Recon Team Lunchbox

by Rod Carlson

It was nearly noon and I was sitting in the cockpit looking up at rotor blades turn slower and slower and finally lurch to a stop. Our helicopter had just touched down at an obscure landing pad on the outskirts of Danang.

Bruce Lake reached over his head to the instrument panel and flipped the lever that turned off the screaming turbine used to power the aircraft’s systems during shutdowns. Helicopter aircraft commanders typically order their copilots to handle such details, but Bruce Lake and I were pals, both first lieutenants and he simply wasn’t that kind of guy. Bruce Lake hefted himself out of his armor-plated wingchair and squeezed through the narrow passage to the cargo compartment that was like the inside of a commuter plane but without seats.

Even though we’d only flown a few minutes from Marble Mountain Air Facility to the home of the First Marine Reconnaissance Battalion. Our crew chief, Jawarski and our gunner Davis, both corporals, had already opened the overhead doors and were examining the engines and hydraulic lines. Like two Mayo Clinic specialists, their gloved hands were poking around in our chopper’s innards in search of the slightest imperfection.

In addition to another H46 tandem-rotor helicopter parked behind us on the acre-sized steel landing pad, there were two Huey gunships, each with loaded rocket pods and machineguns bristling from every orifice. The gunships had arrived just ahead of us were waiting for us. Of the four pilots, three were captains and the other a real pro, Major Dowling, had a shiny gold oak leaf on his cover. Like us, they wore green fire-proof Nomex flight suits and for taking notes, they were carrying the kneeboards which when flying were held with elastic to their thighs. Strolling toward us they looked like a casual foursome headed for the first tee on a Saturday morning.

Compared to Bruce Lake, I was new to the Squadron, call sign “Highboy,” and still had much to learn, but I’d flown 1st Recon missions and was fascinated by its encampment that was built like an Incan village on the sides of a small mountain. Actually it was less a mountain and more of a overgrown, tropical butte, a Shangri-La rising several hundred feet above the valley floor just west of the city. From where we stood on the landing pad, the recon headquarters was hidden beneath thick jungle vegetation. Climbing the near vertical slope required slogging up a series of crude stairways and following a winding, switch-back trail ever upward.

Along the trail there were small red signs with yellow letters spelling words like ARMORY and INTEL that identified the function of various shed-like structures. The sign by the door that Major Dowling held open for the rest of us simply read OPS. We filed inside and arrayed ourselves in a casual arc in the center of a relatively large room near an island of desks covered with radio gear and occupied by a half dozen or so Marines. The walls were covered with pale-green topographic maps, each with a clear acetate overlay amply annotated by a black grease pen.

Against the outside brightness at the end of the room, a silhouette of a man stood motionless. When our shuffling and milling had subsided, a colonel stepped forward. He was old, rock trim, with a chiseled face and a bolt-cutter jaw. There were plenty of folding chairs about, but he didn’t suggest we sit.

“Here’s the deal,” he said moving close to one of the maps and squinting. “Lunch Box is a seven-man patrol that’s been out here a week, supposedly patrolling along this route.” He pointed to a black line that snaked erratically within a dinner plate-sized area on the map. “I say supposedly because we haven’t heard from them in five days. For certain, they haven’t been captured. They’re either dead or purposefully silent. If the latter, they’re being dogged and in constant contact with the NVA.” I didn’t know much about recon but I knew that “constant contact” meant a running gunfight in the jungle. Even though the colonel was calm, it sounded about as bad as it could be.

The colonel gave us the exact map coordinates, the bearing and distance in nautical miles from the Danang Tacan station, our only radio navigational aid, and most important, Lunchbox’s radio frequency. Then the colonel’s expression sagged. Suddenly he seemed older and tired. He ran his eyes over us, looking at each of us, and then quietly said “God speed, Gentlemen.”

Gravity expedited our descent and soon we were gathered in the shade of our helicopter. Major Dowling stood on the aft ramp and outlined the mission, repeated what we’d heard on the mountain and added his view of what was going to happen. Nothing fancy, we’d fly in loose formation, slow to not outrun the gunships to a point five miles short of where Lunchbox would hopefully sing out. Then, and not until then, we’d know how bad it was and we’d improvise from there. With all heads tilted forward, we studied our maps as the major spoke, his words, no doubt, accompanied by our own mental images of the terrain and anticipated action.

“We’ve got first dibs on two F-4 Phantoms if we need help,” Major Dowling said. “And we probably will because of the heavy vegetation. They’ve got full bomb loads of 500 pounders. Crank up when you see my blades turn.” He started toward his gunship first at a walk, then running. Bruce Lake and I walked up the ramp toward Ski and Davis who helped us into our twenty-pound armored chest protectors affectionately known as “bullet bouncers.”

Within minutes, our gaggle of four was flying slow in a relaxed formation through and around billowing clouds, some round and wispy, some towering and dense, some starkly white, and others pink or yellow. Below, stretching to the horizon in every direction was a choppy ocean of green rolling, undulating hills interspaced with sharp and jagged ridges and peaks. Everywhere a carpet of dense green, everywhere, except for a ribbon of silver, an endless river snaking around the uplands.

To deny the NVA time to react, Major Dowling had it figured so that we’d get to our destination exactly on time. But time was running out. We were getting close. I repositioned my shoulder holster so I’d know exactly where to reach for my .45 automatic. Bruce Lake noticed my final preparation for battle and, undoubtedly sensing my nervousness, nodded his approval. “There they are,” he pointed at the two Phantoms just before they disappeared behind a towering cumulous cloud, but not before both had left their calling cards, corkscrew trails of black exhaust.

We watched the pair of Phantoms make their practice runs. They circled around to the north and then dove, one after the other, into the jungle. They pulled up at the last second and soared back to altitude as though being swung on the end of an invisible rope and then disappeared behind a mountainous cloud.

In a few seconds, just as we’d finished our orbiting turn, the Phantom appeared again in the distance. Evading a cloud, he’d circled too far to the south and was now descending rapidly and banking hard to the right, to get back on course. The Phantom didn’t move to the left or right or up or down. It just kept getting bigger in our windscreen. With our mutual closure rate of 500 knots, the Phantom was on us in a flash, but by then, Bruce Lake had cut the power and bought us a hundred feet. The Phantom’s shockwave hit us like a fist as it passed so close we could see the small type on the olive drab bombs under its wings.

We looked at each other. Bruce Lake was expressionless. All I could do was laugh, “I guess he didn’t see us,” I said. Bruce Lake just scowled and shook his head. During those few seconds when we’d almost died but didn’t, our phantoms had over flown the target and each dropped a five-hundred pounder. We couldn’t see the bomb, only cloud of black smoke and dirt and shock waves rippling through the jungle in concentric circles like a pebble tossed into calm water. After two more runs, Major Dowling said, “Highboy One, you’re cleared in, play it cool, the zone could still be hot. Call your final approach.”

Bruce Lake cut the power, pushed the nose over into a vertical dive and banked the helicopter into a steep right-hand turn—instantly we were spiraling down at 2000 feet per minute directly over the brown smudge surrounded by green jungle. With each revolution, the landing zone grew larger until I could see splintered trees and deep craters. At what looked to me like the last second, he raised the nose, added some power and radioed “Highboy One on short final,” and then over the intercom to Ski and Davis, who were looking down the barrels of their fifties, “Be careful. Don’t shoot to the west, that’ll be Lunchbox.”

The landing zone was an open wasteland of craters and splintered trees. I pointed at a level swath of dirt and Bruce Lake nodded. Still descending, he waited, then banked the helicopter to the right, added power to brake us and kicked in enough right rudder to complete the U-turn just before he landed. Except for the deafening racket of the two gunships loosing their barrages of rockets and machinegun fire, we were on the ground, alone, in a naked, painful silence. I felt my fingers inching toward the .45. Just as my gut was about to explode, Ski yelled and I looked back to see that he’d left his .50 and was back at the ramp pulling a Marine into the cabin. Behind him, others were now clambering aboard. Then Ski sprinted forward toward his gun yelling “Got ’em all, let’s go.”

As Bruce Lake applied max power and catapulted us into a shallow climb, I was jolted by heart-stopping explosions. Just behind my head Davis had started shooting his .50. Davis wasn’t taking any chances. The recon team wasn’t either—I looked back in time to watch them using the butts of their M-16s to break the windows and start shooting out both sides like a stagecoach hightailing it through Indian country. By fifteen hundred feet, we’d leveled off and I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw a face covered in camouflage paint and a weeks’ worth of dirt. It was Lunchbox leader. His large, white teeth gleamed as his lips mimed “thank you.” I watched him go back to his men who were leaning against their backpacks, grinning and slapping each other and enjoying the cold breeze blowing through the open cabin. I looked over at Bruce Lake. He was leaning back in the seat, with his fingers light on the controls, and a slight, self-satisfied smile on his lips. After a few peaceful minutes, we were back on the ground. As the recon team shuffled down the ramp, their colonel was there to greet them. I could see his face as he counted heads and then he look up at us and smiled.

Then, just as we were about to take off, I realized that someone was standing by my side window. One of the recon team was looking up at me. He was gaunt and small, dwarfed by his pack. He had the look of someone who’d grown up impoverished, maybe working in an Appalachian coal mine. Over the drumming of the rotor blades and the howl of the engines, he rose to his full height and yelled, “Anytime, anyplace you need help, just holler and I’ll be there,” He then saluted smartly, smiled and walked away. I clicked the mike and repeated what he’d said.

As we both watched him trudge toward his comrades, Bruce Lake replied softy, “Semper Fi, Marine.”

I reached for a knob on the instrument panel, dialed in a new frequency, reported mission complete and added that Highboy was available.

I checked my watch. We’d flown just 53 minutes. The afternoon was still young.

Semper Share:

Recon Team Little Gull

by Tom Shainline

When I arrived in country, you were in the bush.
I was assigned to your team, call sign “LITTLE GULL”.
You were on patrol; I was in your tent.
I did not know you.

I saw your pictures, your Mother and Father,
your wife, your children, your sweetheart, your friends, Miss January.
People you knew and loved, people who knew and loved you.
I saw your Bible, your prayer book, your cross and beads.
I picked up your mail, and laid it on your bunk.
I picked up a care package from home, it smelled so good.
It must be filled with lots of goodies, packed by loving hands.
I thought, when you get back I’ll have some of this good stuff.
I did not know you.

For two days I went to the comm center and followed your progress on the map.
Little colored pins were placed when you reported your position
as you made your way through the mountains.
I looked at the contour lines, and thought how terribly steep they were
and far in you were.
How difficult that climb must be for you.
But I did not know you.

Then I heard on the radio, “Contact! Contact! Contact! Little Gull, Contact!”
The company commander said (don’t worry) it happens all the time, they will be …all right.
We could hear the gunfire when you keyed the handset.
We could hear the explosion of hand grenades.
We heard your last choking words that sounded like, “GAS!”
I heard your voice; I did not know you.

Silence.
The radio operator called you again and again, “Little Gull, Little Gull, sitrep.”
“Little Gull do you hear me? Little Gull go to secondary frequency.”
No answer,
only silence.
A reaction team was put together, I made sure I was on it.
We flew out as darkness set in and landed several miles from your position.
There was no moon.
In the darkness we stumbled up one mountain and down another.
It was too dangerous; we set in for the night.
I wondered how you were? What happened to you?
I did not know you.

At first light we set out climbing up one mountain,
sliding and falling down another.
We were fourteen, carrying weapons and ammo,
you were just six carrying three times as much,
how difficult that must have been for you.
We found your position.
I was not prepared for what we saw.
All your equipment,
your weapons, your radios were gone.
You were strewn about, hacked apart,
tears filled my eyes, rage filled my heart,
I gagged and chucked.
I saw you, but I did not know you.

We called for an airdrop of body bags.
Six bags for six men.
Six bags for six boys who became men,
so far from the people in the pictures.
So far from the people in the letters,
so far from those who knew you.
But I did not know you.

I picked you up carefully and placed you in the bag,
piece by piece, trying to put the same person in the same bag.
We moved out, back to the LZ, I carried you, the smallest.
I carried you, I felt you, I smelled you,
I did not know you.

I tried so hard not to drop you;
I tried to keep you from hitting the ground, as we went up and down the mountains.
I could not, please forgive me.
The bag ripped, blood and body fluids seeped out and over me.
I can still feel it.
I placed you in the chopper and flew back with you to the base.
I placed you on a litter as if you were still alive and watched them roll you away,
I never saw you again,
I did not know you.

All these years you have been a part of me.
You have lived with me every hour of every day of every year.
A secret to be kept, a memory to grow,
pain to be nurtured until the secret was too great,
the memory overwhelming, the pain unbearable.
I must let you out; I must let you go, I must tell the secret.
I will always remember you; I will always honor you.
I never knew you.

Marine Recon: militaryphotos.net

“GHOSTS OF LITTLE GULL”

I thought I was the only one, the only one who felt the pain. The only one who shed tears of blood. The only one who lived every day and every night in the past. For years and years I felt this way. For three decades I have felt this way. I was wrong!

I was in the PTSD ward at a VA hospital in PA. When I finally began to come to grips with the past. WE were going to the Memorial in Reading. As with the cutbacks we no longer went to THE WALL. My therapist has been pushing me to put my feelings down on paper, what came tumbling out was LITTLE GULL.

LITTLE GULL was the overflowing of all the feelings of all the years of all the pain and suffering I have endured. I felt I was the only one feeling pain. I WAS WRONG!

I am not the man in the poem. I am not the man in the tent. I am not the man looking at the pictures. I am not the man on the reactionary team. I am not the man carrying the bodies. WE ALL ARE.

We feel the loss of every brother. We feel the pain of every wound received. WE all wish we could have done something different. We all wish we could change the past, but we can not!

All we can do, what we must do is keep their memories alive. Not just their exploits, not just what they did on patrol but the humanity of those brave men. WE must tell their story over and over again, we must not let it die.

The RECON TEAMS of the past (our teams) are the bridge to the teams of the future. The next generation of MARINES needs to know of the valor and honor of our brothers, of you.

I will continue to put my feelings down on paper for all to see. I will not be quiet. I will not shut up. I will not be silenced. I will tell the story of RECON and their humanity until the day I die.

SEMPER FI
THOMAS E. SHAINLINE
Charlie Company 68-69

Semper Share:

Paul Melvin Beddoe, KIA Vietnam

PFC Paul Melvin Beddoe was a member of Company B, 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion. PFC Beddoe died Jan. 21, 1968 in a Da Nang hospital, one day after he received fragment wounds from an explosive device while on patrol in the vicinity of Khe Sanh (Hill 881S). He was my Dad’s 1st cousin. As long as he is remembered, he will never be forgotten!  ~Cpl. Beddoe

Bob (PJ) Pagano was with Paul when he was hit. The following is PJ’s first-hand account as written to me.


Hi Wally,

I didn’t know Paul that long. He was a “new guy” compared to the hand full of us that were left from when the company moved up to Khe Sanh. At the time Paul came to the company I had pulled twenty something patrols and was pretty crazy compared to those who were just coming on board. Crazy in the way you had to be to survive so many missions in the densely jungled and incredibly rough terrain at Khe Sanh which held at least 20,000 fresh NVA solders. All that combined to give Bravo Company the highest casualty rate of any Recon Company in the war for that period – by far. I became, let’s say, “focused” on being in the bush and my social skills kind of dropped away as did all the more refined behavioral features of my personality. I didn’t really get to know the new guys well because they were, well, new and I didn’t like getting to know them and then see them get killed or wounded. If I stayed kind of aloof I wouldn’t get emotionally invested and loosing them would be easier, or so I thought anyway (it didn’t really work but one grabs at anything to try to blunt the blow). The new guys, in turn, were a little stand offish with us older guys (keep in mind that chronological age is irrelevant, it was time in the bush that determined if you were “old” or “new”). They saw us as kind of wild and strange – and we were.

Cpl. Charles W. Bryan, Unknown (not Barkwood), LCpl. Ronald Parr, LCpl. William T. Hollis and PFC Paul M. Beddoe

I pulled a couple of patrols with Paul before Barkwood. He had a good sense of humor and was of upright character. New guys were sent out with experienced teams to get “snapped in” as they say. They then either stayed with that team or were assigned to another team as needed. Barkwood was a brand new team having just been formed and consisted mostly of new guys that, like Paul, had already been “snapped in”. The exceptions were Lionel Guerra and Ron Parr both of whom had a fair amount of experience. However, Barkwood didn’t have an experienced radio operator so when I approached the team leader, Corporal “Bill” Bryan, and asked if I could join the team he walked me right over to the XO and got it approved. As you know from having read the stuff on the website about the Warriors of Hill 881S; we (Team Barkwood) choppered up to Hill 881S on January 19th 1968. India Company of 3/26 occupied the hill under the command of Captain William Dabney and he was to take most of India Company the following day and patrol up to Hill 881N where they were to look for the lost radio from Recon Team Dockleaf that had been hit there on the 17th and lost two men. (I had been in the bush on the 17th and remember monitoring the fire fight on my radio and telling our team leader, Julian Kalama, that Cpl. Healy and Lt.Yeary had been killed. I don’t remember the call sign of Kalama’s team at that point but I do remember that when I came in from that patrol I instantly asked to go out with Barkwood because I wanted to get back in the bush.) We were attached to India’s 3rd Platoon who made up the right column and we were to drop off covertly when we neared Hill 881N. (This was a method that was used from time to time to insert Recon teams. I didn’t care for it because you immediately had to worry about the Grunts opening up on you. It only took one of them not to get the word, catch a glimpse of you, mistake you for the NVA and open up whereupon the rest would as well.) Our orders were that if India came under fire before we could drop off we were to return to Hill 881S (because our mission at that point would have been blown). When about half way to Hill 881N the Grunts came under fire. It started with seven shots from a heavy machine gun; first three then four a second later. India took a lot of casualties and our team leader, Cpl. “Bill” Bryan volunteered that the team join the Grunts rather than withdraw as instructed by our operation order. Lt. Brindly, India’s 3rd Platoon Commander, accepted the offer and we added our seven rifles to theirs.

Paul was calm and collected as we took some fire and established a perimeter for evacuation of the Grunt wounded and dead. He required no special attention and did what he was supposed to without hesitation or complaint. That may not sound like much but it is; it really is. A lot of guys, especially new guys, jam up at these times. Helping with dead and wounded Marines, taking fire, smoke, concussion, noise like you’ve never heard before, choppers coming in firing, not knowing what will happen next – all that is really scary stuff. Paul didn’t bat an eye, kept a steady hand and performed like a real pro.

Lt. Brindly asked us to get on line for an assault up the small hill in front of us (the intermediate objective). This was the classic Marine “walking assault”. To put a point on it: We were about to walk, uphill, into the flaming muzzels of an entrenched, numerically superior and determined enemy. By comparison, the scariest thing you’ve ever imagined is kids stuff. Paul got on line, again, without hesitation or complaint.

Lieutenant Brindly gave the command: “Fix bayonets!” We all looked at him at once. Recon guys never hear this command in their line of work. In fact, I doubt that there was a single bayonet among us. But it sure drove the fact home about what we were about to do.

Paul never wavered. The assault stepped off and we moved downhill for a few yards and then started up the intermediate objective. We quickly lost contact with the Grunts on our left (what remained of 3rd Platoon) and were now the extreme right of the Marine line. The elephant grass was high and we had trouble keeping sight of each other. The enemy held fire until we were among them at the top of the hill. Then things got pretty dicey.

The Grunts didn’t know we had made it that far and opened up on us at the same time the NVA did (the Grunts couldn’t see us because of the elephant grass and were shooting at where they knew the NVA were). We were vastly outnumbered and rifle fire was coming from every direction along with enemy grenades and Marine mortar rounds. There was so much fire and so many NVA that each of us was locked in our own little war. It was pretty desperate fighting and we were all hit. I took a bullet right away and was preoccupied with that and getting the Marine fire off of us so I don’t know what happened with Paul – I couldn’t see him. He was taken from the hill along with Lionel Guerra and the others about an hour or so before I was. I know Lionel saw him at the bottom of the hill where they had taken the wounded (Lionel was wounded very badly also).

Eventually, I was taken from the hill (something I had not expected to live to see) through a fantastically courageous rescue by the Marines of India Company (God bless the Grunts). After a short stop at Khe Sanh for blood, morphine and bandages I was flown to the huge Navy Hospital in Da Nang. They had me on a gurney and were wheeling me into a large, dark room that had scores of metal saw horses holding up stretchers on either side of the central isle that they were rolling my gurney down. The room seemed cavernous and had only enough light to barley make out the interior. As we proceeded down the isle there was an island of bright light coming up on my left. As we got loser I could see that there were lights and medical personnel clustered around a stretcher. I.V.’s were running to a Marine on the stretcher; it was Paul.

The Corpsman around him were comforting him in the uniquely tender way military men do. A genuine form of love that exists only in those circumstances. I called out for him not to worry, that everything was OK and that he was going home. He didn’t hear me. He was quite delirious and wasn’t conscious in the real sense of the word. Had he survived he would have had no memory of that time – I’m sure of that. The Corpsman pushing my gurney told me in a subdued voice that Paul had shrapnel wounds throughout his liver and pancreas and wouldn’t survive. “S**t!” I thought (the same thing I thought back on the hill when Cpl. Bryan told me he was going to die and then did so). S**t – what a totally inadequate comment. “Inadequate” applies though; that’s what I felt while I watched my friends die and could do nothing about it.

I don’t know how anyone can say that something positive can come out of a tragedy like Paul’s death. But, for me at least, I’ve tried to off set it to the tiny degree that I can. Over the last 37 years I’ve never passed an accident or failed to render assistance whenever the opportunity presented itself. I’m not a paramedic or anything but I’ve been able to help none the less. I know some basic first aid but I’ve found that holding and comforting an injured person while waiting for the ambulance to arrive helps them a great deal – they’ve told me so. One went through a lot of trouble to track me down two years after the fact, just to say thanks. I do it because of Paul, and he’s with me while I’m doing it.

This is something else you must know: When Lionel and I were at the Khe Sanh reunion last July we were swarmed by the Grunts that were there on January 20th 1968. They told us that Team Barkwood was eternally bonded to their company for having fought beside them on that hellish day. A few years ago Col. Dabney (the C.O. of India Company) told me that when we assaulted up that hill we assaulted into a company sized flanking movement that the NVA were making on the Marine right. He said our aggressiveness stalled the NVA attack (the NVA mistook us for a much larger unit than the seven men we were). Had that flanking movement been successful a lot of marines would have died – a lot. That night hill 861 was hit and almost fell (an incredible battle). It held because of the supporting fire that 881S was able to deliver. Had that NVA flanking movement not been stalled the Marines on 881S probably would not have been able to support hill 861 and without that support 861 certainly would have fallen (indeed, 881S might have fallen as well). There, at the reunion, I looked at all the Marines and Corpsmen from those two hills and I realized that there were hundreds of children and grand children alive today because of Paul’s courage. His death is neither in vain nor hollow. It begot a great deal of life.

I spoke with Lionel Guerra the other day and he told me that before that fateful day he and Paul had been talking and he discovered that Paul had family in Oregon and Washington. After Lionel got home to Washington he tracked down an aunt of Paul’s in the eastern part of the state. He told me that she said Paul’s death had been hard on the family and abruptly brushed him off. Obviously, Lionel didn’t pursue any further contact. So, I leave it to you as to whom you pass this along to. I don’t think it can hurt to know that a loved one’s death was not for naught but I leave it to your good judgment.

Semper Fi,
PJ
(Bob Pagano)

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PAUL BEDDOE
PAUL BEDDOE
PAUL BEDDOE

OBITUARY NOTICE:

Son Of Phoenix Couple Dies In Vietnam Hospital

Marine PFC. Paul Melvin Beddoe Jr., 19, son of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Melvin Beddoe, Route 4, Box 466A, Phoenix, died Jan. 21 in a Da Nang hospital, one day after he received fragment wounds from an explosive device while on patrol in the vicinity of Quang Tri. The Marine was a member of Company B, 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion. He was rushed to the hospital in Da Nang immediately after the injury occurred but treatment failed to save his life.

The message was delivered by a Marine captain and a Navy officer from Eugene to the youth’s mother yesterday afternoon. His father, who is with the Miller Products Division of W. R. Grace Company, was attending a meeting in Sacramento where he was contacted. He returned to Medford last night.

Young Beddoe, an outstanding student throughout his high school career at Phoenix, had been interested in military history throughout his life, listing it as his favorite subject. After attending Walla Walla College in College Place, Wash., for one year he enlisted in the Marines June 1, 1967, and arrived in Da Nang Dec. 4.

He was born in Medford Nov. 13, 1948. While a student at Phoenix High School, he won the first place trophy in the junior men’s division in oratory at the Linfield College Speech Tournament. He was also prominent in track at the high school with the shotput his leading event. He was one of the speakers at his class graduation at Phoenix High School and was a member of the Young Americans for Freedom.

The Beddoe family has lived in the Rogue River Valley since 1945. Surviving in addition to the Marine’s parents are two sisters, Dr. Gladys Beddoe, who is in her first year of residency for surgery in the Riverside County Hospital, Riverside, Calif., Pamela Beddoe, a freshman at Phoenix High School, and one brother, Alex F. Beddoe, in his second year at Loma Linda University School of Dentistry, Loma Linda, Calif.

Siskiyou funeral Service Directors are in charge of arrangements.

Semper Share: