The Stump: My Way Out of Chicago's South Side

By Terry Braddock

Three guys I didn’t recognize stood outside the door as I came down the steps of a Chicago apartment building. I had just finished up collecting newspaper fees for delivering the daily paper. One stepped inside, walked toward me, and said, “What’s up?” I looked at him and said, “What’s up with you?” As h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry L. Braddock
• Release date: Jul 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999151617

Terry Braddock

Command Sergeant Major Terry L. Braddock (US Army, retired) grew up on the South Side of Chicago during the turbulent and challenging civil rights years. Parents and grandparents instilled in him strong family values and gave him the strength, love, and will to persevere. Having but not knowing what a mentor was at an early age provided the foundation for the path he was to follow. He currently resides in San Antonio and is married to his best friend, wife, and soul mate, Kathleen.

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Chapter 1

ARMY – THE BEAR

(Basic Training)

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING lying on my goddamn ground? You got five seconds to get in the damn cattle car and three of them are gone. MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! Another drill sergeant roared, Don’t look at me! What the fuck are you looking at? Are you waiting for a goddamn invitation? MOVE! Get your ass in the cattle car!

I had volunteered for service in the delayed entry program on my mom’s birthday, April 1, 1973. Now months later I was assigned to Fort Polk for basic training. I flew into Shreveport, Louisiana, and eventually made my way to Fort Polk’s reception station, my Gateway to the Army. Many others had made their way here as well, and we spent a week taking care of administrative and human resource requirements: We took our aptitude tests and got our shots, haircuts, and dental and eye exams.

We received our duffel bags and the basic issue that got stuffed inside: T-shirts, socks, underwear, handkerchiefs . . . cotton green fatigues, Class A uniforms, and khakis . . . crew boots and a pair of low quarters (dress shoes for the Class As and khakis) . . . a saucer cap (bus driver hat), soft caps (baseball hats), and cunt caps (the long and narrow hat used for Class As and khakis).

Basic training – shots, chow, and road guard duty. (U.S. Army)

Inside the boots were sewn a white leather tag with our full name stenciled in black letters. Mine read BRADDOCK, TERRY LEE. Beneath my name was my serial number. Three belts were issued with the same identical white leather strip and information sewn on the inside. They came with two black buckles that were worn with our fatigues, and one brass buckle to wear for dress to go with our Class As and khakis.

Out of everything that was given to us, the most important item issued was our dog tags; it had one long chain with a smaller chain hooked onto that, with one dog tag for each chain. Our last name was stamped on the first line, and our first name and middle initial were stamped on the second line. Our serial number was on the third, and below that was our blood type. We wore them 24/7; you always had your dog tags on.

Cadres, the Army term for trainers, oversaw us in the reception station that first week. They conducted physical training (PT) every day and began to teach us basic marching skills. The change from a civilian to an Army trainee was a swift one and we would soon receive intensive training in the fundamentals of combat soldiering. Many of us applied those skills to the defense of our country, and for many of us, directly to save our own lives.

On the day we were transported to basic training, we were taken to a holding area that was nothing more than a giant parking lot. We waited, lounged around, talked, and shot the shit. We saw them in the distance: several cattle cars, each followed directly behind one another in perfect unison. They eventually stopped right in front of us, and at some point we had all shut up — we sat in total silence.

Everyone looked up and stared at those cattle cars, and in that dead silence someone said, What the fuck is going on?

Seconds ticked away and then the doors slammed open — again, all in unison. I remember the sight of those Smoky the Bear hats, the ones you always see in the movies, coming through the cattle car doors. The drill sergeants poured out, yelled different commands, each as colorful as the next: What the fuck are you doing! Don’t walk — run!

Basic training – the platoon and The Bear. (U.S. Army)

They grabbed recruits off the ground and threw them toward the cars. Everyone grabbed their duffle bag and hauled ass to get on any cattle car they could get to. Off we went, transported to the basic training area, where I was assigned to Company C, Second Battalion, Second Brigade, where I spent eight long and challenging weeks.

As we exited the cattle cars at the basic training area, standing in the middle of the quadrangle wearing his big Smoky the Bear hat was Sergeant First Class King, better known as The Bear. My whole world in terms of how I thought I was going to survive basic training was about to change. You see, The Bear didn’t speak, not in words; he only grunted. He was one of those African American hardcore Vietnam vets — multiple tours, a hard-ass soldier down to his core. A senior drill sergeant with a mean look on his face, his only pleasure in life was our pain.

What seemed strange was that his sergeants and even the corporals standing around him were doing all the talking. The Bear didn’t say a word. He only grunted. They verbally gave his commands. We were told, The Bear doesn’t talk, but he does grunt a lot.

I have to admit it sounded quite humorous; what wasn’t funny was that we were going to be in a world of shit if we didn’t understand his grunts. In the end if we were to become successful, we eventually had to learn The Bear’s grunts. Fortunately for us, a couple of sergeants in the company felt sorry for us lowlifes and explained what some of his grunts meant. For example, if The Bear grunted twice, that meant get down and do push-ups until you were told to get back up. The up command came from a sergeant standing close by. The sergeant got the nod from The Bear, then the sergeant barked, On your feet. Get your asses up!

Mornings were always the best. The four o’clock wake-up calls. The Bear came in, cut on all the lights, stood in the middle of the floor with a fifty-five gallon metal garbage can, and beat on it ferociously. It echoed a deafening, vibrating sound throughout our barracks. That was followed by The Bear’s loud, annoyed grunt, which meant, Get the fuck up.

He banged on that can for five minutes while our drill sergeants yelled, Why are you still in the goddamned racks? If your feet aren’t moving when you hit the floor your ass belongs to me. We bolted up and proceeded to the head to take care of our personal hygiene and get ready for PT.

Inspections were always a joy with The Bear and always enlightening. He stood in front of you, up close and personal, and looked you up and down. If not satisfied with your uniform or overall appearance, he had a habit of leaning in until his big Smoky the Bear hat poked you in the forehead. His dissatisfaction gained you two grunts, which of course meant push-ups. If lucky and The Bear was satisfied with you, he would grunt, Ah, ah, which meant good.

We were encouraged by our drill sergeants to work together as a team, help each other out, teach, and learn from each other. I had no issues with that, but I did take issue with the way our drill sergeants doled out punishments.

During barracks and in-formation inspections, there was always someone who messed up: someone who didn’t have their bunk area squared away or someone who had their uniform jacked up. Some guys were just plain slow and couldn’t get their shit together. In basic training the way punishment worked was if one soldier screwed up, we all screwed up. It took just one soldier to mess something up and the entire company suffered. The drill sergeant would pull the soldier who had committed the offense up front, told him to face the formation, and instructed the rest of us to get down in the front leaning, rest position. We were about to do push-ups.

They informed us, This soldier fucked up, pointing to the soldier facing us at the front of the formation. The drill sergeant then yelled at the soldier, rightly so, but told us, YOU will pay for his sins.

After the six or seventh time of paying for another soldier’s sin, I reflected back to the Stump with Mrs. Hannaberry, who said, When you’re right and you know you are right, you must always, always, stand up for what is right. Under no circumstance do you back down, no matter what the situation might be. She had pointed her finger at me and said, I don’t care if it seems like the whole world is against you. You stand up and hold your ground, no matter what.

She had looked at me with fire in her eyes. I knew she wanted me to be a man of conviction and stand up for what I believed in, no matter the circumstances.

I, like many others, began to think the group punishments were not fair. I didn’t have a problem working together as a team player doing my part, but constantly doing penance for other soldier’s fuck-ups was growing thin on me. I had a strange feeling most of the soldiers felt the same way I did, but no one wanted to be the one to say anything. Somehow the Stump and I became one that day.

I stared back at the drill sergeant when he snarled, Get on your feet — why are your uniforms filthy? You’re all on restriction for the rest of the day!

The drill sergeant stood in front of me and cussed us out yet again because our uniforms were filthy, but what would you expect? We had just crawled around in the dirt paying for another soldier’s sin.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer and I matter-of-factly announced, This ain’t right.

The drill sergeant snapped to attention and said, What did you say, Private?

I repeated, This is not right.

Growing angry at my second reply, which confirmed what he thought he had heard, the drill sergeant said, Did I give you permission to talk, permission to open your goddamn mouth? You only speak when you are spoken to, and I didn’t ask you a fucking thing. I didn’t ask you anything, did I? Then why are you speaking?

I said again, This is not right.

The drill sergeant blew his lid at my utterance and yelled, Fall out of my formation. Right now! Move to the back.

I took a step back, turned left, and ran around to the back of the formation. A few seconds later I felt someone walking up behind me. That someone hissed, Come with me right now.

I turned and looked; that someone I happened to know so well. It was The Bear. Those were the only words I would ever hear him speak. He had a look in his eyes and I want to say I saw support (maybe I just desperately hoped), yet he didn’t show any emotion. He just stared at me.

My drill sergeant joined us as I was taken to the company orderly room. The drill sergeant went inside the first sergeant’s office and spoke with him. I heard him say, Who in the hell does he think he is? Get his ass in here right now.

Out came the drill sergeant, who ordered, Report to the first sergeant.

I went in, stood at a position of attention in front of the first sergeant’s desk, and echoed out, First Sergeant, PFC Braddock, reports as directed.

He looked up and said, What the fuck is your malfunction? Do you think we are here for your personal entertainment?

I said, No, First Sergeant, but this ain’t right.

He roared, I don’t give a damn what is right or wrong. You will do what you are told to do! Do I make myself clear? Are you understanding me?

As the first sergeant was making his point known, what flashed across my mind was Mrs. Hannaberry’s words she’d told us at the Stump. Stand up for what you believe in and don’t back down no matter what.

I looked directly at the first sergeant and calmly said, No, First Sergeant, I do not understand and I don’t agree with what you are saying. This is not right.

Our conversation and the first sergeant’s raised voice must have been loud enough for the company commander to overhear. He yelled from inside his office, Get his ass in here now.

To which the first sergeant responded, You heard him, report to the company commander!

I was escorted to the company commander’s door, which stood a little ajar, and knocked on it. He yelled, Come in.

I entered. The Bear and my drill sergeant were both in his office. The first sergeant walked in behind me and closed the door. I moved to the front of the desk directly in front of the commander, stood at a position of attention, saluted, and said, Sir, PFC Braddock reports to the company commander as directed.

He returned my salute and replied, Stand at ease PFC Braddock. I was expecting him to have some more colorful words for me; everyone else had throughout this process. I didn’t expect him to be any different. To my surprise he said, Soldier, why don’t you tell me in your own words what the fuck is going on?

I replied, "Sir, I’m no different than any other soldier in this company — no better, no worse. Trying to be the best I can be. I truly understand what the drill sergeant is trying to do in terms of peer pressure to get the soldier’s head out of his ass. I don’t claim to know anything about this army — you and the drill sergeants have much more experience than I ever will — but sir, I do know ‘a little’ about soldiering, and ‘a little bit’ about how to take corrective actions.

"Sir, with all due respect, I graduated from JROTC (Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps) as the battalion commander at my high school. I know punishing me and my fellow soldiers for another soldier’s screw-up is not the way to correct the problem. The soldier who fucked up is never going to learn from his mistake by having us pay for his. That’s not how it is supposed to be done.

"I get it the drill sergeants are trying to use peer pressure to have other soldiers get on the ones who keep messing up to make them conform. All we knew is the soldier that screwed up should be the one getting punished, not us. Having that soldier stand in front of us and have him watch us take his punishment, and him not having to do to a goddamned thing, is messed up.

"Sir, I don’t make much money, but what little money I do make is going toward cleaning this uniform. I don’t get it. You got me rolling around in the dirt and dust, crawling under buildings with spiders and cobwebs, and all kinds of nasty shit, and then you yell at me to get up only to have my drill sergeant come through the ranks inspecting and telling us our uniforms are dirty and filthy, putting us on restrictions. They’re the one that put us down in the dirt in the first place, for another soldier’s screw-up.

With all due respect, sir, that ain’t right. If I fuck up I don’t have a problem getting down in the dirt and paying for it, but when another soldier screws up, why are we paying for his mistake? Sir, that’s just not right. This isn’t helping our morale either. It’s just tearing us down.

He took a moment, looked at me, and said, PFC Braddock, I appreciate your honesty and I will promise you this, there will be some corrections made here. You are dismissed.

I saluted, did an about-face, and went back and rejoined the formation.

What became of that incident? I don’t know. I do know for the remainder of our basic training there seemed to be more encouragement to help the ones that seemed to be struggling. We were able to work more as a team and encourage each other. I’m not saying my interaction with the company commander changed anything. What I do know is the Stump gave me the courage that day to make something wrong . . . right.

Chapter 2

ARMY – THE PIT

(Graduation Day and the Bus Ride)

ON GRADUATION DAY, ALSO KNOWN AS shipping day, I, like many others, were excited and couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Fort Polk. Once we officially graduated from basic training, we returned back to the company area to receive our orders and waited to be transported to our advanced training location. Some remained at Fort Polk and just moved up the street for further-on training — that would be the last place I would want to be. Others were put on Trailways buses to go to other posts; that was my fate.

I received my orders that said I was to ship later that day to Fort Knox, Kentucky. As I stood around with a bunch of other soldiers waiting for our various buses to arrive, we talked about what we had gone through and I made the comment, Those drill sergeants really messed with us but they can’t screw with us now. We’re out of here and it won’t be long until we are all gone.

I didn’t know my drill sergeant stood directly behind me and I continued to talk it up, quite loudly, about being done with basic training, that Fort Polk really sucked, that I couldn’t wait to get out of here, and how the drill sergeants were always fucking with us. I finally turned around after my last rant and looked straight into the eyes of my drill sergeant, who had a funny smile on his face, as if he knew something I didn’t.

It seemed like hours had passed while we waited for our bus to arrive. Then we saw it, the Trailways bus. It had stopped up the road at another company first before coming to our location. I knew that was our bus; had the right name on it: Trailways. That was all I cared about. I said with the utmost confidence because I knew I was going to be on that bus, Yeah man, I’m out of here. Fort Polk can kiss my ass.

The bus pulled up and I immediately moved out to stand by the front door. As it opened I asked the bus driver, This is the bus to Fort Knox, Kentucky, right?

The driver looked at me and said, Nah, you got the wrong bus. That bus ain’t coming until tomorrow now.

I thought oh shit, and as I turned around there was my drill sergeant with a big shit-ass grin on his face. He said, Come with me.

I replied, Yes, Drill Sergeant.

He took me back to the barracks and said, Get in your fatigues.

I had been wearing my khakis for the bus ride so I changed back into my fatigues and reported immediately to the drill sergeant, who took me to the mess hall. He led me around the side of the building to the back and pointed to a grate that covered a giant hole. He said, Soldier, do you know what a grease pit is?

I replied, I’ve heard of it, Drill Sergeant.

He was pleased to announce, You and the pit are going to become best friends this afternoon. Get to work cleaning it.

The rest of that day and into the night I worked to clean that damn grease pit. The only thing I could think of while I cleaned it was, Motherfucker! You Motherfucker! Needless to say I learned, or rather I remembered, a valuable lesson that day. I recalled Mrs. Hannaberry at the Stump say, Always choose your words carefully, ’cause sometimes they can come back to haunt you.

The next morning a bus arrived and this time I wasn’t taking any chances. I ran up the street to the other company and asked the driver, Is this the bus to Fort Knox?

The bus driver said, Sure is.

I said, Thank God.

I ran back down to my company, stood by my duffle bag, and proceeded to wait for the bus. As the bus pulled up I picked up my duffle bag and looked back; my drill sergeant was standing with a big smile on his face. What flashed across my mind was choose your words carefully, and so I said . . . nothing . . . and got on the bus.

It was quite a long drive from Fort Polk, Louisiana, to Fort Knox, Kentucky; therefore, the bus company arranged for a midpoint exchange, where our initial driver would swap out for a fresh new driver to take us the remainder of the trip. We eventually reached that exchange point and did get our new driver. As the second driver prepared to take us to our final destination, we all laid back in our seats and went to sleep.

At some point during the ride I got to rocking back and forth in my seat, which I guess wasn’t unusual for a big bus, but so much so that it woke me up. I looked around and thought, What the hell is going on? I saw what appeared to be the driver slumped over the steering wheel. I jumped over my seat and hustled to the front of the bus. The driver was or at least looked like he was half drunk. He was slouched over the wheel, and in doing so had the bus swaying back and forth. I decided I needed to motivate the driver, and as loudly as I could, I screamed in his ear, WAKE THE FUCK UP, DRIVER!

That woke the others and they rushed up behind me and said, What’s going on? He fell asleep at the wheel?

Needless to say none of us slept the rest of the way to Fort Knox. We all stayed awake for the remainder of the trip and kept a close eye on the driver. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have a problem with people sleeping on a bus — that’s a natural thing to do especially when traveling on a long trip. However, I do have a problem when the person who wants to sleep is the bus driver!

Once we got to Fort Knox the bus pulled in, and as we piled out, glad to have safely arrived, our new drill sergeant said, Welcome to Fort Knox. Home of the Armor School.

We soon realized we weren’t much better off here than we’d been back at basics. The first couple of weeks at armor training introduced us to three levels of pain, courtesy of Fort Knox. They were called: Heartbreak, Misery, and Agony. Heartbreak, Misery, and Agony were three of the toughest and highest hills at Fort Knox, and we had the pleasure to force-march up them with full rucksack loads. These hills were so badass that even when tanks passed us they whined and screamed because those damn hills were so steep.

What we also didn’t know but found out sooner than later was our first couple of weeks of training didn’t consist of us riding around in tanks. Those of us who were selected to go to armor school were all under the false impression after we graduated from basic training that we’d be riding around in tanks everywhere we went. Talk about a not so fast. Reality sunk in quickly. During the first two weeks at armor school we were nothing but ground pounders, straight-leg infantry; rucksacks, weapons, full load, and bivouacking (tenting it). We did nothing but combat tactics, getting up close and personal with Heartbreak, Misery, and Agony.

After that fun was completed we started our in-class training. We learned the different parts of the tank, how to use the logbook, the technical manual, and basic operator maintenance to repair the track (the army slang for tank). We studied all of this even before we got to go to the motor pool to actually see the tanks themselves. We were chomping at the bit to get to that part, and finally it was time. The day had arrived.

They took us down to the motor pool and we began to learn how to drive the tracks. We started with simple starting and stopping procedures, moved to basic maneuvers, and then moved on to advanced training lessons. That was followed by instructions on the tank’s weapon systems, as we learned to fire the coaxial machine gun, the .50-caliber machine gun, and the tank’s 105mm main gun.

My advanced training class had been selected to train on the newest battle tank at that time, the M60A2. However, we also received training on the M60A1, and had an opportunity to train a few short days on the M55A1 Sheridan, a scout track. The M60s were the main battle tanks back in the day, heavier than the Sheridan and with more firepower. I had received orders to go to an all-M60A2 armor unit in Europe, but little did I know, my destiny was going to take me down a path that was different than anyone ever expected.

Chapter 3

THE EARLY YEARS – MY FIRST MEMORY

I NEVER HAD A RELATIONSHIP WITH my biological father. Even to this day I have not forgiven him for what he did to my mom. The scars remain, embedded deep in my memory. It is sad to think my first childhood memory and the memory I carry with me of my father was him being abusive to my mom.

I was maybe four or five years old and heard a loud noise and commotion coming from my mom’s bedroom. I ran in and saw that my father had my mom pressed up, pinned against the wall, punching her. I hurled myself toward him and shouted, Don’t hurt my mom, don’t hurt my mom!

He was so big . . . to me like a giant. I only came up just past his knees. I kicked at his ankles and punched him anywhere my little fists could hit him. He reached down and like he was swatting at a fly, backhanded me, which sent me spinning, and I rolled out of the room. I remember the pain, like hot needles, that exploded all over my little body.

My mom was overcome with anger at what my father had done to me and yelled at him, Get the hell out!

I was rolled up in a corner with the image of my father hitting my mom and hitting me. I was in a trance and couldn’t move. My mom ran over to me, knelt down, and embraced me. She held me and said, My boy, my boy — are you okay? I couldn’t say anything.

I know that deep emotions triggered within me that day. Years later I would recognize the Box, my box, became a part of me when I was rolled up in that corner and had no words to speak. The anger and the aggressiveness I’ve always had, especially as a teenager, began that day. That day I said to myself, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

To this day I have never forgiven him. Even when he was sick with cancer and my sister said he was dying and I should go see him, I said, He ain’t dying fast enough.

No, I didn’t forgive him, and I never will.

My sister and me — the early years. (Author collection)

Chapter 4

ARMY – WELCOME TO THE COLD WAR

(My First Assignment)

AFTER BASIC TRAINING AT FORT POLK I was sent to advanced training at Fort Knox’s AITA (Advanced Infantry Training Armor), the Men of Steel, to be an Eleven Echo Ten Whiskey One, now known as Eleven Deltas. I trained on the newest tanks the Army had in its arsenal, the M60A2. The Ninety-Third Armor was at Fort Knox at the time getting ready to be sent overseas to establish a new tank battalion in Germany — an all-new M60A2 unit. I was one of the fortunate ones