Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

by Hunter S. Thompson

  As you may or may not know, I escaped the Radio shop and am now sports editor on the base paper. It’s a fine job, but as this letter shows, the hours are anything but regular. I sometimes work all night—sometimes all weekend—and almost always all day. I’ve managed to cut my sleep to an even four hours a night, and have become a coffee addict of the worst sort. Since taking this job, I’ve dropped from 190 pounds to a scrawny 170. None of my clothes fit anymore, and I can’t afford to have them tailored. So—I wander around with my pants hanging on me like some sort of burlap bags. I get something of a kick out of seeing just how long I can go on like this, without having some sort of breakdown. I’ll enclose one or two of my stories, so that you can see what sort of effort consumes my day.

  This broadcast continues and seems to say the same thing over and over again. It is becoming increasingly obvious that the UN is going to make a rather pitiful and wholly ineffectual “protest,” and follow it up with an incredibly vicious “condemnation” of the Soviet invasion. I sort of wonder what would happen if a protest from the police would keep people from robbing banks. I can see the headlines now—“Bandits Rob Four Banks, City Votes to Protest.” Christ, how stupid can people be. If this sort of half-hearted crap goes on, we may as well give Russia the whole world and be done with it.

  I’ll try to keep from rambling on about this matter, although I can’t help but think of what it will lead to.

  Except when I have to stay here and cover home games, I spend my weekends in Tallahassee. One of the guys who was at Scott with me lives over there, and he knows almost everyone.9 Naturally, I was compelled to take advantage of the fact that Florida State U. has an over-abundance of young women. I’ve been dating a very pretty young thing10 recently, and the whole setup is rather pleasant.

  In the event of a home game, I’m forced to stay here and cover the thing. After getting a play-by-play description of the melee, I have to write the story and phone it out to the wire services and surrounding local papers (AP, UP, Montgomery, Atlanta, Pensacola, Mobile, Miami, etc.). This takes most of the night, but I don’t really mind it because I like to read my stories in those papers the next day.

  You’d be surprised to hear the names on the Eglin roster. We have 3 former All-Americans, the former leading scorer for the Green Bay Packers, and all sorts of other ex-college stars. Almost all of the teams we play are in a similar position, and most of them stack up pretty well in comparison to the college teams I’ve seen this year.

  Well, it’s now 3:30 and a need for sleep is overcoming me. So I’ll close while I can still type with reasonable accuracy. Naturally, my typing is miserable, but I can’t seem to do anything about it at the moment. You’ll just have to figure some of this out the best you can. Until I hear from you, I remain,

  Your friend,

  Hunter S. Thompson

  Command Courier

  3201 AB Wg

  Eglin AFB, Fla.

  TO SERGEANT TED STEPHENS:

  Stephens, a hard-core military man, was Thompson’s first sergeant at Scott Air Force Base. Thompson’s erratic behavior drove the sergeant crazy, but they eventually developed a mutual respect. By Thompson’s account Stephens overlooked at least a dozen insubordination infractions he committed during his nine-month stint at the base.

  November 10, 1956

  Eglin AFB

  Fort Walton Beach, Florida

  Sergeant Stephens:

  Whether the name of Hunter Thompson will strike a chord in your memory or not, I really don’t know. So I’ll state briefly that I spent a very hectic six months in your squadron, which came to an end early last July. During this time, you may recall that I was intoxicated a good part of the time and was called in to see you innumerable times, to explain an astonishing variety of weird and unique violations of many regulations. I was threatened with every punishment from squadron duty to being buried alive under the stockade. Miraculously, I escaped from Scott with a second stripe—a novelty which you explained the day before I left by saying that you must have been thinking about something else when you saw my name on the promotion roster. Far be it from me to say that I deserved a promotion, but thanks anyway, because I was very glad to get it.

  You’re probably expecting me to say that the stockade here is quite comfortable and that I’m now an airman basic. But no such thing has occurred. As a matter of fact […] I expect to make airman first. Naturally, this will probably astound you, so I’ll attempt some sort of explanation.

  I think that I told you during one of our “sessions” that I was put into the radio career field against my will, and could work up no great love for the tube-pulling business—no matter how hard I tried. In part, I think this malassignment was responsible for a good portion of my trouble. Rather than being enthusiastic, I was totally resentful of any attempts to make a technician out of me. The fact that I came through school with a respectful average (about 55 or 56 I think) can be explained by the testing system at the school. The tests being multiple choice, I found it easy to figure out most of the answers by the application of simple psychology and the use of my memory, which is almost photographic at times. On the whole, though, I simply didn’t give a damn about learning radio and made little effort to retain any of what I learned.

  Well, to your great relief I’m sure, I finally left and, after a week or so at home, made the long trip to Eglin AFB at Fort Walton Beach, Florida. After spending two miserable weeks in the Communications squadron here, I found out that the base paper was critically short of personnel. As I fancy myself to be something of a writer and plan to major in either Journalism or English in college, I volunteered my services and managed to be assigned to the job of sports editor on the Command Courier. I’m enclosing a few of my efforts and I’m sure that you can see that I’m definitely more at home in this field than I ever would be in the capacity of radio technician. At present, I’ve been working on the paper for about two months and, despite the fact that I have no experience at all in this line, I feel that I’m doing very well.

  Instead of battling my environment, I enjoy my work tremendously and put in about 15 hours a day at it—for the simple reason that I like to write. You may also be interested to know that I have become completely sober—except on rare occasions—and have taken out a savings allotment, so that I will be able to have some spending money when I get to college. I am taking classes from Florida State University at night and, all in all, things are going very smoothly. Between studying, filling two sports pages each week, and trying to make some money writing, I’m kept too busy to get into any trouble.

  Actually, the reason I’m writing all this is not because I think you’re worried about what became of me; but to show you that it is sometimes wiser to give people a chance, as you did, rather than inflict a punishment which would only serve to create a troublesome attitude case. We both know that I should have been busted—according to all military regulations. But that would only have made me so bitter and troublesome, that I couldn’t help but be a nuisance to the Air Force. Of course I could have been discharged, but that certainly would have been a negative solution. On the other hand, since you certainly went out of your way to keep from putting the screws to me, I’m now doing what I wanted to do in the first place and am helping both myself and the Air Force. Although I certainly have no plans to reenlist, my initial four years will be productive, and I will have a very valuable background when I begin working for a living as a civilian.

  You might keep this letter in mind if you happen to come upon a case similar to mine, because you will know that it really doesn’t take a violent punishment to straighten a man out. There are some people who react negatively to strictly regulated systems, and could be quite beneficial if they were placed in a job which interests them. Although I have more basic intelligence than a vast majority of the people in the radio career field, I could never have been a good radio man. On the other hand, as a writer, I can fill a very definite vacancy as far as the Air Force i
s concerned. (As further evidence of the ridiculous validity of Air Force tests, you might be interested to know I recently made a 95 on my 5-level test. You recall that I spent only two weeks working on the equipment and very frankly confess that I know absolutely nothing about it. However, the test grade places me in category “A” and means that I don’t have to meet a board to get my 5-level. Actually, it’s sort of funny.)

  Before I close, let me say that I had a fine time during my stay at Scott and would like to get assigned to the Broadcaster11 there, after I finish a tour in some overseas area. I have no idea when I’ll go overseas, but if the world situation doesn’t improve soon, I won’t have long to wait. I only hope that I can get my AFSC12 changed before I suddenly ship out of here for Egypt, or some other war-torn area. Incidentally, if you have never been to the Pine Room Tavern in Mascoutah, by all means give it a try. It’s a quiet little place which makes the best hamburgers I’ve ever tasted, and serves premium beer in frosted mugs, for the paltry sum of $.15. I spent many a night there, watching television and writing letters, and if you happen to drop in on them, tell Erma that I said hello. Contrary to what you may imagine, I was never unruly in there and I’m sure that she got a completely different impression of me than you did.

  Well, the hour is late and I probably should get some sleep. I can’t help but think that, at this time of the night five months ago, I was probably out of my mind and giving some young girl a hard time. Ah, memories! […]

  Don’t feel obligated in any way to answer this letter. I just wanted to thank you for your patience and let you know that you did a wise thing when you didn’t “put me under the stockade.” If there were more sergeants like you and fewer numbwit logheads, there would be fewer discipline problems in the Air Force. Keep up the good work and here’s wishing you good luck.

  very sincerely,

  Hunter S. Thompson

  Command Courier

  3201 AB Wg

  Eglin AFB, Fla.

  P.S. I am serious about the Pine Room Tavern. It’s the only place of its kind around Scott and if you ever have an evening when you have nothing to do, I’m sure that you’d enjoy a few draughts over there. If I ever get back to Scott, that will be the first place I’ll head for. However, I’ll leave that up to you; thanks again and au revoir.

  TO GERALD “CHING” TYRRELL:

  At this time Thompson was reading John Dos Passos—which shows in the style of this letter to his friend at Yale.

  November 11, 1956

  Eglin AFB

  Fort Walton Beach, Florida

  Monsieur,

  Good morning—it’s now 4:26 A.M. here on Florida’s beautiful gulf coast; most of the airmen are sleeping soundly, the cooks are busy preparing the swill for the morning meal, roaches are frolicking merrily in their habitats, and yours truly is merely sitting and thinking. WCKY in Cinncinnati (too many “n”s) provides a background of soft and melancholy music—provoking memories and mental meanderings. Let’s meander a bit. In Budapest, a four-year-old girl, wide-eyed with fright and shivering in the cold light of dawn, huddles in a dark corner of a littered room—wondering what has happened to her parents and why no one has fed her for two days. Outside, her father lies dead, an expression of pain on his face, and covered with a light dew. The city is quiet; for death is always quiet.

  In London—Anthony Eden is wondering which of England’s two enemies will kill it first. If the communists don’t make the kill, the Labour party is bound to. No death here—just deterioration.

  In Paris—a shopkeeper prepares for church. His room above the store is cold in the morning, so he hurries to get to the church, where it is always warm. Faith is very rarely cold.

  In New York—a prostitute quietly sips a cup of coffee in an all night coffee shop. The dawn outside is grey and uninviting. A cab driver sits several seats down from her; wondering if the person who left his wallet containing fifty-two dollars in his cab earlier in the evening will remember where he left it and call the office to claim it. He could buy a new jacket with some of the money; the rest would make a month’s payment on the television set. The prostitute picks a dime up off the counter and plays a song on the juke box. “Turn Back the Hands of Time.” She leans on her elbows and sighs wearily; tired of business and tired of living. Life begins at forty—ha!

  In Cleveland—a cold wind blows in off the lake. The lights come on in the kitchen of a small house in a residential section. Through the window, we see a pretty young wife humming as she makes coffee. A Boston bulldog sleeps in the corner. Nobody else is awake yet.

  In Chicago—a very sleepy man gets slowly off a train and wanders into the coffee shop. He’s going back home to Dayton, Ohio to get married to the girl he dated all through high school. He’s going back to California on his honeymoon. He’s a bit actor at Universal-International.

  In Louisville—Mr. [Harold] Tague turns over in his sleep, perhaps dreaming that he is back at Male, teaching English again. A light fog hovers over the baseball diamonds in Seneca Park. A light-grey Plymouth station wagon speeds out Lexington Road. Is it Bob Butler13? No, it couldn’t be—he’s married and has a child. Anyway, what would he be doing out at this hour of the morning? What was he always doing at this hour of the morning, speeding out Lexington Road? Damn—it does look like Butler at that. Maybe it’s his ghost. Time marches on.

  In Nashville—a colored porter dozes in the corner of the Tennessean Hotel. The city is not yet up and about. A phone rings, startling him out of his sleep. He slowly rises and shuffles over to answer it. By the time he gets there, it has stopped ringing. He picks it up and mumbles indistinctly into the mouthpiece. Putting it down, he shuffles slowly back to his chair.

  In Tallahassee—a very pretty dark-haired girl sits up in bed and brushes the sleep from her eyes. She wonders if her date this afternoon will be as dull as the one last night. Why doesn’t she go to New York and be a model—at least her dates would be exciting. She’ll probably get married soon, to a dull but faithful boy, and live a life of contented boredom. Still—it would be nice.…

  In New Orleans—Eichelburger staggers out of a bistro. Drunk for the first time in weeks, he draws a caustic comment from the bartender: “these goddamn college boys.”

  In St. Louis—an airman sits alone at a bus stop. Broke, he wonders how he’s going to get back to Scott Air Force Base. He wonders why in hell he ever left home in the first place. He had a good job at his father’s store in Detroit, and now he’s waiting to be shipped into the midst of a war in the Middle East. Maybe that winehead over there will give him some money. No, he looks like he hasn’t had a meal in a week. Oh well. A car stops by the lake in Forest Park; the lights go out.

  In Denver—a newsboy hurries through his rounds so he can get back to bed soon. The slap of a Sunday paper hitting a porch is the only sound to break the chilly silence. He folds another paper and hurries down the street.

  In San Francisco—life goes on. Hopes rise and dreams flicker and die. Love plans for tomorrow and loneliness thinks of yesterday. Life is beautiful and living is pain. The sound of music floats down a dark street. A young girl looks out a window and wishes she were married. A drunk sleeps under a bridge. It is tomorrow.

  In Fort Walton Beach—an Air Policeman looks into the newspaper offices at Eglin Air Force Base and wonders if that fool in there is looting the place or if he is crazy enough to be working. A station in Tallahassee is broadcasting some sort of religious music. Yours truly prepares to leave the office and go eat breakfast before going to bed. He will sleep most of the day and work all night again tonight. Tomorrow is a holiday. He is not particularly happy, but neither is he particularly sad. He just sits … and thinks … and wonders.

  I just thought I’d put some of my thoughts into writing. Thanks for your last letter and write again when you have the time. I always enjoy hearing from you. Good luck and here’s hoping that you’re always “shoe.”14

  your friend,

  Hunter

/>   TO JUDY STELLINGS:

  A beautiful Louisville debutante, Stellings dated Thompson in high school. While in the Air Force he often wrote her about his dislike for the military and his longing for the Bluegrass State. During his stint at Eglin Thompson immersed himself in the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald—as evidenced by the “green light” here, among other things.

  November 18, 1956

  Eglin AFB

  Fort Walton Beach, Florida

  Dear Judy:

  Sorry I haven’t written sooner, but as you will see when you read a little further on, I’m busy about 25 hours a day, and must squeeze my letter-writing into odd moments.

  Right now, I’m about 6000 feet above Montgomery, Alabama, en route from Shreveport, Louisiana to Eglin. I’m ensconced in the rear of a C-47, sitting on one parachute and resting my typewriter on another. Having just finished writing up the two games we played with Barksdale AFB this weekend, I became rather tired of writing about basketball and remembered that I still hadn’t answered your letter. Even though my fingers are almost numb from the cold, I’m still able to pound out one or two incoherent, but faintly intelligible sentences.