the Wanderling

A friend of mine was a couple of years into working his way through graduate school, basically supporting himself with a part-time job for a private mail delivery service. The job, following company guidelines, entailed picking up mail from the main postal annex near Los Angeles International Airport five days a week very, very early in the morning for contracted customers and delivering that mail long before it would ever get to its destination if done in the normal fashion.

Most of my friend's mail delivery route, which ran in a large general swath from Century City on the south to Sunset Boulevard on the north and from the I-405 Freeway on the west to UCLA on the east, was comprised of large corporations, but some were smaller companies or even individuals. During the normal functioning of his job and who he delivered to, he continually ran into such people as then U.S. Representative Bob Dornan on a regular basis or, while delivering to the Bel-Air Country Club, celebrities like Dick Martin and Dan Rowan of the Laugh In comedy team Rowan and Martin, as well as to the private home of cowboy western author Louis L'Amour, seeing him almost daily.

He told me that one of the stops along his route, located on the eastern side of the northbound 405 Freeway not far from LAX, stuck in amongst a bunch of junky non-descript dirty industrial block buildings, was this huge porno studio he delivered to. Nobody really knew it was there and anybody that went in or out had to be buzzed through from the inside.

When he first started his job and they didn't know him they would barely let him through the front door, even though after entering, the "office" wasn't even really a real office, being not much more than a sham Motel 6 lobby or stage set. Now, he said, after a couple of years, most people pretty much know who he is, at least visually, giving him a much better run of the place, dragging mail sacks clear to the mailroom and back without question. They even offer him doughnuts in the morning. He told me he's seen things on the sets and in the little studio alcoves you would never believe, and since I've always had a penchant toward underbelly stuff he thought, if I was so interested, he would see how far he could get me into the place. He asked the woman at the front desk if I could come with him one day and she said she would have to check with her boss. The next day she said her boss cleared it if he, my mail route friend, could vouch for me. Just don't come in looking for work or bring any cameras. Oh yeah, and no drooling or pounding your pud. The day I was there, just as we were leaving, after the head man nodded an approval, the woman at the desk pulled two specially printed invitations in envelopes out of a drawer to some gig they were throwing in a couple of weeks and handed them to us, asking not to give them to anybody else or bring anybody else. Two weeks later, travelling together, after driving over a bunch of narrow, double-parked, tree covered, twisty, curvy roads deep into the Hollywood Hills, my buddy and I dutifully showed up. Caligula would have cringed.

While travelling with my buddy on his job that day, however, some distance into the route from the porno place, we pulled into a loop-around road off the primary road that led to the main entrance of the Bel-Air Country Club. Getting out of the van I noticed, parked facing the wrong way on the other side of the loop, with the drivers side along the curb, and the only car along the loop, a rather sleek looking low-slung car known as an Excalibur. When we returned to leave there were several people standing around in front of the Excalibur looking at the right front fender, which was visibly damaged. As we were getting into the van a man standing with the group, a Bel-Air security type in a sports jacket and a name tag identifying him as such, waved us over asking if we had noticed the car when we arrived. My buddy and I both acknowledged noticing the vehicle, but neither of us recalled seeing any damage.

As we were walking toward the security guy the police arrived. Two amongst the group already there were Dan Rowan and Dick Martin of the Rowan and Martin comedy team. Seems the Excalibur was connected to Dick Martin in some fashion either owning it or having been driving it. The cops, after finding out who was who out of everybody there, divided us into several sub-groups. I ended up with Dan Rowan. As we were standing together, using a little known at the time bit of information I picked up around someplace, that he flew a P-40 Warhawk in the South Pacific, I asked, "I heard you flew P-40s during the war?" He answered with a very polite, quite surprised and friendly, "Why yes, as a matter of fact I did." No sooner had I opened my mouth than a Bel-Air security guy stepped between us asking, "Is this (ugh) MAN bothering you Mr. Rowan?" Looking at me over the security guy's shoulder by leaning slightly to the side, Rowan asked, the riff-raff looking guy that I was, "You aren't one of those crazy P-40 nut-jobs are you?" I told him I liked P-40s, but loved Flying Tigers. He responded by saying, "Me too!" With that, in the short time we had, stepping around the security guard, Rowan shared a great deal of his P-40 adventures.

First, at the very beginning of our conversation Rowan prefaced what he told me by saying that most of what has been said or written about him, although it might sound like a big deal to some, if he wasn't Dan Rowan, what he had done was not unlike thousands of other lesser known and otherwise unsung heroes had done, and most likely maybe even better.

Secondly, while Rowan and I were talking, it really wasn't much more than a casual BS session. I wasn't taking notes, interviewing or interrogating him, or filing anything away at the time meant for posterity. Again, like I say, we were just BSing. So too, with a couple of possible exceptions that included one major one that happened after Rowan and I met, up to that point in time I hadn't specifically met or talked to anyone who had flown P-40s in the war. In high school I had a woodshop teacher that had been a fighter pilot during the war and he used to regale us with war stories on occasion. In that he had been in the war from the very inception and flew a variety of fighters, most likely P-40s had been among his inventory. For the record, rather than being an officer, the woodshop teacher was one of those rare non-commissioned officer sergeant pilots.

A couple of years after high school I went to Nassau Speed Week in the Bahamas riding in the cab on the shotgun side of John Edgar's race car transporter driven by the master Ferrari and Maserati mechanic Joe Landaker, whose number one team driver was Carroll Shelby. Before we left Florida for the Bahamas I met Smokey Yunick, also a master mechanic and one time pilot said to have flown with the Tigers, albeit for the 14th Air Force Flying Tigers that replaced the A.V.G. --- so most likely he flew P-51s and not P-40s. A couple years later I met Col. Harvey Greenlaw, the second in command of the Flying Tigers, at his place in Baja Mexico, staying a couple of nights. Although he was long on stories, he had not flown P-40s while second in command. Matter of fact, although he was a graduate of West Point and the Army Air Corps Flying School program as well as an experienced pilot, I don't think he flew any planes during World War II, not officially anyway. His wife, by the way, during his time with the A.V.G., was the infamous Olga Greenlaw who wrote the definitive book on the Flying Tigers, The Lady and The Tigers. As for the one major exception to the couple of possible exceptions I mentioned above, that exception was an actual real life Flying Tiger pilot by the name of William McGarry who I met in later years, that is, maybe a decade after having met Dan Rowan.[1]

There are two aspects to the Dan Rowan P-40 fighter pilot story. One, what he told me, and two, what I have researched to substantiate, back up or challenge what I was told. Research reveals his military decorations include the Distinguished Flying Cross with Oak Leaf Cluster, the Air Medal, and a Purple Heart. On September 21, 1943 he was credited with shooting down two Ki-43 Oscars near Madang over the Cromwell Mountains, Ki-43s being a sort of Imperial Japanese Army land-based version of the Japanese Navy's Zero.(see)

Rowan told me depending on where you were flying out of it was either a lot of rain or none at all, slogging through the mud or days of high heat, sun, dust, and humidity. Up in the morning, taking off strafing barges, installations, mortar and troop implacements, engaging enemy aircraft and flying back home. The next day, weather permitting, the same thing. On one of those routine runs he got into a confrontation with several enemy planes and of which he was credited with two kills, although he was sure he took out three that day. One month later, actually on October 24, 1943, Rowan left Tsili Tsili Airfield, again more-or-less on a routine strafing mission of barges south of Madang. Coming in low over the target on a second or third pass in the same general area his plane was hit by ground fire, the engine began losing oil pressure. Noticeably disabled he quickly picked up at least three Japanese fighters on his tail. Not being able to engage them on any kind of an equal basis let alone three to one, he decided to evade them by flying through a narrow gap along a mountain ridge causing the pursuing planes to pull up after one of their group slammed into the the mountains. Attempting to reduce the possibility of attracting any more fighters, staying low Rowan arced around hoping to reach Tsili-Tsilli in order to keep both himself and his aircraft intact. Without oil pressure or the oil needed the engine seized basically loosing most operational control of the aircraft. He decided to set down best he could wheels up on a sandbar that turned out to be part of the Waffa River, a subsidiary of the much larger Markham River about 50 miles northwest of Lae, albeit still in enemy territory.

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Several weeks before, a buddy in the same squadron, 1st Lt. Joel D. Thorvaldson, on an interception mission against Japanese fighters was shot up in a dogfight. The engine of his P-40 began to malfunction eventually catching fire. He nursed his plane to a point he had to make a forced landing somewhere on a sandbar along the Waffa River after which he was able to leave the plane basically unhurt. Rowan figured he could do the same thing. Picking out a river and sandbar he began touching down wheels up. Part way along the sandbar his plane hit something partially obscured by the sand, possibly a croc or a log, but too late to do anything about it. The next thing he knew his plane, known as Miss Kathleen II, or more officially Curtiss Wright P-40N 42-104949, was cartwheeling, ending up upside down partly along the sandbar's edge and the heavy brush along the offside of the river. A couple of days later a rescue crew spotted him and took him back to base.

Reports vary about the extent of Rowan's injuries, from just a sprained back to other reports saying it was so severely sprained he couldn't move, with others stating his back was actually broken. Whatever it was Rowan said they taped him up with splints and stuff and took him down to the flight line. However, he told me "his back was so fucked up could barely move let alone climb into a cockpit" --- although he tried. They decided to wait a few days, then a few more days. Eventually he was sent back to the states and he never flew a P-40 again. As far as he knew Miss Kathleen II was still upside down along the river bank. He said back in the states and out of the service, when he was done with the war he was done with the war. He never really discussed any of it much or associate with or look up old buddies. Nor did he join or belong to any groups or clubs or attend any reunions or that type thing. He said he may have been a hero to close friends and family, but being a fighter pilot with at least two kills didn't quite fit the comedian image.

The above notwithstanding, regarding any flying abilities, military records, what his family thought, or awards he may or may not of had, with no instigation on his part, Rowan did have a huge verbal confrontation or run-in one day with Col. Greg Boyington, the flamboyant former Flying Tiger and ex-Marine fighter pilot come flying Ace. Somewhere along the edges of the Hollywood celebrity environs, however big or little, Boyington had heard inferences that Rowan claimed to have been a fighter pilot for the Black Sheep Squadron during World War II. If Rowan claimed it, mentioned it in passing, or if he was asked didn't matter to Boyington because Rowan having been with the Black Sheep Squadron had become enough of the popular lexicon that he, Boyington, not thinking Rowen was good enough, the comedian that he was, wanted to straighten it out --- with fists if necessary.

It was never resolved to Boyington's satisfaction even though Rowan had right on his side. Rowan DID fly for the Black Sheep Squadron. Rowan was a pilot with the 5th Air Force, 49th Fighter Group, 8th Fighter Squadron. The 8th Fighter Squadron was known as the Black Sheep Squadron and known as such well before Boyington's VMF-214 squadron adopted the nickname around mid-August 1943. If Boyington had known his history he may not have been so touchy.

Starting in 1942 through 1944 the 7th Fighter Squadron began receiving P-47s, in turn bumping some of the P-40s. In 1943 through 1944, P-38s started showing up. On January, 15 1943, the 9th Fighter Squadron began being equipped with P-38s, again bumping the P-40s. The 8th continued to be overlooked for any of the new, updated aircraft during the whole period. Matter of fact they were on the receiving end of most of the bumped P-40s. Because of that, being overlooked, they began calling themselves the Black Sheep of the 49th. Eventually the name stuck, again months before the mid-August 1943 date Boyington's VMF-214 squadron adopted the nickname. Matter of fact as late as January 5, 1943 Boyington was still in San Diego with 19 other pilots waiting for "duty beyond the seas." When he did finally make it as far as Guadalcanal in April of 1943 he still hadn't seen any combat action. By then, the 7th, 8th, and 9th Fighter Squadrons had been fighting the Japanese all over the Papua New Guinea area for a long time --- with Rowan right along with them.[2]

Although I never met Boyington myself, for me it was almost like I had. My Stepmother knew him fairly well and what she told me about their interactions and conversations, it was as though I had sat in on all the conversations with her.

Early in the year 1946 a Los Angeles police officer had been shot and killed on the streets of Chinatown during a gambling raid. When the news of the officer's death eventually filtered down to my stepmother, for reasons not known to me even to this day, she somehow felt responsible for ensuring his widow or the woman he was closely associated with and her young son were properly cared for.

Sometime in early 1947, after hearing through the grapevine of my stepmother's concerns and actions relative to her assisting those of the slain officer gunned down in the back alley streets of Chinatown the year before, another L.A. police officer who prior to the war had been a sergeant, but upon his return following the war had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant, outside the chain of command, contacted her.

The lieutenant was Frank Walton. Walton, as a LAPD sergeant before the war, either had contact with or knew my stepmother in some fashion or knew the slain police officer or both. He had served with Boyington in the Pacific during World War II. The two of them were collaborating on a book regarding their wartime ventures and in the process, Boyington, experiencing hard times, had, along with his new wife, moved into a spare bedroom in Walton's house. Boyington, said to be on a bond tour, was basically an outpatient on medical leave for injuries incurred while facing a soon to be given discharge (August 1, 1947). According to Walton, night after night at all hours Boyington returned home with his wife drunk, yelling, arguing, and raising a ruckus, antics that were more than beginning to take a toll on everybody and everything, including getting any work done on the book.

Not knowing if my stepmother's motives in helping those of the slain LAPD officer was altruistic or not and not wanting to know, BUT knowing she had connections all over the city at all levels, including the ownership of a number of houses for a number of reasons, he approached her on an unofficial level to see if, on the sly, she might have something she could put a down-on-his-luck war hero into. Intuitively, thinking the young police lieutenant seemed to have what it took to be on his way up in the force and could possibly use his services one day, she said she would see what she could do. A few days later a courier handed two envelopes to Walton, each containing a key, each envelope clearly marked with an address in the San Fernando Valley, Burbank area, with a note telling Walton the rest was up to him.

Several days later my stepmother, who really didn't know one way or the other what she had or didn't have, others taking care of such things, went by both addresses to see what, if anything was going on, finding each of the houses empty. She had only just gone into the second house to look around when, unbeknownst to her, Boyington parked outside. My stepmother's bodyguard (also her driver), seeing Boyington coming toward the house after suspiciously looking around and not knowing who he was or why he was there, stepped behind him as soon as he entered the door sticking the barrel of his fully loaded .45 automatic in the small of Boyington's back. When Boyington explained who he was and why he was there everything was soon resolved. My stepmother sent her bodyguard to get a few cold beers, of which then she and Boyington spent a good part of the rest of the afternoon sitting around on a couple of empty boxes in an otherwise vacant house talking and drinking until it got dark.(see)

Because of the nature of my stepmother's business, whatever that may have been, she traveled in a number of exotic circles, both up and down the scales of society. When I was less than ten years old, one day I was with her I met a friend of hers who in later years I would learn was a very influential member of the mob. A little more than ten years after that meeting, just as I turned 21 and going to Las Vegas on my own for the first time, she asked me to look up the same man, of which I did. In turn, because of a request by my stepmother, who had over the years fallen on hard times, she was helped by the man. On a second trip to Vegas a short time later I sought out the same man to thank him for his most gracious help afforded my stepmother --- actually she long since having become my ex-stepmother by then. Seeking the man out, arrangements were made through a mutual party for me to meet him in a back room behind the gift shop in the New Frontier Hotel.

When our meeting was over, just as I was leaving a very good looking well dressed clean shaven man was entering, with the two of us having to circle out of each others way as he was going in, neither of us realizing the other was there at first. As we passed in the narrow space of the doorway we made very strong close eye contact and even though I felt I should know him I didn't ... nor did I recognize him. Ten years later I was to meet the same man again under much different circumstances and although I didn't recognize him, after some time together he remembered me. The man was Dan Rowan. While the two of us were at the Bel-Air Country Club talking about his P-40 piloting days it dawned on him we had met before, both how, when and where. When he did, that was the end of it, our conversation was over.

It seems those ten years before or so Rowan had developed what was said to have become a mutual infatuation between himself and Phyllis McGuire of the McGuire Sisters, headliners in Vegas at the same time Rowan and Martin were headliners there. It also seems at the very same time a major heavyweight mover in the mob, Chicago boss Sam Giancana, had also developed an interest in McGuire. Rowan was told in so many words to put a lot of distance between himself and her, otherwise there would be consequences. If Rowan going into the room behind the gift shop was related to any of that I don't know, but the man both he and I saw that night was Johnny Roselli, the mob's main contact and leading figure in Vegas as well as Giancana's right hand man.[3] [4] [5]


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The graphic below depicts the P-40 "Miss Kathleen II" flown by Dan Rowan in Papua New Guinea, circa 1943. Rowan did not gain any level of fame as a celebrity until well AFTER his release from the military. Basically what that means is Rowan was not afforded any special treatment going through basic or flight training like a high profile or famous celebrity might. That is to say, in the Army, although he was an officer and pilot, his whole time in the service was done as nothing more than a typical common run-in-the-mill faceless cypher just like everybody else.

For the record I never learned who Miss Kathleen was, if anybody, in real life to Rowan, nor for that fact, what happened to or if there ever was a Miss Kathleen I. To my knowledge, or at least as far as I can remember, when Rowan and I were talking I don't recall the name of his plane coming up. I did ask him if he was one of Dr. Margaret "Mom" Chung's Fair Haired Bastards and he said, "Yeah, me and the Governor," meaning Ronald Reagan, the California governor that would become President of the United States and who Rowan was diametrically opposed to politically. I never did get an answer.[6]

Last but not necessarily least, there is a continuing string of rumors to the effect that Dan Rowan was a major participant, if not THE major participant, in a little event that has come to be known as "The Battle of the Zamboogie Theater." It seems a USO contingent showed up in Papua New Guinea to entertain members of the 7th, 8th, and 9th fighter squadrons. In the process members of the 9th were said to have gotten a female USO entertainer excessively over inebriated, having done so to such a point that when she started her act she began taking off more and more pieces of her clothes. When she got down to the very last two remaining pieces it is said Rowan jumped up on stage with all intents it is supposed, to assist in a quicker removal or even more. A near riot broke out with GIs jumping all over the place and the female USO entertainer "barely escaping in one piece --- on."

One of my favorite cowboy-western movie stars when I was a kid was Roy Rogers. He was just about done with his acting career by the time the late 1960's and early 1970's rolled around and the Rowen & Martin's Laugh In was becoming one of the most popular programs on American prime time TV.

When I first became aware of the Zamboogie Theater incident I recalled the actress in question had starred in one of the best westerns Rogers ever made, the 1943 film "Silver Spurs." Rogers had made 100's of movies, although all were OK within reason and entertaining for the most part, many were not much more than mediocre, Silver Spurs was an exception.


The Battle of the Zamboogie Theater may have transpired in real life, but Rowan's participation in it is something else. For one thing research shows the dates are all wrong. So said, any of you who may be interested in learning more, a clarification of Rowan's participation or non-participation can be found at the Zamboogie link below.









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As to the subject of donations, for those of you who may be interested in doing so as it applies to the gratefulness of my works, I invariably suggest any funds be directed toward THE WOUNDED WARRIOR PROJECT and/or THE AMERICAN RED CROSS.

Footnote [1]

I don't want to get a whole lot into the story of the Flying Tiger pilot William McGarry (1916-1990) right now for wont of deflecting away from my main thesis here on Dan Rowan. Briefly though, and without trying to create a comparison between the two as pilots, I met McGarry during a sand storm one day at a gas station outside a quickie mart in Coachella Valley sometime in the early 1980s while returning from a trip exploring around the Anza-Borrego Desert near Agua Caliente Springs in California. I had become privy to what I thought was some possibly relevant information regarding the so-called Lost Viking Ship that at the time I felt was information well worth pursuing. Although the information turned out to be a false lead and quite bogus, the fact that I went to the Anza-Borrego in the first place ended up being quite a little goldmine for me personally in that I happened across McGarry. I mean what could be better, lost Viking ships in the desert and P-40s.

The two of us arranged to meet the next day and did so starting early in the afternoon, talking way into the evening and night at the La Quinta Resort located sort of half way between the Anza-Borrego Desert and where he lived. It was there he went over with me much of his life as a Flying Tiger, like being shot down over Chiang Mai and after being captured, being held prisoner for nearly three years, escaping in a coffin, that sort of thing --- most of which can be found by going to either my Phyllis Davis page or the Tango Squadron Air Museum linked below:

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Footnote [2]

American soldiers and natives unloading one of the infamous Black Cat flying boats, a PBY-5 Catalina of the 11th Squadron patrol (VP-11) US Navy, on the River Sepik, Papua New Guinea, circa 1943, the same time Rowan was there.


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Footnote [3]

I always felt bad about the unsweet ending between Rowan and I. The minute he remembered me coming out of Roselli's holding court area he must have put me together with Roselli, that I was on his side or in league with him. Now, while it is true Rowan's experience immediately following he and I passing each other coming and going with Roselli may have been of a highly undue nature for him, but I myself had nothing to do with it. It was simply timing that his meeting followed mine. I would loved to have continued the conversation with him, or even given the chance to pick up some other time or some other place, but that was not to happen. I was just about to tell him the same story about me being strafed by a P-40 that I told a heavily injured Army medic in the hospital one day, thinking it might be something he would find interesting --- me being from another era and another war and all, but still being strafed by a P-40. Below is the gist of my conversation with the Army medic I never got to tell Rowan:

"I told the badly wounded medic that I had been a member embedded within a special communication team on a covert mission that crossed over several miles deep into sovereign Chinese territory. Because it involved already in place strung wires and telephone poles, a couple of us, of which I was one, were just about on the edge of being caught out in the open during the daylight hours by a Chinese Red Army truck convoy when, out of nowhere, coming in behind us at about tree top level was a World War II vintage prop machine, it's engine screaming like crazy all the while strafing the shit out of the road in front of the convoy, scattering it all directions and making it turn around and retreat towards where it came from. He said it was a Ghost Ship, a Phantom P-40 that shows up out of nowhere, usually on 'our' side, and disappears just as quickly. Although he had never seen it as it usually never operated as far east as Vietnam, he and others had long heard of it. He also said I was the first, first-person witness he had talked to that had actually seen it."





Footnote [4]

A few years later I was back seeing the same man once again on my stepmother's behalf. Seems she had 35 fully operable vintage slot machines, albeit illegal in California, stashed away in storage unbeknownst to anyone. She had them set up at one time behind a false wall in the bar/dancehall on the ranch she used to own out in the desert. When the dancehall and bar burned down anybody that knew about them thought they were destroyed. Instead she had secreted them away days before the fire. Now, years later, what she was hoping for was a quick sale possibly with the help of the man who had connections in the gaming industry. She asked me to meet with him to see if he could line up a quick buyer no questions asked. The whole story is covered quite well in the following:


Footnote [5]

When I was in Junior High my father and stepmother went to South America for a couple of years. While they were gone I ended up living with a foster couple. Before my stepmother left she arranged for me to get a part time job after school and on the weekends with a friend of hers named Russ Miller who owned one of the few legal card clubs in California and of which just happened to be located in the same town the foster couple lived. One night while I was working in the kitchen some mob dude traveling with a couple of other toughs came through the back door on the way to see the owner of the club for an unannounced visit. In the process I got roughed a bit because he recognized me through my affiliation with my stepmother and her connection back to a major mob mover named Johnny Roselli. A few days later the mob guy who roughed me up ended up so beat up and pistol whipped he was near death, with one of his eyeballs and everything knocked completely out of it's socket. Following up on a potential connection Roselli came by the Normandie Club to talk with me about it. Roselli always called my stepmother my mother and it shows up as such in the quote. The following from the source so cited:

"He told me by the time he came to see me all indications pointed to the fact that the beating had been perpetrated in some fashion by my mother's driver. What he didn't know was if I knew, and if I did why hadn't I come forward with the information. He figured, since I hadn't come forward, in that my top loyalty should have been to him first, Roselli, and not the driver, I must not have known. Roselli told me most of the people who traveled in the wider general circles he traveled in were aware, at least peripherally, who my mother's driver was and how respected he was and how efficient he could be. He wasn't however, mob. Roselli said he just let the whole thing go because there was a certain ring of loyalty about it he liked. Besides, he said, the man who had the shit kicked out of him was one of Mickey Cohen's men and an asshole, saying he didn't like him anyway, plus he didn't see any reason I should have been roughed around so bad just because there may have been some connection back to him, i.e., Roselli."


Several hours before Roselli showed up at the card club Miller casually saunter into the kitchen with a man he seemed to be on fairly good terms with, visiting under the pretense of the man tasting and giving his opinion on some special Italian sauce Miller was having brewed up. At the time I had never seen the man before nor did I know who he was. However, within a few years all of that was to change. The man turned out to be Anthony "Tony" Parravano, a wealthy multi-millionaire construction company owner who also had under his belt a whole slew of high speed sports race cars such as Ferraris and Maseratis, cars that he raced in road races throughout the Southern California area. I met Parravano through his chief mechanic Joe Landaker who I had met at the little mom and pop restaurant/cafe I was working at during my high school years after having left the couple and moving to Redondo Beach, California. Landaker had invited me up to see all the race cars at his shop and the day I did Parravano was there. I told him I had seen him a few years before at the Nomandie Club with the following results:

"After associating me with the Roselli incident, Parravano stepped back in the shop and in so many words told Landaker to give me the run of the place, with Landaker nodding in approvement and giving a slight sign of a salute. Then Parravano came back out bending to my level putting his face in mine and tapping my chest fairly hard with his knuckle said, calling Roselli by his mob name, that the next time I saw him to put a good word in for him, that he had did right by me. Which, although it was a few years later and Parravano already skipped town, I did."


Wouter Melissen




Footnote [6]


Below is a page from an illustrated article, read comic book, published in the early days of World War II when things for the U.S. and her allies in the war against the Axis Powers were pretty gloomy. The whole of the article, which can be found by clicking the page or going to the link below and where the quote above comes from, is about a woman named Dr. Margaret "Mom" Chung, who throughout the war "adopted" and supported at least 509 pilots in her effort to contribute to the war effort. The fourth panel in the article shows Dr. Chung with two pilots, one of which is going to the Flying Tigers. The fifth panel, the one that runs clear across the bottom of the page, implies but doesn't state anything about the Flying Tigers specifically. However, the caption has within its context that "Moms" boys got their wish and joined the Chinese Air Force flying over all parts of the world, even the Burma Road, the implication being that Dr. Chung recruited them into the Chinese Air Force, i.e., the Flying Tigers,

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A few years after graduating from high school but before being drafted, a buddy and I went on road trip throughout Mexico. We bought a 1951 Chevy panel truck we fixed up like a camper and drove down the Baja peninsula crossing by ferry to the mainland from Santa Rosalia, eventually going as far as the Yucatan before turning back toward the states. During the trip, which is fully outlined at the link cited after the quote below, I sought out Colonel Greenlaw who was living in Baja Mexico at the time. Even though where he lived was a rather remote area, it was fairly convenient because our route took us almost right past his place. A little detour and we were there. To wit:

"After leaving Ensenada we continued south on some pretty crummy roads eventually turning eastward across the peninsula to the little town of Santa Rosalia, taking a ferry across the Sea of Cortez to Guaymas. On the road south just before it turns more eastward across the peninsula to Santa Rosalia we turned on Highway 18 not far from Guerrero Negro as I wanted to catch up with a man I hoped to meet who was said to live at a place called El Arco. The man was Colonel Harvey Greenlaw, the onetime second in command of the infamous Flying Tigers of World War II fame. I had read his wife's book Lady and the Tigers (1943) and heard somewhere along the way that Greenlaw lived there. Since I was close by and most likely would never be back I made it a point to look him up, spending a couple of days."


When I was eight or nine years old I went on an almost all summer long excursion throughout the desert southwest visiting a variety of major and minor historical sites as well as fossil and archaeological sites all across Arizona and New Mexico with my uncle. One of the places we visited after we got to New Mexico was Fort Sumner, stopping there specifically for me to see the gravesite of the infamous western outlaw and bad guy Billy the Kid.

Because of a few highly memorable adventures and people I met during that excursion I created a couple of web pages devoted to it. One of the pages revolves around a post high school teenager I met named Tommy Tyree. Tyree worked on a ranch for a man whose dad's brother, in 1908, shot and killed Sheriff Pat Garrett, the man who had in turn shot Billy Kid in 1881. Because of such Tyree was a minor historian of Billy the Kid. However, his major claim to fame was his stature as a witness to the events surrounding the alleged crash of an object of an unknown nature that came out of the night sky during the summer of 1947 related to what has come to be known as the Roswell UFO. The other page, because of my visit to Billy the Kid's gravesite, I have dedicated it to Billy the Kid. On that page I use a graphic of a fairly famous oil painting done in 1937 of the Kid by a fellow desert southwest artist and friend of my uncle named John W. Hilton, of whom, through my uncle, as a kid I both met and as well, saw the original painting.


In an article on the net about Col. Harvey Greenlaw said to have appeared in Cabo Life Magazine, reportedly states that the same artist, John W. Hilton, painted a mural on Greenlaw's wall a year or two before I visited him --- during the same period Hilton was gathering material for a book he was writing titled "Hardly Any Fences," a book that dealt with his various travels in Baja California from 1933 to 1959. In a chapter or section of that book, published in 1977, titled "South to El Arco," in his own hand, Hilton presents a slightly different version of any attempt at what could possibly be misconstrued as him having painted a full wall mural:

"I took a liking to Harvey Greenlaw at once. His house had a dirt floor but there were murals on all of the walls painted and drawn by artists and would-be artists who had stopped by to visit him. I added some cereus and cactus plants on each side of a painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe. This gave her a local touch, we thought."

Two years later I was working as crew on the marlin boat come yacht of the multi-millionaire heir to the Halliburton oil fortune, David J. Halliburton Sr. On the way back from Cabo San Lucas I talked the skipper into pulling into Scammon's Lagoon not far from Guerrero Negro for a quick dirt bike trip over to Greenlaw's place in El Arco. However, except for a housekeeper who didn't know where he was and didn't know when he would be back, the place was empty, my trip to see him too no avail.

Greenlaw, who was born November 14, 1897 in Wisconsin, died January 10, 1982 in Baja California, Mexico after residing in Baja for almost all of his post Flying Tigers life. See:


NOTE: The opening quote at the top of this footnote shows up as a footnote in Of Cobras, Scarabs, Maseratis, and Zen except I make reference to some of the conversation between Greenlaw and myself.(see)

Regarding the police officer who was slain, the following, in my own words, is an extrapolation of events recalled to the best of my ability some years after the fact after having been initially researched from official sources:

The policeman killed in the line of duty during the 1946 Chinatown gambling raid was assisting members of the Los Angeles Police Department's Vice Squad. As the primary contingent of the Vice Squad rushed the front of the building, the policeman, as assigned, had positioned himself along with several other officers toward the rear of the building in order to assist in stopping or apprehending any fleeing suspects. A gun battle erupted between those on the inside and those on the outside when one or more of the men providing security for the illicit gambling discovered any potential escape route through the back had been blocked. The gunmen on the inside fired a significant number of rounds through the rear entrance just as officers entered. A random slug from the volley unleashed by the assailants struck the policeman in the abdomen puncturing his kidney, the officer dying in the hospital from his wound the following day.

Witnesses as well as ballistics connected a specific gun to one of the shooters, the gunman being convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to one to 10 years.

All these years later, for whatever reason, every time I see or think of the 1962 movie Walk On The Wild Side with the immaculately dressed actor Richard Rust playing the role of the velvet gloved enforcer Oliver I can't help but being reminded of my stepmother's bodyguard. Clicking the graphic below will take you to a short film segment of a Turner Classic Movie video from Walk On The Wild Side that at the one minute and thirty second mark shows what and how Oliver subsequently fulfills his expected duties:

(please click image)