Be a Man Fergod Sake

By Del Corey

Ted Byrum decides to join the army and become a paratrooper. Little did this 18 year old suspect the military world could be as cruel and demanding as he found it. Not only was the leadership harsh, but the other recruits were people who would challenge his character, sometimes forcing and often helping him, to make decisions he was surprised he would ever take.

Ted's father, a tough man that he looked up to, ordered him to "Be a Man, Fergod Sake," and these words stuck with this young man entering a larger world than he'd ever experienced. So when, in basic training, this new private is pushed and bullied by a big tough guy named Timothy Murphy, that's his first challenge to "be a man."

Meanwhile, when Ted learns of an attempted suicide of his father at home, it shakes up many of his beliefs and expectations.

This is followed by many cruelties and demands of the military, through 16 weeks of basic. and three weeks of jump school, where he encounters unnecessary beatings and deaths. How Ted reacts to these and many other events all go to influence his becoming a Man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477285756

Del Corey

Del Corey, was born Adelbert M. Corey, in West Springfield, Massachusetts, near the bank of the Connecticut River, November 19, 1934. Although his family was poor, during the Depression, he, his one sister, and his 4 brothers were happy, with chickens and a garden in the back yard. In the pubic school, Del played baseball and football. He and his friends grew up in the flood plain, where the fickle Connecticut might, or might not overflow her banks. The house that Del lived in had been flooded a few times, and the bricks of the foundation, revealed crevices inviting many critters. Del joined the army, to serve as a paratrooper, from 1953 to 1956. He was pursuing his dreams of being a hero, dashing and brave. But Life had ideas of Reality waiting for him. Following his discharge, Del went to Aquinas College, in Michigan, and after 2 years, transferred to Michigan State University. Del went on to earn Bachelor's and Master's degrees. He taught seventh grade, then high school, and then began his 30 year stay at Macomb Community College in the Detroit area. It was there that his writing began in earnest. He taught communications, but mostly literature and creative writing. He began a writers' group, The Fantasy Factory, and held regular meetings with a large following. This lasted for 25 years. Del has written over 3,000 poems, has published 5 books of poetry, and had countless individual poems published through the years. Del has said, "Poems and stories are waiting to be told at every turn in the road of my travels." This is his first novel.

Book preview

BE A MAN

FERGOD SAKE

Del Corey

25_a_asdahlhj.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by Del Corey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/17/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8577-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8576-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8575-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920419

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

˜Airborne?

Chapter 1      Leaving Time—May 1953

Chapter 2      Second Thoughts

Chapter 3      Third Thoughts

Chapter 4      I’m In It Now

Chapter 5      The Order of Things

Chapter 6      Basic Training

Chapter 7      Some Letters Home

Chapter 8      Back in the Barracks

Chapter 9      Making Friends

Chapter 10      Jokes and Boiler Room Fun

Chapter 11      Mail Call

Chapter 12      Loveless

Chapter 13      On the Firing Range

Chapter 14      Rifle Cleaning

Chapter 15      Georgy’s Explanation

Chapter 16      Serving at Sunday Mass The Sermon

Chapter 17      Murphy & Cohorts

Chapter 18      I meet a Poet

Chapter 19      Mosquito Hell

Chapter 20      War Games

Chapter 21      My Punishment

Chapter 22      Hospital Visit

Chapter 23      Night Moves

Chapter 24      Confession June, 1953

Chapter 25      Learning the Language of Poetry

Chapter 26      Washington in the Mess Hall

Chapter 27      Sermon on Violence

Chapter 28      Whistling and Jumping Fears

Chapter 29      A Romantic

Chapter 30      Kevin, A Spat, andThe Boiler Room At Last

Chapter 31      Captain Mason’s Accident

Chapter 32      Jump Practice

Chapter 33      A Second Chance

Chapter 34      A Farewell Visit

Chapter 35      A Confrontation

Chapter 36      I Write Poetry

Chapter 37      Georgy’s Emergency Leave

Chapter 38      Fight With Alphonso

Chapter 39      Mom’s Letter of Despair

Chapter 40      My Suicidal Father

Chapter 41      Suicide

Chapter 42      Stephan Goes AWOL

Chapter 43      Korea and Bomb Shelters

Chapter 44      Golf and Dry Heaves

Chapter 45      Washington In Trouble

Chapter 46      End-all Battle, Indian Style July, 1953

Chapter 47      Going Home

Chapter 48      Home

Chapter 49      Mom and Dad

Chapter 50      Anthony

Chapter 51      I Hit Homers

Chapter 52      Carrie and Her Father

Chapter 53      Coma and Carrie’s Goodbye

Chapter 54      Darren and Aunt Lilith

Chapter 56      Anthony, Chicago and Family

Chapter 57      Church With Mom

Chapter 58      Father Andrew

Chapter 59      Dinner Preparations

Chapter 60      Family Dinner

Chapter 61      Post Cards to Friends

Chapter 62      Heading for Jump School

Chapter 63      Train Meditations

Chapter 64      Fort Bragg

Chapter 65      Punishment Begins

Chapter 66      Landing Practice

Chapter 67      Thirty-four Foot Tower

Chapter 68      Letter Writing

Chapter 69      Friendship Stew

Chapter 70      Georgy and Latrine Surprises

Chapter 71      Garbage Duty

Chapter 72      Sunday Church

Chapter 73      The 250 Foot Tower

Chapter 74      Homosexuality

Chapter 75      Trouble Invites Trouble

Chapter 76      My Crisis

Chapter 77      Sunday Morning

Chapter 78      Forgiveness?

Chapter 79      First Jump

Chapter 80      Pedro’s March

Chapter 81      Of Heroes and Villains

Chapter 82      Disappearances

Chapter 83      Heavenly Second Jump

Chapter 84      A Priest’s Farewell

Chapter 85      Letters From Massachusetts

Chapter 86      A Tangled Jump

Chapter 87      Inspector General

Chapter 88      Jump Four

Chapter 89      Father Drew

Chapter 90      Shot in the Dark

Chapter 91      Public Speaking and Scourging

Chapter 92      Sunday Sermons

Chapter 93      Wing Pinning

Chapter 94      Waiting For Orders

Chapter 95      Downtown Adventures

Chapter 96      Final Orders and Plans

Chapter 97      Another Ending and Beginning

Chapter 98      Aunt Lilith’s Funeral

Chapter 99      Woonsocket Bound

Chapter 100      Woonsocket Adventures

Chapter 101      Swing Set Romance

Chapter 102      Some Farewells

Epilogue

Dedication

Thanks to my family and especially my mother, Ida, the religious, moral, saint of a lady. Special thanks go also to the fact that we were poor, because that forced us to appreciate the little we had, and proved to us how we could live with less.

Thanks also go to the military, for the great experiences I had within, and though some were difficult, some were exciting and educational, and they helped to develop me into the person I became.

I appreciate being born in the United States, where I’ve had such freedom.

Thanks and love must also go to my wife, Leslie, who encouraged me, and had patience with me throughout this process.

Then, of course, thank God for my life and extended years. I thank Him, also, for my children and grandchildren, who may get to know me better some day, by reading this novel.

Be a Man Fergod Sake

A Novel

INTRODUCTION

Herein you will read the first-person narrative of a young man, Ted Byrum, entering the military, the airborne, to become the hero he’d dreamed he could be. The many challenges he faces force him to look at himself, as in a mirror, to discover what kind of person stares back at him. Is he brave, cowardly, sometimes one, then the other?

Also, a curtain of reality is lifted to reveal great varieties of people that walk, or stomp, across the stage. They are cruel, biased, clumsy, shy, friendly, or vengeful. Some abuse their power.

This young man must learn to read these people, to decide how to react to them, with courage and understanding, or bitterness. How he acts on this stage can nudge him in directions that will affect what kind of character he will become in the future.

* * * * * *

As the author of this book, though it is fiction, I based the narrative upon many of my personal experiences. I admit, also, I had a bit of enjoyment in naming some of my characters after my friends and family members. It is my prayer that I have offended no one, but added to their pleasure of discovery, and allowed them to be subtle actors in the story.

The setting is also based upon real places. Whenever home, Ted is in West Springfield, Massachusetts, where I lived. So many from my home town will no doubt be familiar with the references to streets and the Memorial Bridge. They, too, can say they’re almost a part of the narrative.

Fort Campbell, Kentucky, and Fort Bragg, North Carolina, of course, are also real military bases, although the description of them is limited.

The characters in the story are mostly fictional, even Ted, the protagonist. Most of the other characters are, in many instances, partially someone the author met, but that is all. I, the sadistic writer, had no regrets in lifting characteristics from their beings, and throwing the rest of them away.

Now, I command you to read and enjoy, or else, you will miss out on having as much fun as I did, creating scenes out of nowhere, that didn’t exist seconds before, and took on lives of their own.

003_a_asdahlhj.jpg

˜Airborne?

Chapter 1

Leaving Time—May 1953

On the way to the train station, I stared out the window of the bus as it bumped over the cracks and patches of the old Memorial Bridge, which spanned the Connecticut River to Springfield. Dad sat beside me, stone-faced as usual, his chin prominent, chiseled, as though in perpetual, stubborn, anger. He was not thrilled at my joining the army at the age of 18, an age of potential income for our family. The airborne, F’crissake, he said, jumping out of goddam airplanes!" I never answered his narrow-mouthed criticisms. Fathers were to be feared back then. Men who worked hard, smoked and drank and stayed out late on paydays, were absolute rulers when home, as long as they were sober. Don’t get the wrong impression. I loved my dad even then, although we seldom expressed it in words.

I let my mind wander, staring out the bus window at the traffic bumping across the bridge. There went a Studebaker, station wagon. I rode in one like that when a neighbor took us kids to the beach at Misquamacut, Rhode Island, on the Atlantic Ocean, of course. The weird name, Misquamacut, was an Indian name for salmon, I heard.

Some kids were walking across the bridge, dawdling their way back to West Springfield. They were probably coming home from the movies. Man, so many Saturdays we kids, Sonny, Leslie, and I, had walked this old bridge to the Paramount Theater on Main Street to catch the movies. (Sometimes it was the Bijou Theater—The Bizzhou, with emphasis on the zhou, as Mom would pronounce it with her Maine French accent.

Inside the theaters, we’d munch buttered popcorn, licking our fingers, as we waited for the lights to dim, and the kids to quiet their chaos. This was the magic time, for us, when our world was not one of hand-me-downs, and patches on knees and elbows, and a few nickels a week for candy. No, here was a world of easy travel, and suits, and beautiful, well-dressed women. Or here was a time when men traveled on horses, and wore guns as part of their uniform, holstered and ready for quick-draws.

Back then, there was usually a Short, an exciting chapter before the main film—like episodes of Superman, or Captain Marvel, where the hero solved last week’s dangerous predicament, only to end this one with almost sure death, to be miraculously overcome the next week. Many of us begged for money to see the next week’s escape, of course. We liked being scared, as long as we knew there’d be an escape.

During World War II, the theaters had news films that lasted about 5 minutes of our soldiers somewhere in France or Germany, or some Pacific island. These men in fatigues would be sitting, joking, smoking cigarettes, Chesterfields or Camels, or watching a live Bob Hope show. The soldiers seemed to be happily winning the war for us. All was going wonderfully for them, so we at home didn’t worry too much. My mom was concerned, though, when my older brother, Franklin, went in. He came back okay but he gave very few descriptions of his experiences. When asked, he would stare, seeming to see things we couldn’t, then walk away.

But what I liked most was the heroes’ ability to change identities, like Clark Kent becoming Superman, or Billy Batson morphing into Captain Marvel. How many times I’d wished I could do that, be someone with special talents and abilities, instead of being a C student in school, and a C person in everything. Kid Average, I called myself. Little did I know then, what a great change in identity I’d be going through in the next few months, and years. I’d still be me, under the new skin.

After the movie, maybe about cowboys like Roy Rogers, or Gene Autry, we’d come out of the show and be attacked by the bright summer sun, which blinded us for a while, and since we still carried pseudo-identities in our minds, we’d become blind men with pretend red-striped sticks, and bump into sign-posts or windows, or fire hydrants. Then, at last, we’d ride our mental horses, galloping down the street, slapping our fannies, finger-shooting dark-clothed, unshaved bad guys bang-bang dead.

Walking back across the bridge, I’d whistle, as I often did. None of the others could make the clear sounds that I did. I was the warbler of our group. Right then I was blowing the tune of, Whistle while you work, and Leslie joined in singing, Hitler is a jerk, and we all sang Eenie meanie, Mussolini, Hitler is a jerk. Then we’d dawdle on the bridge, peeking down through holes in the concrete at the river’s frothing current. We’d peg rocks, pretend grenades over the wall, onto a nest of machine-gunning Krauts.

Sometimes Leslie would be heaving boulders from our castle walls at Saracens, who were hurling spears, or lugging rough-hewn logs to batter the gate in. Sonny thought we had over-active imaginations, but he was guilty, too, because we used to gallop on old broomsticks we’d named Trigger or Scout, outsmarting the Indians.

What? Sorry, Dad, what’d you say?

My father tried to turn to look at me while talking, but he couldn’t just turn his head. No, because of the accident, he had to turn his whole torso toward me. I just wanted to say that I’m proud of you. Be a man. And come back safe. Here’s a couple of fives. That’s all I have.

Thanks, Dad.

I could see how hard it was for him to say something that appeared to be feelings. We Byrum’s did not unmask our emotions. I also saw a glimpse of a twenty in his wallet. I knew what that was for, on his way home. But I didn’t blame him, because I knew the pain he was in.

With a bump, the bus took us off old Memorial Bridge, which was built in memory, I’d read someplace, of soldiers in Revolutionary, civil and foreign wars. They’d better fix this bridge, or their memory will collapse into the old Connecticut. But as we left it, I felt I was leaving all that kid stuff behind, my dad and mom, girl friend, friends, movies, my youth. Kinda dramatic, huh? But that’s the way I felt. All that was about to fade into my childish past, as all of my decades have become befogged ever since.

Was I a child all those years? It seems so. Even now, it seems so. What I know now, is, I am not the kid now that I was then. I’ve changed, and become a new person continually, the way a snake sloughs off his skin each year, sort of changing old clothes it’s tired of wearing. So I have left many skins of myself behind. Remnants of me can be found in some of the few photos taken back then.

But, Superman, whenever he returned, he’d just be mild-mannered Clark Kent every time. Not I, I was always someone different, a new one. Unfortunately, though, always a new C me.

On the platform at the train station, Dad waited with me. He let air flow through his lips in a silent whistle, which he did often. He even taught me how to whistle, I’m proud to say. I set my little suitcase down. It was old, with tape holding it shut. Sounds poor, I know, but I never felt really poor. I always had plenty to eat. Right then, I wanted a smoke, but not in front of my dad. He probably knew, but I just couldn’t, sort of like keeping up the myth.

I caught glimpses of him, noticing he was unshaved. This giant of a man, I once thought, was only 5 feet, 6 inches, while I was then 6 feet. Something about genes skipping generations, I guess. Also, his hair was receding, so that the middle, which hadn’t receded as much, looked like it was pointing straight forward, emphasizing the frown lines above his eyes. Symbol of my future hairline? But even though he now had a paunch, he was still a tough son of a bitch with a powerful punch. I’ll tell you stories about him later, maybe. One thing was, I didn’t think I could ever be as gutsy and ready to fight as he was. Even though my jaw was square like his, I didn’t think I could yell Shazam, and become someone with that kind of hardness in me.

When the train started hissing and huffing and jerking so the giant wheels rolled a few feet, I lifted my suitcase. Dad held his hand out, and I shook it. I felt more like a grown-up, then. We’d never shook hands before. He had a strong grip. I saw how watery his eyes were. I couldn’t tell if it was a hangover or emotions.

G’bye, Dad."

G’bye, Son, be safe, and be a man, fergod’s sake. He choked and turned away. It was about as much emotion as I’d ever seen in him. He walked slowly at first, as if he’d lost something, then quickened his pace.

G’bye, Dad." I waved. Then I felt tears bubbling in my eyes.

Chapter 2

Second Thoughts

I found a seat by the window and tucked my suitcase behind my feet. My first train ride, first trip from home, on my way to some place called, Fort Campbell, Kentucky, somewhere down South. All I’d known before that was good old Mass-a-tooty-chusetts. Once I’d gone to see the Red Sox at Fenway Park in Boston with my older brother, Franklin, and my dad. That was the extent of my world-wide travels.

The train moved strangely, with a jerk, and a tug and a pull and a chug, like perhaps some circus giant was demonstrating his strength by dragging us forward. Then the Connecticut River rolled by, faster and faster. After a bit the country side seemed to be moving by, while I stood still. West Springfield, and my childhood were leaving me. Was I afraid? Yes, a little.

What did my dad know about me, that he kept telling me to be a man? Did he detect a softness in me through the years? Well, I’ll show him, I thought, as I stuck my chest out and breathed deeply, as if that would be all the proving I’d need. This would puzzle me for years, defining what it takes to be a man, especially after what he did to himself. I suppose the definition is like a cloud in the sky, misty, changeable.

I admit it, I was scared. Out of high school a few months, and there I was, on my way to the military, to do grown-up things. Why did I want to join anyway? Was it that old movie-like dream of being a hero, ready to face death without blinking, or thinking? I wished I could whip out a cape, and fly, or at least jump off the train the way some hoboes did that I’d seen, hit and roll, just get out of this mess I started.

In the recruiting office, I found myself in one of my romantic heroic trances, that this sergeant, all dressed like for a parade, with medals and badges I knew nothing about, looked at me, then down, and turned pages, using a magnifying glass. Then he stopped flipping pages, grinned, and asked, You were a football player?

Yes sir, in high school, but I was second string, more of a bench-warmer. I don’t think he heard me.

I thought so, he went on, I know the perfect spot for you, son. The Airborne.

What’s that?

Paratroopers, you know, jumping outa planes.

I don’t think I could… .

I can see it now, how you’d look in uniform, with those spit-shined boots, so handsome, the girls could never resist you.

So he went on, making it sound like anyone who didn’t sign up for it was a damn fool. So I bit, and he reeled me in. I was an easy fish to catch, a sucker. So there I was, wondering if I could ever hurl myself out of an airplane without hurling my insides. Could those little silk sheets keep me from hurtling to the ground and with a splat become a fat corpse, six feet tall, and six feet wide. Sounds semi-humorous, but I admit it, I didn’t think I had the balls for any of it. What do you think, Dad? Are your nervy genes in me, too?

Chapter 3

Third Thoughts

The train made a stop, and I realized I’d nodded off. My neck was stiff, and grease from my hair on the window skewed my view. I wished I could sneak back and light a quick cigarette, but the train started picking up speed.

A grey-haired lady with a cane limped past me in the aisle, followed by a red-headed teen age girl, about fourteen or so, the granddaughter, I thought. Her dress was wrinkled, and smelled of mothballs. She was cute with a shy way about her, the way she glanced around with her head at a half-bow, peeking at her surroundings, sort of flirty.

She reminded me of Jenifer, my girl friend, who also had reddish hair. I’d said goodbye to her two nights ago. There was plenty of sloppy kissing, but not much else. I was still a virgin, and I thought she was also.

We had agreed a year before, that we were going steady, so, too young and poor for a car, I’d spent many evenings walking the eight or so miles from my house north, past Freedman’s Park, up the steep hill of Westfield Road to her house, just off King’s Highway.

Our house was in the poorer section, where the Connecticut River had flooded whenever it wanted to punish us lowly masses. Our homes were at a lower plain, compared to the richer people up on The Hill, who really did dress nicer and seemed cleaner. In those days our family had Saturday night baths only, and often the same water was used for more than one person. But, hey, it was inside, with an inside toilet, not like our old residence with the outhouse we used in our last address, in East Longmeadow, Mass.

My mind wandered back to the first real contact I’d had with Jenifer. Oh, she’d been in some of the same classes I had been. But, she was one of those elite girls up on a higher social elevation, way out of my league. Besides, I’d heard she was dating our class president, Robert Horowitz, a future lawyer and congressman.

But this one day, I asked Mr. Helmet the bald algebra teacher, whose real name was Mr. Hartsig, for a bathroom pass, just to give myself a break from sleeping through countless math exercises. So with this ticket to temporary freedom in my hand, I went out into the corridor, and saw her there, sitting in a school desk, being a hall monitor. Now, I’d never really admired her, or thought about her in any special way. Actually, I’d never spent any time thinking about her at all.

She greeted me. Hi, Ted, do you have a pass?

Yes, for a break from boredom, I said, as I showed it to her.

Her brown eyes seemed semi-Asian, slightly slanted, and her face had a million freckles, all blended in, darkening to exotic. Okay. Thanks. She handed the pass back. I saw your last game. You did pretty well.

Thanks, I said. At least I ran in a few plays.

You scared me when you came back to the bench with blood gushing down your face

Sorry. Some guy should cut his fingernails, I think. It was then that something happened inside of me. Was I being taken over by another identity? How do I explain that urge, a feeling that starts, I don’t know where, out of the loins, and rises like some electric current from a weird transformer, up the chest and backbone, past the eyes to some part of the brain, making me a bit dizzy, a bit crazy. And I did it. I bent over and kissed her, on the lips, for five seconds or so. She could have jumped up, slapped me, or screamed, but she didn’t. She even opened her lips a bit. I’m sure her heart started pounding, but probably not as hard as the drumming in mine, and, shocked in disbelief at myself, See ya! I shouted over my shoulder, and hurried away.

What was that I’d just done? Surely, that wasn’t me? I’d never kissed a girl before, so from what deep well of desires did that action rise to reality? What class could I take, what book, would explain why I did that? Little did I realize, then, and still can’t fathom now, the lasting effect of such a whimsical act, and also, how it can have immediate short-term effects. But it also lives in memory for decades, just as clear, in the essentials, as the first action. It was branded deeper still, after I’d heard of her tragic death. I still feel the thrill of my lips on yours, Jen, It lives within me still.

Anyway, after three or four days at school, the rumor of Ted kissing and loving Jennie in the hallway, and her breaking up with Horowitz, and what was going to happen next, reached me.

A rumor, it seems, is a wicked seed, based upon some fact, usually, but which is planted in moist, fertile soil, which then sprouts upward in an unbusy brain, and bulges so far it must bloom, weedlike, out of the drooling mouth, to be wetly planted, and enlarged, in some other weedy, greedy garden. How my cheeks flushed during my embarrassed walks in the halls past whispering, tee-heeing girls.

So she had a girlfriend give one of my friends her number, who whispered it to me, to call her. I called her, sweating in the phone booth at Jimmy’s corner store, and then she started, about going out, and going steady, and being in love. And it started before I knew what was going on. Suddenly I was going to movies, dances, double dates, all that stuff I wasn’t ready for and couldn’t afford. But there were many told-you-so groups for the next few weeks, at school.

And we stayed semi-pure, except for a few fondles here and there. After all, I was an altar boy, still serving Mass, and going to Confession pretty regularly. Amazing, isn’t it, how your bodily urges can make you feel evil and dirty sometimes. But, oh, the delights involved in some gentle touches that lead to deeper cravings, as you climb the tree of lust, and how much more delicious when forbidden. Adam, in Adam and Eve, of course, I’m positive that apple, just plucked and fresh, was the best, longest lasting chomp he’d ever tasted.

On that last rainy night we sat in the kitchen, with her parents in the living room, listening to the radio raving about the new president, Eisenhower. I wasn’t much into politics then. She sat on my lap while we had long, delicious, dizzying soft-wet-lip kisses, and my hand roamed just a bit, and we started to gasp, and rock, while it thundered outside, louder, and lightning flashed, and all was quiet, and rain came pouring, running down the window panes. She pushed me away, No!

As I was leaving, she said, I won’t see you again, as she hugged me. Of course you will. I squeezed her to me. Will you be waiting for me?

No, I know this is goodbye, unless… . No, just go. I do love you. Goodbye.

My shirt drank the rain, chilling me, as I stood at the doorway. I was worried about the long walk home. The buses had stopped running that late.

I’ll write to you to explain why I know what I’m saying.

As I walked away, somehow I sensed a weird vibration of fear, that she wasn’t just being a romantic fool. But then I refused to believe it. The rain washed it from my mind.

On King’s Highway, not owned by any king I’d ever heard of, I thumbed a ride, and an older gentleman in a big, fancy car picked me up. He had a skeletal face and thick glasses. Eerie looking. He drove in a suspicious manner, putting his foot down on the accelerator, and letting up, slowing, foot down, speeding, and up and down. I thought he might be a pervert, but I told him I was entering the military in a few days, so his driving became smoother. He let me off close to the old French church, near my street, Belle Avenue.

I walked in the rain, past the sign that said Deaf Child in Area, which caused my mom to curse in French whenever she passed it. My blind brother, when he came home from blind school, had been living with us on Belle Avenue for many years. What tears Mom shed over this. Where was the sign for her son? Also, what horror she felt when she finally found out about Fernald, the state-supported school.

Our street was quite quiet, usually. Of course, I could not know then, I’d soon be attacked by a hoe-wielding maniac, and mouths would mumble over it for years.

I couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about what Jenifer had said. Won’t see each other? Hadn’t we planned to get married? Have three or four kids? But something, not just in her voice, but in the way she said it, and the hint of fear in her eyes, told me there was more to it. Was she being melodramatic? I guessed, time would tell.

I also turned this way and rolled that, wondering what I was doing to myself. No going back now. I was about to be a soldier, which might be just the something to force me to grow up, to become more than merely a kid, fresh out of high school.

When the conductor came up the aisle, I asked him where we were. It turned out my geography was wrong. I discovered we were traveling more west, than south, through parts of New York and Pennsylvania, toward Kentucky.

At some point I heard the old lady with the grey hair start croaking loudly in a strange language. She was chastising the young red-headed girl, who stood up, shouting No, never! Was she being forced to do something against her will?

The old lady continued croaking, pointing her finger at the girl’s face. The girl grabbed the cane, raised it high above her head, and slammed it down on the back of empty seat across the aisle. It made a sharp, splintering crack, like a limb torn from a tree in the forest. It was obviously broken. Then the young girl sat down across from the aisle and whimpered. That was probably the most daring thing she’d ever done.

I heard what sounded like, in an accent, Marry dat old thing! Against her will, I surmised. They do that in many countries. Could she find happiness in that situation?

But just then I had my own concerns. I couldn’t even imagine flying in a plane, but jumping out of one? I’d break a cane, too, if I could turn the train around, which was taking me to a place, almost against my will.

Chapter 4

I’m In It Now

I finally made it to Kentucky, and then Fort Campbell on a bus, to be greeted by a red-faced, hard-assed soldier with many stripes on his arms, and a whistle in his mouth. He blew a staccato for a few seconds, then one wet alto in pitch, not angry, just attention-getting. He lined us up, called off our names, and assigned us girls to our Baker Company barracks.

First, we were able to take our luggage to the supply building. The corporal chuckled at my suitcase. They must have given you hell on the bus.

It wasn’t bad, I said, red-faced. Some others were almost as bad. Can you trash it for me?

Yep, here’s a nice duffle bag, with no holes or tape on it. He handed it to me, neatly folded. Don’t mention it. You should’ve seen mine, man.

In the barracks, there I was, a scared kid among many other scared boys, waiting to be told what to do, when to sit, where to sit, when to pee, when and where to shit. All except for one man in our group, who looked to be in his thirties. I couldn’t figure out why he was in with us.

Then this one guy, with large ears that bent out like little wings, came over to me and said, I want that bunk! He had big shoulders and powerful arms.

Looks just like that one over there to me, I said.

This one’s closest to the stairs! He put his gear down, and pushed me onto the bunk behind me. It didn’t occur to me to tell him they all have windows.

I know l shouldn’t have, but I said, Take it! I was scared. I admit it. My hands started to shake.

But then this sergeant stomped over and yelled, You! with a huge voice that sounded like it came through a megaphone. He still had his whistle strung around his neck. You, tough guy! Take the bunk by the latrine, ’cause that’s the duty you’ll have while you’re here. Now turn around and apologize to this recruit.

I wish he hadn’t done that. Now this guy would be my enemy.

I’m sorry, man, he mumbled.

What’s your name, tough guy? asked the sergeant.

Timothy Murphy.

Timothy Murphy what?"

Just Timothy Murphy. His face was reddening like a tomato on a window sill.

Timothy Murphy, Sir! Or Timothy Murphy, Sergeant!

Oh, Timothy Murphy, Sergeant!

I didn’t hear you!

Timothy Murphy, Sergeant Sir, he yelled.

And I knew two things. Timothy Murphy would be my nemesis. I also knew the Sergeant, Sergeant Tucker, was yelling this so we’d all know how to relate to him, and to respect him. Ah, the lessons we learn, directly or indirectly.

So we went through days of receiving equipment, OD brown fatigue uniforms, mostly, taking intelligence tests, typing tests (which I’d learned in high school), and signing statements of loyalty to the United States, not Communism (thanks to some senator named McCarthy). The haircuts we received were fast, but not neat.

We also had to receive shots, so we could be sent overseas. One huge hulk of a man in line ahead of me, Norman Turko, who was about six feet, four inches, and 300 pounds, was talking big, with a strange laugh, sort of snickering out of his nose, but his face didn’t agree with his laugh, because the closer he got to the man with the needle, the wider his eyes, and the whiter his face became.

Finally when he was next in line, he stared at the needle going into a man’s arm in front of him, and down he went, down and out, like a weed that was cut down by a scythe. This big guy, a tough tackle on his high school football team, I had heard, just fainted. We had to step over him for our turn with the needle, which was simple, just a little pinch, and it was over. I smiled at my courage.

Where did such a fear of a tiny needle come from? What is it that can overpower us, and render us helpless, so irrationally? What a weapon in war this would be, to force the enemy to cower before hostilities begin? Threaten them with a barrage of hypodermic needles. (I chuckled when I recalled hypodeemic nerdles as Leslie used to say.)

During the next several weeks, Timothy Murphy played pranks on me. He’d stick out his foot to trip me, then look the other way innocently, with a sly grin. Or he’d loosen the blankets on my bunk when no one could see, so I’d get a gig, after inspection, and get Latrine Duty.

Three times, when we were running out for reveille, he’d punch me hard on the arm, and say, Oh, excuse me! They hurt, and brought tears to my eyes, and the anger in me started burning like logs in a bonfire. I thought of my father and what he’d have done.

The story of my dad at Forest Park in Springfield came back to me then. We walked across the bridge while he whistled a low tune. I blew, but couldn’t make a sound, just spit.

He said, There are 4 ways, so I’ll just show you the easiest. Pucker up and make a hole out of your lips. Then tighten the hole, and blow. Different tightnesses will give different tones.

I did so, and made some whistle sounds!

Practice that, he said.

Since his favorite sport was horse shoes, he used to enter tournaments. I remember once seeing him throw three double ringers in a row to win a match. He like to take me with him, so this time we walked to the park, and he let me sit under the shade of a maple tree, munching on a sandwich we’d brought in his lunch pail. Of course, I expected him to win again.

While I practiced, making different shapes and sounds with my mouth, I watched as Dad and some friends were practicing, when this big, red-faced man named Hoolihan, came over and demanded, We’re taking these pits, now, so move it.

My father said, You can have them when we’re through. Right now we’re in the middle of a game. He started to throw a shoe.

I said, ‘Move it’! He stepped toward my dad. He towered over him, like an oak over a young maple. I thought he would kill my father.

Dad threw his shoes down. Wait your turn!

Hoolihan then walked into the pit, and reached out.

My dad’s lips tightened. He said in a low, controlled, trembly voice, Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me! To me it was like a gun being cocked.

Hoolihan huffed at this little man, almost a foot shorter than he was, and reached down to grab my dad’s arms, as if to lift and remove him, but that was his mistake.

Like a shell from a cannon, Dad’s left hand shot into Hoolihan’s solar plexus. He went Oof, and leaned forward. Then Dad’s right hand swung in a huge round-house that landed on the side of the Irishman’s chin, and he fell sideways, in slow motion, an oak being felled to the ground.

Dad’s words, Be a man, came back to me. Is that what it takes? Can I ever do something like that to unfreeze myself? I knew I had to do something, and no one could do it for me. Where were my Superman cape and extra powers then? What identity could I take to overcome my overwhelming fear? Little did I suspect then, how my struggles with Timothy Murphy would play such an important role in my becoming someone so different than I’d ever expected.

Chapter 5

The Order of Things

Since we knew almost nothing about the army, we had to attend classes. One day we were marched to a huge building, and had to wait in line before entering.

Actually, we’d been waiting in lines wherever we went. We lined up to march long distances or short. We waited in lines for chow, for mail, for military clothing, for shots in the arm, for sick calls, for anything involving more than a few people. We were not individuals, but parts of a longer, larger entity, like worms or night crawlers, and just as we can’t tell the front from the back of these creeping things, whenever we were told to do an about face, and march where we came from, the rear became the front.

I’m sure this was deemed good discipline for us, to make us feel a part of a team, to depend on each other, to move as one. But this is why I hate being in lines for anything now, so many years later. I detest attending functions where there will be large crowds. The military, I understand, but some individuals in crowds in peace time, become clowns, or riotous idiots, hiding in the anonymity of the group.

While I was waiting with my company, I saw one young black soldier standing in a line adjacent to mine. I called him black, but back then they were referred to as negroes. Of course, southern whites called them niggers, or, in some attempt to lessen the insult, nigras.

I believe that, with the exception of a black unit in the Revolutionary War, and one in the Civil War, persons of color weren’t admitted into the military in large numbers until the Second World War. So even at this time in the mid-fifties, they were in the minority.

This young black man was dark, but not very dark, and good-looking with a narrow, pointed chin. He wore clean, neat fatigues. On his right cheek was an almost round white spot, which seemed the opposite of what we whites get with moles, etc. He had large lips, which were emphasized even more, because he was reading a paperback, and he seemed to be forming each word slowly, like a child learning to read, by pronouncing each syllable.

I noticed his name on the tag above his pocket said, Washington. I smiled a bit at this, because I’d read in school how we captured natives from Africa, and sold them into slavery, where these people were treated worse than animals. When they finally were granted freedom, many had no last names, except for their owners. So often they chose a famous person, such as a president, for their surnames. I did not smile because of the slavery, but because here was a bit of history I could witness. It was confirmed.

While Private Washington was forming his words, a few men further back in line were whispering and laughing, pointing at him. He turned and put the book in his pocket.

First grade readin’, Washington?

Wha’d you say?

Larnin’ how to read, Nigga?

Whyn’t you min’ yo business?

The man criticizing Washington had buckteeth. He kept turning to his two other buddies, as though getting confirmation that they were with him. His face turned red. You don’t talk to us lak that, Nigga. Show your superiors some respect. I’ll show you how we treat nigga trash in Al’bama.

This was followed by their line collapsing. Two of them came at Washington. One shoved him, and he fell into those behind him. Then the black man started swinging wildly at the two of them who were bigger and more powerful, but Washington kept swinging wildly, almost in a frenzy, and landing a few good ones.

The one with the big mouth yelled, Git him! while he stood back.

One went into the crowd and came around behind Washington and grabbed his arms. Get him now, Billy!

I didn’t want to get involved. My heart was pounding. But I just grabbed the man holding Washington by the shoulders and pulled. I saw his name tag said Johnson.

What the? But