintain as PAO types.
 
There were issues of drugs, racial conflict, views on discipline and conduct, the ending of the draft and a shift to the all-volunteer military that was ongoing….and we were caught smack in the middle of all that.
 
Even though we were not involved in the fighting in Southeast Asia, we still bore some of the stigma of crazy Vietnam era Marines from the civilian world, which made things perhaps even more strange and at times crazy, as we seemed regarded by those who had served as “different” or not “real Marines”, while facing the contempt for being a Marine from those outside.
 
I think that discouraging state of affairs made for some soul searching times that we each had to sort through—and Mike in particular seemed to be far more conflicted about this than some of the rest of those in our unit.

Another point of turmoil was brewing in those days as the Marines were put under a force reduction order as the Corp’s role in Vietnam was minimized.

A lot of older career Marines got reduced in rank or forced out around that time, which added to something of the turmoil of the time which we did not need. We all I believe suffered our share of inner soul searching and concerns about what we were doing in the military in those days, with Mike perhaps agonizing more than others.

It was through this period that we filled out our duties and responsibilities of service for better or worse.

Mike had a wit that was razor sharp if not troublesome at times.  His ability to write zingy and at times pointed statements, especially in the usually conservative military publications of the day, was somewhat amazing to us all.  He often seemed to get leeway and even was gently prodded by the higher ups to dig into and write about controversial subjects in his well-read Pulse of the Point column in the base newspaper, the Windsock.

He seemed to excel at that and in his work in editing and other facets of that publication, which Anne also helped to assemble and get published each week.
 
Being from central North Carolina, my family had a small place south of Atlantic Beach, and on one or two occasions Mike, Anne, Bob Marshall and some of the others went there for a cook out and some relaxation, as well as took some trips to local arts fairs and other sites.  They also visited me and my folks at our home before they left NC.  I always seemed to feel a certain wistful, more free soul that came out with Mike in such periods.

There was usually some topic or subject that would get Mike started off into some deep and philosophical conversation, yet at times he could flare into something of a huff, especially when writing or something didn’t go well on the military front, often over a few cold beers.

Mike was often moody.  At times he was exuberant and cheerful, yet also troubled by things that swirled deep in his mind and soul, including his disaffection with the military that seemed to grow.  I was, frankly, amazed that Mike got sergeant stripes, yet glad he did so.

I say that not to mar a veteran’s reputation but illustrate that he just seemed to be more open and wear his conflicted views on his sleeve at times.  He was questioning about the military and the ongoing war and the turmoil within the States at the time, like many of us were.

I don’t think any one of us wanted to be among the last of the Marines to die in the then iffy, deteriorating Vietnam War, especially as riots and demonstrations and varied social change spread across our home states.

Yet, I can only speak for some periods of time, as I being a Fleet deployable Marine, spent a lot of my time on what were temporary, short-term assignments with varied Marine units within the 2nd Marine Air Wing and others.  Paul White and I were, as an example, deployed as part of an amphibious brigade to Norway, then aboard ship later we visited several European nations in port calls.

So, I was in and out of Cherry Point a great deal.  So, my memories and real contacts were sort of piecemeal and scattered about Mike and most of the others that were in JPAO at the time on base.  I do remember Mike being very upset when Anne backed into the side of my car when I visited their tiny place off base one time. I thought he was going to bite his pipe stem in two.  He also at times was prone to harangue landlords of the crappy rental properties that were the only ones most low rank enlisted Marines could afford off base, using some very colorful terms.
​
I can however recall some long evenings of talk, laughter, debates and such that often took place either at Mikes place or at times, in some of the smoky, hole-in-the-wall bars and dive clubs that dot areas with military bases or at the nearby beach walks and bars, that were fun yet often turned philosophical.

Some of my best memories revolve around off duty hours and times spent with the guys and gals of JPAO, a lot of whom were also talented writers, a great cartoonist, excellent photographers and even a few motion picture and broadcast folks all mixed into one hell of a good unit.

I used to play chess some with Mike, and recall sitting in dark cafes off base or at Mike and Anne’s place off base, with Mike puffing an oft-unlit Sherlock Holmes style pipe stuffed with sweet smelling tobacco—likely the inspiration of Suttlespice No. 76, in his book Stray Not Beyond.

Mike was the first person I knew who mentioned JRR Tolkein and the Lord of the Rings, which was foreign to me.  I, being a product of the then fairly rural southern life I’d grown up in, was still learning about people and places far different.  He was at times such a font of knowledge and obscure things that I at times found him irritating in retrospect.  But, I always got over it with him.

I before long had gotten tagged by Mike with the nickname “Tree”, for what I assume obvious reasons.

He and Anne seemed a well-connected couple, which was made for each other. Yet, Mike also began to strike me as perhaps having been more at home in some of the counter culture movements vs. the Marines, especially when the subject of Vietnam or possible new orders came up.  There were a few that were still being sent to Southeast Asia including Vietnam—and I at one point almost got sent; but the orders didn’t go through.  Mike at times seemed very troubled in his soul over the prospect of getting sent off to war, yet to his credit he did his duty…yet was a restless soul as I recall in many ways.

I had at one point anticipated trying to make a career of the military, yet things seemed to not favor that move for reasons that involved family and other issues that were out of my control.  So, I, like most of the younger Marines there, never became a field tested combat correspondent like the fellow in Full Metal Jacket.
 
Yet, we were all at one time part of the USMC Combat Correspondent’s Association and still to this day are considered as eligible to be in that elite group…and I fondly recall the trip Mike, Anne and some others of us took to New York City to the Association’s annual meeting there, courtesy of the Corps.  Mike seemed at home in Central Park and the old Roosevelt Hotel ballroom, unlike the drunk private that yelled for more beer at the top of his lungs to black-coated waiters.

Instead, most of us ended up serving the majority of our enlistment with the Joint Public Affairs Office (JPAO) of the Marine Corps Air Station, Cherry Point, NC.  Unlike Mike, who was “station” personnel, I and several others including Paul were deployable Fleet Marine Force personnel assigned to Marine Wing Headquarters Squadron-2, which has in recent times been in war zones in the Middle East, among other locales.

I was deployed in October of 1973 along with a mass of other Marines on ships to just off the coast of Egypt during the Yom Kippur War.  Israel had suffered crushing losses and the US had begun resupply efforts and started warnings with the Soviet Union about them moving troops into the area.  We were the counter force and there for a few weeks it seemed we might have ended up in the front lines of what could have become World War III.

I was debating reenlistment then but an emergency with my family at home made the decision for me and soon I found myself back home, being discharged into the insanity of the Arab Oil Embargo and the great gas shortage that followed.  I know that crazy time also impacted Mike and the other Marines we served with.
 
Yet, as with all good things, the amazing crew that worked their magic with the routine public affair issues and duties of JPAO, MCAS Cherry Point, NC and the Windsock, seemed to all-too-soon change as people came and went, goals shifted or circumstances intervened.

So, I suddenly was no more a working part of the JPAO and Windsock, yet it will live on in my heart and memories, as does Mike and his shenanigans, oddities and talents.

My time as part of JPAO, Cherry Point and the great Windsock crew was over in dizzying fashion, yet I still fondly remember the characters and Marines that were involved in producing that splendid paper and the writing, thoughts and topics it covered.

I like to think that we all, Mike especially with his Pulse of the Point column, perhaps cracked open the military information and news operations to a bit of new thinking and openness that has carried over to today.

I know people who live here in my town in NC that are retired Marines and their kids who remember reading the Pulse of the Point and Mike’s works well over forty years ago.  I think that’s a tribute in itself.

I was so sad to hear that the old base building that housed the Windsock crew burned years ago.  Yet, I feel that the words, thoughts, deeds and documented successes of those years still survives, like Sergeant Michael B. Pinkey, in thought and spirit, as like it or not, a part of Marine Corps history.

Mike was I believe a perfect fit for his job at the Windsock and JPAO Cherry Point, NC in that time and his experiences, DINFOS school education, association with other talented news and correspondent types all hopefully carried over into his civilian life and has been passed on to others to some degree.

He will be missed, and while sergeants were not saluted in the Corps, I do salute his memory.
 
Former Cpl. James “Ted” Crabtree, USMC
1970-1973 Marine Wing Headquarters Squadron-2, FMFLANT
And Joint Public Affairs Office, MCAS Cherry Point, NC
 

​NOTE: Michael B. Pinkey lives in a little blue house near the Arkansas River and is known in the area for his gardens, piano playing and massive outlay of accumulated dross on recycling-pickup day.  We caught up with him while he was in his front yard watching bumblebees through a magnifying glass, and had the following exchange: 


Q:  “Pinkey” is an unusual name--is it English--?


A: No--although my great-great-grandmother was British, of the royal house of Spencer.  And there are “Pinkey”s who hail from England--those outfits that offer to provide you with your family history and coat of arms always steer toward England when hailing me with their services.   But my family name was originally Lithuanian; when my great-great-grandfather emigrated to America to escape the rampages of the Czar, immigration officials chopped the name down to “Pinkey” for their own convenience. I grew up with no one in my family knowing what the original name was, but years later my dad discovered it in old church records in the coal-mining country of Pennsylvania.  My family was in the coal-mining business until my great-grandfather, after spending a week picking slate (the first job given to boys when they began to be moved underground into The system), never seeing the sun, only to have his measly wage confiscated by his mother “for the family,” decided “to #@$%@#! with this” and lit out on a bicycle the next morning and joined the army.  So, my branch of the Pinkey family became an Army bunch--my grandfather was a career NCO in the army, and my father was a West Point graduate (Class of ‘45) and a career officer--colonel--although Dad reports that there are still an awful lot of “Pinkeys” in the phone books of Pennsylvania’s coal country.


Q: And the original name was--


A: Pinknoras.  So the records say.  Me, I’ve never met or heard of a “Pinknoras” in my life, and suspect that they may all have been rendered into “Pinkeys.” Any of them out there, probably relatives.  Maybe they owe me money.


Q: So, then, why did you write your first book, Stray Not Beyond?


A: Well, I inherited a warehouse full of paper, and I got tired of making paper airplanes.


Q: Really...


A:  No.  And Stray Not Beyond isn’t really my first book.  The first book I ever wrote was called Goon the School Teacher and I wrote it when I was eight, 108 pages, all in pencil on lined notebook paper, with illustrations, and “book design” carefully copied from the Walter R. Brooks FREDDY THE PIG books, which I highly admired.  I still have it.  It has continuity problems.


Q: FREDDY THE PIG, eh?
  
A:  Yeah, the first book I ever enjoyed actually reading was a Freddy the Pig book. I was dragged kicking and screaming into the world of reading--I still remember when my mother began to hound me about “reading the words” while I was looking through my comic books.  Now all of a sudden it wasn’t good enough to just look at the pictures, but I had to hear, “Are you READING it TOO???”  What a pain this gave me!  Interfering with my elementary and long-established COMIC-BOOK enjoyment!  It used to irritate me tremendously to have her come walking through the door and announce, “I brought you another book from the library.”  And then she’d make me try to read it!  Out loud, to her!  My young soul was sodden with resentment at these intrusions upon its inner being...until one day when I was eight she brought home Freddy and the Baseball Team From Mars--that was the book that Did It.  After that I began to read everything I could get my hands on--I was living on an Army base in Germany at the time, three years with no television, tough on a little kid grown accustomed to his “Mighty Mouse” and “Popeye” and “Lone Ranger,” so the imagination-stimulating effects of reading were heightened within my mind by that.  So, my entire lifelong love of books and literature all started with Freddy the Pig. And the odd thing is, years later, the first book to bear my name in any way was Overlook Press’s The Wit and Wisdom of Freddy the Pig, which lists me as one of the co-editors.  So the circle, it runs around--grab that brass ring!  Don’t give up the ship!  54/40 or fight!  Over the river and through the woods--


Q: AND--about STRAY NOT BEYOND--?


A: Oh...oh, yeah.  Well, that’s a whole different story.  I wound up working as a newspaperman in North Carolina--I was in the Marines, and working for the Public Affairs Office at Cherry Point where, I might add, I received a very good, basically 1920s-style old-fashioned education in writing, editing, proofing, press-releasing and newspapering in general.  As is well known, all newspapermen have a secret desire to write a novel, and I was no exception, but it remained a vague, theoretical idea, resulting in nothing more than a few piles of pages which trailed off into uncertainty, until I had the privilege of visiting author and humorist H. Allen Smith at his home in Alpine, Texas, in February of 1974.


Q:  H. Allen Smith--?


A: Yeah, I’d been reading his stuff since I was 12, ever since randomly picking up LOST IN THE HORSE LATITUDES at a library because it had drawings of horses wearing glasses and smoking pipes on the spine.  Smith, you know, was one of the original two contestants at the first Terlingua, Texas, chili cookoff in 1967--his book THE GREAT CHILI CONFRONTATION is a hilarious record of how it came about and, of course, now it has grown to be a huge annual event which attracts thousands of people.  And Smith’s first bestseller LOW MAN ON A TOTEM POLE is what gave that phrase to our language.  RHUBARB, the millionaire cat that inherited a baseball team...? Well, anyway, when I met him he had moved away from New York to a mountaintop in the wilds of west Texas, and was glad to have my wife and me come for an hour one afternoon on our way back from Mexico.  It was a real thrill for me to be in that home, to walk into his office where the typewriter sat from which he had wrought better than thirty books over the years--and I was real struck to see his own personal collection OF those books, all specially bound in red leather, on their own shelf.  Well, after that visit, after seeing the house that writin’ built and getting to actually visit with the famous writer himself, my desire to write  mySELF a book took real fire.  As soon as I got back home I started blazing away at the typewriter.  I started two or three story lines, which all petered out after only a few pages.  Then one day I rolled a page into the machine and wrote the first sentence of what would become STRAY NOT BEYOND, and it took hold.  I thought it would take me a year to write it.  It took ten.  And then I let it lie in a desk drawer for another fifteen years before getting it out and revising it for publication. I was tired.  But now there the book sits for all to regard--STRAY NOT BEYOND!  For sale today! Tell all your friends!  Scrawl www.straynotbeyond.com on sidewalks with glow-in-the-dark chalk!  Have your mayor declare a STRAY NOT BEYOND da--


Q: Can you tell us something about the book?


A: Well, it has pages.  Pages covered with words.  It’s also a book with several different levels of meaning, a philosophical novel disguising itself as a humorous horror-mystery-fantasy, and another level deeper than that which I prefer to let the reader discern, or not, as each case may be.  It was hard to write, because I didn’t make it up, but rather had to let it present itself in its own time and in its own way, and sometimes it just wouldn’t move.  Sometimes for a long time...I still remember the thrill of finally typing THE END and knowing that it was, indeed, properly so.


Q: What do you say to people who may think that your depiction of North Carolina and its citizens is, let’s say, unflattering?


A: Well, first of all, I placed the story in North Carolina because it has to do with tobacco, and North Carolina is a tobacco state. Personally, I lived in North Carolina for more than three years--in fact, I started the book while living there--and think it is a beautiful place.  But as far as the town of “Otterwood” as described, and some of the characters to be found therewithin, I’ve run across towns like that and people like that all over the country.  In fact, right here in this neighborhood there is a guy just down the street who--say, you want something to drink?


Q: No, no thanks—I’ve got a bus to catch, and that sun’s a’slantin’.  But, thanks for talking with us here. Let me ask you, though--is everything you’ve told us really true? 


A:  Sure.  All true.  Every word. All except for the part about the warehouse full of paper.