What I Learned At The 'Zoo

By Dale Beasley

Coming of age during the turbulent 1970's, Dale Beasley for one short time only thought that he hailed from Texas. His father, the late Brigadier General Glenn D. Beasley, Sr., United States Army, knew and determined that his son would also know, instead, that the youngster's roots ran deep from the soil of the Mississippi Delta. What I Learned At The 'Zoo reveals the younger Beasley's fictionalized account of his 14th summer in Yazoo City — a summer that features an eccentric family, a plot to smuggle Cold War secrets from Mississippi to spies in East Germany, and the forging of a lasting bond between the boy and his Great Uncle Dallas Crabtree.

Set during the height of the Cold War while his family live in Stuttgart, Germany, the story introduces a bizarre family steeped in Southern culture, colorful characters, and an espionage plot to smuggle Cold War Secrets from the Corps of Engineers in Vicksburg to spies probably working for East Germany and North Korea. Plot, scenes, and action evolve from well-crafted dialogue featuring stereotypically Southern language reimagined from a young teen's point of view.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098307226

Book preview

Glenmar Publishing

Madison, Mississippi

What I Learned At The ‘Zoo © Dale Beasley. All rights reserved.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09830-721-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09830-722-6

This book is a work of fiction.

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 except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Edition

BookBaby

Pennsauken, NJ

Contents

Dedication

Author’s Note

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Interlude

Chapter 20

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Dedication

To the Late

Brigadier General Glenn D. Beasley, Sr.

United States Army

My father, who taught me how to find the North Star

Author’s Note

I first wrote this book in my mind, while serving in the Gulf War. Fifteen years later, I got it out of my head and put it to paper. If any of you thinks this book is about you, it’s not. This book is based on true childhood memories of my grandmother, aunts, uncle, and also Shorty, while I spent a summer in Yazoo City, Mississippi. Some of it is true, and some of it is fictional, but it’s all based on what I learned at the ‘Zoo.

Sometimes you have to lie, to tell the truth.

—Willie Morris

Preface

Operation Iraqi Freedom II, June 2004

I could start by saying that it was 119 degrees in the shade, but there wasn’t any shade; I hadn’t seen a tree in nearly six months. I could say that it was 1730 hours on Wednesday, the sixth day of June 2004, but to maintain my sanity, I had stopped looking at a calendar five months prior.

Let me begin again. It was 119 degrees in an endless desert; there was no shade; there wasn’t a tree within 200 miles. What time was it? It was between the sounding of retreat and the Muslim call to prayer. Every day was the same: reveille, call to prayer, eat, call to prayer, eat, call to prayer, eat, retreat, call to prayer, go to bed.

I had finished my shift in the basecamp emergency room. I was walking the one-and-a-quarter-mile back to my tent, the eighteen feet by thirty-six feet that I shared with eight of the greatest Americans I have ever known. Actually, the size of the tent was smaller. To increase the chances of surviving a mortar attack, we had sandbagged the outer outline and in between each bunk. This tent of ours was in a pretty good location, it was only an eighth of a mile to the shower point.

Walking into the foyer of the tent, I could hear Don was playing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C Minor. He did this to drown out the salat al-maghrib, the Muslim call to prayer after sunset. Sunset, that was a joke. The sun never set till about 2200 hours or 10 p.m. for you civilians. But you get what I am saying: every day was the same. It was hot, the sun never set, and the Muslim call to prayer five times a day would drive anyone insane.

As I walked into the tent, I just sat down in my camping chair. Carlos said, I have a little vodka left. Do you want a vodka tonic? I even have bottled lemon, and we have ice! I started to ask Carlos how he got the ice, but I didn’t; I just said, Yes. Thank you.

As Don changed Beethoven to Chopin, he asked, How was your day?

It was crazy.

How was it any different than any other day?

I explained that we got in a new bunch of POWs, and we had to do their physicals before they were put into the POW camp. I had this Iraqi general, who was really an ass; his response to nearly every question was, I don’t speak English. I went along with it for a few minutes, until I asked him, How did you graduate Berkley not knowing English, General? By the way, that sure is a nice class ring. That must have jarred his memory because he then began to speak English.

Darrel interrupted. What general was it?

Muhammad something, but he was the six of diamonds. The week before, we had received decks of cards with the most-wanted Iraqi generals on them; they did this to help capture the high command.

"The whole time I was doing the physical on this general, I was remembering a story that my Uncle Dallas told me when I was a kid visiting Yazoo City, Mississippi. Have I ever told y’all the story about my Uncle Dallas, who was the interpreter for the gruppenfuhrer/general who was head of the Hitler Youth during the Nuremberg Trials?"

Rick rolled over in his bunk and asked, Is this going to be a long story?

I replied, Well, it depends on how many times you interrupt me.

Don asked, Do you expect us to believe this?

I responded. Really, Uncle Dallas was an interpreter at the Nuremberg trials.

Don said, I believe the part about the Nuremberg trials, but is there really a town called Yazoo City?

Chapter 1

Patch Barracks, Stuttgart Germany, May 1974

Do we have to go? I asked my mother that cold, damp morning, as we pulled into the VII Corps Command Headquarters, Stuttgart, Germany. We were in our 1968 orange Volvo station wagon that my father had bought my mother when he was promoted to major. My mother had already been eyeing a newer one since my father had been selected for Above the Zone Promotion to lieutenant colonel.

My younger brother and I had been given three minutes to say our goodbyes to our father. He was in the middle of preparing a medical logistics brief for the 2nd Armor Division Commander, Major General George S. Patton, IV. Our goodbyes had lasted five minutes longer than we were allotted, and he was already on edge. My father was determined that we were going to Mississippi because I had told one of his friends that I thought we were from Texas.

You were born in Mississippi, and that is where you are from, my father said.

As we pulled out of Patch Barracks, my mother replied, Yes, you and your brother have to go, especially after what you said at Lieutenant Colonel McRae’s party the other day.

But, Mother, I said, when he asked me where I was from, I thought we were from Texas. My entire life, I have lived either in Texas or here in Germany.

Well, I told your father that very same thing, that you and your brother didn’t know any different, so I see why you thought you were Texicans. Besides, you haven’t seen your grandmother in nearly a year; she and her sisters are planning a big vacation for you and your brother in Yazoo City, Mississippi.

I have heard of Mississippi; do you spell it like the river? asked Eva.

Why goodness, yes — how else would you spell it? replied my mother, shaking her head.

I looked at Frau Eva and said, "Du wirst mir fehlen."

I will miss you too, Eva replied in English.

Frau Eva Von Schirach had become a member of our family nearly two years earlier. She was our nanny, our interpreter, our taxi to and from ballgames; she was my equestrian trainer, our connection to the German world, and also my friend. Frau Eva was twenty-one years old at the end of World War II, so she was about forty-four years old. She was tall for a woman, the same height as my father. She was from the Bavarian Region of Germany. You could tell she was from the old aristocracy of Germany by the way she carried herself. She hardly smiled, but I believe that came from her husband’s never returning from the Eastern Front.

When I first met Frau Eva, she was teaching equestrian at Patch Barracks; I was one of her many students. Mother forgot once to pick me up after Jump Practice, and Frau Eva took me home. Mother was so impressed with her that she asked what other positions she had besides teaching at the Sports Platz. Frau Eva told my mother that she only taught half-a-day three days a week. Mother asked if she had any domestic training, and she replied that she had received much training in cooking, food storage, cleaning, rearing children, and first aid in the Girls League, very much like your American Girl Scouts.

Oh, I was a Girl Scout, Mother said and asked whether she would consider being our nanny while continuing to teach her jump classes. Eva replied that she would, but the security paperwork had to be done. Mother said she didn’t need to worry about that, that she herself would take care of it.

But can you make pickles? asked my mother; Eva said yes. Well, Mother said, we are going to get along like two peas in a pod. Eva thought to herself, these Americans from the South are strange: why would we both pee in the same pot? That just didn’t make sense.

My father had been selected for promotion to lieutenant colonel in the top ten percent of his peers. My mother was assured he had stars in his future, and she wanted very much to be a general’s wife. Her sorority years in college had been an excellent social training ground, but the Officer Wives Club at Fort Sam Houston had taught her well the protocols of company, field, and general grade officers. Everybody knew that she had been selected to be president of the Officers Wives Club by Mrs. Jennings, the wife of Lieutenant General Jennings, who was the Surgeon General of the United States Army.

We lived a good life with a father who was a field grade officer, and a rising star of the The Empire. My father had come from a large farm in Copiah County, Mississippi. He was the fifth-generation military and fourth generation Army officer, the great nephew of Lieutenant General Troy H. Middleton, who had been the commander of the Battle of the Bulge and trusted advisor to Caesar himself, General George S. Patton, III.

My father had received a football scholarship at Delta State University, and there he caught many a Delta debutant’s eye, especially my mother’s. She summoned him to meet her after he played one of his best football games. Following graduation from Delta State, my father attended Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia, and then Officer Basic Course at Fort Sam Houston, Texas.

A wreck had occurred on the entrance to the Autobahn, and Frau Eva was getting a little impatient. The driving had become more than my mother could handle.

Blow your horn and go around, said Eva.

We can’t blow our horn because that’s rude, said Mother.

Where did you learn that? asked Frau Eva.

Well, in Mississippi, that is being rude, said Mother.

We are not in Mississippi, and I will drive, said Eva, who had enough drama for one day.

Frau Eva had determined it was best that we take A51 to Wurzburg then to Frankfurt instead of going through Mannheim. This gave my mother more time to drill us in Southern manners.

Now, don’t you forget your manners, said Mother.

Did we forget something? asked Eva, looking for a place to turn around.

No, they are in the trunk, said my brother Steve, laughing.

Are you sure they are in the trunk? asked Eva.

Nobody. Forgot. Anything! yelled my mother, and to Steve, she said, Boy, you better watch your mouth.

"Do you have something on your mouth, do you need a mirror?’’ asked Eva.

Merciful Father, pray for me, said Mother.

"Seinen Sie ruhig und sagen Sie kein anderes Wort," demanded Eva, in a tone slightly high for even her.

To that — my brother and I knew exactly what she said, and we didn’t say a word.

Well, that certainly worked. I need to learn what you just said, Mother said in a slightly sarcastic voice.

I told them both to be quiet and not to say another word, explained Eva.

Mother continued to instruct us by saying, Always say sir and ma’am to every adult.

Eva asked, Why do you have them do that? Is everyone’s social class the same?

Bewildered by the question, Well, no; it’s because my mama always said to, that’s why. Didn’t your mother teach you that? asked Mother, and without even waiting for an answer and also in a slightly elevated Southern-poised voice, You two better not embarrass me.

When I asked Frau Eva if I could ask a question, my mother jerked her head around and said to Eva, Merciful Father, I’m bringing you home to live with us as soon as we can. I love it when you’re ordering them around like little Nazis.

Eva replied to my mother with frustration in her voice, "Everyone was a Nazi . . . What do you need Mein Kleiner?"

I don’t want to go to Mississippi if you’re moving in, I said to Eva. I don’t like their food: everything is fried and yellow; the bread tastes like sugar; it’s hot; and they put ice in their tea. But my father is making me go because I said I was from Texas.

You know, Eva, those women at the Officers Club had me going the other day, said Mother.

Where did they want you to go? asked Eva.

They didn’t want me going anywhere, replied Mother.

You said they had you going, Eva said again.

Oh hell, never mind, said Mother. But do you know what happened the other day when I ordered ‘sweet iced tea’ at the Officers Club?

Before anybody responded as if we cared, Mother said, They brought me hot tea in a teapot, a cup of ice, and a sugar bowl. Well, when I am an officer in the Wives Club, that will change.

Eva just looked down for a moment and shook her head, thinking to herself, Is that all she has to worry about?

It is only for a short time, Mein Kleiner, and before school starts, I will take you back to Obersalzberg, with my friends, said Eva.

"Das wird gut sein," I replied.

As we neared the airport, some cars were going slow — Mother said, Go around them. They are too slow.

I can’t, said Eva. We are not allowed in the third lane in a Volvo.

I ain’t never seen segregated car lanes on the highway, said Mother.

As we pulled in to Flughafen Frankfurt am Main international airport, Eva pulled over into the outgoing passenger parking area. The attendant told us we had to move before Frau Eva said something to him in German, and it was in a military command voice . . . The plane was on time; everything in Germany was on time. Mother kept kissing us goodbye — I know four times; it probably helped with her guilt. Frau Eva gave us a quick hug and turned to the stewardess to give her instructions in German. She said it so fast I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

Mother turned to Eva and said, Thank goodness you were with us today. I would never have gotten them here on time.

I know, said Eva.

The stewardess in a heavy South German accent announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying American Airlines. Please secure your luggage in the upper bin. Please find your seats; we will be arriving in the Atlanta, Georgia, International Airport in approximately nine-and-a-half hours. Today we will be serving two meals, and your movie selections will be Serpico starring Peter Maas, American Graffiti starring Ron Howard, and The Sting starring Robert Redford and Paul Newman. All shows are in English, Deutsch, and French. Again, thank you for choosing American Airlines."

Chapter 2

I think we are here. This must be Yazoo City, was the first thing I said to my brother Steve, when I first thought I was awake. I seem to remember walking off the plane, but I am not sure. At this point, time means nothing. Am I still asleep, am I dreaming? We want to eat supper in the morning; we want to go to bed at noon. Please turn off the sun; we are getting morning light at midnight; please just turn the sun off. I wonder if the astronauts have jet lag. I would think they do; maybe we should have taken a ship — are the astronauts this angry?

I believed we were dreaming when we were actually awakened in the corner of my grandmother’s house. In our room were two open windows. One window overlooked a lake; the air was crisp and damp. The other window opened to a back yard full of fruit trees, sweet, fresh, green and moist would actually be how I would have described it if that loud noise of the lawnmower wasn’t going through my head. I was afraid to open the door leading out into the hallway because, from the sound, there was a wind tunnel that would suck you right up into the attic. Where are we? my little brother asked. About that time, the door was opening — should I hang on so the wind tunnel would not suck me up into the attic?

In a few moments, my grandmother, whom we referred to as Maw-Maw, stood in the doorway and said, Breakfast is going to be ready soon, down at the lake. Are you hungry?

Breakfast. What day is it? I asked.

It’s Thursday, Maw-Maw replied.

We left on Tuesday, I pleaded as if anything might change.

What happened to Wednesday; are we in Yazoo City? asked my little brother.

No, we are between Pearl and Brandon. We have a few days before we go to Yazoo City. Your mother told me to let you sleep for a day to get your body’s rhythm back, replied Maw-Maw. Honey, it’s okay. I’ve got the breakfast groceries ready to be cooked at the lake; all we have to do is get down there and start catching those fish.

Fish for breakfast. I don’t think my stomach can handle that right now, I said.

Come on now and get up, I’ll fry bacon and eggs. I sure have missed my boys.

Command Headquarters, 2nd Armor Division, Garstedt, Germany

A little after nine o’clock, my father, Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) Glenn Beasley, was called to the office of Major General George S. Patton, IV. General Patton was the commander of the 2nd Armored Division. As LTC Beasley entered the command suite, General Patton’s secretary offered my father some coffee and told him the general was running a little late. He was nearly finished with his coffee when the secretary said, Lieutenant Colonel Beasley, the general will see you now; please come with me.

As he entered the room, he stopped four feet in front of the general’s desk, saluted, and said, Lieutenant Colonel Beasley reporting as ordered, Sir.

Have a seat, Beasley. I want to have a little talk with you; actually, I need you to do something for me, said General Patton. Beasley, you’re the nephew of Troy H. Middleton, right?

Yes, I am, Sir — grew up near the same farm he grew up on.

"You know, Beasley, my father respected your Uncle . . . said he was a dependable, common-sense leader. Hell, if it had not been for his mule shipment idea, we would never have won the Battle for Sicily. His idea to use mules to carry our equipment over the mountains and surprise those Hun bastards by coming up behind them was genius, simply genius. Speaking of Hun-bastards, Rommel’s son is the new deputy finance minister of Baden-Wurttemberg. I have invited him here for an Officer Professional Development Conference.

I want you to put it together. I want you to speak about Middleton and the Battle of the Bulge; Rommel to talk on his father; and I’ll speak on mine. Now, I want to have a special luncheon at the Officers Club. I want you to escort Rommel and sit with us at my table. Get Craft and Dubose to set it up; they are good at putting these conferences together.

General, there will be a few folks not happy with me sitting at your table, said Beasley.

Beasley, do you think I give two holy shits what people think? It’s my damn table.

Well, Sir, I wasn’t talking about protocol.

Laughing, General Patton said, Beasley, I need to get you out of 30th Med Group and get you in my Division Surgeon’s Office. There are some back-stabbing sons of bitches working over at the 30th. I want you to run my Division Surgeons Office; I will take care of that after this conference.

Sir, with due respect, in regards to what you just said . . .

Patton cut him off. I know what you’re about to say. It’s all about loyalty, my ass. You got this conference covered? You understand what I need? asked General Patton.

Roger that, Sir.

As we walked down to the lake, I started to feel better. I was actually waking up and remembering stories I had heard about my mother’s parents. My grandmother was a strong woman, having come of age during the Depression, in Holmes County, Mississippi. The impact of the Depression was multiplied from the years by a post-reconstruction Army I had heard described as the sorriest excuse for humans on God’s green earth.

At an early age, my grandmother and her sister Corrine had the responsibility of raising the twins, Dallas and Mi-Mi, as their mother had died while giving birth to them. Barbara ran the kitchen, and Corrine ran the commissary for their father. During World War II, Grandmother had been a type of Rosie the Riveter in a ball-bearing factory in Memphis, Tennessee, where they made bearings for tank and aircraft engines.

We were told that both our grandmother and Aunt Corrine had shot people before. My grandmother had shot a man trying to break into her house. The man made the mistake of trying to come in through the children’s bedroom window. That man’s poor choice cost him his life. This was one of those things that we learned not to talk about, very much like my friends back in Germany whose grandfathers served in the Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe, and other organizations. There are things that people didn’t want to talk about, and we were taught this well in Germany.

Then there was my grandmother’s grandfather, who protected everyone. His name was Judge James Edward Walker Grace, but everyone just called him Judge. He had been a corporal in the 28th Mississippi Cavalry under General Nathan Bedford Forrest and had been wounded at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee. He had been appointed as district judge by the federal commander of the Reconstruction Army. They had attended law school together, and I was told it had been hard on the judge. I understand it was a difficult job, balancing between a crooked occupying army and sheet-wearing raiders who rode around at night enforcing the rules that had once been the law. The judge had a spy working for him in the courthouse and knew when to warn the raiders; sometimes it all depended on who was being harassed. But the judge provided for his grandchildren, courtesy of a copper still that he had smuggled into the county. As long as he supplied the Yankee officers with good distilled corn liquor, which meant it was usually cooked twice, they turned their heads on happenings around Holmes County.

My grandmother had met my grandfather at a Red Cross dance in Memphis during World War II. To be around the two, you would think they had been married for years, but they hadn’t. That was another subject we were taught not to ask about. Again, we learned that all too well in Germany.

My grandfather, whom we referred to as Papa, had been a decorated war veteran. The only thing that he would say about the war was that he had been promoted from private first class to staff sergeant in just two days. When we asked him how this was done, he would only respond that he had just been smart. In later years, we found that grandfather had been promoted that quickly, but it had been done after the initial landing on Omaha Beach. We had been warned not to ask any question any further than that. Many years later, a young Baptist preacher told my grandfather that he had been blessed to have lived through that. My grandfather quickly replied that he had not been blessed any more than the ones who were killed on the beach; it had just not been his time. It’s just God’s will. Can’t change it; just learn to accept it and move on, he explained to the young minister who appeared to be receiving a scolding. We didn’t ask our grandfather much about the war; again, we learned that