Digger: 'I'm coming in'

One night in May 1987, I was alone working the midnight shift at 1700 Broadway. The Wild Colonial Boy had left the newsroom well before I started, but as he often did, Digger called in about 2 am, voice Down Under husky and words slurring, to make sure "Paulie" was okay. At 3, the bulletin came in from the Gulf, an Exocet missile had struck the USS Stark. I called Digger, and he was even deeper in his slurry torpor. Ten minutes later he called back, "Don't forget to call Washington, and I'm coming in." Only John Cotter, perhaps, had ever been more under the influence tottering into that empty newsroom when the lift doors opened and Digger staggered out. He headed straight for the coffee machine, sat down to read in the file, and by 7 am, when the early filing editor strolled in, Digger was stone-cold sober, tightened up like shoelaces in a sturdy pair of brogues. We both stayed on several extra hours, and I will never forget how no one would have guessed what I had witnessed. I never did. RIP Matey. ■