Men Marching (a Novelette)
“A Midwinter Soldier”
(A None-fiction, Novelette, and Satire on Army Life)
(Fort Bragg, North Carolina) See inner Chapters (1969-1970)
[Sketches of Real life in the Old Army Boot Camp]
Soldiers’ First Day
(October, 1969)
I would learn in time, a Soldiers’ first day, is like every other day in Basic Training, one long, very long day. For me it would be thirteen weeks. Chick Evens
Diary Annotations
(Chick Evens reading his Diary)
Chapter One
The Bus
When we arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Basic Training Camp, in the Fall of ’69, we were greeted (we being, a number of us who had come from the Minneapolis, Minnesota Army Recruiting Station, now coming off the bus), greeted I say, by cynically sneering, and frankly hyper, pie-eyed looking white sergeants, two of them, with Forest Ranger type looking sombreros on their red-necks, I had a ninety pound duffle bag laying by my side.
My lip did something like an Elvis, snicker back at them; my hand did something like a fist.
We all were a little wobbly, staggering like a train coming off its tracks, as we had gotten off the bus, now into the camp area trying to form some kind of formation, that was more of a zigzagged line, looking like a puzzle ready to be put together. My captors faced me, two white sergeants; one perhaps in his mid twenties, the other in his mid thirties; one being a Buck Sergeant type sergeant, the other a Sergeant First Class sergeant, so I would learn these ranks within a few days, this being our first real day in the Army, so, they faced us, I should say, stood in front of us, as we formed this jagged arrangement, line of sorts.
Next, they encouraged us to obey them, as they treated us like criminals, or else they’d tie one of our legs like they do to camels, so they’d not run off; they both somehow produced a beautiful smile in-between their sneers: we were what they called ‘New fish’ (in their aquarium).
They grinned at us, and we grinned at each other trying to figure out what all the grinning was about, it would seem we were parroting them. Then the engine of the bus stopped, turned off, a loud silence seemed to pass over the bus, onto us, and encircle the two Drill Sergeants, as these tow new gods of Caesar’s Army checked us out. They had warned us to be silent, and now without words, their mannerisms were showing it. At this time the sun was coming down, as the two divine sergeants debated on if we should be allowed to eat dinner, while us new soldiers, smiled at one another appreciatively. They paused, looked about the area, and accordingly pointed their fingers, and like the parting of the Red Sea, appeared the mess hall, I looked down through the clutter of buildings, “Yes,” I said to myself, “that could be a mess hall,” never seeing one before, a door was open, although to be honest with you readers, I would have liked to have gone to sleep, I was very, very tired.
(The Mess Hall) Now we were being escorted, if not a bit pushed down a dirt path between these two rows of barracks, to our so called destiny—our new cafeteria home, in America’s city of hope, our temple of shadows where our philosophers were but two simple sergeants with bear hats on; and there the Mess Hall stood in front of us.
I balanced my duffle bag on my shoulders like Jamaican’s do with a bushel of fruit on their heads, as they had instructed us to do, but many of the men couldn’t, they struggled with trying to do it, and gave up, it was too heavy for them, and so they dragged them, another peeve that would come out later on with the two sergeants, they looked at us as little boys to be unwrapped, and brought out of a crackerjack box—and brought to life with their shaping skills, like Pinocchio, and during the process, to put into a sleep, and when awaken, apparently we’d be killer soldiers. I always, well kind of always wanted to be a soldier, so why was I protesting? I really didn’t know, I mean being a soldier went back and forth in my mind many times, but respect was my forte, and here there was a lack of it, and hence, resistance appeared to dominate my cerebellum, and I automatically went into a clandestine war with the Army.
Well, this was the first day, and it was evening, and we were on this pathway, a few of us talking, mostly about them—the sergeants. And we learned quickly to say “Yes sir,” or “Yes Sergeant,” and “No sir,” or “No Sergeant First Class,” until we got tired of it, and a few of us would say, ‘now what mamma!’ under our breaths, or with our eyes, or body movements, as if we were suckling babes, of course I was one of those teasingly fellows that thought most of the Army’s training was easy, and it was for the most part, and in time that would get me in trouble. The Buck Sergeant said “—who said, ‘mamma?” and of course, not a word was spoken to claim the disruption or disrespect, they stared at each other as if the moment would not be forgotten, and it wasn’t we’d suffer later for it.
As this ill-mannered approach dragged on, as it occurred—and continued, the older sergeant, the Sergeant First Class, got what I’d call a devilish smile with eyes big as silver dollars, and so, a few insults reached the ears of the many. That is when I got the smell of their strange cologne, and garlic breath.
Several faces (perhaps for the sake of joyful-sympathy to see the new recruits being pushed about) looked out the barracks windows as we marched forward to the Mess Hall—“What time is it?” a voice said, and eyes looking in my direction, I saw corporal strips on the fellow’s white uniform. I didn’t look at my wrist; I think he wanted me to lose balance of my duffle bag for a laugh—and watch it fall.
“I said, what time is it soldier?” the same voice now in a demanding tone to his question, with the same eyes, but a rougher countenance to his face, as if I was suppose to pee in my pants at his growl. The third time it had a screaming quality to it, as he added a statement to his latter question, “I’ll see you in the mess hall sometime, Private…!” I smiled back at him, and versioned me pulling him by the ear, like my grandfather used to do to me when he had enough of me. He left out what might follow if he saw me in the Mess Hall, and I think that was wise of him I was not one to harbor greudges, but neither was I back in those days, one to provoke unless you had some secret weapon. If in deed he had wished to rebuke me more, he didn’t get the time. I remember thinking: you’d think we were in the middle of a war, not comedy play, and that what it was to me. I did do something back the second time, something I thought was funny, but not to him in particular, and a few of the guys picked up on it. I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief of such nonsense, “Unbelievable.”
“All right, put down your gear, and take off your hats in the mess hall,” said the young drill sergeants that looked like Yogi Bear, the forest fighting bear of the United States, the very one on television, the movie star bear that says, “Keep your forest clean and don’t throw matches!” Now we were standing in front of the building.
I wasn’t hungry, I had eaten with the few friends I had met in Minneapolis, Minnesota, after getting off the plane, and going to a restaurant, we had a pay voucher for $30-dollars, which was a lot of grub, between four or five of us, or enough anyways for a healthy meal, and a small, very small tip. So I figured I’d eat lightly.
Hence, our divine hosts now were pushing us into the mess hall to eat, seating us, by way of pointing their fingers, saying “You go over there. And you several go to the end tables, and you Evens, go join those over there…” and so on and so forth. Not sure why we couldn’t find our own way, we didn’t need a roadmap, or instructions, but we got the latter. Next, they had us push down excessive portions of food, neither one listening to us, or in particular me, when I said “I had just eaten before we got to the base…!”
“Eat anyways so you can’t say we didn’t feed you,” was the reply I kept getting from the old sergeant First Class, and then the young Buck Sergeant, would copy him, like parrot. I think they wanted to see how many people would put up with their evening shenanigans.
Layers of hats and coats fell on the chairs. And I looked about, and said in a mumbling voice to myself: ‘…here I am, god forbid!’ and the older sergeant looked at me. There was no fear in my contours, perhaps there should have been, and he saw that.
As I put down several table spoons of whatever it was I was eating (and I think I was eating spaghetti), along with some bread and milk, I got thinking this is crazy, and looked for the kitchen window, I mean I was stuffed, over stuffed, like a someone one trying to cram an extra cigarette into an already full pack.
When I had first came through the Mess Hall doors, I saw where the soldiers who had finished eating, who were through with their food put their trays, somewhat empty trays—putting the uneaten parts of the food and napkins into a garbage can along side a square opening in a window, laying them inside that opening; one by one, each soldier put his tray through the hole—, now I looked towards it again, it was that same window I ´confirmed, had saw when I first entered the mess hall, so I concluded—then I stood up, looked at the two sergeants that were looking at me—somewhat looking at me, they were looking everywhichway, (not paying all that much attention really, perhaps not wanting a first day confrontation, the other forty solders still eating, the ones that got off the bus with me, I aimed my tray at the hole, like a rocket, and my temper went with that try, (the hole was some several feet away, and I tossed the tray and all the food on it, tossed it like a spaceship, and it landed perfectly on the other trays, gliding over them like a car sliding over ice, into that window, what an aim, and I headed towards the door, to where my duffle bag would be waiting for me, past my masters and we never caught eyes, surprisingly, it was as if nothing happened; but they new now, the trouble maker of the group.
With the sergeants’ faces turn away, I reached for my duffle bag, pulled it alongside of me, lit up a cigarette, fumbled a little trying to light it in the light cool windy twilight, with a gibbous moon over head, and thought: this is going to be an everyday thing, an all day job, from this time on; it wasn’t a pleasant thought.
Both sergeants were busy, still not looking at me, perhaps not caring either, my head bobbing somewhat with the cigarette, as I was thinking, and somewhat pacing in a ten-foot line, in front the Mess Hall back and forth, repeating to myself, ‘…what I am doing here?’
(I would notice later on that evening, tears in the eyes of a few soldiers, perhaps irritation in mine. The Army never bothered me per se, only the disregard I was feeling, overlooked or under or received. I think bachelors are lucky in the Army, confinement less an issue for them, for married folks, to the contrary.)
As I was saying, it was twilight, which now had vanished, and turned into dark or pure-night, a dark, heavy blue night—seemingly a deep midnight was approaching. My stomach heavy, and most of us now had come out of the trance like fog we had first found ourselves in, after getting off the bus, experiencing the Mess Hall, now in the barracks.
Indigestion was setting in, and at the same time, trying to resettle itself, and they, the sergeants perhaps had felt they cleared up enough for the night, let the prey sleep, lull them until tomorrow morning, we’ll wake them at 4:00 am., see how they like it. We were given our blankets and a pillow, with a few grunts of satisfaction, which we tossed back, we took their insults, and taking pain not to show our defeat, as we smiled at one another, wondering what was next. What I was learning, was, enough was enough, there were lines you didn’t cross over, for them, and for me likewise.
(The barracks) Strange tongues, forty strange grins, massive, skinny, tall and thin bare hands moving everywhichway; white, black and brown bodies; feet belonging to strangers, all among one another. Arms stretched out over the beds. This was a new experience for us all, except for the prior Boy Scouts I suppose. The central figures, two sergeants now telling us: “…lights out in fifteen minutes….” And another voice saying, “…let’s hurry up and get a smoke!”
I looked about at the faces: disagreeable, to their liking, curiosity, tired, lonely face, and then I looked out the window with itching fingers to have a cold beer, and get on with the show.
Silhouette of a Soldier
((October, 1969) (Day Two))
Chapter Two
Reveille
(It is always the sound of the bugle that awakens one in the morning, called reveille, in the Army, the sound that tells the solider, to make formation, that begins the day, a signal that it is time to get out of bed, summoned to duty. And all one sees in the morning, in this case, as I prepared for the second day of duty with the many new shapes and outlines of military personnel in a camp, were bodies running like scared rabbits to appease the new Titans in our lives.)
Silhouettes, that’s all we were to them, as I glanced out the window this 2nd day in the Army; soldiers rushing to get into a standing position in what was called a formation, under the autumn sky; the darkness of morning was lifting, an intense gloom alive in the atmosphere: a haunting shady blue sky, extra ordinarily cold for a North Carolina morning.
I had noticed in the distance, throughout the day, across a field, a club resided, Enlisted Men’s Club it was called (EM Club), so I was told: a bar in essence, or so it would be called in my old neighborhood, in St. Paul, Minnesota (called: ‘Donkeyland,’ by the police for its hardheaded drunks that lived and died at two corner bars).
The EM Club
As I saying, I was particularly thrilled to have discovered the Enlisted Men’s Club so close by the group of basic training barracks (mine in particular); whereat, when our two Drill Sergeants, our escorts throughout the day were done with us, I would cleverly leave for the evening to participate in its abundance of alcohol; but beforehand, before they released us to go wash our cloths, or shine our shoes, or get extra sleep, they let us know they’d return at 10:00 p.m., to insure lights were turned off, (which was to them, the very ‘last moment of light,’ to be seen within our barracks, lest we wanted to be disciplined, it was really a curfew in essence; in any case, disembarking for the evening, this would allow me to make acquaintance with the establishment, the EM Club. In outcome, I felt a little at home now, likened to finding something familiar, perhaps my salvation for that moment.
I had my Army green fatigues on, and moved grimly about the barracks, without speaking to anyone (plus, they were too busy trying to be good soldiers, and I was the second oldest person in the platoon, I learned, the younger the soldier, the easier one can be led, brainwashed, and the sergeants knew that).
It was now after duty hours: I had a light and quick dinner at the mess hall, moved quickly across the field to where the EM Club was, it was my plight for the night (and would be for many nights to follow), it was 8:15 p.m., when I arrived there, par excellence in my quick study of the matter, most all the new soldiers had no idea the club existed, I even put on my civilian cloths, so I’d not be questioned of my rank at the club, knowing I was forbidden to drink there, new recruits that is.
The insides of the club were small, and formless, nothing special; mostly square, with figures moving about, to and fro, a crackle of conversations going on everywhere, seemingly sadly suppressed, abnormal for a bar one could say, not lively at all. I was used to deliciously insane bars I suppose, but nonetheless, I was gulping down my first cold Army beer in no time flat.
Everyone seemed to be wrapped in ghostly Army Green, this was to be, I knew, an unearthly patch of the world, hereon, and forevermore, save, I remained in the Army. I leaned on the bar, drank down a second glass of cold mouthwatering beer, and stared into nothingness.
The Corporal
My elbows now on the bar, I got staring at and out the window, a mist had created a moisture onto the bar window, formed a fogginess on its glass; as I scanned the bar, everyone seemed like talking shadows all linked together around the bar, I recognized no one, especially no one from my platoon, that is, ‘D’ Company, 4th Platoon as they called it, called us. I thought briefly about Smiley, a Private like me, a year younger than I, and from the South, I think he said, Alabama, he was easy to talk to, liked to drink, a friend I was glad I found, a worthy friend that is, like to like, mind to mind, heart to heart we were comfortable with one another, most people I accepted as acquaintances, and only a few select would I categorize as associates, or beyond, as a friend, they are far and in-between, he was of the last group.
“You’re the one?” I heard a voice say next to me, a statement-question I took it as, I turned to the stranger, a Corporal sat about seven feet from my stool.
“You were speaking to me?” I said, didn’t care if he had twenty strips on his arms, bar folks get a few drinks in them and try to command the world, this was neither the time nor place to play chief, so I told myself.
“Yaw,” he said, to me, this clean shaven kid, couldn’t have been over nineteen-years old.
“What do you want?” I asked somewhat brusquely.
“You’re the one I asked for the time, yesterday, I work in the mess hall, and you could get in trouble for being here, because new soldiers, or new recruits, are not suppose to come here, you got a place down by the PX, and you can’t go to that until the second week you’ve been here, or is it the third?”
“It’s the third, to be exact,” I told the Corporal, “So are you going to tell, or what?” I asked.
He laughed a bit, and then smiled, “It’s your head, not mine, if they chop it off, oh well.” And I bought him a beer. In time we’d get to know each other better, and he’d even give me excuses to use incase I came back to the barracks late, after 10:00 p.m., he worked with the Colonel often, after duty hours I guess, one time he even signed the Colonel’s name on a piece of paper for me, saying I worked late putting a rug with the Corporal for him, which he had done by himself. And I suppose I named dropped the Colonel’s name here and there, just in case.
Horse’s Hoofs and Old Soldiers
(November, 1969; Week Two in Basic Training)
Chapter Three
Running
In the barracks it was chilly, but so was Minnesota at night, and I liked that kind of sleeping so it didn’t bother me as much as it did the other fellows. The Drill Sergeants sometimes slept overnight didn’t go to their apartments off base, they had some rooms nearby, and on those days, they’d smell bad. Everyone knew my smelled badly, unless they had nose, or sinus problems. So I affirmed it wasn’t me, and why be polite about it, sometimes I just held my nose when they walked by, or coughed, kind of letting everyone know what they already knew, what they didn’t want the sergeants to know they knew about their body smell, and especially the older one, he reeked with alcohol, I think he tried to over do it with Old Spice, and of course, alcohol comes out of your skin one way or another, old spice just makes you smell like a whore more, especially if you overindulge, but we lived with it, and our Sergeant First Class, I think dared anyone to say anything about it. Maybe that was part of the training, it was the most endurable for me, everything else would come easy, matter of fact, I’d have done a hundred-push-ups, if he’d only had taken a shower. There was this other guy in the barracks, a private like us, tall and thin, whitish hair, and skin like an albino, he too, was of the smelly breed, and we had to throw him in the shower one evening, cloths and all, and then told him, “If you don’t disrobe, and wash up, we’ll do it for you.” And he did what he had to do. Not sure what his problem was, maybe he was a female in disguise, I never checked, I was just thankful, he took that shower. You can smell those kinds of folks when you are trying to sleep, and it is not pleasant.
In any case, these were long days in back of me and in front of me, long days running, and longer than normal today’s learning what we had to learn to be soldiers. I had to run around a field three times, two miles each lap, six miles complete, in some specified time, can’t remember it exactly today. I took a number of salt tablets that day as I ran; some of the men were eating chocolate bars, to keep their energy up. I quickly learned running was part of the Army, like the trunk of an elephant’s end-part of his nose, shooting out water.
Yes indeed, running is part of a soldier’s life, I told myself, after two weeks (about to go into the third), running everyday, sometimes with our M14 rifles held over our heads, sometimes carrying our duffle bags full of cloths, and now, today, around in circles. The voice beside me said, “China, China…” a Chinese man, small in stature, who wanted to be an American. In time we would become good friends, and go onto Advance Training together in Alabama, but at this particular moment, it was of course unknown (we would become friends for six-months between Basic Training and Advance Training, and when we got our assignments, after finishing Advance Training, he’d be sent to Vietnam, I suppose because he could speak Chinese and English well, and I would go to Augsburg, Germany, and thereafter, go to Vietnam, Smiley would also head onto Vietnam after his Advance Infantry Training). Anyhow, China, as we all called him, had come to San Francisco, from China, got drafted into the United States Army, given the choice to join, or return to China, but the offer of citizenship was too great to pass up, so he allowed himself to be drafted into the US Army. He was here on a visit of some kind, originally.
The two divine Drill Sergeants were standing on the side of the circle as I passed them, going on and into my third circle, anger on their faces; they only smiled when you obeyed them. Smiley was right in back of me. It was a warm mid-morning, an insane day to be exact, and I was still somewhat drowsy from drinking at the club the night before, my brain that is, felt like mush. And here were all these bodies running, running the length of the field, and China, keeping up with all his 110-pounds; many of the men just dropped to the ground, passed out from heat exhaustion. But us three kept going. It was the whole company today, all four platoons, perhaps 160-men sum total.
One man came along by my side, said: “I say, where we are?” and he dropped to the ground, just like that, and as he dropped I said, “In hell…!”
I think the Drill Sergeant, the older one, was faint from this heat, and felt almost dead from exhaustion, he had run the course, the circled that went around the field, but only once to show us he could; I stopped a few times, my hat had fallen off my head for the 3rd time, “Get moving,” he yelled, the old fart couldn’t do it himself, but expected me, I gave him one of his same old grimaces back; and I’m sure he was hoping I’d drop like the rest.
The third stop somehow allowed me to catch my wind and I started back up after a brief swallow of air into my stomach, Smiley, had stopped, was resting on the side now, couldn’t go any further, I think cramps did him in; next, I got back into my running posture and finished the third circle. Perhaps there were about twenty of us, ready to go into a forth, but the Drill Sergeant, told us to stop, and like the others I rested, found the few select people I liked from our platoon, Smiley among them, and China.
I had for sure disappointed the Drill Sergeant. We all grunted a bit. Moreover, the young sergeant, came up to us and said, “Well,” he then stroked his chin, adding (I merely looked at him with a smirk) “Get down Evens and do fifty pushups,” for being cocky I suppose, and to show the rest of the group how out of shape I was. I said, “Fifty, is that all!” And I did the fifty in a few minutes, got back up, and he said again, “Get down and do fifty more!” And I did, and I got up and said, “I will make note of this…” implying, the necessary sum that he could make me do was at its point, one hundred, and I was not afraid of him, consequently, if he wanted me to do more, I could legally defy him, this he did not want, nor no unsuspected challenges he couldn’t win.
Horse’s Hoofs
I didn’t make any friends this day of course, and felt a little under the horses hoofs, several of the platoon faces, recruits like me, felt I was a trouble maker (for them I suppose I was). And this got back to the Captain, whom would confront me in time on this very issue, in another two weeks to be exact. It was mid November, and we heard we’d be going home for a Christmas leave, and have to return to basic training to finish it, thereafter. One of the soldiers would not have enough money to go home, and we all pitched in from the platoon and made that possible, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The young Drill Sergeant led us to the front of the barracks, and had us do several exercises, he said it was because there was a soldier with a bad attitude in the platoon, and all would have to suffer from that. The older sergeant vaguely looking at me from afar, but I read his lips, “Evens, you again!”
“Squat, crouch, and walk around the barracks,” commanded the young sergeant. This was not only humiliating for the platoon, because we looked like ducks, but tiresome, therefore, I got a few unfriendly faces, and whispers like: Evens, stop causing trouble, straighten up…and so forth and so on. And I simply went, or said “Quack, quack…” to all this—aloud!
“Who said that?” asked the young drill sergeant, and then he walked alongside of me… “It’s you again, I know it’s you Evens, another walk around the barracks,” he announced, and then I whispered to the guys, “Ok, ok…I’ll shut up ((but I couldn’t help it, I did it a second time, then I shut up)( for now)).”
After it was all done (the duck walk), most everyone collapsed comfortably on their beds, while the drill sergeants adjusted their smirks.
Enormous pomposity was shown in the two drill sergeants, and displayed around me, or perhaps I was the only one that saw these expressions, gestures, everyone else was too busy being nervous about what was next. It was going onto the third week of November that the Captain had called me into his office, and I asked him why he sent for me and he said, “Just wanted to see who you were,” and he kept an educated serious face about the matter, and dismissed me, yet I knew something was coming; but I also knew, I had not crossed over any red lines.
For the most part, I was in a new world, and having a hard time adjusting to the customs, the inexpressible nuance of the pretense they expected out of me, willingly—to appreciate their fine work in sculpturing a soldier out of a neighborhood bum. My uncouthness was not appreciated either.
That night, the night that followed the duck-walk, Smiley was to meet me at the EM Club, it was the end of the second week, and we were allowed now, to buy freely at the PX, and go to the Company Recruits club to drink, 3.2 Beer, that is, beer that tasted more like water than beer. But I was already into the EM Club, and drank there—strong beer. They, the Drill Sergeants had actually escorted us that first day to the PX, like tourists.
I gave Smiley a discussion on my EM Club drinking, and told him to meet me there this evening, around eight or nine o’clock; our bed time now had changed to 10:30, lights off at 11:00 p.m., weekends, lights off at 12:00 midnight, and now bed check, being 11:00 p.m., life was improving.
As I waited for Smiley, I thought about what the older Drill Sergeant had told the platoon, that next week there was going to be a show for us, the 82nd Airborne, whom was stationed there, would jump out of airplanes, parachuting down to where we would be sitting. I told myself, only birds and their droppings fall out of the sky, and thus, let it be at that. But when the day came, the old sergeant asked me, sitting on a hill, an embankment sort of, looking down at me a few feet from him, said “Go down there and join up, Evens!” And I said, “I’m not a bird…Sergeant!” And he kicked me, and I rolled down the hill, and waved to him, from that position. Another peeve he had with me.
Freidan
There was a young German female unmarried waitress, who was the waitress at the EM Club, a daughter I expect to one of the higher ranking sergeants on base; she spoke with a broken English pronunciation but could speak clear and clean German, perhaps twenty-one, or younger; possibly a second marriage I thought between an older sergeant and German woman. Anyhow, she was dangerously appetizing I thought. She was lean, perhaps five foot three inches tall, lovely in many ways, and friendly, and customers liked her. She wore tight dresses, benignant in a way, with breasts that bulged slightly out of her blouse, and had small hands, dark hair—penetrating eyes.
“Well what will you have,” she asked me this one night.
“Just tap beer.”
“That’s all, good bottle beer is better!” she implied.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Can’t sell the stuff?”
“Sure, just trying to help.”
“I can’t afford it.” I said, which was perhaps saying too much.
“Not sergeants yet, haw?” she asked, hesitated, “you never know around here.”
“Why don’t you go bother someone else?” I said snotty, I didn’t want everyone looking at me, and then questioning my right to be in the club.
“Tap beer, that’s imitation beer, absinthe!”
“Are you happy bothering me, just a top beer, matter of fact, I can order it myself, I’m at the bar, you should be asking those folks at the tables.”
For some reason she was not going to leave unless I did something, and so I said, “Ok, to please you, I’ll try the German beer; how about Beck’s?”
“Oh, so you do know good beers?” she commented, grinning, as she had made her point, if not victory, I had guessed she talked to my Corporal friend, and knew I was a private.”
“Don’t kid me,” she said, “I saw you looking at me the last few nights.”
I went to put my arm round her, and she pulled back.
“Never mind, soldier,” she said, “you ought to drink Beck’s in here if you’re going to continue to come.”
“Doesn’t make any difference with me,” I said, let her win, or maybe the bartender put her up to it.
“What are you called?” she asked.
“Evens, Chick Evens.”
“Bernadette, that’s my name.” She told me. “American too, I mean American German.”
By this time, she had excused her said, said she had to attend the tables, for me to order from the bartender, as I was going to in the first place, and I ordered a Beck’s, and the bartender smiled.
During the following weeks, I never did chat with her too long, just a hello and goodbye, I figured I was under observation at the club (and a few young bucks were always around her at the bar when she finished serving her drinks), and as long as I kept to my own, they left me alone, and should I try to get a date with her, they would expose me as a recruit, I was sure of that, and I’d have to go to the main drinking hall, with the rest of my Company. On the other hand she knew I think I was harmless, and had no money and no place to take her, no future with me at all.
Army Beer Hall
(December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)
Chapter Four
Confrontation
I had gone to the beer hall this first Saturday evening after returning to Basic Training Camp, from Christmas leave. The Captain was there, I had heard he showed up now and then, but not often, and this was perhaps my third time in the beer hall myself, I preferred the EM Club to the hall, more sedate, but now I had choices. For me it was really the first time I saw him here, a sharp consciousness of being stared at absorbed me, made me look the other way. He was still gazing at me when I turned around, so, it was me he was curious about—therefore I validated, some kind of strained expectancy, he had his eye on me a month ago when he stared at me in his office, like a rat in a cage. More like a psychological Ginny pig, trying to figure me out for the butchering that was going to take place. I paid little heed though, at first, just inquisitive to his prying mannerisms.
After about ten-minutes of this, I asked myself, ‘What is he waiting for?’ I was becoming irritable, ‘what does he expect of me now: to sing the National Anthem for him personally?’ I stood silently a tinge guarded now, as if this was an entirely obvious reaction, as he approached me.
“We’ve both been away for a while, Christmas vacation, I’ve wanted to talk to you before you left, but…well it just didn’t work out, I’m a bit surprised you’re back, and so glad I found you here this evening, Private Evens.” He said in a seriously low and cordial tone, almost a mumble.
At about this time, I was waiting for the punch, the Sunday punch that normally comes with such surprises; you know, someone says a few good words, to get you off guard, off balance, and then bang.
The Captain
(I gazed mutely at him.) The Captain stood now alongside of me, as I leaned back, somewhat comfortable against a pillar in the old WWII beer hall. He said, sincerely said, yet kind of in an official manner, something I never expected to hear, never even saw it coming:
“You make me look like the worst Company Commander in all the Basic Training Camps, here on Fort Bragg, Private Evens. My comrades laugh and make jokes about how you belittle the Army, and its training and our Sergeants… (then he grabbed two beers on the counter, laid down thirty cents, and gave one to me, the other for himself, then continued:) as I was saying, about to say, you do not make me look good in front of my peers. To the contrary, and I’ve thought about this a while, on what to do with you, you are always borderline, actually you would make a good soldier, if you wanted to, it appears you do not want to though (he looked at me deeply and sincerely into my eyes) what did I ever do to you?” He asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Well then, unintentionally, you are making me look like the worse commander at Fort Bragg for nothing? I never drafted you, the Government did, yet it seems you are taking your anger out on me, my Company!”
I felt awkward, not sure what to say. He did not say it loud, but said it firmly, with almost hurt in his face. I knew I was taking it out on the platoon, but there are four platoons to a company, and I didn’t feel I was taking it out on all of them, but he assured me I was, because they rated all four platoons to see which one was the worst and best, and then rated the companies, which were four platoons to company, and four companies to a Battalion, and I was in the 10th Battalion, 1st BDE (Brigade) this I knew already, and I knew we were the worse of the worse. But I never put two and two together that it was me making the platoon look bad, I passed all the physical and written tests, but it was based on more than that I guess.
“I never said it was your fault, Captain,” I responded; as we both walked easily and leisurely a few steps, both thinking. He perhaps had it all figured out, how he would present this to me, it was too cleaver to have had it just pop out of his head at the moment it did, for he added this,
“I’ll make you a deal, you have got two years of this life to deal with, it’s going to be a rough road for everyone involved, even you, everyone you meet. (Smiley walks by, I smiled at him, let him know all was well; the Captain became silent until he passed, then continued), as I was saying, you have a lot of time to fight with everyone, and that is not a good way to live. Here is what I will do for you, or propose. At midnight tonight, I will have two MPs pick you up at the barracks, everyone will be sleeping, and they will take you to the bus station, and not report you’re missing for twenty-four hours, enough time to get to Canada, if that is where you wish to go. You can be out of the country before the AWOL notice goes into effect. Or you can stay here, and please stop making trouble for me (he made this personal)?”
He was I think waiting for an answer, one I never gave him, couldn’t give him, at the moment, so I simply walked away, as he said, “They’ll be out by your barracks at midnight.”
Well, I was there in the morning, as if nothing had been said, standing in formation, as always, reveille (my wake up call), and I’m not sure if the Captain saw me or not, but that was the last time I had saw him, face to face; although off in the distance I saw him here and there. He did one thing if anything, he threw it back on me, I had to make the decision, not him, thus, his conscious was free, and back in those days, it wasn’t hard for an officer to get revenge if he indeed wanted to, and it wasn’t hard for a trouble maker like me I suppose to cause friction for the Army on a continues scale, so perhaps he gave both of us, the Army and me, an ounce of respect, to straighten things out, or let time do it the hard way, for both of us. For the most part, I behaved myself, but not completely. And in time I would turn out to be a good soldier, and awarded a number of medals to prove it. Yes, this was really just the beginning.
But again, I have gotten ahead of myself. When I left the beer hall, I went over to the EM Club to think this matter over.
Bernadette’s Dilemma
I had left the beer hall, ended up at the EM Club that night, to try and figure out things in my head, and Bernadette was there, and only a few others, not many at all and she sat on a stool by me, “I want to talk,” she said. She looked upward, she was very lovely, and tried to say something, big bright-eyed, and I listened as I drank my Beck’s beer; she was trying to talk unimportantly, but it was important, she was next to tears, “I can’t marry him even if I wanted to.” She told me.
I didn’t say a word.
“It’s so childish of me. We fight so much, and then tonight before I came to work I find out, he was always fighting with me because he couldn’t marry me if he wanted to.”
“Well, I don’t know, but you’re a pretty girl, I’d think you could pick anyone to marry, and the guy would be delighted.”
“No I don’t think so, Chick, he has children, and he’s already married.”
She looked at me very dimly.
“I can’t believe it; he’s twenty-seven and has three kids.”
She now looked at me as someone who should have known better.
“Yes, it’s a rotten shame, guys should put their cards on the table, you think one thing because you’re lead to believe it and it is another.” I said.
“And of course, there’s not a thing in the world I can do about it.”
“If he comes in here; don’t let him know we talked about him.”
“I only know the Corporal, Hanson I think his last name is.”
“He wants to take me to New Orleans this weekend; his family is back in Chicago or someplace around there.”
“Maybe he’s just saying that, and doesn’t plan on taking you anyplace, just saying it to pacify you?”
“I don’t think he’s that way.” She said.
“Oh, I think he is, you just discovered you don’t know him, and now you’re telling me, whatever he says is written is stone.”
“Oh here he comes in, don’t say a word.”
She moved quickly from my side, all of a sudden her grief was gone. All that advise, or sympathy, she was seeking was cast into marble, she was pretty happy now. What is it with women, they’re miserable, and then they are fine. I felt like her shock absorber. I do not know how people can ask for more pain; by doing the stupid things that they know are going to hurt them. I simply got up and walked out, hoping I’d not be noticed by anyone.
The Fighting Irish
(January, 1970; Week Six in Basic Training)
Chapter Five
Karate
I came from a Russian extended family, on my mother’s side,
But I was half Irish, on my father’s side…
In the days and weeks that followed—every muscle throughout my body would be aching, head spinning; yet I was not worn down like most of the troops, perhaps I had a lot of training in San Francisco, and back in St Paul, Minnesota in karate, and my body was somewhat hardened, ready for this kind of training. Face to face with the Drill Sergeants, I halfway straightened my attitude out, we, or maybe just I, somewhat came to an understanding, willingly obedient, yet at night I still became a soggy drunk, going to the EM Club in particular, and seeing Bernadette.
On the top bunk, of the bunk bed I was assigned to, myself assigned to the bottomed, in this enormous room we lived in, the bunk beds accommodated forty-four soldiers, in two long rows, eleven to each side, one soldier on top, one on the bottom, old WWII vintage, wooden and square framed, slanted roofed barracks, with double doors, to the right, it lead out into the courtyard, just beyond the doors, straight ahead, was the latrine. The windows in the building were wide, on both sides of the wooden structure, several to each side; the outside painted white, the inside pale white and green; as I was about to say though, a southern boy slept on the top bunk, he didn’t seem to like me, or get along with me all that well, just gave me sneers like the Sergeants often did, he didn’t like me coming into the barracks drunk and coming in so late, I felt it was none of his business, he wasn’t my sergeant, nor my parent. He was a strict soldier, and our attitudes conflicted, so much so, he became quite, bitterness, and he decided to confront me on this drinking issue one evening, just before lights out.
I came in, it was perhaps a few minutes before ´Light’s out!’ and he grabbed me by my shirt (about my height, and weight), said:
“Its two-minutes to lights out, and here you are walking in half drunk.”
He was correct in his observation.
“Oh,” I said, adding “…is that so…!” and broke his arm from my shirt, downward, and a second later, took my palm and pushed him against the wall. He was stunned I had broken his arm hold so easily, I had him almost pinned against the wall. Then I grabbed his shaving cream and squirted it all over him, not sure why, but it was the closest thing to my free hands now and I didn’t want to break any his bones, but perhaps to shame him or belittle him in front of the onlookers, whom were the soldiers now in their bunks. Then I stepped back into a fighting stance, and egged him on. I did not want to beat him without him having another chance to strike me, it didn’t seem right. I mean I could have killed him right there, had I wanted to, his open posture was almost an invitation for a slaughter, but only a professional fighter could have seen that. I had just come from San Francisco and Studied Karate under the guidance of the greatest Karate instructor of my day (1968-69), Gosei Yamaguchi, thus, having two years in warlike arts in fighting; I was ready.
His instinct was good, he backed down, and I never pushed anyone beyond that point, the point of no return, never put anyone in a corner I always told myself, give him a little room to get out, it could save a lot of trouble. That was always inbreed in me, not sure of the why or how it was, who put it there that is.
My thoughts at the time were: why does this wooden man, one I can break so easily confront me like this. The following morning he was standing outside, with two friends, and I came up to him and said,
“Do you want to finish it…?” and added, “let me show you something” and before he could say a word, or blink an eye, I had thrown several punches and a back kick (not to show off but to show him I no longer was going to play with him), and I pulled my punches lest I break his nose or jaw or something. After the demonstration, his eyes bulged out, and he just said, “You’re a trained fighter, it would be crazy to fight with you,” and I walked away, I really think he simply thought I was crazy.
Bernadette’s Ring
Bernadette came up to me, showed me her hand, “Pretty nice, eh?” she said.
“We went to New Orleans, and I met his brother and sister, they are swell people,” she told me.
She was standing at the bar, not working this evening, her leg lying against mine as I sat on a stool, drinking a tap beer.
“Buff is his name,” she said.
“How big is the diamond?” I asked.
“One forth of a carrot,” she said.
“Lift it up, so I can see it better.” And she did.
I laughed, I couldn’t help it.
“Yes. Go on and laugh,” she said. “You don’t know him, he’s going to get a divorce and marry me.”
“Was he very nice to you?”
She raised her chin up and said with a smirk, “Sure.”
“My god, wake up Bernadette, isn’t it awful enough he lied to you for so long, you’re a damn nice girl.”
“Come on, let’s get out of her, go into town, I got a car, and we can get drunk together, just you and me and talk.” She asked.
People were starting to look our way. Buff is on duty tonight, he’s a Staff Sergeant.”
“I’ve got five bucks until payday,” I said.
“You privates, what do you get?”
“I get $93-dollars a month, that’s it.”
“I ought to stay, just in case he gets off duty early, I suppose” she said, “You see I’m not afraid to go places without him, he doesn’t own me.”
“What makes you think I was thinking that?” I asked.
“Well, I thought your words were suggesting it I guess.”
“This is a comfortable bar,” she said, “you always seem to have a good night here, Chick.”
“No, it’s just a bar noting else, just something to do, while we get ready to go to war.” I think I got to disliking this guy, didn’t even know him, just that he was unforgivingly, keeping her hostage for his whims, and I knew in time he’d drop her.
“I got to go, get some sleep before tomorrow,” I told Bernadette.
“That sounds like a good Idea,” she replied. I think she was made because I was not supportive of her and Buff.
KP and Potatoes, Army life
(January, 1970; Week Seven in Basic Training)
Chapter Six
(Kitchen Police) KP
KP, or call it Kitchen Police, Kitchen Duty, or whatever, but back in my basic training, back in 1969-70, ever soldier did it. I was woken up this one morning of my seventh week in training, it was a Sunday, and someone wanted to go to church, so guess who they picked for kitchen duty, me. I wasn’t supposed to have it; I had had it three times before, and was suppose to have been done with it. But the Army never works that way, they just keep putting straws on the camels back until he drops, or says something to stop it, and I was not everyone’s favorite soldier, so I just accepted it, I was close to going onto the next stage, advance training in Alabama, or Ranger training in California, and jungle training in Washington somewhere down the line. So I figured another day on KP would not hurt. Yet at the time I didn’t know my next duty station for sure. I didn’t even know if they were going to pass me, I mean, they could have fixed it for me to stay around a while longer if they hated me so much, and as a result make me suffer, you know, torment me with another eight weeks of this Boy Scout like training as I had felt it was, yet on the other hand I’m quite sure they were more than ready to get rid of me, in the same manner, so they’d not have to put up with me.
“Soldier, get up, you got KP!” said the young sergeant, my drill sergeant, at 4:00 a.m., with a smirk on his face. He was a vulture, “I already had it three times before!” I said.
“You got ten minutes…no more!” he added to his unsightly face. The Buck Sergeant stood outside, waited to see if I was coming, and I was, I rushed to and fro…and was on my way in ten minutes flat.
It was as if by me staying in the platoon touched off a high explosive inside the sergeant’s head, I think he would have liked me to have gone AWOL, run to Canada for his amusement (and to be honest I thought about it a few times and figured I’d think more on it later, when I got my thirty-day leave). As I walked outside, onto the dirt road in front of the barracks, and then on down the dirt road, and across the black asphalt road—that went the opposite way, to the Mess Hall, he looked a bit gloomy, I was turning out to be a soldier indeed, and he wasn’t sure if he liked that.
It was a long day, or would be. First came the dishes, then the pots and pans, and then the potatoes, yes, I hated doing the potatoes, not because it was hard, nothing in the Army is that hard, it was boring, and they had an automatic potato peeler right behind me, staring at my back side, as I sat on the steps in back of the mess hall, peeling potatoes the old fashion way, with a knife, slowly, and a big pot for the skins of the potatoes and one for the potatoes. I think it was based on not wanting us to have something to do, rather than nothing to do and the automatic peeler would only do the job quicker and allow us to have free time. Oh well, it was all part of the show I told myself. And it gave me time to think on many things.
(I thought about Maria Garcia, a young woman I was seeing and had met while on Christmas leave, back in St. Paul, this past December).
She had a kid, and we’d drink a lot together, and she always seemed to be having family, friends, people in general over to her house, a Mexican thing I think, or Spanish thing, the more the company the better; where as for me being the gringo, I was not used to this, and had I suppose less of a family life in that I didn’t have so many people around, more of a loner, a quieter life. But it was nice meeting everyone. She was cute, short, black thick hair, a nice shape on her, and somewhat of a decent lover. And I never told her I was in the Army, and on my last day of leave, I simply left; that is to say, I got up one morning, had my orders to go, and left, never even made a phone call, had I, I would not have known what to say anyhow. And I suppose I figured Buff would do that to Bernadette, why not, men were like that. And surely, I was no better than Buff, except I never had time to buy her a ring, and had she asked, it would have ended sooner.
On my three hundred and forty-forth potato, I got thinking about Sergeant Wolf, a black sergeant, drill sergeant that is. How he’d smoke, solemnly smoke those cigarettes, right to its end. He was there among the other Drill Sergeants often, talking, he was from ‘C’ platoon, I think he liked me, because I made him look good, and our sergeants bad; they always had bets, betting on this and that: saying their platoon was better, and I think my drill sergeants lost many bets. He had a fleshless neck, almost none at all, and a head of an absurd largeness; a stooping body like an ape, dark as a gorilla, and hands that were almost touching the ground when he walked. He was the Judo and Karate instructor; I could have taught the man something, but for what time we had, it was good enough. I think at times his prerogative was to out show me, or out do me, but whatever he showed, or demonstrated, I could do better, he had a horrible agility, dull small eyes, clean-shaven. He darted here and there it seemed, like a spider, stupidly I often found myself looking at him. I wouldn’t miss him, I told myself, in any crowd.
Yes indeed many thoughts were going through my mind this day, this twelve hour day: I remembered the three Generals, the second or third day I had been in boot camp, Smiley, I and Bruce were sitting down in the clothing supply area waiting to get sized up for our dress greens, and here comes three generals, I didn’t really know a general from a captain, but one had three stars on his shoulders, now that I think about it. “How they treating you soldier?” he asked me, I didn’t get up, and simply said, “So, so, I guess,” he smiled, and said something else, and I never saluted him, nor stood at attention, that was a peeve with my young drill sergeant, but he got over it, after warning me, should it happen again, I’d be severely reprimanded; the General saw the sergeant was upset, and told him in so many words: give him a break.
The other thing that came to mind in my daydreaming was the old sergeants appearance, my drill sergeant, when I say old, I do not really mean, old, old, but for a drill sergeant, old: he had a square jaw, like me, but was a few inches taller, not much, a rough looking face, as if he had been around a bit, small eyes, half closed all the time, or seemingly so. At times he was vigorous and at times a cold pathetic look gravitated all over his face to his forehead. He was what many called, a Red Neck, perhaps thirty-seven years old, but he was a vulture nonetheless.
Army Life
I felt at times I was the side focus of the group of drill sergeants, they had beat the hell out of one of the soldiers for not adjusting and getting smart with them, which I really never did, I mean I never disrespected them verbally, I was simply not afraid of them, and they knew it. Moreover I was guarded I suppose, waiting for them to do it to me, or try. And they knew I was waiting, and I think my eyes warned them, be careful, you are treading on unknown ground, and somebody besides me will get hurt also. What I took to be men of honor, among our leaders, disappointment me somewhat, most were fine, but some were not. They had a job to do I know, and this is of course how I was feeling at the time: everyone with gaunt and hard eyes, with gloomy jobs, and often drunk before lights went out for us. The older drill sergeant, my drill sergeant couldn’t talk for two weeks, laryngitis (inflammation of the larynx). Not sure why I thought this was funny, but he couldn’t holler like he’d have liked to.
At the end of the day, I had a few aches and some numbness, my muscles danced, and my nerves—wiggled. Smiley came by once, said: “See yaw at the beer hall tonight…!” And Bruce and Allen would be with him. Both good old southern boys, as they called themselves. Allen was a large figure of a man with glasses and smart. I nodded my head ‘yes’ and kept on peeling those potatoes, and cutting them up.
Stalemate: Army Life
(January, 1970; Week Seven and a half in Basic Training)
Chapter Seven
We marched back and forth like children walking in formation to school, not half miles though, but four and five miles a day now. No one had the right to resort to tears nor calmly and flatly refuse, a few I think wanted to, we had a fat boy in the group, and the sergeants run him ragged (by the time he left, he must had lost forty pounds, he was most grateful to his oppressors) didn’t even fight back, emotionally or physically. Most of the trainees just did what they were told, had to do, thought they had to do. I learned later on in time, one can hate the Army and love it at the same time. And then one becomes codependent on it, with it. This never took place at this stage of the game, but down the road of life it appeared to me it had enmeshed in not only my life, but the majority of soldiers who were in the Army longer than three years.
Chapter Eight
Beer Bash—At Fort Bragg!
(February, 1970; Week Eight in Basic Training)
I had learned, a Soldier’s first day in basic training, is like every other day, one very long day. For me it was thirteen weeks long. Chick Evens
I was motionless, it was Saturday, and we were all standing about in the bus station on base at Fort Bragg, checking out the billboard for our assignments. It was the end of the eighth week of training, and we had but a few days left, going into the ninth week, actually, my 13th week (counting the four weeks I had used up for Christmas leave) belonging to this Platoon of sorts. We all were checking to see where our orders were going to send us, for our new assignment. The Drill Sergeants were sitting in the smoking room, drinking and so forth, having a bash, training was over for the most part, but we had two days left, we had to use them to clear the base, sign papers, bring back our linen, and so forth and then we’d meet back here and take our buses to wherever.
Sergeant Wolf was collecting money, “How about you Private Evens?” he asked (a little kinder than usual), as I’m reading my assignment…
“Well,” said the sergeant with his hat out.
“Collecting money for what?” I said, adding “is this another requirement?”
“So we can get drunk and forget all your faces, and all the work we had to do to get you recruits to be real soldiers.”
I just stared at him, and he walked away, went into the backroom with the door opened, and took a drink of his booze. Somehow I felt sorry for the men the Drill Sergeants, they really thought they were doing a good deed, they felt they deserved it, the change they were collecting, they all surely had some kind of vision, one I did not pick up on. I was in-between, the eclipse I suppose. So I walked into the backroom, “Want a drink…?” Staff Sergeant Wolf asked. We saw things a little differently I suppose, but that is the way life is, even in the Army, and they needed some kind of uniformity and it was over, and I dropped a quarter in their hat.
Chapter Nine
The Rape
The Rape of Bernadette
It was a cool January evening (three days before Private Evens would be assigned to his new duty station in Alabama) and the mist had not yet fully covered the hill top outside Fayetteville, North Carolina, a little ways from Fort Bragg, which had come from the wind. Bernadette had talked Evens into chaperoning her to a belated New Year’s college party (1970), whom Buck Sergeant Mike Rogers, the bartender at the EM Club—who had a very hard crush on Bernadette—pleaded for her to attend, with him, and when she refused, not knowing anyone in particular, at the party, which were to be a bunch of young college kids and a few young solders from base, at the last minute, she asked Evens.
When they arrived they had to park their car below the hill and climb up it, it had patches of wooded and brush like areas, the hill sides full of foliage likewise. Near twenty folks were standing about, and some sitting on a long log, around the fire, cooking marshmallows, and hotdogs, and drinking beer, rum and wine, and gossiping. Evens didn’t care to be her bodyguard, but for some reason he had that old feeling, intuition, she wasn’t safe going there alone, and she just might do that should he refuse her request, and she was if anything, a little misguided by her need to have a good time, to break the boredom of life, and she was lovely, and very shapely to look at and she liked to be adored, given attention.
Roger saw the two as they were walking down a path toward the fire; he jerked his head when he saw Bernadette Benson, as if his plight for the evening had just been fulfilled. Evens noticed the change in his face, from a blank to an almost dangerous look. Roger waved at the two. They waved back, and then once they got close enough for the rest to see them, Roger stepped forward, gave Bernadette a kiss on the cheek, “I’m really glad to see you,” he didn’t look at Evens for a moment, then gave him smirk, “you too, old chap.”
One by one he introduced Bernadette to the group as if she was his property, girlfriend, and Evens was introduced to all of them at once.
Roger stayed by her side like a fly on a camels back, glued. He put his hand around her waist, she felt a little uncomfortable, but allowed it, then he left Bernadette for a moment by Evens, went out into bushes, about two hundred feet from the fire, it looked suspicious, but Bernadette didn’t say a word, Evens questioned his motives in his mind, knew something was up.
•
“Excuse me Bernadette, I’m going to get another beer from the cooler, how about you?”
“No thinks, I’m fine Chick.”
When I came back I looked about for Bernadette, she was gone. I paced a bit over by the folks near the fire, and the log, a number of young college girls were checking me out.
“Hay, Evens, isn’t…?” said one fellow.
“Yaw!”
“I saw you at the Club, you always look so serious drinking, as if you’re thinking, must be thinking about Roger’s girl, haw?”
“I don’t know Roger’s girl,” I said.
“Sure you do, Bernadette,” said the fellow; he seemed to have been doing some heavy drinking.
“Since when did she become his?”
“I bet your were dreaming about her at the club, until Roger told you hands off—haw?”
“If she was Roger’s girl, why didn’t she come with Roger?”
He hesitated for a moment, took a long swig from his wine bottle. “You tell me wise guy,” he said.
“You lousy bum, stand up, and I’ll knock you back down!” I said.
“Don’t get so riled, I was just kidding,” he said.
“Yaw,” said a girl next to him, “he gets mouthy when he has too much do drink.”
“Yaw, I know the type,” I was looking in his eyes, they told me he was a chicken, and he was.
“You work for the Colonel, I know you do, your Corporal friend told me, and so you think you’re a hot shot!”
“Come on stand up,” I said, “get up and fight, I’ll show you who’s a hot shot.”
“What?” he said, “fight, what for?”
“So I can shut your big mouth, that’s what for.”
He wouldn’t move from his spot, asked the girl next to him to go get him a beer he was too scared to get up; I then thought I heard a voice in the woods behind me, in the bushes someplace, somewhere amongst all the patches of undergrowth and turned about to go check. As I walked down the narrow path, I heard Bernadette say, “Go to hell!”
I looked about the shrubbery, couldn’t see a soul, and then I heard, “Help, help, help…please somebody help!”
It was Bernadette Benson’s voice for sure, I confirmed. I looked harder, had the bottle of beer still in my right hand, “Bernadette,” I called.
“Over here, here…!”
I took a left turn, Roger had her pinned to the ground on her back, his pants down to his knees, her dress up over her knees, and he was half inserted, “Hey, stop that.” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder, “I said stop, can’t you hear?”
“I heard you, f… off, get away from me,” he said.
“Don’t you hear?” I repeated myself, I figured he’d stop but he was acting as if he had a right to do what he was doing, and he just turned about and went down on her again, as if I wasn’t standing over him. I also noticed nobody came to her rescue, or to check out her pleas.
“Ask her if she wants you,” I said. Bernadette, cried, “Get him off me pleases Chick!”
I told myself he had no honor, no pity, no anything, and I forgot I had the bottle in my right hand for a moment, and I grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head around so I could see it, and bashed it three or four times with the bottle, and he came off her like a slashed saddle on a horse. And he lay beside her in a daze crying, “What did you hit me with, you didn’t have to do that!”
A voiced from afar, said “Is everything all right out there?”
Funny I thought, they heard his plea, but not her’s.
I looked at him, said, “Yaw, now you’re sorry.” I knew he’d blame me later on for excessive force, but then that is exactly what he was using on her. I didn’t need the bottle to beat the bum, it just happened to be there; like to like, given no pity, received no pity. He looked awful, but that is the way you look when you get hit with a blunt instrument. I was hit once with a crowbar in the forehead, and had thirty stitches, I know how he felt.
“Come on,” said Bernadette, he has lots of friends, and they’ll be more than willing to back him up, we need to get out of her.”
I had fallen for Bernadette also, but I was not obsessed with her, nor would I tarnish my manhood to appease my sexual drive. They never go hand in hand.
Chapter Ten
Faggots and
Lesbians
Faggots and Lesbians
At the beer hall the next night (48-hours before we’d depart Fort Bragg for good, and go on to our advance training assignments), Smiley (Judson Small), Allen and Bruce, were there with me all getting inebriated. I told them the story of Bernadette, how Sergeant Mike Rogers, the bartender at the EM Club tried to rape Bernadette, while at some belated college New Year’s party outside of Fayetteville on some wooded hill top, and I broke a bottle of beer over his head sent him to the hospital. Bernadette’s mother had called me, told me how grateful she was, that if the devil sergeant tried to press charges, they’d get him for rape (that was the last I’d ever hear of it).
“We should shoot the bastard,” said Allen, he was a tall, broad, a stocky man, with glasses from Boston. “Then go get those faggots and Lesbians.”
“Want to hear some more on the rape?” I asked Allen.
“You don’t have any more,” said Smiley, “from what you told me anyhow.”
He was right I just wanted to cool Allen down, he had been angry all night long.
“Oh Allen,” said Bruce, “You think all college kids are faggots and lesbians because they didn’t get drafted like us.”
“You got that straight, you bum.” He remarked.
From underneath his fatigue coat, he pulled out a bottle of red wine. Smiley and I slung our jackets over our shoulders; we were hot, in the New Year’s, night’s coolness.
“This is hillbilly country, right Smiley; we should try and find some moonshine.” I said, looking at both Smiley and Bruce, both southern boys.
“I hate these college faggots,” said Allen, “we’re here and they’re in college, can’t get drafted, the US Government feels we’re disposal, and aren’t we.” It was unfair I knew, but what could you do about it.
“Where’s our barracks?” asked Allen cock-eyed.
“Just follow this road along the middle here, and it will appear just like magic, to the right.” I said. Then pointed out to Allen whereabouts it was.
“It’s a hell of a walk,” said Allen to us three.
“No, not really, you’re just a hell of a drunk,” I said, and all four of us laughed.
“Listen,” said Allen, “I’ve got it figured out, Kennedy and Johnson were both faggots, and Westmorland, he was one to, all lovers, and they all started this little war in Vietnam you see, they got all together in this little cabin, pretending to do business, and figured this war would bring them back for more talks, but it was lover talk they wanted to do.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bruce, “Kennedy liked Monroe, they were doing it in the closet in the White House, that’s why someone killed her.”
“No, that was just a last minute cover up; she was a clandestine lesbian, everybody knows that,” said Allen.
“Kennedy freed the niggers, and ever since they’ve been complaining, right Bruce?”
“Yaw, that nigger woman on the bus started all that trouble. Down in your country, Smiley, Alabama.”
“She was a lesbian too, you should know that guys,” said Allen.
“Why you so bitter tonight Allen,” I asked.
“Yeah, I suppose I am. I’m going to Nam, you know, got my orders yesterday, I’ll be going to Fort Hood Texas, for infantry training, and then to Vietnam; kill some of those gooks, you know those fish. Don’t even know what a gook looks like. And I’m going over there to kill them, what a pity.”
“Say,” said Smiley, “I’ll be keeping you company, my orders read the same as yours.”
“Good,” said Allen, “bad news likes more company.”
“How about me finishing off the wine, Allen, you’re really pie-eyed?”
When I got back to the barracks, I quickly put my Hemingway book under my pillow, in case someone saw it, it was titled, “Men Without Women,” I was afraid Allen would see it, and then god forbid, I’d never hear the end of it, and I liked the short stories (which had noting to do with Faggots and Lesbians), I was at the end of a short story called: “Hills like White Elephants,” where some guy was saying something like: stop talking, talking, talking, so some girl… something like that. Anyhow, Allen would simply never understand.
•
At the beer hall the next night (48-hours before we’d depart Fort Bragg for good, and go on to our advance training assignments), Smiley (Judson Small), Allen and Bruce, were there with me all getting inebriated. I told them the story of Bernadette, how Sergeant Mike Rogers, the bartender at the EM Club tried to rape Bernadette, while at some belated college New Year’s party outside of Fayetteville on some wooded hill top, and I broke a bottle of beer over his head sent him to the hospital. Bernadette’s mother had called me, told me how grateful she was, that if the devil sergeant tried to press charges, they’d get him for rape (that was the last I’d ever hear of it).
“We should shoot the bastard,” said Allen, he was a tall, broad, a stocky man, with glasses from Boston. “Then go get those faggots and Lesbians.”
“Want to hear some more on the rape?” I asked Allen.
“You don’t have any more,” said Smiley, “from what you told me anyhow.”
He was right I just wanted to cool Allen down, he had been angry all night long.
“Oh Allen,” said Bruce, “You think all college kids are faggots and lesbians because they didn’t get drafted like us.”
“You got that straight, you bum.” He remarked.
From underneath his fatigue coat, he pulled out a bottle of red wine. Smiley and I slung our jackets over our shoulders; we were hot, in the New Year’s, night’s coolness.
“This is hillbilly country, right Smiley; we should try and find some moonshine.” I said, looking at both Smiley and Bruce, both southern boys.
“I hate these college faggots,” said Allen, “we’re here and they’re in college, can’t get drafted, the US Government feels we’re disposal, and aren’t we.” It was unfair I knew, but what could you do about it.
“Where’s our barracks?” asked Allen cock-eyed.
“Just follow this road along the middle here, and it will appear just like magic, to the right.” I said. Then pointed out to Allen whereabouts it was.
“It’s a hell of a walk,” said Allen to us three.
“No, not really, you’re just a hell of a drunk,” I said, and all four of us laughed.
“Listen,” said Allen, “I’ve got it figured out, Kennedy and Johnson were both faggots, and Westmorland, he was one to, all lovers, and they all started this little war in Vietnam you see, they got all together in this little cabin, pretending to do business, and figured this war would bring them back for more talks, but it was lover talk they wanted to do.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bruce, “Kennedy liked Monroe, they were doing it in the closet in the White House, that’s why someone killed her.”
“No, that was just a last minute cover up; she was a clandestine lesbian, everybody knows that,” said Allen.
“Kennedy freed the niggers, and ever since they’ve been complaining, right Bruce?”
“Yaw, that nigger woman on the bus started all that trouble. Down in your country, Smiley, Alabama.”
“She was a lesbian too, you should know that guys,” said Allen.
“Why you so bitter tonight Allen,” I asked.
“Yeah, I suppose I am. I’m going to Nam, you know, got my orders yesterday, I’ll be going to Fort Hood Texas, for infantry training, and then to Vietnam; kill some of those gooks, you know those fish. Don’t even know what a gook looks like. And I’m going over there to kill them, what a pity.”
“Say,” said Smiley, “I’ll be keeping you company, my orders read the same as yours.”
“Good,” said Allen, “bad news likes more company.”
“How about me finishing off the wine, Allen, you’re really pie-eyed?”
When I got back to the barracks, I quickly put my Hemingway book under my pillow, in case someone saw it, it was titled, “Men Without Women,” I was afraid Allen would see it, and then god forbid, I’d never hear the end of it, and I liked the short stories (which had noting to do with Faggots and Lesbians), I was at the end of a short story called: “Hills like White Elephants,” where some guy was saying something like: stop talking, talking, talking, so some girl… something like that. Anyhow, Allen would simply never understand.
As for Bernadette, I never went back to say goodbye to her at the bar, I kind of wanted to. But I didn’t want to fall in love with her, I didn’t want to see her again, she was looking for a husband, or something on that order. And I didn’t want to know what was happening in her life, or Buff’s sporting evenings, or Mike Rogers’s recovery. I just wanted to go my own way, live my own life. There were a few things to be said about the way she handled her life, and I suppose a few practical things I was learning in mine. The best thing was to last and get my work done, learn and try to understand, and see where I’d end up.
Note: History of the Novelette: The Burlesque, story “The Midwinter Soldier,” was originally named, “Soldiers’ First Day,” 3-30-2007. Revised, 5-2008, and renamed “A Midwinter Soldier”; revised and edited between November 7 and 26, of 2008, again; in the last week of March of 2009, it was revised and reedited a third time. “Faggots and Lisboans,” and “The Rape…” written 3-27-2009 for the book “A Midwinter Soldier” Originally 9200, modified to 13, 750-words
Back of Book
(A None-fiction, Novelette, and Satire on Army Life)
(Fort Bragg, North Carolina) See inner Chapters (1969-1970)
[Sketches of Real life in the Old Army Boot Camp]
Soldiers’ First Day
(October, 1969)
I would learn in time, a Soldiers’ first day, is like every other day in Basic Training, one long, very long day. For me it would be thirteen weeks. Chick Evens
Diary Annotations
(Chick Evens reading his Diary)
Chapter One
The Bus
When we arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Basic Training Camp, in the Fall of ’69, we were greeted (we being, a number of us who had come from the Minneapolis, Minnesota Army Recruiting Station, now coming off the bus), greeted I say, by cynically sneering, and frankly hyper, pie-eyed looking white sergeants, two of them, with Forest Ranger type looking sombreros on their red-necks, I had a ninety pound duffle bag laying by my side.
My lip did something like an Elvis, snicker back at them; my hand did something like a fist.
We all were a little wobbly, staggering like a train coming off its tracks, as we had gotten off the bus, now into the camp area trying to form some kind of formation, that was more of a zigzagged line, looking like a puzzle ready to be put together. My captors faced me, two white sergeants; one perhaps in his mid twenties, the other in his mid thirties; one being a Buck Sergeant type sergeant, the other a Sergeant First Class sergeant, so I would learn these ranks within a few days, this being our first real day in the Army, so, they faced us, I should say, stood in front of us, as we formed this jagged arrangement, line of sorts.
Next, they encouraged us to obey them, as they treated us like criminals, or else they’d tie one of our legs like they do to camels, so they’d not run off; they both somehow produced a beautiful smile in-between their sneers: we were what they called ‘New fish’ (in their aquarium).
They grinned at us, and we grinned at each other trying to figure out what all the grinning was about, it would seem we were parroting them. Then the engine of the bus stopped, turned off, a loud silence seemed to pass over the bus, onto us, and encircle the two Drill Sergeants, as these tow new gods of Caesar’s Army checked us out. They had warned us to be silent, and now without words, their mannerisms were showing it. At this time the sun was coming down, as the two divine sergeants debated on if we should be allowed to eat dinner, while us new soldiers, smiled at one another appreciatively. They paused, looked about the area, and accordingly pointed their fingers, and like the parting of the Red Sea, appeared the mess hall, I looked down through the clutter of buildings, “Yes,” I said to myself, “that could be a mess hall,” never seeing one before, a door was open, although to be honest with you readers, I would have liked to have gone to sleep, I was very, very tired.
(The Mess Hall) Now we were being escorted, if not a bit pushed down a dirt path between these two rows of barracks, to our so called destiny—our new cafeteria home, in America’s city of hope, our temple of shadows where our philosophers were but two simple sergeants with bear hats on; and there the Mess Hall stood in front of us.
I balanced my duffle bag on my shoulders like Jamaican’s do with a bushel of fruit on their heads, as they had instructed us to do, but many of the men couldn’t, they struggled with trying to do it, and gave up, it was too heavy for them, and so they dragged them, another peeve that would come out later on with the two sergeants, they looked at us as little boys to be unwrapped, and brought out of a crackerjack box—and brought to life with their shaping skills, like Pinocchio, and during the process, to put into a sleep, and when awaken, apparently we’d be killer soldiers. I always, well kind of always wanted to be a soldier, so why was I protesting? I really didn’t know, I mean being a soldier went back and forth in my mind many times, but respect was my forte, and here there was a lack of it, and hence, resistance appeared to dominate my cerebellum, and I automatically went into a clandestine war with the Army.
Well, this was the first day, and it was evening, and we were on this pathway, a few of us talking, mostly about them—the sergeants. And we learned quickly to say “Yes sir,” or “Yes Sergeant,” and “No sir,” or “No Sergeant First Class,” until we got tired of it, and a few of us would say, ‘now what mamma!’ under our breaths, or with our eyes, or body movements, as if we were suckling babes, of course I was one of those teasingly fellows that thought most of the Army’s training was easy, and it was for the most part, and in time that would get me in trouble. The Buck Sergeant said “—who said, ‘mamma?” and of course, not a word was spoken to claim the disruption or disrespect, they stared at each other as if the moment would not be forgotten, and it wasn’t we’d suffer later for it.
As this ill-mannered approach dragged on, as it occurred—and continued, the older sergeant, the Sergeant First Class, got what I’d call a devilish smile with eyes big as silver dollars, and so, a few insults reached the ears of the many. That is when I got the smell of their strange cologne, and garlic breath.
Several faces (perhaps for the sake of joyful-sympathy to see the new recruits being pushed about) looked out the barracks windows as we marched forward to the Mess Hall—“What time is it?” a voice said, and eyes looking in my direction, I saw corporal strips on the fellow’s white uniform. I didn’t look at my wrist; I think he wanted me to lose balance of my duffle bag for a laugh—and watch it fall.
“I said, what time is it soldier?” the same voice now in a demanding tone to his question, with the same eyes, but a rougher countenance to his face, as if I was suppose to pee in my pants at his growl. The third time it had a screaming quality to it, as he added a statement to his latter question, “I’ll see you in the mess hall sometime, Private…!” I smiled back at him, and versioned me pulling him by the ear, like my grandfather used to do to me when he had enough of me. He left out what might follow if he saw me in the Mess Hall, and I think that was wise of him I was not one to harbor greudges, but neither was I back in those days, one to provoke unless you had some secret weapon. If in deed he had wished to rebuke me more, he didn’t get the time. I remember thinking: you’d think we were in the middle of a war, not comedy play, and that what it was to me. I did do something back the second time, something I thought was funny, but not to him in particular, and a few of the guys picked up on it. I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief of such nonsense, “Unbelievable.”
“All right, put down your gear, and take off your hats in the mess hall,” said the young drill sergeants that looked like Yogi Bear, the forest fighting bear of the United States, the very one on television, the movie star bear that says, “Keep your forest clean and don’t throw matches!” Now we were standing in front of the building.
I wasn’t hungry, I had eaten with the few friends I had met in Minneapolis, Minnesota, after getting off the plane, and going to a restaurant, we had a pay voucher for $30-dollars, which was a lot of grub, between four or five of us, or enough anyways for a healthy meal, and a small, very small tip. So I figured I’d eat lightly.
Hence, our divine hosts now were pushing us into the mess hall to eat, seating us, by way of pointing their fingers, saying “You go over there. And you several go to the end tables, and you Evens, go join those over there…” and so on and so forth. Not sure why we couldn’t find our own way, we didn’t need a roadmap, or instructions, but we got the latter. Next, they had us push down excessive portions of food, neither one listening to us, or in particular me, when I said “I had just eaten before we got to the base…!”
“Eat anyways so you can’t say we didn’t feed you,” was the reply I kept getting from the old sergeant First Class, and then the young Buck Sergeant, would copy him, like parrot. I think they wanted to see how many people would put up with their evening shenanigans.
Layers of hats and coats fell on the chairs. And I looked about, and said in a mumbling voice to myself: ‘…here I am, god forbid!’ and the older sergeant looked at me. There was no fear in my contours, perhaps there should have been, and he saw that.
As I put down several table spoons of whatever it was I was eating (and I think I was eating spaghetti), along with some bread and milk, I got thinking this is crazy, and looked for the kitchen window, I mean I was stuffed, over stuffed, like a someone one trying to cram an extra cigarette into an already full pack.
When I had first came through the Mess Hall doors, I saw where the soldiers who had finished eating, who were through with their food put their trays, somewhat empty trays—putting the uneaten parts of the food and napkins into a garbage can along side a square opening in a window, laying them inside that opening; one by one, each soldier put his tray through the hole—, now I looked towards it again, it was that same window I ´confirmed, had saw when I first entered the mess hall, so I concluded—then I stood up, looked at the two sergeants that were looking at me—somewhat looking at me, they were looking everywhichway, (not paying all that much attention really, perhaps not wanting a first day confrontation, the other forty solders still eating, the ones that got off the bus with me, I aimed my tray at the hole, like a rocket, and my temper went with that try, (the hole was some several feet away, and I tossed the tray and all the food on it, tossed it like a spaceship, and it landed perfectly on the other trays, gliding over them like a car sliding over ice, into that window, what an aim, and I headed towards the door, to where my duffle bag would be waiting for me, past my masters and we never caught eyes, surprisingly, it was as if nothing happened; but they new now, the trouble maker of the group.
With the sergeants’ faces turn away, I reached for my duffle bag, pulled it alongside of me, lit up a cigarette, fumbled a little trying to light it in the light cool windy twilight, with a gibbous moon over head, and thought: this is going to be an everyday thing, an all day job, from this time on; it wasn’t a pleasant thought.
Both sergeants were busy, still not looking at me, perhaps not caring either, my head bobbing somewhat with the cigarette, as I was thinking, and somewhat pacing in a ten-foot line, in front the Mess Hall back and forth, repeating to myself, ‘…what I am doing here?’
(I would notice later on that evening, tears in the eyes of a few soldiers, perhaps irritation in mine. The Army never bothered me per se, only the disregard I was feeling, overlooked or under or received. I think bachelors are lucky in the Army, confinement less an issue for them, for married folks, to the contrary.)
As I was saying, it was twilight, which now had vanished, and turned into dark or pure-night, a dark, heavy blue night—seemingly a deep midnight was approaching. My stomach heavy, and most of us now had come out of the trance like fog we had first found ourselves in, after getting off the bus, experiencing the Mess Hall, now in the barracks.
Indigestion was setting in, and at the same time, trying to resettle itself, and they, the sergeants perhaps had felt they cleared up enough for the night, let the prey sleep, lull them until tomorrow morning, we’ll wake them at 4:00 am., see how they like it. We were given our blankets and a pillow, with a few grunts of satisfaction, which we tossed back, we took their insults, and taking pain not to show our defeat, as we smiled at one another, wondering what was next. What I was learning, was, enough was enough, there were lines you didn’t cross over, for them, and for me likewise.
(The barracks) Strange tongues, forty strange grins, massive, skinny, tall and thin bare hands moving everywhichway; white, black and brown bodies; feet belonging to strangers, all among one another. Arms stretched out over the beds. This was a new experience for us all, except for the prior Boy Scouts I suppose. The central figures, two sergeants now telling us: “…lights out in fifteen minutes….” And another voice saying, “…let’s hurry up and get a smoke!”
I looked about at the faces: disagreeable, to their liking, curiosity, tired, lonely face, and then I looked out the window with itching fingers to have a cold beer, and get on with the show.
Silhouette of a Soldier
((October, 1969) (Day Two))
Chapter Two
Reveille
(It is always the sound of the bugle that awakens one in the morning, called reveille, in the Army, the sound that tells the solider, to make formation, that begins the day, a signal that it is time to get out of bed, summoned to duty. And all one sees in the morning, in this case, as I prepared for the second day of duty with the many new shapes and outlines of military personnel in a camp, were bodies running like scared rabbits to appease the new Titans in our lives.)
Silhouettes, that’s all we were to them, as I glanced out the window this 2nd day in the Army; soldiers rushing to get into a standing position in what was called a formation, under the autumn sky; the darkness of morning was lifting, an intense gloom alive in the atmosphere: a haunting shady blue sky, extra ordinarily cold for a North Carolina morning.
I had noticed in the distance, throughout the day, across a field, a club resided, Enlisted Men’s Club it was called (EM Club), so I was told: a bar in essence, or so it would be called in my old neighborhood, in St. Paul, Minnesota (called: ‘Donkeyland,’ by the police for its hardheaded drunks that lived and died at two corner bars).
The EM Club
As I saying, I was particularly thrilled to have discovered the Enlisted Men’s Club so close by the group of basic training barracks (mine in particular); whereat, when our two Drill Sergeants, our escorts throughout the day were done with us, I would cleverly leave for the evening to participate in its abundance of alcohol; but beforehand, before they released us to go wash our cloths, or shine our shoes, or get extra sleep, they let us know they’d return at 10:00 p.m., to insure lights were turned off, (which was to them, the very ‘last moment of light,’ to be seen within our barracks, lest we wanted to be disciplined, it was really a curfew in essence; in any case, disembarking for the evening, this would allow me to make acquaintance with the establishment, the EM Club. In outcome, I felt a little at home now, likened to finding something familiar, perhaps my salvation for that moment.
I had my Army green fatigues on, and moved grimly about the barracks, without speaking to anyone (plus, they were too busy trying to be good soldiers, and I was the second oldest person in the platoon, I learned, the younger the soldier, the easier one can be led, brainwashed, and the sergeants knew that).
It was now after duty hours: I had a light and quick dinner at the mess hall, moved quickly across the field to where the EM Club was, it was my plight for the night (and would be for many nights to follow), it was 8:15 p.m., when I arrived there, par excellence in my quick study of the matter, most all the new soldiers had no idea the club existed, I even put on my civilian cloths, so I’d not be questioned of my rank at the club, knowing I was forbidden to drink there, new recruits that is.
The insides of the club were small, and formless, nothing special; mostly square, with figures moving about, to and fro, a crackle of conversations going on everywhere, seemingly sadly suppressed, abnormal for a bar one could say, not lively at all. I was used to deliciously insane bars I suppose, but nonetheless, I was gulping down my first cold Army beer in no time flat.
Everyone seemed to be wrapped in ghostly Army Green, this was to be, I knew, an unearthly patch of the world, hereon, and forevermore, save, I remained in the Army. I leaned on the bar, drank down a second glass of cold mouthwatering beer, and stared into nothingness.
The Corporal
My elbows now on the bar, I got staring at and out the window, a mist had created a moisture onto the bar window, formed a fogginess on its glass; as I scanned the bar, everyone seemed like talking shadows all linked together around the bar, I recognized no one, especially no one from my platoon, that is, ‘D’ Company, 4th Platoon as they called it, called us. I thought briefly about Smiley, a Private like me, a year younger than I, and from the South, I think he said, Alabama, he was easy to talk to, liked to drink, a friend I was glad I found, a worthy friend that is, like to like, mind to mind, heart to heart we were comfortable with one another, most people I accepted as acquaintances, and only a few select would I categorize as associates, or beyond, as a friend, they are far and in-between, he was of the last group.
“You’re the one?” I heard a voice say next to me, a statement-question I took it as, I turned to the stranger, a Corporal sat about seven feet from my stool.
“You were speaking to me?” I said, didn’t care if he had twenty strips on his arms, bar folks get a few drinks in them and try to command the world, this was neither the time nor place to play chief, so I told myself.
“Yaw,” he said, to me, this clean shaven kid, couldn’t have been over nineteen-years old.
“What do you want?” I asked somewhat brusquely.
“You’re the one I asked for the time, yesterday, I work in the mess hall, and you could get in trouble for being here, because new soldiers, or new recruits, are not suppose to come here, you got a place down by the PX, and you can’t go to that until the second week you’ve been here, or is it the third?”
“It’s the third, to be exact,” I told the Corporal, “So are you going to tell, or what?” I asked.
He laughed a bit, and then smiled, “It’s your head, not mine, if they chop it off, oh well.” And I bought him a beer. In time we’d get to know each other better, and he’d even give me excuses to use incase I came back to the barracks late, after 10:00 p.m., he worked with the Colonel often, after duty hours I guess, one time he even signed the Colonel’s name on a piece of paper for me, saying I worked late putting a rug with the Corporal for him, which he had done by himself. And I suppose I named dropped the Colonel’s name here and there, just in case.
Horse’s Hoofs and Old Soldiers
(November, 1969; Week Two in Basic Training)
Chapter Three
Running
In the barracks it was chilly, but so was Minnesota at night, and I liked that kind of sleeping so it didn’t bother me as much as it did the other fellows. The Drill Sergeants sometimes slept overnight didn’t go to their apartments off base, they had some rooms nearby, and on those days, they’d smell bad. Everyone knew my smelled badly, unless they had nose, or sinus problems. So I affirmed it wasn’t me, and why be polite about it, sometimes I just held my nose when they walked by, or coughed, kind of letting everyone know what they already knew, what they didn’t want the sergeants to know they knew about their body smell, and especially the older one, he reeked with alcohol, I think he tried to over do it with Old Spice, and of course, alcohol comes out of your skin one way or another, old spice just makes you smell like a whore more, especially if you overindulge, but we lived with it, and our Sergeant First Class, I think dared anyone to say anything about it. Maybe that was part of the training, it was the most endurable for me, everything else would come easy, matter of fact, I’d have done a hundred-push-ups, if he’d only had taken a shower. There was this other guy in the barracks, a private like us, tall and thin, whitish hair, and skin like an albino, he too, was of the smelly breed, and we had to throw him in the shower one evening, cloths and all, and then told him, “If you don’t disrobe, and wash up, we’ll do it for you.” And he did what he had to do. Not sure what his problem was, maybe he was a female in disguise, I never checked, I was just thankful, he took that shower. You can smell those kinds of folks when you are trying to sleep, and it is not pleasant.
In any case, these were long days in back of me and in front of me, long days running, and longer than normal today’s learning what we had to learn to be soldiers. I had to run around a field three times, two miles each lap, six miles complete, in some specified time, can’t remember it exactly today. I took a number of salt tablets that day as I ran; some of the men were eating chocolate bars, to keep their energy up. I quickly learned running was part of the Army, like the trunk of an elephant’s end-part of his nose, shooting out water.
Yes indeed, running is part of a soldier’s life, I told myself, after two weeks (about to go into the third), running everyday, sometimes with our M14 rifles held over our heads, sometimes carrying our duffle bags full of cloths, and now, today, around in circles. The voice beside me said, “China, China…” a Chinese man, small in stature, who wanted to be an American. In time we would become good friends, and go onto Advance Training together in Alabama, but at this particular moment, it was of course unknown (we would become friends for six-months between Basic Training and Advance Training, and when we got our assignments, after finishing Advance Training, he’d be sent to Vietnam, I suppose because he could speak Chinese and English well, and I would go to Augsburg, Germany, and thereafter, go to Vietnam, Smiley would also head onto Vietnam after his Advance Infantry Training). Anyhow, China, as we all called him, had come to San Francisco, from China, got drafted into the United States Army, given the choice to join, or return to China, but the offer of citizenship was too great to pass up, so he allowed himself to be drafted into the US Army. He was here on a visit of some kind, originally.
The two divine Drill Sergeants were standing on the side of the circle as I passed them, going on and into my third circle, anger on their faces; they only smiled when you obeyed them. Smiley was right in back of me. It was a warm mid-morning, an insane day to be exact, and I was still somewhat drowsy from drinking at the club the night before, my brain that is, felt like mush. And here were all these bodies running, running the length of the field, and China, keeping up with all his 110-pounds; many of the men just dropped to the ground, passed out from heat exhaustion. But us three kept going. It was the whole company today, all four platoons, perhaps 160-men sum total.
One man came along by my side, said: “I say, where we are?” and he dropped to the ground, just like that, and as he dropped I said, “In hell…!”
I think the Drill Sergeant, the older one, was faint from this heat, and felt almost dead from exhaustion, he had run the course, the circled that went around the field, but only once to show us he could; I stopped a few times, my hat had fallen off my head for the 3rd time, “Get moving,” he yelled, the old fart couldn’t do it himself, but expected me, I gave him one of his same old grimaces back; and I’m sure he was hoping I’d drop like the rest.
The third stop somehow allowed me to catch my wind and I started back up after a brief swallow of air into my stomach, Smiley, had stopped, was resting on the side now, couldn’t go any further, I think cramps did him in; next, I got back into my running posture and finished the third circle. Perhaps there were about twenty of us, ready to go into a forth, but the Drill Sergeant, told us to stop, and like the others I rested, found the few select people I liked from our platoon, Smiley among them, and China.
I had for sure disappointed the Drill Sergeant. We all grunted a bit. Moreover, the young sergeant, came up to us and said, “Well,” he then stroked his chin, adding (I merely looked at him with a smirk) “Get down Evens and do fifty pushups,” for being cocky I suppose, and to show the rest of the group how out of shape I was. I said, “Fifty, is that all!” And I did the fifty in a few minutes, got back up, and he said again, “Get down and do fifty more!” And I did, and I got up and said, “I will make note of this…” implying, the necessary sum that he could make me do was at its point, one hundred, and I was not afraid of him, consequently, if he wanted me to do more, I could legally defy him, this he did not want, nor no unsuspected challenges he couldn’t win.
Horse’s Hoofs
I didn’t make any friends this day of course, and felt a little under the horses hoofs, several of the platoon faces, recruits like me, felt I was a trouble maker (for them I suppose I was). And this got back to the Captain, whom would confront me in time on this very issue, in another two weeks to be exact. It was mid November, and we heard we’d be going home for a Christmas leave, and have to return to basic training to finish it, thereafter. One of the soldiers would not have enough money to go home, and we all pitched in from the platoon and made that possible, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The young Drill Sergeant led us to the front of the barracks, and had us do several exercises, he said it was because there was a soldier with a bad attitude in the platoon, and all would have to suffer from that. The older sergeant vaguely looking at me from afar, but I read his lips, “Evens, you again!”
“Squat, crouch, and walk around the barracks,” commanded the young sergeant. This was not only humiliating for the platoon, because we looked like ducks, but tiresome, therefore, I got a few unfriendly faces, and whispers like: Evens, stop causing trouble, straighten up…and so forth and so on. And I simply went, or said “Quack, quack…” to all this—aloud!
“Who said that?” asked the young drill sergeant, and then he walked alongside of me… “It’s you again, I know it’s you Evens, another walk around the barracks,” he announced, and then I whispered to the guys, “Ok, ok…I’ll shut up ((but I couldn’t help it, I did it a second time, then I shut up)( for now)).”
After it was all done (the duck walk), most everyone collapsed comfortably on their beds, while the drill sergeants adjusted their smirks.
Enormous pomposity was shown in the two drill sergeants, and displayed around me, or perhaps I was the only one that saw these expressions, gestures, everyone else was too busy being nervous about what was next. It was going onto the third week of November that the Captain had called me into his office, and I asked him why he sent for me and he said, “Just wanted to see who you were,” and he kept an educated serious face about the matter, and dismissed me, yet I knew something was coming; but I also knew, I had not crossed over any red lines.
For the most part, I was in a new world, and having a hard time adjusting to the customs, the inexpressible nuance of the pretense they expected out of me, willingly—to appreciate their fine work in sculpturing a soldier out of a neighborhood bum. My uncouthness was not appreciated either.
That night, the night that followed the duck-walk, Smiley was to meet me at the EM Club, it was the end of the second week, and we were allowed now, to buy freely at the PX, and go to the Company Recruits club to drink, 3.2 Beer, that is, beer that tasted more like water than beer. But I was already into the EM Club, and drank there—strong beer. They, the Drill Sergeants had actually escorted us that first day to the PX, like tourists.
I gave Smiley a discussion on my EM Club drinking, and told him to meet me there this evening, around eight or nine o’clock; our bed time now had changed to 10:30, lights off at 11:00 p.m., weekends, lights off at 12:00 midnight, and now bed check, being 11:00 p.m., life was improving.
As I waited for Smiley, I thought about what the older Drill Sergeant had told the platoon, that next week there was going to be a show for us, the 82nd Airborne, whom was stationed there, would jump out of airplanes, parachuting down to where we would be sitting. I told myself, only birds and their droppings fall out of the sky, and thus, let it be at that. But when the day came, the old sergeant asked me, sitting on a hill, an embankment sort of, looking down at me a few feet from him, said “Go down there and join up, Evens!” And I said, “I’m not a bird…Sergeant!” And he kicked me, and I rolled down the hill, and waved to him, from that position. Another peeve he had with me.
Freidan
There was a young German female unmarried waitress, who was the waitress at the EM Club, a daughter I expect to one of the higher ranking sergeants on base; she spoke with a broken English pronunciation but could speak clear and clean German, perhaps twenty-one, or younger; possibly a second marriage I thought between an older sergeant and German woman. Anyhow, she was dangerously appetizing I thought. She was lean, perhaps five foot three inches tall, lovely in many ways, and friendly, and customers liked her. She wore tight dresses, benignant in a way, with breasts that bulged slightly out of her blouse, and had small hands, dark hair—penetrating eyes.
“Well what will you have,” she asked me this one night.
“Just tap beer.”
“That’s all, good bottle beer is better!” she implied.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Can’t sell the stuff?”
“Sure, just trying to help.”
“I can’t afford it.” I said, which was perhaps saying too much.
“Not sergeants yet, haw?” she asked, hesitated, “you never know around here.”
“Why don’t you go bother someone else?” I said snotty, I didn’t want everyone looking at me, and then questioning my right to be in the club.
“Tap beer, that’s imitation beer, absinthe!”
“Are you happy bothering me, just a top beer, matter of fact, I can order it myself, I’m at the bar, you should be asking those folks at the tables.”
For some reason she was not going to leave unless I did something, and so I said, “Ok, to please you, I’ll try the German beer; how about Beck’s?”
“Oh, so you do know good beers?” she commented, grinning, as she had made her point, if not victory, I had guessed she talked to my Corporal friend, and knew I was a private.”
“Don’t kid me,” she said, “I saw you looking at me the last few nights.”
I went to put my arm round her, and she pulled back.
“Never mind, soldier,” she said, “you ought to drink Beck’s in here if you’re going to continue to come.”
“Doesn’t make any difference with me,” I said, let her win, or maybe the bartender put her up to it.
“What are you called?” she asked.
“Evens, Chick Evens.”
“Bernadette, that’s my name.” She told me. “American too, I mean American German.”
By this time, she had excused her said, said she had to attend the tables, for me to order from the bartender, as I was going to in the first place, and I ordered a Beck’s, and the bartender smiled.
During the following weeks, I never did chat with her too long, just a hello and goodbye, I figured I was under observation at the club (and a few young bucks were always around her at the bar when she finished serving her drinks), and as long as I kept to my own, they left me alone, and should I try to get a date with her, they would expose me as a recruit, I was sure of that, and I’d have to go to the main drinking hall, with the rest of my Company. On the other hand she knew I think I was harmless, and had no money and no place to take her, no future with me at all.
Army Beer Hall
(December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)
Chapter Four
Confrontation
I had gone to the beer hall this first Saturday evening after returning to Basic Training Camp, from Christmas leave. The Captain was there, I had heard he showed up now and then, but not often, and this was perhaps my third time in the beer hall myself, I preferred the EM Club to the hall, more sedate, but now I had choices. For me it was really the first time I saw him here, a sharp consciousness of being stared at absorbed me, made me look the other way. He was still gazing at me when I turned around, so, it was me he was curious about—therefore I validated, some kind of strained expectancy, he had his eye on me a month ago when he stared at me in his office, like a rat in a cage. More like a psychological Ginny pig, trying to figure me out for the butchering that was going to take place. I paid little heed though, at first, just inquisitive to his prying mannerisms.
After about ten-minutes of this, I asked myself, ‘What is he waiting for?’ I was becoming irritable, ‘what does he expect of me now: to sing the National Anthem for him personally?’ I stood silently a tinge guarded now, as if this was an entirely obvious reaction, as he approached me.
“We’ve both been away for a while, Christmas vacation, I’ve wanted to talk to you before you left, but…well it just didn’t work out, I’m a bit surprised you’re back, and so glad I found you here this evening, Private Evens.” He said in a seriously low and cordial tone, almost a mumble.
At about this time, I was waiting for the punch, the Sunday punch that normally comes with such surprises; you know, someone says a few good words, to get you off guard, off balance, and then bang.
The Captain
(I gazed mutely at him.) The Captain stood now alongside of me, as I leaned back, somewhat comfortable against a pillar in the old WWII beer hall. He said, sincerely said, yet kind of in an official manner, something I never expected to hear, never even saw it coming:
“You make me look like the worst Company Commander in all the Basic Training Camps, here on Fort Bragg, Private Evens. My comrades laugh and make jokes about how you belittle the Army, and its training and our Sergeants… (then he grabbed two beers on the counter, laid down thirty cents, and gave one to me, the other for himself, then continued:) as I was saying, about to say, you do not make me look good in front of my peers. To the contrary, and I’ve thought about this a while, on what to do with you, you are always borderline, actually you would make a good soldier, if you wanted to, it appears you do not want to though (he looked at me deeply and sincerely into my eyes) what did I ever do to you?” He asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Well then, unintentionally, you are making me look like the worse commander at Fort Bragg for nothing? I never drafted you, the Government did, yet it seems you are taking your anger out on me, my Company!”
I felt awkward, not sure what to say. He did not say it loud, but said it firmly, with almost hurt in his face. I knew I was taking it out on the platoon, but there are four platoons to a company, and I didn’t feel I was taking it out on all of them, but he assured me I was, because they rated all four platoons to see which one was the worst and best, and then rated the companies, which were four platoons to company, and four companies to a Battalion, and I was in the 10th Battalion, 1st BDE (Brigade) this I knew already, and I knew we were the worse of the worse. But I never put two and two together that it was me making the platoon look bad, I passed all the physical and written tests, but it was based on more than that I guess.
“I never said it was your fault, Captain,” I responded; as we both walked easily and leisurely a few steps, both thinking. He perhaps had it all figured out, how he would present this to me, it was too cleaver to have had it just pop out of his head at the moment it did, for he added this,
“I’ll make you a deal, you have got two years of this life to deal with, it’s going to be a rough road for everyone involved, even you, everyone you meet. (Smiley walks by, I smiled at him, let him know all was well; the Captain became silent until he passed, then continued), as I was saying, you have a lot of time to fight with everyone, and that is not a good way to live. Here is what I will do for you, or propose. At midnight tonight, I will have two MPs pick you up at the barracks, everyone will be sleeping, and they will take you to the bus station, and not report you’re missing for twenty-four hours, enough time to get to Canada, if that is where you wish to go. You can be out of the country before the AWOL notice goes into effect. Or you can stay here, and please stop making trouble for me (he made this personal)?”
He was I think waiting for an answer, one I never gave him, couldn’t give him, at the moment, so I simply walked away, as he said, “They’ll be out by your barracks at midnight.”
Well, I was there in the morning, as if nothing had been said, standing in formation, as always, reveille (my wake up call), and I’m not sure if the Captain saw me or not, but that was the last time I had saw him, face to face; although off in the distance I saw him here and there. He did one thing if anything, he threw it back on me, I had to make the decision, not him, thus, his conscious was free, and back in those days, it wasn’t hard for an officer to get revenge if he indeed wanted to, and it wasn’t hard for a trouble maker like me I suppose to cause friction for the Army on a continues scale, so perhaps he gave both of us, the Army and me, an ounce of respect, to straighten things out, or let time do it the hard way, for both of us. For the most part, I behaved myself, but not completely. And in time I would turn out to be a good soldier, and awarded a number of medals to prove it. Yes, this was really just the beginning.
But again, I have gotten ahead of myself. When I left the beer hall, I went over to the EM Club to think this matter over.
Bernadette’s Dilemma
I had left the beer hall, ended up at the EM Club that night, to try and figure out things in my head, and Bernadette was there, and only a few others, not many at all and she sat on a stool by me, “I want to talk,” she said. She looked upward, she was very lovely, and tried to say something, big bright-eyed, and I listened as I drank my Beck’s beer; she was trying to talk unimportantly, but it was important, she was next to tears, “I can’t marry him even if I wanted to.” She told me.
I didn’t say a word.
“It’s so childish of me. We fight so much, and then tonight before I came to work I find out, he was always fighting with me because he couldn’t marry me if he wanted to.”
“Well, I don’t know, but you’re a pretty girl, I’d think you could pick anyone to marry, and the guy would be delighted.”
“No I don’t think so, Chick, he has children, and he’s already married.”
She looked at me very dimly.
“I can’t believe it; he’s twenty-seven and has three kids.”
She now looked at me as someone who should have known better.
“Yes, it’s a rotten shame, guys should put their cards on the table, you think one thing because you’re lead to believe it and it is another.” I said.
“And of course, there’s not a thing in the world I can do about it.”
“If he comes in here; don’t let him know we talked about him.”
“I only know the Corporal, Hanson I think his last name is.”
“He wants to take me to New Orleans this weekend; his family is back in Chicago or someplace around there.”
“Maybe he’s just saying that, and doesn’t plan on taking you anyplace, just saying it to pacify you?”
“I don’t think he’s that way.” She said.
“Oh, I think he is, you just discovered you don’t know him, and now you’re telling me, whatever he says is written is stone.”
“Oh here he comes in, don’t say a word.”
She moved quickly from my side, all of a sudden her grief was gone. All that advise, or sympathy, she was seeking was cast into marble, she was pretty happy now. What is it with women, they’re miserable, and then they are fine. I felt like her shock absorber. I do not know how people can ask for more pain; by doing the stupid things that they know are going to hurt them. I simply got up and walked out, hoping I’d not be noticed by anyone.
The Fighting Irish
(January, 1970; Week Six in Basic Training)
Chapter Five
Karate
I came from a Russian extended family, on my mother’s side,
But I was half Irish, on my father’s side…
In the days and weeks that followed—every muscle throughout my body would be aching, head spinning; yet I was not worn down like most of the troops, perhaps I had a lot of training in San Francisco, and back in St Paul, Minnesota in karate, and my body was somewhat hardened, ready for this kind of training. Face to face with the Drill Sergeants, I halfway straightened my attitude out, we, or maybe just I, somewhat came to an understanding, willingly obedient, yet at night I still became a soggy drunk, going to the EM Club in particular, and seeing Bernadette.
On the top bunk, of the bunk bed I was assigned to, myself assigned to the bottomed, in this enormous room we lived in, the bunk beds accommodated forty-four soldiers, in two long rows, eleven to each side, one soldier on top, one on the bottom, old WWII vintage, wooden and square framed, slanted roofed barracks, with double doors, to the right, it lead out into the courtyard, just beyond the doors, straight ahead, was the latrine. The windows in the building were wide, on both sides of the wooden structure, several to each side; the outside painted white, the inside pale white and green; as I was about to say though, a southern boy slept on the top bunk, he didn’t seem to like me, or get along with me all that well, just gave me sneers like the Sergeants often did, he didn’t like me coming into the barracks drunk and coming in so late, I felt it was none of his business, he wasn’t my sergeant, nor my parent. He was a strict soldier, and our attitudes conflicted, so much so, he became quite, bitterness, and he decided to confront me on this drinking issue one evening, just before lights out.
I came in, it was perhaps a few minutes before ´Light’s out!’ and he grabbed me by my shirt (about my height, and weight), said:
“Its two-minutes to lights out, and here you are walking in half drunk.”
He was correct in his observation.
“Oh,” I said, adding “…is that so…!” and broke his arm from my shirt, downward, and a second later, took my palm and pushed him against the wall. He was stunned I had broken his arm hold so easily, I had him almost pinned against the wall. Then I grabbed his shaving cream and squirted it all over him, not sure why, but it was the closest thing to my free hands now and I didn’t want to break any his bones, but perhaps to shame him or belittle him in front of the onlookers, whom were the soldiers now in their bunks. Then I stepped back into a fighting stance, and egged him on. I did not want to beat him without him having another chance to strike me, it didn’t seem right. I mean I could have killed him right there, had I wanted to, his open posture was almost an invitation for a slaughter, but only a professional fighter could have seen that. I had just come from San Francisco and Studied Karate under the guidance of the greatest Karate instructor of my day (1968-69), Gosei Yamaguchi, thus, having two years in warlike arts in fighting; I was ready.
His instinct was good, he backed down, and I never pushed anyone beyond that point, the point of no return, never put anyone in a corner I always told myself, give him a little room to get out, it could save a lot of trouble. That was always inbreed in me, not sure of the why or how it was, who put it there that is.
My thoughts at the time were: why does this wooden man, one I can break so easily confront me like this. The following morning he was standing outside, with two friends, and I came up to him and said,
“Do you want to finish it…?” and added, “let me show you something” and before he could say a word, or blink an eye, I had thrown several punches and a back kick (not to show off but to show him I no longer was going to play with him), and I pulled my punches lest I break his nose or jaw or something. After the demonstration, his eyes bulged out, and he just said, “You’re a trained fighter, it would be crazy to fight with you,” and I walked away, I really think he simply thought I was crazy.
Bernadette’s Ring
Bernadette came up to me, showed me her hand, “Pretty nice, eh?” she said.
“We went to New Orleans, and I met his brother and sister, they are swell people,” she told me.
She was standing at the bar, not working this evening, her leg lying against mine as I sat on a stool, drinking a tap beer.
“Buff is his name,” she said.
“How big is the diamond?” I asked.
“One forth of a carrot,” she said.
“Lift it up, so I can see it better.” And she did.
I laughed, I couldn’t help it.
“Yes. Go on and laugh,” she said. “You don’t know him, he’s going to get a divorce and marry me.”
“Was he very nice to you?”
She raised her chin up and said with a smirk, “Sure.”
“My god, wake up Bernadette, isn’t it awful enough he lied to you for so long, you’re a damn nice girl.”
“Come on, let’s get out of her, go into town, I got a car, and we can get drunk together, just you and me and talk.” She asked.
People were starting to look our way. Buff is on duty tonight, he’s a Staff Sergeant.”
“I’ve got five bucks until payday,” I said.
“You privates, what do you get?”
“I get $93-dollars a month, that’s it.”
“I ought to stay, just in case he gets off duty early, I suppose” she said, “You see I’m not afraid to go places without him, he doesn’t own me.”
“What makes you think I was thinking that?” I asked.
“Well, I thought your words were suggesting it I guess.”
“This is a comfortable bar,” she said, “you always seem to have a good night here, Chick.”
“No, it’s just a bar noting else, just something to do, while we get ready to go to war.” I think I got to disliking this guy, didn’t even know him, just that he was unforgivingly, keeping her hostage for his whims, and I knew in time he’d drop her.
“I got to go, get some sleep before tomorrow,” I told Bernadette.
“That sounds like a good Idea,” she replied. I think she was made because I was not supportive of her and Buff.
KP and Potatoes, Army life
(January, 1970; Week Seven in Basic Training)
Chapter Six
(Kitchen Police) KP
KP, or call it Kitchen Police, Kitchen Duty, or whatever, but back in my basic training, back in 1969-70, ever soldier did it. I was woken up this one morning of my seventh week in training, it was a Sunday, and someone wanted to go to church, so guess who they picked for kitchen duty, me. I wasn’t supposed to have it; I had had it three times before, and was suppose to have been done with it. But the Army never works that way, they just keep putting straws on the camels back until he drops, or says something to stop it, and I was not everyone’s favorite soldier, so I just accepted it, I was close to going onto the next stage, advance training in Alabama, or Ranger training in California, and jungle training in Washington somewhere down the line. So I figured another day on KP would not hurt. Yet at the time I didn’t know my next duty station for sure. I didn’t even know if they were going to pass me, I mean, they could have fixed it for me to stay around a while longer if they hated me so much, and as a result make me suffer, you know, torment me with another eight weeks of this Boy Scout like training as I had felt it was, yet on the other hand I’m quite sure they were more than ready to get rid of me, in the same manner, so they’d not have to put up with me.
“Soldier, get up, you got KP!” said the young sergeant, my drill sergeant, at 4:00 a.m., with a smirk on his face. He was a vulture, “I already had it three times before!” I said.
“You got ten minutes…no more!” he added to his unsightly face. The Buck Sergeant stood outside, waited to see if I was coming, and I was, I rushed to and fro…and was on my way in ten minutes flat.
It was as if by me staying in the platoon touched off a high explosive inside the sergeant’s head, I think he would have liked me to have gone AWOL, run to Canada for his amusement (and to be honest I thought about it a few times and figured I’d think more on it later, when I got my thirty-day leave). As I walked outside, onto the dirt road in front of the barracks, and then on down the dirt road, and across the black asphalt road—that went the opposite way, to the Mess Hall, he looked a bit gloomy, I was turning out to be a soldier indeed, and he wasn’t sure if he liked that.
It was a long day, or would be. First came the dishes, then the pots and pans, and then the potatoes, yes, I hated doing the potatoes, not because it was hard, nothing in the Army is that hard, it was boring, and they had an automatic potato peeler right behind me, staring at my back side, as I sat on the steps in back of the mess hall, peeling potatoes the old fashion way, with a knife, slowly, and a big pot for the skins of the potatoes and one for the potatoes. I think it was based on not wanting us to have something to do, rather than nothing to do and the automatic peeler would only do the job quicker and allow us to have free time. Oh well, it was all part of the show I told myself. And it gave me time to think on many things.
(I thought about Maria Garcia, a young woman I was seeing and had met while on Christmas leave, back in St. Paul, this past December).
She had a kid, and we’d drink a lot together, and she always seemed to be having family, friends, people in general over to her house, a Mexican thing I think, or Spanish thing, the more the company the better; where as for me being the gringo, I was not used to this, and had I suppose less of a family life in that I didn’t have so many people around, more of a loner, a quieter life. But it was nice meeting everyone. She was cute, short, black thick hair, a nice shape on her, and somewhat of a decent lover. And I never told her I was in the Army, and on my last day of leave, I simply left; that is to say, I got up one morning, had my orders to go, and left, never even made a phone call, had I, I would not have known what to say anyhow. And I suppose I figured Buff would do that to Bernadette, why not, men were like that. And surely, I was no better than Buff, except I never had time to buy her a ring, and had she asked, it would have ended sooner.
On my three hundred and forty-forth potato, I got thinking about Sergeant Wolf, a black sergeant, drill sergeant that is. How he’d smoke, solemnly smoke those cigarettes, right to its end. He was there among the other Drill Sergeants often, talking, he was from ‘C’ platoon, I think he liked me, because I made him look good, and our sergeants bad; they always had bets, betting on this and that: saying their platoon was better, and I think my drill sergeants lost many bets. He had a fleshless neck, almost none at all, and a head of an absurd largeness; a stooping body like an ape, dark as a gorilla, and hands that were almost touching the ground when he walked. He was the Judo and Karate instructor; I could have taught the man something, but for what time we had, it was good enough. I think at times his prerogative was to out show me, or out do me, but whatever he showed, or demonstrated, I could do better, he had a horrible agility, dull small eyes, clean-shaven. He darted here and there it seemed, like a spider, stupidly I often found myself looking at him. I wouldn’t miss him, I told myself, in any crowd.
Yes indeed many thoughts were going through my mind this day, this twelve hour day: I remembered the three Generals, the second or third day I had been in boot camp, Smiley, I and Bruce were sitting down in the clothing supply area waiting to get sized up for our dress greens, and here comes three generals, I didn’t really know a general from a captain, but one had three stars on his shoulders, now that I think about it. “How they treating you soldier?” he asked me, I didn’t get up, and simply said, “So, so, I guess,” he smiled, and said something else, and I never saluted him, nor stood at attention, that was a peeve with my young drill sergeant, but he got over it, after warning me, should it happen again, I’d be severely reprimanded; the General saw the sergeant was upset, and told him in so many words: give him a break.
The other thing that came to mind in my daydreaming was the old sergeants appearance, my drill sergeant, when I say old, I do not really mean, old, old, but for a drill sergeant, old: he had a square jaw, like me, but was a few inches taller, not much, a rough looking face, as if he had been around a bit, small eyes, half closed all the time, or seemingly so. At times he was vigorous and at times a cold pathetic look gravitated all over his face to his forehead. He was what many called, a Red Neck, perhaps thirty-seven years old, but he was a vulture nonetheless.
Army Life
I felt at times I was the side focus of the group of drill sergeants, they had beat the hell out of one of the soldiers for not adjusting and getting smart with them, which I really never did, I mean I never disrespected them verbally, I was simply not afraid of them, and they knew it. Moreover I was guarded I suppose, waiting for them to do it to me, or try. And they knew I was waiting, and I think my eyes warned them, be careful, you are treading on unknown ground, and somebody besides me will get hurt also. What I took to be men of honor, among our leaders, disappointment me somewhat, most were fine, but some were not. They had a job to do I know, and this is of course how I was feeling at the time: everyone with gaunt and hard eyes, with gloomy jobs, and often drunk before lights went out for us. The older drill sergeant, my drill sergeant couldn’t talk for two weeks, laryngitis (inflammation of the larynx). Not sure why I thought this was funny, but he couldn’t holler like he’d have liked to.
At the end of the day, I had a few aches and some numbness, my muscles danced, and my nerves—wiggled. Smiley came by once, said: “See yaw at the beer hall tonight…!” And Bruce and Allen would be with him. Both good old southern boys, as they called themselves. Allen was a large figure of a man with glasses and smart. I nodded my head ‘yes’ and kept on peeling those potatoes, and cutting them up.
Stalemate: Army Life
(January, 1970; Week Seven and a half in Basic Training)
Chapter Seven
We marched back and forth like children walking in formation to school, not half miles though, but four and five miles a day now. No one had the right to resort to tears nor calmly and flatly refuse, a few I think wanted to, we had a fat boy in the group, and the sergeants run him ragged (by the time he left, he must had lost forty pounds, he was most grateful to his oppressors) didn’t even fight back, emotionally or physically. Most of the trainees just did what they were told, had to do, thought they had to do. I learned later on in time, one can hate the Army and love it at the same time. And then one becomes codependent on it, with it. This never took place at this stage of the game, but down the road of life it appeared to me it had enmeshed in not only my life, but the majority of soldiers who were in the Army longer than three years.
Chapter Eight
Beer Bash—At Fort Bragg!
(February, 1970; Week Eight in Basic Training)
I had learned, a Soldier’s first day in basic training, is like every other day, one very long day. For me it was thirteen weeks long. Chick Evens
I was motionless, it was Saturday, and we were all standing about in the bus station on base at Fort Bragg, checking out the billboard for our assignments. It was the end of the eighth week of training, and we had but a few days left, going into the ninth week, actually, my 13th week (counting the four weeks I had used up for Christmas leave) belonging to this Platoon of sorts. We all were checking to see where our orders were going to send us, for our new assignment. The Drill Sergeants were sitting in the smoking room, drinking and so forth, having a bash, training was over for the most part, but we had two days left, we had to use them to clear the base, sign papers, bring back our linen, and so forth and then we’d meet back here and take our buses to wherever.
Sergeant Wolf was collecting money, “How about you Private Evens?” he asked (a little kinder than usual), as I’m reading my assignment…
“Well,” said the sergeant with his hat out.
“Collecting money for what?” I said, adding “is this another requirement?”
“So we can get drunk and forget all your faces, and all the work we had to do to get you recruits to be real soldiers.”
I just stared at him, and he walked away, went into the backroom with the door opened, and took a drink of his booze. Somehow I felt sorry for the men the Drill Sergeants, they really thought they were doing a good deed, they felt they deserved it, the change they were collecting, they all surely had some kind of vision, one I did not pick up on. I was in-between, the eclipse I suppose. So I walked into the backroom, “Want a drink…?” Staff Sergeant Wolf asked. We saw things a little differently I suppose, but that is the way life is, even in the Army, and they needed some kind of uniformity and it was over, and I dropped a quarter in their hat.
Chapter Nine
The Rape
The Rape of Bernadette
It was a cool January evening (three days before Private Evens would be assigned to his new duty station in Alabama) and the mist had not yet fully covered the hill top outside Fayetteville, North Carolina, a little ways from Fort Bragg, which had come from the wind. Bernadette had talked Evens into chaperoning her to a belated New Year’s college party (1970), whom Buck Sergeant Mike Rogers, the bartender at the EM Club—who had a very hard crush on Bernadette—pleaded for her to attend, with him, and when she refused, not knowing anyone in particular, at the party, which were to be a bunch of young college kids and a few young solders from base, at the last minute, she asked Evens.
When they arrived they had to park their car below the hill and climb up it, it had patches of wooded and brush like areas, the hill sides full of foliage likewise. Near twenty folks were standing about, and some sitting on a long log, around the fire, cooking marshmallows, and hotdogs, and drinking beer, rum and wine, and gossiping. Evens didn’t care to be her bodyguard, but for some reason he had that old feeling, intuition, she wasn’t safe going there alone, and she just might do that should he refuse her request, and she was if anything, a little misguided by her need to have a good time, to break the boredom of life, and she was lovely, and very shapely to look at and she liked to be adored, given attention.
Roger saw the two as they were walking down a path toward the fire; he jerked his head when he saw Bernadette Benson, as if his plight for the evening had just been fulfilled. Evens noticed the change in his face, from a blank to an almost dangerous look. Roger waved at the two. They waved back, and then once they got close enough for the rest to see them, Roger stepped forward, gave Bernadette a kiss on the cheek, “I’m really glad to see you,” he didn’t look at Evens for a moment, then gave him smirk, “you too, old chap.”
One by one he introduced Bernadette to the group as if she was his property, girlfriend, and Evens was introduced to all of them at once.
Roger stayed by her side like a fly on a camels back, glued. He put his hand around her waist, she felt a little uncomfortable, but allowed it, then he left Bernadette for a moment by Evens, went out into bushes, about two hundred feet from the fire, it looked suspicious, but Bernadette didn’t say a word, Evens questioned his motives in his mind, knew something was up.
•
“Excuse me Bernadette, I’m going to get another beer from the cooler, how about you?”
“No thinks, I’m fine Chick.”
When I came back I looked about for Bernadette, she was gone. I paced a bit over by the folks near the fire, and the log, a number of young college girls were checking me out.
“Hay, Evens, isn’t…?” said one fellow.
“Yaw!”
“I saw you at the Club, you always look so serious drinking, as if you’re thinking, must be thinking about Roger’s girl, haw?”
“I don’t know Roger’s girl,” I said.
“Sure you do, Bernadette,” said the fellow; he seemed to have been doing some heavy drinking.
“Since when did she become his?”
“I bet your were dreaming about her at the club, until Roger told you hands off—haw?”
“If she was Roger’s girl, why didn’t she come with Roger?”
He hesitated for a moment, took a long swig from his wine bottle. “You tell me wise guy,” he said.
“You lousy bum, stand up, and I’ll knock you back down!” I said.
“Don’t get so riled, I was just kidding,” he said.
“Yaw,” said a girl next to him, “he gets mouthy when he has too much do drink.”
“Yaw, I know the type,” I was looking in his eyes, they told me he was a chicken, and he was.
“You work for the Colonel, I know you do, your Corporal friend told me, and so you think you’re a hot shot!”
“Come on stand up,” I said, “get up and fight, I’ll show you who’s a hot shot.”
“What?” he said, “fight, what for?”
“So I can shut your big mouth, that’s what for.”
He wouldn’t move from his spot, asked the girl next to him to go get him a beer he was too scared to get up; I then thought I heard a voice in the woods behind me, in the bushes someplace, somewhere amongst all the patches of undergrowth and turned about to go check. As I walked down the narrow path, I heard Bernadette say, “Go to hell!”
I looked about the shrubbery, couldn’t see a soul, and then I heard, “Help, help, help…please somebody help!”
It was Bernadette Benson’s voice for sure, I confirmed. I looked harder, had the bottle of beer still in my right hand, “Bernadette,” I called.
“Over here, here…!”
I took a left turn, Roger had her pinned to the ground on her back, his pants down to his knees, her dress up over her knees, and he was half inserted, “Hey, stop that.” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder, “I said stop, can’t you hear?”
“I heard you, f… off, get away from me,” he said.
“Don’t you hear?” I repeated myself, I figured he’d stop but he was acting as if he had a right to do what he was doing, and he just turned about and went down on her again, as if I wasn’t standing over him. I also noticed nobody came to her rescue, or to check out her pleas.
“Ask her if she wants you,” I said. Bernadette, cried, “Get him off me pleases Chick!”
I told myself he had no honor, no pity, no anything, and I forgot I had the bottle in my right hand for a moment, and I grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head around so I could see it, and bashed it three or four times with the bottle, and he came off her like a slashed saddle on a horse. And he lay beside her in a daze crying, “What did you hit me with, you didn’t have to do that!”
A voiced from afar, said “Is everything all right out there?”
Funny I thought, they heard his plea, but not her’s.
I looked at him, said, “Yaw, now you’re sorry.” I knew he’d blame me later on for excessive force, but then that is exactly what he was using on her. I didn’t need the bottle to beat the bum, it just happened to be there; like to like, given no pity, received no pity. He looked awful, but that is the way you look when you get hit with a blunt instrument. I was hit once with a crowbar in the forehead, and had thirty stitches, I know how he felt.
“Come on,” said Bernadette, he has lots of friends, and they’ll be more than willing to back him up, we need to get out of her.”
I had fallen for Bernadette also, but I was not obsessed with her, nor would I tarnish my manhood to appease my sexual drive. They never go hand in hand.
Chapter Ten
Faggots and
Lesbians
Faggots and Lesbians
At the beer hall the next night (48-hours before we’d depart Fort Bragg for good, and go on to our advance training assignments), Smiley (Judson Small), Allen and Bruce, were there with me all getting inebriated. I told them the story of Bernadette, how Sergeant Mike Rogers, the bartender at the EM Club tried to rape Bernadette, while at some belated college New Year’s party outside of Fayetteville on some wooded hill top, and I broke a bottle of beer over his head sent him to the hospital. Bernadette’s mother had called me, told me how grateful she was, that if the devil sergeant tried to press charges, they’d get him for rape (that was the last I’d ever hear of it).
“We should shoot the bastard,” said Allen, he was a tall, broad, a stocky man, with glasses from Boston. “Then go get those faggots and Lesbians.”
“Want to hear some more on the rape?” I asked Allen.
“You don’t have any more,” said Smiley, “from what you told me anyhow.”
He was right I just wanted to cool Allen down, he had been angry all night long.
“Oh Allen,” said Bruce, “You think all college kids are faggots and lesbians because they didn’t get drafted like us.”
“You got that straight, you bum.” He remarked.
From underneath his fatigue coat, he pulled out a bottle of red wine. Smiley and I slung our jackets over our shoulders; we were hot, in the New Year’s, night’s coolness.
“This is hillbilly country, right Smiley; we should try and find some moonshine.” I said, looking at both Smiley and Bruce, both southern boys.
“I hate these college faggots,” said Allen, “we’re here and they’re in college, can’t get drafted, the US Government feels we’re disposal, and aren’t we.” It was unfair I knew, but what could you do about it.
“Where’s our barracks?” asked Allen cock-eyed.
“Just follow this road along the middle here, and it will appear just like magic, to the right.” I said. Then pointed out to Allen whereabouts it was.
“It’s a hell of a walk,” said Allen to us three.
“No, not really, you’re just a hell of a drunk,” I said, and all four of us laughed.
“Listen,” said Allen, “I’ve got it figured out, Kennedy and Johnson were both faggots, and Westmorland, he was one to, all lovers, and they all started this little war in Vietnam you see, they got all together in this little cabin, pretending to do business, and figured this war would bring them back for more talks, but it was lover talk they wanted to do.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bruce, “Kennedy liked Monroe, they were doing it in the closet in the White House, that’s why someone killed her.”
“No, that was just a last minute cover up; she was a clandestine lesbian, everybody knows that,” said Allen.
“Kennedy freed the niggers, and ever since they’ve been complaining, right Bruce?”
“Yaw, that nigger woman on the bus started all that trouble. Down in your country, Smiley, Alabama.”
“She was a lesbian too, you should know that guys,” said Allen.
“Why you so bitter tonight Allen,” I asked.
“Yeah, I suppose I am. I’m going to Nam, you know, got my orders yesterday, I’ll be going to Fort Hood Texas, for infantry training, and then to Vietnam; kill some of those gooks, you know those fish. Don’t even know what a gook looks like. And I’m going over there to kill them, what a pity.”
“Say,” said Smiley, “I’ll be keeping you company, my orders read the same as yours.”
“Good,” said Allen, “bad news likes more company.”
“How about me finishing off the wine, Allen, you’re really pie-eyed?”
When I got back to the barracks, I quickly put my Hemingway book under my pillow, in case someone saw it, it was titled, “Men Without Women,” I was afraid Allen would see it, and then god forbid, I’d never hear the end of it, and I liked the short stories (which had noting to do with Faggots and Lesbians), I was at the end of a short story called: “Hills like White Elephants,” where some guy was saying something like: stop talking, talking, talking, so some girl… something like that. Anyhow, Allen would simply never understand.
•
At the beer hall the next night (48-hours before we’d depart Fort Bragg for good, and go on to our advance training assignments), Smiley (Judson Small), Allen and Bruce, were there with me all getting inebriated. I told them the story of Bernadette, how Sergeant Mike Rogers, the bartender at the EM Club tried to rape Bernadette, while at some belated college New Year’s party outside of Fayetteville on some wooded hill top, and I broke a bottle of beer over his head sent him to the hospital. Bernadette’s mother had called me, told me how grateful she was, that if the devil sergeant tried to press charges, they’d get him for rape (that was the last I’d ever hear of it).
“We should shoot the bastard,” said Allen, he was a tall, broad, a stocky man, with glasses from Boston. “Then go get those faggots and Lesbians.”
“Want to hear some more on the rape?” I asked Allen.
“You don’t have any more,” said Smiley, “from what you told me anyhow.”
He was right I just wanted to cool Allen down, he had been angry all night long.
“Oh Allen,” said Bruce, “You think all college kids are faggots and lesbians because they didn’t get drafted like us.”
“You got that straight, you bum.” He remarked.
From underneath his fatigue coat, he pulled out a bottle of red wine. Smiley and I slung our jackets over our shoulders; we were hot, in the New Year’s, night’s coolness.
“This is hillbilly country, right Smiley; we should try and find some moonshine.” I said, looking at both Smiley and Bruce, both southern boys.
“I hate these college faggots,” said Allen, “we’re here and they’re in college, can’t get drafted, the US Government feels we’re disposal, and aren’t we.” It was unfair I knew, but what could you do about it.
“Where’s our barracks?” asked Allen cock-eyed.
“Just follow this road along the middle here, and it will appear just like magic, to the right.” I said. Then pointed out to Allen whereabouts it was.
“It’s a hell of a walk,” said Allen to us three.
“No, not really, you’re just a hell of a drunk,” I said, and all four of us laughed.
“Listen,” said Allen, “I’ve got it figured out, Kennedy and Johnson were both faggots, and Westmorland, he was one to, all lovers, and they all started this little war in Vietnam you see, they got all together in this little cabin, pretending to do business, and figured this war would bring them back for more talks, but it was lover talk they wanted to do.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bruce, “Kennedy liked Monroe, they were doing it in the closet in the White House, that’s why someone killed her.”
“No, that was just a last minute cover up; she was a clandestine lesbian, everybody knows that,” said Allen.
“Kennedy freed the niggers, and ever since they’ve been complaining, right Bruce?”
“Yaw, that nigger woman on the bus started all that trouble. Down in your country, Smiley, Alabama.”
“She was a lesbian too, you should know that guys,” said Allen.
“Why you so bitter tonight Allen,” I asked.
“Yeah, I suppose I am. I’m going to Nam, you know, got my orders yesterday, I’ll be going to Fort Hood Texas, for infantry training, and then to Vietnam; kill some of those gooks, you know those fish. Don’t even know what a gook looks like. And I’m going over there to kill them, what a pity.”
“Say,” said Smiley, “I’ll be keeping you company, my orders read the same as yours.”
“Good,” said Allen, “bad news likes more company.”
“How about me finishing off the wine, Allen, you’re really pie-eyed?”
When I got back to the barracks, I quickly put my Hemingway book under my pillow, in case someone saw it, it was titled, “Men Without Women,” I was afraid Allen would see it, and then god forbid, I’d never hear the end of it, and I liked the short stories (which had noting to do with Faggots and Lesbians), I was at the end of a short story called: “Hills like White Elephants,” where some guy was saying something like: stop talking, talking, talking, so some girl… something like that. Anyhow, Allen would simply never understand.
As for Bernadette, I never went back to say goodbye to her at the bar, I kind of wanted to. But I didn’t want to fall in love with her, I didn’t want to see her again, she was looking for a husband, or something on that order. And I didn’t want to know what was happening in her life, or Buff’s sporting evenings, or Mike Rogers’s recovery. I just wanted to go my own way, live my own life. There were a few things to be said about the way she handled her life, and I suppose a few practical things I was learning in mine. The best thing was to last and get my work done, learn and try to understand, and see where I’d end up.
Note: History of the Novelette: The Burlesque, story “The Midwinter Soldier,” was originally named, “Soldiers’ First Day,” 3-30-2007. Revised, 5-2008, and renamed “A Midwinter Soldier”; revised and edited between November 7 and 26, of 2008, again; in the last week of March of 2009, it was revised and reedited a third time. “Faggots and Lisboans,” and “The Rape…” written 3-27-2009 for the book “A Midwinter Soldier” Originally 9200, modified to 13, 750-words
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