|
2 The week of processing at the Reception Center was coming to a close, and we were in formation on the hard cold ground, standing at attention, waiting for our early morning roll call. As I stood there I tried to figure out what day it was, but my mind couldn’t focus clearly on the concept of time. Since that first night at the Reception Center, the time had not arranged itself in neat segments the way it had in civilian life. Actually, that first week had been one long day interrupted at random by two, three, and four-hour bursts of sleep. There had been no consistency to either the waking or sleeping hours. You went to sleep when they let you. You got up when they ordered you to. And they made it very clear to you that your time was not your own. None of it. “Hurry and wait” and “Scurry and wait” were certainly the slogans that fit just about everything we did. Stand in line. Wait. Get your Army uniforms. Wait. Get your Instructions for “Marking of Clothing and Equipment as prescribed in AR 850-5.” Wait. Some of the stuff was issued right away. The rest would be issued when we got to our assigned training organization. Surprisingly, we were told we had to pay for our own stencil. It would be our own private property, a small symbol of individualism. Here are some samples of the clothes marking instructions.
Also, one very important form was issued for the monthly income my dependent Mary would receive starting in April. It was a form that meant basic economic survival to us. We would be on one of the lowest rungs of the economic ladder, but at least we were on a rung.
Allotment Authorization O’Connell, Thomas F., Jr. Pvt. E-1 US51305178 Effective Date of Allotment Apr 54. Amount: $91.30. Allottee’s Name and Address: Mary L. O’Connell, 11 Sherman Avenue, Franklin, Massachusetts. Certifying Officer: D. F. Schwarzkopf, Captain, Inf Date: 19 Mar 54.
During my waking hours, which amounted to about twenty per day, the full reality of the Army dominated my consciousness. The more I began to understand the Army and its power over me, the more I realized that it was alien to every fiber of my being. Just about everything the Army did to us, for its own obvious and possibly necessary reasons, I found negative. One example was the shearing of my curly brown hair right down to my scalp. The point was to produce uniform looking heads for all privates. Also, the constant verbal harassment inflicted on us was designed to wipe out all forms of individuality, and if there was anything in life that I did not want to part with it was my individuality. The physical exhaustion made it clear that we were not taking part in a picnic or the Boy Scouts of America. On reflection, at a very young age I had found the Boy Scouts intolerable too, and didn’t stay in it long. I had difficulty with the authority of so-called superiors, the Eagle Scouts. So here I was now, facing the irrational demands of non-commissioned officers whose abusive manners helped us to understand that no matter what the order was, we must obey, and that we had no rights, especially the right to be treated with respect. To say that all this went against my grain would be the understatement of the century. Even the “alien-to-every-fiber-of-my-being” concept doesn’t make the grade. How about every sub-atomic particle of my nature? That comes closer to what I want to say. In other words, the Army really rubbed the wrong way against all of me! Yes, in one week my attitude had changed dramatically. Just about overnight I had been transformed from a staunch citizen patriot to an inwardly reluctant and balky soldier. Instead of just simply accepting the Army and its ways, as I had planned to do, and putting in my time like everyone else, and going along with the idea of it being a necessary evil, I had already begun to buy into Charlie Olivera’s idea that the system was insane but you could beat it if you played your cards right. The philosophy known as “bugging out” simply meant shirk instead of work, avoid instead of accept. Although I wasn’t totally converted to Charlie’s ideas that first week, I was getting very close. I think what had helped me more than anything else to shift my view was the all-out effort to wipe out my individuality. I knew that in combat conditions there was little room for independent thinkers, but I just couldn’t adjust my own thinking to total acceptance of the inhuman treatment inflicted on us at the Reception Center. It wasn't just the endless waiting in lines, the exhausting work demands, the torturous tours of duty in the mammoth kitchen on KP, the diet of creamed chipped beef on toast that was called “shit on a shingle,” the rumor that there was saltpeter added to our food to retard our sex drives, the rotten Army language rotating around the word “fuck,” and the total chaos and inconsistency of our existence. No, it wasn't just those things. It was what the Army was so rapidly doing in its attempt to reduce the pride I had been trying to develop during the previous years of my life. After all, in my early twenties I had begun to feel as if I had moved beyond the stigma of having an insane mother, the shame of early abandonment by a father who had left me in a Catholic Charities group foster home for nine years, and the embarrassment of carrying the label “foster kid” and having Mrs. White as my legal “guardian.” Hadn’t I experienced my share of humiliation already? Now, at this stage of my life when I had learned to be proud of my intelligence and my resilience despite adversity, was I supposed to let the Army rob me of my self-esteem? No, dammit, the Army had no right to do that to me, and the Army was not going to get away with it! As I stood there at attention waiting for my name to be called, I thought about the bad dreams I had experienced quite often during my earlier years, and I knew that now I was living through a situation that was in some ways worse for me than a bad dream. The problem now was that the bad dream was really happening, and to make any sense of it I knew I would have to dream the bad dream for two years, as planned. But I couldn’t tolerate the thought of two years in the Army. Even the idea of two months or two weeks was repulsive to me. Standing there with exhausted legs that felt like buckling, I was indulging myself in self-pity as I kept thinking of the colonel’s welcoming message that had been read to us on our arrival. The thought of it almost prompted me to laugh out loud in derision. “I wish to express my sincere welcome to the new life upon which you are about to embark.” This is a life? What a gross exaggeration! This is no life. This is some kind of purgatory right here on earth, and the more I experience it the more I realize that basic training’s gonna be my own private hell. Yuh, this is a new life okay. A life of horseshit and bullshit and goatshit and chickenshit. God, what a week. I started out with a positive attitude and now I’m changing from a patriot to a pacifist. Maybe I’ll consider giving up the Catholic Church and join the Quakers and become a conscientious objector if I have to put up with much more of this shit. They say war is hell, but as far as I’m concerned, the so-called peacetime Army is as close to hell as I ever want to... “O'Connell, Thomas F., Jr.” “Uh...here!” I could hear Charlie chuckling next to me. He knew I was apt to mentally depart from this planet in brief spurts. It was one way I had of trying to maintain my sanity. The roll call continued with shouts of “Ho,” “Yo,” “Hee-yup,” and every once in a while a straightforward “Here.” Maybe the little variations in their responses was what some soldiers did to make themselves think they still had some choices. But those kinds of choices were meaningless to me. Give me back my life! Give me back my freedom! Give me back my Mary! “All right, you mens.” It was Sergeant Carew’s voice, forcing its way into my brain. If you didn’t hear Carew and do what he said, you would soon live to regret it, and my brain knew this even when I was distracted with other thoughts. “You is gonna beautify the area, gentlemens. It’s time for a little po-lice call.” Early in the game we had learned that policing the area meant picking up cigarette butts, bits of paper, and any other debris that might be lying around on the hard ground near the barracks. Nobody knew where the term had originated. My conjecture was that it derived from the routine the police went through when you called them about trouble in your neighborhood. They would search for a prowler, a vandal, or a robber by examining the ground for clues. So we went into our search, not for clues, but for debris. Detectives in search of litter. “In this man's Army if somethin’ don't move, we pick it up,” said Carew as he fanned us out in long lines and led us back and forth across the sparse, trampled brown grass near the barracks. In the half-light of dawn, I tried to focus my heavy-lidded eyes on the ground in front of me. Shuffling along I considered how inappropriate it was for me to pick up other guys’ cigarette butts. Hey, I gave up smoking years ago. Why should I have to pick up what’s left of other guys’ weeds? Let the smokers pick up the butts. Damned if I’ll do it. Up Carew's ass if he...uh-oh, there I go again swearing to myself. Car trouble makes me swear, and the stupid Army does too. But I should try to contain it. I shouldn't let the Army dominate my life. And I should watch my language. It’s my only link around here to the concept of civilization. I leaned over, laid my palm out flat about an inch above a butt, clenched my fist so it would appear that I was picking up something, straightened up again, and grinned. Yes, O’Connell one, Army nothing. Well, that was how my mind was working after only a few days in the Army, and my body was following the dictates of my mind. In my own little way, I was beginning to bug out of even the smallest requirements like “beautifying the area.” To hell with the area. Let it beautify itself! Sergeant Carew shouted, “If it don't move, gentlemens, pick it up!” A familiar voice retorted, “And if you can’t pick it up, whattaya s’posed to do, Sarge? Paint it?” The rest of us laughed. But not Sergeant Carew. Mario, an Italian from New York, had stuck his neck out again, and Carew was only too happy to serve as the undisciplined recruit’s guillotine. First Carew used an identification routine, making the offender spell his name and give his serial number, place of birth, and rank. When the sergeant had the information he had asked for, he said, “Well, mother fucker from Brooklyn, you is gonna learn yoreself to keep yore mouth shut, and yore gonna learn yoreself that you don't call yore sergeant sarge. You know what ah means, Private?” The Italian shrugged his brawny shoulders. “Yuh, sure, Sarge.” Again he had unwittingly committed the unforgivable sin. Carew’s glistening dark brown eyes narrowed as he glared at his victim. “Yore ass is mine, you shit kickin’ horse’s ass private! You is goin’ down on yore knees and you is crawlin’ the rest of this here po-lice call. Drop yore ass down, man.” Mario shrugged, lowered himself to his knees, and crawled the rest of police call on the hard cold ground. Whether this particular recruit was capable of receiving a clear message was questionable, but everyone else in our group received it loudly and clearly. Yes, we had been the receivers of countless similar messages during that first few days in the Army, and those who had forgotten those messages were rapidly reminded, and weren’t apt to forget again if we knew what was good for us. After we had policed the area to Carew’s satisfaction, we were led to an open plot of ground behind the barracks area where there sat a large pile of frozen sods. He ordered us to take the shovels that were standing in a rack near the pile, and then to pry the sods apart, and carry them on the shovels to the rear of a barracks half a block away. We proceeded to carry out our task, and in each load I carried a bare minimum of sod. O’Connell two, Army nothing. O’Connell three, Army nothing. The rugged Italian, obviously undaunted after crawling around the area on his knees, shouted, “Hey, youse guys, how’s about this for carryin’ sod, huh?” His shovel was high above his head, and balanced on the tip of it was a very large piece of sod. Everyone laughed because it seemed that anything the Italian did had a funny twist to it. I conjectured that if he lay dying, somehow he would make the scene seem amusing. As for me, because of my exhausted mental state I was surprised that I was still able to laugh. But maybe when things are at their worst, that’s when we’re able to laugh the best. At least, that’s how it has been with me much of the time. At my lowest I may cry and groan and moan, but then I’ll make a switch and get angry or sarcastic or even laugh. Maybe it’s my way of saying, “What the hell, somehow I’ll survive.” Sergeant Carew went over to the Italian, put his black face about a half-inch from the recruit’s olive face, and in a carefully modulated tone he said, “Looks like we is gonna hafta straighten yore ass, man, but good.” As Carew talked, the Italian gave him a gray-toothed grin. “Yes, you is gonna dig one deep hole, you fuck-up from Brooklyn.” As the Italian began burrowing his hole, Carew gave him a succession of tongue lashings to help motivate him. When the soldier was done and panting for breath, the sergeant smiled his broadest smile and said, “Well, that there is one excellent hole, man. Now get yore Brooklyn ass on up outta there.” The Italian smiled, thinking he was finished his work. But the smile faded when Carew ordered, “Now you is gonna take all that there dirt from where it's at and you is gonna put it back in that there hole, man.” The rest of us continued to lug sods while the Italian filled in the deep hole he had dug, and as I shuffled along I thought about the night before when I had figured I was done for the day, and was lying on my bunk, and then found myself on a surprise work detail. Another colored sergeant with about a 38-tooth smile had volunteered me and ten others for what he had described as “a task.” The task was to scrape up inlaid linoleum that had been fused to the floor by thousands of boots over a period of about 14 years. It had been installed in these “temporary barracks” at the outset of World War II. Our tools were blunt screwdrivers, which made it an almost impossible job, causing very painful and bloody blisters. But I was learning that there were no impossible jobs in the Army. No matter what the order was, questions were unauthorized and the comment “impossible” was not allowed. On that occasion, however, my friend Charlie had very neatly avoided the work project by disappearing about ten seconds before the sergeant had given me his pointed finger. And later in the evening, when I had come back to the barracks more exhausted than I can possibly describe, Charlie was still among the missing, so he had also avoided the surprise K.P. that I soon found myself on until it was just about dawn. KP. That's short for kitchen police. There’s that word “police” again. This time it meant the dirty work in the kitchen, which in the Army is called the Mess Hall, a place where food is prepared and eaten. The person who came up with the word “Mess” was very astute. Yet after living with Granny for so many years before marriage on a malnutrition diet, I didn’t find the Army food that objectionable most of the time. The way the Army does things is pretty much exemplified by that particular day in my life. As I looked for debris to pick up from the grassy plot near the barracks I was just about numb and my mind was certainly elsewhere, almost anywhere. Being up nearly all night working had left me with the feeling that I had no memory of ever sleeping, and since the day was just beginning the possibility of future sleep seemed very distant. And guess what? This, I learned, was to be the day of our intelligence testing to determine our entire Army future. Why should I be upset about last night? Do I have a right to be upset? After all, I’m just a warm body as far as the Army’s concerned. I’m a number, not a person. I have no rights. “Okay, you gentlemens. You is goin’ to do some more of this here processin’ now.” I breathed a heavy sigh as I put down my shovel. I had never been much for physical exercise, and was far from what you’d call physically fit. So that first week had been an endurance test for just about every part of my body. Ache? You name it; it ached. Elbows. Ankles. Knees. Back. Eyes. Chest. Everything. Carew, with no further explanation, ushered us to a large bare hall similar to many other large bare halls I had found myself in that week, and I received a battery of intelligence and aptitude tests. Staying awake was a problem. But the idea of going to an advanced school after basic instead of directly into the Infantry helped motivate me to keep awake, and when I was finished I knew I had done well. My instincts were confirmed a while later when some of us were told that our scores in the first series of tests put us into position to take the test for Officers’ Candidate School. Why bother with the OCS test? The last thing in the world I wanted to be was an officer in the Army, and I had no intention to go on to OCS if the test qualified me. But Charlie had told me it was shrewd to take the test regardless of our intentions so the Army would think we were potential officers. Also, Charlie had learned that every so often during basic training, they assembled OCS types for lectures and movies, and that was better than endless basic training, KP, and work details. A “detail” in the Army, by the way, is a task usually handled by a group. The Army enjoyed having its own language in which meanings of many words were totally diverted from their civilian denotations. As Charlie often said, “There are two ways of doing something, the right way and the Army way.” Charlie wasn’t the only one who said that, and I soon learned that it was true. I took the OCS test and later that afternoon a corporal in Personnel told me I had scored high. “Mm. Good.” Then the corporal said, “You'll have a few weeks to make up your mind about whether you want to go or not.” He said it would mean extra time in the Army, and even though I already knew this, I acted as if this were news. I told him I’d have to give it some serious thought, even though I knew I was about as likely to opt for OCS as I would for a voluntary tour of duty with a Mississippi chain gang. When I asked the corporal if my college background would help me get into some advanced training after basic, other than OCS, he reviewed my file, muttering aloud as he went through it, and then he laughed. “With an excellent background like yours I’d say you’ve got a fine chance of becoming a mess cook or a Signal Corps pole climber. Yessiree, the Army will use you to the best of your ability. In other words, the Army will use you as it damn pleases. How does that grab ya?” “Sounds like crabs and ice water to me.” He did a double-take and asked me to translate for him. I said it was an old expression my Uncle Bill had used quite a bit. “It means something like ‘shit out o’ luck’ or ‘on the outside looking in.’” The corporal told me that in fourteen days he was going to be outside the Army looking in, and I said, “I wish I could say the same for myself.” He told me I’d survive the two years, and I shrugged and told him I hoped I would, and when he told me it was time for me to move along to make way for others waiting behind me, I couldn’t resist saying to him, “I really appreciated your comments about my future in the Army, and I want to wish you a lotta luck on the outside...” “Why uh...thanks, private.” He had a perplexed look on his face, but that didn’t surprise me. All my life I’ve left people with perplexed looks on their faces after outbursts that seemed to come out of my mouth without me having any forethought about their impact. Maybe it’s the orphan thing. When you’ve been left without a mother and abandoned by your father, you’ve lost the most important things in life and then you tend to be pretty independent, so what can you lose from flinging a few loosely arranged words around now and then?
Letter, Thurs., 18 Mar. 54 (date-military style) Today we took a series of 10 examinations including aptitude and intelligence tests. This took from 7:00 a.m., when the captain gave an orientation speech in the theatre, until about 3 o’clock in the afternoon....I was one of the many to take the OCS (Officers Candidate School) test.... After taking the OCS test we marched across the camp to get our first pay which is called the ‘flying 20.’ 20 bucks. Before you get paid they tell you that a captain will be taking ‘donations’ for the Red Cross--one dollar is ‘requested.’ After that $1.00 for stencils for clothing. After that $.60 for a haircut--you should see it--a complete baldy, almost. After that a group picture which will cost $1.00--Great Army...just got word my group is getting up at 3:45 for KP...going to bed now. All my Love, honey. I’ll write again tomorrow night and every night.
One day blended with the next as I went on with my processing, and somehow I had lost track of Charlie in the pushing and shoving and waiting. Even though his name was close to mine in the alphabet, we had often found ourselves separated by other names that fit in between Olivera and O’Connell. Processing included many more long lines. I received shots in my arms to protect me from health menaces. I took additional Personnel interviews. I filled out more forms. Finally, I got my orders for basic training. I would be staying at Fort Dix, and would be assigned to I Company of the 39th Infantry Regiment, 9th Infantry Division. Back in the barracks that evening after “chow,” which was now our all-purpose word for every meal, Charlie told me about his orders for basic, and they were the same as mine. “I Company of the 39th, here we come!” he shouted, snapping his fingers and going into an impromptu ethnic step dance. In a minute, with his slamming feet, he had the entire barracks clapping. When he was done everyone applauded, and Charlie grinned his crowded-toothed grin while bowing as if he were on stage. When I said, “You oughtta be in show biz,” he laughed and reminded me that he was a professional musician as well as a singer and dancer, and he said, “Don’t ask me which instrument I play most. I played a lot of the best rooms in Boston with my quartet.” He said he hoped he could get into Army Special Services and play in the band after basic. I told him about the corporal’s comments on my Army future. “If that’s the way it is, with your instrumental background you’ll probably qualify for a job as a three-hole punch operator in an office.” “Who cares, as long as it isn’t the Infantry?” Then I noticed a strange look on his face. Suddenly he whispered, “Let’s bug the hell outta here, Tom. Quick!” I took my writing pad, and without a backward glance I promptly followed Charlie to the rear of the barracks, and then out the back door. Just as my feet touched the ground outside, I heard the voice of the sergeant with the 38-tooth smile, who had managed to put me through a night of scraping linoleum instead of getting some sleep on the night before our intelligence tests. “You mens, I’m gonna need ten o’ you mother-fuckers for a little shit detail down at the supply depot. So get yore asses outta them there soft bunks...” “You're a life-saver,” I said to Charlie as we slid into the darkness and left B Company. “You’ve got a highly developed bug-out instinct! Thanks for tipping me off.” “I owed you this one, after the other night.” “You didn’t owe me. It’s every man for himself, isn’t it, when it comes to survival?” “What about people helping each other?” “That's fine, Charlie, but nobody has to. It’s all voluntary. You don’t have to do a damn thing you don’t feel like doing. Like the night you saw that sadist coming after us for the shit detail, you didn’t owe anybody anything so you took off like a big-assed bird.” “If I had time to warn you, I would have,” pleaded Charlie. “No shit. But even so, weren’t you the guy that said he wasn’t gonna indulge in buggin’ out?” “Time and tide and Army torture have shifted my attitude.” “Bet your ass. You’re gettin’ smart now. I always say give a guy a little time and he’ll smarten up.” “No shit, Charlie, is that what you always say?” I laughed. “Hey, speaking of smartening up, how come you didn’t bug out of KP last night?” “I tried, but the supervision was too goddam good. That fat-assed corporal didn’t take his eyes off me for a second.” “Maybe he liked the way you wiggle it.” Charlie laughed. “Do you think he was a fruit?” “Could be, but mostly I think he was just plain stupid. When I showed him the bloody blisters on my hands from the linoleum scraping he just grunted, ‘Shit, that ain’t nothin’. You can still wash pots and pans, soldier.’” Reflecting on his own night of KP, Charlie said, “I hope to hell I never see another chicken. I’m not cut out to be a goddam butcher.” "Now I know why you didn't bug out of KP, Charlie." "Why?" "Because you were chicken. Get it?" He groaned. "Don't tell me you're a damn punster." "It's a high form of humor." "Who said?" "I said, I guess." "I'm too beat to play with puns, Tom." "Me, too. It seems like one long day since we've been here. Hey, where are we heading, Charlie? The Telephone Center?" "Yuh, that's the best bug-out spot. We can get a coke there and I can grab a smoke and you can write one of your famous letters. Hey, you got any of your flyin' twenty left?" "A couple of bucks. By the time we paid for our haircuts and our marking kits and sewing kits and group pictures and made our little so-called voluntary Red Cross donation, most of the dough flew away, that’s for sure." "The Army's got a great sense of humor," said Charlie. 'They give you a chunk of your first month's pay with one hand and take it back with the other. Hey, look at the green recruits over there. I feel like a veteran already. You know what? It's a good deal stayin' at Dix for basic, but they say maybe we won't start training right away." "Great! All I need is another week or two of this meaningless horseshit." "Mm. Also, they don't give out passes till after the fourth week of basic. This week and next week won't count. It’s gonna be at least six weeks before we get our asses outta here. Tom, another six weeks around here and I'll be walkin' around with my head lookin' outta the crack of my ass." I laughed. "You've got a knack for clear descriptions, Charlie." "I got a knack for somethin' else too, brother, but I better not talk about it or I'll end up with lover's nuts." I shivered in the frigid March air. "If it gets any colder we'll have frozen nuts." "We've got it knocked," said Charlie in a burst of optimism. "The winter's almost over. Last winter was a bitch here, ya know. Half a dozen guys died from pneumonia." "Pleasant thought. That's one helluva way to die for your country. Well, soon it'll be April and spring will be here and all is gonna be okay with the world, right? Do I have any complaints other than blisters all over my hands and aching ankles and shaky knees and a runny nose and a never-ending headache and an ass that's dragging on the ground behind me? Hey, I'm in good shape." "You and me both. My hip's been actin' up the past coupla days. I smashed it playin' high school football. It only hurts when I'm sober. And if I can help it, I'm never gonna stay sober." "You're a character, Charlie." We arrived at the Telephone Center where I completed my letter to Mary and Charlie blew smoke rings and daydreamed. We each had a coke and while I was sipping on mine I heard another recruit talking to his girl, and I had the impulse to call Mary collect. I didn't check the impulse because I was anxious to see if she could find a ride to New Jersey on Sunday for visiting hours. I hadn't heard from her by mail yet about whether or not she could make it. It was a brief call that left me dejected. When I rejoined Charlie after making the call, he saw my somber expression and asked, "No deal?" "No deal. Between Bill Killoren not wanting to take his old shitbox on long rides, and the doctor telling Mary to avoid long car trips, I guess I've had it." "Don't sweat it." Charlie slapped me on the back. "We'll find a way to bug outta this shithole pretty soon." "I'm not ready for AWOL, Charlie. It's self-defeating." "That all depends on how you go about it." On our way back to the barracks, I silently immersed myself in my own shell, and inwardly cursed the fact that I would not be seeing Mary on the coming weekend. However, as we neared the barracks I shook myself from negativity to present reality and said, "If the water's warm for a change, I'm gonna take a therapeutic shower for my nerves. Besides, I'm getting so I can't stand my own smell." "I know. I'm afraid to sniff under my own arms. I think I'm growin' cheese there!" We both laughed and I said, “The Army's just one big cruddy smell. Sometimes the stench is so bad I can't tell if it's me or the guy next to me." "Just so long as there's no guy right behind you." "Especially when you drop the soap in the shower."
When I took my shower that night I was all alone in the large open shower room where there was almost never any privacy except during those rare times when nobody else happened to show up. I was treated to lukewarm slow-moving water for about a minute, and then it turned ice cold, so I finished in a massive shiver while trying to wash off the remaining soap suds.
Letter, Saturday, Mar. 20, ’54 On Friday morning Company B went on KP at 3:45 a.m. I had about 3 hours sleep the night before, my average since I’ve been here....I served on KP from 3:45 until 1 p.m., about 9 hours, then went through processing till 7 p.m.....I was told that I received “a very high mark in the OCS test.” Passing mark was about 115 and I received a mark of 143, which goes on my service record and may help me, if I’m lucky. From 7 p.m. until after 10:00 p.m. I worked with a blunt screw driver scraping up inlaid linoleum that was laid in 1942, an almost impossible job since the linoleum was practically part of the floor. Oh well! After that I went to bed and was so tired I couldn’t sleep until about midnight. We got up at 4:30 this morning and cleaned the barracks, then went to chow, and to processing. We had a couple of hours of marching, then the 3 shots, one for tetanus, one for cholera, and one for typhoid...I just missed having KP tonight and enjoyed my first two hours off by hearing your voice on the phone and by writing this letter, shining my combat boots, shaving, taking my first shower, etc. A few of the boys and myself made a little pact on profanity. Some of these characters swear every other word, and if you don’t watch out it can rub off on you. Every time any one of us hears the other using forbidden phrases he forks over a nickel to the winner. I made 5 cents tonight.
When I got into my bunk a little later I found myself wide awake and frustrated. Mary was on my mind and I could not distract myself from thinking about her. I closed my eyes and in my imagination I saw her broad smile, her long auburn hair, and her soft warm skin. As her spirit filled my mind, my eyes became misty and I reflected, It's funny how I was never too lonesome before I met Mary. I guess I was used to being a lone wolf. But now, how I love and miss that girl. The aloneness is so painful. It's hard to believe her name's Mary O'Connell now. Dammit, we belong together. How many more nights do I have to spend like this? I want to love her and hold her and tell her everything will be just fine with her and the baby. I wonder how she's feeling right now. I hope her blood pressure levels off. It's like I left part of myself back home with her. The stupid Army only has my warm body. It doesn't have my soul. I'll never turn my soul over to the Army. Souls have emotions, but in the Army you're only supposed to obey orders and not have feelings. To hell with the Army. Was it really just a few days ago when we said goodbye? I've lost my sense of time. It's completely left me.
Letter, Sunday, March 21, ‘54, Fort Dix, NJ It was swell to talk to you on the phone today and to give you the good news that basic for me will be at Fort Dix...tomorrow we’ll go to the place where our basic will be done. We were lucky today since we had no KP and our time was our own. I spent most of the time shining my boots. It takes about a half hour just to shine about 3 square inches. You use about four or five coats of polish and an equal amount of saliva which makes it shine. I have two toe sections done.
3 With shaved heads, we moved from the Reception Center to Infantry basic training in I Company of the 39th Infantry Regiment, but instead of starting basic we were put on hold in a mode described as "pre-basic." The rumor we had heard about not starting the eight-week basic training cycle for another two weeks proved to be true. This meant that instead of actually taking classes that would train us for combat we were subjected to an endless succession of work details such as washing and waxing floors, extra hours on KP, “practice” marches of eight miles over hill and dale, organizing field packs, drilling in formation, standing at attention until you thought you were going to keel over, hauling laundry in trucks, working at the laundry, sanding desks, shellacking floors in Headquarters, digging ditches out on the range, and just about anything else our superiors, the “permanent cadre,” could dream up for us to do. In the midst of all this, a young recruit from Puerto Rico was discharged because of heart trouble, and I wondered if my own high blood pressure might turn into a problem for me, considering the lack of sleep and the constant exertion.
Letter, Thursday, March 25, 1954 Today we ate K rations for supper. They were digestible, almost. Today I didn’t have a chance to find out about visitors’ day. I’m almost positive it’s from one to six on Sunday....I was loading laundry bags, sorting clothing, and sandpapering desks all afternoon. Then I ate supper and was put on KP in the Company mess, an enormous mess hall, from 5 p.m. to midnight. I broke open exactly 1800 eggs into a massive vat for the next day’s scrambled eggs. Then I peeled oranges and mopped floors--only an 18 hour work day--I’m still kicking, so don’t worry. They’re trying to get us used to a rough life and they’re sure doing a swell job of it. Today we got our rifles and bayonets. We still haven’t received half of our equipment. Before supper each night we have to do chinups, you jump to an iron bar about 8 feet high and then pull your chin up to it. It’s swell after you’ve been working all day. Oh well. I need those small bars of soap. We often shave with cold water here, and sometimes with no water at all. I feel like crying every time I think of how much I wish I could hold your hand and look at your pretty face. When I get depressed I try to think of ways of getting out of the service and then I say to myself... that I must do what I think is right, and I will have to stick it out because I know I shouldn’t do anything else. I hate vulgar talk more than I ever did, even though I hear it more than ever. I don’t swear at all except for a few mild things. I don’t like this life at all, but I am in the U.S. Army and have to make the most of it and hope for the best. I think I will be a lot stronger and less nervous when I get through with this. Keep your chin up, honey. I know it’s harder to smile than to cry at a time like this but we’ll both try to smile and think of how much worse off we could be.
Letter, Friday, March 26, 1954 Just finished having a G.I. party, cleaning the barracks. We dug a few trenches, etc. today. It looks like we’re going to be here two more weeks before we even start basic and that isn’t good. They give us crumby details all days long. Please send me one pillow slip to replace one stolen from me, as well as some coat hangers...I never knew I could be so lonely for anyone. I live just for one sweet little girl that loves me and whom I love with all my heart. In about 9 weeks I can be with you for two whole weeks...
When I reflect on the letters I wrote to Mary during my early months in the Army it is very obvious to me how conflicted I was. I would try to cheer her up with some of my comments, but my own deep feelings against the Army would gradually creep into my notes. Then I had to use self-restraint and try to make light of my frustration and exhaustion, for Mary’s sake. After all, she was an expectant mother. So I would complain a little but try not to overdo it. Actually, my hate for the Army and its way of dehumanizing soldiers was so extreme there were no words to express it anyhow.
The first week of pre-basic, with our Platoon Sergeant Cummings always on our backs, was as exhausting as the Reception Center had been. During one long night on K.P. I peeled the skins off countless oranges, using a tablespoon as my tool. At the same time I came down with an internal problem aptly described by the Army term "GI shits." But something wonderful happened that week. In our outfit Charlie bumped into a corporal he had known back home. And what a difference that made. "They've got a pass racket going here," Charlie told me. "Even though we're not supposed to get a pass until after our fourth week of basic we can get out of here this weekend for twenty bucks each. This is the deal. On Friday night we get a round-trip ride to the Boston area with the corporal, and they throw in a pass and sign us out and back in again on Sunday. They make a buck on us and we get the hell outta here for the weekend. Are you in on it?" "Is the Pope Catholic?"
On Friday night we surreptitiously left our barracks with small overnight bags, as inconspicuously as we could, and everybody else was so distracted there were no questions asked. What a weekend that was. After two interminable weeks in the Army it was just like heaven being in Franklin with Mary and her family. Simple things took on a whole new grandeur. Sleeping until you felt like getting up. No cadre on your back. No work details. Eating in a house with a family. Going to church. Loving each moment with Mary. But then all too soon, off to Framingham in Bill Killoren's old Studebaker to meet the corporal for the 350 mile ride back to Fort Dix. Back from civilian reality to Army unreality. Sleeping again in the car as we flew down Connecticut's Merritt Turnpike at more than 100 miles per hour to "make time." Praying that the corporal wouldn't lose control of the car. Arriving safely. Sneaking into the barracks. Sinking into a deep sleep.
Letter, Sunday Night, March 28, 1954, (Monday morning) 3 a.m. Arrived safely after a wonderful heavenly weekend with my baby. I hate to leave you for a minute. I love you so. I will write tonight when I have more time. I slept a little in the car so don’t worry, I won’t be too tired today....I pray that I will see you next weekend, my love.
Letter, Monday, March 29, 1954 Boy it was like a second honeymoon to be home with you for the weekend. I can only write a few lines tonight because of the rough day I had today. I had KP from 3:30 in the morning to 7 pm this evening without a break. Your cookies and fudge were delicious and the boys complimented you on your baking skill. I’m very tired at present and will hit the sack in a minute. Different fellows have told me that your expense will be taken care of if you go to a government hospital like Chelsea Naval or at Fort Devens. I will find out for sure this week. I will see the chaplain and have him tell me all the information about us being together after basic, and so forth. I hope I have time tomorrow night. Olivera’s house had a fire so he got an emergency leave and is now away from the barracks. I don’t think I have much chance of being on leave this weekend. P.S. Thanks for being so brave and strong when I leave. Your sweet smile makes it seem that you won’t worry too much and that is what I’d like.
Since there was so little freedom in basic training, and also a shortage of money, it was necessary to make checklists and set priorities. Here is an example from Tuesday, March 30:
Letter, Wednesday, March 31, 1954 It was about 7 pm when I started this letter. It is now about 11:30. In the meantime I have been scraping paint. I wish I had a minute free. We are restricted every night. The times when I called you were mostly on the sly. Down here at I Company they don’t believe in letting us get out to the PX or anything. Olivera isn’t back yet, so the pass situation doesn’t look too good.
Now it was Friday morning of our second week of pre-basic in I Company, and we were standing in formation for roll call, waiting for the arrival of our top sergeant. He was built like a tank and his face had no smile lines on it. As I stood there waiting I dwelled on the miseries of that week, and agreed that our esteemed leaders were not exaggerating when they called us "the shit end of humanity" and treated us accordingly. That's what I'm beginning to feel like, I thought. But thank God I bumped into Charlie at the Boston Army Base. Otherwise I wouldn't have bugged out of this hole last weekend. It's hard to believe I was actually home with her. It seems like so long ago. She had indigestion pretty badly, but she hardly said a word about it. Nice going. She just gets over the morning sickness and damned if something else doesn't crop up. Charlie wins the prize as the master bug-out. Imagine him getting us out of here last weekend and then after he's back here a day he makes like his folks back home had a fire in their kitchen and now he's gone on emergency leave. I hope he's back in time to get us out of here again this weekend. He's my key to getting in on the pass racket. "Atten-hut." Another sergeant alerted us to the arrival of the top sergeant, the leader of the I Company training cadre. Out of the corner of my eye I could now see our leader while I stood there at attention. As the massive soldier swaggered into clear view, I took in the full picture. The chin blended in rolls of fat with the chest. The dark bushy eyebrows almost completely concealed the small eyes. The fat torso encased in a tailored dress uniform was bedecked with campaign ribbons and the prized Combat Infantryman's Badge. "Youse men assigned to I Company of the 39th Infantry Regiment is gonna be soldiers whether you like it or not. We need men and that’s what we're gonna get. As for the weaklings we'll kick their damn asses outta the Army. One thing we don’t need in combat is...” My thoughts were interrupted by giggling to my rear. At first I thought the man behind me was making the unforgivable mistake of laughing at the top sergeant. Then I saw that even our serious leader was having a difficult time maintaining his own composure. I learned why when into my line of vision came the unclad running figure of the squat Italian from Brooklyn who had already become a legend in I Company because of his amazing attraction for punishment. He was running through the Company area totally in the nude except for one item of apparel, his helmet liner. As he trotted across the drill field his head was erect and his face betrayed no inner emotion. It was early April and unseasonably cold, and as he came closer it was apparent that his whole body was covered with goose pimples. He trotted in an arc across the drill field with his hairy testicles swaying in the breeze and his longer than average penis bouncing from one raised leg to the other. Then the buttocks of the Italian, who had earned himself the title of Mario the Magnificent, disappeared past the Orderly Room and the recruits of I Company dissolved in laughter. "He's hung like a buffalo!" shouted a soldier to my rear, and a roar of laughter followed. When the laughter died down, our leader announced, "This is what happens if...." He was cut off in mid-sentence when the hairy unclad form of Mario the Magnificent began his second pass through the Company area with his helmet liner bobbing as he ran along. "The WACS in the next block must love this!" shouted a voice to my left. The usual sense of discipline disappeared from I Company as cadre and recruits alike fell into a round of stomach-cramping laughter at the expense of the troublesome Italian. When his buttocks had once again passed out of sight near the Orderly Room, our leader called the group to order and shouted, "This is what happens if a guy’s takin’ his shower after Mess and he don't get his ass to the formation when the whistle blows." Well, I guess they aren't kidding when they say our asses belong to the Army, I thought as I absorbed the scene. But I'll be damned if I'd ever let them make me prance around like that. I'll go to the damn Inspector General first. But Mario's a sucker for punishment. He attracts it like a magnet. As he made his third pass through the Company area, accompanied by the renewed laughter of recruits and cadre, he trotted past the end of the formation, then made a change of route, and ran along the dirt drill field directly toward the spot where the first sergeant was standing. At that point, he stopped abruptly, did a right face, and stood naked at attention. "What’s the story, Private?" Our leader maintained a serious mien. "I wanna go on sick call, Sarge," replied the Italian, just loud enough for the rest of I Company to hear. The top sergeant, looking as if he might be caught between the urge to laugh and the need to maintain order, asked, "What’s your problem, Private?" The Italian was silent for one brief moment. Then his voice came through loud and clear. "I think I got frostbite in my pecker, Sergeant!" The men of I Company could stand at attention no longer. Their laughter was too much for them as they rocked from side to side, slapped each other on their backs, held their sides, and even threw themselves onto the ground in comic hysteria. When the laughter diminished, our leader’s face was extremely red. "Go to the barracks, soldier," he ordered, "and put your uniform on and report your ass to the Orderly Room." "But Sarge..." The nude Mario placed his brawny hands on his hips and did not budge. "I'm not shittin' ya. I really think my pecker's got frostbite." The next burst of laughter was deafening. Our leader was not amused. He shouted, "Atten-hut!" Then he glared at Mario and pointed to the barracks. "Get your ass into the barracks, soldier!" Mario shrugged his broad shoulders, turned, adjusted his helmet liner, gave his fellow recruits a confused look, and then trotted slowly toward the barracks. As his last nude appearance came to a close, an unchained barrage of laughter followed him to his destination. "Atten-hut!" We responded to the sergeant’s command, although many of us could hardly stop laughing. "That soldier," shouted the first sergeant, "He's what we call a fuck-up." Some of the recruits laughed. "It’s no fuckin' joke bein' a fuck-up. What we do to fuck-ups in I Company is we fuck them up and put their asses in the grease trap." At the very mention of the grease trap all discipline was restored. The cleaning of the pit that each Mess Hall used as the container for used cooking grease was a nausea-producing ordeal. But there was always an adequate supply of soldiers who got out of line and found themselves in that pit working and vomiting. Our day of pre-basic drilling began. It was a moist day, and the New Jersey skies opened up as they had been opening up without cease day after day, and the spring rain found its way into our allegedly waterproof ponchos and supposedly water resistant combat boots. The men of I Company dug our ditches in the rain, received outdoor lectures in the rain, and marched back and forth on the drill field for hours in the rain. There were no rain checks, and my body reacted as I had feared it would. My ankles ached. A back tooth throbbed. My throat was raw. Sharp pains shot across my chest. My heart raced at top speed. My feet became white and clammy.
Letter, Tuesday, March 30, 1954 Today we were busy as usual. We applied for our ID card, then did all kinds of basic march steps. We had a class in military courtesy and a couple of hours of PT- physical training, in which I did exercises that I never even knew about before. Don’t worry, I feel no worse physically than most of the fellows down here. We’re all tired and we all have colds. We all hate the food, as well as the Army itself. Mentally, I don’t think anyone has ever been so lonesome as I, but I try to be strong because I know you want me to. When I get discouraged I say, “Oh well, it can’t last forever.”
There was an interruption of my letter when a little cleanup campaign was sprung on us. After cleaning up, I went back to the letter, and as I look back on the poem I included in my letter to Mary, I can see now how torn I was between hatred of Army ways and devotion to doing my patriotic duty.
After cleaning up I received your wonderful letter about last weekend. It certainly was wonderful to be within hand-holding distance of the sweetest wife that ever lived. Don’t worry, honey, I will try to get out of here every weekend, but don’t plan, just pray. I live just to be with you. I’m positive that you and our little baby will be taken care of by Uncle Sam in an Army hospital.
Tell me not sweet, I am unkind that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, the first foe in the field. And with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield. Yet my inconstancy is such as thou too shoulds’t adore. I could not love thee dear so much
loved I not honor more. --Richard Lovelace “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars”
This poem says, in so many words, that love is tied up with honor and duty, as well as romance. You can’t fight city hall. I had to go, and here I am. I will, after Olivera comes back from his emergency leave, try to get a visitor’s pass so that if you came down to see me you could stay on camp in the guest houses. I’ll come home whenever possible, but if I can’t, we’ll see what we can do. Three hundred and fifty miles is nothing. I would go a million miles to see my baby for one second. That food of yours the other night was eaten to the last morsel. The cookies were delicious. I left almost the whole box of fudge in the corporal’s car and haven’t had a chance to ask him about it yet. Actually, he deserves anything I can give him, after getting that impossible pass for me last weekend. I could use a few dollars, honey, just in case. We won’t get any money till the 11th of April, and then it won’t be much.
At the end of the day, I was wearily polishing my boots when Kenney, a fellow Bostonian from Needham, came over to my bunk and said, "Some day, huh?" I nodded. "Yuh. And some dew. On the grass, that is." "And some don't." Kenney chuckled. "Sit down and be my guest. My bunk belongs to all taxpayers." "Thanks. Don't mind if I do. My feet are killing me after today." "My whole body's killing me. I'm not cut out for this kind of living." "This is living?" Kenney grunted. "They don't lay off on us for a minute, do they?” We chatted a while about our views on Army life and did a little review of the scene we had just witnessed out on the drill field. I said, "I think Mario’s biggest problem is that he hasn't figured out how to bug out." I continued to buff the boot I had been polishing. "Did you hear where he ended up today?" "Yup. The grease trap." "Do you think he'll smarten up now?" I shook my head. "Nope. Extremists rarely smarten up. But what the hell, he's getting an education. He's learned all about digging six-by-sixes and doing low crawls in the mud, and now he knows all about grease traps." Kenney chuckled. "Did you see him yesterday when the cadre made him run around his helmet liner till he got so dizzy he fell flat on his face?" "He asked for it, but I still feel for him. I understand his hatred of the Army." "I do too, but he's so self-destructive. Hey, they're gonna let Mendez out on a medical, you know. His heart. It's a great Army if you don't weaken." "It's shit for the birds," I said, "But the weird thing is my wife and I agreed I should let myself get drafted so I can get the GI Bill later on. I wanted this?" "Well, you're in now. If you fight the system, you get shafted." "The next best thing is bugging out of stuff. It helps you keep your sanity." "But what about the ethics of it?" "Well, I've given a lot of thought lately to the relative morality of screwing the Army and I've come to the conclusion that it's not immoral." "How do you justify your thinking?" I laughed. "By rationalizing, of course. Isn't that how everybody justifies everything? Here's my logic. The Army's like a huge corporation that can't think and can't feel, so morality doesn't apply to it. Actually, A-R-M-Y is just a four letter word anyhow, and how can you act immorally toward a word? The Army's unreal." "You mean it doesn't exist? I see a flaw in your logic, Tom. If the Army doesn't exist and we're in it, then we don't exist either." I grinned. "Now you're making sense. The first time I've existed since the Army took my ass was last weekend at home with Mary. I sure don't exist when the Army has my warm body. How's this syllogism? An intelligent man can't accept an insane situation. The Army is an insane situation. Therefore, an intelligent man can't accept the Army." "Is that your Jesuit logic?" Kenney chuckled. "Well, my profs at B.C. might not share my views about this organized chaos called Army, but to prove me wrong they'd have to prove that the Army's sane. Can anyone prove that?" "Nope. But there's another thing they could try to prove. That you're not an intelligent man. Hah. That would screw up your syllogism." "Good point. If I were really smart I'd still be a civilian." "Please don't mention that word. It brings tears to my eyes." "The word Army brings tears to mine. I was a patriot before I was inducted into the Army, but now I say screw the Army and all it stands for." "But it stands for America the beautiful." "Bullshit! The only thing the Army stands for is itself. It's a self-perpetuating despicable organism." "Why get upset about an organism?" "I hate organisms that separate me from my wife." Kenney chuckled. "You've got that glint in your eye. Had quite a time last weekend, huh? Hey, how's chances of some of us other guys coming along with you and Olivera on your ride this weekend?" "There's room for you guys, but it's up to Charlie and the corporal, and I don't know if the deal's gonna be on if Charlie doesn't get back here from his phony fire. As for me, tonight I'm gonna pray to Christ, Mohammed, Buddha and every prophet of God I can think of who can help me get out of here this weekend. I'm also praying we don't end up in Indo-China. I'm like a walking prayer book lately." "Me too. Maybe it takes unholy places to bring out holiness." "Yup, it sometimes seems..." My comment was cut off by a burst of confusion from downstairs in the first level of the barracks. "Let's check it out," said Kenney. "You go first and let me know if it's worth hobbling downstairs for. My feet are in rough shape." As he headed down the stairs, I said, “Hey, those guys down there are always raising one kind of hell or another. Some of them think the Army's a circus, but I've never been much for circuses or mob scenes. I don't need crowds to prove to me that I'm alive. All I need is..." "You've gotta see this, Tom! The muscle man's walking on his hands." As I put my well buffed combat boots under my bunk, I muttered, "Yup, I need to see someone walk on his hands. Maybe the idiot will inspire me. I can hardly walk on my feet, never mind my hands." Just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, a burst of applause resounded through the barracks. It wasn't for me. It was for Darrow, the muscular athletic recruit from Utica, who was finishing a backward somersault. He landed on his feet, proudly grinning. I whispered to Kenney, "His Narcissus complex is showing. He's in love with that picture of himself he's got hanging inside his wall locker, right?" Darrow flexed his muscles and addressed the crowd observing his feats of physical prowess. "This man's Army's a goddam breeze when you're in good shape like me." I laughed. "You could go through the Army standing on your hands, right?" Kenney followed up my comment by saying, “Yup, you can go through the two years standing on your hands, Darrow, or maybe on your little finger! You’re in shape!” Darrow had no sense of humor. "Bet your ass I'm in good shape. I believe in bein' physically fit." "Good for you, Darrow," I said. Darrow swaggered toward me. "You don't believe in physical fitness, O'Connell?" "Hey, it has its place, but I'm more interested in mental fitness, Darrow. I'll take brain-power over muscle-power anytime." "Shit, O'Connell, just 'cause a guy's got a good build it don't mean he's got no brains." I nodded and winked at Kenney as I mimicked Darrow. "Yup, just ’cause a guy's got a good build it don't mean he's got no brains." I kept a straight face. "Ain't that what I just said, for Christ’s sake?" Knowing I was pressing my luck with him and could easily end up with his fist in my face, I said, "Maybe I was just sort of agreeing with you, Darrow. I've got an open mind and it could be that you've got a point." "Sure as shit I got a point." He examined me carefully and then pointed at my ring finger. "Hey, you're married, right?" "Right." "Well, shit, you got to believe in physical fitness. What the hell you gonna do if you get all pooped out and can't get it up?" The other recruits laughed and I blushed. The last thing in the world I was interested in doing was discussing my sex life in public. “That's never been a problem for me, Darrow.” "Well, I'll tell you somethin', O'Connell. When me and my broad get hitched, this man ain't gonna be pooped out. I stay in good shape for gettin' laid. Me and my girl are engaged. Engaged to get laid." The other recruits laughed. "So you're engaged, huh?" "Sure as shit." He nodded. "But that don't mean we gotta get married, ya know. I mean if we don't make it too good in bed the next couple of months, then it's no go." "In other words, you're gonna have a trial marriage?" "You said it, brother." Darrow slapped me on the arm as he laughed. I drew back and caressed my sore arm. "We're not takin' no chances of bein' unsuited to each other in bed after we tie the knot, ya know what I mean?" “You're a hot shit, Darrow.” Somehow I knew I was getting in dangerously deeper with him, but I pressed on. “I think you've got a pretty cold philosophy. Do you think marriage is just sex and nothing else?” "You mean sex ain't the most important thing in a marriage?": "As far as I'm concerned if two people love each other the sex part just falls right into place." "I'm takin' no fuckin' chances." I could not resist the impulse to ask another question. "Uh, tell me, Darrow, whose idea was this trial marriage bit?" "Mostly mine." I laughed. "It'd be funny as hell if the time came for you to get married and you couldn't get it up anymore." The other recruits on Darrow's floor laughed, but not Darrow. He shoved his face up close to mine. "You better watch your mouth, wise ass." Then he turned to his audience. "Anyways, I don't hafta worry about gettin' it up. I got a twenty-four-hour instant hard-on goin' for me." The recruits laughed loudly and Darrow was very pleased. Unable to hold back my argumentative tendency, I said, "Tell me, Darrow. If you and your girl make out great in bed, do you think you'll have some kind of a guarantee you're gonna live happily ever after?" "It'll sure as hell help the odds!" Darrow's people laughed again, and again he was pleased with his progress in the verbal fencing match. Not knowing when to stop, I persisted. "I'm all for sexual happiness, but if you’re gonna marry just for sex you might as well just shack up on a steady basis with a whore or a nymphomaniac." When several of the listening recruits laughed, Darrow’s face reddened, his pale blue eyes narrowed, and he put his hands on his hips. “What’s that shit supposed to mean, O’Connell?” “All I mean is if you only want sex, you probably should forget about marriage. There’s a helluva lot more to marriage than sex.” “Far as I’m concerned, it’s mostly sex.” I shrugged my shoulders. “It takes all kinds to make a world, Darrow. Some people marry for love. Others want a sexual guarantee. Money back if you’re not satisfied with the product, right?” Darrow reached out, took hold of my shirt collar with his left hand, and began to twist it. “You’re a wise bastard, aren’tcha, O’Connell?” I knew the dialogue was over, and when I saw him clench his right fist, I shouted, “Down, Darrow. Down boy! You wouldn’t hurt a 162 pound weakling, would you?” Darrow still didn’t relax his grip. “Hey, we’re just talkin’ philosophy! Why get so upset?” “I got a good mind to mop up the goddam barracks floor with your warm body, O’Connell.” “And get a court martial for assault and battery?” He finally let go. “Shit on you and your philosophy, O’Connell. Up your ass with your philosophy!” He turned to the audience of recruits. “I said it before and I’ll say it again. I ain’t gettin’ married without a fuckin’ sample first.” His fan club applauded, and I knew for sure that it was time for me to back off instead of wasting my breath and risking my neck. “Just a difference of opinion,” I said softly, extending my hand. “No sense getting all shook about it, right?” As he ground my knuckles together I said, “Would you give me my hand back in one piece?” “I forget my own strength sometimes.” “Mm.” As we climbed the stairs to our bunks, I rubbed my sore knuckles. "Now I've got a sore hand to go along with the rest of my sore body." Kenney said, "You're lucky you don't have a sore nose and a sore jaw.'' I nodded. “I was pushing my luck, I guess.” Kenney said, “You were using the right ideas on the wrong person. Darrow thinks marriage is nothing but a steady piece of ass.” “Well, I gave it the old Boston College try. I'm surprised I could work up the energy to shoot off my mouth like that, but Darrow’s type frosts my ass. The man-woman relationship’s gotta be higher than the animal level. Otherwise, we’ve come nowhere since the Stone Age.” “Sometimes I think we haven't come very far," said Kenney as we reached my bunk. “Wow, you guys grabbed a good location here. Right next to the stairs.” “Charlie picked it out. He claims it's the best bug-out spot in the whole barracks.” "Well, I hope little Charlie gets back here on the double. I want out of this Fort for the weekend." "Did I hear you guys usin’ my name in vain?" It was Charlie. “Well, if it isn’t the devil himself.” I put out my hand for a shake. “Glad to see you’re back.” “What about my front?” “Front and back, Charlie.” “The sooner I get the hell outta here the better. They don't give out emergency leave like Santa Claus. They subtract it from the time you’ve got comin' to you.” He lowered his voice and addressed his next remark to me. “I figured I’d come back in time to bug out of here for the weekend.” “Great.” His charcoal eyes beamed. “Life outside is what's great. It’s the cat's ass.” He turned to Kenney. “Do you and your pals want in on the trip?” “You said it, brother.” “You know the deal, huh?” “Tom told me about it. Twenty bucks for the round trip ride, we get signed in and out, we get taken off the duty rosters, and we get passes in our little hands even though nobody else gets one till after the fourth week of basic. That’s the deal, isn’t it?” “Yup.” He whispered. “But it’s just between us and the corporal. If one word leaks out we’ve had it. We could be court-martialed. The passes look good, but they’re only valid for a hundred miles from here, and that doesn’t mean Boston. But there’s not much chance of us gettin’ stopped by MPs.” “When do we bug out?” asked Kenney. “Tomorrow morning after we get back from the stupid First Aid lecture. Don't forget to bring your dirty laundry so you can get it washed while you're home.” Kenney and Charlie shook hands. “It's a deal.” Then Kenney went to tell his two friends Lavoie and LeBlanc. They had been admitted to the small select group of recruits who would gain a brief but illegal respite from I Company that weekend. As he hung up his uniform in his wall locker, Charlie turned to me. “Tough week?” There was a glint in his eyes. “You bastard. Yuh, it was tough. How was your phony leave?” “Beautiful. Hey, I’m a born bug-out.” “Well, I’m learning fast. I joined the chapel choir this week. I may never get to sing on Sundays if we get out of here on weekends, but I’ll be showing up at practice every Wednesday night.” Charlie pointed to himself. “You're looking at another new choir member. Hey, what a time I had. Holy shit. I slept with her every night. Jee-sus! It was really something.” “I thought you told me you and your girl were saving yourselves for marriage.” “We don’t go all the way. It’s killin’ me, but we’re still holding out till we get hitched.” “You’re pressing your luck. How much will power do you think you have?” He laughed. “We don't need any. We play a little game that helps us out. Mutual masturbation.” We both laughed and a couple of nearby sleepy recruits groaned. I told him, “You really sucked me in on that one. When will I learn to stop playing your straight man? Maybe you could ask Darrow to do the honors.” “Darrow? I just saw him downstairs flexin' his muscles and lookin’ at himself in his mirror, the asshole.” After I filled him on on my conflict with Darrow, he said, “You know what? Maybe Darrow has the right idea about trial marriage. Maybe that purity shit’s on the way out anyhow.” “Aw, come on, Charlie. I thought you were more civilized.” “Look, if a guy’s gonna marry a girl, what's a little piece of ass now and then for a warm-up?” “Listen, Charlie, if you and Darrow feel like livin’ on the animal level, what the hell do I care? I'm not a damn missionary.” Charlie responded that living on the animal level might not be all that bad, and this led to a philosophical discussion on the relative merits of dodging higher values. Since Charlie had just experienced a high dose of sexuality, and wanted more sexual gratification instead of increased self-restraint, he was on the side of lowering standards, so after a bit of dueling with words and ideas we prepared for bed without really resolving any major issues. I held my ground and he held his. As Charlie climbed up to his bunk he said, “I feel like I been sliced down the middle by this man’s Army. Sliced from the top of my head to my nuts. Comin’ back here tonight was one of the shittiest moments of my life. Fort Dix and I Company are shit for the birds.” “But we’ll bug out again tomorrow. That’s a positive thing to look forward to.” “Bet your ass.” “It’s a bet.” I closed my eyes and thought, It’s hard to believe I’ll be seeing Mary again tomorrow. Last weekend seems like a century ago. It’s sort of unreal thinking about it. It’s like remembering a movie. There I was, looking down at her face while she slept, and she was so pretty. Like an angel. When she felt me next to her in the bed she thought she’d been dreaming. She was so surprised, and it was so good. Like a second honeymoon. No Army. Just us. Together like we’re supposed to be. She didn’t quite understand about me bugging out with Charlie and the others. She’s afraid I’ll get caught. But if I didn’t take the risk we wouldn’t have been together. I hope it all works out smoothly tomorrow. You can’t plan on anything in the Army. My soul may be my own but they’ve got my body. Mary couldn’t imagine some of the things I told her about this place. I guess you have to go through it to understand it. Like the way she’s experiencing pregnancy. All the words in the world couldn’t explain what she’s going through right now. It’s no picnic with all the physical problems she’s been having. I wonder how much attention she’ll get at that Murphy General Hospital outpatient clinic. Army hospitals aren’t famous for their quality. But with no money for private insurance we have no choice. Hey, with a bit of luck everything will work out fine. Turning from my back to my right side, I thought, I’m so tired right now, but the thought of getting out of here tomorrow has me all wound up. Bugging out of this place on weekends is my major goal now. A few weeks ago I didn’t know what the word bug-out meant and now I’m thinking like one. What other choice do I have? From the Army’s perspective I’m just a warm body with a serial number. I’m supposed to keep my thinking at a minimum and just follow orders. But thinking is a habit I’m finding hard to break. Well, up to a point I’ll play the Army’s game, but when opportunity knocks and opens a door that lets me bug out I’m gonna go through that door. And when I can get away with it, I’m gonna build my own doors for opportunity to knock on. Warm body, huh? Yeah, sure. Well, the Army can think I’m a warm body but I’ve got some other ideas on that subject. Yup. I’ve certainly got...some...other...ideas. The thoughts faded away and deep sleep took over....to be continued... We would appreciate your comments! Send to info@sanctuary777.com NOTE: Agents and editors interested in reprint or film/video rights may contact publisher at info@sanctuary777.com |