Last Momenet of Light [Sketches of Real life in the Old Army]
Last Moment of Light
[Sketches of Real life in the Old Army]
By Dennis L. Siluk
Poeta Laureado De San Jerónimo de Tunan, Perú
Awarded the Grand Cross of the City
Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture
Los Andes University (Peru): Recognition given to Dennis Siluk for his poetic and cultural contribution
Soldiers’ First Day
(October, 1969)
Part One
I would learn in time, a Soldiers’ first day, is like every other day in Basic Training, one long, very long day. For me it would be thirteen weeks long. Dlsiluk
1
Chapter
The Bus
When we arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Basic Training, Camp, the Fall of ’69, we were greeted (we, being, a number of us who had come from the Minneapolis, Minnesota’s Army Recruiting Station, now coming off the bus), greeted I say, by cynically sneering, and frankly hyper, drunk looking white sergeants, two of them, with a Forest Ranger, type looking sombreros on their heads, I had my ninety pound duffle bag by my side.
My lip did something like a snicker back at them; my hand did something like a fist.
We were like a little wobbly, staggered train coming off the bus, into camp, forming some kind of a zigzagged line in front of the bus. My captors faced me, two white sergeants (one perhaps in his mid twenties, the other in his mid thirties)) one being a Buck Sergeant type sergeant, the other a Sergeant First Class sergeant, so I would learn these ranks within a few days, this being our first real day in the Army)) they faced us, I should say, stood in front of us as we formed this jagged formation of sorts.
Next, they encouraged us to obey them, as they treated us like criminals with beautiful smiles in-between their sneers.
They grinned, and we grinned, at each other trying to figure out what they were grinning about. Then the engine of the bus stopped, turned off, silence seemed to pass over the bus, onto us, and circle the two Drill Sergeants.
At the same time, the sun was coming down, as the two divine sergeants debated on if we should be allowed to eat dinner, while us new soldiers, smiled at one another appreciatively.
Chapter 2
Mess Hall
Now we were being escorted, if not a bit pushed down a dirt path between two rows of barracks, to our so called destiny, the Mess Hall. I balanced my duffle bag on my shoulders, as they had instructed me, but many of the men couldn’t and so they dragged them, another peeve that would come out later with the two sergeants. As this dragging occurred though, the older sergeant got what I’d call a devilish smile with eyes big as silver dollars, and thus, a few insults reached the ears of the many. That is when I got the smell of their strange cologne, and garlic breath. Several faces (perhaps for the sake of sympathy, so I thought at first) looked out the barrack windows—“What time is it?” a voice said, and eyes looking in my direction, I saw corporal strips on him. I didn’t look at my wrist; I think he wanted me to lose balance of my duffle bag for a laugh.
“I said, what time it is soldier?” the same voice, the same eyes, a rougher tone, said a second time, then it added, in a screaming tone “I’ll see you in the mess hall some time, and then…” he left out what might follow, but he didn’t get the time. I remember thinking: you’d think we were in the middle of a war, or comedy play. I did say something back the second time, something I thought was funny, but not him.
I wasn’t hungry, I had eaten with the few friends I had met in Minneapolis, Minnesota, after getting off the plane, and going to a restaurant, we had a pay voucher for $30-dollars, which in 1969, was a lot of grub, between four or five of us, or enough anyways for a healthy meal, and a small tip.
Hence, our divine hosts were pushing us into the mess hall, seating us, and having us grab excessive portions of food to eat, neither one listening to us, or in particular I, when I said I had just eaten, “Eat anyways so you can’t say we didn’t feed you,” was the reply I kept getting.
As I put down several table spoons of whatever it was eating (and I think I was eating spaghetti), along with some bread and milk, I got thinking this is crazy, and looked for the kitchen, and saw a square opening, window type opening, and saw some soldiers putting their trays through the hole, so I got up, looked at the two sergeants, that were looking at me—somewhat (not paying all that much attention really, and I guess not wanting a confrontation), and the other forty odd solders that got off the bus with me (our duffle bags outside), I aimed my tray at the hole, some several feet away, and tossed it like a spaceship, and it landed perfectly on the other trays, gliding over them like a car gliding over ice, and I headed towards the door, to where my duffle bag would be waiting for me.
Chapter 3
Twilight
My reddish eyes and hair were becoming devouring, as I left the mess hall. I had gulped and swallowed what I could, and was feeling overly full, if not a tinge ill from the lack of sleep, and too much food. And now all this unnecessary control; whatever inspiration I had for the Army was now diminishing. I had an inborn taste for revenge almost.
I stood outside the small mess hall in a pig-like position waiting for our leaders, and the rest of the platoon, it was now twilight. I figured I did my best, though protesting in my own way.
I would notice later on that evening, tears in the eyes of a few soldiers, perhaps irritation in mine. The Army never bothered me, only the disrespect I was feeling, or received. I think bachelors are lucky in the Army, confinement less an issue for them, for married folks, to the contrary.
As I was saying, it was twilight, which now had vanished, and turned into night-night, a dark, heavy blue night. My stomach heavy, and most of us now had come out of the trance like fog we had first found ourselves in getting off the bus, now in the barracks. Digestion was settling, and they, the sergeants were settling us like prey into a lull. We were given our blankets and a pillow, with a few grunts of satisfaction we gave back, we took them, and taking pain not to show our defeat, as we smiled at one another, wondering what was next.
4
The Barracks
Strange tongues, forty strange grins, bare hands, white, black and brown faces, and feet belonging to strangers, all among one another. Hands stretched out over the beds. This was a new experience for all of us. The central figures, two sergeants now telling us ‘lights out in fifteen minutes,” and another voice saying,
“…let’s hurry up and get a smoke!”
I looked about at the faces, disagreeable with curiosity, and then looked out the window with itching fingers to have a cold beer, and get on with the show.
Written: 3/30/2007
Silhouette of a Soldier
(October, 1969)
Chapter Two
1
Reveille
(It is always the sound of the bugle that awakens one in the morning, called reveille, in the Army, the sound to make formation that begins the day, a signal that it is time to get out of bed, summoned to duty. And all one sees in the morning, as one prepares for the second day of duty is shapes and outlines of military personnel in a camp; or so it was for me.)
Silhouettes, that is all they were to me when I first glanced out the window, 2nd day in the Army, soldiers rushing to get into a standing position in what was called a formation, under the autumn sky; the darkness of morning was lifting, an intense darkness it was, a haunting dark blue sky, extra ordinarily cold for a North Carolina morning, it seemed.
I had noticed in the distance, throughout the day, across a field, a club resided, ‘Enlisted Men’s Club,’ to be exact, so I was told, a bar in essence, or so it would be called in my old neighborhood, in St. Paul, Minnesota (called: ‘Donkeyland,’ by the police for its hardheaded drunks, that lived and died at two corner bars).
2
The EM Club
I was particularly thrilled to have discovered it so close by the group of basic training barracks (mine in particular); whereat, when our two Drill Sergeants, our escorts throughout the day were done with us, disembarking for the evening, but beforehand, let us know they’d return at 10:00 PM, to insure lights were turned off, (which was to them, the very ‘last moment of light,’ to be seen within our barracks, lest we wanted to be disciplined))it was really a curfew in essence)): in any case, disembarking for the evening, this would allow me to make acquaintance with the establishment, the EM club. In outcome, I felt a little at home now, likened to finding you are nearby a church, something familiar, if indeed I was a priest.
As I was saying, or about to say, at 10:00 PM, would be the last moment of light to be seen within our barracks, and we stopped work at 7:00 PM, a very full day; I had woke up at 4:00 AM, not much sleep, I was stiff and cold and only half awake, in the morning, and now, in the evening, exhausted, I had my Army green fatigues on, and moved grimly without speaking to anyone, now after duty hours, after having a quick dinner at the mess hall, moved quickly over the field to where the EM club was, it was 8:15 PM, when I arrived there, par excellence in my quick study of the matter, most all the new soldiers had no idea the club existed. Plus, they were too busy trying to be good soldiers, and I was the second oldest person in the platoon (I learned, the younger the easier one can be led).
As I walked across the field, I told myself, “You’ve never been in an EM club before.” How true this was, but I knew bars well, was drinking in them since I was 16-years old, fighting in them, drinking in them, and getting sick in a few, most are the same, smelly, dingy, and alive or dead, plus, I told myself, “You will know in a short time.” Hence, in a few minutes I was walking through the door of he club, yellow flares went off in my head, I acted like I belong there, I always did when I walked into a bar, a strange bar for sure, I was at the time, just turning twenty-two years old.
The insides of the club were small, and formless, nothing special; mostly square, with figures moving about, to and fro, a crackle of conversations, going on everywhere, seemingly sadly suppressed, abnormal for a bar one could say, not lively at all. I was use to deliciously insane bars I suppose, but nonetheless, I was gulping down my first cold Army beer in no time flat.
Everyone seemed to be wrapped in ghostly Army Green, this was to be, I knew the, an unearthly patch of the world, hereon, and forevermore, save, I remained in the Army. (In years to follow, I’d find bars off bases to cater to, rather than the on base Army Clubs.)
I leaned on the bar, drank down a second glass of cold mouthwatering beer, and stared at nothingness.
3
The Corporal
My elbows now on the bar, I got staring at and out the window, the mist had created a moisture onto the bar window, formed a fogginess on the glass; everyone seemed like talking shadows all linked together around the bar, I recognized no one, especially no one from my platoon, that is, ‘D’ Company, 4th Platoon as they called it, called us. I thought briefly about Smiley, a Private like me, a year younger than I, and from the South, I think he said, Alabama, he was easy to talk to, liked to drink, a friend to be found I pondered, a worthy friend, most people I accepted as acquaintances, and only a few select would I categorize as friends.
“You’re the one,” I heard a voice say next to me, I turned, a stranger, Corporal sat about seven feet from my stool.
“You speak to me?” I didn’t care if he had twenty strips on, bar folks get a few drinks in them and try to command the world, this was neither the time nor place to play chief, and I told myself.
“Yaw,” he said, a clean shaven kid, couldn’t be over 19-years old I told myself, but he had a few more strips than I.
“What you want?” I asked somewhat brusquely.
“You’re the one I asked for the time, yesterday, I work in the mess hall, and you could get in trouble for being here, because new soldiers, or new recruits, are not suppose to come here, you got a place down by the PX, and you can’t go to that until the second week you’ve been here.”
“So are you going to tell, or what?” I asked.
He laughed a bit, and then smiled, “It’s your head, not mine, if they chop it off, oh well.” And I bought him a beer. In time we’d get to know each other, and he’d even give me excuses to use incase I came back after 10:00 PM, for he worked with the Colonel, often after duty hours.
Written: 3-31-2007
Horse’s Hoofs and Old Soldiers
(November, 1969; Week Two in Basic Training)
Part Three
1
Running
In the barracks it was chilly. The Drill Sergeants smell worst. I knew my smell. Why be polite, it was long days in back of me and in front, long days running, and today I had to run around a field three times, two miles each lap, six miles complete, in some specified time, can’t remember it exactly. I took a number of salt tablets as I ran; some of the men were eating chocolate, to keep their energy up. I quickly learned running was part of the Army, like white on rice.
Yes indeed, running is part of a soldiers life, I told myself, after two weeks (about to go into the third) of running everyday, sometimes with our M14 rifles held over our heads, sometimes carrying our duffle backs full of cloths, and now, today, around in circles. The voice beside me said, “China, China…” a Chinese man, small in stature, who wanted to be an American. In time we would become good friends, and go on to Advance Training in Alabama together, but at this particular moment, it was of course unknown. He had come over to San Francisco, from China, got drafted into the Army, given the choice to join, or return to China, but the offer of citizenship was too great to pass up, so he allowed himself to be drafted into the US Army. He was here on a visit of some kind, originally.
The two divine Drill Sergeants were standing on the side of the circle as I passed them, going on and into my third circle, anger on their faces; they only smiled when you obeyed them. Smiley was right in back of me, my friend from Alabama. It was a hot mid morning, an insane day to be exact, and I was still somewhat drowsy, my brain that is, had gotten drunk the night before, as usual, and was paying for it now (a second time). And here were all these bodies running, running the length of the field, and China, keeping up with all (all his 110-pounds); many of the men just dropped to the ground, passed out from heat exhaustion. But us three kept going. It was the whole company today, all four platoons, perhaps 160-men in total.
One man came along by my side, said: “I say where we are?” and dropped to the ground, just like that, as he dropped I said, “In hell…!”
I think the Drill Sergeant, the older one, was faint and felt almost dead from exhaustion, he had run around the circle once to show he could; I stopped a few times, my hat had fallen off my head for the 3rd time, “Get moving,” he yelled, the old fart couldn’t do it himself, but expected me, I gave him one of his same old grimaces back.
The third stop somehow allowed me to catch my wind and I started back up after a brief swallow of air into my stomach, Smiley, had stopped, was resting on the side now, couldn’t go any further, I think cramps did him in; next, I got back into my running posture and finished the third circle. Perhaps there were about twenty of us, ready to go into a forth, but the Drill Sergeant, told us to stop, and like the others I rested, found the few select people I liked from our platoon, Smiley among them, and China. We all grunted a bit. Moreover, the young sergeant, came up to us and said, “Well,” he then struck his chin, adding (I merely looked at him) “Get down Siluk and do fifty pushups,” (for being cocky I suppose, and to show the rest of the group how out of shape I was. I said, “Fifty, is that all!” And I did the fifty in a few minutes, got back up, and he said again, “Get down and do fifty more!” And I did, and I got up and said, “I will make note of this…” implying, the necessary sum that he could make me do was at its point, and I was not afraid of him, consequently, if he wanted me to do more, I could legally defy him, this he did not want, no challenges.
2
Horse’s Hoofs
I didn’t make any friends this day of course, and felt a little under the horse’s hoofs, several of the platoon faces, recruits, like me, felt I was a trouble maker (for them I suppose), and I was I suppose. And this got back to the Captain, whom would confront me in time on this very issue, in another two weeks to be exact. It was mid November, and we heard we’d be going home for Christmas, and have to return to basic training to finish it, thereafter. One of the soldiers would not have enough money to go home, and we all pitched in from the platoon and made that possible, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The young Drill Sergeant led us to the front of the barracks, and had us do several exercises, he said it was because there was a soldier with a bad attitude in the platoon, and all would have to suffer from that. The older sergeant vaguely looking at me from afar, but I read his lips, “Siluk, you again!”
“Squat, crouch, and walk around the barracks,” commanded the young sergeant. This was not only humiliating for the platoon, because we looked like ducks, but tiresome, thus, I got a few unfriendly faces, and whispers like: Siluk, stop causing trouble, straighten up…and so forth and so on. And I simply went, or said “Quack, quack…” to all this—loud!
“Who said that? “Asked the young drill sergeant, then he walked along side of me…”It’s you again, I know it’s you Siluk, another walk around the barracks,” he announced, and then I whispered to the guys, “Ok, ok…I’ll shut up (but I couldn’t help it, I did it a second time, then I shut up)) for now))”
After it was all done (the duck walk), most everyone collapsed comfortable on their beds, while the drill sergeants adjusted their smirks.
Enormous pomposity was shown in the two drill sergeants, and displayed around me, or perhaps I was the only one that saw these expressions, gestures, everyone else too busy being nervous about what was next. It was going on to the third week of November, that the Captain had called me into his office, and I asked what for, and he said, “Just wanted to see who you were,” and he kept an educated serious face about the matter, and dismissed me, yet I knew something was coming.
For the most part, I was in a new world, and having a hard time devouring the customs, the inexpressible nuance of the pretense they expected out of me, willingly—to appreciate their fine work in sculpturing a soldier out of a neighborhood bum. My uncouthness was not appreciated either.
That night, the night that followed the duck-walk, Smiley was to meet me at the EM Club, it was the end of the second week, and we were allowed now, to buy freely at the PX, and go to the Company Recruits club to drink, 3.2 Beer, that is, beer that taste like water. But I was already into the EM Club, and drank there. They, the Drill Sergeants had actually escorted us that first day to the PX, like tourists.
I gave Smiley a consultation on my EM club drinking, and told him to meet me there this evening, around eight or nine o clock; our bed time now was 10:30, lights off, or the last moment for lights, at 11:00. PM, weekends, lights off at 12:00 midnight, and now bed check, being 11:00 PM. Life was improving.
As I waited for Smiley, I thought about what the older Drill Sergeant had told the platoon, that next week there was going to be a show for us, the 82nd Airborne, whom was stationed there, would jump out of airplanes, parachuting down to where we would be sitting. I told myself, only birds and their droppings fall out of the sky, and thus, let it be at that. (But when the day came, the old sergeant asked me, sitting on a hill, “Go down there and join up, Siluk!” And I said, “I’m not a bird…!” And he kicked me, and I rolled down the hill, and waved to him, from that position. Another peeve he had with me.
3
Froilan
There was a young female, a Froilan, German girl unmarried woman, who was the waitress at the EM club, a daughter I expect to one of the higher ranking sergeants on base (she spoke with a broken English accent but clear clean German, perhaps twenty-one, or younger; perhaps a second marriage I thought between an older sergeant and German. Anyhow, she was dangerously appetizing I thought, I never did chat with her, a long chat that is, other than, a hello and goodbye, I figured I was under observation at the club (and a few young bucks were always around her at the bar when she finished serving her drinks), and as long as I kept to my own, they left me lone, and should I try to get a date with her, they would expose me as recruit, I was sure of that, and I’d have to go to the main drinking hall, with the rest of my Company.
She was lean, perhaps five foot three inches tall, lovely in many ways, and friendly, and customers liked her. She wore tight dresses, benignant in a way, with breasts that bulged slightly out of her blouse, and had small hands, dark hair—penetrating eyes.
Written 4-1-2007
Army Beer Hall
(December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)
Part Four
1
Beer Hall
I had gone to the beer hall this first Saturday evening after returning to Basic Training Camp, from Christmas leave. The Captain was there, I had heard he showed up now and then, but not often, and this was perhaps my third time in the beer hall myself, I preferred the EM Club to the hall, more sedate.
For me it was really the first time I saw him here, a sharp consciousness of being stared at absorbed me, made me look the other way. He was still gazing at me when I turned around, thus, it was me he was curious about—so I validated, some kind of strained expectancy, I expect, like a month ago when he stared at me in his office, like a rat in a cage, or maze. More like a psychological pondering, trying to figure me out for the butchering that was going to take place. I paid little heed thought, at first, just curious also to his inquisitive mannerisms.
After about ten-minutes of this, I asked myself, ‘What is he waiting for?’ I was becoming irritably, adding, ‘what does he expect of me now: to sing the National Anthem for him personally?’ I stood silently, a tinge guarded now, as if this was an entirely obvious reaction, as he approached me.
“We’ve both been away for a while, Christmas vacation, I’ve wanted to talk to you before you left, but…well it just didn’t work out, I’m a bit surprised you’re back, and so glad I found you here this evening, Private Siluk.” He said in a seriously low and cordial tone, almost a mumble.
At about this time, I was waiting for the punch, the Sunday punch that normally comes with such surprises; you know, someone says a few good words, to get you off guard, off balance, and than bang.
2
The Captain
(I gazed mutely at him.) The Captain stood now alongside of me, as I leaned back, somewhat comfortable against a pillar in the old WWII, beer hall. He said, sincerely, yet kind of in an official manner, something I never expected, never even saw it coming:
“You make me look like the worst Company Commander in the whole Basic Training Camp, Private Siluk. My comrades laugh and make jokes about how you belittle the Army, and its training and our Sergeants… (then he grabbed two beers on the counter, laid down thirty cents, and brought them back to me, one for him, the other for me, then continued:) as I was saying, about to say, you do not make me look good in front of my peers. To the contrary, and I’ve thought about his a while, what to do with you, you are always borderline, actually you would make a good soldier, if you wanted to, it seems you do not want to though. (he looked at me deeply and sincerely into my eyes) what did I ever do to you?” He asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Well then, unintentionally, you are making me look like the worse commander at Fort Bragg for nothing? I never drafted you, the Government did, yet it seems you are taking your anger out on me, my Company!”
(I felt awkward, not sure what to say)) He did not say it loud, but said it firmly, with almost hurt in his face. I knew I was taking it out on the platoon, but there are four platoons to a company, and I didn’t feel I was taking it out on them, but he assured me I was, because they rated all four platoons, to see which one was the worst and best, and then rated the companies, which were four also, to a Battalion, and I was in the 10th Battalion, 1st BDE (Brigade) this I knew already, and I knew we were the worse of the worse. But I never put two and two together it was me making the platoon look back, I passed all the physical and written tests, but it was based on more I guess than that.))
“I never said it was your fault, Captain,” I responded; as we both walked easily and leisurely a few steps, both thinking. He perhaps had it all figured out, how he would present this to me, it was too cleaver to have had it just pop out of his head at the moment it did, for he added this, “I’ll make you a deal, you have got two years of this life to deal with, it’s going to be a rough road for everyone involved, even you, everyone you meet. (Smiley walks by, I smile, let him know all is well; the Captain becomes silent until he passed, then continues), as I was saying, you have a lot of time to fight with everyone, and that is not a good way to live. Here is what I will do for you. At midnight, I will have two MPs pick you up at the barracks, everyone will be sleeping, and they will take you to the bus station, and not report you’re missing for twenty-four hours, enough time to get to Canada, if that is where you wish to go. You can be out of the country before the AWOL notice goes into effect. Or you can stay here, and please stop making trouble for me (he made this personal)?”
He was I think waiting for an answer, one I never gave him, couldn’t give him, at the moment, so I simply walked away, as he said, “They’ll be out by your barracks at midnight.” (Meaning the MPs.)
Well, I was there in the morning, as if nothing had been said, standing in formation, as always, reveille (my wake up call), and I’m not sure if the Captain saw me or not, but that was the last time I had saw him, face to face; off in the distance, I saw him here and there. He did one thing if anything, he threw it back on me, I had to make the decision, not him, thus, his conscious was free, and back in those days, it wasn’t hard for an officer to get revenge if he indeed wanted to, and it wasn’t hard for a trouble maker like me I suppose to cause friction for the Army on a continues us scale, so perhaps he gave both us, the Army and me, an once of respect, to straighten things out, or let time do it the hard way, for both of us. For the most part, I behaved myself, for the most part I say, but not completely. And in time I would turn out to be a good soldier, and awarded a number of medals to prove it. Yes, this was really just the beginning.
Written 4-2-2007
Last Moment of Light!
(From San Francisco to Fort Bragg)
(January, 1970; Week Six in Basic Training)
Part Five
In the days and weeks to follow—every muscle throughout my body was aching, head spinning; yet I was not worn down like most of the troops, perhaps I had a lot of training in San Francisco, and back in St Paul, Minnesota in karate, and my body was somewhat ready for this kind of training. Face to face with the Drill Sergeants, I half straightened my attitude out, somewhat came to an understanding, willingly obedient, yet at night I still came in soggy drunk, hanging onto whatever I could.
On the top bunk, of the bunk bed I was on (in the large room we lived in, the bunk beds of us 44-soldiers were in two rows, 11-to each side, one soldier on top, one on the bottom, old WWII, wooden framed, square frame, slanted roofed barracks, and going toward the double doors, to the right, it lead out into the courtyard, just beyond the doors, straight ahead, was the latrine. The windows in the building were wide, on both sides of the wooden structure, several to each side; the outside painted white, the inside pale white, and green.), as I was about to say, a southern boy slept on the top bunk, he didn’t seem to like me, or get along with me all that well, just gave me sneers like the Sergeants often did, not like Smiley and I, and he didn’t like me coming into the barracks drunk and coming in so late, I felt it was none of his business. He was a strict soldier, and our attitudes conflicted, ferocity of rectangular emotion around him, I called it now, then it was just bitterness, and he decided to confront me on this drinking issue one evening, just before lights out.
I came in, it was perhaps a few minutes before ´Light’s out!’ and he grabbed me by my shirt (about my height, and weight), said: “It’s two minutes to lights out, and here you are walking in half drunk.” He was correct in his observation.
“Oh,” I said, adding “…is that so…!” and broke his arm from my shirt, downward, and a second later, took my palm and pushed him against the wall. He was stunned I had broken his arm hold so easily, and without had him almost pinned against the wall. Then I grabbed his shaving cream and squirted it all over him, not sure why, but it was the closest thing to my free hands now, but perhaps to shame him or belittle him in front of the onlookers, whom were the soldiers in their bunks now. Then stepped back into a fighting stance, and egged him on. I did not want to beat him without him having another chance to strike me, it didn’t seem right. I mean I could have killed him right there, had I wanted to, his open posture was almost an invitation for a slaughter, but only a professional fighter could have seen that. I had just come from San Francisco and Studied Karate under the guidance of the greatest Karate instructor of its day (1968-69), Gosei Yamaguchi, thus, having two years in warlike arts in fighting; I was ready.
His instinct was good, he backed down, and I never pushed anyone beyond that point, the point of no return, never put anyone in a corner I always told myself, give him a little room to get out, it could save you a lot of trouble. That was always inbreed in me, not sure of the why or how it.
My thoughts at the time were: why does this wooden man, one I can break so easily confront me like this. The following morning he was standing outside, with two friends, and I came up to him and said, “Do you want to finish it…?” and added, let me show you this: and before he could say a word I had thrown several punches and a back kick (not to show off but to show him I no longer was going to play with him), and I pulled my punches lest I break his nose or jaw or something. After the demonstration, his eyes bulged out, and he just said, “You’re a trained fighter, it would be crazy to fight with you,” and walked away.
4-2-2007
Interlude
(KP and Potatoes, Army life)
(January, 1970; Week Seven in Basic Training)
1
KP
KP, or call it Kitchen Police, Kitchen Duty, or whatever, but back in my day, ever soldier did it. I was woken up this one morning of my seventh week in training, it was a Sunday, and someone wanted to go to church, so guess who they picked for kitchen duty, me. I wasn’t supposed to have it, I had had it three times before, and was suppose to have been done with it. But the Army never works that way, they just keep putting straws on the camels back until he drops, or says something to stop it, and I was not everyone’s favorite soldier, so I just accepted it, I was close to going on to the next stage, advance training in Alabama so I figured another day on KP would not hurt. Yet at the time I didn’t know my next duty station. I didn’t even know if they were going to pass me, I mean, they could have fixed it for me to stay around a while if they hated me so much, you know, torment me with another eight weeks of this boy scout training as I had felt it was. They had done it I heard, but they would not do it to me. Although I’m getting ahead of myself, it is of no consequence to the story here and beyond.
“Soldier, get up, you got KP!” said the young sergeant, my drill sergeant, at 4:00 AM, with a smirk on his face. He was a vulture, “I already had it three times before!” I said.
“You got ten minutes…no more!” he added to his unsightly face. The Buck Sergeant stood outside, waited to see if I was coming, and I was, I rushed to and fro…and was on my way in ten minutes flat.
It was as if by me staying in the platoon touched off a high explosive inside the sergeant’s head, I think he would have liked me to have gone AWOL, run to Canada for his amusement. As I walked outside, onto the dirt road in front of the barracks, and then on down the dirt road, and across the black asphalt road—that went the opposite way, to the Mess Hall, he looked a bit gloomy, I was turning out to be a soldier indeed, and he wasn’t sure if he liked that.
It was a long day, or would be. First came the dishes, then the pots and pans, and then the potatoes, yes, I hated doing the potatoes, not because it was hard, nothing in the Army is that hard, it was boring, and they had an automatic potato peeler right behind me, staring at my back side, as I sat on the steps in back of the mess hall, peeling potatoes the old fashion way, with a knife, slowly, and a big pot for the skins of the potatoes and one for the potatoes. I think it was based on not wanting us to have something to do, rather than nothing to do and the automatic peeler would only do the job quicker and allow us to have free time. Oh well, it was all part of the show I told myself. And it gave me time to think of many things.
(I thought about Maria Garcia, a young woman I was seeing and had met while on Christmas leave, back in St. Paul (the past December). She had a kid, and we’d drink a lot together, and she always seemed to be having family, friends, people in general over to her house, a Mexican thing I think, or Spanish thing, more the company the better; where as for me being the gringo, I was not used to this, and had I suppose less of a family life in that I didn’t have so many people around, more of a loner. But it was nice meeting everyone. She was cute, short, black thick hair, a nice shape on her, and somewhat of a decent lover. And I never told her I was in the Army, and on my last day of leave, I simply left, that was it, I got up one morning, had my orders to go, and left, never even made a phone call, had I, I would not have known what to say anyhow. I would see her some two years later; she’d spot me in St. Paul, in a grocery story, and ask, “Whatever happened to you?” She wasn’t even mad, just concerned. I replied: “I’m really sorry, I was on my way to Vietnam, to war, and I thought, had I told you, it would just get in the way.” Well there was some truth to that, I had went from Fort Bragg, to advance training in Alabama, and onto West Germany, before I went to Vietnam, I kind of let all that stuff out of the picture, deleted it you could say, and just added Vietnam, and war.
“Oh my gosh,” she said, with a serious look.
“How are you doing now?” I asked. And she assured me she was doing fine. Evidently, living with someone, and thus, we parted good friends.
On my three hundred and forty-forth potato, I got thinking about Sergeant Wolf, a black sergeant, drill sergeant that is. How he’d smoke, solemnly smoke them cigarettes, right to its end. He was there among the other Drill Sergeants often, talking, he was from ‘C’ platoon, I think he liked me, because I made him look good, and our sergeants bad; they always had bets, betting on this and that: saying there platoon was better, and I think my drill sergeants lost many bets. He had a fleshless neck, all most none at all, and a head of an absurd largeness; a stooping body like an ape, and hands that almost touching the ground when he walked. He was the Judo and Karate instructor; I could have taught the men better, but for what time we had, it was good enough. I think at times his prerogative was to out show me, but whatever he showed, or demonstrated, I could do better, he had a horrible agility, dull small eyes, clean-shaven. He darted here and there it seemed, like a spider, stupidly I often found myself looking at him. I wouldn’t miss him, I told myself.
Yes indeed many thoughts were going through my mind this day, this twelve hour day: I remembered the three Generals, the second or third day I had been in boot camp, Smiley, I and Bruce were sitting down in the clothing supply area waiting to get sized up for our dress greens, and here comes three generals, I didn’t really know a general from a captain, but one had three stars on his shoulders. “How they treating you soldier?” he asked me, I didn’t get up, and simply said, “So, so, I guess,” he smiled, and said something else, and I never saluted him, nor stood at attention, that was a peeve with my young drill sergeant, but he got over it, after warning me, should it happen again, I’d be severely reprimanded; the General saw the sergeant was upset, and told him in so many wards: give him a break.
The other thing that came to mind in my daydreaming was the old sergeants appearance, my drill sergeant, when I say old, I do not really mean, old, old, but for a drill sergeant, old: he had a square jaw, like me, but was a few inches taller, not much, a rough looking face, as if he had been around a bit, small eyes, half closed all the time, or seemingly so. At times he was vigorous and at times a cold pathetic look gravitated all over his face to his forehead. He was what many called, a Red Neck, perhaps thirty-seven years old, but he was a vulture nonetheless.)
2
Army Life
I felt at times I was the side focus of the group of drill sergeants, they had beat the hell out of one of the soldiers for not adjusting and getting smart with them, which I really never did, I mean I never disrespected them verbally, I was simply not afraid of them, and they knew it. Moreover I was guarded I suppose, waiting for them to do it to me, or try. And they knew I was waiting, and I think my eyes warned them, be careful, you are treading on unknown ground, and somebody besides me will get hurt also. What I took to be men of honor, among our leaders, disappointment me somewhat, most were fine, but some were not. They had a job to do I know, and this is of course how I was feeling at the time: everyone with gaunt and hard eyes, with gloomy jobs, and often drunk before lights went out for us. The older drill sergeant, my drill sergeant couldn’t talk for two weeks, laryngitis (inflammation of the larynx). Not sure why I thought this was funny, but he couldn’t holler like he’d have liked to.
At the end of the day, I had a few aches and some numbness, my muscles danced, and my nerves wiggled. Smiley came by once, said: “See yaw at the beer hall tonight…!” And Bruce and Allen would be with him. Both good old southern boys, as they called themselves. Allen was a large figure of a man, glasses and smart. I nodded my head ‘yes’ and kept on peeling those potatoes, and cutting them up.
Stalemate: Army Life
(January, 1970; Week Seven and a half in Basic Training)
Part Six
We marched back and forth like children walking in formation to school, not half miles though, but four and five miles a day. No one had the right to resort to tears nor calmly and flatly refuse, a few I think wanted to, we had a fat boy in the group, and the sergeants run him ragged (by the time he left, he must had lost forty pounds, he was most grateful to his oppressors) didn’t even fight back, emotionally or physically. Most of the trainees just did what they were told, had to do, thought they had to do. I learned later on in time, one can hate the Army and love it at the same time. And then one becomes codependent on it, with it. This never took place at this stage of the game, but down the road of life it would.
Most of the recruits just did what they were told, not creating any static, or disruptions. The first day they had asked if any of the soldiers were lawyers, or studying law in college, and a few raised their hands, and I never saw them again. Not sure if they got special treatment, or a special platoon, but I knew that if you were in college, the chances were you’d not be drafted until after you got out, or if you were married prior to 1965. I guess I felt, they felt, the rule makers of the country felt we (the others) were dispensable in comparison. Anyhow, as I was saying the men were almost on automatic control for the drill sergeants at this time, acting without thinking, like robots, what they wanted I suppose.
They seemed to have immune perversity while I often emanated an inner outrageousness for such control. I suppose that is why a nation selects our youth, they are so vulnerable, gullible, and patriotism is high, and not reviewed for wrongness. When I select a church (or any organization) to belong to, I review its doctrine, its code, no matter what, listen to the preachers, if they preach the gospel fine, if they preach something that sounds like it, I need to do some thinking, more thinking, and deep thinking—do I want to belong to this or not, kind of thinking; it is a decision with me and myself, my life, the only thing I got here on earth.
People are deceiving; self-interest is stronger than going to Hell. A nation run by a lunatic is not wise to follow. And it is obvious from history: it is easier to enmesh the masses with a big lie, than the few with a small lie. Hitler, and all his kind in history have done so, and continue to do so, and have proven me right, and the blind follow the blind.
On the other hand, it was good for me I suppose, I had a judge that said in so many words: go in the Army, or face the consequences, it was on some minor charges, but I am sure he would have made them look big had I not done my duty (I think it was traffic tickets, 21-of them, way overdue, and I didn’t have the money to pay for them and correct the situation, or problems that would have come from it, perhaps a year in the workhouse is what I might have been facing.) Oh, well, it kept my record clean, they wash the tickets away, the Army was dealing with me, and in time the Army would be like the World’s Fair for me, I got to travel, which I loved, and got paid for working out, which I loved, but orders, they were the quencher, I had to adjust to that, control, that I didn’t love.
And so the battle between me and the Army was half over, nothing was hard for me in the Basic Training world, wasteful perhaps, but not difficult. I was throwing time away, and they were throwing dollars my way, and travel, and training, and so we both got something out of it, the tax payers I’m not sure. And if I was going to save the world, this was a good place to start. It was now 1970, a new decade for me, an ultimatum had been settled, I accepted, this was better than the old stalemate I had back home, and found myself again in, while in the Army, and so I had to learn to bark like a dog to my masters, somewhat, and I would get my biscuit, and I did.
As time would prove, the Army became an intricate part of my life; it provided a roof over my head, a job, or employment, and college down the road.
4-3-2007
Beer Bash—At Fort Bragg!
(February, 1970; Week Eight in Basic Training)
Part Seven
I had learned, a Soldier’s first day in basic training, is like every other day, one very long day. For me it was thirteen weeks long. Dlsiluk
I was motionless, it was Saturday, and we were all standing about in the bus station on base at Fort Bragg, checking out the billboard for our assignments. It was the end of the eighth week of training, and we had but a few days left, going into the ninth week, actually, my 13th week (counting the four weeks I had for Christmas leave) belonging to this Platoon of sorts. We all were checking to see where our orders were going to send us, for our new assignment. The Drill Sergeants were sitting in the smoking room, drinking and so forth, having a bash, training was over for the most part, but we had two days left, we had to use them to clear the base, sign papers, bring back our linen, and so forth and then we’d meet back here and take our buses to wherever.
Sergeant Wolf was collecting money, “How about you Private Siluk?” he asked (a little kinder than usual), as I’m reading my assignment to ‘Red Stone Arsenal,’ Alabama, for munitions training; Smiley by my side, reading his, to Fort Hood, Texas, for Infantry Training.
“Well,” said the sergeant with his hat out.
“Collecting money for what?” I said, adding “is this another requirement?”
“So we can get drunk and forget all your faces, and all the work we had to do to get you recruits to be real soldiers.”
I just stared at him, and he walked away, went into the backroom with the door opened, and took a drink of his booze. Somehow I felt sorry for the men the Drill Sergeants, they really thought they were doing a good deed, they felt they deserved it, the change they were collecting, they all surely had some kind of vision, one I did not pick up on. I was in-between, the eclipse I suppose. So I walked into the backroom, “Want a drink…?” Staff Sergeant Wolf asked.
“I’m a beer drinker, not whiskey…” I said, and dropped fifty cents into his hat, and walked away. I had come to the conclusion, I was not there to change people, but changing me was not so bad, it was for the better, and I only changed what I wanted to change. We saw things a little differently I suppose, but that is the way life is, even in the Army, and they needed some kind of uniformity and it was over.
Conclusion:
Last Salute: The Surveillant
(February, 1970, Week Nine, Last Day at Fort Bragg
Part Eight
The last day at Fort Bragg, Smiley was by me, we got on the bus together to go to the airport, and for once, they (the Drill Sergeants) were respectable gentlemen whom expected to see better days, now that we were going, I suppose, and it wouldn’t do any good to humiliate us now, so they actually held a smile and the captain was nearby shaking hands, not my hand, although he looked my way, I gave have him a half salute, I had come to learn, one salutes the uniform, not necessarily the man. He was all right in a way although he forced me to change, or face the consequences, which would ultimately change me through the Army anyhow; simply another form of control, like a Surveillant (the overlord, overseer or observer). I was simply shaking my head loose trying to get on the bus as quick as possible, and hoping there would be no more ‘lights out,’ when I got to Redstone, my next duty station outside of Huntsville, Alabama.
“I want you to write me Siluk,” said smiley, as we rode to the airport, he was headed to Texas, and I to Alabama. “Sure,” I said, and we would write. Matter of fact, we’d write up to a few weeks prior to me leaving Augsburg, Germany, heading to Vietnam (about a year from that vantage point). He would end up in the Vietnam War, before me. Write me letters, and then all of a sudden stop. He told me many times, “Don’t come over here.” I told him I wanted to, simply because it was too easy in Augsburg, and I wanted more excitement. He told me to get serious. That is what his last letter would say, and then he left an ending sentence that said, “Got to get going to the bush in a few minutes, remember what I say old friend…!”
I had saved him from a fight once. He was heading over to meet me at the EM club, and when he didn’t show up, I got worried, and left the bar, heading across the field, found he was cornered by three recruits, when he saw me he yelled “Siluk!” and I came, and said, “Oh we have some trouble cooking up here, three against one, now this is more like it, two against three, good odds…!” and the three ran the other way, and Smiley yelled at them, “Chickens!” He never forgot that, and I guess I didn’t either.
Anyhow, here we were on the bus, and he gives me his address in Texas. And to be honest, I never looked out the window to see who was looking or waving or whatever was going on out there, and neither did he.
(Behind me were three soldiers that would go to Redstone, one an Indian, I didn’t know him yet, he was from Sergeant Wolf’s platoon, but in time I would get to know him, I think Apache. We would become friends at Redstone, and we’d get drunk together downtown in Huntsville, and get a bit rough in a few bars. Then I’d not see him for awhile, and meet him again in Vietnam, he had become a worse in Nam, than in Redstone, drunk all the time, or high, whatever he could get. I wasn’t much better I suppose)
But on to the airport the bus went, I did a bit of daydreaming on the way, I got thinking about no more brushing the crevices in the tile in the latrine, in the barrack with a toothbrush to appease our overseers, or watching men run around holding their private parts in their hands because they called their riffle a gun, which the drill sergeants didn’t like, as well as this was their punishment, I swore, if they would have asked me to do that, there would have been a little war right there. Anyhow, it didn’t materialize, and I was hoping there would be no more KP, once I got to Redstone, I was hoping, as I said, but that was just a daydream of course, there was KP to be given out, but this time I was not so foolish, I started going to church on Sundays, so I never got it on those days.
The Airport
At the airport Smiley and I said our goodbyes, and I joined the three other guys going to Huntsville, Alabama, the Indian was one of them; I had seen him on the bus, and perhaps at the beer hall a few times, but now, sitting at the bar we became better friends; and I figured why not, we’d be together for three months, unless we got assigned to different barracks. These would be different barracks indeed, round shaped, like I would have in Vietnam, used there as an Orderly Room, here as a barracks, with a metal or tin kind of roof that extended all around the hut, or barracks. And yes, my Native American friend would be there.
As we drank, I (as usual) became quiet, and somber somewhat not in a sad way rather in a dull dreamy way, again I got thinking about my one night in Fayetteville, Private Whitey in our barracks, and for some reason, Fat Boy.
I had escaped one night out of the military base at Fort Bragg, and snuck down to a night club in Fayetteville, got acquainted with the waitress, and then Sergeant Wolf’s assistant came in. I went to the bathroom, and when I came out he was sitting several seats away from my glass of beer, I had to leave it there, and get on out of the club, and it was close. Sandy, the waitress came up to me at the doorway, I couldn’t turn around, lest he see me and report me, and she said, “Come back sometime, I like the quite ones!” She was in her early 30s, very ripe for the pickings.
And there was Whitey; he was a haggard white boy from some eastern city. One night we had to almost hogtie him, throw him under a shower and gave him a bar of soup and forced him to wash himself, lest we do it for him (two weeks without a shower was too much for all of us in the barracks). He bellyached like a squealing pig, but he did what he had to do. He was tallish, white hair for his young age, thin effeminate person, and a most tiring figure in the barracks, he had a red nose, and sniffed all the time as if he was suffering from a permanent severe cold. I was glad he was not headed to Redstone Arsenal with us.
And Fat boy, who was no longer fat. The Sergeants all like him, he lost forty pounds, no longer did he have them fat knuckles, and you could actually see his neck, it was thick muscle now. And he was no longer clumsy. They made him do the monkey bars several times before he went to eat in the mess hall, prior to breakfast, lunch and dinner, and run an extra lap here and there. Remarkable I thought, a man willing to bow to his oppressors.
At the airport it was refreshing to see the pretty smiling faces of the females as I left the bar, walked about, ready to board the plane, faces of so many females, how many girls I couldn’t count, hundreds, all peering obligingly.
4-7-2007
[Sketches of Real life in the Old Army]
By Dennis L. Siluk
Poeta Laureado De San Jerónimo de Tunan, Perú
Awarded the Grand Cross of the City
Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture
Los Andes University (Peru): Recognition given to Dennis Siluk for his poetic and cultural contribution
Soldiers’ First Day
(October, 1969)
Part One
I would learn in time, a Soldiers’ first day, is like every other day in Basic Training, one long, very long day. For me it would be thirteen weeks long. Dlsiluk
1
Chapter
The Bus
When we arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Basic Training, Camp, the Fall of ’69, we were greeted (we, being, a number of us who had come from the Minneapolis, Minnesota’s Army Recruiting Station, now coming off the bus), greeted I say, by cynically sneering, and frankly hyper, drunk looking white sergeants, two of them, with a Forest Ranger, type looking sombreros on their heads, I had my ninety pound duffle bag by my side.
My lip did something like a snicker back at them; my hand did something like a fist.
We were like a little wobbly, staggered train coming off the bus, into camp, forming some kind of a zigzagged line in front of the bus. My captors faced me, two white sergeants (one perhaps in his mid twenties, the other in his mid thirties)) one being a Buck Sergeant type sergeant, the other a Sergeant First Class sergeant, so I would learn these ranks within a few days, this being our first real day in the Army)) they faced us, I should say, stood in front of us as we formed this jagged formation of sorts.
Next, they encouraged us to obey them, as they treated us like criminals with beautiful smiles in-between their sneers.
They grinned, and we grinned, at each other trying to figure out what they were grinning about. Then the engine of the bus stopped, turned off, silence seemed to pass over the bus, onto us, and circle the two Drill Sergeants.
At the same time, the sun was coming down, as the two divine sergeants debated on if we should be allowed to eat dinner, while us new soldiers, smiled at one another appreciatively.
Chapter 2
Mess Hall
Now we were being escorted, if not a bit pushed down a dirt path between two rows of barracks, to our so called destiny, the Mess Hall. I balanced my duffle bag on my shoulders, as they had instructed me, but many of the men couldn’t and so they dragged them, another peeve that would come out later with the two sergeants. As this dragging occurred though, the older sergeant got what I’d call a devilish smile with eyes big as silver dollars, and thus, a few insults reached the ears of the many. That is when I got the smell of their strange cologne, and garlic breath. Several faces (perhaps for the sake of sympathy, so I thought at first) looked out the barrack windows—“What time is it?” a voice said, and eyes looking in my direction, I saw corporal strips on him. I didn’t look at my wrist; I think he wanted me to lose balance of my duffle bag for a laugh.
“I said, what time it is soldier?” the same voice, the same eyes, a rougher tone, said a second time, then it added, in a screaming tone “I’ll see you in the mess hall some time, and then…” he left out what might follow, but he didn’t get the time. I remember thinking: you’d think we were in the middle of a war, or comedy play. I did say something back the second time, something I thought was funny, but not him.
I wasn’t hungry, I had eaten with the few friends I had met in Minneapolis, Minnesota, after getting off the plane, and going to a restaurant, we had a pay voucher for $30-dollars, which in 1969, was a lot of grub, between four or five of us, or enough anyways for a healthy meal, and a small tip.
Hence, our divine hosts were pushing us into the mess hall, seating us, and having us grab excessive portions of food to eat, neither one listening to us, or in particular I, when I said I had just eaten, “Eat anyways so you can’t say we didn’t feed you,” was the reply I kept getting.
As I put down several table spoons of whatever it was eating (and I think I was eating spaghetti), along with some bread and milk, I got thinking this is crazy, and looked for the kitchen, and saw a square opening, window type opening, and saw some soldiers putting their trays through the hole, so I got up, looked at the two sergeants, that were looking at me—somewhat (not paying all that much attention really, and I guess not wanting a confrontation), and the other forty odd solders that got off the bus with me (our duffle bags outside), I aimed my tray at the hole, some several feet away, and tossed it like a spaceship, and it landed perfectly on the other trays, gliding over them like a car gliding over ice, and I headed towards the door, to where my duffle bag would be waiting for me.
Chapter 3
Twilight
My reddish eyes and hair were becoming devouring, as I left the mess hall. I had gulped and swallowed what I could, and was feeling overly full, if not a tinge ill from the lack of sleep, and too much food. And now all this unnecessary control; whatever inspiration I had for the Army was now diminishing. I had an inborn taste for revenge almost.
I stood outside the small mess hall in a pig-like position waiting for our leaders, and the rest of the platoon, it was now twilight. I figured I did my best, though protesting in my own way.
I would notice later on that evening, tears in the eyes of a few soldiers, perhaps irritation in mine. The Army never bothered me, only the disrespect I was feeling, or received. I think bachelors are lucky in the Army, confinement less an issue for them, for married folks, to the contrary.
As I was saying, it was twilight, which now had vanished, and turned into night-night, a dark, heavy blue night. My stomach heavy, and most of us now had come out of the trance like fog we had first found ourselves in getting off the bus, now in the barracks. Digestion was settling, and they, the sergeants were settling us like prey into a lull. We were given our blankets and a pillow, with a few grunts of satisfaction we gave back, we took them, and taking pain not to show our defeat, as we smiled at one another, wondering what was next.
4
The Barracks
Strange tongues, forty strange grins, bare hands, white, black and brown faces, and feet belonging to strangers, all among one another. Hands stretched out over the beds. This was a new experience for all of us. The central figures, two sergeants now telling us ‘lights out in fifteen minutes,” and another voice saying,
“…let’s hurry up and get a smoke!”
I looked about at the faces, disagreeable with curiosity, and then looked out the window with itching fingers to have a cold beer, and get on with the show.
Written: 3/30/2007
Silhouette of a Soldier
(October, 1969)
Chapter Two
1
Reveille
(It is always the sound of the bugle that awakens one in the morning, called reveille, in the Army, the sound to make formation that begins the day, a signal that it is time to get out of bed, summoned to duty. And all one sees in the morning, as one prepares for the second day of duty is shapes and outlines of military personnel in a camp; or so it was for me.)
Silhouettes, that is all they were to me when I first glanced out the window, 2nd day in the Army, soldiers rushing to get into a standing position in what was called a formation, under the autumn sky; the darkness of morning was lifting, an intense darkness it was, a haunting dark blue sky, extra ordinarily cold for a North Carolina morning, it seemed.
I had noticed in the distance, throughout the day, across a field, a club resided, ‘Enlisted Men’s Club,’ to be exact, so I was told, a bar in essence, or so it would be called in my old neighborhood, in St. Paul, Minnesota (called: ‘Donkeyland,’ by the police for its hardheaded drunks, that lived and died at two corner bars).
2
The EM Club
I was particularly thrilled to have discovered it so close by the group of basic training barracks (mine in particular); whereat, when our two Drill Sergeants, our escorts throughout the day were done with us, disembarking for the evening, but beforehand, let us know they’d return at 10:00 PM, to insure lights were turned off, (which was to them, the very ‘last moment of light,’ to be seen within our barracks, lest we wanted to be disciplined))it was really a curfew in essence)): in any case, disembarking for the evening, this would allow me to make acquaintance with the establishment, the EM club. In outcome, I felt a little at home now, likened to finding you are nearby a church, something familiar, if indeed I was a priest.
As I was saying, or about to say, at 10:00 PM, would be the last moment of light to be seen within our barracks, and we stopped work at 7:00 PM, a very full day; I had woke up at 4:00 AM, not much sleep, I was stiff and cold and only half awake, in the morning, and now, in the evening, exhausted, I had my Army green fatigues on, and moved grimly without speaking to anyone, now after duty hours, after having a quick dinner at the mess hall, moved quickly over the field to where the EM club was, it was 8:15 PM, when I arrived there, par excellence in my quick study of the matter, most all the new soldiers had no idea the club existed. Plus, they were too busy trying to be good soldiers, and I was the second oldest person in the platoon (I learned, the younger the easier one can be led).
As I walked across the field, I told myself, “You’ve never been in an EM club before.” How true this was, but I knew bars well, was drinking in them since I was 16-years old, fighting in them, drinking in them, and getting sick in a few, most are the same, smelly, dingy, and alive or dead, plus, I told myself, “You will know in a short time.” Hence, in a few minutes I was walking through the door of he club, yellow flares went off in my head, I acted like I belong there, I always did when I walked into a bar, a strange bar for sure, I was at the time, just turning twenty-two years old.
The insides of the club were small, and formless, nothing special; mostly square, with figures moving about, to and fro, a crackle of conversations, going on everywhere, seemingly sadly suppressed, abnormal for a bar one could say, not lively at all. I was use to deliciously insane bars I suppose, but nonetheless, I was gulping down my first cold Army beer in no time flat.
Everyone seemed to be wrapped in ghostly Army Green, this was to be, I knew the, an unearthly patch of the world, hereon, and forevermore, save, I remained in the Army. (In years to follow, I’d find bars off bases to cater to, rather than the on base Army Clubs.)
I leaned on the bar, drank down a second glass of cold mouthwatering beer, and stared at nothingness.
3
The Corporal
My elbows now on the bar, I got staring at and out the window, the mist had created a moisture onto the bar window, formed a fogginess on the glass; everyone seemed like talking shadows all linked together around the bar, I recognized no one, especially no one from my platoon, that is, ‘D’ Company, 4th Platoon as they called it, called us. I thought briefly about Smiley, a Private like me, a year younger than I, and from the South, I think he said, Alabama, he was easy to talk to, liked to drink, a friend to be found I pondered, a worthy friend, most people I accepted as acquaintances, and only a few select would I categorize as friends.
“You’re the one,” I heard a voice say next to me, I turned, a stranger, Corporal sat about seven feet from my stool.
“You speak to me?” I didn’t care if he had twenty strips on, bar folks get a few drinks in them and try to command the world, this was neither the time nor place to play chief, and I told myself.
“Yaw,” he said, a clean shaven kid, couldn’t be over 19-years old I told myself, but he had a few more strips than I.
“What you want?” I asked somewhat brusquely.
“You’re the one I asked for the time, yesterday, I work in the mess hall, and you could get in trouble for being here, because new soldiers, or new recruits, are not suppose to come here, you got a place down by the PX, and you can’t go to that until the second week you’ve been here.”
“So are you going to tell, or what?” I asked.
He laughed a bit, and then smiled, “It’s your head, not mine, if they chop it off, oh well.” And I bought him a beer. In time we’d get to know each other, and he’d even give me excuses to use incase I came back after 10:00 PM, for he worked with the Colonel, often after duty hours.
Written: 3-31-2007
Horse’s Hoofs and Old Soldiers
(November, 1969; Week Two in Basic Training)
Part Three
1
Running
In the barracks it was chilly. The Drill Sergeants smell worst. I knew my smell. Why be polite, it was long days in back of me and in front, long days running, and today I had to run around a field three times, two miles each lap, six miles complete, in some specified time, can’t remember it exactly. I took a number of salt tablets as I ran; some of the men were eating chocolate, to keep their energy up. I quickly learned running was part of the Army, like white on rice.
Yes indeed, running is part of a soldiers life, I told myself, after two weeks (about to go into the third) of running everyday, sometimes with our M14 rifles held over our heads, sometimes carrying our duffle backs full of cloths, and now, today, around in circles. The voice beside me said, “China, China…” a Chinese man, small in stature, who wanted to be an American. In time we would become good friends, and go on to Advance Training in Alabama together, but at this particular moment, it was of course unknown. He had come over to San Francisco, from China, got drafted into the Army, given the choice to join, or return to China, but the offer of citizenship was too great to pass up, so he allowed himself to be drafted into the US Army. He was here on a visit of some kind, originally.
The two divine Drill Sergeants were standing on the side of the circle as I passed them, going on and into my third circle, anger on their faces; they only smiled when you obeyed them. Smiley was right in back of me, my friend from Alabama. It was a hot mid morning, an insane day to be exact, and I was still somewhat drowsy, my brain that is, had gotten drunk the night before, as usual, and was paying for it now (a second time). And here were all these bodies running, running the length of the field, and China, keeping up with all (all his 110-pounds); many of the men just dropped to the ground, passed out from heat exhaustion. But us three kept going. It was the whole company today, all four platoons, perhaps 160-men in total.
One man came along by my side, said: “I say where we are?” and dropped to the ground, just like that, as he dropped I said, “In hell…!”
I think the Drill Sergeant, the older one, was faint and felt almost dead from exhaustion, he had run around the circle once to show he could; I stopped a few times, my hat had fallen off my head for the 3rd time, “Get moving,” he yelled, the old fart couldn’t do it himself, but expected me, I gave him one of his same old grimaces back.
The third stop somehow allowed me to catch my wind and I started back up after a brief swallow of air into my stomach, Smiley, had stopped, was resting on the side now, couldn’t go any further, I think cramps did him in; next, I got back into my running posture and finished the third circle. Perhaps there were about twenty of us, ready to go into a forth, but the Drill Sergeant, told us to stop, and like the others I rested, found the few select people I liked from our platoon, Smiley among them, and China. We all grunted a bit. Moreover, the young sergeant, came up to us and said, “Well,” he then struck his chin, adding (I merely looked at him) “Get down Siluk and do fifty pushups,” (for being cocky I suppose, and to show the rest of the group how out of shape I was. I said, “Fifty, is that all!” And I did the fifty in a few minutes, got back up, and he said again, “Get down and do fifty more!” And I did, and I got up and said, “I will make note of this…” implying, the necessary sum that he could make me do was at its point, and I was not afraid of him, consequently, if he wanted me to do more, I could legally defy him, this he did not want, no challenges.
2
Horse’s Hoofs
I didn’t make any friends this day of course, and felt a little under the horse’s hoofs, several of the platoon faces, recruits, like me, felt I was a trouble maker (for them I suppose), and I was I suppose. And this got back to the Captain, whom would confront me in time on this very issue, in another two weeks to be exact. It was mid November, and we heard we’d be going home for Christmas, and have to return to basic training to finish it, thereafter. One of the soldiers would not have enough money to go home, and we all pitched in from the platoon and made that possible, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The young Drill Sergeant led us to the front of the barracks, and had us do several exercises, he said it was because there was a soldier with a bad attitude in the platoon, and all would have to suffer from that. The older sergeant vaguely looking at me from afar, but I read his lips, “Siluk, you again!”
“Squat, crouch, and walk around the barracks,” commanded the young sergeant. This was not only humiliating for the platoon, because we looked like ducks, but tiresome, thus, I got a few unfriendly faces, and whispers like: Siluk, stop causing trouble, straighten up…and so forth and so on. And I simply went, or said “Quack, quack…” to all this—loud!
“Who said that? “Asked the young drill sergeant, then he walked along side of me…”It’s you again, I know it’s you Siluk, another walk around the barracks,” he announced, and then I whispered to the guys, “Ok, ok…I’ll shut up (but I couldn’t help it, I did it a second time, then I shut up)) for now))”
After it was all done (the duck walk), most everyone collapsed comfortable on their beds, while the drill sergeants adjusted their smirks.
Enormous pomposity was shown in the two drill sergeants, and displayed around me, or perhaps I was the only one that saw these expressions, gestures, everyone else too busy being nervous about what was next. It was going on to the third week of November, that the Captain had called me into his office, and I asked what for, and he said, “Just wanted to see who you were,” and he kept an educated serious face about the matter, and dismissed me, yet I knew something was coming.
For the most part, I was in a new world, and having a hard time devouring the customs, the inexpressible nuance of the pretense they expected out of me, willingly—to appreciate their fine work in sculpturing a soldier out of a neighborhood bum. My uncouthness was not appreciated either.
That night, the night that followed the duck-walk, Smiley was to meet me at the EM Club, it was the end of the second week, and we were allowed now, to buy freely at the PX, and go to the Company Recruits club to drink, 3.2 Beer, that is, beer that taste like water. But I was already into the EM Club, and drank there. They, the Drill Sergeants had actually escorted us that first day to the PX, like tourists.
I gave Smiley a consultation on my EM club drinking, and told him to meet me there this evening, around eight or nine o clock; our bed time now was 10:30, lights off, or the last moment for lights, at 11:00. PM, weekends, lights off at 12:00 midnight, and now bed check, being 11:00 PM. Life was improving.
As I waited for Smiley, I thought about what the older Drill Sergeant had told the platoon, that next week there was going to be a show for us, the 82nd Airborne, whom was stationed there, would jump out of airplanes, parachuting down to where we would be sitting. I told myself, only birds and their droppings fall out of the sky, and thus, let it be at that. (But when the day came, the old sergeant asked me, sitting on a hill, “Go down there and join up, Siluk!” And I said, “I’m not a bird…!” And he kicked me, and I rolled down the hill, and waved to him, from that position. Another peeve he had with me.
3
Froilan
There was a young female, a Froilan, German girl unmarried woman, who was the waitress at the EM club, a daughter I expect to one of the higher ranking sergeants on base (she spoke with a broken English accent but clear clean German, perhaps twenty-one, or younger; perhaps a second marriage I thought between an older sergeant and German. Anyhow, she was dangerously appetizing I thought, I never did chat with her, a long chat that is, other than, a hello and goodbye, I figured I was under observation at the club (and a few young bucks were always around her at the bar when she finished serving her drinks), and as long as I kept to my own, they left me lone, and should I try to get a date with her, they would expose me as recruit, I was sure of that, and I’d have to go to the main drinking hall, with the rest of my Company.
She was lean, perhaps five foot three inches tall, lovely in many ways, and friendly, and customers liked her. She wore tight dresses, benignant in a way, with breasts that bulged slightly out of her blouse, and had small hands, dark hair—penetrating eyes.
Written 4-1-2007
Army Beer Hall
(December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)
Part Four
1
Beer Hall
I had gone to the beer hall this first Saturday evening after returning to Basic Training Camp, from Christmas leave. The Captain was there, I had heard he showed up now and then, but not often, and this was perhaps my third time in the beer hall myself, I preferred the EM Club to the hall, more sedate.
For me it was really the first time I saw him here, a sharp consciousness of being stared at absorbed me, made me look the other way. He was still gazing at me when I turned around, thus, it was me he was curious about—so I validated, some kind of strained expectancy, I expect, like a month ago when he stared at me in his office, like a rat in a cage, or maze. More like a psychological pondering, trying to figure me out for the butchering that was going to take place. I paid little heed thought, at first, just curious also to his inquisitive mannerisms.
After about ten-minutes of this, I asked myself, ‘What is he waiting for?’ I was becoming irritably, adding, ‘what does he expect of me now: to sing the National Anthem for him personally?’ I stood silently, a tinge guarded now, as if this was an entirely obvious reaction, as he approached me.
“We’ve both been away for a while, Christmas vacation, I’ve wanted to talk to you before you left, but…well it just didn’t work out, I’m a bit surprised you’re back, and so glad I found you here this evening, Private Siluk.” He said in a seriously low and cordial tone, almost a mumble.
At about this time, I was waiting for the punch, the Sunday punch that normally comes with such surprises; you know, someone says a few good words, to get you off guard, off balance, and than bang.
2
The Captain
(I gazed mutely at him.) The Captain stood now alongside of me, as I leaned back, somewhat comfortable against a pillar in the old WWII, beer hall. He said, sincerely, yet kind of in an official manner, something I never expected, never even saw it coming:
“You make me look like the worst Company Commander in the whole Basic Training Camp, Private Siluk. My comrades laugh and make jokes about how you belittle the Army, and its training and our Sergeants… (then he grabbed two beers on the counter, laid down thirty cents, and brought them back to me, one for him, the other for me, then continued:) as I was saying, about to say, you do not make me look good in front of my peers. To the contrary, and I’ve thought about his a while, what to do with you, you are always borderline, actually you would make a good soldier, if you wanted to, it seems you do not want to though. (he looked at me deeply and sincerely into my eyes) what did I ever do to you?” He asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Well then, unintentionally, you are making me look like the worse commander at Fort Bragg for nothing? I never drafted you, the Government did, yet it seems you are taking your anger out on me, my Company!”
(I felt awkward, not sure what to say)) He did not say it loud, but said it firmly, with almost hurt in his face. I knew I was taking it out on the platoon, but there are four platoons to a company, and I didn’t feel I was taking it out on them, but he assured me I was, because they rated all four platoons, to see which one was the worst and best, and then rated the companies, which were four also, to a Battalion, and I was in the 10th Battalion, 1st BDE (Brigade) this I knew already, and I knew we were the worse of the worse. But I never put two and two together it was me making the platoon look back, I passed all the physical and written tests, but it was based on more I guess than that.))
“I never said it was your fault, Captain,” I responded; as we both walked easily and leisurely a few steps, both thinking. He perhaps had it all figured out, how he would present this to me, it was too cleaver to have had it just pop out of his head at the moment it did, for he added this, “I’ll make you a deal, you have got two years of this life to deal with, it’s going to be a rough road for everyone involved, even you, everyone you meet. (Smiley walks by, I smile, let him know all is well; the Captain becomes silent until he passed, then continues), as I was saying, you have a lot of time to fight with everyone, and that is not a good way to live. Here is what I will do for you. At midnight, I will have two MPs pick you up at the barracks, everyone will be sleeping, and they will take you to the bus station, and not report you’re missing for twenty-four hours, enough time to get to Canada, if that is where you wish to go. You can be out of the country before the AWOL notice goes into effect. Or you can stay here, and please stop making trouble for me (he made this personal)?”
He was I think waiting for an answer, one I never gave him, couldn’t give him, at the moment, so I simply walked away, as he said, “They’ll be out by your barracks at midnight.” (Meaning the MPs.)
Well, I was there in the morning, as if nothing had been said, standing in formation, as always, reveille (my wake up call), and I’m not sure if the Captain saw me or not, but that was the last time I had saw him, face to face; off in the distance, I saw him here and there. He did one thing if anything, he threw it back on me, I had to make the decision, not him, thus, his conscious was free, and back in those days, it wasn’t hard for an officer to get revenge if he indeed wanted to, and it wasn’t hard for a trouble maker like me I suppose to cause friction for the Army on a continues us scale, so perhaps he gave both us, the Army and me, an once of respect, to straighten things out, or let time do it the hard way, for both of us. For the most part, I behaved myself, for the most part I say, but not completely. And in time I would turn out to be a good soldier, and awarded a number of medals to prove it. Yes, this was really just the beginning.
Written 4-2-2007
Last Moment of Light!
(From San Francisco to Fort Bragg)
(January, 1970; Week Six in Basic Training)
Part Five
In the days and weeks to follow—every muscle throughout my body was aching, head spinning; yet I was not worn down like most of the troops, perhaps I had a lot of training in San Francisco, and back in St Paul, Minnesota in karate, and my body was somewhat ready for this kind of training. Face to face with the Drill Sergeants, I half straightened my attitude out, somewhat came to an understanding, willingly obedient, yet at night I still came in soggy drunk, hanging onto whatever I could.
On the top bunk, of the bunk bed I was on (in the large room we lived in, the bunk beds of us 44-soldiers were in two rows, 11-to each side, one soldier on top, one on the bottom, old WWII, wooden framed, square frame, slanted roofed barracks, and going toward the double doors, to the right, it lead out into the courtyard, just beyond the doors, straight ahead, was the latrine. The windows in the building were wide, on both sides of the wooden structure, several to each side; the outside painted white, the inside pale white, and green.), as I was about to say, a southern boy slept on the top bunk, he didn’t seem to like me, or get along with me all that well, just gave me sneers like the Sergeants often did, not like Smiley and I, and he didn’t like me coming into the barracks drunk and coming in so late, I felt it was none of his business. He was a strict soldier, and our attitudes conflicted, ferocity of rectangular emotion around him, I called it now, then it was just bitterness, and he decided to confront me on this drinking issue one evening, just before lights out.
I came in, it was perhaps a few minutes before ´Light’s out!’ and he grabbed me by my shirt (about my height, and weight), said: “It’s two minutes to lights out, and here you are walking in half drunk.” He was correct in his observation.
“Oh,” I said, adding “…is that so…!” and broke his arm from my shirt, downward, and a second later, took my palm and pushed him against the wall. He was stunned I had broken his arm hold so easily, and without had him almost pinned against the wall. Then I grabbed his shaving cream and squirted it all over him, not sure why, but it was the closest thing to my free hands now, but perhaps to shame him or belittle him in front of the onlookers, whom were the soldiers in their bunks now. Then stepped back into a fighting stance, and egged him on. I did not want to beat him without him having another chance to strike me, it didn’t seem right. I mean I could have killed him right there, had I wanted to, his open posture was almost an invitation for a slaughter, but only a professional fighter could have seen that. I had just come from San Francisco and Studied Karate under the guidance of the greatest Karate instructor of its day (1968-69), Gosei Yamaguchi, thus, having two years in warlike arts in fighting; I was ready.
His instinct was good, he backed down, and I never pushed anyone beyond that point, the point of no return, never put anyone in a corner I always told myself, give him a little room to get out, it could save you a lot of trouble. That was always inbreed in me, not sure of the why or how it.
My thoughts at the time were: why does this wooden man, one I can break so easily confront me like this. The following morning he was standing outside, with two friends, and I came up to him and said, “Do you want to finish it…?” and added, let me show you this: and before he could say a word I had thrown several punches and a back kick (not to show off but to show him I no longer was going to play with him), and I pulled my punches lest I break his nose or jaw or something. After the demonstration, his eyes bulged out, and he just said, “You’re a trained fighter, it would be crazy to fight with you,” and walked away.
4-2-2007
Interlude
(KP and Potatoes, Army life)
(January, 1970; Week Seven in Basic Training)
1
KP
KP, or call it Kitchen Police, Kitchen Duty, or whatever, but back in my day, ever soldier did it. I was woken up this one morning of my seventh week in training, it was a Sunday, and someone wanted to go to church, so guess who they picked for kitchen duty, me. I wasn’t supposed to have it, I had had it three times before, and was suppose to have been done with it. But the Army never works that way, they just keep putting straws on the camels back until he drops, or says something to stop it, and I was not everyone’s favorite soldier, so I just accepted it, I was close to going on to the next stage, advance training in Alabama so I figured another day on KP would not hurt. Yet at the time I didn’t know my next duty station. I didn’t even know if they were going to pass me, I mean, they could have fixed it for me to stay around a while if they hated me so much, you know, torment me with another eight weeks of this boy scout training as I had felt it was. They had done it I heard, but they would not do it to me. Although I’m getting ahead of myself, it is of no consequence to the story here and beyond.
“Soldier, get up, you got KP!” said the young sergeant, my drill sergeant, at 4:00 AM, with a smirk on his face. He was a vulture, “I already had it three times before!” I said.
“You got ten minutes…no more!” he added to his unsightly face. The Buck Sergeant stood outside, waited to see if I was coming, and I was, I rushed to and fro…and was on my way in ten minutes flat.
It was as if by me staying in the platoon touched off a high explosive inside the sergeant’s head, I think he would have liked me to have gone AWOL, run to Canada for his amusement. As I walked outside, onto the dirt road in front of the barracks, and then on down the dirt road, and across the black asphalt road—that went the opposite way, to the Mess Hall, he looked a bit gloomy, I was turning out to be a soldier indeed, and he wasn’t sure if he liked that.
It was a long day, or would be. First came the dishes, then the pots and pans, and then the potatoes, yes, I hated doing the potatoes, not because it was hard, nothing in the Army is that hard, it was boring, and they had an automatic potato peeler right behind me, staring at my back side, as I sat on the steps in back of the mess hall, peeling potatoes the old fashion way, with a knife, slowly, and a big pot for the skins of the potatoes and one for the potatoes. I think it was based on not wanting us to have something to do, rather than nothing to do and the automatic peeler would only do the job quicker and allow us to have free time. Oh well, it was all part of the show I told myself. And it gave me time to think of many things.
(I thought about Maria Garcia, a young woman I was seeing and had met while on Christmas leave, back in St. Paul (the past December). She had a kid, and we’d drink a lot together, and she always seemed to be having family, friends, people in general over to her house, a Mexican thing I think, or Spanish thing, more the company the better; where as for me being the gringo, I was not used to this, and had I suppose less of a family life in that I didn’t have so many people around, more of a loner. But it was nice meeting everyone. She was cute, short, black thick hair, a nice shape on her, and somewhat of a decent lover. And I never told her I was in the Army, and on my last day of leave, I simply left, that was it, I got up one morning, had my orders to go, and left, never even made a phone call, had I, I would not have known what to say anyhow. I would see her some two years later; she’d spot me in St. Paul, in a grocery story, and ask, “Whatever happened to you?” She wasn’t even mad, just concerned. I replied: “I’m really sorry, I was on my way to Vietnam, to war, and I thought, had I told you, it would just get in the way.” Well there was some truth to that, I had went from Fort Bragg, to advance training in Alabama, and onto West Germany, before I went to Vietnam, I kind of let all that stuff out of the picture, deleted it you could say, and just added Vietnam, and war.
“Oh my gosh,” she said, with a serious look.
“How are you doing now?” I asked. And she assured me she was doing fine. Evidently, living with someone, and thus, we parted good friends.
On my three hundred and forty-forth potato, I got thinking about Sergeant Wolf, a black sergeant, drill sergeant that is. How he’d smoke, solemnly smoke them cigarettes, right to its end. He was there among the other Drill Sergeants often, talking, he was from ‘C’ platoon, I think he liked me, because I made him look good, and our sergeants bad; they always had bets, betting on this and that: saying there platoon was better, and I think my drill sergeants lost many bets. He had a fleshless neck, all most none at all, and a head of an absurd largeness; a stooping body like an ape, and hands that almost touching the ground when he walked. He was the Judo and Karate instructor; I could have taught the men better, but for what time we had, it was good enough. I think at times his prerogative was to out show me, but whatever he showed, or demonstrated, I could do better, he had a horrible agility, dull small eyes, clean-shaven. He darted here and there it seemed, like a spider, stupidly I often found myself looking at him. I wouldn’t miss him, I told myself.
Yes indeed many thoughts were going through my mind this day, this twelve hour day: I remembered the three Generals, the second or third day I had been in boot camp, Smiley, I and Bruce were sitting down in the clothing supply area waiting to get sized up for our dress greens, and here comes three generals, I didn’t really know a general from a captain, but one had three stars on his shoulders. “How they treating you soldier?” he asked me, I didn’t get up, and simply said, “So, so, I guess,” he smiled, and said something else, and I never saluted him, nor stood at attention, that was a peeve with my young drill sergeant, but he got over it, after warning me, should it happen again, I’d be severely reprimanded; the General saw the sergeant was upset, and told him in so many wards: give him a break.
The other thing that came to mind in my daydreaming was the old sergeants appearance, my drill sergeant, when I say old, I do not really mean, old, old, but for a drill sergeant, old: he had a square jaw, like me, but was a few inches taller, not much, a rough looking face, as if he had been around a bit, small eyes, half closed all the time, or seemingly so. At times he was vigorous and at times a cold pathetic look gravitated all over his face to his forehead. He was what many called, a Red Neck, perhaps thirty-seven years old, but he was a vulture nonetheless.)
2
Army Life
I felt at times I was the side focus of the group of drill sergeants, they had beat the hell out of one of the soldiers for not adjusting and getting smart with them, which I really never did, I mean I never disrespected them verbally, I was simply not afraid of them, and they knew it. Moreover I was guarded I suppose, waiting for them to do it to me, or try. And they knew I was waiting, and I think my eyes warned them, be careful, you are treading on unknown ground, and somebody besides me will get hurt also. What I took to be men of honor, among our leaders, disappointment me somewhat, most were fine, but some were not. They had a job to do I know, and this is of course how I was feeling at the time: everyone with gaunt and hard eyes, with gloomy jobs, and often drunk before lights went out for us. The older drill sergeant, my drill sergeant couldn’t talk for two weeks, laryngitis (inflammation of the larynx). Not sure why I thought this was funny, but he couldn’t holler like he’d have liked to.
At the end of the day, I had a few aches and some numbness, my muscles danced, and my nerves wiggled. Smiley came by once, said: “See yaw at the beer hall tonight…!” And Bruce and Allen would be with him. Both good old southern boys, as they called themselves. Allen was a large figure of a man, glasses and smart. I nodded my head ‘yes’ and kept on peeling those potatoes, and cutting them up.
Stalemate: Army Life
(January, 1970; Week Seven and a half in Basic Training)
Part Six
We marched back and forth like children walking in formation to school, not half miles though, but four and five miles a day. No one had the right to resort to tears nor calmly and flatly refuse, a few I think wanted to, we had a fat boy in the group, and the sergeants run him ragged (by the time he left, he must had lost forty pounds, he was most grateful to his oppressors) didn’t even fight back, emotionally or physically. Most of the trainees just did what they were told, had to do, thought they had to do. I learned later on in time, one can hate the Army and love it at the same time. And then one becomes codependent on it, with it. This never took place at this stage of the game, but down the road of life it would.
Most of the recruits just did what they were told, not creating any static, or disruptions. The first day they had asked if any of the soldiers were lawyers, or studying law in college, and a few raised their hands, and I never saw them again. Not sure if they got special treatment, or a special platoon, but I knew that if you were in college, the chances were you’d not be drafted until after you got out, or if you were married prior to 1965. I guess I felt, they felt, the rule makers of the country felt we (the others) were dispensable in comparison. Anyhow, as I was saying the men were almost on automatic control for the drill sergeants at this time, acting without thinking, like robots, what they wanted I suppose.
They seemed to have immune perversity while I often emanated an inner outrageousness for such control. I suppose that is why a nation selects our youth, they are so vulnerable, gullible, and patriotism is high, and not reviewed for wrongness. When I select a church (or any organization) to belong to, I review its doctrine, its code, no matter what, listen to the preachers, if they preach the gospel fine, if they preach something that sounds like it, I need to do some thinking, more thinking, and deep thinking—do I want to belong to this or not, kind of thinking; it is a decision with me and myself, my life, the only thing I got here on earth.
People are deceiving; self-interest is stronger than going to Hell. A nation run by a lunatic is not wise to follow. And it is obvious from history: it is easier to enmesh the masses with a big lie, than the few with a small lie. Hitler, and all his kind in history have done so, and continue to do so, and have proven me right, and the blind follow the blind.
On the other hand, it was good for me I suppose, I had a judge that said in so many words: go in the Army, or face the consequences, it was on some minor charges, but I am sure he would have made them look big had I not done my duty (I think it was traffic tickets, 21-of them, way overdue, and I didn’t have the money to pay for them and correct the situation, or problems that would have come from it, perhaps a year in the workhouse is what I might have been facing.) Oh, well, it kept my record clean, they wash the tickets away, the Army was dealing with me, and in time the Army would be like the World’s Fair for me, I got to travel, which I loved, and got paid for working out, which I loved, but orders, they were the quencher, I had to adjust to that, control, that I didn’t love.
And so the battle between me and the Army was half over, nothing was hard for me in the Basic Training world, wasteful perhaps, but not difficult. I was throwing time away, and they were throwing dollars my way, and travel, and training, and so we both got something out of it, the tax payers I’m not sure. And if I was going to save the world, this was a good place to start. It was now 1970, a new decade for me, an ultimatum had been settled, I accepted, this was better than the old stalemate I had back home, and found myself again in, while in the Army, and so I had to learn to bark like a dog to my masters, somewhat, and I would get my biscuit, and I did.
As time would prove, the Army became an intricate part of my life; it provided a roof over my head, a job, or employment, and college down the road.
4-3-2007
Beer Bash—At Fort Bragg!
(February, 1970; Week Eight in Basic Training)
Part Seven
I had learned, a Soldier’s first day in basic training, is like every other day, one very long day. For me it was thirteen weeks long. Dlsiluk
I was motionless, it was Saturday, and we were all standing about in the bus station on base at Fort Bragg, checking out the billboard for our assignments. It was the end of the eighth week of training, and we had but a few days left, going into the ninth week, actually, my 13th week (counting the four weeks I had for Christmas leave) belonging to this Platoon of sorts. We all were checking to see where our orders were going to send us, for our new assignment. The Drill Sergeants were sitting in the smoking room, drinking and so forth, having a bash, training was over for the most part, but we had two days left, we had to use them to clear the base, sign papers, bring back our linen, and so forth and then we’d meet back here and take our buses to wherever.
Sergeant Wolf was collecting money, “How about you Private Siluk?” he asked (a little kinder than usual), as I’m reading my assignment to ‘Red Stone Arsenal,’ Alabama, for munitions training; Smiley by my side, reading his, to Fort Hood, Texas, for Infantry Training.
“Well,” said the sergeant with his hat out.
“Collecting money for what?” I said, adding “is this another requirement?”
“So we can get drunk and forget all your faces, and all the work we had to do to get you recruits to be real soldiers.”
I just stared at him, and he walked away, went into the backroom with the door opened, and took a drink of his booze. Somehow I felt sorry for the men the Drill Sergeants, they really thought they were doing a good deed, they felt they deserved it, the change they were collecting, they all surely had some kind of vision, one I did not pick up on. I was in-between, the eclipse I suppose. So I walked into the backroom, “Want a drink…?” Staff Sergeant Wolf asked.
“I’m a beer drinker, not whiskey…” I said, and dropped fifty cents into his hat, and walked away. I had come to the conclusion, I was not there to change people, but changing me was not so bad, it was for the better, and I only changed what I wanted to change. We saw things a little differently I suppose, but that is the way life is, even in the Army, and they needed some kind of uniformity and it was over.
Conclusion:
Last Salute: The Surveillant
(February, 1970, Week Nine, Last Day at Fort Bragg
Part Eight
The last day at Fort Bragg, Smiley was by me, we got on the bus together to go to the airport, and for once, they (the Drill Sergeants) were respectable gentlemen whom expected to see better days, now that we were going, I suppose, and it wouldn’t do any good to humiliate us now, so they actually held a smile and the captain was nearby shaking hands, not my hand, although he looked my way, I gave have him a half salute, I had come to learn, one salutes the uniform, not necessarily the man. He was all right in a way although he forced me to change, or face the consequences, which would ultimately change me through the Army anyhow; simply another form of control, like a Surveillant (the overlord, overseer or observer). I was simply shaking my head loose trying to get on the bus as quick as possible, and hoping there would be no more ‘lights out,’ when I got to Redstone, my next duty station outside of Huntsville, Alabama.
“I want you to write me Siluk,” said smiley, as we rode to the airport, he was headed to Texas, and I to Alabama. “Sure,” I said, and we would write. Matter of fact, we’d write up to a few weeks prior to me leaving Augsburg, Germany, heading to Vietnam (about a year from that vantage point). He would end up in the Vietnam War, before me. Write me letters, and then all of a sudden stop. He told me many times, “Don’t come over here.” I told him I wanted to, simply because it was too easy in Augsburg, and I wanted more excitement. He told me to get serious. That is what his last letter would say, and then he left an ending sentence that said, “Got to get going to the bush in a few minutes, remember what I say old friend…!”
I had saved him from a fight once. He was heading over to meet me at the EM club, and when he didn’t show up, I got worried, and left the bar, heading across the field, found he was cornered by three recruits, when he saw me he yelled “Siluk!” and I came, and said, “Oh we have some trouble cooking up here, three against one, now this is more like it, two against three, good odds…!” and the three ran the other way, and Smiley yelled at them, “Chickens!” He never forgot that, and I guess I didn’t either.
Anyhow, here we were on the bus, and he gives me his address in Texas. And to be honest, I never looked out the window to see who was looking or waving or whatever was going on out there, and neither did he.
(Behind me were three soldiers that would go to Redstone, one an Indian, I didn’t know him yet, he was from Sergeant Wolf’s platoon, but in time I would get to know him, I think Apache. We would become friends at Redstone, and we’d get drunk together downtown in Huntsville, and get a bit rough in a few bars. Then I’d not see him for awhile, and meet him again in Vietnam, he had become a worse in Nam, than in Redstone, drunk all the time, or high, whatever he could get. I wasn’t much better I suppose)
But on to the airport the bus went, I did a bit of daydreaming on the way, I got thinking about no more brushing the crevices in the tile in the latrine, in the barrack with a toothbrush to appease our overseers, or watching men run around holding their private parts in their hands because they called their riffle a gun, which the drill sergeants didn’t like, as well as this was their punishment, I swore, if they would have asked me to do that, there would have been a little war right there. Anyhow, it didn’t materialize, and I was hoping there would be no more KP, once I got to Redstone, I was hoping, as I said, but that was just a daydream of course, there was KP to be given out, but this time I was not so foolish, I started going to church on Sundays, so I never got it on those days.
The Airport
At the airport Smiley and I said our goodbyes, and I joined the three other guys going to Huntsville, Alabama, the Indian was one of them; I had seen him on the bus, and perhaps at the beer hall a few times, but now, sitting at the bar we became better friends; and I figured why not, we’d be together for three months, unless we got assigned to different barracks. These would be different barracks indeed, round shaped, like I would have in Vietnam, used there as an Orderly Room, here as a barracks, with a metal or tin kind of roof that extended all around the hut, or barracks. And yes, my Native American friend would be there.
As we drank, I (as usual) became quiet, and somber somewhat not in a sad way rather in a dull dreamy way, again I got thinking about my one night in Fayetteville, Private Whitey in our barracks, and for some reason, Fat Boy.
I had escaped one night out of the military base at Fort Bragg, and snuck down to a night club in Fayetteville, got acquainted with the waitress, and then Sergeant Wolf’s assistant came in. I went to the bathroom, and when I came out he was sitting several seats away from my glass of beer, I had to leave it there, and get on out of the club, and it was close. Sandy, the waitress came up to me at the doorway, I couldn’t turn around, lest he see me and report me, and she said, “Come back sometime, I like the quite ones!” She was in her early 30s, very ripe for the pickings.
And there was Whitey; he was a haggard white boy from some eastern city. One night we had to almost hogtie him, throw him under a shower and gave him a bar of soup and forced him to wash himself, lest we do it for him (two weeks without a shower was too much for all of us in the barracks). He bellyached like a squealing pig, but he did what he had to do. He was tallish, white hair for his young age, thin effeminate person, and a most tiring figure in the barracks, he had a red nose, and sniffed all the time as if he was suffering from a permanent severe cold. I was glad he was not headed to Redstone Arsenal with us.
And Fat boy, who was no longer fat. The Sergeants all like him, he lost forty pounds, no longer did he have them fat knuckles, and you could actually see his neck, it was thick muscle now. And he was no longer clumsy. They made him do the monkey bars several times before he went to eat in the mess hall, prior to breakfast, lunch and dinner, and run an extra lap here and there. Remarkable I thought, a man willing to bow to his oppressors.
At the airport it was refreshing to see the pretty smiling faces of the females as I left the bar, walked about, ready to board the plane, faces of so many females, how many girls I couldn’t count, hundreds, all peering obligingly.
4-7-2007
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 4:43 PM
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