The Big Dream

As he checked food items for Peoples Drug Stores, Inc. in Washington, 32-year- old Frank Porterfield had a wonderful recurring daydream--he pictured himself leading his National Guard MP platoon in dashing feats of arms. Like his guardsmen, Lieut. Porterfield was tired of the dull routine of study and drill which filled their Tuesday evenings at the armory. He decided to put his dream

into effect.

At 9:40 on drill night last week, 50 white-helmeted MPs came roaring onto the Capitol grounds in a line of bouncing, skidding jeeps. Luckily for all concerned, Congress had gone home for the day. Most of the guardsmen ran off into the bushes with waving pistols and carbines, yelling "Take cover!" But a few drivers kept their jeeps snarling in circles. Other MPs ran to the Capitol steps and set up a light machine gun.

Roscoes Out. Guardsmen with walkie-talkies yelled into their instruments; an ambulance came screaming up the drive. Its driver bawled: "Where are the wounded?" The effect of all this was spectacular: Lieut. Porterfield had told nobody--not even the Capitol police--that he was "recapturing" the Capitol from an imaginary but bloodthirsty mob.

Pedestrians peered and crowded, babbling curiously. A Capitol cop who was walking his beat on the West Front took one look at the shouting guardsmen and prepared for countermeasures.

"Honest to God," he said afterward, "I hadn't the least idea of what was coming off. I snuggles down in the bushes and takes out my roscoe. I swear if one of them had got between me and the white steps, so's I could have a good target, I'd have let him have it."

But before pistols barked, Police Lieut. William Reed, in charge of the night force at the Capitol, charged across the grounds, swollen with professional indignation and crying loudly for information. An MP informed him proudly: "We've just taken the Hill." "Get the hell out of the way," he roared, and descended on Dreamer Porterfield.

Beg Pardon. He pointed at Porterfield's carbine and yelled: "Is that thing loaded?" "No, sir," said the guardsman. "Well, son," said Reed happily, hauling out his .38, "mine is. Get going, you're under arrest."

Porterfield talked fast. After 20 minutes of heavy breathing the cops relented, decided not to throw him in jail for trespassing. The warriors returned to the armory and turned in their weapons. Back at Peoples Drug next day, the food department's most highly publicized member groaned: "Oh, Lord, it was just a routine problem. We didn't mean anything bad by it, honest!"

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