Face of the Enemy

By Ron Scott

Two men from opposite backgrounds find themselves victims of circumstancethe Vietnam War. Brett Edwardsmarried, a college graduate, and aretail executive living in suburban New York. James Curtissingle, a high school dropout, and a youthful offender hardened by the mean streets of Newark, New Jersey. Both men receive a letter that will change their lives. James had been given a choice: join the army or serve hard time in prison. Brett had become accustomed to years of draft deferments; unexpectedly, he receives the letter. The men forge a friendship. James credits fate with his new friendship and attaches fearful premonitions from his past to preserving that friendship. When they enter the Vietnam War zone, there is only one prioritysurvival. The right to go home is earned. To earn that right, Brett and James struggle against the threat of losing their souls, the disease of Vietnam. Face of the Enemy is inconceivable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450033855

Ron Scott

Ron Scott is an author who wears two hats: novelist and poet. He is a member of the Long Island Authors’ Group and Long Island Writers’ Guild in addition to Executive Vice President of the Nassau County Poet Laureate Society. Ron’s work has appeared in various publications throughout the region, First prize Poetyr Magazine 2007, The North Sea Poetry Scene 2007,2008 and 2009, Balance Moving Forward 2009, and in Newsday. In 2010, Ron debuted as a novelist with the publication of Face of the Enemy; a Vietnam novel based on actual events. Ron invites you to join him in Twelve Fifteen, a continued journey of memorable characters.

Book preview

Face Of The Enemy

Ron Scott

Copyright © 2010 by Ron Scott.

Library of Congress Control Number:        2010901190

ISBN:                Hardcover                        978-1-4500-3384-8

                          Softcover                          978-1-4500-3383-1

                          Ebook                              978-1-4500-3385-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

PART ONE

CHANGING THE RULES

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PART TWO

IN COUNTRY

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

PART THREE

LONG WAY HOME

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In memory of Morris Whittle

PART ONE

CHANGING THE RULES

Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly,

while bad people will find a way around the laws.

—Plato

CHAPTER ONE

Looking out the window at the revving engines, I couldn’t help but think this is a bad dream. We assembled at a hangar on the outskirts of John F. Kennedy International Airport and boarded a four-engine prop that had seen better days. Did the army really expect this antique of the skies to reach South Carolina with its human cargo? A cargo of color: blacks and Hispanics with several men previously acquainted from the Brooklyn neighborhood. There were a few whites from Canarsie and Bensonhurst, but Bed-Stuy was the undisputed winner of ticket sales on this flight.

The closeness of the cabin made its announcement as our surroundings took on the aroma of a men’s locker room. Despite the cold of a January evening, I felt the dampness of perspiration under my civilian attire. On takeoff, all eyes strained to see the remnants of home fade against the encroaching darkness. Not a word spoken, only the disturbing roar of engines. All faces affirmed the presence of an additional passenger—the Grim Reaper.

This was an excursion choreographed by the local draft board, on orders from our commander in chief, Lyndon B. Johnson. The mission: the immediate buildup of ground forces in Vietnam. Means used: a clean sweep of inner-city Americans, to include yours truly, Brett Edwards. At the moment I am suffering a recurrent illness. I am involuntarily replaying the events leading up to this dilemma.

A letter arrived on December 29, 1966. Brandy and I had just returned from an out-of-state family visit, exchanging Christmas gifts. While sorting the mail, my wife said, Here we go again, Brett.

The government insignia on the envelope served as warning.

Another physical notice! Didn’t I just do this a month ago?

In reality, this has become a recurring episode for the previous two years of my life. Subsequent to my college deferral, I’ve spent more time fighting my draft board than any Southeast Asian. After college, my war with the draft board became personal, or should I say physical. Thanks to a black man’s disease known as hypertension, my blood pressure consistently topped the charts. Many of my colleagues, white and black, who tested normal, were long gone to the Peace Corps, the classroom, or Canada. I didn’t entertain such thoughts. I felt secure every time they put that hose on my arm. But this time, staring at the envelope, I got a bad feeling. Then the news:

From the Selective Service System . . . Order to Report for Induction . . . Greetings . . . You are hereby instructed to report to Armed Forces Examination and Entrance Station, Bldg No. 116—Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn NY . . . on January 17, 1967, at 7:30 am. You will be subject to a physical examination, at which time you will be notified of availability for induction. Further assignment and embarkation will be made after induction.

The message struck home when the one subway token taped to the letter became prominent. What happened to my disability? How can they assume that I will pass the physical? I’m a married man. Doesn’t that mean anything?

On the morning of January 17, we began our day in the predawn darkness of what promised to be a cold winter’s day. That token would not be used today. I watched the sunrise in the rearview mirror of my newly purchased car, while negotiating the constant traffic of the Belt Parkway, the artery that runs the southern perimeter of Brooklyn and borders the Atlantic Ocean. Despite the anxieties of what lie ahead, I could not help but notice the energetic assortment of joggers and bikers performing their morning constitutions along the pedestrian paths of the parkway. Absorbing the scene under a rising winter’s sun in Brooklyn rendered the thought of war in Vietnam as totally incongruous. The rules of the game had been dramatically changed.

Immediately upon my arrival, I was ushered into a room for my physical, which consisted of one and only one test—the hose. My designated physician had the appearance and manners of a disenchanted mechanic and obviously wished he were somewhere else. His body language, coupled with a hidden name tag conveniently covered by a white medical jacket, heightened my suspicion I was about to be kidnapped.

As the hose tightened around my arm, I knew the verdict before the hiss of the escaping air. The so-called doctor expended a superficial glance at the gauge. Well, Mr. Edwards, you passed. You can go to Room 102 now.

I passed?! That’s it? What about the rest of my vitals?

Turning his back toward me, he said, That won’t be necessary. Next man please.

The anger within began to rise, along with my blood pressure. I had worked long and hard to contain both of these conditions—souvenirs of growing up on streets that could become a war zone in a heartbeat, not to mention a love of pork chops. The best I could muster was a sarcastic release, Are there any lawyers in this building?

The doctor snapped, You’ll probably find one in Room 102.

Room 102, a small auditorium with folding chairs, contained a podium flanked by two large American flags. A few good men were already seated. New arrivals entered in five-minute sequences, conversation nonexistent.

Every man appeared to be in a state of suspended animation as he awaited the arrival of Hermes, the mythical guide of souls to Hades. I thought, This is how my forefathers felt in the hulls of ships that would take them from the shores of Africa. But I was not shackled by the hands and legs. I could bolt for the door and then on to Canada. How long would it take before my absence would be noticed? I could put hours between me and the kidnappers before they realized the inventory short.

I was on the verge of making the fantasy reality when Hermes entered the room. A sergeant in his forties, with several stripes on his sleeves, approached the podium with a lively step and an officer in tow. Hermes was a man of few words. He called the room to attention, told the men they were about to be inducted into the army, mentioned options for the marines and air force, and proceeded with the oath. What happened to the navy?

Hermes announced later, This afternoon you will be given orders for embarkation for further processing. Report back to this room at 1400 hours, that’s two pm for you recruits. Lunch is being served at Building 112, across the street.

I looked at my watch—11:00 am. At that moment, nothing exceeded my resentment of the country of my birth. Yet, I knew I was about to go to a war for that country. Oh my god—Brandy!

My run toward the parking lot deteriorated into a slow walk. I was now the carrier of very bad news to be delivered to the best friend in my life. As I approached the car, Brandy said, You’re not coming home, are you? I could see the bad news coming. I refuse to cry. I will not give them my tears. Please, don’t let me cry.

In addition to her skills as a promising teacher, Brandy had the ability of thoroughly scanning my thoughts and emotions—at this time, something for which I was very grateful. I was spared the unpleasant task of describing many of the morning’s details, except the physical experience, my compulsion for black humor.

The next two hours became our allotted time to get our lives in order. A dental appointment had to be cancelled. The boss at my job had to be notified that his manager of men’s clothing would be unavailable for two years. As per Brandy, an appointment with our congressman had to be made.

After the to do list was exhausted, we made attempts at mutual comfort. Our marriage was less than two years old, too soon for any complaints from lifetime partners. Brandy had drawn her line in the sand long before this day. The war was a politically charged phenomenon, poorly conceived and illegally executed by powerful special interest. I, on the other hand, remained true to form. I had not drawn a definitive opinion. I was just glad not to be there.

Being married to an opinionated and assertive woman exacts its price. A trade off I gladly accepted in the form of five feet seven inches of sexual chocolate that truly supported me.

Finally, I summoned the strength. I think it’s time. You better go now. I’ll call you as soon as I can.

I know, she said as she reached across the seat to embrace me. The kiss, meant to be remembered, lingered long and moist. I had to force myself from the car.

As she started the engine, Brandy called to me, Brett, come back. I came alongside the car and kissed her again. A tear ran down her cheek. She lied about crying. I needed her to leave. The anguish we shared became an unbearable pain.

As Brandy faded into the distance, a glaring sun disappeared behind clouds that threatened snow. This was the first of many bad days to come.

CHAPTER TWO

We were flying for two hours, but it seemed longer. Thanks to my window seat, I had clear view of the canopy of clouds below us. A domineering moon, with its beacon of light, took command of this night, turning it into day.

The men started to converse more, probably the result of their discomfort with the cramped quarters. As conversation permeated throughout the plane, I came to recognize the vast assortment of my fellow passengers. Most of the men shared my fate of losing the race with their draft board, sorry to say. Some men actually volunteered for the draft, albeit under dubious circumstances. One recruit calmly testified he had a choice of doing three to five for parole violation or joining the army. Now, he had second thoughts. I was tempted to ask him the reason for his incarceration, but wisely reconsidered.

The rising decibel level contributed to a strange feeling of alienation. I’ve been estranged from the neighborhood for longer than I realized. My family relocated from Brooklyn to Queens while I was away at college. They were so anxious to move; they forgot to tell me about the event. When I attempted to use my key at my former address during Christmas recess—well, you can imagine. Fortunately, the new residents had a sense of humor and my parents’ new phone number. Unfortunately, I didn’t change my draft board registration, which proves my parents were way ahead of me.

In due course, a white stowaway selects me for a series of Q&A. I seem to have this ability to attract flies. It must be my personality. Ordinarily, I’m very receptive to this type of discourse, but tonight, I prefer to be left alone with my dilemma.

Do you think we’re all going to Vietnam?

Hello, I’m Brett. You know, I’ve been asking myself the same question. And I find it hard to believe that every man on this plane will visit that place. But who knows? What’s your name?

The young man was considerably younger than my twenty-four years, which led me to believe he really had a problem. Plus, he used the V word—a word the black brothers conspicuously omitted during this flight. An authentic leather jacket had room to spare on his diminutive frame, a perfect match with his jet-black hair.

Undaunted by my intended abruptness, he continued, Oh, I’m Tony. Hey, just last night, I saw on TV where the prez ordered this buildup of troops for some big ass-kicking in Vietnam. They say it could be pretty tough in the coming months. What pisses me off is why they telling the enemy everything we gonna do before we do it. That’d never happen on the block.

There are some redeeming qualities about this Tony. A response is expected.

Well, Tony, life can be a bitch. Just think, yesterday you were a civilian watching the war on TV, and in less than twenty-four hours, here you are, a soldier flying to the same war. Soon, you’ll be on TV.

The look on Tony’s face verified he didn’t have a clue. But, aren’t we flying to South Carolina?

Right, Tony. May God help us!

Herein lies a notable difference between black and white folk. Blacks are well acquainted with negative environments and react with a positive attitude in an effort to placate a bad situation, a proven tool when confronted with poverty, illness, and death. Whites embrace bad news with gusto, absorbing it with an excitement that can induce a heart attack, something the media exploits daily. The brothers entered into an unspoken agreement to avoid the V word because it is the inevitable destination.

Holy shit! What was that? A novice air traveler as the plane descended into bumpy cloud cover. With perfect timing, the pilot announced on the intercom, Welcome to Columbia, South Carolina. We will be landing in fifteen minutes. Fasten your seat belts.

For the next twenty-four hours, I will be treated to a thorough fashion makeover, courtesy of United States Army, Fort Jackson. The next time I look into a mirror, I will see a stranger, outfitted in not-so-stylish fatigues, wearing a cap that conceals a haircut that would warrant a barber’s death in the neighborhood. Deep down, I know what they are doing. Beyond the public posture of hygiene, this is stage one of dehumanization, the beginning of the end of individual thought for Brett Edwards. Being aware of the purpose is not enough. I’m up against a well-oiled machine. Dad had prepared me for this by way of his World War II recollections. But he could not prepare me for the war I was about to face. My tomorrows will not be easy. In terms of today, I still have a phone call to make to Brandy.

The men of my flight were kept intact as the military art of processing unfolded. However, new faces randomly joined the group, adding to a collective anxiety of the master plan. What’s next? This was a well-kept secret maintained by every rank we tried to bribe. That is, until the arrival of James Curtis.

James Curtis was a black recruit, ebony in color, who came in at about six four and two hundred pounds. James was equipped with a boxer’s build and a baritone voice that resonated throughout our barracks with the command of a Broadway actor. Disregarding the prominent sign of a recruit’s haircut, his persona was of a man who has completed basic training, rather than one who was about to begin it. James knew how to impress. My impression—James was a full load of bullshit.

James Curtis did possess information we lacked. This must be the barracks that’s going to Fort Gordon tomorrow, he announced in grand style. Fort Gordon is across the border in Augusta . . . about a two-hour bus ride. They say, ‘Gordon is the last stop before Vietnam.’

Well, now you’ve gone and done it. The expected barrage of how do you know that immediately followed on cue. James Curtis, obviously prepared to hold court, dropped the names of several sergeants with whom he established a rapport. Yours truly treated much of this unsolicited information as suspect until a sudden change of tone.

When asked the Vietnam question for what would be the last time, James Curtis responded, "Do any of you niggers think you’re not going to Vietnam?" He made this statement while maintaining a fixed grin with piercing eyes that belied another personality. Considering the mixed company in the room, I thought it rude to exclude other contributing races to this party, until I realized that James Curtis only saw in black and white—the latter being an elective.

With the news conference suddenly terminated, I found myself looking at the outstretched hand of Mr. Curtis. Hello, I’m James. Is this lower bunk empty? Not waiting for a reply, he tossed his gear onto the bed and proceeded to settle in.

I’m Brett Edwards from Brooklyn, New York . . . at least that’s what my draft board thinks.

Brooklyn! Well, how about that. We’re neighbors. I’m from Newark.

A command of the English language says much about one’s education. I deciphered a talent in him at messaging the language to fit his audience. No stranger to the parlance of the street, he was also equipped to converse in church or school. In short order, James Curtis extracted most of my autobiography while sharing very little in return. He did offer the following: "Bro, you know we gotta look out for each other . . . Over there, they call ’em Vietcong. Right here, I see a bunch of crackers."

Here come the flies.

Our conversation also yielded a revelation: the majority of our relatives lived in close proximity to each other. This led James to make the speculation: You know . . . I might have dated one of your cousins. She looked a lot like you.

Right. Don’t even go there.

Could be worse . . . Could be maybe we’re related. I exhaled at his hearty laugh.

Strangely enough, at 1900 hours, our barracks was greeted by a staff sergeant who informed us that at 0800 the next day, we would embark by bus to Fort Gordon, Georgia, for basic training. He also informed us that Fort Gordon was a major jungle training base. Fill in the blanks.

After the briefing, James gave me the high sign as he exited the barracks. Traversing a maze of paths between buildings, he stopped and pointed to a partition of telephones. Okay, bro . . . there’s your chance to make that phone call to the wife and tell her this time tomorrow you’ll be in Georgia.

My appreciation for his effort was exceeded by a sense of caution. His friendship was neither solicited nor expected. From where I come from, that was cause for suspicion.

#

Hello, lover girl. This is your lover man.

Who?

Now, don’t be like that. You know who this is.

You better try again at a later time. My husband just got drafted. I’m not over him yet.

My attempt at humor was coming back tenfold. Though I should have expected it, I had difficulty appreciating the comedy. Look, honey, you’ve gotta give me credit. It’s only been forty-eight hours since we saw each other, and here we are, listening to each other’s voice. I don’t know how long—

Oh stop it, Brett! You don’t have to say a word. Don’t you know that? Just say something—

I love you.

See how easy that was?

CHAPTER THREE

Most citizens of color were denied the beauty and prosperity of Georgia, with the possible exception of the blacks in Atlanta, thanks to a thriving black insurance industry.

Ray Charles, James Brown, Gladys Knight and the Pips, to mention a few, all came from Georgia. Black folk, fortunate to possess a talent in the arts, and unfortunate to be at the bottom of the economic scale, were getting on the midnight train from Georgia.

Augusta serves as the nearest town to Fort Gordon. Augusta also houses the famous golf courses that feature the Masters Tournament—a pinnacle of the white man’s golf game. In 1967, a black could not avail himself of those facilities, unless he was kitchen or caddy staff. Jim Crow remained as viable in the clubs and restaurants, which contributed, ironically, to a new evolution of separate but equal. Black and white establishments were frequented by their respective races with minimum crossover.

My introduction to the beauty of Georgia was firsthand. Under the auspices of memorable drill instructors, I grew to appreciate the state’s red clay, hills, valleys, and swamps, with its inherent residents. I had decided early upon my arrival at Fort Gordon to absorb all the knowledge possible. This motivation was enhanced by a drill sergeant who constantly reminded me that he was now my new father, and my earned level of respect was on par with dog shit.

Many of the recruits who accompanied me from Brooklyn were now dispersed throughout various basic training companies. James Curtis and I were assigned to the same company, as was Tony. Yes, as it turns out, Tony had a last name—Castellano. I came about this discovery the result of a military custom of name tags. Drill sergeants routinely used surnames in addressing trainees, usually in a demeaning manner. The population was free to improvise the ultimate handle a soldier would wear. These titles were usually based on a physical attribute or character idiosyncrasy. That explains Dancer, Pecker, Balls, Hamburger, Nightlife, and one Native American tribute—Sleeps with Sheep.

James Curtis decided my last name would be Eddie. I couldn’t do much with the name Curtis, so the common acronym Jim would have to do. As for Castellano, no creative attempts were made, not for lack of material. Tony looked the image of a young Sinatra. Guido and Meatball references were uttered occasionally, but always behind his back. Despite his slight build and childlike features, Tony sent a reckless streetwise message to his audience. He lacked a sense of fear that led many to question his mental state. Unknown to most, he maintained an unfaltering sense of loyalty to a selected few, two of which were James and me.

Hey, Castellano, exclaimed James Curtis. Are you related?

Related to . . . ?

You know . . . the big guy.

Hell, Curtis . . . Everyone in my family is related.

With that, James turned to me and said, Damn, Eddie, this guy really is fucked up.

What had become increasingly obvious to me was the lack of control over given names and the assigned recruits who the army now designated as my buddies. The slogan went as follows:

You must treat every soldier as your buddy. As you go, so goes your buddy.

As your buddy lives, so will you live. As your buddy goes down, so will you go down.

Growing up in Brooklyn, I did not take lightly the use of the word buddy. For the most part, I chose my friends, providing it was mutually agreeable. A product of a black middle-class family, I reaped the rewards of a parochial education early in life. This did not come without great sacrifice on the part of my parents. However, I did receive more than an appreciation of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Under the tutelage of the Franciscan brothers, I was given lessons on discipline, character, and the very real meaning of buddy, which brings me to a sixth-grade memory.

Brother Owen insisted all homework be signed by a parent. The rules were clear. A delinquent student could expect a well-placed whack of the ruler where the sun doesn’t shine. The day came when a classmate who occupied a seat next to me was such a delinquent. His name was Anthony Przykavitz. In panic, Anthony passed his homework to me and pleaded I forge his father’s name—Joseph Przykavitz.

My first reaction was, "No way. I can’t imagine spelling that name. I can’t even pronounce it."

Anthony implored me to rescue him from a sure death. He began spelling his surname: "P-R-Z-Y-K— . . . I started writing. As the isles came forward, each student submitted his work for inspection. The class was batting 100 percent. I awaited Anthony’s row. Immediately upon presentation, Brother Owen challenged him: Who signed this homework?"

My father.

Assume the position. Who signed this homework?

My father!

WHACK!

Who signed this homework?

My father!!

WHACK!!

Who signed this homework?

My father!!!

And on it went. Anthony, bless his heart, had surpassed twelve whacks. With each contact, I shuddered with his pain and imagined my inevitable fate. With perspiration falling from his brow, Brother Owen continued, Who signed this homework?

It came at whack fifteen.

Edwards!

Edwards?! repeated Brother Owens in surprise. I surmised he was betting on a different suspect. Needless to say, I assumed the position. Brother Owen verified the instructor that he was.

"Before I begin, Mr. Edwards, let me inform you . . . there’s an e in Joseph."

Lessons learned: character builds good buddies, and even the best of buddies has his breaking point.

#

James Curtis had a different take on the meaning of buddy. James made a slight alteration to the slogan, substituting the word brother for buddy. He then launched an affront on the status quo by explicitly including blacks and excluding whites in the brotherhood. Many of the blacks in the company rallied to James’ pronouncements; and, in doing so, ignited a reactionary response on behalf of the cadre of drill instructors.

Accordingly, James Curtis became a source of instigating bad morale via his dissemination of racial proclamations, behavior the army would not tolerate. A growing discontent of public opinion toward the Vietnam War, coupled with black/white racial divides enhanced by activists who marched to different drums, contributed to a heightened sensitivity within the service. Of all the branches of the military, the army was the most dependent on the draft for conscription and the least prepared for dissonance.

The company commander hastily dispatched Sergeant Buford Jones, the one black drill instructor in the company, to demonstrate the correct posture for Private Curtis. At five feet eleven inches, Sergeant Jones came in shorter than Curtis; but he more than compensated for the difference with a muscular barrel chest and arms that belonged to a weight lifter. His chocolate complexion was unable to hide a constant five o’clock shadow about the face.

The usual procedure was followed whereby the soldier in question, Private Curtis, was summoned to company headquarters. Sergeant Jones launched his attack on Private Curtis with an appeal to reason, stressing the negative impact made on his white buddies.

Private Curtis responded, "My black brother, they sent you to tell me that? Let me tell you something . . . This is their war, not mine. You chose this life, so maybe you think this is your war, too. I can’t help that. But I’ll be goddamn if I’m going to make it my war. The whites . . . they got their buddies. One of ’em is in the White House. The brothers need all the help they can get."

Sergeant Jones announced, "I’m here to help you, Private. You’ve got to learn the army way . . . that every soldier is your brother. When the time comes, and it will, you’ll realize we are all in this together."

When the time comes? Sarge, I’m not sure I’m going to see that time.

Private Curtis, do you have something to tell me? I hope you’re not planning to go AWOL on me.

AWOL is a white boy’s escape. They’d spot my black face at the bus station in a minute. No . . . I just might convince the army not to send me anywhere near Vietnam.

What does that mean, Private? Don’t go and ruin your life, soldier.

Sarge, I promise, you’ll be the first to know.

Private Curtis . . . you’re dismissed!

#

As is the case with most company headquarters—the level of security is zero. The content and tone of the meeting reached the barracks before James’ return.

Private Curtis was not going to fall in line. The die was cast.

To further exacerbate his position, James began a habit of utilizing field rest periods to interrogate drill instructors on the ethics of the Vietnam War. In the absence of any formulated policy, drill instructors lacked guidelines to address these challenges. When asked, Why are we there? the answers varied from an innocuous To protect America from communism, to a more specific The president ordered it.

James intentionally portrayed himself as a dissenter to every drill sergeant in the company. Overnight, he inspired a following of black brothers who supported his advocacy. This persistent affront to the comfort level of headquarters was taking on the appearance of a Black Panther rally with Private Curtis sitting in for Huey P. Newton.

Private Curtis had declared insurrection on authority. Everyone awaited a grand confrontation, but the anticipated event would be premature. James Curtis altered his course as adversary and made an unexpected deviation—thanks to the assistance of one Arnold Cohen.

Arnold Cohen, a processing mistake on the part of the United States Army, suffered from a condition of obesity, which necessitated a regular cardiac exam. Rather than issue a medical discharge and certify administrative shortcomings, the army placed Private Cohen in a special training company in an attempt at preparing him for regular training. This added four weeks to the nine-week basic training program that he was expected to endure. Arnold Cohen was a very nice human being of white Jewish descent. A different time and place, I probably would have invited him to dinner.

Through no fault of his, Arnold found himself recycled into Company C, Third Battalion, First Training Brigade—the current home of Brett Edwards and James Curtis. To complete the scenario, Private Cohen was assigned to our platoon. To make a long story short, Private Cohen became the man I saw when I glanced left from my bunk.

Eddie . . . Eddie, a sound that emanated from my lower bunk.

What is it, Jim?

We’ve got to talk.

I’ll meet you outside.

Realizing it was fifteen minutes to lights out, I moved fast, but not as fast as my lower bunk mate. Curtis exited the barracks before my feet hit the floor.

Something’s not right, announced James Curtis, making an effort at not drawing attention to our clandestine meeting.

Eddie, I know you see what I see. Our company has caught every shit detail out there since I had that head to head with Sergeant Jones. We haven’t seen a weekend pass since we’ve been here, while Companies A and B know Augusta inside out. I know the guys look at me as the cause of all their problems. Buford got me good. Now, they go and put that sorry-ass soldier in our platoon two weeks before the obstacle course and intercompany competition.

Jim, I’ve got to hand it to you . . . There’s nothing wrong with your eyesight. You didn’t think Buford and friends were going to roll over and play dead, did you?

Eddie, I think the cadres are willing to sacrifice the company’s standing if it means fucking me. I don’t want Mom getting a letter telling her about me in some shit-ass accident.

"Don’t get carried away, Jim. There’s no sergeant who’s gonna put the company down because of one man. A bruise or two by the hands of fellow recruits might please a few DIs, but the bets on your survival in Vietnam are worth more to them, not to mention the bets they’re putting on the company."

Anyway, watch my back. I don’t want some asshole getting sloppy on the firing range because he didn’t get a weekend pass.

I offered an observation. The way I see it . . . the real problem in front of us is getting Arnold Cohen through the obstacle course. Word has it . . . we are favored to win the intercompany. We own the best runners in the battalion.

Eddie, good to know they’re not all fools.

#

The next morning, all eyes were on Arnold Cohen as we started morning calisthenics. Private Cohen lived up to every negative expectation. He struggled through every exercise, but he struggled with conviction. Private Cohen showed a willingness to attack each physical challenge as surmountable. Unfortunately, most of those challenges were beyond his capability.

What the hell is that? cried one soldier from his physical comfort zone.

That’s the soldier that’s gonna help us win in two weeks, Mr. Wise Ass! bellowed the baritone voice, emerging from the rear of assembled bodies.

All heads pivoted in the direction of the tall dark silhouette advancing toward Private Cohen.

All Arnold has to do for the company is do the exercise, exclaimed James Curtis. He doesn’t have to break any record . . . That’s our job. I know we can help him do it. If anyone has a problem with that, you know where to find me.

I marked that day as another dimension in James’ character. It made me wonder how many more surprises were inside the man. It did not alleviate my suspicions of his motives. On the contrary, I was convinced his display of contradictory personalities was designed to confuse. At the very least, I was glad he was on my side. Sometimes you have to take what life gives you.

CHAPTER FOUR

The news of Company C’s Achilles’ heel accelerated throughout the battalion. As the hopes of our competition grew, I became more concerned with the enigma, James Curtis. In spite of our communications with each other, I knew nothing about the man.

Private Curtis’ ability to intimidate, though generally recognized, was not complete. The constituency of the company was made up of a variety of regional contributions, many of whom were from rural white America. A good old-fashioned white boy from the farm did not understand the definition of intimidation—not to mention the urban perceptions of black folk. Nevertheless, the presence of restraint was unmistakable.

The opportunities to exact punishment on James Curtis, for whatever reason, were plentiful. Eventually, I was made aware that my efforts at watching his back did not go unnoticed.

Watcha doing it for, Edwards? asked one Private Warner, a white recruit not far from home. You playing like a shadow to that Curtis. Don’t tell me you a’fraid for his safety.

Should I be?

Why should you be? It’s his ass, not yours.

"Maybe I’m looking out for my brother."

But that’s the problem, Edwards . . . Private Curtis don’t consider me his brother. Does that son of a bitch think he’s gonna fight next to me talkin’ that shit?

If you and your friends have any ideas, think again. You know the brothers have to stick together. Don’t forget, Castellano stands with us.

That generated a look of confusion on the part of Private Warner. Hey, you use whatever you can.

Unwittingly, the cadres of drill instructors were doing their part of providing extra security for Private Curtis. By ensuring his weekly assignment to kitchen patrol (KP), they removed him from all company activity for twenty-four hours.

A highly unpopular detail, KP was regularly used as a means of punishment. Not so for James Curtis. More than once, I noticed a suppressed smile as the duty sergeant called his name.

Overtly, James Curtis continued his mission of reconstructing Private Cohen. Each night, before lights-out, the two recruits could be seen on the exercise field—one man going through his repetitions, the other, trying.

During our daily sequence of calisthenics, I recognized slight improvement on the part of Cohen. However, the mile run was the impossible dream. And with one week left to competition, we were running out of time.

Arnold Cohen projected a pathetic image as a combat soldier; however, as a personable individual, it was difficult not to befriend him. He was at once modest and infused with a sense of self-esteem. Private Cohen was completely aware of his position in the company and unashamed. I found conversation with him unbearably frank and, at times, humorous.

I know what you’re thinking, he said, catching my stare. Relieving me of my embarrassment, he continued, "You’re thinking, What is that fat piece of lard doing here?"

No, Arnold. That wasn’t my question, I lied.

Sensing the futility of Project Cohen, I asked, Why are they doing this to you? The special training. The extra weeks. Don’t you ask yourself that at the end of the day?

With a look of dismay, Arnold Cohen replied, "You think it’s punishment, don’t you? You think the army is punishing me for being different. When I got drafted, I heard them all laughing. No . . . I’m not mad. You see . . . the army is giving me a second chance. I’m lucky to get special training, a guy like me. I met guys in special training who didn’t get this far. They’re back home already. I don’t wanna go home yet.

With guys like you and Curtis, I’m gonna make it. You just watch.

At five days to go, James Curtis raised the bar on the training sessions. Both he and Private Cohen started missing evening mess call, forfeiting the last meal of the day. The evening noise on the exercise field grew louder as additional recruits joined the campaign for Private Cohen. The Cohen fan club became official when this nocturnal group of supporters, returning to the barracks on the eve of competition, and soaking wet with perspiration, offered sincere encouragement to the portly recruit.

Jim, you know you just blew your image, I volunteered during a quiet moment. "You running for office? You have as many white boys rooting for you as against you. Even the brothers are confused—James Curtis helping a white boy."

"If they’re confused, Eddie, that’s fine. The brothers don’t get it. I got the brass in this place working overtime trying to figure me out. Whatever they want to accomplish, I want the opposite. They want Private Cohen out of the army, but they want it to look like it’s not their fault. I’m going to keep Arnold Cohen in the army. They want Private Curtis to go to Vietnam. I’ve already told them James Curtis is not going, but now I have to prove it."

So, what are you doing . . . using Cohen?

"Eddie, Private Cohen is a brother. A Jew down here and in this army is just as much a nigger as I am. And to tell you the truth, I sort of feel for the guy. By the way, I haven’t noticed you on the exercise field the last few nights."

You can thank me for that. I’ve been keeping your not-so-friendly following busy with threats as transparent as the bullshit you just handed me.

That’s why I like you, Eddie. You have a way with words. You say what’s on your mind, and you put up with my bullshit.

Finally, I got a confession out of the man—sort of.

Recognizing an opportunity, I asked, How do you plan to avoid Vietnam?

By making them believe I’m unstable.

That’s it . . . a Section 8?

If push comes to shove, I could accept that. But, Eddie, there’s lots of options this man’s army has at its disposal. I’m sure they could find a nice, safe place for a guy like me if they thought I was crazy in a sane sort of way. The joke is . . . the army’s gonna send the best of its physically and mentally fit to die in a fucking war. I want the army to consider me defective goods.

The army would never buy the physical. I see why you’re working on the mental.

If the bastards—wait a minute. What’d you just say?

Ain’t nothin but a thing—go on.

Anyway, if the bastards would just read my file, I would be halfway outta here by now.

Your file . . . ?

Eddie, I left some serious shit in Newark . . . an assault charge for openers. The son of a bitch came after me. I did the only thing I could . . . I protected myself and cut the motherfucker. At first, they came after my ass with all sorts of charges until they found out I cut him with his own knife. Then it became a matter of one nigger against another. It was my first offense and I plea-bargained my ass off. The deal was the charges would go away so long as I volunteered for the draft immediately. Man, they moved the papers so fast, I was wearing the uniform before I knew what happened.

Should I ask why the guy attacked you?

"A bootie thing . . . what else."

#

The day of competition began for Charlie Company on the obstacle course, leaving the mile run as the last event, fate saving the best for last.

The Cohen fan club strategically positioned talented recruits near Private Cohen in accordance with their strengths. The charitable contributions of these men resulted in lower scores against the clock, but I could sense a prevailing camaraderie among the men.

On one occasion, I noticed a drill instructor conveniently turn his attention in the direction of a nonevent as Private Cohen attempted to scale a wall with rope in hand. Imagine my disgust when the drill instructor renewed his attention as I approached the same wall.

Nevertheless, we were on a roll. By hook or crook, Private Cohen and company managed to survive the obstacle course. The mile run awaited us.

Exhaustion had already claimed the temple that once was my body. I had serious doubts regarding my ability to reach the finish line, much less, Private Cohen’s chances of doing the same.

From the start, the expected track celebrities took the lead. Upon my completion of the first lap, I made a mental note of three more to go. This accounting became vital when I sensed the star runners about to pass me, extending their lead to a full lap. As morale was packing its bags, and despair moving in, what appeared before me? Private Cohen.

Passing Arnold was a bittersweet experience. First, it restored the macho in my psyche, having the ability to transfer the despair bestowed on me. Then, I realized how superficial the contest had become. Private Cohen’s face was contorted in pain. His body bent at a cramped angle, he continued to move his legs forward. He was struggling for air.

Having passed the man, I felt compelled to look back. Arnold was about to go down. I turned back toward him as he fell forward onto the asphalt.

Gasping for air, Arnold Cohen wheezed, I can’t . . . I can’t . . . I can’t do it.

Private Cohen then proceeded to release his breakfast.

I found myself reaching for his arm and repeating, "Get up, motherfucker . . . you’re fucking going to do this. You can do this!"

Standing side by side, Arnold put his arm around my shoulder.

Okay, Cohen, put one foot in front of the other and keep it that way until I tell you to stop.

We continued along the track, two men as one, at a snail’s pace. With Arnold occupying my complete attention, two things I failed to notice: my physical agony and we were the only two runners left on the track.

The image we created was not to be photographed, thank God. However, it was an image that inspired the men of Company C to rise to a new level.

As Arnold and I approached the finish line, I could see a blur of men running toward us. My eyes were burning with sweat, and I knew Arnold could see nothing. The first voice I heard was that of James Curtis.

Eddie, you’re done.

I know . . . We made it.

"No Eddie, you’re done . . . Cohen has one more lap. We’ll take him from here."

The fan club commenced to assist Arnold Cohen through his last lap. The cadre of drill sergeants looked on in silence. I walked off the track and saw only red clay. After a brief sensation of accomplishment, exhaustion returned to claim me.

CHAPTER FIVE

Welcome to headquarters, Private Edwards, greeted Lieutenant Ryan. You were brought to my attention by Sergeants Williams, Buchanan, and Jones. They pointed out your commendable behavior during the intercompany competition. I see that you expended extra effort on behalf of another fellow soldier.

Who says the army lacks intrigue? I was still trying to fathom why I was summoned to this meeting as Lieutenant Ryan offered his hospitality. My first guess was some