Johnny, Joyce Lived Quiet Life Till Gunfire Intruded

They lived in a group of old apartments called Paradise Court. It is less than two blocks from the sand at Ocean Beach.

The neighborhood is just like a hundred other beach neighborhoods: a hamburger stand on the corner, small groceries and quick-service stores, the unmistakable smell of salt water in the air and a never-ending “swooooh” in your ears from the white waves.

Johnny and Joyce Swindle were typical of many young Navy couples who move to San Diego.

They were married young in a small Alabama town when she was 19—and he was 20. Johnny had not finished high school before joining the Navy, but had worked hard to help support his widowed mother and her five other children.

He had been in the Navy for more than two years, then had flown back to Alabama to marry his high school sweetheart.

The couple left for San Diego soon after their marriage, for Johnny was to go to Alaska for duty. In July he planned to “re-up” for six more years.

Johnny and his bride of less than two weeks chose an inexpensive furnished apartment near the ocean, which they both loved.

They had been there a week Wednesday night. The couple took many walks on the beach in that week. It gave them a chance to be alone in a cool sea breeze. And they could talk freely, and stretch, even yell if they wanted.

Johnny and his blonde wife were standing together, leaning on a rib-high wall and looking towards the ocean when they were shot and killed by a sniper. Apparently they had no warning. No one has found a reason.

Early Thursday their three-room apartment was filled with policemen. All were in plain clothes except a big sergeant, whose head nearly reached the low ceiling. His crash helmet hung awkwardly in his big left hand as he talked in a low voice.

The others pored over the couple’s belongings—on the chest of drawers, an end table, in the closet. A big stuffed, blue bear sat on the floor beside a faded couch. The bear—the kind you win at amusement parks for knocking over wooden bottles—was still wrapped in cellophane.

In front of a rough lounge chair in the living room was a paint-by-the-numbers set. One of the paintings, a poised ballerina, was filled in on the head and an outstretched arm, but the rest of her was a maze of blue lines and tiny numbers.

The painting was propped against the chair on the floor.

A used brush lay flat across the other painting and beside it, with the top on to keep from drying out, was a small glass jar of brown paint.

The ballerina will never be finished.