Dark Yesterdays Bright Tomorrows

By Lionel B Harris

As a Texas-based solider in the US Army, who is but twenty-three years old and black as well, Corporal Tyrone Lattimore is generally regarded as soft-spoken, intelligent, highly proficient, and compassionate. In some circles, however, the corporal is perceived as an enigma-a man who marches to the beat of a different but benevolent drummer, and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781648954757

Book preview

One

Fort Sam Houston, Texas (San Antonio)

Friday—August 9, 1963

You had a good home, but you left.

When Thomas Holland went through basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, there was this kid (a weird sort, to say the least), who seemed to almost constantly recite that particular phrase and especially during moments of exasperation and ritualistic harassment. And throughout the succeeding months that Private Holland accustomed himself to military life, he had grown to detest those words and their perpetual origin, the goofy kid.

Eddie Marlowe was the youthful soldier’s name, and even though he and Holland had parted company after their rigid stint in Missouri, the boy’s favorite words, You had a good home, but you left! lived on. In fact, they virtually haunted Private Holland whenever an unpleasant or taxing situation arose. And such was the case when, as an incoming soldier, he first arrived at the Fifty-Third General Hospital of Fort Sam Houston, Texas. Dressed in his khaki uniform, he stood inside the unit’s orderly room and momentarily signed in on the register sheet as he previewed his forthcoming fate. And right then and there, as Ed Marlowe’s prophetic words virtually swirled through his mind, Holland deemed that fate to be gloomy and somewhat despicable. Stationing himself next to the nearest window, he keenly observed the personnel of Fifty-Third General as they arrived in the company area, fresh back from an apparent field exercise.

However, the word fresh was, to a certain degree, inappropriate in this instance. For when the soldiers went about their business, emerging from a lengthy convoy of jeeps and two-and-a-half ton trucks and then assembling themselves in a formation, they were everything but fresh. On the contrary, they were collectively dirty, sweaty, and from the looks on their faces, disgruntled and beat to their socks as well. Furthermore, it appeared that they were unanimously opposed to the recently called assembly.

Nevertheless, the soldiers of Fifty-Third General did adhere to the general program. Although their movement was void of any kind of enthusiasm, row by row, they lined themselves up and assumed an at-ease position until the utterance of the word attention was heard. And of course, the men did snap to that familiar military stance in the wake of that command.

Currently, although Private Holland was still indoors and was approximately twenty paces from the specific officer who had called the soldiers to order, he was within clear hearing range of the assemblage. And he was intent upon listening to the proceedings when he was suddenly distracted. Momentarily startled, he turned to confront the forceful voice, which stemmed from directly behind him.

Sir, I’m sorry, he promptly said, responding mainly to the glistening silver bars of the officer before him. I didn’t hear what you said. I’m sorry, sir.

The steely gray-eyed intruder stood silent for a moment, a moment that seemed more like an hour to a nervous Thomas Holland. Garbed immaculately in a tropical worsted uniform with shoes sparkling to almost complement the shine of his captain’s bars, the officer just stood there, seemingly studying the enlisted man. Then, finally, in a gruff tone, he reissued his most previous words.

I said I want your narrow ass out in that formation! he shouted. And, mister, don’t you ever tell me you’re sorry about anything again! Is that clear?

Holland was befuddled and inwardly quite angry, but he was smart enough to be submissive too. Yes, sir, that’s very clear, sir.

What is your name, young man? the captain then asked.

Private E-2 Holland, sir. My name’s Thomas Holland, sir.

Now, the captain perused the private’s chest area.

Report to me immediately after formation is dismissed, Mr. Holland, he demanded, and don’t let me catch you absent of your name plate again. Now move out, soldier.

Private Holland had set his duffle bag on the floor, near the door, when he first entered the orderly room, and through his frustration and haste to obey his superior’s orders, he soon found himself sprawled on the floor. He then tumbled, nervously looking back at the humorless captain (who, in fact, was shaking his head in disgust), and finally made his way outdoors to the ensuing formation. The private was steamed but still quite docile as the captain strutted spryly behind.

But soon, when Holland took the liberty to blend in with the now-rigid sea of men, his anger was steadily on the decline. During his rather brief stint with the United States Army, he had learned to denounce certain adversity as militaristic bullshit, and that’s how he perceived the captain’s recent actions. Therefore, he assumed the stance of attention and, just like the other soldiers, awaited the next command.

At ease, gentlemen, shouted the officer who was presently in charge of the assemblage. First and foremost, I’d like to commend each and every one of you on the excellent job you did at Camp Bullis for the past twelve days. I greatly appreciate your cooperation and your fruitful efforts, which, combined, served to make the field expedition an overwhelming success. And believe me, you will all be justly rewarded for your exceptional performance in the near future.

Presently, the soldiers of Fifty-Third General managed to suppress their weariness and perk up to a degree. In fact, with smiles beaming and hands clapping, they rendered a rousing ovation to the speaker and didn’t quiet down until the officer opted to talk again. But in their merriment, it was obvious (even to a neophyte like Thomas Holland) that they were genuinely fond of their addresser.

I thank you for your approval, the officer teasingly spoke, resuming his delivery. But enough said about that, so let’s push on. Now, I do realize you’re dog-tired, and God knows you have a right to be, but before we dismiss you this evening, I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce you to your new company commander—Captain Joseph A. Grabowski. Captain Grabowski…

To the surprise of everyone present, and especially the officer who was in the middle of introducing the incoming company executive, a rather shrill voice suddenly rang out. And in addition to erroneously calling the soldiers to attention and momentarily stealing the spotlight from the initial spokesman, it temporarily transformed the proceedings into a scene of mirth. As the soldiers practically forced themselves to obey the most recent command, they could not refrain from snickering and making whispery remarks, for they knew that the blunder was quite typical of the young officer who had made it.

At ease, men! cried the interrupted officer, glaring over at the man who had made the mistake. I wasn’t quite finished, Lieutenant Spearman.

Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, the youthful officer responded, obviously embarrassed over his hastiness, but when you said…

I’m acutely aware of what I said, Lieutenant, the older officer replied as even more chuckles came from the waiting group.

I am heartily sorry, Colonel, injected the lieutenant.

The laughter subsided at that point, and soon, as the ranking officer dismissed his anger, he resumed his introduction. Captain Grabowski comes to our unit with an impressive and outstanding military history—a veteran of two wars, a recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor, two Silver Stars, a Bronze Star, three Purple Hearts, and countless certificates of achievements. He’s one of those rare breeds who came up through the ranks. From an enlisted man to a very fine officer, Captain Grabowski has served in numerous strike units, both stateside and various war zones. Therefore, Fifty-Third General Hospital is not only fortunate but extremely honored to have such a man as its new company commander. So without further ado, it is my genuine pleasure to present to you, Captain Joseph A. Grabowski.

Lieutenant Spearman was right on cue this time. As he reared back and shouted, Company…atten-hut! he brought the soldiers to the traditional military stance and then extended a salute to the approaching company exec, adding, Captain Grabowski, I present to you the men of the Fifty-Third General Hospital.

Rendering picture-perfect salutes to, first, Colonel Cantrell and then First Lieutenant Spearman, the new company commander cordially thanked the officer duo and was preparing to address the waiting assembly when an unexpected interruption occurred. The headquarters facility was basically an elongated extension of the orderly room, and the wooden structure, along with the attached day room (or recreation room), paralleled the street where the large body of soldiers were gathered. In essence, that was the origin of the ensuing interruption.

Pardon me, Colonel Cantrell…and Captain Grabowski, apologized a specialist 4, speaking from the porch of the headquarters building, but there’s an extremely urgent, long-distance call for the commander. It’s from Washington, sir, and I couldn’t put ’em off to call you back.

Grabowski stood, staring begrudgingly at the intruder, but nevertheless, the colonel graciously excused himself and briskly retreated to his nearby domain. However, before doing so, the senior officer urged the captain to carry on without him, and that’s exactly what Grabowski did.

At ease, men, the captain soon said. "Now, I’m an individual of few words, so I’ll be quite brief and to the point. I am a professional soldier and have been for many years now, twenty-six actually, and throughout those years, I’ve become known as a man who does not ‘beat around the bush.’ I say what I mean and mean what I say. And I have a philosophy—one which I will not detour from. Above all else, I was sent here to do a job, and a job that I’m well qualified to do. Arrogance be damned, I am the best you’ve ever seen. Of that, I assure you. I expect results, superior results, in fact, and I shall realize them or else. And while I’ll leave the ‘or else’ entity to your individual imagination, let me make this crystal clear: I’m not here to make friends or to fall in love with any of your people. I don’t want your acceptance, your admiration, your praise, or the proverbial pat on back from any of you. I want, I expect, I staunchly demand outstanding results. And, gentlemen, one way or the other, I will enjoy immeasurable results from you, people."

Presently, there was an undercurrent of disenchantment circulating amidst the gathering, but Captain Grabowski seemed entirely unaffected by it. Moreover, he took the disgruntlement in stride as he further stated, And in case you’re sayin’ to yourself, ‘I don’t like that bastard already,’ and I can clearly see that—let me reiterate. Frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn! I don’t give a rat’s ass if you people like me or not! And I’ll venture to say this: If any man in this unit, from the lowest fuckin’ private to the goddamn senior lieutenant, professes a fondness toward me within a month’s time—then either he’s crazy or he’s a flaming fairy. And in either case, I’ll get my jollies, drumming his ass out of this man’s army! There will be a full field inspection at 0800 hours come Monday morning!

Of course, there was another wave of muffled protest stirring in the ranks now, but Captain Grabowski, seemingly pleased with himself, patiently waited for it to subside. Then he said, "It is, therefore, my heartfelt recommendation that you men spend a large portion of your weekend in preparation of the inspection, for I do expect to be impressed. Make me feel that you’re deserving of the foregoing praise, which was graciously heaped upon you by Colonel Cantrell. Lieutenant Spearman, dismiss the formation, I’d like to see you afterward."

Company…atten-hut! Fall out, men…and have a nice weekend!

As the soldiers began to disperse, with the majority of them retiring to their outlying and respective barracks and a few of them to the adjacent snack bar, there was a volley of contemptuous and derogatory remarks that filled the air. Naturally, the men were upset over the captain’s lordly and bullying manner, not to mention their irateness in regards to Monday’s impending inspection, and many of them (even within hearing range of the retreating Joseph Grabowski) vocalized their displeasure. Mumbling and grumbling, they sought some semblance of solace, complaining to each other.

Seemingly, the new company commander was entirely unaffected by the hostile remarks he was hearing. In fact, as he perched himself atop the orderly room porch and proceeded to watch the ongoing disbandment, it even appeared that he derived a kind of perverse pleasure from his subordinate’s indignation. A look of smugness comprised his face.

But neither Thomas Holland nor Lt. Francis Spearman, two men who were not permitted to vacate the immediate vicinity, were remotely concerned over Grabowski’s prolonged expression of self-satisfaction nor were they overly attentive of the parting gripes uttered by their fellow soldiers. Instead, they were both in wonder of why the captain elected to detain them, and furthermore, they jointly suspected that his motives were bad.

Currently, as both Private Holland and Lieutenant Spearman stood near the orderly room porch and waited until virtually all the other soldiers had vacated the immediate vicinity, Francis Spearman could no longer contain his anxiety or curiosity. He looked up at the captain and saluted as Thomas Holland jumped to attention.

Lieutenant Frank Spearman, reporting as ordered, sir, he said.

Although Grabowski did proceed to return Lieutenant Spearman’s ensuing salute, his eyes seemed to immediately seek the stiff-stanced enlisted man. He even addressed Holland first, saying, At ease, Private…at ease, Lieutenant. Lieutenant Spearman, would you be kind enough to excuse me and Private…

Holland, sir, was the enlisted man’s response, realizing that the captain wanted him to fill in the blank.

Right, you are, Grabowski replied. Private Holland, you must order yourself a nameplate. And I trust that you’ll accomplish that task over the weekend?

Oh, yes, sir. Right away, sir, spoke the private.

The captain almost smiled now. Oh, not right away, he countered, first, I’d like to have a brief chat with you. Please come along with me. And, Lieutenant, wait up, would you please. I shall return in a moment or two.

Yes, Captain…take your time, sir.

Now, the company commander turned to enter the adjacent orderly room, prompting a rather suspicious Thomas Holland to follow his lead as well as leaving a rather wary Francis Spearman outside. In both cases, it appeared that the captain was relishing the discomfort he was causing.

Thomas Holland was closing the door behind him when the captain decided to address him again.

Tell me, Mr. Holland, where does a young man such as yourself hail from? the officer asked. In other words, where is good old hometown USA for you?

The private was a bit leery of the captain’s small talk. That’s why he guardedly responded, I’m from Indiana, sir—Indianapolis, Indiana, to be specific.

Indianapolis? remarked the frowning officer. Why, that’s a fucking shit hole! In fact, a man of caliber wouldn’t even take a goddamn piss in that entire Hoosier State! What do ya’ say to that, Private Holland?

The enlisted man displayed calmness when he said, I say, to each his own, sir. The captain is entitled to his opinion, just like everyone else, sir. Plus, I don’t own the State of Indiana, sir.

Is that supposed to be a smart-ass crack, mister? barked Grabowski. Your unique way of telling me, perhaps, to fuck off?

With a look of exasperation, Holland swallowed his anger.

I have better sense than to say or even think something like that, sir, he stated.

The captain grinned. Very good, Mr. Holland…and it’s nice to know that I’m not in the presence of a fool. And I commend your parents on doing a credible job with you. But enough for shooting the breeze and hitting it off, as they say, what time did you arrive here today?

My plane landed at about 1600 hours, sir…and I arrived here, in the company area, about 1705 hours, sir.

Grabowski checked his wristwatch.

That was less than an hour ago, he assessed. I imagine you’re somewhat tired, huh?

Holland was still quite suspicious of the captain when he replied, Yes, somewhat, sir.

All right then, I will not stand guilty of detaining you any further, Private Holland. Proceed to the headquarters complex, and I’m sure you’ll find a Specialist 4 Kelly there. He’ll assign you to your barracks, your respective rack, and fix you up with the proper bedding supplies. And, Mr. Holland, do get some rest. You look terribly weary, frustrated, to boot. And I heartily welcome you to the Fifty-Third General Hospital.

The company commander’s latter words were accompanied by a stance of attention and snappy salute. Therefore, Holland immediately duplicated the officer’s actions and said, Thank you very much, sir, and I’m honored to be here, sir. Am I excused to go now, sir?

Sure you are, Private Holland.

Wary still, Thomas Holland now opted to retrieve his nearby duffle bag and, after bidding the captain good day, started to proceed to the adjacent headquarters building. However, before he could advance a mere four paces, he was treated to the sound of the commander’s voice again.

Oh, by the way, young Mr. Holland, the officer spoke in a matter-of-factly manner, I could not help but notice your strange fascination with windows. You know, earlier, when we initially commenced our friendship?

The enlisted man turned to face Grabowski, balancing his duffle bag on his shoulder, as the officer went on, adding, And then I took a prolonged look at the windows themselves, you know, the dirt and grime? And a little voice cried out to me, saying, ‘Seize the opportunity, take full advantage of this strange fascination.’ Therefore, Private Holland, I propose that tomorrow morning, say around…0900 hours, that you wash every window in the orderly room and headquarters building. And that’s inside as well as outside, Private. And in addition, I’d like the orderly room floor mopped and waxed. It looks horrid, don’t you agree?

Yes, sir, Holland frowningly replied. But…can I ask the captain a question, sir?

Sure, go right ahead.

I’d like to know why you’re doing all this? the enlisted man quizzed. "I mean…what is it I did to deserve all this?"

Come, come, young man, spoke Grabowski sternly. Yours is not the reason why—or don’t you subscribe to the age-old military philosophy? But since you are bold enough to question my orders, I find it necessary to exploit your services further. Please be kind enough to square away the floor in the headquarters complex as well. Now, carry on, soldier, or do you wish to ask me yet another question?

Although Holland was totally frustrated now, he had the good sense to suppress his inner feelings and alternately render a traditional salute.

May I be dismissed now, sir? he asked.

Good evening to you, Private Holland.

*****

The major thought in Thomas Holland’s mind at present was to distance himself from Captain Grabowski. Therefore, with his duffle bag still in tow, he quickly executed an about-face and resumed his journey through the orderly room to the outlying headquarters complex. And once there, as he made eye contact with the seated Specialist 4 Kelly (whom Holland instantly recognized as the same man who had called Colonel Cantrell from the foregoing formation), he took the initiative to sling his duffle to the floor and then casually state his business.

Hi there, Specialist Kelly, the private began, I’m Thomas Holland, a new arrival here…and I was told by Captain Grabowski that you would assign me a barracks and help get me squared away. But say, is he really the asshole he appears to be, or is he trying to get his bluff in? Jesus, whatta son of a bitch he is!

Glancing up from his desk, Specialist 4 Kelly seemed highly offended when he said, "Since you are new and don’t know shit from shinola, Private Holland, I’m gonna forget I heard your verbal indiscretions. But watch your lip from here on out."

I’d say that’s damn good advice! spoke a voice originating from a nearby office. I’m mighty proud of you, Specialist 4 Type Kelly, or are you saying all that because I happen to be within earshot of your conversation?

The specialist grinned slyly as CO William Cantrell (who, of course, was the interjecting speaker) emerged from his office, wearing a smile of his very own. And then, as Holland jumped to attention, he teasingly answered the colonel’s question, saying, Oh, no, sir, in fact, I had forgotten you were still here, sir. And I would have been just as offended even if you had been a hundred miles away.

That’s a crock of bullshit, and you know it, laughed Cantrell as he soon turned his attention to the rigid-stanced Holland. At ease, Private, and let me take this opportunity to officially welcome you to Fifty-Third General Hospital. It’s Thomas Holland, isn’t it? Welcome aboard.

In light of the recent hostility that he endured from both Captain Grabowski and Specialist 4 Kelly, Holland was slightly wary of the colonel’s cordial manner. In fact, when he finally brought himself to reach out and shake the officer’s outstretched hand, there was a measure of reluctance in his eyes as well as his voice.

Er…well, it’s nice to be here, sir, he awkwardly said.

Colonel Cantrell chuckled as he briskly shook Holland’s hand.

Try to relax, Private Holland, he spoke. You’re not in enemy territory, and there’s no reason whatsoever for you to be a bundle of nerves. And don’t let old Kelly over there get your goat. His bark is way bigger than his bite. Now, isn’t that so, Specialist 4 Type Kelly?

Oh, yes, sir, grinned the specialist, I’m a regular little teddy bear at heart.

Ya’ see that, Private Holland? the colonel joked further. That’s why everyone is so fond of Specialist Kelly. He’s congenial, helpful, and always flexible. And it wouldn’t surprise me in the least for you two to become the best of friends. But enough for small talk and futuristic predictions—Kelly, get this young man settled down in his new home, would you. And if he needs anything, a monetary advance—perhaps, see that he gets it. Again, welcome aboard, Private Holland.

Within virtual moments of ordering Alvin Kelly to take care of Holland’s lodging needs and then bidding the two enlisted men good-bye, Colonel Cantrell departed the headquarters facility. He left the two soldiers momentarily silent and seemingly in a state of serenity.

I figured you’d arrive after quartermaster supply shut down, Kelly alternately said, "that’s why I took the precaution of securing you proper bedding. Your two blankets, sheets, pillowcase, and your pillow are on that table, right there. Unfortunately for you, you’re assigned to barracks number T-114, but you’ll just have to make the best of it. You’re on the first floor, bunk number 4, but you’ll have to wait ’til Monday morning to procure a footlocker and your field equipment issue. But there is—or should be—two wall lockers behind your bed, and it would really behoove you to buy yourself a couple of sturdy locks for ’em. Things have been known to come up missing in 114, if ya’ get my drift."

From the very instant Alvin Kelly used the word unfortunately when he referred to billet number T-114, Private Holland appeared perplexed. Actually, he was so absorbed in his bewilderment that he barely heard the specialist’s subsequent words.

Why is it unfortunate that I’m being assigned to barrack T-114? he asked Kelly. What’s the problem over there?

The headquarters clerk sat, smiling with self-satisfaction because he had intentionally alarmed the private.

Oh, there’s no real problem, he smugly replied, that is—if you feel perfectly at home with a bunch of stinkin’, thievin’, and low-life jungle bunnies. T-114, especially the first floor, where you’ll be, is fuckin’ crawling with ’em. Mack even calls it Little Harlem.

Thomas Holland was dually miffed and puzzled. Who’s this Mack person…and why am I being assigned to 114 in the first place? Isn’t there another available bed…in a different barracks, maybe?

Specialist 4 Kelly chuckled, saying, "Don’t you sweat it, Holland. I doubt it if any of those coons over there will bite you. We haven’t figured a way to ‘despade’ ’em, but they’re house-broken…and almost civilized. And it was the old man, Colonel Cantrell himself, who wanted you bunkin’ over there. Why? I haven’t the faintest idea. And Mack? You’ll meet him soon enough. His real name is Gerald McIntosh, one of my confederates—and you and he, along with a couple of other white boys, share the very same fate. T-114 happens to be home sweet home to all of you guys."

Presently, Private Holland sighed in exasperation and then began to gather up his bedding supplies.

"Would you be so kind as to point out home sweet home to me? he facetiously requested. God knows I can hardly wait to get over there. Jesus Christ, what the hell have I done to deserve this shit!"

Perk up, Holland, old buddy, the specialist teased as he rose to his feet. Who knows? You might come to absolutely adore your new environment. After all, every company has its share of nigger-lovers. And you might very well fit that bill.

Yeah, well, I wouldn’t bet on it, Kelly, Holland grumbled. Now, could you please show me where I’m supposed to be going? I would like to get the hell out of this monkey outfit I’m wearing.

Upon making his way over to the nearest window and then waiting for Holland to join him there, Alvin Kelly was momentarily distracted from his primary task of directing the newcomer. That’s because he instantly became aware that Commanding Officer Cantrell was still in the immediate area. In fact, as the commanding officer stood, actively conversing with a certain enlisted man, he was not only in plain view of the onlooking specialist, but his very position was quite conducive to helping Holland find his way. That’s because the ongoing discussion was being conducted right outside of billet T-114.

I thought the old man had taken himself on home, Kelly complained. Wonder what fuckin’ business he has with pretty boy Lattimore over there? Man, I can’t stand that smart-ass son of a bitch!

At that juncture, Thomas Holland became more discerning in his visual observation. He stood beside Alvin Kelly, carefully focusing his eyes on the colonel as well as the main object of the specialist’s vexation, which happened to be a fatigue-clad Negroid soldier.

Who is that guy anyway? he questioned.

"Aw, that’s Lattimore, our resident super nigger—or at least, he thinks he is, replied the smirking Specialist 4 Kelly as he kept his eyes trained on the two not-too-distant talkers. You know, one of those smart-ass college coons…with a chip on his shoulder. Don’t none of us like that arrogant, silk-tongued bastard! Unfortunately, though, Holland, he’s one of your bunk mates, sort of speak. He’s assigned to barracks T-114 too, downstairs—in fact, and it just so happens, they’re standing right in front of your new home. I’m afraid that’s where you’re headed, my man."

Quite aware that the specialist was deriving pleasure from his seemingly unenviable fate, Thomas Holland welcomed the chance to cast a reciprocal stone at Kelly. He seized the opportunity when he noticed Colonel Cantrell cordially interacting with the soldier called Lattimore.

It’s obvious that the commanding officer doesn’t share in your opinion of that guy, the private mused, watching a smiling Cantrell as he patted the Negro on the back and then proceeded to guide his subordinate away from the barracks area. From where I stand, it looks as though they’re the best of friends. And it appears that the colored fella is even gonna walk the colonel to his car. That is the parking lot up there, isn’t it?

Don’t be a fuckin’ wise guy, Private Holland, warned a miffed Alvin Kelly. The colonel likes every-goddamn-body, including most of these monkey-faced jungle bunnies…and especially Tyrone Lattimore. Thinks, he’s refined…and intelligent, but he’s just as trifling and common as the rest of those sorry motherfuckers. They’re all cut from the same stinkin’ and piss-poor cloth, every one of those stupid ink spots.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side, Specialist Kelly, joked Private Holland as he tucked his bedding issue under one arm and then reslung his duffle bag over his free shoulder, ’cause I’d hate for you to get down on my ass, like you are with colored folks."

I’d say that’s damn good advice, spoke Kelly as he walked over and opened the door for Holland. "’Cause believe it or not, I have my ways of stickin’ it to a ’cruit—if I have a mind to. And a friendly word from the wise, Holland, if you really wanna start off on the wrong foot with the nigger population around here, then you be sure to call ’em colored. Otherwise, you’d best call ’em Negroes…but suit yourself, my man."

Thomas Holland nodded in genuine appreciation and soon started out the door, en route to his new home.

See you later, Specialist 4 Kelly, he called back, and thanks for all of your help. Take care.

Check you later, Private Holland.

Chapter

Two

The physical layout of the Fifty-Third General Hospital was simple enough. Situated directly across the street from the dayroom and the adjoining administrative building (the orderly room and headquarters complex, respectively) were seven two-storied wood-constructed barracks and a single Quonset hut, with the latter serving as the unit’s quartermaster supply. Specifically, if one was to exit the headquarters facility and walk straight ahead (such as Thomas Holland was actively doing), he would, firstly, cross the street; secondly, converge upon a concreted and quite lengthy walkway; and thirdly, if he continued to march forward, would shortly find himself in the very center or heart of the company. Actually, if that person were to count off approximately two hundred paces from the pathway’s commencement and then halt to assess his bearing—he’d not only be within clear view of the outlying parking lot (which was located at the end of the elongated walk), he would be flanked on his left extreme by four barracks and on his right side by the remaining three billets and the rather odd-looking Quonset, the structure that sat nearest the company parking lot. Moreover, each of the aforementioned facilities had paved walkways, which led from the main thoroughfare right up to its individual entrance.

Of course, at the moment, Pvt. E-2 Thomas Holland happened to be one individual who was somewhat concerned about the physical layout of the Fifty-Third General Hospital, and as an incoming soldier, his interest was quite natural. However, owing to the recent interaction he had with Spec. 4 Alvin Kelly, he was not so preoccupied with the general appearance of his new environment as he was with the fate that awaited him in his assigned barracks. In fact, thanks solely to the company clerk’s unsolicited and adverse disclosure, he was now converging on billets T-114 with an expression of sheer dread and, inwardly, was contemplating the very worst.

Suddenly, however, it occurred to Thomas Holland that he was being both presumptuous and downright foolish in regards to his feelings. Not only was he presuming that Specialist Kelly was absolutely correct in his foregoing appraisal of the Negroid soldiers of T-114 (which he perceived as biased in the first place), he branded himself impressionable and somewhat absurd for even putting stock into a stranger’s opinion.

After all, he told himself, I really don’t know Alvin Kelly from the biblical Adam.

Therefore, when the newcomer veered left and started up the pathway that would lead him to his new home, he had managed to shrug off most of his anxiety in spite of the nervous rumbling that was plaguing his stomach (his expression epitomized the effect he wished to convey to his new comrades).

But whether or not Private Holland would realize his ultimate goal, to actually give his novel associates the impression that he was teeming with certain aplomb and self-assurance, was not immediately known. Because after entering the dwelling and walking through a short hallway, wherein he noticed padlocked cadre rooms on his right and left extremes, he then came upon a group of soldiers who were either too weary, too preoccupied, or too indifferent to acknowledge his physical presence—let alone concern themselves with his facial countenance. In fact, as the newcomer halted his advance and took a minute to scan the twenty-bunk domicile, he found his fellow soldiers somewhat lethargic and essentially engaged in one of two activities. In a state that ranged from fully clothed to seminude to complete nakedness—and whether they were Caucasian, Latin, Mexican, or Negroid (and the majority of then was the latter)—the men were either lounging on their individual beds or (in pursuit of a refreshing shower) were trying to gain entry into an apparently overcrowded latrine, which was located in the rear of the barracks. And in both cases, the soldiers seemed to be collectively aloof in regards to the mere presence of one Pvt. E-2 Thomas Holland.

However, within but a minute’s passing, the newcomer learned—and learned quite abruptly—that the indifferences he was suffering was not so unanimous and ironclad after all. Because when he took the initiative to sling his duffle bag to the floor and then began to scan the immediate area for his pre-assigned bunk, he not only stirred moderate interest in the surrounding few but seemingly struck an irritant chord in the viewpoint of a certain Negro soldier. Holland had spotted his assigned bed and had reached down to retrieve his duffle when his self-appointed antagonist—a dark-skinned young man who had but a towel draped around his middle—stepped forward to confront him.

If ya’ got any bright ideas ’bout grabbin’ bunk 4, dude, then you best rethink the situation, the Negro said. I likes my space, ya’ dig? So why doncha just gather up yo’ gear and keeping on. Try rack 17 or upstairs someplace. You be much happier there anyway, ’cruit.

Presently, as more and more soldiers yielded their attention to the ongoing scene, Thomas Holland appeared momentarily dumbfounded. He then refocused his eyes on the nearby bed, making certain that the red tag designating it bunk number 4 was intact, and alternately responded to his unfriendly greeter.

Specialist 4 Kelly assigned me to bunk 4, the one right there, he stated, and if you want me elsewhere, then take it up with him.

Screw Specialist 4 Kelly, shouted the frowning Negro, and the sorry horse that motherfucker rode in on! And that goes for you too, dude. Plus, why should I have to deal with a stupid bastard like Kelly when I got yo’ po’ ass? You the one dyin’ to move in, not him.

Private Holland seemed insistent upon standing his ground and was set to counter his adversary’s most recent words when yet another Negroid soldier spoke up. Apparently, though, the new speaker was neither a fan of the towel-clad antagonist nor remotely agreeable with his hostile actions.

I hope he beats your butt ’til your nose bleeds, Reed! yelled the intervenor, standing near the back of the barracks. Why you always gotta raise sand? That guy hasn’t done a damn thing to you.

Keep your country nose outta my fuckin’ business, Hayes, replied the man called Reed, turning around to face the latest spokesman. And as for kickin’ my ass, it’s a cinch yo’ bony butt can’t do it, Uncle Tom motherfucker.

Now, a nearby Negroid soldier inserted a thought.

Why doncha let the dude be, Reed? he suggested. You’re gonna have to un-ass that area sooner or later, so why not today? And don’t you get tired of being in trouble, man?

It seemed that the youth named Reed had a choice set of words ready for the latter spokesman too, but before he had the chance to disperse them, a Caucasian soldier opted to insert a comment. But in spite of his racial commonality with Thomas Holland, his remarks were not fashioned to diffuse the confrontation or loan support to the newcomer. In fact, it did nothing but add more fuel to a growing fire.

Send his ass on up here, Reed, spoke the stockily built white soldier as he showed himself in the center aisle. He’s welcome to have sack 17 down this way—that is, if he agrees to take turns with Lashley making my bed up every day. How about it, new meat, care to take me up on my offer?

Grimacing with absurdity in light of the foregoing query, Thomas Holland soon refocused his attention on his primary foe who was the soldier called Reed.

"I was assigned to bunk number 4, he firmly reiterated as he simultaneously dropped his bedding supplies to the floor, and if I have to fight you over it, which I think is real stupid on your part, then so be it."

Then let the games begin! chimed in yet another Negroid soldier, speaking from afar and smilingly edging the altercation on. Sit back and relax, folks, and welcome to the original…Friday Night Fights!

The youngster named Reed was ambling forward and slowly closing the distance between himself and his would-be opponent when an adjacent soldier, an individual with a Spanish accent, opted to speak.

This thing here is crazy, it makes no good sense at all, Andrew Reed, he pleadingly inserted. What has the new man done to offend you so? I saw nothing, absolutely nothing.

Jest shut the fuck up, Cruz, responded Reed as he continued his advancement while keeping a steady eye on Private Holland. When I want your fuckin’ advice, I’ll pull your damn chain. Besides, this honky son of a bitch jest got through callin’ my ass stupid, and you don’t think I’m gonna take that shit lyin’ down, do you? Plus, look at the dude. He’s damn near aching for a piece of me.

Reed was referring to the boxing stance that Holland had assumed when he issued his most recent remark. Therefore, when he came within striking distance of Holland, he too made fists and became on guard for the upcoming fracas. And momentarily, as the surrounding soldiers sought out ringside positions, and the two young adversaries began to precariously dance around, both of them behaving like they were skillful and accomplished prizefighters; the battle was about to get underway.

Suddenly, a very boisterous and quite pertinent query pierced the air—a question that not only caused a spontaneous lull in the proceedings at hand and brought about a cry of protest from many of the spectators but one that instilled certain uneasiness in the young man called Reed. In fact, as the originator of the question came nearer to his position, Reed both dropped his guards and seemingly lost total interest in the would-be fight.

What the hell is going on in here? was the show-stopping query posed by an incoming Negroid corporal, a soldier whom Holland immediately recognized as the individual who had recently interacted with Colonel Cantrell. Well, Andy, is there some…sensible explanation behind this? Did he call you out of your name, kick you in the groin, or what? Jesus Christ, Andrew, the boy just got here!

A grimacing Thomas Holland spoke amidst the grumbling protest of his new associates.

I didn’t do one, single, solitary thing to him! he told the corporal. I was assigned to bunk number 4, that space—right over there—and he doesn’t want me there! But I’m not afraid of him, and I’ll fight him if I have to, but it don’t make no sense! What’s wrong with him anyway?

Why doncha let ’em duke it out, Lattimore? suggested a bystanding soldier who, incidentally, was the same man who had previously labeled the skirmish the Friday Night Fights. Hell, who knows, Lattimore, if luck’s on our side, maybe the new cat will give Reed the long-overdue ass-kicking he’s been askin’ for, teach him a lesson? Then maybe he’ll stop fucking with people so goddamn much.

As a series of remarks spewed forth from the surrounding assemblage, many of those comments in staunch support of the foregoing declaration—Andrew Reed stared begrudgingly at the author of the premise and proceeded to issue that man a challenge.

Well, Reynolds, old chum, he spoke, "if you wanna make that the fuckin’ order of the day, then why doncha take it upon yourself to do the honors? Why don’t yo’ ass gimme what I’m askin’ for, teach me a lesson, huh?"

’Cause I intend to put in my two years and get the hell out of this man’s army unscathed, countered the soldier called Reynolds. "I’m leavin’ out the front door with an honorable discharge and not out the back door with a dishonorable one—like you, Reed, ’cause eventually, they’re gonna court-martial your black ass and boot you out of here…and that day is rapidly approaching, old chum. Mark my fuckin’ words."

Although it was evident that Reed wanted to argue with Reynolds further, the self-appointed mediator had grown completely weary of the ongoing confusion.

Why don’t you go on about the business of taking your shower, Andy? Tyrone Lattimore suggested with certain firmness. And in the meantime, I’ll get Private Holland squared away in his assigned area. And if it makes you more receptive to the idea, Andrew, it was Colonel Cantrell himself who wanted Holland situated in bunk 4. That’s because he’ll be OJT at the registrar…under yours truly. Go on, Andy, please?

Although Andrew Reed was momentarily hesitant in bowing to Corporal Lattimore’s wishes, giving most of the bystanding soldiers the impression that he was mulling over the idea, he was actually undergoing a sudden change of attitude. Not only was he totally disenchanted with the act of fighting or additional bickering, he appeared exceedingly serene when he looked at the corporal and said, Okay, Pappy, as always, your wish is my command. I’ll pack it in, take my tired butt on to the showers, and try and cool off. Is that acceptable to you, man?

"Best darn news I’ve heard today, replied the corporal, nodding in approval. Thanks, Andy, and maybe later—when you really take time out and think about it—you’ll do the right thing. Give it some thought, okay?"

As many of the onlookers stood frozen in silence, altogether amazed in wake of what they had just seen, Andrew Reed—an individual whom they heretofore perceived as hostile and mean-spirited—did something that surprised them even further. With an expression of sincerity and suppressed shamefulness, he stepped forward and extended his hand toward the newcomer.

I’m very sorry, Private Holland, he stated softly, noticing that the new man was not anxious to grasp his hand, and if you refuse to shake my hand, I’ll understand. I came in here this evening, pissed off at that damn captain. I had no right to take it out on you, none whatsoever. I beg your pardon.

Well, I done seen about everything, joked a nearby Negroid soldier, but I’ve never seen an elephant fly. You better go ’head, new breed, and swap skin with him while you got a chance—’cause he’ll probably stab you in yo’ back tomorrow.

While the majority of the spectators responded with light laughter and Thomas Holland himself emitted a grin of his very own, the soldier known as Hayes tossed in yet another jovial remark. He uttered it as the newcomer overcame his reluctance and cordially accepted Reed’s apology.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Lattimore, Hayes smilingly stated, someday you’re gonna find yourself behind a pulpit, preachin’ yo’ as off. Now, you might very well be a jackleg…but I feel it in my bones that you’ll someday preach.

Even as the corporal watched Reed as he withdrew, making a beeline to the outlying latrine, he alternately chuckled and took the teasing in stride.

You know, Hayes, you may be right, he marveled. There is an outside chance that I’ll preach one day. Not only am I particularly fond of fried chicken and Cadillacs, I have an uncle who was called to preach. He was standing in the unemployment line at the time. Then as his fellow soldiers resorted to laughter again, the corporal turned his attention to Holland, adding, "Look, Tommy—that is, if it’s okay to call you Tommy—in spite of the foul crap you’ve been subjected to so far, let me say that I’m sorry it happened and tell you that I, for one, am delighted to make your acquaintance."

As Thomas Holland proceeded to briskly shake the corporal’s hand, and one by one, many of the bystanding soldiers began to follow suit, Tyrone Lattimore took it upon himself to make the newcomer feel even more welcome. Behaving as if it was his exclusive responsibility, the corporal knelt and retrieved Holland’s bedding supplies and then, after grasping the youth’s duffle bag, officially moved the newcomer into his assigned area. And in addition to that, Lattimore also took the initiative to unfold the rolled-up mattress, making it ready for immediate use.

Actually, Thomas Holland did look like a prime candidate for a long and restful sleep. Whether it could be attributed to the rather prolonged air journey he’d underwent earlier (which included a couple of layovers) or the exasperating flavor of the past hour or the combined hassle of both happenings, he looked beleaguered and physically drained. Of course, the latter was Tyrone Lattimore’s personal impression, and the corporal was about to suggest that the incoming soldier take time and relax and cool out when Holland spoke up, seeking an answer to a concern of his very own.

The newcomer strolled over and took time to plop down on his assigned bunk when he asked, Is it true, Lattimore…what you said a while ago? Am I really gonna be taking training under you, at this, here, place called th’…th’…what did you say it was?

The registrar, the corporal offered. It’s a place where you deal with medical records and the likes, veteran benefits and such.

Are you sure? Holland grimaced. "I’m talking about me. Are you sure I’m gonna be assigned under you?"

Since it came from the colonel’s mouth, I’m reasonably sure, Lattimore said suspiciously. Look, Holland, if you have some drawback or qualms about working with or under a Negro, then please, make your case, and there may be a chance of your being assigned elsewhere.

The private seemed alarmed and clearly taken aback.

What the devil brought that on? he whisperingly quizzed, trying to confine the conversation between himself and the corporal. "I’m naturally curious, that’s all. Wouldn’t you be curious if you were in my shoes? It’s just that I thought I was finished with training of any sort after I graduated from basic administration school, and now this. I didn’t mean anything funny by it, Lattimore—honest, I didn’t, and especially not anything racial."

Now, Lattimore was miffed at himself.

This seems to be your day for apologies, Holland—I mean, Tommy, he soon stated, speaking softly himself. I’m sorry, man. I’m just getting paranoid in my old age, I guess. Of course, you’re curious—and you have all the right in the world to be just that. Forgive me…please…And I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Tyrone. I like to be informal, ya’ see, and I sure as hell don’t go around tripping on titles or rank and stuff. Okay, Tommy? Or do you prefer Thomas to Tommy?

Tommy will do just fine, replied the private, joining the corporal in a second handclasp. And really, Tyrone, I don’t have any objections about working with colored—I mean, Negro people. In fact, I’ll be looking forward to working with you.

Lattimore shook his head, grinning in stride.

Well, Tommy, he said, "let’s hope you’ll still be feeling that way when next Friday rolls around, after we’ve been rubbing elbows together for an entire week or so. Who knows? You might be ready to go AWOL by then."

Although the private was smiling too, there was a glint of seriousness in his voice when he responded, Not hardly, Tyrone, I already consider myself AWOL from home, and unless things become absolutely intolerable, I’m in this man’s army to stay.

For a fleeting moment, Tyrone Lattimore was tempted to address himself to the somber aspect of Holland’s reply. But on second thought, he said, It won’t be an ordeal of any sort, Tommy, and a far cry from the bull crap I’m expecting from our newly arrived company commander. He’s gonna be a major pain in the butt, and you can make book on that.

"You don’t have to worry about me disputing that viewpoint, spoke the private, ’cause I know firsthand that he’s a tailor-made son of a bitch. He jumped all over me jest ’cause I wasn’t wearin’ a nameplate, like that’s a capital offense or something!"

Well, don’t let him ruffle your feathers too much, Tommy, the corporal smilingly suggested. In the words of the immortal Scarlet O’Hara, just keep telling yourself that, ‘Tomorrow is another day,’ and then just keep on keepin’ on. At least, that philosophy has always worked for me.

Obviously, Thomas Holland was quite familiar with the heroine in Gone with the Wind himself because he grinningly countered with yet another Scarlet O’Hara line. That sounds like pretty solid advice, Tyrone, a philosophy I may someday buy into. Oh, well, ‘I’ll think of it all tomorrow, at Tara.’

Lattimore laughed along with Holland now, joyous that he was seemingly in the company of a well-read individual or, at least, someone who was a movie buff such as himself. You know, he said, borrowing a line from the film Casablanca, this just might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Tommy.

And I won’t dispute you on that viewpoint either, Tyrone, chimed in the private.

Chapter

Three

Saturday, the tenth day of August, was to be Thomas Holland’s first full day in his new habitat. In spite of the almost-baffling unpleasantries he had endured on the previous evening, he woke up early in the morning with a refreshed and positive attitude. Specifically, he had climbed out of his bunk around seven o’clock, took a shower, shaved, and then donned his khaki uniform; and while the majority of the men of T-114 clung tightly to their beds, he and the soldier named Orlando Cruz made their way to the mess hall at the Brooke General Hospital.

It was an ideal and illustrious morning, absolutely beautiful! The sun, escorted by a cloudless, pale blue sky, shone brightly down upon the abundant bluish green grass and gently chased the dew away as a soothing breeze complemented a sixty-eight-degree temperature. And as Private Holland professed—strolling along with his freshly acquired comrade—it possessed all the absurdity of his forthcoming punitive chores, to either spoil or mar it for him. He was just that enthralled by it.

Holland’s companion, on the other hand, was seemingly not so impressed by the splendor of the day but nevertheless, was just as joyous as the newcomer. Behaving as if he was an ambassador of goodwill, Cruz marveled in telling Holland about both his individual background and the general layout of Fort Sam Houston itself. Garbed in civvies and casting dark brown eyes that virtually sparkled, he spoke fondly of his native land, Panama—expounding on its unique beauty and calling it the Crossroads of the World—and then proceeded to talk about his present environment with equal enthusiasm. And by and by, despite the fact that he spoke with a slight accent, Cruz managed to skillfully paint a verbal picture of the Fort Sam Houston terrain, all to the smiling appreciation of his curious newfound associate.

Do you see that real large building, straight ahead of us? was an initial question posed by Orlando Cruz, pointing all the while at a structure that was about a third of a mile away. That is where we chow down, the Brooke General Hospital. It also happens to be one of the three major hospitals we have on this post. The second one is the Beach Pavilion, and the other is the Chambers Pavilion, which is the psychiatric institute. And they are both, he halted, gesturing toward an area behind them, "on the far side of that—how do you say—elongated building right there."

And what’s that? Holland asked his tour guide, keeping his eyes glued to the lengthy building itself. That place right there?

Instantly, Cruz displayed a devilish grin. "Oh, boy, Holland, that is the good old Wac detachment! And those ladies, they go absolutely crazy over my beautiful black wavy hair. They honestly crave my body, Holland, and who am I to deny them? I kid you not, my friend, they just love me! And I think—I don’t know, mind you—but I think they will love you too. Why not? You are a good-looking fellow, Holland! But don’t take me for one of those fruitcakes, ’cause I love the señoritas, not the señors."

Well, that’s nice to know, laughed Holland as he and his companion resumed their foot journey toward Brooke General, and I certainly hope that the señoritas will go ape over my brown locks too.

Cruz frowned. Go ape? he responded. Exactly what does that mean anyway, Holland?

You know, Cruz, like you just said, go crazy over me.

I’d be willing to bet you a dollar to a donut that they most certainly will, Holland, ’cause some of those ladies are very, very horny, replied Cruz, speaking in a matter-of-factly manner as he returned to the business of familiarizing his companion with his new surroundings. Over there is what is known as MTC, the medical training corps. I acquired my advance individual training there—you know, the AIT—and many, many of the soldiers in our unit went through there also. And don’t play it cheap, Holland, it was a pretty terrific school! I learned to be a top-notch, A-number 1 corpsman. I intend to be one fantastic doctor someday. But enough about my own self, oh, yes, we have four picture theaters on post—an enlisted man’s club, several snack bars, pizza and beer parlors, and of course, a big post exchange. And if you like the moving picture, Holland, and you would like to go this evening, I am free to go tonight. But tomorrow afternoon—oh, boy, before we have the GI party for Monday’s inspection, I have got a date with one beautiful girl!

"It’s a crying shame that you don’t have a date with two beautiful girls, Cruz, Holland stated, because I’d love to get laid myself. You see, my friend, the señoritas aren’t the only ones who get horny."

Orlando Cruz reached out to grasp his companion’s hand as both men cracked up in laughter.

It’s so refreshing to know that I do not have a virgin on my hands, Cruz teased. Tomas Holland, you are my kind of amigo and partner.

Although Thomas Holland and Orland Cruz were two young men with diverse origins and backgrounds, they rapidly became fast and congenial friends. And as any observer could tell on the morning of August 10, noticing the duo as they interacted and dined together at Brooke General’s mess hall, they genuinely relished each other’s company, and there was a budding friendship on the horizon. Actually, if the observer was not aware of the truth—which was, in reality, that the two soldiers had never laid eyes upon each other until last evening—he would have assumed that they were long-standing and intimate friends. From a short distance, the two men appeared to be just that chummy and comfortable with one another.

However, as Thomas Holland so ably put it as the breakfast segment neared an end that morning, There’s always something waiting ’round the corner to take the spice out of life, and in his case, although he personally wished he could pursue his newfound camaraderie further, there was a punitive workload that awaited him back in his company area. And besides, his companion, Orlando Cruz, had a previous commitment himself.

Therefore, in the immediate aftermath of his one-on-one interaction with PFC Cruz, Holland returned to his assigned barracks, proceeded to trade off his khaki uniform for his work fatigues, and then went about the business of fulfilling his punitive obligations. With a pronounced frown on his face, denoting that he hated the injustice of the entire episode, he bade adieu to Orlando Cruz and headed for the adjacent orderly room.

But although Holland clearly singled out Cruz, specifically telling his newfound comrade good-bye when he left T-114, that did not mean that the two young men were alone in the billets at the time. On the contrary, despite the fact that the majority of their fellow soldiers were still engaging in the dining process at Brooke General, there was a select group of men who chose to sleep in late rather than indulge in eating breakfast. Incidentally, one of those men was Cpl. Tyrone Lattimore—an individual who not only bypassed certain breakfast periods but on occasion, was subject to ignore weekend lunch hours as well. In fact, during his ongoing stint with the Fifty-Third General Hospital, Lattimore had earned the reputation of being a perennial late riser, especially during those weekends that immediately followed lengthy and laborious field exercises.

Of course, the present weekend was postmortem to the company’s most recent trek out to Camp Bullis (which was the traditional site of field maneuvers), and therefore, the corporal was quite susceptible to extending his sleeping time well into the noon hour. However, as a result of the overhead voice and the physical nudging of one of his soldier peers, Lattimore was obliged to abandon his slumber and to alternately loan his ear to his disturber.

Aw, come on, Hayes, man! the corporal protested, squinching his eyes at the man who stood over him. What is it? Is the barracks on fire or something? Did somebody die? You know darn well that I sleep late on weekends! It’s a habit, and one that I enjoy the hell out of! What’s with you, man?

Although Lattimore had managed to summon a smile, even in the middle of his marked irritation, there was no reciprocal grin on the face of the lean soldier he knew as Hayes. In fact, Hayes seemed perturbed when he explained, "I jest wanted you to know that your boy is up to his old sleazy tricks again, jest wanted you to know that the nigga ain’t nowhere around whilst that new kid is over in the orderly room, slavin’ his butt off. I thought you’d like to know ’bout your so-called friend, that’s all."

Upon rising to a sitting position, the corporal’s smile faded into a grimace. Well, could it be that Andy’s still at chow? he quizzed. What time is it anyway? And, Hayes…why is Holland pulling Saturday work duty in the first place? What’s he being punished for? Hell, the guy has only been here a hot minute!

"Words out that he managed to get on the wrong side of our new company commander. Of course, that goes to suggest that the son of a gun has a right side, which I doubt very seriously. And as to your other question, you boy’s over at the dayroom, waiting his turn on the pool table. And the nigga’s got all the intentions in the world to let the new boy work by his lonesome. That’s low-down, dirty shame, Lattimore, and you know it."

With a face of sadness, the corporal immediately resolved himself to the task of getting dressed. In fact, he was retrieving his nearby fatigue jacket when he conceded. "Well, I can’t rightfully dispute you on that, wish I could. It is a damn shame…and I’m gonna tell Andy about himself, tell him how wrong