Thursday, January 22, 2009

A Curious Afternoon in Tijuana, Meico ((1969)(the whorehouse))

A Curious Afternoon in
Tijuana, Mexico (1969)



At 1:30 p.m., Chick Evens is sitting with a close friend, his amigo, Mick Gunderson, at a common bar, in Tijuana, Mexico, drinking down a heavy, almost syrup like Mexican beer; it is the first time for both of them to be in Mexico, and Chick is exceptionally watchful, his eyes are if not imposing, near to it, everyone can see him, the red head, with sharp blue eyes, ‘…the gringo…’ someone mumbles at the other end of the bar. His dried out, protracted blinking eyes, hurting from the bright sun; he rubs them, as if trying to readjust them in the low lit tavern.
He is with a man he considers his best friend, and who is a friend of his brother’s, whom he is visiting in Montclair, California, and who will be accompanying him back to Minnesota.
During Evens’ time in San Francisco, at the karate dojo, he was considered a top contender for the next belt, the Black Belt, being the most original with his karate style, quick and deadly.



They are glad to see one another, it’s been over a year, when Chick moved to San Francisco, at which time, so did his brother and his wife, along with Mick move to Southern California, they are all from the same old neighbourhood back in St. Paul, Minnesota, Cayuga Street.
Thus, their eyes are full of kindness for the most part, both feeling effect of novelty, after the long separation. They finish the beer, relax a bit on the bar stool.
The Mexican bartender, behind the bar, is purring behind that smirk, as his catlike face checks out the redheaded gringo. Check nervously and restlessly senses it, there is not much conversation between Mick and Chick, so Mick suggests,
“Let’s go check out the whores?”
Chick: Sure! (Impatiently.)

(Outside the bar walking around)

Mick: You’d think the whores would be walking about, trying to get customers.
Chick: Look at the man over there (to his right, he points) his cart fell over; he’s picking up his food from the ground, tacos or is that a tamal cart, whatever…!
(They both laugh.)
Mick: sure is hot!
Chick: Over there, look over there (he points to the far left) that girl she’s waving at us (a dark-haired, Mexican girl about nineteen, with a short black skirt on, looking pleasantly at them both)
Mick: Yes, it’s us she’s looking at, let’s see what she cost. (They both walk slowly over to her; it is about two-hundred feet away.)
Mick: No speak Spanish, I hope you speak English?
Chick: How much will it cost for sex?
Girl: Ten-dollars for you señor…
Mick: Sounds like the right price! Ok, where do we do it?
Chick: Me, too!
Girl: Of course, honey! (Chick and Mick both look at each other as if to say: what are we getting ourselves into?)
Girl: You go señor into that room over there and your friend (Mick) he comes with me.

They had walked down an alley, and in the back was four three story brick buildings, and a low, one story wooden structure built up against a wall, with several enclosed rooms, there was out in the front, within this enclosure area, a dirt like empty lot, mysterious to say the least, thought Chick. And they both went into the two separate rooms, individually, and separated from one another.
Just prior to Chick’s entering the green door, to the one room, with only a bed it, which stood in the centre of the room, up against the wall, a chair to one corner of the bed to put his close on, and a skimpy looking rug, for a lone moment, it was a thought, that this was all stimulating, exciting, just the process of doing it, not the sex he thought he was going to get, but the building up to it, the development: there was something breathless about such an unknown moment, like abruptly going up a hill on a rollercoaster, and knowing in a moment you will be going down at a hundred miles per hour.



As chick waited in his room, a different girl came in, smiled, said, “Take off your close señor, I’ll be back in a minute.” And then she left, accordingly, he took off his trousers, and his shirt, now standing and waiting for the girl with only his under shorts on and his socks. At this point, he sensed there was more to this than meets the eye. And he would be right. For it was just a matter of minutes between the girl leaving and a knock on the door, and three He-men, Mexicans, with guns came in…

Ten minutes later

There they sat, Mick and Chick, a few blocks away from that so called Green painted wooden whorehouse, telling each other their stories, vowing to each other they’d never do that again (with a tinge of laughter in-between every few syllables).
Both had been robbed by the three armed he-men, but Chick had his money hid in his socks, $300.00 dollars to be exact. And there he stood almost naked with the three gangsters, guns loaded, as they asked, “More money, where is your money?”
He had told them, he only had change, he had paid the girl the ten dollars, and only change left, didn’t need anymore, because he was going back home. Mick on the other had, had $40-dollars left, an that was his contribution.
If there was to be any satisfaction out of this episode, it was that Chick got a measure of superiority on that side of the fence, that he outsmarted the Mexicans, who had ambushed them.

Written at Starbucks, In Lima Peru, 1-22-2009

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

In Haste for a Sea (a Novel)

In Haste for a Sea


A decade of impressionable years (1966-1977)





Volume V
An Episodic Novel (autobiographical) by:

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

A Three Time,
Poet Laureate and author of over forty Books

The Council (ruling body) of the Continental University, of Huancayo, Peru, congratulates and recognizes Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk for his abundant intellectual contribution (with his writings), permitting the Mantaro Valley’s attributes to be known worldwide. November, 27, 2008
Recent Awards given to the author: Dennis L. Siluk:

Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma (of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

Awarded the National Prize of Peru by Antena Regional: The best of 2006 for promoting culture.

Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo de Tunan, Peru (2005); and the Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))

Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalists Professional Association of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment.

On November 26, 2007, Lic. Dennis L. Siluk was nominated, Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco and received recognition as an Illustrious Visitor of the Cities of Cerro de Pasco, and Huayllay, Peru.

“Union Mathematic School” (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. Dennis Lee Siluk, Ed.D. (Awarded) Poet and Writer Excellence of 2007, for contributing to the culture and regional identity, Huancayo. December 1, 2007, Signed: Pedro Guillen, Director.

The Sociologists Professional Association of Peru, Central Region, granted to Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, Writer Laureate for his professional contribution in the social interaction of the towns and rescue of their identity. Huancayo December 6, 2007 —Lic. Juan Condori –Senior Member of the Sociologists Professional Association.

The Association of Broadcasters of the Central Region of Peru, nominated Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Member for his works done on the Central Region of Peru; in addition, the Mayor of Huancayo, Freddy Arana Velarde, gave Dr. Siluk, ‘Reconocimiento de Honor,’ and ‘Illustrious Personage…’ status (December, 2007).

The Peruvian North American Cultural Institute granted to Dr. Siluk a “Diploma of Honor” for his important contribution to the propagation of the cultural Andean values. Huancayo – Perú, December 28, 2007. Signed: Director of Culture: Diana V. Casas R. and President of the Directive Board: Alfonso Velit Nunez.

Diploma of Recognition, awarded to Dennis Siluk, Poet Laureate, by the Editor Jose Arrieta, of the magazine, “Destacados,” Sept, 2008, for “Heroic Enterprising and contribution in development of the economic, social educational and cultural Region of Junin, Peru (in, 2007)”.

Awarded “Honorary Member” of the Journalists Professional Association of Peru (The Journalists Professional Association of Peru granted Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Membership and authorizes him to practice the profession in the Peruvian territory. Lima, October 1st, 2008)

Radio Acknowledgement: many of these poems were read on live radio from, Mr. Dennis Siluk Radio Program in Huancayo, “Poetry Moment,” on FM 89.5, University Radio, on Tuesdays and Thursdays (12:20 PM), in the months of October and November 2007, in Huancayo, Peru. Hosted by Eduardo Cardenas, and read in Spanish by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and in English by Dennis L. Siluk.

The Council (ruling body) of the Continental University, of Huancayo, Peru, congratulates and recognizes Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk for his abundant intellectual contribution (with his writings), permitting the Mantaro Valley’s attributes to be known worldwide. November, 27, 2008 (Resolution No. 309-2008 CU/UCCI-2008, signed by the president, Director and Assessor.

Acknowledgment from the National Institute of Culture of District of Villa Rica, Oxapampa, Pasco, Peru, given to Dennis Lee Siluk , for his participation in the Literature “Nuestras Voces,” in conjunction with the 64th Anniversary of the District, 29 November of 2008.

Diploma given to Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk , as Writer and Talent of the Poetry of the year 2007, by Antena Regional (Edición de Premiación Anual de Costa, Sierra y Selva).
Letters and Acknowledgements to
The Author Dennis L. Siluk , Ed.D.


Some Letters sent to the author by the well-known:

President Ronald Reagan, March, 1985, letter sent on behalf of the book, “Child Safe Child/The Unsafe child” as indicated in Roseville Focus,” Minnesota (USA) newspaper, article: “Author Helps Kids be safe,” March 18, 1985.

President Jimmy Carter, on behalf of one of Mr. Siluk’s books, 2003

President George W. Bush (three letters), one in particular, in July, 2001, thanking the author for his support, notes on the nation and one of the author’s books.

Also Mr. Siluk has received letters between 2002, and 2007, from Arial Sharon (Prime Minister of Israel: Ref: book sent him, (“Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib”); the Dalai Lama; and from the office of the Republic of Cuba, State Council, signed by Fidel Castro, Ex President of Cuba.

Also a letter from Senior Senator Keiko Fujimori of Peru (about the conversation they had in person concerning the poetic cultural book, “The Road to Unishcoto,” in which she appears); and the prominent historian Dr. Maria Rostworowski in an historical meeting between the two, talking about the customs and foods of the Mantaro Valley of Peru.

Mr. Siluk received two favorable letters, from the Pulitzer Prize Entry Committee, acknowledging and praising his works, one in 1982 for the poetic tale “The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale,” and the other in 1985, concerns the book: “The Safe Child and the Unsafe Child (put into the National Library at Washington D.C.”

♦♦

Some acknowledgements to the Author


Dennis has been on Television some thirty-times, on Radio, over sixty, in the newspapers (over 40-times) from Minnesota, North Dakota (the Midwest in General) to include C.S.P., World News; he has received two columnist awards in the United States, and an Honorary award, as National Journalist of Peru (along with many awards from professional associations of Peru, such as, the Professional Association of Sociologists of the Central Region of Peru, who has acclaimed his cultural works; and the acclaimed, school of Huancayo, Colegio Matematico Union “Honor al Merito”, known for its outstanding students worldwide (in which they now hold the gold medal).





In Haste for a Sea
((An episodic novel) (Volume V))
Copyright © 2009, by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.


Referenced to the Books Name

The name of this book “In Haste of the Sea,” was derived from a letter sent to F. Scott Fitzgerald, referencing his new book “The Great Gatsby,” of 1925, of which he was sent a copy. He said (T.S. Elliot) in essence, in the letter, and I paraphrase: “…I haven’t had time to read it yet, I’m in haste for the sea…” he was rushing to catch his boat, taking off on a trip to Europe, across the Atlantic at the time. He implied later on in the letter if I recall right, he would try to find time to read it there within the ships voyage, if not while in Europe. Thus, as a lad, I was always in haste to see the world, all the seas, it didn’t matter which one was first or second, but for the record it was the Pacific first, then the Atlantic, then the world.

This is Volume V, to the biographical series; see index of books if you are interested in the other four.















Tyranny of Spirit
(The new age)


Post Script

The tyranny of spirit, or its suppression, is not a good thing during one’s youthful years, and during a new age in particular, especially one being rolled out, from sea to sea, in America and Europe; I am talking about the decade between 1966 and 1977 for the most part. An age were the youth brought out their wildness onto the world, attached to a heavy middle-age conservative generation, consequently, the old way of thinking, that tyranny was broken.
Thus the new age that came in, during the sixties and seventies, came in—back in those far-off wondrous days, with a roar. It was really a generation lost, the baby boomers they called us, and yet we thought we were a generation found: moreover, it was just one long difficult decade.
It was an era of narcissistic irresponsibility by both the youth and its middle-aged attachments, the golden youth—so we thought ourselves to be, with its long golden hippie hair, in the age of Aquarius, but we did find one thing in the vortex we found ourselves in: a haste to explore the unexplored.


—Dennis L. Siluk 1-21-2009









Index to the Book

Introduction


The Cities

Prologue

Light in Seattle (1966)


1967
Milwaukee Bound

Nebraska Fields
Rat-hole in Omaha

(Pre-chapter to “Romancing San Francisco)

1968 (Diary Notes)
Morning in San Francisco

From the book: “Romancing San Francisco” (1968-1969))
originally written in 2002)) reedited in 2005-2006))



(‘Soldier to Soldier’ and “A Night with Tequila”
are the Pre-chapters to “A Midwinter Soldier” :)

Soldier to Soldier (1961- ‘69)
Parts One, Two and Three
Hank, me and the Cayuga Street Gang
From Minneapolis to Chicago
At the Gates of Fort Bragg








The Army

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

A Midwinter Soldier

Soldiers’ First Day
(Boot Camp, at Fort Bragg)
Silhouette of a Soldier
((October, 1969) (Day Two))
Horse’s Hoofs and Old Soldiers
(November, 1969; Week Two in Basic Training)
Army Mess Hall
(December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)
The Fighting Irish
(January, 1970; Week Six in Basic Training)
KP and Potatoes
(January, 1970)
Stalemate
(Week seven)
Beer Bash at Fort Bragg
(February, 1970)

Interlude I


1969-1970

*Alabama Intruder (March)
((From the original short story “Black Girl Walking”
From the book “Stay Down, Old Abram”) (Advance Training))

Stay Down, Old Abram (1969, Huntsville, Alabama)
While stationed at (Advance Training) Red Stone Arsenal


From the book: “A Romance in Augsburg” (1970)
Originally written in 2001; reedited in 2005-2006


Interlude II

Train to Munich (October, 1970)
Written to be added into “A Romance in Augsburg” 2006’2007 (The Oktoberfest)



: From the book: “Where the Birds Don’t Sing” (1971))
Written, 2003)) Reedited in 2005-2006)) Note: Chapters #16 and #17 left out, and “Afterwards”.


Interlude III

The Big Brick House in Erie
((1972-73, Pennsylvania) (Working for the, Electric Company))
Originally “The Big House in Erie”

The Old Russian Bear
((Waiting, prior to second hitch in the Army) (the Old Russian Bear: 1973))

Europe:
The Army, Cities & Twins

Sketches



While stationed at the 545th Ordnance Company, in Western Germany, 1974-‘76


(“Pool Sticks,” and the “Second Lieutenant Goodwin,” taken from the book, “Stay Down, Old Abram” written in 2001; revised 2008: and “Winter in Garmisch” taken from the book “Cold Kindness,” written in 2005)


Pool Sticks (1974)
Second Lieutenant Goodwin (1974)
Winter in Garmisch (1976)


The Hearth in Amsterdam (1974) Written, 2008

Late Train to Haguenau (1974) Written, 2008
((France, 1974) (Italian mafia murder squad)) Written 1-14-2009

Christmas in Luxembourg, 1975
Written: 5-30-2008 (Original name: “An Inn, in Luxembourg.”)

A Cobbled Evening in Babenhausen, Germany (1976)
Written, 2008

End Chapter

The Sad Young Sergeant
((Agent Orange, Fort Rucker, Alabama,) (Written 1-4-2009))





Prologue:
In the form of an overall synopsis of the Story



The book’s theme, “In Haste for a Sea,” Chick Evens being the main character, is a fast paced book, from one adventure to the next, its theme, or premise, or you can even call it, its foundation, is that of the times, the era, the 1960s, and into the 1970s, how a boy who lives along the Mississippi, turns into a Midwestern young man, and steps out into what was considered the coming age of Aquarius, into the San Francisco area, the Paris of the United States, in the mid to late ‘60s, or better yet, how he sees the Hippie Age come alive, how he experiences it within his wild, and yet conservative youthful mind, manners and ways (the author uses the main character, in each novelette, sketch or story in the book, but changes his name occasionally, as most of these writings have already been self-published in one way or another by the author, into books, or stories or on the Internet, etc., who has retained all rights.

(As the Plot develops) Being a boy of fourteen he (persona grata), the main character ((he could be anyone of his times, of the lower class, and whom the reader and the character in the state he be considered, would one day accomplish some quiet subtle thing worthy of the times, somewhat opinionated, contemptuous, functioning outward, and drawing it all in) (as in time he will see the world, as he will feel honor a virtue, and demand respect as a way of life within it, perhaps the sophistry of courage and brevity for a boy yet to step onto its main life long stage)) sees his neighborhood friend, going into the Army and he is killed in Vietnam, the war there is just starting to build up. From there he has a few adventures: such as, going to Seattle at eighteen-years old, and onto Omaha thereafter, and San Francisco (where he takes up karate, and meets the famous, Cat, the legendary Gogen Yamaguchi), and is drafted into the Army at age twenty-two years old. He now sees his tentative future for travel and adventure is a possibility, and goes to boot camp at Fort Bragg, and there he finds a lack of respect, which is not to his liking, and becomes a wise guy (troublemaker), and finds he gets into trouble easily. From there he goes to Alabama, for Advance Training, and discovers racism is alive and prospering there, even finds himself in-between a few unwanted issues, not even his. From there, he goes to Augsburg Germany, and in-between his duties, has a long affair with a Jewish German. He makes it to the Oktoberfest of 1970, and then gets shipped off to the Vietnam War (after hitting a Command Sergeant Major in the mouth, breaking his teeth), which is the forth novelette to this saga. There is an interval period, of thirty-months, and he goes back into the Army—a second reenlistment, finding himself with twins-boy, and new adventures to start: consequently, he takes them to Garmisch, Luxemburg, Amsterdam, and France. In-between, there is some trouble on base with the white and black soldiers. The story concludes when he gets shipped off to Fort Rucker Alabama, and meets a Sergeant (as he is now a Staff Sergeant), who has the disease Agent Orange, a neurological illness acquired in Vietnam from the chemicals the US Air Force sprayed over the jungle area, during war.

(Insight) The book, can be looked at from a few different perspectives, or angels, as a historical record of the times, for posterity; as a Midwestern boy’s diary of his travels while in his twenties, into the Hippie Age, or Age of Aquarius; as was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books, outlined to show the “Jazz Age,” or Jack Kerouac, who brought the Beat Age, to the eyes of the world; or simple the book can been seen as a novel set into ongoing stages, a progression, as a travelogue, set forty-years in the past (thus looking at how it was back in those far-off days). Also one can read it as separate stories, sketches, along with the four novelettes, independently.
Light in Seattle
(Winter of 1966)




I think she wanted revenge, an eye for an eye, for some undisrupted pain her husband inflicted on her, or perhaps it goes deeper into her childhood, I’ll never know, but whatever I said meant very little, on and during our trip from Minnesota to Miles City, Montana, onto Seattle, Washington, in our 1957- Chrysler, Jeff purchased from my mother for this trip. We got stranded in Miles City for a day, blew a piston in the motor, had to leave the car there, right in Miles City. Had to let the car roll down the mountain, slowly, and it was cold, snow up to our ankles, and Jeff’s wife, who we didn’t plan on coming with us, came at the last minute, decided at the last second to punish us all, and she brought her two kids along, I was emptier than a dry well in the Moabite desert for words when I saw this uncovering.
We had caught a bus out of Miles City, and Jeff had lost his billfold at the bus station, luckily an old lady found it, and my 19-year old bones became refreshed again, as did Karin’s 23-year old bones. I was learning in life, bad luck comes no matter what you do, and good luck also comes the same way, and in-between, you make your luck, however you can (and where there is no luck, you pray).
Karin was Jeff’s wife and this perhaps was the only glimpse of light we had until I saw the signs leading into Seattle. Once at the bus station, Jeff called his old Navy friend, it was about 7:00 PM, and it was getting dark quick, and it was raining, and I’d find out in time, it always was raining in Seattle, or at least for the time I was there. Anyhow, Jeff’s friend showed up, saw us all, two winy kids, a wife, a teenage (me), Jeff’s luggage, I took one long glimpse at his face and knew we were in trouble, and Jeff’s long time Navy friend at the end of the night, would no longer be his friend.
I don’t know what they said, I suppose he told him our hard luck story, whatever, he did not have much pity to spare, and told Jeff face to face, should to shoulder, eye to eye, he wasn’t in the hotel business.
Jeff stood silent, tightening his face, he was six-foot-three, and thin, and could be mean I heard, but seldom was. Had it not been for Karin, he might have punched the guy’s lights out, or tried, I think if he couldn’t have I would have helped. But that wouldn’t have solved our problem for the night, and so he escaped with a trashing of the mouth by Jeff, and that was the last we heard or saw of him.
“Look Chick,” said Jeff, “we got to find a paper and rent an apartment now,” we were outside by a telephone booth, getting wet and cold. We still had most of our money left, gas was cheap, and I think it cost about .30 cents a gallon back then. Karin didn’t like Jeff asking me first on what he and we should do, she felt left out. She said right after he stopped to take in a gulp of air,
“No, I had nothing to do with this, you got me into all this, and you get me a house, rent one for us!” She made her point quite clear.
I figured out, sometimes you simple have to disconnect with certain people who do not want to connect, lest you tire yourself out to a tightly curled wire. And that was exactly what I was in the process of doing, disconnecting. Thus, my intuition told me to have a plan ‘B’ ready, an escape plan in place, it may come in handy. And so it would.

We, me and Jeff drank a few nights in a row at a lock bar, found a job and one evening Karin said, “Stop it, stop the drinking now! Do you hear me, or you both can leave.”
She made me think often, why did she come along, perhaps only to haunt me, or her husband, or was it she had no other place to go, I really don’t know. As I look back perhaps it was that she was ill, in the sense of depressed, and she had two kids, and was alone in this world. Not sure, I never asked, or perhaps didn’t care, I was young, and felt it was not my business to analyze her, nor if I tried, could I. But the adventure was turning into a nightmare.
That night she took the last two bottles of beer we had and drained them into the toilet. It caused me a little heart burn but it was no great loss. Jeff tried to reason with her, but she wanted his attention I suppose and the booze didn’t allow it. And I know if I said a word or two, it would simply be dropped into a bottomless pot, so I remained quiet for the most part. In time, in years to come, when I’d travel the world, this would come to light, meaning, I’d remember traveling alone was better than traveling with someone who demands too much of you, or more than what you want to give. And it proved to be an asset knowing this, and saved me many a nightmare I’m sure.
You see, I was almost a drunk at nineteen years old, and Jeff at twenty-six, I suppose this was getting to Karin, who was of course, to the contrary, just a tyrant.
In a way it wasn’t a big loss, so I laughed about it, it simply was another triumph for Karin.

—Jeff and I went for two weeks straight with eating only one peanut butter sandwich at lunch for work, nothing in the morning, nothing in the night. I felt sorry for the two kids and Karin, but we only had what we had, and we were down to three dollars, and it was bread and peanut butter for everyone. But one thing got to me, or at least I took note of, and felt it was funny, or unusual, it was that the kids were not complaining, and they were winy kids to say the least. And for the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out, you know, that feeling that something is missing.

It happened in the morning, on a Tuesday, just before going to work, the milkman came early and said to us, as we were leaving, Karin and the kids sleeping, “Do you folks want the usual?”
“What,” Jeff said.
“The usual, your wife, Karin—she is your wife isn’t she? (Jeff nodded his head yes), well I usually drop off a half gallon of milk, some butter and eggs and now and then cheese.”
Jeff and I looked at the milkman, then each other, as he handed us the usual items, and we carried them into the house, somewhat num. Jeff woke Karin up, they all had been sleeping on the floor on blankets, like Jeff and I.
(I figured she had outsmarted us again, and didn’t care if we starved to death or not, her excuse would be: “I had to take care of us, the kids and me, you two wouldn’t, you just care about yourselves, so I just cared about us.” Thus, she justified the whole charade.)
Well, there really wasn’t much we could do about it, we’d get paid soon, and there wasn’t much light to be shed upon this betrayal, matter-of-fact, with the daily rain, and the dark hostility, resentment, and secrets Karin was pushing on us, there was no light at all in Seattle. She was surely laughing again, but not so loud, this time, rather in a hushed tone, this time, not to disturb Jeff too much, he was really mad, and in three days it would be payday.
I had plan ‘B’ now, and I would soon implement it. I wasn’t going to, but I figured this had to take place now, living with Karin, was no treat at all; it took all the adventure out of the trip. I planned on getting the last laugh, if only for a high, call it over-learning, I was taught a lesson, life teaches you such, that when it looks bad, it is bad, or better put, if you see smoke, you can bet there’s a fire, and it was smoky along our path from Minnesota, to Montana to Seattle.

It was payday, and they, the company I worked for, a window company, paid their employees up to date, up to the last day, actually a few hours in advance. I had asked my foreman if he could have the office pay me in cash, and they did.
On our way home, I bought three hamburgers, French fries and a coke, my stomach had shrunk to the point I could only eat one hamburger and the fries.
When we got home, Karin was buzzing around the house like a happy bee, happy bear after honey, and was very kind to me and Jeff. I could see, and I am sure Jeff knew, she was up to no good again. Her intent was to rob both of us, willingly. But I was no longer her prisoner, I figured, she could go drink her milk and eat her eggs all she wanted, I was not going to go along with what I figured I knew was on her mine. (She quietly reached for Jeff’s check.)
“I’ll cash both your checks, you both must be tired.” She said with a smirk on her face. She felt, or though because I was unspoken all this time to her nasty dealings, I was easy, didn’t put two and two together, or have a plan, she though perhaps I was her second husband, and subject to her whims.
“No need to cash mine, I already did.” I told her.
Her face turned an ill-yellow, “How is that?” she asked.
“I had the foreman cash it out for me at the company.” I responded, as if it was really none of her business, yet she was making it so.
Her smile left her faced completely, and we stared at each other for a moment, her trying to figure out a new plan to get my money. It was two full weeks pay, plus two days, and overtime, it was a big check, $375. Dollars; if anything I was now somewhat of an instrument for creating a dramatic moment in her life.
I turned to Jeff, and then back to Karin, said with a somber look, “I got my ticket for the 11:00 PM train back to Minnesota, and I’ll be leaving tonight.” I really had not, but I would soon, and they didn’t ask me how I got it, and had they, I would not have answered the question. The point being, I did not want to be talked out of leavening.
“What!” Karin said, and Jeff also looked surprised. I guess Jeff was hurt I didn’t let him know, but under the circumstances, he had no need to know, plus, it would only have given Karin time to talk to Jeff about throwing me out of the house early, and Jeff did not seem in charge, and I sure would not have stopped her.
I am not sure how to describe her mouth or whatever it was that hung in front of me, like an empty furnace, but it was heated…
“You have to pay us some money for staying here.” She said in a commanding voice.
“Sorry,” I said, “but I need the money to live on and get a place when I get back to Minnesota.” (Remembering on my trip to Omaha, when I got back to Minnesota with Jerry and his wife, I had no money, and I had to sleep on their sofa, and they kicked me out after six weeks, and I had to beg and borrow money to find a place to live, it was not going to be a repeat of this; matter-of-fact, I had rented out Larry Lund’s upper apartment, more like an attic for five months, if it wasn’t for his kindness, I would have froze to death come that winter back in ’66, and I was not going to allow this to happen again.
“Jeff, say something!” Karin barked.
Jeff did ask me for some money, he was a tinge sky on the matter, knowing the selfishness, and demands his wife made on both of us, and I had to turn him down also.
“Get out of here, go on!” she yelped. And I did gladly, and to be honest, I had the biggest light in my eyes, Seattle had ever seen.


Milwaukee Bound 1967 [Fall]
I didn’t know it, but the following decade would be one of intolerance—and some growing pains for not only the country, but me. We lived in the same old neighborhood both Jerry Hines and me, only two blocks west and down a block on Jackson Street from one another—this was Jerry’s and Betty’s house I often visited, just a hop-skip-and-jump one might say to each other’s abode. Across the street from Jerry’s house was Oakland Cemetery. I was twenty-years old and I was available and usable in the sense of travel—something that was stronger than most anything else in my life for some peculiar reason, something that would stay with me all my life most variably; and so in the fall of 1967, Jerry got into a dividing, and harsh confrontation with his girlfriend Betty, and that is when it all started. Having told me about this, we both decided to go to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And this is where the story begins.

—I had a 1960-Plymouth-Valiant [white], it didn’t run all that good but Jerry Hino and I figured it would make it to Milwaukee, and so in the first weeks of November of ‘67, a chill in the air we loaded my car, when Betty was gone [Betty being Jerry’s live-in girlfriend at the time], each of us grabbed what money we had, I having about $125.00 and Jerry about $250, and off they went.
As the miles went by on our way to Milwaukee, one right after the other, we kept drinking cans of beer, smoking cigarettes—chain smoking for the most part, as the Valiant strolled along the black asphalt interstate making stops along the roadside to go to the bathroom, buying more beer at the nearest gas station, or roadside stop, drinking more beer, making more stops to take a leak: kind of a circular motion to these ongoing events. Matter of fact, we were making so many stops, we both got tired of stopping and started peeing into cans, and whomever was not driving would throw the cans out of window into, or onto the fields along the thruway; sometimes just barley missing cars if a good upper wind got hold of it. It was party time all the way, and for the most part, all the time for us two.
Now with loose conversations, the heat coming through the windshield from our heaters, the breeze hitting our hands as we flipped out our cigarette butts, out of the window going down the highway, we felt a bird wasn’t any freer. We lit cigarette after cigarette, talked, laughed, drank and sang, and started allover again from the cigarette after cigarette. We didn’t do a lot of planning, but enough, --barely enough, but enough, our great plan was to sleep in the car until we found an apartment, then get a job, and stay in Milwaukee for a few months, then we could figure on what to do next—not a big plan or even an elaborate one by any means, but then the world and life was simply for us, and again I say, at least we had a shared plan, like a slice from a piece of pie.
Yes indeed, our quest, goal, if you could call it that, was to chum around, and that’s what we’d do, and just chum around is what we were doing. Life’s responsibilities or demands were irrelevant, if not cumbersome, and if ever one was caught in a vortex of remoteness, Jerry was, he had enough for the moment of everything in life, yes, and in a way he was running away, as I was not. That is to say, I was simply running to escape a city for the adventure of another city, whereas, Jerry never got the travel bug early in life like I had; he was running to run, and the farther the better for the mean time. I perhaps was simply available, usable, along with willing, and had an ardent desire to see how far I could go, travel, and the farther the better, and Jerry found in me a companion for the moment.
Milwaukee
The beginning of fall] It was a chilled night, as black as dark-ink, the moon was one-quarter lit, and if there was such things as ghosts, they seem to have been running back and forth across the moon’s light with a grayish robe of a mist. It was a little past midnight when we caught a glimpse of the highway sign that read:
“Milwaukee to the Right…turn-off 2-miles”

—and so Jerry, whom was driving did just that, took the turned-off where the arrow was pointing, whereby, we were on a one-way that lead us directly to the downtown area of Milwaukee. My face flashed with undeniable excitement, it was as if I was being reborn, my blood was regenerated, there was no logic or reason to it, it was a high: a desire filled, a craving to the top, like an empty cigarette package replenish, akin to getting drunk, a destination-high, a quest, all that and more: save for the fact that the boredom from driving helped turn the moment into a rage of excitement.
“Oh boy, I get to see the city,” I said with anxiety of not being there at that very moment. Jerry gave me a more mature chuckle to the fact they had made it; I suppose, cows often forget they were once calf’s; no disrespect intended, Jerry and I were close friends, but there was a decade difference in our age and at times it showed.
Anyway, we were specifically about to make it into the city limits; our destination. “Just hang on, we’ll be there in a moment,” said Jerry, turning the wheel a bit to the left, as he was turning onto the entrance to the city: then straightening the car out to go directly ahead I could now see lights appearing in the distance, an illumination of dotted-lights spread across a distance. We both smiled, we had almost or nearly almost gotten to our end—it was getting closer by the second. Just down and around a bridge or two now.
The one thing we did not take into consideration was the times: it was the 60’s, and neither I nor Jerry, could bridge, or even conceive the white and black dilemma that was sweeping the country, the Midwest, or at least Minnesota was not like or that engulfed with the racial issues of the day, like the West and East coasts, although Chicago and Milwaukee was evidently the showcase and exception to the rule; for the most part, we were isolated from it. Oh yes it was on TV all the time, but until you are in the mouth of the whale, one never can conceive the depth of the situation, or should I say, the depth of the stomach of the whale. There had been some café’s, stores, and tenant-buildings that had acquired damage in the black areas of the City of St. Paul, but not much, not in comparison to the rest of the country. Back in those days, every city had its riots, its racial issues, and to degrees. It was like a plague; but St. Paul, being the conservative city of the Midwest, the City of Culture as it has been called, was almost naive to its engulfing presence in the rest of the country. We also lived in a neighborhood that didn’t read books or newspapers all that much or watch the news, it wasn’t a big deal for or to us, only one black family lived in the neighborhood someplace—no one even knew when he had moved in but a few years back might be adequate: the black man had befriended my grandfather, and therefore was left alone. But no one ever saw a black man in the neighborhood before this, much less deal with riots.
In a like manner, no one came to the Cayuga Street area the street I lived on—or walked through the area without good reason, unless they lived there; there was a gang of some twenty-two guys and gals that hung out on the church steps. It wasn’t called Donkeyland for nothing; at one time it was the highest crime related area in St. Paul, and they boasted of that, and the police even tried to avoid us; matter-of-fact, they nick-named it Donkeyland because there were so many hard-heads there—and yes, it suited them. Members of the gang, beat the police up if they chased them up into Indians Hill, which was enclosing with foliage and one could hide easily behind trees and bushes, and so forth and on, which was to the south just off of Cayuga Street, right next to my grandfather’s house. But as I was about to say, as we rode down the turnoff, and into the city center, a white, a huge white car was following us. I first noticed it—a bit after we entered the outer rim of the center.
“Something’s wrong Chick?” said sleepy-eyed Jerry, driving. I turned about for the third time to examine the white car, again seeing the car following us…then all of a sudden I produced a crisis voice you might say, a voice trembling, and decadence came to my face:
“Oh man, look, look at what they just pushed out the car window, the white car—there…” I was now pointing at the car,
“…looks—J-j-Jerry, a shot gun…!”
Jerry looked quickly, “What is going on?” he said, as if I knew.
Then out of another window of the car, came a voice from a loud speaker coming right from the white car, you couldn’t make out what exactly was being said though—so we continued on, Jerry driving closer to the center of the downtown area now, looking at a gathering of people on two differed corners—in a four or five square block area; if anything, it looked like a protest, if not some combat zone; --the voice over the speaker now, indubitably said—[even louder than before]:
“Move out of the city’s area, immediately, or we’ll shoot!”
I looked at Jerry, “Where’s the way out Chick,” asked Jerry [the word shoot sticking in both our minds like a spider to a fly caught in a web, “To the right, to the right, over there man…!” I said loudly, with pointing toward a half lit up bridge: without hesitation, and responsive to my tone of voice, Jerry immediately turned the car southwest, and out we went as fast as that six-cylinder car would go.
In short, both Jerry and I temperamentally was in shock, disbelief, and spellbound, but somehow we must had caught a sign that said, “Madison, Wisconsin” for that is where we headed; and sometime down the highway we had stopped to check the map, and talk about Madison to see if both he and I agreed on the new destination, prior to this stop it would seem we were both ill-balanced, and couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about it for the moment, trying to get our equilibrium back.
When we both arrived in Madison, it was a stinky city, too small, and jobless. We went to the stockyards and they didn’t want anything to do with outsiders, it was a fruitless pursuit. We would flip a coin and figure out where next we’d go.

Written July, 2006 (Re edited 5-2008)



Nebraska Fields
(Winter of 1967)



Omaha Bound


So, although in a sense Milwaukee (for the few minutes we spent there, and flew out of there in our 1961-Valient, I won’t miss the city at all), it wasn’t a good experience by far, the racial riots didn’t allow that, it was November of 1967, things were hot throughout the United States, in the white vs. black area.
Jerry was older by twelve-years than I, in actuality, this may have been his first escape out of Minnesota though; on the other hand I was nineteen-years old, and I had been to Seattle, North and South Dakota, and a few other places, and was thinking about San Francisco, but I wanted to visit Milwaukee.
In time, everything in time, I told myself. I am not sure why Jerry Hino and I picked out—of all places—to go to Omaha (other then it was on the map, and near Chicago), but I suppose it was a matter of elimination. When we had got to Madison, we were going to stay there, but it was so impoverished looking, and smelled bad from the stockyards, we high-tailed it out of the city like two cats running from a bulldog. I suppose to an onlooker, we were like some unconscious unwanted creatures torn fiercely from the roots of the world (we were unshaven, and perhaps smelled bad ourselves, from the constant drinking of beer and sweating, in the car, as we drove aimlessly here and there, looking for a nest to roost in, by the likes of others—in addition, we were dirty, and untidy, we didn’t even know we were perhaps because we were half lit.
Jerry was escaping from a relationship, me, I was just trying to see the world, one step at a time. I perhaps thought I was like some Greek hero rushing off to Troy to battle with the Trojans. In time I would find my war in Vietnam, and go to Turkey, to the site of Troy, but today it was simply, a trip that started at St. Paul, Minnesota, and onto Milwaukee, and now out of Madison, Wisconsin; there we sat going down a highway peeing in an empty can, throwing it out the window, drinking another beer, refilling that, then all of a sudden Jerry says:
“Let’s flip a coin for where we go, Chicago or Omaha?”
It was a question, I suppose, but I simply pulled out a coin, and that was my answer, “Ok, I’ll flip,” I told Jerry, “heads we go to Chicago, and tails, onto that place here on the map called Omaha, matter-of-fact, what the heck is in Omaha?”
“You’re guess is as good as mine, but it has to be better than Madison—I hope!” said Jerry.
Oh well, we were too drunk to laugh, and too tired to think of another place besides those two locations, plus we didn’t have an abundance of money to be too selective.
“Well what is it?” asked Jerry.
“We are my friend, Omaha bound,” I said, and Jerry turned onto another highway, a few minutes later, and we were on our way.
It was Tuesday, and the highway was a mere empty road widening here and there, where construction was not, and we passed several small towns, a few taverns, we stopped at one to buy a six-pack of beer, and on our way we were—intact, blocked minded, sort of speaking.

It was the first week of November, and there really was no snow on the ground to speak of, although the ground was hardening, and the fields we passed were browning with the cold weather, and the crows and pheasants were out in the fields and the dogs the folks dropped off, out of their cars, the unwanted pets, they had bought for their children, and then had to watch and take care of because the children were too lazy, and they were to lazy to teach them not to be lazy, thus, dropped them off in the fields to did, to starve to death, who would be the wiser, perhaps the farmer will be kinder and pick the dogs and cats up, even though each farmer perhaps had twenty dogs now to feed from the irresponsible folks of the big city. And I looked at them running, some even after our car, hoping we’d stop I suppose, or perhaps their memory transposed our car into the car that they were thrown out of, thinking their owner had come back to save them. These were moments of gross and simple lusts of the people, forcible incarceration into idleness of the frozen fields of Nebraska; the newly bought dog pens, now thrown into the garbage so the kids do not get new ideas of getting another dog to feed and watch.
There was even a few deer in motion, shapes dashing across the highway, as if on an endurance run, passion and hope in their eyes, they too were on the hit list for the governments of the Midwest, too much overlapping, extended beyond their limits, that now they were drifting into the main cities, and bothering the noble people of the good State of Minnesota, yes indeed, these were the results of generations of deer, healthy, but in need of food. So the state hired hunters, killers to kill them all, vanish them from the city, this was their objective. Now they were in the Nebraska fields, like the dogs.
Anyhow, there was lots of room out here in the wild countryside, so I felt as we drove past fields that would produce corn, one after the other, almost hypnotized beneath the vast incredible and enduring land of growth of food. I had heard we fed half the world with our wheat and corn, and now I could see how. Every time I turned my head, it was empty fields, or straw bundled up for winter feeding of the farm animals. And then we got into the more condensed populist areas filled with watchful eyes and arrogance and less strays, new generations, and old ones sitting on benches waiting for buses, and asking each other unanswerable questions to pass the time of day away. We were going through Counsel Bluffs, a city next to Omaha, which was across a bridge, Counsel Bluffs being in Iowa, and Omaha, being in Nebraska. A new adventure was about to start.



Rat-hole in Omaha
((The Omaha Gambit) (November, 1967))


“Come on,” Jerry Hino said, it was morning and we needed to get an apartment there was a light film of snow on the ground, it was November of 1967 and this was my second great trip. The anxiety and dilemma of the night driven through Milwaukee had passed, we had driven from Minnesota, to Milwaukee, onto Madison, Wisconsin, and here we were in Omaha, Nebraska. In Milwaukee we had almost got shot. Anyhow, we had high-tailed it out of Milwaukee, onto Omaha.
I was a little disappointed in the city; it didn’t look like much, I spotted Dodge Street right away, and we drove up and down it looking for an apartment. Jerry was running away from his girlfriend Nancy, and I was on an adventure of my own, my second one to be exact.
I looked about at the huddled set of crude buildings, duplexes and corner grocery stores, dotted around what I called upper Dodge Street, and down an offshoot, here and there (Dodge being the main branch to the tree).
In my adventure in Seattle, I ended up with Jeff’s wife coming along, and here again I got a friend who had left a love sick woman, for adventure, and I was hoping she’d not popup into the scene, and so far so good. Anyhow, we found a Rathole of an apartment just off Dodge street, and the duplex was side by side, so our neighbors were closer than white on rice. I didn’t really have a plan ‘B’ here if things did not work out, only hoping they would between Jerry and I, and they seemed to. He, like me, liked our drinking, and he was perhaps a bit over weight, him being about my height, five-feet, eight inches talk, and two-hundred and forty pounds, I was kidding, he was way over weight.
The duplex was grey, and I expect it was built in the ’80s, and it was as I said, 1967, so I mean, 1880s. We paid for two weeks rent, that was all we could afford for the moment, it cost us $65-dollars, and that was highway robbery if you ask me, I mean it was crude and meager accommodations. It surely was not unfamiliar with me for the times, during those years anyhow.
Jerry seemed to speak for both of us, and him being the elder, I took no insult to it, I often listened attentively during those drinking days, we had our stories to tell, and we told them, and laughed half the night. We must have gotten drunk every night we were in Omaha. And in-between I looked for work, Jerry did not, he slept the day away, as I looked; I think that was one of the reasons he and Nancy got into fights; I could be wrong. Anyhow, I went to the Omaha State Employment Office, and they asked me were I had come from, and why I was up there trying to take work away from the good folks of Omaha, who needed work worse than I. I had no other answer than, “I didn’t realize this was I was stepping on forbidden ground,” he didn’t like my comments, and told me to go back where I came from, and stop taking jobs away from other good folks. I know what I wanted to tell him, but I just shook my head and left the buzzard to his fields of corn.
I did find a job across the bridge in Iowa, good folks there I felt, working for Howard Johnson, as a dishwasher. It paid well, and the work was not hard, and I got a hefty discount on food, and usually they’d give me an extra portion, and I’d bring it back for Jerry, I think they thought it would be my late night supper, but supper for me was beer, not food.

Well, a few weeks went by, and Jerry sent his mother a letter, telling her how he was, not sure why he did that at first, I mean, I never did, I kind of felt no need to, we had just been gone a few weeks, not months or years. Anyhow, our address was on it, this now took away the secret of where we were, and of course Nancy got hold of the address, as you would expect. It was now inevitable, she’d someday show up on our doorsteps, but of course I didn’t know all this at the time. But it didn’t take long, and yes, she was there one evening when I came back from work, and again I was in bewilderment, but not as shocked as I was when Jeff’s wife, showed up from nowhere wanting to go with us to Seattle. I thought at the time: what is wrong with these guys, do they not have any stemma staying away from their patsy women, the ones they are running away from, can’t live with, or deal with. I had old girlfriends also, and I was glad to get away from them, and the farther the better, and the longer the better. In fact, I never went back to one I left, or anyone that left me, what for, once the bond is broken, it is broken, like my mother used to say: get off the bus, and find another.
I was perhaps their shadow the following two weeks; I think we spent a month to six weeks in that Rat hole. I went on my own, visited the museum, which had a lot of Indian artifices, and we all got drunk at night, like always.

But to make this story more interesting, and build up the plot some, not much though, because it is really the end to the story, we simply went back to Minnesota, I lived with them for six weeks, they asked me to leave after that, since they had kids, and I was sleeping on the sofa, and you know, that gets old. Anyhow, I do remember the Jewish Store, down the block in our Omaha neighborhood. I spent some time down there, talking to the old redheaded Jew. Gold teeth, not in bad shape for fifty years old she had pretty nice curves, and I of course ripe at nineteen. Her place was a Rathole also, but I suppose, it went along with the neighborhood. The store had high ceilings, you could see the wooden beams, and there was dampness in the place, clutter, and everything looked old, can goods with rust on them. Perhaps she was a dope dealer and this was her front, but I couldn’t have imagined that at the time. I liked her, and she allowed me to come in and out and not buy a thing, and hang around.


(Pre Chapter to “Romancing San Francisco)
Morning in San Francisco
[Diary notes of Chick Evens]


(August, summer of 1968) If you’ve been in San Francisco, you know then, how it is early in the morning with the tramps and young hippie beggars just waking up from the streets, those resting against the walls of buildings, coming out of the Mission building down the road a spell, before even the milkman delivers his milk; some of the bars opening up, and all night nasty movies still playing around the clock, three movies in a row for a buck, can’t beat the price. In the dumpy hotel I was in, on the seventh floor, a bed, an old dark brown wooden framed mirror on the wall across from my bed, a rug along side it, the iron bed squeaked as I’d jump out of it, up off it, and see if my face was healing. The hotel was on one of the side branches of the main street, leading off the main street, near it was a 24-7, café with lights still on. Morning was just breaking. A bum I met last night, the one who stood against the stone wall near the hotel and café was in the café this morning. He wanted my last silver dollar last night, or at least I told him it was my last, but it wasn’t, I just said it so he didn’t bother me about it but I liked talking to him, he seemed weak and frail, a light white and gray beard, perhaps my height, in his late forties, dark blue pants, and a ragged looking shirt, and a leather jacket that looked out of date for the times, but kept the wind from his arms and chest.

It’s the only café open on this street I told myself, looking through the windows he’s talking to a few friends, friends from the mission I think, I saw them there last night, after me and the bum stopped talking, and I wouldn’t give him my silver dollar, we went to the mission, he actually told me about it, and he and I listened to a preacher talk about Jesus and being saved and we followed him to the mission, he told me that is how it works: that being, you listen to him, and after he is finished, he feeds you, and it was true, and we ate, we sat by one another, didn’t talk much, and when he saw his friends, they sat down by him, and I didn’t talk much. I had told him I came out from Minnesota, a friend Tom, who lives across the bay set me up for a week at his house, he’s a welder I said, he also is from Minnesota, but I got this rash, Poison Oak, and he kicked me out, contagious he said, and he had two kids and wife. (I liked Tom, but that kind of got to me, although I couldn’t blame him much. He had to do what he had to do. But I was surprised to see his wife, she was as tall as a bean stock, perhaps six-foot one, and he was five-foot four.)
Anyhow there we were, four of us sitting at an old wooden table, eating gravy and chicken, hard biscuits, and flushing it down with coffee, it didn’t cost a dime, I got some more of Jesus in me, and that didn’t hurt. I suppose I didn’t care that I lied to him but I felt for some reason I had to (I didn’t know then, but I’d see this fellow again, some six months down the road, I’d see him walking the streets in San Francisco, and I’d say ‘Hello’ and he’d stop, look at me, smile and go on his way, he would be dressed in a $500-dollar suite, and trimmed beard, and look like Rockefeller, and I’d say: ‘Job well done,’ as he walked away, but he’d not hear me and he’d not turn around, he just kept on walking until he faded into the horde of humanity.)

Those mornings I’d walk the streets were chilled somewhat, and then the day would turn about with a cool breeze in the warm summer air. I’d walk by this hotel, nice hotel, well known, see this bum sweeping the outside, I stopped and talked to him, he said he been doing that going on fourteen-years. I couldn’t believe it. And he said, “I get to sleep down by the furnace, it’s warm there, I like it, private.” And he smiled with a grin, as if he swallowed a gold fish, I mean, he was happy with his simple life. I saw him off and on, nodded my head off and on when I saw him, and passed him by. He’d step clear of me, and face the street, like an old soldier, as if I was an officer, a General. As if I was waiting for a chauffeur. I liked him. Anyhow I’d keep walking looking for work, knocking on doors, listening to the sounds of the street; the tires go by, the horns and so forth. Then one day, a few months down the road, I picked up a newspaper, and found out he had died. Just up and died, he was sixty-six years old that was a ripe old age I guess. But what startled me, above all was not that, although it was sad—I even took a closer look at the paper, saw his face, affirmed it was the same bum—it read, “(so and so)…leaves $250,000-dollars to the hotel in his will.” I tell you, you just do not know a think about other people. Perhaps my first lesson in, don’t judge the person because he looks the way you think.

My friend, the stranger, as I had mentioned, was perhaps in his late forties, I was twenty-years old, would be twenty one in October, not old enough to drink yet, but I can drink in most any bar anyhow; and that’s what I was doing until I got this rash, and I dare not go into them now, lest they kick me out for having some venereal disease, it got all over my face, now it is just in blotches, and I drink my beer in the hotel room, I pay by the week. I made a deal with the hotel owner; I think you can almost name your own price here, $3.00 dollars a day, and if you want a bathroom in your room, it is $5.00.

I walked daily down the streets knocking on doors, looking for work, I stopped a few days ago and asked one of the hippie kids, my age, said to him, “You’re fit as a fiddle to work, why are you out here begging?”
And he said (with a smirk on his face, slowly as if he was giving me a lesson in life)
“How much money do you make?”
Well I pretended to be working, and said
“I make one dollar and seventy-five cents an hour,” I said that because Lilly Ann, a dress designing place said they would hire me next week, that is if I came back, and I think I will because I can’t find any other work. When I was working for ‘Swifts’ meats, back in Minnesota, in South Saint Paul, I was making $3.50 an hour, big money but I’m not in Minnesota am I. Anyway, he said to me, “I make Seventy Five dollars a day, and I work only eight hours,” and my eyes opened up wide, as folks walked by me and him, and they gave him change, he’d say,
“Any spare change sir, or mChick,” something similar to that, but I couldn’t do it, it was a matter of pride I suppose. And he looked so sad when he said it, he could have been on T.V., a star, a movie star, and perhaps will be someday, that’s how things work out you know. One day a beggar, the next, a star. I would have liked to have done what he was doing, making money under false pretenses. He was a nice-looking kid, fellow I suppose.
“I don’t mean to make you feel bad,” he told me, “but it beats the hunger in the stomach, and paving the streets like you are doing for work, just doesn’t do it.”
Well, he wasn’t all wrong, was he?
“You know” the young fellow went on to say to me, said with a smile to me, or was it a mockery smirk, I can say, “its just a living…” he implied, and his hand went out to another customer, a woman in her late thirties, and she gave a quarter, I still cannot get myself to make a living like that, so I beat it on down the street.

I stood there a moment, and looked at the cars, going back and forth, a tunnel was being built as a transit system I guess, underground, it looked like it was on its last stage of its construction.

I decided on Tuesdays I’d go to movies, on Sundays I’d stay in my hotel room and eat chicken and drink beer. And so I did just that, and on the second Tuesday I did my agenda, I was watching the second of three movies, it was a dump of a theater, in the heart of downtown, and the place was sporadically filled with odd looking people, doing odd things, or at least they were not the things you did in the Minnesota theaters. Men with men, and women with women and everyone doing everything but watching the movie; it was in the afternoon, and the movies would go on until 6:00 PM, and these peculiar things would not stop until then. Be that as it may, I told myself, and enjoyed the movies, and if a woman or man came too close me I gave them the evil eye, and they readjusted their thinking.

I had gotten the job I was hoping for, at Lilly Ann, and had started work, and was no longer living in the hotel, or at my friend Tom’s house, I was living in the Dojo, in the Castro area of San Francisco. I had gotten away from the bums, and the trashy hotel, and was now in an area not as dangerous per se, as the downtown streets, but I didn’t figure on the folks being mostly, or highly homosexual in this area, and it made me plenty nervous, I was a ripe Midwestern boy, and every bar I went into someone, male, tried to but the make on me. At first I was too dump to figure it out, thinking they were just good old folks, but the likes of them did show, and confrontation did develop, and we would always separate with me shaking my head in disbelief. I was slim, with every inch of my body muscle, and toned well, and young, I suppose I had all the qualifications for a potential homosexual square, but I was to the contrary, except for the square part of it—meaning I was a tinge naive.



Romancing San Francisco


“There is a time and season for everything,
Under the sun.” Solomon



“It was where it all started, San Francisco, if you were not there in the early to late 60’s ----you missed an unequaled era, to an unaccountable freedom, a celebration to life, have not seen since the time of the 1920’s, the Jazz Age, --in Paris, Berlin; --or Rome’s Pompeii----2000-years ago. And one may never come across it again.”
Chick Evens



Introduction
[1966-67]


I (Chick Evens) was twenty years old, and we all talked about the “Cat”, at our dojo in St. Paul, Minnesota. Especially during the cold two winters I studied Goju Kai karate on ‘Cat,’ because of his ‘Cat Stance’. He was a 10th degree black belt in Japan. We all heard about him and our instructor who was a 2nd degree black belt had studied Karate in Japan during his Army tours, as he called them.
I was a green belt back then; --the belts go, white, green, brown, purple and black; --or so they did in St. Paul, in San Francisco, there was no such thing as a ‘Purple’, belt. In any case, several times I got thinking and talking to Jim about traveling to San Francisco ----where Gosei Yamaguchi opened up his Karate Studio in the early 60’s. He was the oldest son to Gogen Yamaguchi, the Cat, and was putting together an International, National and regional karate organization at the time I arrived in San Francisco. The Cat was a legend in his own time, and Gosei was like Bruce Lee, 6th degree, and unbeaten, at least in my eyes. We had heard he had beaten Yamamoto, a karate man who had killed a man once, and who had broken the horns off of bulls that challenged him; or maybe it was the other way around. But these were stories, rumors, no one knew for sure, or for that matter, how to sort the truth from the legends.
Chuck Skinner, our instructor had never met either Gosei or Gogen, but he talked about them enough. And the more Jim talked to me about going to San Francisco, the more we both became convinced to go. Finally we came up with a plan, --Jim would go first to San Francisco, with his family, find a job, apartment, and get to know Gosei, and I’d follow a month later, and I could stay with him and we’d both study under Master Yamaguchi. It sounded excellent we shock hands and waited for the day to arrive.


Romancing San Francisco


Chapter One

Sammie’s Bar

The Castro Area
[San Francisco]



I had many difficulties the first six weeks in San Francisco, my friend from Minnesota wanted me to leave his house because I got poison oak. I went to a hotel, and had run out of money, down to one silver dollar so I ate at the mission. Then Gosei Yamaguchi, my karate instructor offered me to live in the dojo [the dojo being the gym] and so I ended up living there in and teaching in the morning karate to kids, and in the evening being instructed by one of the greatest karate masters in the world, Gosei, --and drinking at night in the Castro district. What I didn’t know was, I would get an unquenchable thirst for this new life I was entering into, and it would be a romance of sorts, but not with any certain person, rather with the city itself, San Francisco.

I had found a bar I liked in particular, about three blocks away from the dojo. After everyone was gone in the evening in the dojo, I’d step out and walk down among the busy district lights, with its overpowering charm, and go into the semi-crowed bar called: “Sammie’s”. It was not much of a bar, a lot of smoke inside, and a few drunks, many men, and a few women; --an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Palace was quite friendly with me. I liked talking to them. I also enjoyed eating the free sandwiches, and chili they always had; --couldn’t figure it out, a small dingy bar, with so many people, and two male bartenders, --Ted and Joe. They seem to work well together though. They were quite colorful in their delightful way in managing the bar, and its customers, always so approachable. The people who frequented the bar seem to be for the most part, the same customers each evening, and all quite well mannered, quiet and friendly, even the few drunks that fell to sleep now and then followed this pattern. I never thought it too strange though. Maybe because this was one of the first places that reminded me of home somewhat, even though I was only twenty, I had been drinking in the bars back home for sometime.
Outside the bar was a crowed commercial area; along with a real live cable car up the block. There were also several bars cramped into a square eight block area, a few cloth stores, a small grocery store down the block, and a movie theater: --up the block on Main Street was that street car again [I was talking about] it went downtown, or if going in the other direction, it went under a bridge and out toward the University; --when I was about six, I remember them street-cars in St. Paul, but they had got rid of them since, so this was a novelty for me [I made sure I rode on them purposely], and along side that was the main street that went down town San Francisco, or what I called downtown. I had stayed in the hotel down there, the Freemont for a week, with my poison oak I had acquired across the bay up on some damn hill, while resting one afternoon and absorbing the beautiful sun; -- the hotel broke me, it got too be pretty expensive and my money run out, and I lucked out I guess one might say, when I got to stay at the dojo.

At the dojo, I slept on the sofa in the main lobby, and in the back of the building, within the dojo, was a stove and refrigerator, I occasionally used. Gosei would put a five or ten spot [dollar bill] under my pillow about once or twice a week, when he came in early the next morning, I’d be sleeping, but I’d kind of wake up when he’d do that. When I got up, he’d ask, “You eating all right,” and I’d say yes, I didn’t want to complain, I was there on my own free will, yet, I was a little ashamed I had to take the money. But I had also learned a lesson a year earlier, while traveling and living in Seattle for a month. I had run out of money, and had no one to help me with the food thing, consequently, I learned quickly about hunger, and it was not an option not eat, you had to. Therefore, I found a job but it didn’t pay for two weeks, and so I had to beg, borrow and almost stole candy from a boy selling it door to door as a Boy Scout, but I didn’t; I just allowed myself to get more hungry while in Seattle, that is. I did not want to be in that situation again, here in San Francisco.

Gosei would go to his semi-enclosed office behind the tall thin counter; --which was the first thing people saw when they came through the doors, and up the twenty plus steps to reach the top, and there the desk would be, and Lorenzo, whom I got to know quite well, would greet you. He was a light mulatto, and his wife a black woman, a first-degree black belt. Lorenzo had been studying karate for some thirteen years when I had met him, yet had no colored belt, he said he never took one; but as I got to know him, he was as good as any black belt.
The toilet in the dojo was fine, clean, but no shower, and so I just wiped myself clean daily, although a few of my karate friends were letting me know I was not smelling all that great.
It was summer time and the city was wide open with life, charm, it was a colorful playground for the new generation, the ‘Love Generation’, the ‘Flower People,’ ----life in San Francisco was as if there was a fest going on everywhere. The pulse of the city was going wild; two hundred beats a minute.


At “Sammie’s” no one seems to get too much out of place, that is, no one caused trouble, I liked it because of that. Furthermore, it seemed like I came to the city just at the right time, summer was warm and the parks were filled with people, and bands were in every big or small park throughout the city. Everyone smoking pot, everyone but me that is, I was drinking. I had been down to Hayed Asbury Street, a week ago, by myself at night with a wine bottle in my hands, and you couldn’t walk: --everyone, everywhere, asking if you wanted a joint or whatever, everyone with white and/or decorative colored shirts, with randomly selected hats of every color and type, -- and pants with patches and holes; ----more moccasins than shoes where being displayed on the feet of the inhabitants. In some of the more discolored corners of the archways to the buildings as I walked the street, you would get the whispers of whatever you wanted, it was for sale. This was of course a daily thing, meaning, night or day, for I had been there a few times during the day also. Some of the hippies were quite grimy looking, my age. I thought them to be lost at the time in this marvelous Saint Hood of a city. But in a like manner, so was I.
At Sammie’s bar, most of the people didn’t seem to be of the hippie type, or even with the times, more settled in one might say, or for some odd reason that is how I recognized it, even good old Mr. and Mrs. Palace seemed to be content with avoiding the trend and the times of the day; and again, --Joe, the older man [bar tender] always looked at me with a forked-look, as if he had swallowed a frog, and Ted, the thinner of the two, was more business like and said very little to me, or for that matter, spoke only when need be. But my thoughts on the matter were simple, people are different, let it be.
I walked down toward the center of this section of the city [Castro], not too far, yet south of the city was an old church, Dolores street was there also, and the way to the downtown area was a few blocks to the North. Over to the East was where I had started working, a place called Lilli Ann, a dress designer outfit. Adolph Shuman owned the place to my understanding, and had his name on many of the labels attached to the cloths. I had not seen him yet, but I was told he’d show up at the most unexpected times, and was told to just keep out of his way, by my boss Mr. Arthur Blair from England, a dress designer. I think he had a few undesirable run-ins with him. I had soon found out that Lilli Ann was one of the most famous women’s clothing outfits in the world. I’d sometimes have to go down to the fur room, have to bring some furs to the women working, they were beautiful, each time I did this, I seem to have been under a watchful eye until they got to know me better, that is.
The clothing was exceptionally well done, suede, faux mink, other fabrics like mohair wool, etc. I would live to find out, some thirty-five years down the road that Lilli Ann cloths would outlive itself; --and remain world famous. In addition, I would have a dress made for my mother, the women liked me there and so they were kind enough to use their spare time to make the dress for me, and I needed only to buy the fabric. It was worth $85, more than a week’s wages for me. Two other times people asked me to ask the women to make dresses for them, when they found out they did it for me, and they again, made them for me twice more, but then I stopped asking, feeling I was abusing my friends, and the people asking were abusing me. I would also meet Mr. Shuman, the multi-millionaire four times. As I looked back I was always bumping in to history in the making.

It was a warm, friendly and pleasant evening, for the most part; I was about to venture downtown but decided to go back to the bar at the last minute. There I walked in, took my jacket off, and sat on one of the stools. It was a long bar, like back in the days of Jessie James, with tables to my back.
“What’re you having again,” asked Ted.
“Tap beer, as usual.”
“You got it,” said Ted.
A woman somewhat drunk at the end of the bar was checking me out, or so it seemed. The beer went down my insides like a cool breeze refreshing my every pore, on this warm evening. The girl was pretty, but she didn’t really seem to be too interest in me, only curious for some odd reason. I smiled, and she returned it, and started talking to one of the men standing by her at the bar. And so, unabated I went on daydreaming, drinking and smoking.

I sat thinking about how my karate adventure to travel some 2000-miles and meet one of the great masters of karate, one of the best in the world, and possible somewhere along the line I might get to meet his father the ‘Cat’, Gogen Yamaguchi, was a thrill of a lifetime. I ordered another beer, looking at the girl at the end of the bar again --before I fell back into my daydreaming state.
I thought about San Francisco, how I was getting to know the city, and she was starting to belong to me: --along with this new era, the place and especially this bar. I felt alone at times, yet, not lonely, inasmuch as, anyone might, had they left their home behind them. It pained me to think had I not gone on this venture I might have lost out on a golden opportunity, that is to say, one I might look back at in thirty-five years and say, ‘Yaw, that’s where it all started.’ I had always felt a little lost, but better to be lost than sad.

I had not made love to a girl yet, --that is, not in the last six weeks I had been here in San Francisco. Maybe I was leading up to it. I had met two girls at the dojo: one Japanese girl called Kikuyu, very pretty, but she had it for Buck I think, my 4th degree black belt friend. Every time he and I were by them she ended up floating on air, not sure if Buck took note of that. And Karen her girlfriend, whom was too bare for me I felt, liked me. Wasn’t that the luck of the draw? I would have liked to have changed girlfriends with Buck, but felt, leave well enough alone. First Buck wasn’t really interested in her, and second, I had learned that when a woman was interested in one person, that was it, he could be with fifty other guys in a naked group, and she’d wait for him to emerge.
As I ate my ham and cheese sandwich, Joe asked me if I wanted to go to a party which he was having in two weeks, writing his address down, he pushed it over towards me on the bar.
“We’re having Oysters,” he said, adding, “Ted and Mr. and Mrs. Palace would be there [knowing I liked them], so try to be there.”
“If I can make it Joe, I will … [hum] thanks.” He gave me that look again; but this time the look entailed the cat eating the mouse.

I finished my sandwich, drank down my 5th beer, paid the bill and readied myself to leave the bar.
“Thanks again, Joe for the invitation,” I said as I walked out the door, back down the street, taking a right to go up the hill, and another right to go up a second hill. The dojo was in the middle of the second hill, Collingswood.



Chapter Two


Master Yamaguchi Teaches
[Buck becomes a Friend]


The weather was warm in the summer of l968, a breeze from the bay seeped through the city, and the Turtles, the Doors and the Beatles music were being played everywhere, along with “Elvis’ Comeback”. Everyone dressed like Sonny and Cher, or the Momma’s and the Papa’s it seemed everyone but me that is; inasmuch as I liked the way everyone dressed, I found myself still quite conservative.
The trees along many of the streets especially Dolores Avenue were glossy green. I bought some bread and white spread-on cheese, brought it to the dojo and put it in the refrigerator; I liked it, something new that I picked up here in San Francisco. Along with a corner store that would make any kind of sandwich you wanted.
Because of the change in weather from Minnesota to San Francisco, my eating habits were also changing, --to lighter foods that is, and less meats; --more Chinese foods also; I really didn’t care for Japanese foods. Some one brought in raw snake, or so it seemed with white rice in the middle of it, and offered it as a treat for us at the dojo one evening, it must have been Gosei, --but that is a guess, I can’t remember. Although I always seemed to have a good appetite, after a bite or two of the treat, I lost it for the rest of the evening; but as I was saying, with all the walking, and now working at Lilli Ann, the dress designing outfit, and doing my Karate everyday, my appetite was vigorous.

It was great to walk the night away along the oceanfront with my karate friends, looking at the many fires along the Pacific Coast. The warmth of the fires shifted all the way to sensory-senses, smelling the burnt-wood on the fires, all several of us, watching the flickering of the flames, its sparks trying to ascend to the asteroid belt; --as the shinning moon glided across the water right to the edge of the coast, as if it had its orders stop right there. I felt it was a good time to be alive. I loved the water; --the sounds of the huge waves hit the banks of the coast: the white foam splattering all about. My days seemed endless, filled with so much
back in St. Paul, Minnesota, the Mississippi runs right through the city, all the way down to St. Louis, and onto New Orleans; and you got it, right to the Gulf of Mexico. As a kid I’d play down along its banks with my friend Mike Rosette. We were quite the team. We’d run in and out the caves along the cliffs that paralleled the banks of the Mississippi sometimes dodging the drunks asleep snoring away the morning or as sometimes it would be, the afternoon. But this was different, this was not the Mighty Mississippi, Mark Twain’s haven, as he so loved to write about, as I loved to walk beside as a kid, --but this was the Gigantic Pacific Ocean, what I heard about, read about and now was in front of. It was hard for me to adjust to seeing so much water. Much alone, not see an end to it. It took my breath away, like standing in front of the Empire State Building looking up, or looking down the Grand Canyon. I had to run up to it just to say I touched it, got wet; as if it was sacred waters. But then anyone from Minnesota would have done the same I’m sure, or lied that they didn’t, --at first glance anyhow.
Also, along the Mississippi, you’d see rats as large as fat cats, or small dogs, here you seen white jelly fish, colored sea shells, among a few things. To everyone else it was common, to me I was spell bound. In St. Paul, they stopped allowing fires back in ’63, too many false alarms, and the fire company, or stations got sick of running for every fire around. We used to burn our trash in fifty-gallon drums back then: after about six to nine months, grandpa would have me and my brother tip it over and empty it out into a dug out hole, and bury it. But those days were gone to; along with burning the fall leaves, I liked that also, the fall-smell of the leaves, the sparks, just like these fires. And so seeing the fires brought back memories, even though the relationship was quite different, they had their similarities.
“Buck,” I said, asking, “The police don’t do anything about these people having fires, and sleeping the night away… smoking pot, or whatever?”
Buck looked at me strange, “No Chick, it’s just the times…everyone leaves everyone else alone here; or tries to. These people are just here for a short period of time, anyway.”
We stood and looked over the camps, the flames, until we finally got tired and headed back to the dojo; it seemed it was the meeting place. At least for me, because it was where I would sleep.


The following evening Gosei was instructing a class, there was about thirty of us sitting around the dojo, legs crossed this evening. I was there three weeks ago when Big John, now a first degree black, had just gotten his belt promotion to black belt, then a week later, he was training with Buck, and was suppose to pull his punches because they were working on form and technique but Big John did not agree with the limitations it seemed, and smashed Buck in the face. Now a week after that event, here we are training and warming up for this evening, Gosei had us all sit back down after about twenty minutes, towards the walls, and called Big John out to help him with a demonstration. I felt something was going to happen; it was in the air.
About this time I was getting to know Goose’s ways pretty well. He was a small man, quiet, but as fast as lightening, and you just never knew what was on his mind, as if he was always thinking. I’ve seen he throws combination after combination of punches and kicks, while demonstrating with Buck; I just never could get the camera to take quick enough pictures, there seemed always to have a blur in them showing the velocity. When the pictures got developed they by way of the blur, it was amazing to examine the picture and figure out how to work around his combination. And every time he did something, he had perfect balance. As I had learned in life, is the secret to life, in everything, physical, mental, spiritual, and psychological. If one of those elements were missing, I had a problem, or would have. On the other hand he was the most sensitive person on earth, and loved mankind in his own careful way. And knew somehow, the nature of a man, as he mixed it with his culture; that is to say, whatever was expected of the Japanese student, in Japan, was not necessary what he expected of Americans in America. Something I would pick up, not quite knowing where I had inherited it from, but as I would in the future do some traveling, I learned how to adjust in several different countries without any difficulties for extended periods of times. It is a mater of reasoning. In any case, and Gosei was the first to present this combination for my life travels I would need after I left San Francisco
as Big John got into his stance, and at this time I was a Green Belt, ready to get my Brown Belt any day, so I knew many of the moves that would take place, and had about a year and a half of karate practice under my belt prior to coming to San Francisco, of which a few months were with the Master Yamaguchi. As I was saying Big John was in his stance --and Goju Ryu being a defensive style of karate, someone had to start and so Gosei made a false move, meaning just to motivate his opponent; possible this is what happened to Buck and John taking advantage of it because it was practice. In any case, then it happened: --Big John started throwing his long arms out, and Gosei got under them, around them, and must of hit him a half dozen times in the process; for John fell into a corner trying to push the punches away without much affect, which was another mistake of his, Gosei cut him done like a big oak tree because he left himself open then, until he was almost on his knees combinations were going faster than the eye could calculate, then he pulled back and stopped and bowed, walked away, and instructed the rest of us on what to do next. Nobody was talking about what happened, but I knew the subconscious of many were working overtime, mine was. I loved it. I knew Gosei was particular on how his students used their knowledge of karate, and one lesson was --I suppose, no one cares how much you know, until you show how much you care. And Gosei showed always how much he cared; and to be quite frank, so did Buck.


Buck came over to me the next day and asked if I wanted to go to the Japanese movies with him; he really liked the sword fighters, the samurais. I liked doing that, --that is going to the movies and witnessing the samurai in motion, --I was in a different world, an interesting compared to my St. Paul world. Matter of fact, I would always hold a little interest in that area, after San Francisco, also; as well as Sumo wrestling of which I would attend one some thirty years down the road in Japan; as well as bullfights, I would attend in Mexico, and cockfights in Peru, and all matters of combat, I could absorb: --I even ended up in Argentina for a South American Championship boxing match some thirty-four years later.
I think Gosei had asked Buck, --in fear I’d go astray—or go drink myself to death, to befriend me a little. He was a real father figure for me, plus a hero of sorts, and was turning out to be a friend as well. And so we went. I like this particular one, or personage in the Samurai movie world, he was blind and could use his sword like Yamaguchi could his hands. If I’m not mistaken, once this Samurai cut a fly into. I think they had real good special effects in Japan for that movie; but I liked it. Buck liked Edgar Rice Burroughs also, he had read I think all seventy or eighty of his books, to include Tarzan, the Mars books, Venus ones and god knows what else. I couldn’t believe he read all them.
I was learning something from Buck, not only how to be a friend, and fight, but how it might be possible someday for me to go to college, it was in the back of my head----way back there; I was learning many things were possible. I guess I had never thought about it, or even put it to a vote for myself, but he was inspiring me, as I was learning. And in the years to follow I would end up going to four Universities, getting two degrees, and a Counseling License. At the time I’d have never dreamed of that. At best, possible a truck driver and that is not a cut, but reality.

The following weekend, Buck, Lorenzo and his wife, Tom [the banker], Coleman, the 2nd Degree Black Belt [a small black man], Joe, 2nd Degree Black Belt [Spanish], and I all went out to Golden Gate Park. It was monstrous. Every one playing freeze-bee a fun game of sorts: you simply threw a disc made of rubber and the person on the other end would have to catch it like a ball. I learned it quick, good for the reflexes Buck said. We all just walked around the park, played about, stopped and Lorenzo’s wife made some sandwiches, and we lay upon the grass waiting the day away; something I again was not used of doing, I was quite the restless person. As we left the park, there was hundreds of hippie kids all about, smoking joints; a few bands playing, car radios being played loud. On one side of me I could hear the song “The Battle of the Green Berets,” and on the other side was the theme of “The Good, Bad and the Ugly.” And the live band was playing: “We’ll sing in the Sunshine.” As we got into the car, I was hoping when Lorenzo turned on his radio, I’d hear some Elvis, or Rick Nelson music, or even Johnny Cash, but I knew most of my generation had shifted to the newer music, but everyone was talking so the radio never got turned on.

Gosei and Buck were seemingly very close. Buck was about 5’10” about 180 pounds, short hair, very flexible with his body, a warm voice, slow to speak, yet quick if need be; --broad shoulders. He had a tan color to his skin, and was quite handsome. One might liken him to a loner, but I’d prefer to be the loner, and let him be the private person. I was never his companion to speak of, yet I might be considered his unrefined friend of sorts.
Often when I’d go into the dojo at night, Gosei would be working on some file, or doing some accounting, writing letters, signing certificates, I’d let him know it was I, and he’d ask me to play the guitar. He liked listening to it. I sat on the sofa and played, and sometimes I’d play for an hour or so. He liked several songs I played, one he kept asking me to play over and over and I did. Then he’d leave, lock the door behind him, the lights would go off and I’d go to sleep.

There was an old haunting story about this old dojo that scared the best of the tough black belts that would come around each year for the International Goju Ryu tournament, along with the ones that came were here on an everyday bases; also, no one, I mean no one wanted to sleep in the dojo. I guess they had in the past but after they slept once they never did again; it was the tapping of the ghost. I slept there all the time, going on three months. What everyone was scared of, I didn’t believe, ----I asked, and every time I did, it would come up “The Ghost.” Again, maybe a dump Midwestern didn’t get the drift, but I had time, I’d only have to wait for the tournament to come about, which was going to take place at the Cow Place soon, it was set for December, 1968. And then I’d sort out truth from fiction. It was all about ghosts for the most part, and the racket [noise] he or she made. I heard ghost’s stories before, you know them one everyone talks about, but no one experiences’. And I would guess until you do it sounded like foolishness to the best of men. But these people were telling me they had experience them, and in time, so would the black belts from around the world tell me the same story, and again, no one would sleep in the dojo. Ghost or not I was staying, plus where else would I go, so if he existed, he’d have to get used to me, and I to him. Plus, each night when I went to bed, I was half drunk anyway. So if he was around, he never woke me up.

I was somewhat ambiguous to everything, yet it didn’t matter, I was just living a dream, one unheard of for a person like me, coming out of a neighborhood of thugs, although in their own way, they were good folk, but none the less, drunks and thugs. And to be able to see the great man Gogen Yamaguchi in the near future, was a grand prize I didn’t expect. In the mean time, Gosei was teaching me how to use his expensive camera for the tournament. I would be the major photographer, he always seemed to give me more trust than I deserved, not sure why; and that to would stick with me, --as a good omen [it gave me confidence in other things along my road of life]. It would only be black belt participation, and they would come from all over the USA, to include Hawaii, Alaska, and New York City. Gosei wanted me to get trained and possible represent the Midwest with his blessings I guess. I would also get to meet his father, the “Cat”, Gogen Yamaguchi, one of the few 10th degree black belts in the world. The longer I stayed, the more San Francisco seemed to be pleasing to me, in a festive way, and a number of other ways.
As the day drew closer to the tournament, Gosei asked --leaning against the archway to the dojo, as I sat on the sofa about to take my karate coat off, and go on down to the bars. Not sure if Gosei knew I was spending time there, but if so, so be it, plus I don’t believe he knew how very much time I was there, “You will be the main photo man for the tournament, ok,” he said to me and smiled, “Yes sir,” I said, as he added, “You doing well with pictures. Are you eating?” Then he hesitated. I nodded my head yes.
He added:
“I get some complaints from neighbors that someone living here, and it is not good for apartment; something about city code. You must move in few weeks, Joe will help find place for you, I’m so sorry.”
He looked hurt to have to tell me, but he knew it couldn’t be anyone else. It was silly to think I could live here forever, well –it was rather a matter of when I had to move, not if I had to.
“…Its fine sir,” I told Gosei, “I’ll start looking myself. He smiled a bit and walked back into his office. Looked at the piggy bank I gave him for his child. Funny I thought he left it there on his desk, not sure why. I never asked way, or for that matter talked back to him, it was much more interesting to listen to him, and learn, he was wise in many ways, and I would become the person I would become no matter what.

I didn’t buy many cloths in those days, I couldn’t afford them, plus at work, Mr. Green was giving me his son’s old cloths. He was much like my grandpa, always ornery, and nobody got along with him but me. My boss didn’t even get along with him, and was afraid to confront him because he would dominate him, and get him fired. But I seem to walk by him and never pay any attention to his moods, like grandpa back home whom my brother and I were raised by for the most part, that is, he and my mother. Grandpa would walk by me all the time mumble this and that. I seemed to absorb it like fish does water, and it rolled right off my back, or over my fins. My boss was shocked he was bringing me cloths. But then I was also.
Mr. Green would say, “The boy doesn’t wear this anymore, it looks better on you, --for the most part, take it…” I’d say, “You sure sir, it looks new…” and he’d look with a grin at me, then I’d say, “Well, I sure appreciate it,” and take it quickly so not to offend him, plus I did wear them; and needed them. Sometimes when I did wear them at work, I’d go out of my way so he would see me with the shirt on, and he’d show just a little pride around his lips. I learned some of the old grouches of the world were the most willing to give; --it was just that life had been hard on them. I suppose he got more appreciation from me than his boy; or so it sounded.


Sexual Education

The weather was starting to change --coolness was coming into San Francisco. As I got to know my friends, and was partaking in the bars around the area, Joe looking for a place for me to stay, I was learning I was far from being educated in the world of sexuality. That is to say, I didn’t understand the world of homosexuality, and in San Francisco, especially the Castro area it was famous for it, if not down right swamped with homosexuals. Again my Midwestern lack of education came into play. I had been noticing a few things happening that was coming to light. If I knew anything in this area it was primitive at best. And for being prejudice, I didn’t even know the word existed. And so I was an unlearned as a carpenter needing an apprentice.
I had gone into a bar the second month I had been in San Francisco, about a block and a half away from the dojo. I sat in the bar and drank for about an hour, and a young good-looking man came up to me buying me drinks. I thought it strange at first, but back home it was common for someone to buy you or the whole bar a round of drinks, --nevertheless, having said that, as the time went on, he would not allow me to buy him any drinks back. Then he asked if we could go to his place and drink. I asked, “What for…” he said, “You really don’t know?” He quickly found out I didn’t, and I said I think I need to go. I explained I was taking karate at the dojo around the corner, and I was from Minnesota. I do not think I impressed him, other than being a virgin I suppose, in his eyes.
“Look at the pictures on the walls, around and towards the ceiling, the ones hanging by wires,” he asked me. And so I did.
“Now what do you see?”
“Almost completely naked men,” I said.
“You’re getting it,” he commented, “And don’t worry about buying me a drink, but you will be back for me, I know.” I told him I really had to go but I liked our conversation. I kicked myself in the ass for being so dump, when I left the bar. Then I got thinking about the guy who picked up my matches that fell out of my hands the other day, he almost fell over and got hurt trying to pick them up. He wanted to take me home. Things were starting to fall in place.
Under questioning myself, I tried to recall a few more instances. The guy in the bar by “Sammie’s” kept trying to put his arm around me one early evening, and I told him to stop or I’d get mad and have to do something. He just kept it up, and the bar tender didn’t’ do a thing, so I gave him a solid right elbow in the side of his rib, and he fell over onto the bar, I think I heard it split, and the bar tender called the cops on me.
I said:
“Why are you calling the cops on me, he’s the one attacking me, I’m just defending myself,” it wasn’t all-truthful, and he knew it, but he was trying to violate me.
“Get out of her before the cops come and haul you in Mister,” he hollered at me, in fear I’d start trouble. It took me a while to put two and two together, and figure out it was a gay bar. Poor man, he was just trying to come on. I thought what next. I left the bar quickly, and watched my language, back then I hardly ever swore anyhow, it was not the thing to do. My mother chased me out of the house at age nine-teen for swearing and I guess I don’t blame her, and this was not the time or place to start.

Year’s later people back home would tell me I was living in a city of sin and perverted people that I had most likely slept with, to include men. I said nothing, for what could you say –these were people from my hometown, and they would never understand, I mean never. And if I defended myself, they’d take that as a yes to me having sexual relations with men, and it would just get all around, and god help me with my mother, and you got it, everyone. Again, it was best to leave it alone when I did leave San Francisco.
But as I had learned in San Francisco, it was just a world I knew nothing about, it was part of the times, and it was the way it was. Like old man Mr. Green, it was just the way he was. If anything, I tried to understand, what I didn’t know, which was a lot. I never made protests for anything, Vietnam, Gays, you name it, and life was just too short to get so involved with trying to persuade or change someone to be like you.
I didn’t like drugs either, nor was I experienced in the homosexual world, or for that matter, not all that much in any world besides St. Paul. I had sex one evening with a white prostitute down on Mission Street where I worked by Lilli Ann, I was half drunk, and she was not at all what I wanted, a beast of the raw kind. Another time I had sex with another prostitute downtown San Francisco, she was a black woman, we screwed for hours and she said, “Man, you like to f…, but I got to go make money honey, you can sleep it off here.” She left, and when I woke up, she never took a thing, and I simply walked back to the dojo.
I wasn’t looking to carry on any long term relationship, and to be quite honest, I was wondering why men were finding me attractive, but felt it was best in leaving well enough alone, it would go away. If anything I was more scared to find out which ones were, and what approaching new friends might be of that nature, I needed to kind of rehearse and let them know this was not my preference. I guess it was not acceptable to me to hate, or for that matter beating up people for their likes and dislikes. I would prefer to fight for honor, sport and practice, or safety.


Poetry &
The Ghost

It was a Thursday evening, I had walked back to the dojo, --it was going on 5:30 PM, I had stopped at a Chinese restaurant, ate dinner, some rice with beef and dark gravy and green peppers over the rice, it was delicious, and had some tea, that sunk to the bottom of the tea-pot, that also was excellent. Then again, back to the dojo. By the time I reached the dojo, everyone had left, it was 7:00 PM, usually I got back early to work out, and Friday nights I avoided going back to the dojo because it was Black Belt night until 8:00 PM. None-the-less, I entered the dojo, and sat back placidly against the sofa, the counter to my left, the archway to the gym [dojo] straight ahead stared at me; as it normally did. And then it happened; it was close to 10:00 PM -- what everyone had told me about, the ghost that is what happened, oh yes, I met him. I can’t describe it emotionally with prose, so I had to write it down after the meeting in poetic verse, I never did give it a name, the poem that is, so let’s do it now, how about “The Ghost of the Collingswood Dojo,” ok? And now for the poem:


I heard him last night
About 10:00 P.M.
(In the silence of the wind)
Trying to get in;
Tapping at the windows,
The podium stand;
Knocking over wooden chairs –
As I was half-asleep
In the gym.

I heard him last night
10:05 P.M.
I was standing by the archway –
To the gym;
Alone—in the black-silence
Of his night.
His footsteps passed me –
I saw the wooden floor
Absorbing them…

I stood in a warrior’s stance
(I remember) --
And said with a cry of sin:
“I wasn’t about to let you in.”

Then with hidden strength
I called to the Lord (although
Something told me to
Challenge him)
In less than a second
I heard the silence in the wind:
Evaporating-shifting,
Leaving in all directions.


Ten years had passed [l978]
Since then—whereupon,
I met a woman: she
Seemed to understand more than I
What really took place
In the silence of that night?
(Maybe I was too young back then)
To realize what was really happening):
But before she left—like in
The silence of the wind –
I heard/she said:
“It wasn’t a dream,
But a scheme;
Thank your Lord;
You didn’t challenge Him.”

Even now [l982] as I write –
I can feel his pulling
On my pen.



The evening was a chilling experience, after the event, of yelling into the wide-open dojo, where no one really was, the chairs that once were rocking, as many of black belts had told me, and feared to sleep overnight in the dojo, stopped. The steps that made the wood crackling noise as if a giant was walking by me, I could see its [his] weight upon the wooden floor absorb into it, I stood still as still could be. The windows stopped chattering, and went back to its stillness, which was part of the night’s atmosphere, notwithstanding. I would not move out of the dojo, unless told to, the spirits or ghosts would have to deal with me, as I would them. And so I fixed my pillow on the sofa, put down a fighting stick, and went to sleep, as usual.
At all events, I was surprised that Black Belts, highbrowed and such felt they had no power over the unseen world. Stern as they portrayed themselves to be, was this all the courage I could find in them, nothing beyond the visible; doubtless, however, no wonder envy got them. For I did not envy what they had, as they did I; --and I thought I had very little, although Gosei and Buck’s friendship was a treasure. The black belts could not understand, or maybe they could, I was simply enjoying what they had found, the wisdom and golden grain of the Master Yamaguchi. Yet with all this fuss, I was not thinking anything bad of them, for they originally made me feel at home, and I loved them for it. But now they did not like my relationship with Gosei.

One night after eating at the Japanese restaurant, Joe told me he found a place for me to stay with a Mexican family, that he’d show me the place the coming weekend. He then said something very strange.
“The black belts don’t like you chumming up to Gosei so much, I’m telling you to pull back for your own good.”
“What if I don’t,” I asked.
“Well, I’ll have to kick the shit out of you.”
“Listen Joe,” I said, “I might be backward in this big city, and you being a second degree black belt I’d be crazy to fight you, now what do you think I would do.” He looked strange at me, and said, “You tell me.”
“I’d have no choice; I’d do what anyone in my old neighborhood would do, that is, go buy a gun and shoot you.” I was kidding, I think.
He started laughing, “You’re kidding…” then looked at me for an answer.
“You don’t know us Midwesterners do you.” I said cunningly. That was it, he never brought the subject up again, and we remained distant friends, although he let me go to his house the following day to take a shower, I had not taken one for three months, and he throw two bars of soap in and told me not to come out for an hour. To appease him I stayed in for about 40-minutes; couldn’t find another area to scrub.

I didn’t know how anything was going to turn out, only that I wasn’t willing to accommodate the black belts in their game, and they were starting to take a disliking with me, and again there was not much I could do about that. If I had learned anything in Minnesota, it was you do not back away, if need be you get your ass kicked. I guess they had their own comradeship, and I was in the way.


Chapter Three


My New Home
[The Latin Family]



Joe came over in the morning with his mother’s car to bring me to this Latin’s family’s home, ---I was to rent their screened-in-porch attacked to the house. It wasn’t all that far from the dojo, which was located on Collingswood Street, not far from Market Street, which went into downtown San Francisco.
It was Saturday morning, Joe came in the dojo, I could hear the doors open, then up the long flight of stairs, I heard his heavy feet, when he reached the top, I was looking at Buck’s gallery of books in the back of the dojo, I was always amazed how he could have read all these paperbacks, mostly Edgar Rice Burroughs. Sometimes I thought he read them for a distraction, you know, so as not to have to think about perhaps unpleasantries at home. Not sure how his home life was though, only met his mother once and they he and his mother both seemed pleasant, and very much to their own, although they seemed to have gotten along also.
“Chick,” Joe called loudly, I heard him. He was always tanned, a natural tan, that Latin look. He had very white teeth, short hair, about 5’ll” and with a leonine head.
“What you up to,” he yelled, ----Gosei was not in yet, and it was 8:30 AM.
“We’re lucky, “he commented when he saw me at the other end of the dojo, on the stage area checking out the books.
“Why’s that Joe,” I said.
“Mom needed the car, but decided at the last minute I could use it, in spite of, au--grocery shopping, I suppose. I told her I’d be back before noon.”
“No problem, I got everything ready.” I didn’t have much to carry, just a small suite case, and a medium size box filled with cloths, karate suite, and shoes, a jacket.
“They’re good Spanish folks, you’ll like them,” Joe tried to convince me. I think the whole black-belt committee felt a little safer now, --I say, --safer because now they could have Gosei to themselves. I’ve never competed for his friendship, he gave it willingly, and I was always overwhelmed that he liked me, and proud of it; and at the same time, not really knowing what to say half the time.
I also think part of this move I was about to make was because of Coleman, the black young man, 2nd degree black belt. He had come in one night, it must had been around 10:30 PM, expecting to see me sleeping, he caught me with a girl, a Latin gal from Nicaragua. I had met her on the bus coming to the dojo from work about a month ago, and went over to her house, and her mother jumped all over us with this Spanish lingo, only thing I remember was my little Latin beauty saying in Spanish she didn’t understand, and adios, and we took off. She was slender, with a fine looking face, about 5’4”, and boy she could kiss. We laid in the back of the dojo, where there was another coach for the visitors, and she was half naked and Colman came in. Well, he got even I’m sure.
“Come on let’s go gooo…” said Joe; --he also was anxious to get rid of me. Joe could be hilarious at times, that is, in a concealed annoying way. I don’t think he ever was on his own for a day in his life, but he tried to be a good guy, nonetheless.

As I got into his Volkswagen he drove down Castro Street. I was thinking of the tournament coming up soon. I would still be part of it all. Maybe not be able to go with the black belts anymore, but Buck would take me back to Berkeley possible, see Gosei in action teaching out at San Francisco State. And possible I’d see the garden spot in the hills and the Claremont Hotel and Tennis club, once again, it was pointed out to me once, I think it was that big white structure on the hill. Things would change, but they had to.
We drove for about ten minutes, we ended up down around Mission and Dolores, in a small neighborhood, to the South of us was these old expensive looking mansions, and the street was filled with beautiful palm trees lined all the way up the street. Now why was I not going into one of them houses I asked myself?
“Here we are Chick,” said Joe. I got out, and he walked me up to the small house, and introduced me to the woman of the house, Joe spoke Spanish, I never knew he could, and spoke it very well.
“Hola, amigo,” she said, “We ee, happiee to oo tenerte, --hav u,” she was trying hard to speak English, and called for her boy, “Georgeeeeeee…

Puedes ayudarme a traducir para el gringo [Can you help me to translate for the blond hair boy]?”
Quickly the young boy who was about eleven year’s old appeared, in front of me answered his mother by saying: “Si mamá [Yes mother].”
She said something, and I quickly learned he was going to be our interpreter.
“Well, Chick,” said Joe in a happier voice, “I hope all turns out for you.”
“Yaw, thanks Joe, it was real nice of you,” as he removed himself from my presence quickly to get his mother’s car back, for he had to drive back over to Oakland, and it was a little ways, he never turned back to look at me.

“Tienes hambre?” the mother said to me, and George translated it to “Be you hungry?”
“No,” I said, “but thanks.” George showed me my bed on the porch; --by the looks of things I’d have to find another place soon, it had screens and windows all around the porch, but it didn’t have any heat ventilation—I told myself, first things first.
“Do you play chess?” George asked, and I assured him I did, but wasn’t too good, but felt I could beat a ten-year old. “I’ll play a game as soon as I get settled, ok?” He smiled.
It didn’t take me much to get settled. The boy’s mother showed me where the bathroom was, which amounted to me having to leave the porch area, and walk through a doorway into the kitchen and the bathroom was to the right. I had to use it at that moment, and when I shut the door to take a leak, you could hear every drop, I felt funny, as if the whole house could hear. But the place was temporary, and it only cost $5.00 a week. And I was making $70.
As I left the bathroom and met George, he introduced me to his father, his father’s brother, and four kids, not sure who they belonged to, and another woman about thirty-five; --then George and I went to play a game of chess.

The game lasted about two hours he beat me. I think he could have beaten me in about twenty-minutes, but it was I who had to do all the thinking, and he sat quietly as I moved my chessmen. I got the feeling he knew I was going to be easy pray. But I was happy I had a place to stay. People are given gifts in life, when you do not appreciate them, it becomes part of your attitude, and life can be quite hard on you. That person who was going to help could be lost in the wind, and so I tried to show as much respect as I could, and appreciation.
As the weeks went by, they had me in a few times for meals, but I didn’t eat all that much; --I worked at Lilli Ann Company, and in the meantime, played chess with George, and of course he beat me all the time. At night I’d go up to the Castro district and get drunk, usually stopping at least for an hour or so at Sammie’s.
One time at Lilli Ann, I met Adolph Shuman on more human bases, other than work. He had stopped in the café up the street; it was a small Chinese place. He brought in his small white dog, I think it was a terrier, a few people by me were complaining, but I paid them no heed. The manager of Lilli Ann, spotted me, and had me come over and meet Mr. Shuman, for some odd reason I was quite scared, but played it down, and he looked at me as if I was not recognizable, but said hello, and I went back about to eat, and the manager said again, sit with us. And so did, and I just kind of froze and tried to eat, but my hands were a bit shaky; or so they seemed. The rest of the group at the table, which was a blond assistant to the manager, a pretty young lady about five foot six inches, --reserved looking always, a calm voice, and a sensitive manner; --then the manager himself, Mr. Rosenberg, who started talked. I found my head bobbing up and down to smile but I didn’t know what to say, so I started thinking about the first small novel I had bought and started to read, about a relationship between two Italian lovers. And then they got up and left, all saying their good-by’s, and Adolph waving his hand somewhat, as a goodbye jester to me, since he could not get to saying it directly; although he did mumble something under his breath. I suppose, I thought, power and money can do many things to a personality. He seemed a busy sort of fellow, and tried to show his human side, and/or equality side. But you could see the guarded side of him. And of course, owning a big business, people always try to take advantage of you, not really knowing who's really on your side, and his fooling around with the models at work. I suppose I’d be a little restless.
On weekends I’d walked down by the Golden Gate Bridge a few times, even across it. At night when I was down there I loved seeing the patched clouds in the evening, looking over the Golden Gate, I loved to watch the sun go down, with its bright yellows fading into its red and gray background. It was like the clouds wanted to hide it, so I couldn’t see. I suppose when you’re alone a lot you think the sun follows you; one takes things on a more personal level.
Sometimes along the shores out by the Cliff House by Sutro Heights you could hear the sounds of the expiring waves that seemed to sooth my hot blood. I had no complaints, matter of fact, no one back home would believe me if I told them my story, all inclusive, for the most part: to include, meeting and befriending Gosei, and working for a dress designing company for Adolph Shuman. I had not met him on a personal note yet, that but indirectly I did, he was being chased by a beautiful model throughout his dress factory, and she had a giant pearl on her finger I noticed, I guess it was a gift from the millionaire. He told me to hold a door for him so she would not be able to get to him. I did for a moment, and then let the door open again, thinking this was foolish. She was quite tall, but beautiful, with a very healthy looking body. Later on that day my boss Mr. Blair also showed me his Rolls Royce in the garage next to the building I worked in.


The Karate Test and the Dentist


Another few weeks went by and my teeth were starting to hurt, I had two huge molars in the back, and I needed to do something soon, they seemed to be hurting more everyday; --at work my boss had told me I had a red line going down my neck and it was starting to get infected, I was scared it go to my heart. They told me to take off a week of work, and get taken care of, but really could not afford to, but I did.

Lorenzo at the dojo gave me the phone number of the San Francisco State University Dentistry; I called them and made an appointment. It was a free clinic and the students worked on you. I had to wait until Monday it was Friday now. I was starting to get a little fever over this also. I was getting a bit restless on my free week off, and doing a lot of resting. I even bought my first novel, it was only 109-pages, but it was interesting. It was about this Italian man who found this woman, and she had breasts that fit perfectly into his palm. I got thinking, she was real thin, or he had big hands. Never read anything like that before. As I waited for the day to come at for the dentist I finished reading the book, took me all of four days.

As Saturday came, I walked up Castro Street to the dojo, it was kind of a big day, and I was a little under the weather, but ok. We had a test today, an endurance test. As I got ready putting on my white karate jacket, I stood bowed to the Master, and did some exercises to get ready for the test. Then Gosei called us all to order, and he and Buck stood at the end of a line of which thirteen karate men were standing in line; --some black belts, brown belts, green belts like me, and a few white belts.
Tom the banker was there, he always seemed a bit rigid, his body that is and so I was quite surprised he ever made 3rd degree black belt, but he did, he also kept the books updated somewhat, for the dojo to my understanding, but I could be wrong, it just seemed he was involved in that manner, and from what I heard; and I think some of the degree titles were given out for longevity and for services rendered, other than for outstanding skill, but then do we not do that for the sake of love, and regard to those who have devoted themselves in one way or another to your cause, I have seen it more than once at my young age, it is not the unpardonable sin, if a sin at all; I told myself how many colleges have given out a mess of Ph. D’s because they got a donation here or there, or for that matter, for lesser things done in the name of higher education. I am not saying he wasn’t worth his belt, but his skills never impressed me; --incidentally, he is one of the judges today.

“Ok,” Tom told everyone, “…you will fight for three minutes sparing, free style, ---pull your punches from the face, we’ll be able to see if you hit or not, it takes more skill to actually pull your punches than to have physical contact [hit]. And you will get a ten-second rest, and when I say next, you will shift to your next opponent.”

I started out fairly good; I had to fight another green belt, which I was twice as good as he, and a lot faster. But then I had been a green belt for two years, and normally you are only one for a year. I was hoping to get my Brown Belt after Gogen comes to San Francisco, for the Tournament, we would have to do another test and then we’d be able to upgrade our belts.
“Next,” Tom said. “I now had this young Black Belt, that is, he was my age, and we went in circles for a minute, and then our hands and feet went into a fast pace, he was quite impressed with me, I blocked everything he threw at me, and countered his with a good offensive three step attack.
“How long you were practicing Karate,” he said as I shifted into a Cat Stance, as we settled down for a moment, we usually didn’t talk, I smiled, “Three years…” I said.
“I thought so,” then he threw a back kick but I caught it, and he was on one foot, but I let it drop and went in for an eye contact with my fingers, I knew it was forbidden but I did, and just touched his eye lids, and pulled my fingers back. I had hands faster than lightening. I’d practice daily in front of the mirrors for two hours my fingers poking at eyes; I visualized eyes in the mirrors all the time, --I felt if a man could not see you, he could not fight you, and it was working. Most of my fights were quickly dispersed to a stop once I did that. Touch his eyes and do a back kick, and the man was out, --and if you happen to hit him in the groin without a cup on, down he went, that happened three times, meaning, I did it to my opponents.
“Next,” now I was fighting with a wild white belt and just trying to avoid his swinging wildly. I figured if I went in for a sold punch or kick, and missed I’d look bad, and he was looking bad enough now, for the most part.
“Next…next…next…I now was on my last opponent, I could hardly hold up my hands, and my feet under me were becoming noodle like. My reflexes were down, and I just wanted to get it over with, but I needed to keep a good show and so I become extra, or overly defensive, allowing the other person to be more aggressive, --I could block most anything anyone could throw, so I felt safe doing that. Once I went into an offensive action, he could counter me, and I’d be off balance, and I was too weak to allow myself to be put into that position.

“Ok, STOP!” Tom yelled.
“Very good, everyone was very good…” Gosei said, but I knew he was being extra kind. This was no time for decision-making, and we’d all find out how we did later.

As we all were dismissed I went and sat in the open area where the sofa and counter was, it was kind of a gathering area.
“Did you call the University,” Lorenzo asked.
“Yaw, Monday they’re going to check me out.”
“I hope so, the red line is at the end of your neck Chick, and you’re looking a little more worn than usual.” He was right, I was. My fever was getting worse, and most likely this work out might have help it along.
Gosei came by and said hello, and gave me his powerful smile, asking how my new living quarters were. I told him fine, but it was getting a little nippy, and there really was no privacy. But he did more than his share to help me; so I left it alone. I think he just marveled at the fact I would come 2000-miles to learn karate from him, and respected that or me. Plus, I was a greenhorn in a big city I was not used to. He was kind of a father figure for me.

That day I asked Gosei if I could free fight him. He looked at me shocked.
“You do not know what you are asking,” he said, and gave me that smile, then asked Buck to take a picture of him and I standing in a stance looking solidly at one another as if we were going to fight. Then he gave me the picture. I then turned around and took another picture of him, after asking him how high he could kick. As years would go by, I would hold on to them pictures as if it they were a treasure, and to me they still are. But as Gosei walked away, with that smile again, Buck came to explain to me, and he also was like a big brother, “Chick, Gosei meant no disrespect when he said what he said, but what he meant is/or was, you could not block his combinations, or anticipate them; I have a hard time doing it, and I’m a 4th degree. I think he does want you to get hurt.”
I said:
“Thanks Buck,” with a little sighs of relief. I never complained, and I think that is what Buck and Gosei like about me. On one hand I was simple, and on the other, carelessly too brave for my skills. But I loved them both.

The Nippy Porch


Well, it was Monday morning, I had my alarm clock go off, and when I got out from under the warm blanket, I rushed to get into the bathroom, it was a bit chilly, and damp, but not bad --and then I put my cloths on. The Spanish mother and sister were sitting in the kitchen having coffee, they could see me through the doorway, and it was attached to the kitchen. Actually there were two doors to the porch, one to the kitchen and one to the outside, so I wouldn’t have to bother going through the kitchen should I just want to leave unnoticed. I went to the bathroom, smiled at them as I came out, I’m sure they heard the waterfalls again; I hated that, then quickly went back into my outside den, and put on a light jacket.
I caught one of them big-electric busses called streetcars I actually liked them. Down on Market Street they were digging underground, it was all torn up, building some kind of transit system. As I sat on the streetcar, I felt my face, --it was getting puffier than I had notice before, and it was starting to sweat.
“Next stop, the campus…” I got off, and found my way to the dentistry department. They took me right away. The young man who situated me in his medical chair, waited for another man who was working on a client next to me to come over. Then the older man looked me over, pin pointing what had to be done. He recommends that the lower tooth be cracked, so you can get into it to pull out, because it was too large, and the upper one would simply come out straight without cracking it. Both teeth were pushing the rest of my teeth into a crooked state. He told him to be careful, he didn’t want the poison in my system to shift, and gave me a shot of something in fear…of, whatever big words he was using, it meant seriousness if it was done wrong, for me that is.
A long time seemed to have gone by, and then one by one the two molars came out. When it was all over, the apprentice-doctor told me not to go to work for a week, but it would be wise to rest, and absolutely no karate, or wild activities. He wanted the infection to just goooo away. I thank them both, and left. But I was in route for “Sammie’s” bar, I needed a drink, but first I called Lilli Ann, and tried to get a hold of my boss, Mr. Blair, I always liked the way he talked, like he came out of Scotland Yard, in London, but the secretary said he was out to lunch, then I asked for the Manager, Mr. Rosenberg, he was a Jew, like Mr. Shuman, who had help him out with this job a few years back. He was a bit worried these days though, he told me Mr. Shuman sometime ago had put a friend’s son into college and he was graduating soon, I think in June, and had promised him a manager’s position, and felt his job was the one he was giving away. I didn’t say anything because Mr. Rosenberg was always quite fare. And he wasn’t asking for advice, rather he needed to talk, and someone simply to listen; someone that is that didn’t cost $100-dollars an hour like a Psychologist. He was in his early thirties, possible about thirty-three years old. When it got hot in the departments he would get a wheel barrel and fill it with ice, and soda’s and go all over the floors of the building, and across the street to the other one story building, giving them away to all the workers. He was a little odd, but I always felt, who was I to be calling anyone odd, I mean, it has been suggested a few times already in my short life here on earth, I can just imagine when I am older.

“Mr. Rosenberg,” I said, “I need to stay away from work one more week, the doctor told me so, --and my fever is going to get worse, not better in a few days. I had two molars pulled and my face is like a balloon, I hope this is all right?” I’m sure he heard all the stories in the world for not wanting to come to work, but I was too simple minded back then to produce such a good lie.
“Sure,” he said, and that was that. But of course I knew it would be with no pay. But what could you do.

I arrived back on Market Street and Collingswood where the dojo was, within the hour, but I didn’t go to the dojo, I went to the bar. There was Ted and Joe, and the elder husband and wife team, the Palace’s. Everyone greeted me with high spirits, and Joe came over saying, “The party is tonight Chick, coming?” I was low on funds so I said, sure, and he gave me the address. It was 5:00 PM already, a long day to say the least. So I left the bar and went to another one up the street on the corner and sat and drank. I had not been in this one before it was a different crowd.
After a few hours sitting at the bar an avalanche of people came in all of a sudden, among them, one big guy with several of his friends surrounding him. He had not been there long when he caught my eye. If anything I had good senses. He was trouble. Joe had told me the party started at 7:30 PM and that is what time it was, but I did not want to get there too early. So I got up and went to the bathroom, the big man hit my shoulders a bit, “Watch were you’re going Mister!” he told me. I looked at him, “You hit me, not me you, what’s your beef…?”
“So I did, I just don’t like you.”
“I know you don’t, so do what you think you can, right here…!” I told him.
“No outside…” he said.
“Well, if that’s the case how about me going up to the dojo and getting my friends, just like you have, and then we’ll go outside, all of us together. You got your protection all around you I see.” He didn’t like that comment.
“I’ll see you outside Mister.”
“As I expected,” I commented, then went to the bathroom, and back to the bar, had two more beers, and then called a cab to take me to Joe’s house. He lived a ways from this area, by Telegraph Hill, where Coit Tower’s was. I liked the area, and the Tower, with all its surrounded shrubbery, and its lording over the hill.

When I lived in St. Paul, I never seem to have to go very far to get drunk or find a bar, we had two neighborhood bars, and St. Paul, was only about 240,000 people compared to this big city. But I liked it.
I knocked on the door, Joe opened it, “Haw, it’s you, come on in my young good looking stud.” My eyebrow went up: --thinking what is he talking about. He grabbed me by the arm and showed me around his apartment; when he got to the bedroom, he said ‘If you need to use it later you knowwww…where I am.’ I got the message, but not the desire.
Odd, I thought why is he talking that way to me. It was every one from the bar at his house, and there was Ted, tallish and lanky, with a half serious smile. Joe was the heavy set one, jolly and in slow motion for the most part.
As the night went on I was getting drunk slowly, but progressively, and eating oysters one after the other at the same time. I was really hungry. I was getting the impression Joe thought I’d get so drunk he’d get me into his bed. But I assured myself this would not happen; I memorized the cab company’s phone number, just in case.
In those days, I never knew who was who, but I was getting my senses to tell me they were not heterosexual bartenders, yet, I feared to say anything in case I was wrong, but how wrong can a person be, I mean he was coming on to me, like a man would to a woman; yet back home, us guys goofed off with one another during and after drinking, no big thing. We did some pretty out of sight things, but no one carried it to the bedroom level. Finally, I told Ted and Joe, and the rest of the folks at the party I had to go. I had eaten two-dozen of them boiled oysters, which I had never eaten before, and drank about ten beers along with the beer I had prior to arriving. I think I was drinking myself sober. It was 2:00 AM in the morning.
Joe called the cab and as I got my ride back to the house, I could taste those oysters throughout my whole body. In the morning I felt sick, and in everything I did I tasted oysters, for the rest of the week; yes indeed, I had that oyster taste reeking out of my pours along with the beer, but I was over my fever, and the red mark on my neck had gone away.


Chapter Four


Dolores Street


One always knows when things need to change. The winters in San Francisco were not like Minnesota by far, but I knew it was creeping in, and I had to leave the Latin family’s hospitality. When I conveyed this to the boy, George he had a tear in his eye. I was never really sad in San Francisco, but I knew I’d miss him. Part of you stays behind in such cases. I never did beat him in chess. George knew as well as I, when the frost and dampness came in a little more, I would be getting sick if I did not find another place. I had an idea, there were rooms for rent in many of the huge mansions on Dolores Street, and I liked the street besides. It was a bit frightening to start all over again to find a place to lay my head; this was going on number three, of the five times I would move: the first, was from my friends when I had first arrived in San Francisco, across the bay, then the hotel downtown San Francisco to the dojo, and now the Latin family, and hopefully I’d find something on Dolores Street, in the very near future.


As I walked up and down lovely Dolores Street I found a mansion, I stared at it. Leroy, an elder man of about forty-years old, from the bar had told me about this place, it just dawned on me, and he did odd jobs for people up and down this street. He drinks at “Sammie’s”, matter-of-fact, about three weeks ago one night he and I had sat outside, and he gave me his life’s story. He seemed to like me too. I really wanted to get away from him though, he looked as if he could be dangerous, but nothing happened, and he was a good conversationalist. I looked in my wallet, yup, sure enough, 206 East Dolores Street, here I am; --I kind of knew I might be using this number, but was not financially ready. I wanted to pay Gosei back for all the money he lent me, and for my karate lessons he was putting on a tab. He said an old woman had just bought the house, a retired Colonel from the Wax, the female branch of the Army. Her name was Dorothy Hamburg.

As I knocked on her door, an elder white haired woman came to the entrance,
She said:
“How can I help you?”
“Miss Hamburg…” I said, and she commented, “Yes,” with a surprising look to her eyebrows. She was well kept for an older woman, but must have been in her fifties, about 5’6”, 130 lbs, stern looking, sold built; kept her posture erect as she looked at me, and she seemed to look you straight in the eyes, no fear, just assurance, no insecurity in her direction.
“A mutual friend of ours, Henry from the bar in the Castro area told me you might have a room for rent.”
“Yes, Henry has done some work here, and just who are you?”
“I am Chick…”
“Yes, yes, I remember Henry saying you might be looking for a place to stay; you’re from Minnesota, and do the karate thing up in Castro. Is that right?”
“Yes, and I work for Lilli Ann.”
“That’s good, you have a job. Well I can show you the room, it is not too big, and you will have to share the bathroom with whoever moves into the big room adjacent to you. Both your room and that big room have the bathroom between them, so you will have to share.”
“I don’t mind sharing,” I said, and then She took me in and showed me the room, it was about 150-square feet, and the big room was about 200 square feet. Not large by any means.
“Well,” she said, “what room do you want?”
“How much are they,” I asked.
“The small room is $15.00 a week, and the big one is $20. If you want room and board, it is $25.00 a week.” I had just got back to work, and surprisingly, the whole 200-people that worked on the three floors within the building and across the street in another building which hand only one floor, Mr. A. Shuman owned, took up a collection, and gave me seventy-dollars, a weeks pay, a gift knowing I was ill.
“I can pay for two weeks right now if that is ok, and pay you every two weeks,” I told her.
“That will do, --and just when do you want to move in?”
“Today,” I said with, and she smiled, “Ok, that sounds fine,” and I handed her the money.


I didn’t own much and so it was a simple matter of collecting the few things I had, which I would do, and bring to her place, by way of walking; --for it was only about a mile away between the house I had been living in and my new sleeping room, or mini apartment. She then gave me a key, and showed me again, my room on the second floor.
As you went up the winding stairway—which the railing was made of varnished oak—you almost could walk into my room, just shift to the right about two feet; —to the left of me was the big room, and across from that by the stairway, was even a smaller room than mine, maybe one hundred-square feet total, all three had beds in them.
Then she took me to the attic, where a man and his girlfriend lived; the woman was pregnant lying down by the chimney on a mattress. It was huge, the attic; they paid $40.00 a month for it, and were on the third floor. The chimney went right through their living space and through the roof like a rocket. They had mattresses all over. I guess they had been there when the old lady bought the place some six months ago. Jane, the pregnant woman told me the person who was living in my room before me was a young man going to school to become a doctor. He had one night parked his car in the garage and carbon monoxide poisoning had killed him. Jane looked a little like being part of the hippie scene. Jane explained she was unmarried, but had a lover named Phillip.
Jane and I took a liking to one another right away, Phillip, I would find out would be gone most of the time, and when not gone he was high on pot, or other mood altering substances, laying about, or out riding around town with his friend Lance.
Dorothy took me downstairs to the basement, there was a huge fireplace down there, it was like out of a Frankenstein movie, and I loved it. I knew by looking at it, I would be spending sometime down here in the near future, drinking and resting. Then she showed me two huge dogs German Shepard’s. They were ferocious and wild looking; she kept them tied up in her backyard, an open area, which must had been used prior to her buying the place, as a small courtyard for a garden, which had high cemented sides so the dogs could not jump out. They barked at me. But I walked into the lions-den nonetheless, and touch them slowly, and for some reason they did not attack me. I touched them again; --Dorothy was so impressed, ‘amazed’ she told me, and said: I could feed them and run them everyday if I wanted. That she could not even get near them anymore. I simply did not show any fear. Either out of stupidly or some kind of animal sense I must have displayed.


Chapter Five


The Fillmore West
& the Indian Maid


I just left the ‘Fillmore West’, I didn’t stay long, I wanted to see the concert, but after stepping over two or three dozen bodies sprawled out in all direction in the theater, blocking the door ways, some sitting on top of others, others laying down, drinking alcohol, smoking pot… all in another world, --yet I got through the mess, right up to the bandstand, in spite of the odds. I saw the Turtles playing, yet they were foggy to say the least. I must have been fifteen-feet in front of them; I heard the song “Sound Asleep,” a little on the wild-eyed grab-bag psychedelic side; --then “Elenore,” a little satire for the bones. The vocalists sounded good, but I just really never new much of the group. Then the song came, “That will be the Day,” I knew that one for some odd reason, and after that, “It Ante me Babe,” kind of a schizoid aspect to it.
Henry, a friend of mind told me about the Turtles, to be quite honest, otherwise I would not have know them, although I had heard a few of their songs on the radio.
Henry left for LA a few days ago after almost hitting another car with his van. Henry was on heroin all the time; --no, not all the time, often he’d get high for three or four days, go puke his guts out, and walk a straight line for a week or two, then go back into the same routine. Getting back to that van, it chased us for an hour around San Francisco, I think --now that I think about it, Henry did hit the side mirror off the guy’s car. But we got away.

I walked across the street from the Fillmore West, where there was a bar, and so I went in, sat at the bar, and ordered a glass of beer. To my left was women, she looked a little older than I; say about twenty-four or so. She had long black hair, thin, dark eyes; for some odd reason I thought Minnesota was the only state that had all the Indian tribes around. My neighborhood had one family of Indians to it, the St. Clair’s; I used to date one, the younger one named Jackie. Not sure why it didn’t work out, but it didn’t, she was cute, thin and nice eyes. That was a few years back though, maybe when I was fifteen.
“Buy me a drink my young good looking friend.” She asked, and then sat down besides me.
“Sure, why not, what you drinking?”
“Whisky and coke, with a beer chaser, the coke on the rocks, and the whisky on the side,” She new exactly what she wanted, that was for sure.
As the night lingered on, she ordered a few more rounds.
“You like Indians,” she asked me.
“I like pretty girls with black hair and dark eyes, and you fit the bill.” She smiled, “Where’s your apartment?” she asked.
“Not far from here, let’s go,” I said.
“First let’s get a six pack of beer to go.” I agreed, and bought the beer, and had the bartender call us a cab. It was going on 12:30 AM.


The Thief

As we got to the apartment, we walked up to my room quietly not to disturb the Colonel, she somewhat frowned on anyone bringing in stray’s. Then as we opened and shut the door, Joan, my new Indian-date, was in bed quicker than I could shake a stick, her cloths left on the floor; she looked very comfortable in my bed, too comfortable.
“You come…?” She commented.
“Need to take a leak, be out in a minute,” I ended. As I opened the door she was moving about in the bed trying to get situated. I had left my pants on the floor. I picked them up and put them on the chair by the door when I came back out, then jumped into bed. She quickly grabbed my dick and moved it every which way to get it hard, and then she positioned it to go into her opening. We had intercourse for about twenty-minutes, and I was bushed, too tired to go on, and fell quickly to sleep.


4:00 AM


“What’s that,” I asked myself, I tried to focus my eyes, I seen a shadow by the chair, I looked beside me and Joan was gone, then I turned the light on, she had my wallet in her hand. She quickly dropped it.
“I need money, just a little.”
“You need a kick in the ass,” I jumped out of bed and she covered her face, a bit frightful. She had her pants and shirt on, only her jacket; I grabbed her jacket and threw it at her.
“You got four minutes to get the hell out of my sight, or I’ll kick your ass all the way down the stairs and out.”
“Please, I need the money…” I put my pants on, and started toward her, I was outraged. She quickly opened the door, grabbing her jacket tighter at the same time, ran down the stairs and out the door. I watched her walk down Dolores Street, trying to tidy herself up.
“Who’s out there,” said the Colonel.
“It’s just me, I needed some air.”
Chapter Six


Meeting the Cat
And the Tournament
[The big event]



The tournament was in the makings now, people from all over the United States had arrived, those who were at previous tournaments agreed with the black belts of San Francisco, that the dojo was haunted, and none would stay there, and so from Hawaii, New York, California: Bakersfield, Foster City, Los Angeles, Palo Alto, San Francisco State College, San Mateo, Stockton, Ohio; --they all came. In addition, representatives from such Headquarters as Kent State University, being the Great Lakes Regional Headquarters; New Jersey, the East Coast Regional Headquarters, and the Midwest Regional Headquarters being Tulsa, Oklahoma, which was not really the Midwest, because I was from the Midwest, and Gosei was hoping [I think, and so he implied to me] I would stay long enough to get my black belt, and he’d most likely have me as a reprehensive of the thru-state area to include Minnesota, North and South Dakota, Iowa, and Illinois. The Far West was the same as the National Headquarters in San Francisco, which included Sonoma State University. Notwithstanding, they all came and I met them all.
Gogen had come into the city I had heard, I had not seen him yet though, but Gosei had picked him up last Saturday evening, and today was Monday.
The Physician, Judges, of which Buck would be one of the ten in all; -- contestants, tournament manager Chairman, director, Counselor, treasure were all being put onto the Tournament handout as well, sponsored by Goju-Kai Karate-Do, National Headquarters, and I was the official photographer.

It was hard to believe “The Cat” was here, I told myself as I worked out in the dojo, and then he showed up, I got a glimpse of him, my heart dropped. Then Gosei introduced him to everyone, and he stuck by his son and his wife during this time.
I was teaching the younger students the art of Gojo Ryu Karate do [Kyohan]; when Gosei introduced Gogen to me, it was just prior to the championship tournament. I had been given a picture of him, and he signed it, and I would during the tournament take a picture of him, of which he would also sign: --in all I would have three signed items from Gogen, the cat, but the miracle didn’t happen yet, no, it was about to though.
The black belts envy pained and amused me at the same time. To detect the tremor of thin minds, that which frighten them to making threats, I disregarded them with the weight of their own lack of insecurity. But I am getting ahead of myself.


The Tournament


About six-days before the Tournament, Gosei was going to take his father for a tour of the city. Several black belts were going to go along. They had rented three limos to parade through the city. I had just turned 21-years old I remember it quite clear. Gosei was assigning everyone to a certain limo,
He said:
“Chick, you will ride with my father in back of car…” I looked at him as if he mispronounced it. He did have a hard time with the English language back then. I think I opened up my eyes wider than I had ever done before, took a deep breath, and said: “Really!” What else could you say to something so breathtaking: --a little young grasshopper like me with Gosei and the famous “Cat”. No one would believe me if I told them that back home.
I accepted the gift with dignity, and disbelief, and held my breath to see if it would come true, and as the days passed, I was given a free ticket, the camera and told I’d have a ride to the Cow Palace, arena. In the mean time, I was starting to get threats from the black belts who had come to participate in the event, and the ones who were supposedly my friends at the dojo, the local ones also. They were insanely jealous. I heard the threats mounting; at the same time everyone was talking about the Kumite Scoring System to take place, and the Kata Scoring system and the main Judge, and referees and tournament procedures, to include form. I was right in the middle of all this commotion, and the last thing I wanted to do was bother Gosei with the issue of the threats but it was coming to a point of a dangerous dilemma. The Yamaguchi spell was all over the dojo; and their fuss of this matter was marvelous to witness, yet no matter what I still grew to love them, it would be sad justice for me to carry on like them I told myself, so I didn’t; --in the first place, I was the new kid on the block, and they were the old worrisome souls at best.
I am not sure what they expected me to do, --maybe forfeit the invitation by way of being sick so someone else might take my place. But it never occurred to me to disappoint Gosei; I would be ashamed to do such a thing. By and large, their silent loitering about during these days, did very little to persuade me anyhow. I got a threat one day that implied a few black belts wanted to kill me, but I couldn’t believe that.

Informing Gosei

I then had to tell Gosei about the threats I was getting. I do not remember telling him about the killing one, I thought at the time the others were bad enough, and would have been too much for him to stomach. He had a lot of pride in his black belts. When I told him, he looked at me with something like an illness befalling him, if not down right shame. He was not only let down but almost lost for words. I told him who had told me these things, one person being Lorenzo, and a few others. He went and talked to a few of the people I had mentioned.
It reminded me of the time when Buck his right hand man, and my friend took me to the side of the dojo and told me Gosei wanted him to spar with you; I at first took this as an honor, but what he was really saying was that I was getting a little too careless with my speedy hands and fingers for my own good, and hurting people in the dojo by blinding them for a moment, and then taking advantage of that moment; --which he was right, I was doing exactly that. And so Buck was to teach me a lesson, and he knew I had too much pride to avert the free-style fighting with him along with too much bull-headedness, which I’m sure I displayed now and then: -- we fought, and fought and fought, not really knowing how long but it seemed like forever. I got to the point I could hardly hold my hands up, and Buck would knock me down again, pick me up, wait for me to get into a stance, and knock me down again. I got the message loud and clear, and deserved that, plus I got to fight with a 4th degree black belt, whom I loved; it didn’t matter if he beat the shit out of me, I’ve had that before. Nonetheless, I stopped the eye contact, and got on with business. You can’t hold grudges when you know two people are trying to show how mad they are.

And I was right there, living in the middle of all this. Up to this point I had learned a lot from Gosei, especially Goju Ryu’s style of karate, which was more for defensive I felt, which would come in handy in the future, and save my life a few times [not knowing it would save my life in less than a year in Augsburg, Germany by two thief’s with knifes, but that’s another story]. And with such a style --what you do is counter your opponent, which leaves him at a disadvantage being the aggressor, or offensive. An example might be, -- should he blink an eye, or throw a punch, and I block it at the same time of the counter I could go for a deadly blow, should I wish. And of course that is what got me in trouble with Gosei, and my ass kicked by Buck. That is, blinding people by poking shut their eyes --knocking them off balance, and knocking off their glasses, and contact lenses. In any case, once you found your perfect balance, which is really the main thing, you go through your combinations. Matter of fact, it keeps occurring to me to put in how it saved my life in Germany, by balance.

I was walking in a dark alley in Augsburg, Germany, and out of the blue came two black guys with knifes. One stood to the left of me, while the other in back of me, with his hand around my neck as he walked me to an area where there were a bunch of cars. They had already taken my billfold, and I told myself, leave well enough alone, but now this was a new agenda, they were going to kill me. And so as I walked I leaned forward on my left foot, leaving my right one to back kick the person, and I took my right arm grabbed his wrist, and pulled the knife away from my throat while kicking him in the stomach, he flew down like a rock. Then I shifted into a cat stance, and his friend flew away like a scared bird, as the one on the ground was rolling around like a snake, he got up and ran like hell.

But going back to the ill look on Gosei’s face, I almost regretted I had said anything, what now was going on in his mind. It was a scene I was not used to, inasmuch as, it seemed to me to become a bit out of control. Gosei told me He’d take care of it, and walked over by the register behind the counter slowly; --I left well enough alone, not knowing what he was going to do, just that it was enough said. But I was assured in my mind for some reason it was over for me; that is, Gosei would settle it once and for all.


Notes: When I took pictures of karate exhibitions, events, etc, I often found I was capturing the moments of the black belts point of contact, along with Buck and Gosei, also. But with many of the black belts I got them in what they considered awkward positions; --meaning, they did not like it that I was capturing them being hit. It was kind of a no win situation, --that is, someone had to loose. One black belt told me, “You never get me in a good offensive move; it’s always when I’m getting hit.” If there was truth to that, it was not on purpose. But I was like the green horn sticking my nose where it didn’t’ belong to them; yet not really knowing it. The truth of the matter was Gosei and Buck always gave a good if not awesome performance. They were throwing combinations so fast that the camera when it caught them, it caught one of the person’s combinations, while the other person was blocking and shifting and in the mist of a counter. I wanted to end my stay in San Francisco on a high note, not a bitter or jealous one and so the bulls of the arena, the black belts got no disrespect from me.
In those days there was enough civil unrest in the country, as well as in San Francisco. There was at that time a gun shooting that took place downtown San Francisco, I remember it quite well. I thought it was quite a thing, for people to ride by, shoot out the window at another car. But when I showed a little disbelief, if not shock, I got the eyebrow, as if to say, ‘You’re just a hick.’ So I learned to hold my emotions somewhat.
On another note, I had found a number of good friends, in the bar, at Lilli Ann, at the dojo, and else where, and felt in the passing world, and for my own safety—for I had some months in the city—I need not make any excessive preoccupation with the threats, for the most part, they were premature anyway. I needed to work, keep a roof over my head, and eat.


Peace Was Restored
[The Cat and the Mouse]

Some how I felt like the mouse in all of this, but nonetheless, another two days passed, and not a word about “killing,” or “hurting” me was spoken. I was on guard for it but it never came about again. I went on the ride around the city, --sitting with none other than with Gogen in the back seat, Gosei and the driver in the front. Gogen was around 63-years old at the time, to my understanding. We ended up at Fisherman’s’ Warf, we all walked around, everyone taking pictures, etc. And when we got back into the limo, Gosei who was sitting up front in the automobile looked back towards us, his father inches from me: --I guess he couldn’t help but look back now and then to see how we were getting along. I caught a few smiles, as if he was happy for both of us, and for his decision for Gogen and I to remain in the back seat, he seen we were getting along quite well for a Master karate man that could not speak English, but it didn’t matter, we got along with the language of sound and facial expression, and simple body language. Gogen pulled out of somewhere a small looking camera, and shook his head, looking at it as some kind of American puzzle; --Gosei still checking us out, I took it from him, --with his permission of course, and showed him how to use it. Then he got on his knees on the back seat looking out the back of the car window and started taking pictures, just like any tourist. Gosei smiled again, and left him and me to us. It was a grand day to say the least, and it seemed neither one of us felt uneasy --to the contrary.


Innocence

In a world where there is little innocence left to measure, I seemed to have found a bit in both Gosei and Gogen, and possible they had found some in my ignorance of youth. But the innocence I found can’t fully be defined. And yet, if I were to try and define it, it was one of those moments that I caught Gosei looking back at me, in the back seat of the car with his father. I didn’t know what I was doing, for the most part, other than grabbing the moment, I was only a kid trying to grow up, and had some karate cloths to show off in, and quick hands, --and here I was with two of the worlds most profound karate Masters, kings of Karate, one might say. Even the well known Bruce Lee had met Gosei, wanting too free-style fight him, and after seeing him to a three-strike flying kick, changed his mind. That was before I came, but Lorenzo was at the dojo when it happened; and I do believe he told me the truth.
But as I was saying, here was two giants in the karate world with me in their car, such people like them knew the consul General of Japan, the faculty Adviser of San Francisco State College, and they were the Heads of the National and regional Headquarters of the USA, and of the Japanese Karate do in Japan. Here was the man “The Cat”, that knew the founder of Go-ju-Ryu, Shihan Chojun Miyagi, in a back seat of a car with Chick, the little-grass hopper. And so, history would record.
The day would end, as all days must, but this would be one of the great days we all wait for in life, and go back to throughout our lives. I think Gosei knew this. And then came the championship day.


Championship Day

I arrived at the Cow Palace, as the chairs and tables were being set up, and Gosei caught a glimpse of me, and walked over, gave me instructions on the area that the contest was going to take place. As always he gave me a smile, and joined his father and other judges as everyone readied for the tournament. It was at trying day to say the least, although I didn’t seem to be any more frazzled than anyone else, matter-of-fact, I was much less. I kind of walked around half-hazard, not quite knowing what to do to keep myself busy. If anything in life, I was restless. My mother once said as I sat at the kitchen table when I was about twelve years old that she counted my moving the pepper and salt shakers thirteen-times in one minute, or was it ten seconds; something like that. I guess she was timing me. And often she’d tell me to get out of the house and go run all my energy out of me, I think I could drive her crazy; but it simply was me. And she knew if I didn’t go out side, I’d stay in and walk back and forth like my grandpa did all the time, it was in the blood you know. My family just could not hold still. Matter of fact, my son Cody, and his son Cody Jr. are both the same to this very day.
And here I was doing just that, like a hungry lion, I was walking to the outside doors, and back to the tables and here and there, all over the arena.
I knew all the black belts from the San Francisco, Headquarters, I was hoping one would win, and to be quite honest, a few of the people at the dojo not from around the Bay Area, felt no one would allow anyone but the San Francisco Black Belts to win; thus, taking the title out of San Francisco was unheard of…. I thought this a little rude, and said nothing, I guess if it was true I didn’t want to believe it, plus they were saying the judges were biased then, and that would have included Buck, Gosei and Gogen. So I swept that thought out of my mind, true or false.

Goju

All of a sudden the lights were dimmed, and the speaker came to the stand, there was not many people in the bleachers, about 20% filled only, I was a little disappointed. And then the names were called and the fights started. I laid along side the fighters getting within a few feet of them looking up at them as I snapped my camera as they performed their katas and free styles fights exhibitions. Later on Gosei would look at these pictures, and be astounded at how good they were. For some reason I was quick enough to get out of the way when need be, and close enough to get great pictures. Again Gosei knew me better than I knew myself. As the fights ended, it was a long day for all involved. And the champion ended up being this tall first-degree black belt. I was surprised he won it. I guess I thought he was a little slow, and not quite as flexible as I would have thought he should be. Maybe too muscle bound. But he won, and it couldn’t have been to a nicer person. I talked to him a number of times getting dressed at the dojo, and he always was friendly, a big kind of fell-a.
Then I caught Gosei squeezing his nose. He gave me the strangest look. When I showed him the picture a few days later, after the tournament, he laughed and shook his head
After the fights and demonstrations [one by Buck and Gosei], Gogen went into the center where the fighting had taken place, put a rug on the floor the lights went out, and just a few on him remained, and he did some karate and meditation movements [Yoga]. He was fascinating. Later on I would have him sign one of the pictures I took of him during this very demonstration, for myself: --of which I still have and prize.


Chapter Seven


Lilli Ann
[Work and Play and Colleen]


Many things were starting to happen after the tournament was over. It seemed my life had stopped for a moment in time. I had been working five to six days a week, mostly five. Met a guy, my age called Dan, at the karate studio one evening, he was just watching, and we got talking, and I helped him get a job at Lilli Ann. He was assigned to Mr. Green and would eventually be reassigned down stairs in the packing department. I was assigned in another department, which was one floor lower than his. He started falling in love with a Spanish gal, and wanted me to help him out by asking her why she was so down right rude to him. And so I did, it must have worked because they started dating, thereafter.
Well Dan’s brother came into town, he was eighteen-years old, and again Dan and I were both twenty-one. The landlord would not allow two people in their apartment so I talked to my landlady and they ended up renting out the big room. I liked them both, but Dan was a little more levelheaded. His brother smoked pot night and day, Dan occasionally.
About this time my mother said she was coming down to visit me after Christmas, which was not too far off. And so many things were happening. And as the weeks passed by I would often go downtown San Francisco after work and go to the double feature movies, they were older ones but very cheep, .75 cents during the day, before 6:00 PM, and afterwards walk around. I can remember a few times walking down a side street by a little café and Hell’s Angels were hanging out there. One time one of the Hell’s Angels, gave me a strange look but paid me little heed, and went back playing some kind of game. I had to walk around all the motorcycles for they hand them parked in the street, on the sidewalk, and every which way… and them seeing me trying to dodge the bikes to get around them, probably gave them a little groan, one that might have meant, ‘…don’t tip them over sunny.’ And I didn’t bump any.
At work a few of the Spanish gals up in Mr. Green’s area were eyeballing me up, but I found out they were married and so I paid little attention to them afterwards. And a few Japanese girls, older women talked to me often, but I never got to date any of them. Then one evening, after work, Colleen with her sparkling white Catholic seen me waiting for a ride by a street car stand, and asked where I was going, I said down by mission street, and offered to give me a ride. She was around thirty-three years old, whit a healthy looking body, and was hunting I presume—that is, looking for something.

Colleen

As she drove down Mission Street, she knew exactly where Lilli Ann was, I guess many people did, it was very famous for women’s exclusive clothing, and they had dresses in Harpers Bazaar, some famous magazine, and advertised in London, Paris, New York, and here in San Francisco. I closed the window a bit in the car, the air was cool this morning, I told her, but I shouldn’t complain, it was nothing like Minnesota; for weather in December at 57 degrees is like heaven sent; I had heard them say on the radio, that it was going to get to 66 degrees before the end of the day. Not bad, in Minnesota we’d have about forty inches of snow by now, and most likely it would be about three to five below zero. January was the coldest month, in Minnesota usually, reaching many times ten degrees below zero or lower, and February had all the snow it seemed, sometimes twenty inches in one month; sometimes sixteen inches in one day. Some years we had ninety inches of snow.
I was inclined to ask her for a date, even though she looked much older than I, but she said first, as I opened the door to get out,
“Do you drink wine?”
“Occasionally,” I said, for I used to drink some back home, but it was that cheep Ripple crap or Thunderbird, rotten gut stuff. But I didn’t want to tell her that.
“The dry wine is even better than the sweet if you have the right bottle, and it’s aged some…” she added as I stood up next to the car, “I’ll pick you up after work, say 4:30 PM, does that sound good?” What could I say, the Cadillac girl was leading, and I had nothing better to do. I hadn’t gone to karate practice going on three weeks now. I think Yamaguchi was a little disappointed in me, surely not his black belt bunch though.
“Ok,” I said as I started to turn around and walk inside of the three-story building. Things were always happening so fast these days I hardly ever questioned anything. Dan had me meet a friend a week ago, some guy who was selling dope, pot or whatever, we talked and he offered me a job at twice the amount I was making, but I turned him down, I didn’t want to be his or any bodies body guard, end up dead with some heroin stuck in my ass, or down my throat. This was safer, work here at $.1.75 per hour, and just enjoys life; live longer.
It was funny, when I stopped to talk to a young man, my age who wanted a quarter, and back in those far off days, they were all over San Francisco, --at any rate, I told him to go get a job, and he asked how much I made in a week, I said $70-dollars, and he laughed, saying: “I make more than that in a day, $75.” Oh well, I guess I still have values. I just couldn’t sit down on the street corner and beg; it wasn’t even a thought. Or should I say, it never occurred to me.

The day went fast, Dan was flirting with his new Spanish girlfriend, who worked in the office at Lilli Ann; I think she was happy I set them up, but I was a little jealous now, I guess I would have like to date her, but I was always drinking, going to movies, and before karate, running around town. No real time I suppose. I think she was wondering why I didn’t smile as much as I did before when I met her halfway going up and down the stairs a few times a day. But I tried. My mother wrote and said he’d be in town now in January. Not too far off.

It was 4:35 PM, I just slammed the heavy door behind me to Lilli Ann, and there on the street was that white Catholic, and Dan was not too far behind me, he’s seeing me go to the car, I told myself, not looking in back of me, I’ll hear about it tomorrow.
“See yaw later Chick,” Dan said, I think it was to get Colleen’s attention; I turned around and smiled a bit and shook my head.
“I did show up, didn’t I, I bet you thought I wouldn’t?” Said Colleen.
“Not sure what I thought,” I admitted, and I seem to put on a dumb look.
“I always like wine in the fall, --woops, soon to be winter in a week or two.”
“Always --” I said, opening up her car door and getting in.
“Always my new friend, now let’s go to the Bay and look at the Golden Gate.” I nodded my head yes, for I even liked walking along the bank and dock area, by the railroad tracks also.
As we got to a certain spot, evening was starting to set in, the once white clouds were turning light gray, and I opened up the window a little. I loved to grab the moment, absorb what was happening. San Francisco was so very much different than my conservative St. Paul, and it seemed like I was starting to own it a little. There in front of me was the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge I would never forget it. I had walked across it, seen it a dozen times, and I just never got tired of it; but one thing, I only walked across it once, it is far…longer than one imagines. It was a settling evening. The cars with their horns, the people at work, I was starting to calm down. The night was creeping in. On one hand I was hoping it would never end, and on the other hand, it was a fast pace city for me, it could slow down a bit.
“Are you thirsty Chick,” said Colleen.
“Oh yes, very much…” I took the bottle from her and drank right out of the top. She pulled out two glasses, then hesitated, and put them back in her back seat saying, “We really don’t need them I see.” I guess I might have seemed a little uncouth, but it was I.
For a while we talked about the earthquake everyone was talking about; how the evangelist’s were saying San Francisco was going to be sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Many people were taking long vacations to get out of town. It was supposed to be on a certain weekend coming up (or within the month of January). They talked about it at the bar, at Lilli Ann, everywhere.
She smiles, said,
“Of course,” as she took a drink. I think she was thinking about her youth --for whom at twenty-one runs around looking for a glass when you got a bottle. We sat just drinking, and looking at the Bay and the bridge, silent for awhile, some people don’t like too long of a period of silence, but it can be golden, --she lit a cigarette, and so did I, and we took turns drinking. She told a few dirty jokes, and I pretended to think they were funny, and when she laughed I laughed, not because they were funny, but because she was.
She commented, “You’ll have to let me know when they have the fabric sales down at Lilli Ann, I want to buy as much as I can.” I didn’t quite understand what she was talking about then, but I did find out later on that they had sales about every four months, and employees could buy fabrics not usable. I would however purchase some for her, during our short time romance.
“Let’s go eat,” she commented.
“Where…” I said.
“I’ll pick up something at a store or restaurant.”
“That’s perfect,” I replied, as I put the cork back into the bottle, there was not much left to the wine.

Colleen stopped in front of a fancy restaurant, --went inside and ordered some burgers made up for us.
“Dolores Street right,” she asked, and I gave her the address, “They’ll taste better relaxing at your apartment.” She said. I explained she was welcome but I only had a small room, and my friend, whom was Dan, she remembered the person who had said, “By Chick”, lived in the other room next to me, --I explained we shared bathrooms.
“So she rents out rooms,” she commented.
“Yaw, why, you need one?”
“Not quite yet, but could be soon, or in a month or so,” she ended her replied with.
As she stopped in front of the mansion I lived in, my hunger had changed from food to lust, or so it seemed, the burgers did not seem at all appealing; nonetheless, we went directly to my room.
As we entered the room she looked about, “Quite cute, and yes, you were not kidding, it is small, but cozy, enough for a single man. I had a little dresser by the side of the bed where I kept an ashtray, and a light, along with a little radio. A closet in along side of the bed, a little to the right of the doorway you might say, a window behind me overlooking my bed, and the door to the bathroom on the right also, of the bed; --if I was laying on my back I’d be looking at the doorway in front of me
She put the burgers on the small table, took a last drink of the wine, gave it to me, there was one swallow left, I drank it, as she undressed, then she jumped under the covers. She had big breasts and a semi tight body for her age. She was not thin, nor fat, quite healthy looking. I got a hard-on immediately, and like a dog in heat, we pulled our lust together and she grabbed my item and directed it to her warmth.
We made love for about 45-minutes, and I fell to my side a bit, rested, and pulled her over to me again, and stuck my penis back into her private area. She was very warm inside, and my body shook as I climaxed.
“We should get some sleep Chick,” she said with a chuckle. It seemed she found what she wanted, but I felt a little out classed for some reason. She had a degree I had found out while sitting by the Bay over looking the Golden Gate and she worked as a legal assistant. I couldn’t sleep, so I looked at some of the rooftops of the houses out my window; San Francisco was very complicated for me, all its old and new mixed into a whole, and Colleen laying next to me. But I told myself to go to sleep tomorrow was another day.
As I rolled my body back under the covers, I could not hear anymore car horns, the radio was quiet, Dan and his brother must have fallen asleep, and his girlfriend gone home The wind was making a bit of noise on the window sill, but that was tranquilizing, if anything.


Chapter Eight


The Christmas Party


Well, Dan was dating the Spanish lady, and Colleen was coming over picking me up on regular bases now. She even got to know the Colonel a little, and Dan and his brother Jack. I think she was eyeing up the little bedroom by Dan’s big room. In-between our dating that is.
During this period in San Francisco I was working, and I wasn’t seeing Gosei much, going to the movies as I usually did, and we had a Christmas party coming up in a few days. Mom had written and I expected her to be flying into San Francisco, in two weeks. From here she’d stay a week then fly down to see my brother in Montclair, Southern California.
The weather got a little colder also, but why argue it was still in the 50’s during the day, and low 40’s at night. Some rain but not much. I now was running the dogs for the Colonel; I had a hell of a time taking the “Beast,” out. I called him that because he was up to my waste when on all fours, and had teeth almost like a saber tiger; he looked more like a wolf than a dog. He ran like a horse, and I had a choke chain on him; --thank god I could run with him, I think he liked that. And people jumped every which way when they seen us coming: --and a few times he got away from me whereas the panicked started all around me, people jumping far away from the on coming beast, I didn’t blame them.

The Confrontation


I knew when I left San Francisco; I’d miss the dogs. Matter-of-fact, one night a neighbor came over and was hollering at the Colonel, and threatened her about the dogs, I was in the hallway upstairs listening, had a few beers in me, I came down slowly, and she told the guy to go because I was the one running the dogs, which the guy noticed, and that with my karate, and temper it might not work out too good if he sticks around;” adding, she said,
“I think he heard you hollering at me.”
“So what, let him come…” and then out of the blue I was five feet from him on the outside stairway, he was two steps down, and the Colonel was against the beam of the door way.
“You better take care of them dogs and shut them up before…”
“Before I kick you ass, that that…” I leaped toward the man with my hands in the air as to block the man if he thrust the knife at me, and landed on the second to last step, about two feet in front of him, and in a circular motion, threw several blocks to off set his focus, he jumped back, pulled out a two inch knife, he was terrified.
“You better not come closer,” he said. I started laughing.
“And you mister, better shut your mouth, go home and never, I mean never come around here again, and if I find out you’ve cause any trouble for my landlady, I’ll find you and stick that knife up your ass…get out of her NOW!!” He moved as fast as he could. Yes, I had my wild moments, as most people have.

Said the Colonel, “I hope he doesn’t cause trouble for me, but I sure liked the way you handled him,” and she had a smile half a mile wide.

Paranoia

I was getting excited about the Christmas Party, and so the folks in my department at work assigned me to make the greeting handout, and so I drew a picture of a drunken fat man with his hair standing up; --everyone liked it. In the mean time, Dan was having a number of parties at his house. One evening, a few days before the Christmas Party, I was in his apartment, he and his brother were smoking some pot, some stuff from Mexico. I got too high too quickly off the pot I think; I had a few beers before hand also. I had not really smoked pot much before, other than maybe a drag here or there, but nothing like this. I mean I took some heavy drags, smoking a whole joint with Dan. I hadn’t done that before.
I sat back then, in a sofa chair and tried to get my senses back. Dan knew I was struggling a bit.
“You all right Chick?” He asked.
“Not sure, boy I feel something…not sure if I like it either,” Dan kind of chuckled, and sat back, lit another joint up, --his brother then came in, seen me, said hello, I gave him a smiling-smirk, and he joined his brother to help finish off the joint he was smoking.
Said Jack to Dan, his brother, “Chick keeps staring…matter of fact, and he’s staring at me right now, look?”
Said Dan,
“Pay no attention, I think he’s going into a bad trip, leave him alone, he’ll come back to us.”
“Hell no, he’s staring at me,” said Jack. I was staring, but not for reasons he was thinking, that are to fight or provoke, I was paranoid. He was then talking to Dan saying he was going to punch me, I moved my head a little looked at Dan and Jack, I seemed almost frozen, and told myself, if he did, I’m not sure what I could do, but I’d have to jump quick, even though I was under some kind of panic I didn’t understand. Jack stood up from sitting by Dan on the floor, moved over by me thinking he was going to do something, but didn’t get too close. Dan knew I’d defend myself if I had to, and it wouldn’t be pretty, yet neither one knew how frozen I was in this limbo state. Could I move out of the way quickly enough? And was Jack getting paranoid also. Dan jumped up, grabbed Jack, “Back off Jack, I don’t want any trouble. If you want to talk to him after he comes out of if fine, but not like this.”
Jack stepped back, he seen me follow each of his movements, I felt I’d try to do what I had to do, but if not, I was playing poker, and Dan knew it would never end here, and I’d have to put Dan down also, and I would.
Two hours passed, I came about, and out of this trance like stage.
“You ok, Chick,” Dan said.
“Yaw, I’m fine, how about your brother?” Dan knew now it was time to sort things out.
“Listen,” he commented, as his brother sat on the floor smoking another joint, “He didn’t understand how you were, he’s young, you know.
Jack jumped up, “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Jack,” I said, “I’m not subdued anymore, the best you can do is sit back down and let your brother talk, or go out side with me, and I’ll kick your ass down, you’re no match for me, not now anyway.”
“Chick, if you take him on you got to take me also,” Dan said, adding, “I know he did wrong, but I stopped him, and I apologize for him.”
“Dan,” I calmly said, “I’ll walk away, but if he gets in my way, if I have to put you both down, I’ll do it.”
“He’s not going to get in your way, nor am I, we’re all friends here, both of you shake hands.” Jack hesitated, didn’t want to, but for some reason didn’t want to walk around wondering I suppose if and when I’d get drunk some night, and out of control, in short, then go looking for him.
“Ok, maybe I was a little pushy, I like Chick, and I just didn’t like the staring. Ok, let’s shake,” and he extended his hand, and that was that.

The Party

Well finally the party day was here. I quickly washed up at work, and joined everyone in the backroom at Lilli Ann’s; Adolph Shuman was present himself, along with Mr. Green, Dan, Mr. Rosenberg the Manager, my boss the London designer, Dan’s Spanish girlfriend, and the fifty other folks. I guess when he first started the company; they said he gave out money, and expensive gifts. I guess it was a long road for him, he first started selling dresses in the windows on consignment in downtown San Francisco, stores, then one thing lead to another, and he became rich. Not sure how that all worked out. He must have had a head on his shoulders, and public relation skills. Nobody gets far without that in this world.
He started handing out bottles of expensive Scotch, “Here,” he said to me, handing it to me personally. As if he forgot who I was—again. He had gotten so mad at me one day he told the Manager to fire me after he almost stuttered trying to tell me “DDDDDdoooontt drop the materialsssssss...” he lost it I think for a moment that day. I said “No problem sir…” and he shook his head hollering, “Get rid of him, and fire him.” Oh well, I don’t blame him for getting mad, I suppose he spent a life time trying to build up a business, and its name, I was not what you might call the best “Bundle Boy,” trying to see where else I could fit into his company; actually everyone but me was trying to advance it seemed I thought, but never acted on promotion. Actually I was doing a little bit of everything, cutting material, and this and that --and in-between, doing what they called “Bundle Boy,” things.

The party went on for a while, food was all about, and the punch was spiked with some kind of liquor everyone liked. The two Spanish gals that liked me up in Mr. Green’s working area were eyeing me up again, but I paid little attention, I didn’t want any problems with married people, but they were cute. Dan and I got a ride home from Colleen, and when we got back into our room, Colleen told me she had moved into the small room. Great I told her, not sure why it was kept a secret, but so be it. Dan traded me for the bottle of Scotch, I didn’t drink hard liquor, and he and his brother liked it.
It was Friday, and I was getting a little ill, so I went to bed early. Colleen came over to visit me, see how I was.
“Can I help you?” she said sitting on my bed, adding, “Boy you’re really hot.”
I said,
“I’ll come over a little later, if I’m feeling better…” she responded, ”Now how can you do that, you’re as hot as an oven, you stay in bed.” And she went back to her room. About midnight, I ended up knocking at her bedroom door. She let me in.
“I can’t believe it, get back in bed,” and I said no, and jumped in her bed and had sex. “You are one stubborn person,” she said --insisting, I go back to my bed after about forty-five minutes of sex, and so I did.



Chapter Nine


Mother Comes to Town


As another ten days came and left, I noticed Colleen spending more time in Dan’s room. Not sure if they were getting it on, but I also knew he had his full and healthy looking Spanish girl, and I suppose I was a little jealous, and so was she, the Spanish girl that is. For some reason it seemed to me and Dan’s girlfriend, Colleen was throwing herself at the two brothers and Dan was getting a little nervous.
During this time, Colleen came over to me and asked if I would go over and tell Dan we were just friends, not ultimately lovers. I told her I’d do no such thing, and what she did was her business, but I really didn’t like her attitude, and so our six-week relationship dissolved at that point. She had been seeing, I think, older man all along, in any case, she was simply hungry for whomever she could get her hands on, in many cases, and perhaps most, she preferred younger men on the short term bases, or so felt, and possible older for safe keeping. Dan asked if I could talk to his girlfriend, Nancy, and I did, telling her Dan was more or less being chased by Colleen, which she already knew, -- notwithstanding. After she cooled down, she asked me why I drank so much that Dan had said that’s all I did. She kind of liked me as a friend, but didn’t understand me. I simply told her to mind her own business, and go visit Dan if she cared to put things back together, and so she did.

Mother’s Day


I met her at my house on Dolores Street –she had taken a cab from the airport-- she was excited to see me, and I her. She surprised me that she even came; she would stay here in San Francisco for a week and then go to see my brother in Southern California. Maybe it was her chance to see California, especial San Francisco, which was a legend in its own right, and everyone knew where Disneyland was, even the Russian leader Nikita Khrushchev, I guess he even went to San Francisco in September, 1959, couldn’t resist the city; matter of fact he went to a supermarket in the city checking out the cartons of milk like it was a nuclear arms plant. And oh yes, he was in the good old Midwest, in Iowa CHECKING OUT THE CORN. Not sure if he made it to Minnesota though, if not he missed the best-kept secret in the US, St. Paul.
As soon as Mother’s plane come in she got a rent-a-car, it was great, the first time I got to drive in 7 ½ months. Then we went to her hotel after leaving Dolores Street, it was a small motel, but comfortable, but not as small as my room was which just shook her head, thinking it was way too small for me. Then we went out to eat the first night, it being Friday. I couldn’t take off work for being sick two weeks before, but would get off work early this week, at 3:00 PM, not 4:30 as usual, and would take off Monday, giving us the rest of Friday, and three additional days. She would leave next Thursday evening.

In any case, Saturday we went to Mere Woods, about twenty miles from the city, and she got to see the giant ancient trees. Then we went to China Town that evening, my mother, Dan and I; and she bought us both a good Chinese meal, his brother was not invited, simply because he was not as close enough friends, plus we didn’t need more bodies to feed.
Sunday we went down to Fishermen’s Warf, and looked at the crabs and wax museum. That evening we went to the Coit Tower, on Telegraph Hill; from there you could see the bay area with all its shadows and splendor. And we drove a few times across the Golden Gate Bridge, and onto a ferry, for a boat ride to Alcatraz, which has a nickname called “The Rock,” and around the little concrete island we went. On one of the building roofs on Alcatraz was the word painted in hung letters ALCATRAZ

There was a scary moment in all this riding around, it was at about 5:00 PM on Monday evening, I drove to what was known as the “Crocket Road,” a steep and winding road in the San Francisco area, and got stuck on it. But that was not the real scary moment, I then went beyond that road and up another steep one, the car almost fell over backwards, --I had to turn into an alley very slowly, I could see gravity was not in our favor, and so I made sure the turn was not too sharp. We could actually feel the car starting to sway to the side, as if it wanted to roll sideways --down the cliff.
After that we went to “Sammie’s,” where all my drinking friends were, and as I got my mother into a booth, which I normally did not sit in, we got some soup, --her a coke, and me a beer. I introduced her to everyone, I was so proud to have her meet all my friends. For some reason I did not bring her to meet Gosei, I was feeling he was a little disappointed in me, for I had not went to karate practice in awhile. It was now about 8:00 PM, and the weekend was ending, --and having Monday part of it, made it long. So we went back to her motel, I slept on the sofa. In the morning I went back to work.

The Cliff House

My mother had asked were the best place in town was to eat, --she wanted to take me there, and so I told her I didn’t know, but I knew of the most famous place, which was the Cliff House, it was by the bay, and it was surrounded by gardens; also, at the lower left side of the building was Seal Rocks, populated by sea lions.
Cliff House had pictures of everybody famous on its walls. We sat overlooking the giant waves hitting the rocks below us. I ordered beef, and when it came, I got four little slices I looked at them for a minute, not knowing if to cry, laugh or get mad. My mother looked, and we started laughing. I think a McDonald’s Hamburger was twice as much meat, but we ate it none-the-less, she paid the outrageous bill, and we walked around a bit thinking we owned the place, or at least I did. It was a good moment, a good week.

It was a good as good as it got better, if not grand week, I hated to see her go on Thursday, but she did; and I knew my brother Mike was anxious to take her to Disneyland in Southern California, and so back to work, but a surprise was yet to come.


Chapter Ten


Sammie’s Bar
The Eagle and Surprise




July 16, l969
Sammie’s Bar Day One

At 6,198 m.p.h, the Saturn 5 was in space, it was 9:32 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time Cape Kennedy, --Neil Armstrong was in the Phoenix with his crew, within a space of 363-feet. The journey would take them 250,810 miles to the moon. At 11:57 p.m. The astronauts were sleeping with 77,992 miles yet to go; their speed had gone to less than 5000 m.p.h. I had heard it on the radio, but was at the bar during the sleeping period.

July 17-19, l969
Sammie’s Bar Day Two


At 10:53 p.m. the astronauts are 147,802 miles above the earth. I watched the T.V. above the bar, with everyone else, they had a Color T.V., and so they had a 36-minute telecast of the flight, showing Apollo entering the lunar sphere of influence. They are now traveling at 2,037 M.P.H. a voice said.
On July 19th another 34-minute telecast was shown in Sammie’s bar, and again we all watched it, eating chili, and drinking beer.

“The Eagle has landed” …


I got to the bar early this Sunday, July 20th 9:00 o’clock a. m. And there were no seats at the bar a few minutes after I arrived. I got one of the last ones. We all sat in anticipation. Mr. and Mrs. Palace sat next to me, and Ted and his partner both standing close by one another, all looking up at the T.V. It was going to be a long day and night I felt. Around 10:00 a.m. Apollo 11 disappeared behind the moon, no radio contact with Houston. It was 12:57 P. M. now I grabbed some sandwiches.
“I’m staying here all day and night until I see the end of this,” I told Mrs. Palace. She smiled. As the hours went by, we heard the engines were shut off, it was 4:17 PM, the Eagle had settled on the moon in the Sea of Tranquility. Neil Armstrong reported, “The Eagle has landed”. At that moment I was remembering back when I was in grade school, and President John F. Kennedy said we were going to the moon. I was in the printing shop working on my California-job-case, sorting out letters. And here, now it happened. And we beat the Russians this time life was good.

At 7:13 p.m., Buzz Aldrin gave a message to the world, to pause for a moment and thing of this event, and give thanks in our own way; --and then the preparation for walking on the moon started; --at about 11:00 p.m. I’m still watching T.V. and Neil Armstrong took his first step on the moon. He says, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Then right after that he steps onto the moon. Man oh man, you couldn’t hear a sound in the bar, then everyone was saying, “He’s on the moon, the moon, the moon.” After about twenty minutes more I went home.

The Surprise


Many things had happened to me in San Francisco, and now I got a letter in the mail saying I had to either be drafted in/or out of, California, or go back home to Minnesota and be drafted, and so I chose to make my freedom last a while longer by telling the draft board, I was on course for home. Realizing it was July, l969, and I’d leave in the middle to last part of August and most likely once home take a few months to go see whomever I had to, or wait for my letter from the draft board. I didn’t mind, it wasn’t the end of the world; just the end coming to my voyage here in San Francisco, and to be quite fair with the whole deal I told myself it was time. The Manager at Lilli Ann was not told the truth, or for that matter no one but Gosei knew in San Francisco I was being drafted into the Army. I’m sure the black belts felt a whole lot more secure after I would leave. As always, Gosei was as gracious as the day is long. A little sad I believe, and disappointed things did not work out as he thought they would. But then, life does not always work that way; and that he knew.

It was the 25th of July and I was to go home on the last week of August, around the 21st. I walked into Sammie’s, everyone smiled, took a straight posture, not much different from what I was used to. I hadn’t even told the folks at the bar what my plans had entailed.
The old couple came over and sat by me, as I ordered a beer and got a sandwich and come chili.
“Chick,” said the old man, and his wife by his side, not sure if to look or not.
“Yaw, what’s up?”
He said as a father telling his son:
“We all really like you here, and bringing your mother was quite the surprise. We all want to thank you that you would think of us in such a manner.”
“Oh, but I do, you are my family away from home, that is you and Gosei.” He smiled as if he really did not want to go any further with this. I didn’t look around to see any faces, thinking it was something he had on his mind; more or less you know -personal.
“Yaw, is there something else,” I asked.
“You could say that. Let me explain. You kind of know a few people here, and everyone knows you. Matter of fact, every time you come in, Ted and Joe, kind of signals everyone.” I looked a bit bewildered, what was he implying.
“Go on,” I said with my eyebrows us.
“Chick, we’re all gay here…!” I couldn’t swallow, now I looked around, “Everyone?”
“Yes, everyone.”
“But what about you and your wife, you’re not gay?”
“Oh yes we are, you might say bi-sexual…though”
“What is that,” I asked.
“Chick listen ----that is when people have certain preferences for both sex, but may like the company of their spouse and are willing to share her or him.”
“Boy of boy, I don’t know what to say, but everyone looks…”
“Chick, they look non-active because of you. They like you so much they stop everything, every-time you come; --they play a role I suppose one can say, for you. But we got thinking it wasn’t right to continue with it.”
“Oh, yaw, I suppose,” I said not knowing what to say. “But you know I still like everyone here. I really like you and your wife. You know I’d never let anyone hurt you.”
“Chick, you got to do what you got, and if you want to come to the bar, we’d love to have you here, and no one is going to bother you, but if you can’t we’ll understand, but we will not be playing anymore games with you.”
“I got drafted, I got to go home in a few weeks, but you know, maybe if I had a lot of time left I could adjust, but I’m sorry I just can’t at the moment. I…I, I’m not sure what to say, but I feel embarrassed that everyone had to go out of their way for me, how very kind. Yet I can’t come back, you know that.” “I figured as much,” said Mr. Palace, --then Mrs. Places added “… but I want to write you, keep in contact for as long as you’d like. I know with going in the Army, you might head on to Vietnam, and it would be nice to keep track of you. “
I got to leave, I didn’t turn around, not sure why, but I was happy. I would receive letters every Christmas for the next five years from the old couple.

Big Event

It was August 20th, l969, I bought a ticket on a bus to go to Southern California to visit my brother, and he and I were going back to Minnesota, together. And as I got ready, I got thinking about all the things that happened, especially this past year or so. Just a few days ago in some place in New York called Woodstock some 400,000-kids had an anti-war gathering of some kind; they called it a festival of sorts. I never heard of such a gathering before. I’ve seen pictures on the T.V. and it was raining and people were smoking and pissing and there were traffic jams, and a lack of food and water.
Some of the groups that were playing there were the Grateful Dead, whom I heard about, but never paid much heed to, and Jimi Hendrix, he fell into the same category, the only one I knew, and thought could sing halfway decent was Janis Joplin, and she looked more like the gals in San Francisco than in New York, but I guess folks said she was from around here.
When I met my brother in Montclair, we took a quick trip down to Mexico, and then headed back to good old St. Paul. It wasn’t long before they got me into the Army, October, l969. Mike my brother went out to the induction center in Minneapolis with me. I guess the way I seen things was, I was about to have another adventure, and the Army was just as good as any place –matter of fact, free transportation all the way.

Afterward

San Francisco in those days was where it was happening. Where the music seem to seep out of, or from and penetrate the rest of the United States. I was many things in San Francisco, and if it taught me anything it taught me I could become, chase a dream, and by accident, things do happen. By being there, being available, things do happen, just someone liking you for whom you were, could open doors, as long as your door was open. If all I had done was meet Gosei, my main objective would have been achieved, and so everything else was a plus. Oh yes, there were hardships I am not bringing out, but what for, it is not the crust of bread or the topping of a cake we are looking at, notwithstanding, but rather, the nice ending we all want, and it did end up that way. Yes I did go to Vietnam, but that is another story. Incidentally, I was told I was given orders to go to Augsburg, Germany, I wonder how it will be there. If you really want to know, read the book, “A Romance in Augsburg.”



Soldier to Soldier
(The summer of ’61)

Hank, me and the Cayuga Street Gang

Part I


Then one day, Hank Gardiner, whom really had very little to say, I had met him the summer before, a relative of one of the gang members (The Cayuga Street Gang, also called ‘Donkeyland,’ by the local police who combed the neighborhood daily), who lived near our neighborhood, knew most of the guys, six-years older than I, said something in an almost whisper, after we had walked from the small neighborhood ‘Pitman,’ grocery store, near Granite Street, heading down towards the church steps, off Jackson and Sycamore Streets. He had parked his 1956 green Oldsmobile across the street from the church steps, by my friend, Bill Kapaun’s house (by twilight the whole gang would be there.)
He said, “I’ll be going soon!”
“Going where?” I asked.
“To Vietnam, the war, I’ll be a soldier, I volunteered.”
“Oh,” I said with a surprised tone to my voice, adding, “that war over, by China? Maybe you’ll not end up there?”
“No, the recruiter said I would,” replied Hank, “yup, tomorrow I go, can’t wait around here, nothing going on but drinking, fights, Chick, nothing for a man my age to do but drink, and I can get some college in the Army also, I think I’ll take advantage of it. Just think, before school starts, in September, I’ll be fighting in Vietnam.”
“School, hick with school, I’d like to go with you now, tomorrow, I just as soon be gone, then sit around here.” I said as if wanting to follow him.
Then I hesitated, looked at his face, he was there already, so it appeared, daydreaming of his Army career.


Me and Hank would go down to his green Oldsmobile, occasionally—prior to this day—and he’d turn on the radio, and we’d sit, usually with a few other guys, he, usually being more inclined to talk to them, than me, except for today (perhaps because of my age, at fourteen), and we’d be listening to Elvis Presley songs, Rick Nelson, Johnny Cash, singers like that, tapping our feet on the asphalt street, leaning lightly against his car.
Just prior to dusk—just like today—we’d head on down to those church stops, that faced Jackson Street, the church being of red brick, and its tall steeple on the other side of us, the steps actually led into an addition to the church, perhaps the chapel, or hall of some kind, I never saw anyone go through those doors, they usually went to the back side of the building to get in it.
Anyhow, most of us guys in the neighborhood heard about he war in Vietnam, but up to now, now one went, and the war was not called a war, it was called a ‘Conflict’ perhaps to lessen the stigma. In consequence, Hank would be the first one to go, if indeed he went.

And we sat there, listing to a small battery radio, on the steps this pre-evening—it was a warm late afternoon, Oakland Cemetery across the street, they were locking the gates, and I could see Roger’s girlfriend, Shelly, she was walking about the Caretaker’s premises, she lived there with her mother and father, the old child to my understanding; she was the first girl I ever kissed, at the age of thirteen years old, Roger made a bit with her to do so, and after she did, I wanted a second round, and she and the guys laughed. But I was serious.
Well, there we were, Hank and I on the church steps, and a man walks by, “You know where Cayuga Street is?” he asked, and I said, “Down three blacks,” he was a stranger and we knew everyone on the block, everyone by Smiley’s friends, a guy who moved in a year prior, and Doug was going to get into a fight with him, but it never took place, maybe he was his friend, so I got thinking. Then down the block, I noticed several bodies coming, Jackie, the girl I was kind of dating was with them, she was Chippewa, dark hair, about five-foot one, cute, with dark eyes, she and her family lived up the block, on Sycamore Street. I noticed Doug and Larry, and Karin, with John were among the group, and behind them, Big Ace, Jerry, was trying to catch up, he was all of six-foot five inches tall, two-hundred and fifty-pounds, and a tinge slow, he was about ten-years older than I, and bought the booze for everyone, that is, he never had much money, and drank free off us, but we got the booze.
Jackie was the same age of me and she hung around near what was called the turn-around, next to my grandfather’s house, where me and my brother lived with our mother and grandpa. Next to that was an empty lot, and a hill called ‘Indian’s Hill,’ Jackie and I would go up there and kiss, oh not much more, just necking.


“Yes,” I said, “tomorrow I guess you got to go then!”
He, Hank, heard me, he put his hand on my shoulder, and it was a different kind of stillness.
“You?” he questioned “cannot go in the military for another four-years, if the war lasts that long, maybe I’ll be a sergeant then, and we’ll meet one another, it’s not all that long.”
“You’ll be killing all those…” I didn’t know what to call the enemy, so I left it at that…

The he explained in depth to do something, anything, but get out of this neighborhood he implied, when I was capable of doing so, that here there was only a dead end, a road that lead to no other roads. It made me think, planted a seed to be harvested later on. Oh I didn’t quite understand all the rudimentary that went along with that statement, we seldom do when your so close to the forest, it is hard to see it is a forest, likewise, it was hard for me to see, the dead end (but one person did say it correctly, some twenty-years after this day, when I was clean and sober, and becoming a counselor, he said at a meeting at the hospital to a group of recovering alcoholics, while I was taking an internship at Ramsey Hospital, “There are two corner bars in this neighborhood I went to, and I discovered the folks that live there, started drinking there since they were teenagers, and they are now older men, and still there, dying slowly of the alcohol…” he was talking of my neighborhood, and he didn’t of course realize it, and I never told him to my knowledge, but I did mentioned after the lecture I was aware of where, and whom he was talking).
Nonetheless, Hank went on to say, the Army was offering him opportunities to go to college (something that was foreign to me, I would hardly make it to High School, I felt, thus college was the forest thing from my mind, yet the goal of going to college, coming out of my neighborhood—as Greek, and as far fetched as it sounded, it would be an afterthought that would come back a throughout my teens, and even into my early twenties, perhaps Hank planted another muster seed in my subconscious, because it would grow, and someday I’d get my Ph.D.)

I was back then, too young for the Army, and Hank knew it, and as impressionable as I was with Hank, and the adventures the Army were starting to offer—travel and education—I didn’t fully understand it all, I was too young, and then one day, the next day he was gone, disappeared.


“I’ll write you,” I said to Hank.
“No,” he commented, “just finish school, I’ll be back on leave to see you and the gang, now and then!”
Anyhow, he was listening to me attentively for the first time it appeared, until the gang got to the church steps.
He punched me in my left arm, he was on that side of me, sitting on the stops, leaning back against the cement back of the upper step, my chin in my arms, my elbows on my knees, and I almost fell over,
“Yup,” he said, “You only got to stay here a while longer then join the Army and see the world.”
“See what?” I asked, then I noticed my brother Mike coming down Jackson Street, he was two years older than I, with Gary, whom was called Mouse, they had been working on his go-cart.
It was now a matter of minutes before the gang members were climbing up the steps “Shut up now,” said Hank, “you’re the only one that knows this…that I’m going tomorrow.”
“All right,” I answered back, as if to confirm my hearing him.
He then put his hands behind his back, leaned back more onto the upper step,
“Well, Chick,” said Jackie, with a smile, “anything goin’ on?”
“Nope,” I said, and she sat down beside me.
(I didn’t want hank to go, I didn’t hear Jackie, what she was saying, she was talking lightly, I seemed to have been in a fog, something like in a state of disassociation, in her world, but outside of it, like in a fish boil looking at everyone around you, she nudged me, slightly—the Vietnam war was running through my head—“are you alright?” she asked, perhaps thinking she did something wrong, and she hadn’t, and I moved my head right to left, and she sat quietly, talking to Karin below her whom was sitting with John, who would marry her in a number of years; after he and I would take off to Long Beach California, although that was years ahead, and when we’d come back she and he would marry.)

Jackie’s sister showed up, Jennie, her and Larry were going steady, and Larry was the tough guy of the neighborhood, whom I lived with a number of times, upon my return from several long trips. I lived for a summer in his attic, another summer in his garage, and had party after party, booze and girls, and I lived in a duplex he rented the upper apartment.
Well, Larry and Jennie were there, and my brother was dating Carol, and she showed up, and Ace was not dating anyone and dancing about as he often did.
“Jackie,” I said.
“Of course I’m all right, I’m just thinking.” she chuckled as if it was a delayed reaction, she had already forgotten she had asked how I was doing, and onto other things with the gang, talking about getting some cases of beer and either going to ‘Indian’s Hill’ to get drunk, or jumping the Cemetery fence and drinking among the ghosts and gravestones there.

I now looked at Hank, perhaps one of my last looks, and he said in a spirited voice, jumping up, pulling out the keys to his green 1956 Oldsmobile, in my ear, “Hush,” and I did not disclose his secret.
He stood up talking to a few of the guys, as then; Jackie asked if I would later go for a walk with her, down to Indians Hill. I could hear Mike talking to Carol, and Larry and Doug talking, and then Rick came up and sat with the guys.
Jerry, otherwise known as Ace, was singing a song called ‘Twenty-four Black Birds…” and everyone started laughing.

“Everyone pitch in two dollars, Ace is going to buy us two cases of beer, and a bottle of wine,” said one of he guys.
Ace looked at Doug, said, “I didn’t say I was going to!”
Roger and Ronnie, his brother had shown up, said, “Come on Ace get with it, you one of us or not!”
And so Ace, Doug, and Roger went to get the liquor up on Rice Street, on the other side of the Cemetery, “We’ll meet you guys down on Indian’s Hill,” said Roger, and he drove Ace and Doug up to the store to pick it up.
Hank was still standing, looked at me, “See…!” he said to me, nothing more, he figured it was a neighborhood affair, he seldom drank with us anyway, and so him not showing up at Indian’s Hill would not be any surprise.

I sat back down, watched Hank go to his Oldsmobile, not realizing this would be his last time I’d see him…
I saw Jackie pull out two dollars, gave it to me to give to Roger, to give to Ace to get the booze, and I did likewise, as everyone did, and they went to get as much booze the money would buy, Ace didn’t have a dime, as often he didn’t but when he did, he was generous with his money.
“I forgot my false teeth,” said Ace to Roger, and Roger replied, “you don’t really need them, but we can stop by and pick them up,” he lived on Sims, street, his father a Captain of the Fire Department of St. Paul, Minnesota. In a year or so, I would take a liking for his sister, she and I, like Jackie attended the same High School, Washington High on Rice Street, Kathy was her name, and she’d show up in the neighborhood and we’d hang out, we kissed only a few times, and it seemed it kind of fizzled away, although we were friends for the next twenty-years, until she got hit by a car. She had gotten married, and lived close to the two bars on the corner of Jackson and Acker.
And so Ace, Roger and Doug jumped into their cars, and Hank, into his, as Jackie and I headed with the rest of the gang to Indian’s Hill.

Now Hank was gone, and the first thing I knew was Jackie and I were on Indians’ Hill drinking with the gang, then it started to rain, and everyone ran for cover with a beer bottle in their hands, and four cases of beer up on the hill, by a large thick tree, Jackie and I with a blanket over our heads, down by my Grandfather’s garage—not sure where we got the blanket, I think I slipped it out of my house, and we kissed a bit, not much, and we held each other, lightly, and we could see the guys walked to and fro crisscross across the empty lot, everyone getting drunk, and the police driving by, shinning lights up into the thick of the bushes onto of the hill.

I thought about writing Hank, but I never got his Military Address, and so I stopped one day at his house, his brother, older brother came to the door, and I introduced myself to him, “Oh, yes!” he said, “Hank had mentioned your name a few times…!”
“I’d like to write him,” I said, it had been about nine months since I had seen him, I was all of fifteen-years old, plus a few months, date freely, no one in particular, although Jackie was still around, and Kathy, and I had met a girl called Sheila, I was in the second year of High School, she one year below me, and we danced at a lot of the park and school dances, and she always wanted me to make love to her, but I wouldn’t and she told me so, that I was missing something, and I suppose I was, but I was getting into drinking and quicker affairs, but she was popular in High School, and we dated that fall.
Anyhow, this visit accrued during the time I was seeing Sheila, and his brother took a second to say what he needed to say right, “He was killed in action in Vietnam, a few months ago.”
You really do not know what to say at a time like that, you just stand still numb, absorbing the substance of those words, as if you would like him to reconfirm what he said, although you know what he said. I was not prepared for that, a tear came to my eyes, I had no control over it, an automatic tear. My inners became disrupted, and I had to catch my breath.
“Oh…ooo!” I said, looking down at my feet to find words and all I found was zigzagging emotions.
And so I left it at that, what more can a person say, the brother tried to put a smile on his face, but couldn’t. And I couldn’t and I left as strangely as I had appeared.

I told myself, ‘…go get drunk,’ perhaps that is where I picked up some of my avoidance of stress: drink it away. I knew I was growing up fast, and the world around me would change, and I’d soon be making choices, like Hank did.

((In 1969, on my way back from San Francisco, and after visiting Mexico for a day, I’d head on up to Grand Forks, North Dakota, and thereafter, be joining the Army, more like drafted into it, and head onto Augsburg, Germany, and then onto Vietnam. Then it would be, a solider to a soldier as I had imagined it to be in the beginning, but it would have to be in a secret kind of world of our own, my own, because of course he was gone: but not forgotten. I would be heading on down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for Basic Training, and then over to Redstone Arsenal, Alabama, for more training, and to Fort Lewis for Jungle training. This was just the beginning of my world, my adventures to be, the ones he sadly did not get a chance to, but then, perhaps I did it for him, as they said in the neighborhood when I’d return, and I did return several times, they lived through my adventures) (or by proxy.))


(The fall of ’69)

From Minneapolis to Chicago to…

Part II

“Where does one go to take his physical?” I said to a military man, who was called ‘Sergeant,’ I had a paper I showed him, confirming I was the person who was to take it, along with my Minnesota Drivers License, confirming the paper, it had a picture on it (I had just come back from San Francisco, it was October, of 1969).
I was a bit afraid when we got to Chicago, from Minneapolis, that we might catch the wrong bus, in a town as big as Chicago, I figured it would be easy, for the Sergeant had left once he dropped us off from the first bus—the one that drove us out of Minneapolis to Chicago, not sure where he went, perhaps to go get drunk.
But we caught it all right—the first bus, I never had to ask the bus driver if it was the right one, he knew who we were—because the Sergeant was there, and in a way I was darn glad he did know, because here we all were, cars and busses rushing by us like birds in the air— Minneapolis was twice the size of St. Paul, and Chicago was three times the size of Minneapolis, thus, movement was everywhichway, and a few shoving folks here and there to boot, and it was early afternoon, and by the time we would get to Chicago, it would be pre-dusk, and the spell of night would be falling over the city, me and my companions, were hopeful another sergeant would be there to guide us onto the next bus, but this was just hopeful think, not reality.

I thought about Hank, had he not been killed in Vietnam, he would have most likely wanted to see me before I seen him, at some location, perhaps even at the distant Military Base I was headed for, and given me so pointers, but those were just thoughts as I waited for the second bus. He wasn’t there, or never would be, I was on my own, and doing what he and I talked about me doing so long ago.

My family, Aunt Ann, her husband George, and Betty, and Grandpa Anton, Colleen and Sally, all relatives, along with my brother, and the rest of my relations had thrown a party for me before I went on this voyage, I am not convinced why they did, perhaps for my mother’s sake, perhaps because I was the only one in the family drafted, but I had told myself, ‘If I’m not drafted, I’d join, although I was now 22-years old, and most of the young-men with me, and those I’d meet in Boot Camp in a day or so, were between seventeen and twenty. I would be the second oldest in the platoon of some 44-men.

Standing there in the mist of twilight—in Chicago, I seen all the tall building surrounding me, it was like being in the Rocky Mountains, or the Andes, crushed inside of them, I wanted to get out of Chicago, and fast.


At the Gates of Fort Bragg,
North Carolina

Part III

Then a bus stopped, near the corner, one I never saw before (hired just for this purpose to take us down to North Carolina, so I’d find out), a heap bigger than the one I was put on in Minneapolis, Minnesota, I thought, and me and several others would be soldiers thought I’m sure, as we stood together, looking at the Greyhound Bus already holding our tickets in our hands (the Sergeant on the previous bus had said this one would take us to Fort Bragg, and we’d be met at the gates, and another bus would pick us up, bringing us to our Company area.) we, all thought, and saw the driver signal with his arm to move onto the bus, for us to get on the bus, I was wore out for sleep, but I couldn’t risk getting on the wrong bus, so I stepped out and up onto the first of three steps—blocking the door entrance, ready to find a seat noticing the bus was half full of young fellows like me already, “Is this the…” I started to say, and the driver seemed as if he knew me, and simply said, “Yes…! You’re on the right bus, take a seat!”
And so I walked the isle to find one.
I saw all the towns from Chicago, to Fayetteville, as more young would-be soldiers, come onto the bus, at small stations, and brought tickets, like me with them, and then we were gone again.
I seen a number of trains go by along side of us, some more towns, and I just fell to sleep somewhere along the way.

I knew I was right to be on that bus, or so it seemed like to me, it went on forever that ride, but would be a new beginning for me. I had already crisscrossed the country, living in Omaha, Nebraska, Seattle, Washington, Long Beach California, and San Francisco, “That’s right!” I said to myself, “I’ve got to get out of this country to see the rest of the world now, today…” then my drifting subconscious spoke back to me saying , “Of course you must, you can find friends anywhere in the world,” and I told my subconscious, “I guess I can, I guess I’m not missing a thing, I haven’t got but one life to live, I mean the person you meet might have lived anywhere in the world, people in the Army were folks scattered all over the place, and overnight you got to meet them, from California to Main, from Europe to China (places I would visit in the future).
“Yes,” my subconscious confirmed to my conscious, on that bus ride, “That’s what I already told you, you don’t need a case history to see the world, this is a good start…and you’re lucky, at that.”
The bus driver said, “Youall goin’ to be met by another bus once we git to the Fort Bragg gates, I mean, jump off fast enough to suit the sergeants, they like that.”
“I ask you,” another man said on the bus to the driver, “are we officially soldiers now?”
“Yup,” he said, “since you got on that bus back there in Minneapolis son, so good luck to yaw-all.”





A Midwinter Soldier

[Sketches of Real life in the Old Army Boot Camp]




Soldiers’ First Day
(October, 1969)


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. Chick Evens


Diary Annotations
(Chick Evens reading his Diary)


The Bus

When we arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Basic Training Camp, in the Fall of ’69, we were greeted (we, being, a number of us who had come from the Minneapolis, Minnesota 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’s 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, thus, they faced us, I should say, stood in front of us, as we formed this jagged formation line of sorts.
Next, they encouraged us to obey them, as they treated us like criminals with beautiful smiles in-between their sneers: we were what they called ‘New fish.’
They grinned at us, and we grinned at each other trying to figure out what all the grinning was about, it would seem we were parroting them. Then the engine of the bus stopped, turned off, a loud silence seemed to pass over the bus, onto us, and encircle the two Drill Sergeants, as new gods of Caesar’s Army. They had warned us to be silent, and now without words, their manner was showing it. At this 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. They paused, looked about the area, and thus appeared the mess hall, I look down through the clutter of buildings, at it also, the mess hall door was open, although to be honest with you, I would have liked to have gone to sleep, I was tired.


(The Mess Hall) Now we were being escorted, if not a bit pushed down a dirt path between two rows of barracks part of our so called destiny—our new home city of hope, our temple of shadows where our philosophers were but two simple sergeants with bear hats on; and onto the Mess Hal we went.
I balanced my duffle bag on my shoulders, as they had instructed me to do, but many of the men couldn’t, they struggled with trying to do it, and gave up, it was too heavy, and so they dragged them, another peeve that would come out later with the two sergeants, they looked at us as little boys to be wrapped in blankets, and put to sleep, and when awaken, apparently we’d be killer soldiers. I always, well kind of always wanted to be a soldier, so why was I protesting? I really didn’t know, I mean being a soldier went back and forth in my mind many of times, but respect was my forte, and here there was a lack of it, and hence, resistance appeared to dominate my cerebellum, and I automatically went into a clandestine war with the Army.
Well, this was the first day, and it was evening, we were on the pathway, a few of us talking, mostly about them—the sergeants. And we learned quickly to say “Yes sir,” and “No sir,” until we got tired of it, and a few of us would say, ‘now what mamma!’ under or breaths, or with our eyes, or body movements, as if we were suckling babes, of course I was one of those, and in time that would get me in trouble. The sergeant said “—who said, ‘mamma?” and of course, not a word was spoken to claim the misdeed, or disrespect, they stared at each other as if the moment would not be forgotten, and it wasn’t we’d suffer later for it.

As this disrespectful dragging occurred—and continued, 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 barracks windows—“What time is it?” a voice said, and eyes looking in my direction, I saw corporal strips on the fellow. I didn’t look at my wrist; I think he wanted me to lose balance of my duffle bag for a laugh—and watch it fall.
“I said, what time it is soldier?” the same voice said, with the same eyes, a rougher tone to it this time, then it added a screaming quality “I’ll see you in the mess hall some time, Private…!” 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 to him.

“All right, put down your gear, and take off your hats in the mess hall,” said the younger of the two drill sergeants, as we stood in front of the building.

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 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 now were pushing us into the mess hall to eat again, seating us, and having us push down excessive portions of food, neither one listening to us, or in particular me, 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 from the old sergeant, and then the young one would copy him.
Layers of hats and coats fell on the chairs. And I looked about, and said mumbled to myself: here I am, and the sergeant looked at me again. There was no fear in me of him, perhaps there should have been, and he saw that.
As I put down several table spoons of whatever it was I 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 window, the one I saw when I came in, the one with empty trays laying about it, and saw a square opening, window type opening, and saw some soldiers putting their trays through the hole—it was that same window I had saw when first entering the mess hall I concluded—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 at this moment), the other forty solders still eating, the ones that got off the bus with me, I aimed my tray at the hole, like a rocket, and my temper went (the hole was some several feet away, and I tossed the tray and all the food on it, tossed it like a spaceship, and it landed perfectly on the other trays, gliding over them like a car gliding over ice, into that window I was just talking about, and I headed towards the door, to where my duffle bag would be waiting for me.

Wither the sergeants’ faces averted, I reached for my duffle bag, pulled it along side of me, lit up a cigarette, fumbled a little trying to light it in the light cool wind, and thought: this is going to be an everyday thing, an all day job, from this time on.
The sergeants were busy, still not looking at me, perhaps not caring either, my head bobbing somewhat with the cigarette, as I was thinking, ‘…what I am doing here.’

(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 per se, 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 dark or pure-night, a dark, heavy blue night—seemingly a deep midnight was approaching. My stomach heavy, and most of us now had come out of the trance like fog we had first found ourselves in, after 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, which we tossed back, we took their insults, and taking pain not to show our defeat, as we smiled at one another, wondering what was next.


(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 us all. 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.



Silhouette of a Soldier
((October, 1969) (Day Two))


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, in this case, as I prepared for the second day of duty with the many new shapes and outlines of military personnel in a camp; or so it seemed to 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).

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 p.m., 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 happened to be a priest, which of course I am not.
As I was saying, or about to say, at 10:00 p.m., would be the last moment of light to be seen within our barracks, and we stopped work at 7:00 p.m., a very full day; I had woke up at 4:00 a.m., 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 p.m., 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 sixteen-years old, fighting in them, drinking in them, and getting sick in a few of them, most are the same, smelly, dingy, and alive or dead, plus, I told myself, ‘You will know in a short time, all you need to know about this bar.’ Hence, in a few minutes I was walking through the door of the club, yellow flares went off in my head, I acted like I belonged 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 used 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, an unearthly patch of the world, hereon, and forevermore, save, I remained in the Army. I leaned on the bar, drank down a second glass of cold mouthwatering beer, and stared into nothingness.

The Corporal

My elbows now on the bar, I got staring at and out the window, a mist had created a moisture onto the bar window, formed a fogginess on its glass; as I scanned the bar, 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 associates.

“You’re the one?” I heard a voice say next to me, a statement-question I took it as, I turned to the stranger, and a Corporal sat about seven feet from my stool.
“You­­ were speaking to me?” I didn’t care if he had twenty strips on his arms, 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 so I told myself.
“Yaw,” he said, to the clean shaven kid, couldn’t be over 19-years old I told myself, but he had a few more strips than I.
“What do 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 p.m., for he worked with the Colonel often, after duty hours I guess.



Horse’s Hoofs and Old Soldiers
(November, 1969; Week Two in Basic Training)



Running


In the barracks it was chilly. The Drill Sergeants smelled worse. I knew my smell, so I affirmed it wasn’t me, and why be polite, sometimes I just held my nose, kind of letting anyone, perhaps someone know, what they didn’t want to know, about their body smell, there was this one particular soldier in our platoon that even smelled worse than the Drill Sergeants.
In any case, these were long days in back of me and in front of me, long days running, and longer then normal long was today’s running, 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 today. 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 the trunk of an elephant’s nose.
Yes indeed, running is part of a soldiers life, I told myself, after two weeks (about to go into the third), running everyday, sometimes with our M14 rifles held over our heads, sometimes carrying our duffle bags 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 onto Advance Training together in Alabama, but at this particular moment, it was of course unknown (we would become friends for six-months between Basic Training and Advance Training, and when we got our assignments, after finishing Advance Training, he’d be sent to Vietnam, I suppose because he could speak Chinese and English well, and I would go to Augsburg, Germany, and thereafter, go to Vietnam, Smiley would also head on to Vietnam after his Advance Infantry Training). China, He had come to San Francisco, from China, got drafted into the United States 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 warm mid-morning, an insane day to be exact, and I was still somewhat drowsy from drinking at he club the night before, 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 he dropped to the ground, just like that, and as he dropped I said, “In hell…!”

I think the Drill Sergeant, the older one, was faint and felt almost dead from exhaustion this heated day, he had run around the circled in field but once for us, 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 stroked his chin, adding (I merely looked at him with a smirk) “Get down Evens 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, one hundred, 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, nor no unsuspected challenges he couldn’t win.

Horse’s Hoofs

I didn’t make any friends this day of course, and felt a little under the horses hoofs, several of the platoon faces, recruits like me, felt I was a trouble maker (for them I suppose I was). 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 a Christmas leave, 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 again.
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, “Evens, 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, therefore, I got a few unfriendly faces, and whispers like: Evens, stop causing trouble, straighten up…and so forth and so on. And I simply went, or said “Quack, quack…” to all this—aloud!
“Who said that? “Asked the young drill sergeant, then he walked along side of me…”It’s you again, I know it’s you Evens, 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 comfortably 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 was too busy being nervous about what was next. It was going onto the third week of November that the Captain had called me into his office, and I asked him why he sent for me 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 tasted like water. But I was already into the EM Club, and drank there—strong beer. They, the Drill Sergeants had actually escorted us that first day to the PX, like tourists.
I gave Smiley a discussion 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 p.m., weekends, lights off at 12:00 midnight, and now bed check, being 11:00 p.m., 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, Evens!” 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.

Freidan

There was a young female, 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 pronunciation but could speak clear clean German, perhaps twenty-one, or younger; possibly a second marriage I thought between an older sergeant and German woman. 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 alone, and should I try to get a date with her, they would expose me as a 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.

Army Beer Hall
(December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)


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. More like a psychological pondering, trying to figure me out for the butchering that was going to take place. I paid little heed though, at first, just inquisitive to his prying mannerisms.
After about ten-minutes of this, I asked myself, ‘What is he waiting for?’ I was becoming irritable, ‘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 Evens.” 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.

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 said, yet kind of in an official manner, something I never expected to hear, never even saw it coming:
“You make me look like the worst Company Commander in the whole of Basic Training Camps, Private Evens. 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 gave one to me, the other for him, 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 this a while, on 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 all of 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 that it was me making the platoon look bad, 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 smiled at him, let him know all was well; the Captain became silent until he passed, then continued), 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, or propose. At midnight tonight, 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.”
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; although 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 scale, so perhaps he gave both of us, the Army and me, an ounce 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, 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.


The Fighting Irish
(January, 1970; Week Six in Basic Training)


I came from a Russian extended family, on my mother’s side,
But I was half Irish, on my father’s side…


In the days and weeks to follow—every muscle throughout my body would be 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 hardened, ready for this kind of training. Face to face with the Drill Sergeants, I halfway straightened my attitude out, we, or maybe just I, 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 assigned to, and sleeping on (in the enormous room we lived in, the bunk beds accommodated 44-soldiers, bed all in two rows, eleven to each side, one soldier on top, one on the bottom, old WWII vintage, wooden and square framed, 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, he didn’t like me coming into the barracks drunk and coming in so late, I felt it was none of his business, he wasn’t my sergeant, nor my parent. He was a strict soldier, and our attitudes conflicted, ferocity of rectangular emotion around him, so I named it, 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, I 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 now in their bunks now. Then I 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 my 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 a lot of trouble. That was always inbreed in me, not sure of the why or how it, who put it there that is.
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, or blink an eye, 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, I really think he simply thought I was crazy.


Interlude

KP and Potatoes, Army life
(January, 1970; Week Seven in Basic Training)


(Kitchen Police) KP

KP, or call it Kitchen Police, Kitchen Duty, or whatever, but back in my basic training, back in 1970, 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 onto the next stage, advance training in Alabama, or Ranger training in California, and jungle training in Washington somewhere down the line. So I figured another day on KP would not hurt. Yet at the time I didn’t know my next duty station for sure. 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 longer if they hated me so much here and thus make me suffer, you know, torment me with another eight weeks of this boy scout like training as I had felt it was, yet on the other hand I’m quite sure they were more than ready to get rid of me. 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, or at this point.
“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 (and to be honest I thought about it a few times and figured I’d think more on it later, when I got my thirty-day leave). 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, and neither was I.

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 on many things.

(I thought about Maria Garcia, a young woman I was seeing and had met while on Christmas leave, back in St. Paul, this 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, a quieter life. 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 as it was, 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

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, almost none at all, and a head of an absurd largeness; a stooping body like an ape, and hands that were almost touching the ground when he walked. He was the Judo and Karate instructor; I could have taught the man something, 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.

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 with 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)


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 seemed to me to be enmeshed in what were called the lifers.
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 presume that is why a nation selects their 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.
And so the battle between me and the Army was half over in boot camp, 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, or run from afterwards. 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 for now, 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.



Beer Bash—At Fort Bragg!
(February, 1970; Week Eight in Basic Training)

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. Chick Evens



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 used up 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 Evens?” he asked (a little kinder than usual), as I’m reading my assignment…
“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. 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.





Alabama Intruder



(Originally, written in short story form, in the book “Stay Down, Old Abram,” as a chapter story, “Black Girl Walking,” 2001; rewritten 6-1-2008 by the same author as a one Act, three Scene Play)



Based on actual events of 1970

Structure of the Play

Black Girl Waling Dialogue

Note: It should be noted, the dialogue for the black girl is according to the southern dialect of the 1970s, of that time, or period and place. It is not to say, the play’s dialogue cannot be smoothed out, it can if the character needs to do this, but it seems to me it will go better with the setting left alone, as well as the date, which can be moved up or back, but again, it is fitting…I do believe, not necessary though, thus, I leave this up to the discretion and discussion of the theater, and its actors, and their abilities in this area. That is to say, if the dialect is counter productive for the playhouse, or too difficult, than resort to clear English, it is not difficult to changing a few letters in the words presented in the dialogue.

The Plot

The plot and the action is smooth and simple, and can be strengthened if need be, by motivation; that is to say, he wants directions, and he goes to further lengths than normal to get them, but what the character has got to show is how far will he go, this may be done by his or her dramatic reactions. As you will see as you read, it is mostly the advancement of the plot we are concerned with, more so than the development of the Character.


Act One
(Of one act)

Scene One


On the street, in downtown, Huntsville, Alabama, 1970,
11:30 AM.


One side of the street is empty, of the stage, it is light up, and so all is very visible in this scene, perhaps a beam of a spotlight on the left side of the street will help. The right side has a few bars on it, and stores, leave it in shadows, as if mysterious. There are a few items here and there that carry the symbolism of the south, the last ultimate seat if not the voice of the population, that says, white and black, still have not come to a full understanding or agreement on equality, equal rights and freedom amongst all, here in Alabama, 1969.

A white Midwestern boy, (Chick Evens) a Private First Class in the Army, is stationed at Redstone Arsenal, nearby, for advance training, he has just come from boot camp at Fort Bragg, although this background information, is insignificant for the scene, it might be used for clarification for the curious within the audience, should a narrator wish to mentioned this, or have it written in a handout. A black girl is walking to the corner; it would seem she intends to stop at the red light, wait and cross. The white soldier, is behind her, looking with his dress greens in his hands, his Army dress greens, he himself is dressed in civilian cloths, and is looking for a cleaners, to have his uniform pressed. He is a Midwestern boy, 22-yeaars old. The girl is black and pretty, perhaps between eighteen and twenty, dressed neatly, with a white blouse, and light colored skirt, a mythical look appears on her face when she finds a white boy following her, saying something but you can’t here what she is saying, which turns her face into being scared, they—for the moment—are the only ones on the street, she slightly turns her head to see him, the length between them has dwindled down to two-yards, or about six-feet.

He is symbolic also, he is the unaware young generation, of the conservative Midwest, he could be someone’s idea of an America obviously disjointed in the fact, the United States had just been routed out of bed, or out of their dressing-room, to look at equal rights in America, black and white issues. The soldier boy is neatly dressed; his hair is semi short, nicely combed. They are now looking at one another, not moving, a cloths store is right in front of them, to their left side, one you can walk around, one side and come out the other—like a horseshoe. In the middle are dresses.


White Midwestern Boy


Wait! Please wait! I mean, good morning, will you please wait!



(they look at one another the black girl doesn’t answer: the white Midwestern boy, though still stares, watching the black girl, next to the cloths store)


Is there something wrong…I mean all I want is directions?


Black Girl Walking


No. Cant you-all see there arent no black folk talking to white boys, look across the street, you see anyone walking there black? You must be from the north, leave me alone white boy, before you-all get me hung, and you git beat up by your own kind!


The boy takes a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket, he has a light jacket on, he seems to have come prepared for such a need, he is baffled, or so it seems, and the weather is cool.

So (says the black girl) you will not follow me anymore, right?


White Midwestern Boy


(taking the cigarette out of his mouth)


What, no directions to the drycleaners?


Black Girl Walking


No! An’ I is not talking to yow: ask someone else. I goin get killed, because of yaw-all, my uncle got hung six-weeks ago, go on now, an’ I’m not lying. Aren’t you a pest!


(after a moment,: she looks about, doesn’t say another word, stares at the clothing store, rushes into the turnaround pretending to look at the cloths, does not go into the store: then:)


Scene Two

Same location as in scene one, but has changed into the turnaround of the cloths store, where there are windows of cloths showing, glass windows. The time has not changed much, so no lights need to be changed for the most part from scene one; although you may no longer see the street, perhaps through the reflection of the glass. The black girl and the white boy have not exchanged names, so they only know each other as, the black girl walking, and the white Midwestern (or for her: northern) boy from the north; so this should be inferred within their faces and tone of voice, especially when the black girl buries her face somewhat into the glass window, pretending to look at the cloths, when she really is trying to avoid the intruder.


Black Girl Walking


Uncle Josh he right…folks like you, from the north dont understand, a thing about us folks here, like to ask questions, only get me into trouble, and dhen you-all gone, jes like dat, and you dont know the folks down her, and think they goin to have to go according to the law and next thing you is hung, and all the laws in the world dont bring you back, an’ then the white folk from the north area sorry, but sorry dont do a thing to bring back Uncle Josh. If white folk down her see me talking to you it goin to be trouble… you jus cant see it until it happens, its too late then…


White Midwestern Boy


Tell me about your uncle?



Black Girl Walking

(rapidly)


You is crazy. They hung him outside of town, in a farm pasture, from an old tree, jes old crows around to see him die, thats all it was, a tree and old crows, and when we goin’ there to fetch him, to bury him proper like, the old man of the farm he jus watch ya like you is going to rob his garden. Thats it, there is no more, no court, no anything, jus a hanging…one of many!


(she lets out a long sigh, slowly, with a sort of despair attached to it, as the boy drops the cigarette to the floor, puts it out with his shoe)


She is not even looking at the boy, standing four or five feet from her, she is looking into the glass window, her fingers pressed against the glass, her face leans on it for a moment, then she pulls back.

Black Girl Walking


I think there might be a drycleaners back yonder a ways, the other way, where you-all were coming from, down the block…


(pointing to her right side, which would be his left, when he was walking down the sidewalk trying to intrude, her face half hidden)


It now seems to dawn on the white boy, that things are not as he thought, they are more serious, he looks out towards the street, a few cars have passed, he noticed no one has looked at him from the cars, yet the black girl is blind to the road, he wants to put out his hand towards her, starts to and dares not, she even shields her eyes form what someone might see, if this boy does something stupid.


White Midwestern Boy


Yes. Go on. I’m sorry I caused you so much grief, I think I let it go too far, I should have just went about my way…and what you said about your uncle, I mean, being dead, hanged in Alabama, for whatever reasons, is for me hard to believe, but I believe you…no cars are coming, no one looking, you best go!


Scene Three

The Exit

Much like scene one in appearance; you see the boy looking down the street, and the black girl walking across the street where they originally met. The girl stops, back to the boy, they are a distance away, she starts to turn her head around, but stops, and at that moment, he automatically turns his back around to her, in case she decides to follow through on the compete turnabout… and the curtain comes down.


Curtain


Notes: the Author was stationed at Redstone Arsenal, in February and March, of 1970 the same location of the United States Space Center Program.

Note: the Saturn V, utilized by the Apollo program manned Moon missions, was developed from the Redstone Arsenal. Huntsville continues to play an important role in the United States' Space Shuttle and International Space Station programs. It is estimated that 1 in 13 of Huntsville's population are employed in some engineering field of work.




Stay Down, Old Abram
(Revised and Edited Version, 12-2008)



Alabama Days
[l969--l970]




Stay Down, ‘Old Abram


He sat on his porch rocking back and forth looking out into the muddy and uncombed fields of his farm, empty of eatable growth, empty of everything but long-haired grass, weeds, rocks, and snakes: -- with only a few crows flying to and fro, they also were being unfed. The old man stopped his rocker for a moment, stared into the untilled field ahead of him; he could faintly see a figure by the hanging tree, the tree Abram hung from. He stood up from his rocker, you could still hear it rocking, wood against wood, it distracted him for a moment as he squinted his eyes to get a better glimpse of the figure walking in his field, his 84-year old spine bent over like a bending weed, his elbow leaning on his porch railing
"A damn soldier," he grumbled out of his hoarse rustic throat, and up from his stomach, up through his vocal cords and out his mouth…came the added words, “a dame Yankee to boot—I bet!” almost vomiting it out…
the figure was now standing by the hanging tree, the soldier, the old man shaking his head back and forth, as if to say: it was none of his business to be where he was, and he wanted him to move on his way, move on and out of there, it was his land: “Get off it,” he mumbled to himself, out loud, “get out of here,” he said louder (thought about what he could be up to), and continued to stare bending overt the railing, his elbow getting sore, his back getting a cramp, almost liking what the soldier was seeing—just not caring for him to be invading his property without his consent; he was trying with the best of his eyesight—forehead in a strain—to catch a glimpse of the young man’s expression, hoping it was punishing for the soldier's face—perhaps the message being, ‘We down here in the south, don’t take niggers lightly, not like you folks in the north,’ (or at least that was the message he would have liked to give, would give if given the chance, was preparing to yell, if only his voice could endure the strain, he wanted to give the young buck of a soldier a real taste of southern comfort.
Yes indeed, after a few more minutes of observation, he saw a grueling, and tiring look on his face, barely could see it, but it was there, harsher than he thought it would be, he told himself, he’d wait a moment longer, then he'd tell him to get out again, he wanted to see more. Yes, yes, he wanted him to absorb the moment, get full of it then move on; if he could laugh loud enough, he might have tried, but it was hard enough just keeping his balance.
The old man yelled:
"He's dead, cant youall see that—you dumb son of a bitch, move on now git on off my property, you jest a damn moron, that's all you is boy, move on now before I fetch my gun and shoot your ass from here to kingdom-come!"

"Yaw, yaw, I know," Chick Evens mumbled to himself, out loud, but mostly moment to accommodate the moment, so he could hear himself to defend his right to be where he was. But of course the old man couldn't hear a word; he, the young soldier was spellbound, dumbfounded, and aghast at what he was witnessing. The blood soaked ground, a rope hanging frightfully from a strong branch that come outward from the thick and tall tree then upward, almost as if it was created as a hanging tree, as if someone might have cultivated it to grow that way a hundred years in the past. It was a Bald Cypress, about 70-feet high, a thick trunk, a pond was nearby. It might have even been a pleasant area at one time, that is, a time before this, and possibly before that old man was born, and all his relatives. Because whatever he was saying—so the young soldier figured—was from the heart and soul, the twisted mind, the hate that boils in the blood from one generation to the next, inborn from the souls of parents, and handed down from one mouth to the next.


Yelled the old man again:
"I say now, git on off my property, boy, its my last warning to yaw—an d leave the nigger bones where they lay.”
Now the old man was mumbling to himself, ‘I done told the boy twice, yes I did, two times now ' then the old man yelled again, “Leave them bones where they lay, ...stay down, stay down, stay down, old Abram, let them bones soak in the dirt' then he yelled to the boy, “He wouldn't get back up, the crazy old nigger fool, now you get on off my property, we don’t take to your kind around these parts, go back north where youall came from, or I’m goin’ to shoot your ass full of holes!"
Chick pretended not to hear the rustic-yelling's of the old man, somewhat afraid to speak, lest he should precipitate some calamity; but of course he heard every damning word and looked briefly at the old man's coming toward him, but only for a moment, only to see his distance from him, to measure it with his eyes for timing of his escape should he need one.


The body of the aged man known as Uncle Abram, or Old Abram [Abram Boston], was naked as a jay-bird, a rotting corpse, with stink all about, an odor that made one cough, gag and almost vomit;-- his skin was picked apart to the bones, matter of fact, his bones were laying all about like broken pottery at some archeological site, his intestines were covered with dirt as they hung out of his abdomen; --human remains, objects to a quick observer, everything looked like unkempt matter, meaningless to most people, even to some animals—Chick imagined as he scanned the surrounding area, but Chick knew they would be most reflective if not emotionally intense for Elsa, should he see her again, and have to tell her how her uncle was—for it was her who had briefly told him about Uncle Abram, as he was walking down main street in Huntsville, Alabama a day ago, and she tried to avoid him, in fear some white folk may catch her talking to him, and tar and feather her, as he tried to ask for directions to a drycleaners for his Army uniform.
Again the old coot, now standing about twenty feet from his porch, yelled:
"[Forearmed] you'd better go on stranger" go’ on home, back to the north, or dat damn Army base before I comes and shoot yaw...ass, shoot your young ass I say, shoot your ass boy."
The young lad looked at the old man, he had bones of bigotry, but there was nothing he could do, he couldn’t change a man that age, he’d never understand, hence, no sense of quarreling with him, so he told himself.

Chick was from the Midwest, Minnesota, born with the inexperienced, or even felt, and most likely shut, because of his green lack of the word, and its sound, bigotry, consequently, to Chick' ears: what he was hearing and seeing were shadows he read in books, ringing truths he only thought were syllables in story books.
He started to dread a longer stay in Alabama, at that very moment, and the moment was still in motion, and yet he had only seen, or better put, scratched the surface of the face of bigotry, thus far by one old man, how was the rest of Alabama, or for that matter, the south. What would it look like under it surface? Scratching the surface of evil, not the evil accomplished, but the evil yet to be, is what was distorting his vision, as he looked at the bones, picking one up, then another, putting them gently into a bag. It was a plague seen by the naked-eye he was looking at, so he told his subconscious: seeing and watching the old man hobble his way in the field trying to get to him, all for the sake of white bones that belonged to a black man.

At this point, it was obvious to Chick, the farmer was not sensitive to, or offended by the Blackman's remains, his bones, and his rotting flesh, Chick knew that immediately, and although Chick had seen Army movies of autopsies, this was too real for his nerves, yet, perhaps the experience made it bearable to deal with, but just bearable, for he remained calm in the grips of the devils shadow. When a man sees raw flesh and blood, and exposed parts of a body, all discolored, all uncooked, it can be sickening to the point of becoming ill, or nausea, if not down right passing out. The human body was not meant to be seen like this with untrained eyes; but then eyes of intolerance could withstand it, why couldn't he, Chick asked his inners, and so he did.
What could produce such indifference in a human mind; he asked himself, in that brain of his, referring to the absorption of the situation, now and before, before meaning when Abram was living through the hell, the hell that Chick was putting together at this very moment, what was in that old coot's brain then, and now, man destroys man, and then the earth he lives on, until there is nothing left to destroy? He was the perfect gift for the enemy of mankind.
The next thought, in Chick’ mind was: possibly he had seen too much in his life way too much, much more than his mind could take, and became insensitive, but that is a zoological excuse he told himself, to allow the man to be pitied, when pity was for the completely disabled, this man was never so, he had no excuse, non but dehumanization for whatever he reasons he allowed to dominate him; he tried to apologize for the old man, but the regret always sank a food deeper, every foot the old man got closer to Chick.
But that was really not the answer; he was making up the questions and now started to answer them, for it surely was the only way he’d get anything close to logic out of this unanswerable hate for a branch of the human race. What was the answer; insensitivity was it, wasn't it? It had to be, no, maybe he thought, no, he had another idea, quietly alarmed he whispered to himself, He's bored sitting on that damn porch, rocking his golden years away, bored, bored to death; this suffering he enjoys, it is ongoing, hence, entertainment for him, and who controls the streets of Alabama. Yes control again comes into the equation, it never leaves, he tells himself. He felt helpless in a way, as he looked about.
He thought, when nothing can be done one must practice self-restraint, patience, or get more personally involved, and he chose restraint. It wasn't his war he told himself, yet he felt he had to do the 'Good Samaritan,' thing.
As he picked up another bone, he knew the inquisitive past of the South was turning out to be, or would turn out to be, a haunting experience for him somewhere along life's journey—yes, indeed, somewhere down the road he’d have to write about this, but who would believe him?
If he remained in Alabama, got stationed here full time, if it became his duty station, not just his advance training base, as it was for now, where he’d leave in three months, there would be faces among faces returning to his brain, imaginary at first, and then if the nightmares continued, it would all become intolerable at second glance, thus at that moment he prayed he’d not have to stay in Alabama; -- he would never know who was and who was not part of the 'boredom' group of elders, or the 'entertainment' group of the youth, or the 'Control' group in the middle. By and by, he would have to sort it out, one by on the reasons behind all this nonsense, but for the present, he knew he was too young to put the world on his shoulders, but maybe for a moment it would suffice. As he stood there and sucked in the rotten air, willingly, but none the less, his head felt like a vortex.


Chick Evens leaned over quickly picking up several more fragments of bones to bring back to Elsa, the skull was separated from the body—his eyes were picked out by crows, an ugly sight; a piece of red cloth that was wet and perturbing from the mud he picked up also, it was Abram's surely he thought, putting those items, small and large all in a small sack, about twenty-items: the old man was now coming towards him faster, almost in a wobbling-run, hobbling like a sick duck.
Chick quickly tied the sack tight and proceeded to the fence about 600-feet behind him, separating the farm from the road, where his friend's car (Corporal Thompson) was parked (which he borrowed for the day trip), the road being more like a dirty street, thus, jumping the fence with a quick stride, he now felt a little safer being off the old man’s property; as he looked about, it was middle dusk, and the evening shadows were creeping in, with rain clouds gathering about, and getting darker.
"Whar you gwine in such a hurry?” yelped, the old man, exhausted from the long stride, then knowing he had no way to get to Chick, added,
"Gwome keep them old bones,--yaw thief…(he hesitated then added) keep them I dont give a damn, cant prove a thing, I told Abram to stay down, stay down, but he wouldn't listen, damn-fool, he kept getting up, they hung him...keep them old bones, black bones...!"
The old man rattled on and on; --the old coot didn't notice the bones were even white, thought Chick, how blind can a person be. As the old man approached the fence after resting, catching his breath, he leaned his body against a post, while Chick put the sack in the trunk, checking out the dark clouds, ghostly clouds, clouds that looked like feet, and tails, heads and ears, conspicuous looking clouds with monster shapes, while strands of darkness laced through a canopy like atmosphere: state of existence, which towered over the big cypress tree as if it was guarding both bigotry, and Abram’s bones, as if the tree was not part to either side. Chick quickly jumped into the automobile taking off, leaving the old man to look at the dust from the wheels.




As the old man walked back to his farmhouse he got to thinking, remembering the old story of Abram's grandfather, why it wasn't triggered before the hanging was a good question, one he'd never bring up to mind, but one that might ask 'why now [so he got to daydreaming about Jeremiah and Abram both]:'

Jeremiah the Wretched

As the men stood stone-still in the field outside of the city, watching Abram hang, dangling from a tree [l969], a few remembered his Grandfather, Jeremiah, or at least they remembered the story, it wasn't a fable, for it took place for sure, it wasn't talked about much though, not now-a-days anyhow, but it wasn't a yarn either, 9 it did happen, and there is an account of it, simply one need only go to the town library—look for the news clippings on it. All things considered, Abram was just like his Grandpa, his wretched old grandfather, or so people have claimed, said, repeated to him a hundred times; a pain in the neck for most white folk.
It was l861, Alabama, --yes the same area, Huntsville. He was a tall darkie they recalled him, tall and strong, like Jack Johnson, the famous black Negro fighter, the ones the white folks didn't want to fight, didn't dare to fight, and wouldn't admit he was tougher. Yes Jeremiah was like him, not in fighting but in arrogance. He didn't act like a nigger, that's what got everyone mad, until that fatal day when they hung him, and still he didn't cater to the white dominance.
Old Jeremiah at one time was a refugee slave, a sawmill worker and a Sharecropper cotton picker. For fifty years he worked for Mr. Mac Camp, Jonathon Mac Camp, who’s family, or some of his family, had moved to the Midwest. He stayed put though, liked the area where he grew up, and told his children go on north if you wish but don't send for money. Mr. Mac Camp had even sent Jeremiah Boston to school once to learn his ABC's and some adding and subtracting, but he got bigheaded, or so Jonathon Mac Camp implied, and grabbed his 'nigger help', as he called him, out of the schoolhouse and put him back to picking cotton: where he belonged, so he bragged. Well, now Mr. Mac Camp was seventy-four years old, and Jeremiah fifty. He wanted his freedom, and demanded that it should be given to him by none other than Mr. Mac Camp, himself, saying:
"Youall promised me it come my fiftieth birthday, eyes be a free man, now I wants it...!"
Jeremiah didn't add a 'yes, or please sir' with the statement, nor any apology for being outspoken, he just got to the point.
Said Mr. Mac Camp, in reply:
"No I didn't say that, thirty-years ago, I said: if you worked hard for me, I'd consider it, and all you do is get bigheaded, and never appreciate a damn thing, now get away from me, and get on back to cotton picking, that's all you ever gona end up doing anyhow--you jest a nigger man, that's all."
Well, that didn't go over well with the six-foot four, 270-pound Jeremiah, and with his powerful hands he picked up Mr. Mac Camp, and held him in the air, his feet dangling, trying to touch something solid, trying to escape,--then talking to him, Jeremiah commented:
"You like to be the boss, aint that right boss, whut you tell me now--Haw? Not a thing!”
He was holding the old man up in the air, “…hahaha!” went Jeremiah.
By the time he put the old man down he was dead: he didn't mean to kill him, but he was dead nonetheless: a heart attack, and behind him were three white men coming out to see Mr. Mac Camp about work and that was that, they pulled their rifles off their horses and aimed them at Jeremiah, and emptied them.



“A Romance in Augsburg”


1

In the Beginning


[Augsburg, West Germany, 1970] They were troubling times back in the late 60s and early 70s: the war in Vietnam was going on, protests all over the United States; a time of unrest, and the sounds of the Beatles and Elvis’ Come Back, as was the war inside of Chick’ head, slowly ending. Love does not have a name in my story, although it has side effects, for both involved. Love as we knew it was the wealth it gave us, for what it was worth at the moment, we both—I think both—forgot to look at ourselves; what was important was grabbing the moment for our own personal reasons, or gains. It was perhaps what we wanted though, and needed; perhaps that was the best combination of the whole affair. Possibly, just possibly this was more an affair than what we bargained for, yes, that’s precisely what it was, more of an affair, yes—certainly. But I prefer it inhabit the river of truth, so I place it in the space that lies between two people as growing pains. She was twenty-four years old, I was twenty-two.


2

A View in
The East


[Chick Evens] The street was narrow—an army compound, with its towering concrete walls in West Germany, towered above my head, as I walked along its narrow sidewalk. In the distance you could see the emerging city as it started to surround you: as you walked this location. Towards the end of this wall were guard towers, trees, and more streets. At night when I walked home along this walk, this wall, the lights seemed always to be twisted, but then I was seldom sober; perchance, a little twisted myself.
Until the huge wall emerged, the compound was completely concealed; therefore, until that moment, that very moment the element of surprise remained. New recruits, assigned to the military compound would seldom dare to leave, walk, or even glance along this walk, this long side view of the compound in fear they would not find their way back: back home, to this compound I believe. They were young and unraveled for the most part, had contempt for being forced into this foreign land and city of Augsburg and even for being assigned to a small complex like Reese, knew no bounds in disappointment. We even had our protesters in the ranks of the military, in the platoons at Reese.
The waterpower, in back of the compound could be seen above the large concrete walls as could some of the trees when I walked steadily along the side of the tower wall going down the street as the VWs and Mercedes passed me. Very cleaver I thought if anything, —for surely World War Two, the Nazis’ could have used it in part, for spying; but the more I think about it, I suppose, the more I think they were used for more sophisticated means—and spying on whom, themselves?
The area around the compound had a gothic kind of look, medieval not like the inside barracks in the compound. The barracks were painted green and patched with red and brown colors: gave it a drab and rustic feeling, if not a flat affect on the mind. I never liked the colors, but then I’m no decorating freak anyhow, it would do, it did do.
Its countless windows with decaying iron and wood could have never contemplated another defense against any new war of the 60s or 70s other than the war it had, the Silent Cold War; for I’m sure its painful memories of the Nazi era filled its spaces. On all four of the barrack sides were doors, as heavy as the church doors down in Augsburg, its cathedral, in the middle of the city that is, with its iron sides like an old fire-escape. This iron went to the upper and lower parts of the doors.
The rooms were small, four men to a room, and in some, two men to a room (which would be half its four-man room size), and if you were a part of the Security Police Force, as I was, one to a room, but the room was like a prison cell, one could say, in that it was a thin emplacement: no more than twelve-feet long and six feet wide. Thank God I was not claustrophobic.
There were upper rooms to these three stories barracks, filled with staircases on each side of the building, and in the center of it, as if there were to be constant drills [meaning: having soldiers running about, hence].
The windows were dark at night, only a lifeless light could be seen from a distance: our bed check sergeant could be seen walking up those lonely steps at night with his flashlight as to check each room and see who was missing at twelve-midnight. He was an asshole, one who loved to kick people in the ass as they walked up the stairs, I often said to myself, ‘Don’t, don’t you dare!’ I think he read my mind, the bastard, because he never did play around with me like that.
Now that I think of it, looking back at the building over the wall, one might think of a Peeping Tom; the reason being, as you look through the windows you can see the light shinning in and on the stairs leading up to the second floor; I somehow can picture a crazy old man with a toothless mouth peering through the doorways like a guard in a prison cell: thinking about escaping.

As I continued to walk down the street, smoking a cigarette, I walked along this wall, I walk it almost every day, my mind would produce these visions as I pressed forward with the excitement I knew would be ahead of me: simply excitement for a Private First Class, in the Army like me, nothing to wake up the dead. I’d think of the coming bar scene, the smooth tasting mouth-watering dark German beer, and the girls, and a few friends that might be at one of the bars (in this case, the one I was headed for): that was my excitement, waking up from the dead excitement that is. I knew by walking, not by hiding at the damn compound I’d survive this adventure, aloneness, ordeal at times you could call it; I’d get there, and the night would start, which would make me focus on ‘the here and now,’ not the bullshit of the Army life. And so I did exactly that, kept walking, looking ahead, and closer and closer coming to my lifeless adventure for the evening.

—The very air above me seemed fresher now that I had left the compound with its military madness. Ski would meet me there at the bar, or be there, most likely be there, at the guesthouse that is, several blocks northeast of the compound. He merely put up with the military; his head was some other place it always seemed, wondering why he was still here, here at Reese [meaning: this military compound in Germany]. It seemed to me the way he acted was like he was on some expensive vacation: he was separated from the real army, mentally anyways, —like the Army is from the Marines.
As I observed my watch, I noticed I was making good time, I do when I talk to myself. I was now far from the great walls of my assigned military compound, my home away from home: out of sight, out of mind. That is how a draftee thinks I think. Or I wonder if I simply act the way I think other people expect me to act: sometimes I just don’t know. It seems about half the people in the Army actually joined the Army, not sure why, but the other half like me, got drafted. You know the ones that didn’t make it to college, or got married before 1965; a cutoff date someone came up with to appease us peasants. They have all these rules so they can figure out who is dispensable and who is not. I am one that is dispensable I guess. But then so was Elvis, everyone over here seems to like him, that being: the Germans in particular. Perhaps the US Government wanted to cool his heals back a decade ago, and this was their way of doing it. I think the U.S. Government tried to get rid of Elvis so they could get back to the old ways, the old music; but of course it didn’t work, He has changed the world in one way or another; and now thinking about it, he was surely a rebel for his time, all the way up to this time: again I say, if anyone changed America, it was him. He’s settled down now somewhat I hear.
I can see the guesthouse now from where I am at, catching the wooden beam crossovers in the middle sides of the guesthouse like a sloppy-x, it always looks so medieval heavy; and along the sides and front of the establishment is the walkway, it looks deserted, yet it is only 8:00 PM, early for night life, just wait, it will be swinging soon Chick…!


3

The Guest House


The guesthouse always looked alive, or maybe it was I as I approached it, felt alive. I read the name as always, over the doorway, the heart of the inn: ‘The Lions Den,’ den—I liked the tone to that, I liked that word, back home in Minnesota ‘den’ —den, would be for some rich folks with an entrance in a house, up on Summit Avenue—the rich district in St. Paul, so it had a rich tone to it, echo to it; such rich and famous folks lived there such as the writer: F. Scott Fitzgerald used to live there, back in the 1920s and the tycoon John J. Hill.

Anyhow, the “Lions Den” was two stories high, with a slanted roof, laced curtains and old German beer mugs on the windowsills. There was wood on the lower part of the sills, varnished, which had allowed it to have a glow to them, fresh manure: I should have been an artist or photographer, for I liked taking pictures with my eyes, but never could afford a camera: but I’ll never forget them, they were shinny as a bald head freshly polished. Now that I’m on the subject: I loved great art, and the structures of buildings and bridges—the texture, and the colors of bricks, their tones, and mortar.
“Hello,” I said as I sat at a table near the window inside the inn, waiting for Ski, my friend, or perhaps Sergeant Mac, that’s what we called him—a sergeant from Vietnam, buck sergeant, he was part of the security platoon I belonged to; younger than I by a year or two, and being a machine-gunner on a helicopter I think got the best of him, but he only had ten months to go and he’d be home.
I was often mistaken for an office rather than a private, not sure why maybe it’s my smugness with these surrounding walls, it makes me put an air of insignificance sailing throughout the place with no lion.
You could see a portion of the building structures huge chimney across by the bar area: --it towered past the next level [second floor] and through the ceiling to the outside sky. I loved the iron stairs that linked the back of the bar to the upper floor. As you looked up, you felt you were in a courtyard of sorts, and as you walked about the upper level, it was like walking around a gallery.
I turned to my side, then half turning again, looked towards the door, it opened to the March air, —I then looked back at the bar and its twisting iron stairway again, there was a new waitress walking down the steps, laughing: ‘…she’s new, haven’t seen her before,’ I mumbled. But I’ve not been here for two months either, I told myself, could she have been coming here for possibly that long—I bet; she walks like she knows the place well (I always talk to myself, always).
Tonight maybe I’ll be dancing, if the bar fills up. Disco music is filling the air I don’t really like it, but I like dancing to it. I feel as if my guardian angel has something in store for me tonight, I shouldn’t say that, I’m not much with the God thing, but I do respect the angels, they got to be someplace, why not here, I’m still alive, and with all this drinking I do, only an angel could be responsible for me still kicking. Maybe Mac will come, he likes to drink, Ski, I like him but he doesn’t drink much.
I seem to get a silent sense of humor and a smug look to my continuance: damn, every time I drink I get into this mode. The Waitress is giving me a joyful smile, I like that: funny, every man thinks a smile from a pretty waitress is an invitation to the bedroom: I wonder way [?]
“Hi,” I said with a grunt, and then looked on.
Ski, came in, I see him standing by the side of the door, actually concealing the doorway of the guesthouse somewhat, it looks like he spotted me, not sure if he wanted to… especially after seeing the new waitress, he looked at me again. She had caught his eyes just like mine, a beauty, and she knows it. Funny thing, pretty girls are always so sure of themselves: I suppose they feel if you do not smile the other guy will: and if they want to give you more with the smile they will, and if they want to toy with you, with the smile they will; I think they got, and like power with them smiles. I think they test out how powerful their smile can be. She had walked to a table to put linen-sheets on it, as the disco-music started to liven up the joint a little more. It was getting louder: the club, guesthouse, bar, all the same and it was getting louder.
Three or four minutes later he stood by the door not quite taking off his hat checking out the scene, then caught my eyes again. She caught Ski’s eye again also I see, and was a little embarrassed it seemed, sometimes Ski can be like a bulldog, and out stare anyone. I wonder if Mac is going to stop on by [?]
All kinds of people must have seen her walking down those stairs, they were all watching those shapely legs, and her wiggled that ass, and those fine looking hips, —her silky white German skin. She brought the drinks for the four GI’s in the center of the guesthouse. They looked like they were still chilled from the frosted air outside, as they were rubbing their hands together. She had told one of the four gentleman in advance to be patient: —as he asked for two drinks and she only brought him one, matter-of-fact, she only brought each person, each one drink, one at a time; it is her first night I over heard her say to the group. That was bullshit; it was their first night, not hers, and she just wants a bigger tip I bet:
”Just hurry up with the drinks bab…!” one of the GI’s replied as she walked away to get their second order in advance, as they turned their heads to watch her walk away, checking out her ass more, making cat-calls. She paid no attention, and just went about her business.
I noticed Ski now, he noticed me noticing him also, and Ski noticed the man that was a bit demanding, if not rude, to the waitress. Even at his best, Ski has a trigger for a temper that is almost uncontrollable. Life had treated him harshly I felt, especially in terms of respect. And god-forbid who got on his bad side, although we were about the same height, both built solid and fighters, he avoided getting me mad, or mad at me, I suppose he needed a friend, and was never sure of me; we both could fight, and I gave a ore (image or some kind of signal out) that I was unbeatable (or perhaps not afraid to be beaten if indeed he could beat me).
Ski, seemed to me as if he spent some time in some kind of unthinkable institution; his guard was always up. He had explained to me a few times: friends were far and in-between for him. But for some reason, he tried hard to keep me from running away from him, or better put, turning on him; I being his only real friend I suppose. That’s how I felt at any rate. I liked Ski, but I wasn’t about to be controlled by him, and he liked to control.
It was out of respect Ski went straight from the door to my table without stopping at the rude table full of soldiers, and letting them know how he felt: which would had been normal for him. But he had it on his mind none-the-less, I’m sure, and came directly to my table; when he sat down with me, putting a dollar on the table for a beer, it took a little doing for him to put a smile back on his face, twisting a ting to see the rude table of soldiers somewhat to my left, and a little to his side, since he was sitting in front of me and sideways to them, his should twenty feet away from them anyhow.
“You find something funny?” Ski asked me.
“Mr. Ski, who are you going to hit tonight, cool down, the night hasn’t even started yet.” Ski smiled, and then kind of laughed: I read his mind and he knew it.
“I’m ready ☻,” he explained.
Ski was pleasant enough, even had some wit to him, and at times he even could be charming, and in another way, so charming if he wanted to he could catch the new waitresses eye, if that was to be his goal for the evening. If so, I prayed, that that table of rude soldiers be gone when Ski got wound up with alcohol; but then he usually didn’t get as drunk as I.
I continued to drink and look about, I was one who didn’t quite know when to stop drinking it was fun for me, and yes I liked to drink, drink and drink; like Mac, he liked to drink, drink and drink until he could forget those machine-guns in Vietnam, and the helicopter that fell, I mean crashed. He had some of that Post Traumatic Stress stuff; he was seeing a doctor at the clinic, and sometimes went to Frankfurt to see a doctor there. He told me once they had to take him out of Vietnam before he went local, crazy.
Ski on the other hand drank slowly, was cool and calm, a thief in disguise, not many people liked him, but I did, and that allowed him to join with the others I suppose; and if, and I say if, because I seldom seen him drunk, but if he got drunk, usually I couldn’t tell, perhaps I was already drunk, but like I said, he was more into other things: stealing cloths at from the PX, finding girls wherever he could, fighting whenever he could, but he could be fun. Yet, Mac was wild fun also, not dangerous fun like Ski though.
Ski said, surprisingly, “That gal over there keeps looking at you, she even took her finger and waved: signed you over to her.”
“Ski, I think you are checking her out for yourself, she is waving at you,” I replied.
Having said that, I did a double take on the young lady over in the corner, she was with a few girlfriends, her presence did seem to stand out: somewhat animated. A sudden anxiety came over me —she did take her finger and wave it at me, I’ll be, she really did.
“See….Ski….see, you’re right!” I said, hastily, then added, “Should I expect her to come to me, or I to her?” I was asking for Ski’s advice, totaling, and “I was just thinking out loud?”



4

Chick’s Quest


The music was getting louder, and the upper part of the guesthouse which was open to the public now, was being filled up with GI’s and Germans, some hanging their hands and torsos over the railing looking down below, looking at all of us poor folk …Ski took a look, made a grimace—:
“How’d they like me to pull their fu’en noses down here,” he commented, shaking his head.
“Yaw, it’s getting crowded with young gals, German girls… and GI’s,” he added.
“She seems nice,” I said to Ski, as he sipped on his dark-bock-beer, leaning back in his chair checking out the four guys at the table about twenty-feet to our right, and watching the waitress from the side of his eye (I noticed Mac had come in, or was in, I didn’t see him come in, and he sat at the bar, he didn’t like Ski, not sure if he saw me).
“Are you saying Chick, my observations were right on?”
“The German girl…?”
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t play dumb…”
“Yaw.” He smiled with pride as if he was the Commanding Officer of the 1/36th Artillery, for giving so much wisdom, but what could I say he was right.
“Hay man, she’s given you the indication to visit…!”
“What!”
“Go dance with her…!”
“So how should I approach this?”
“Listen, the music, dance man, get into it, this is a guesthouse not a funeral home, she’s wanting to meet you for some reason, not bad either, kind of on the richly $$… side I’d say, you know, good job, money, looks, car, you can’t go wrong.”
Somehow I heard that philosophy before, I think Ben Franklin said something like that, -- “…marry above yourself and you got nothing to lose…” something like that, Ski must had read a bit.
“She can come over here,” I said.
“She’s not going to come over here man, where’s your head, she already made her move, it’s your turn, your move, she’s going to dance with someone else if you don’t move; you’re going to lose her!”
(I glanced at the bar, Mac was not looking well, he was drinking one drink after the other, and he seemed to sniff the air, trying to figure out where he was at, or perhaps he knew, and he was back in Vietnam, I saw this before, whenever he got too drunk, and too lonely.)
I felt he [meaning: Ski] was probably right, she would dance with someone else soon if I didn’t make the effort, but I had learned in life also, yes, my little 22-years on this earth, I had learned, when a woman has her eye on you, it doesn’t matter if you are in a barn with one hundred-naked men with gold chains on their you know what, she will come to you; even if you’re in a chicken coup, she will come to you: perhaps it is a challenge, because as soon as they see something else they like, they will: you got the picture, go on to other things. And, for some odd reason and only they know—I don’t know—when they focus, when women focus, they are concise, I mean really focused, and when they shift gears to leave your ass that is what they do, for some odd reason what they like fades faster than the wind…they run faster than a train. This was my experience at twenty-two, anyhow.
She was about twenty feet from us making more gestures.
“She’s not coming to you Chick, go see what she wants.”
“Yaw, yaw, I’m going, I’m just not used to someone coming on to me like she is, normally I got to work for it.”
(I looked over at Mac again, his very silence, his not talking to anyone told me he was going through some hard times, I’m sure it is the attack coming alive in his head again. He’s mumbling to him self, his hands are moist, and he’s wiping them off on his pants. I saw his nerves go like this before.)
If it wasn’t winter it wouldn’t be so hard to date anyone now, I thought especially not having a car; I mean, dating in winter time is next to impossible. For Ski it wasn’t a problem, he had a car, a VW, but you never could really count on him, he was around, but not when you needed him, when he needed you, that’s when he was around. But what the hick, this was a night out, a Friday night out, and so I had to be back by midnight, might as well try, why not. During the week bed check was at 10:00 PM.
She hovered over her chair as if she was a cat waiting for a mouse; and I was her mouse to be: sitting —studying me…like a hawk; next move has got to be mine, ----I ‘…NNNNNNNooo…’
She had a few years on me, maybe two or three. A business degree, maybe, a manager possibly, unattached I hope. If we were ever to meet it might workout somewhat, she seemed to relay: but you know, men always think like that. That smirk on her upper lip tells me she’s a fox after a hound; and to be honest with my second self, I think I am dreaming faster than a rocket.
“Wakeup Chick! Stop daydreaming, she wants yooooou…!” said Ski. I shook my head: yes, I guess I was daydreaming.
Financially, I knew I could not afford her, but the theme was starting to take on a life of its own, its own course: to be exact, taken out of my hands—for the time being anyway; I think I was starting to feel her prestige involved; she had two girlfriends sitting by her and I was something of an imagined plot of hers: I told myself as I starred back at her, and she at I, and Ski at both of us, and Mac into his beer: Perhaps we do have something in common after all, who was to say unless you took that step.
As I started to stand up, I noticed she was dressed in a fine up-to-date style of cloths, and it made her look a tad older than I first thought. She put her hand out (it was thin, slender to be exact, smooth, nice finger nails, milky white skin, with a tint to it, not much, just a slight auburn tint) and stood up, ‘shoots,’ I said, Ski laughing and covering his mouth (now Mac turned to look at me, he nodded his head, a slight smile as not to offend Ski and I figured I stop on over there afterwards. His head kind of fell to his chest, his chin hit his chest, like a bomb, I saw him do that before.)
“Don’t say it Ski, I’ll turn around and leave.”
“I’m not saying anything man, just enjoying the trip, dance man dance!”
She was almost as tall as me, sandy-dark-brown hair; a fresh looking face, with a nice smile, a laugh right around its corners, and she seemed like she was simply celebrating life, as I was.
“My name is Chick, sit down,” she said as a quick introduction; then her three girl friends said their quick hellos. Chick just looked about, and then like a kitten, came back with her eyes focused directly into mine, like a hypnotist.



5

Mac’s Dilemma



“Let’s dance; I do hope you dance,” she added, in a tone low, and a light laugh starting to come out of her smile again, almost disarming me. And out to the middle of the dance floor we went. About several couples filled in around us, and the dance became a mental waltz, as we tightened our dance to each other’s body curves on the floor.
“Yaw dunce vel,” she commented with her broken English, and Germany accent.
I didn’t instantly reply, she pulled me closer to her during the next dance saying, “I want to go to the club I know…want you to come along?”
She waited for a response. My pants started to bulge out a little in the wrong place or maybe right place for her. I thought, and thought –she’s asking me to go to a club she knows, I think. And I got to calm down, before I get laid on the floor here. I was starting to like the dance, it was smooth, and her thin body was melting into mine. I was hoping she would change her mind and just stay here.
“Well,” she inserted (again).
“I need to tell somebody I’m leaving first, ok?”
“Yaw, I guess.”
“Just a minute please…I’ll be back.”
As we got outside, I thought about Ski, I felt a little displeased with myself but Ski knew it was coming; it was not quite that evident to me at first, that is, that I’d be leaving the Den, but to him, I’m sure it was evident.
Chick was attempting to ease me a little as we walked out the door, not quite achieving it at first, realizing the slow approach I made at her calling me to her table in the Den, like a dog or at least I kind of took it that way, I didn’t tell Ski that, he’d think I was a kid, her approach was like ‘come here little doggy…’, even though I was a little nervous, and I did like the fact she made the first move… I put it together it just took me awhile.
She explained it wasn’t all that far from where we were as we walked around the corner to her car.
“A most interesting friend you have,” she commented.
“Well, I’ve heard that before I guess.”
“Eh… yaw-have…?”
“I don’t want to get into it, he’s …”
“Trouble…?” She said.
“Yaw, I guess you could say that, how did you know?”
“I can see it, I’m sure others can too.”
“I guess I thought it wasn’t that obvious, that I was the only one that could.” She smiled as if she would have me all figured out in no time. Was I that readable? I thought.
Rapidly she opened the door to the car, a new 1970 Ford Mustang and within a minute we were on our way to wherever. As we drove a few minutes I noticed a section of town that was quite alien to me. Then I noticed the big gray tower as she drove north of where I was stationed at Reese compound. I pointed it out, saying that was where I was stationed with the 1/36th Artillery. She said ‘Oh,’ as if she’d pick up the conversation on that subject later.
Then down around a number of buildings and around the cities fancy regal design water fountain she raced as if the cops were her fans and wouldn’t give her a ticket; then up a few more unknown streets I hadn’t seen as of yet, -- she went; I actually seen most of the city on many of my long afternoon walks throughout the city. I counted twenty-seven blocks in all as her tires squealed around the corners, and then suddenly she stopped.
“Yaw … you ok?” She felt moved to say; “I need a cigarette…” she looked at me.
“Oh, I see.” I looked quite dashed I suppose, we both looking at each other.
“…In as much as, or rather I should say, it isn’t my business of course, but do you smoke?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to now,” I hesitated, “Well, not really,” nervously.
“My dear boy, we are here!” She gazed at me, with bewilderment—a little inward exasperation, as she sat behind the steering wheel, charming, eager, and full of life; so, anyone would have said.
“Must you have one now,” I said.
“No, let’s get into the bar….”

As we stepped out of the car, the stars were glowing in the cool glassy darkness. Chick pulled off her black small hat fixing her full thick hair with her fingers. Her hair was not long, but not short.
As we walked into the club, it seemed she was quite in charge of the moment. But it was a good moment I thought, a new corner of town for me, headlined with bright lights, a huge mirror along the bar and a jolly bar tender with a white shirt and black bow tie. A few guys and women seized Chick as we turned the corner from the entrance hall to the bar area, they started speaking something in German. Then she introduced me to her friends as her friends hurried to get a round of drinks for us as we joined them at their table.
“Just a few friends,” commented Chick.
“I like scotch on the rocks,” she told me. I tried to figure out how much money I had in my pocket. I had just gotten paid a few days ago, $127-dollars for the month and it had to last, and this place was high buck, costly by the looks of things.
She picked up her drink, and hit my beer glass “…a proast my new friend…hit my glass,” she meant ‘toast’, I mumbled, she smiled, ‘proast in Germany…’ but I guess it’s different in Germany, and so I did as the Germans do best, and down the hatch it went.
Her three friends talking at the bar came over with another round, and down they went also. Then I bought a round, $12.75, it was a few days pay, but I knew if I survived the night I could not duplicate it again this month.
There was little conversation between the five of us, for only Chick could speak English clearly, the rest of them tried but they were as bad at English as I was at German, and so I just kept drinking. But it was joyful.
As the drinks kept coming the voices at the table sank to a sleepy blur, and a few yawns. Chick smiled to herself or so it seemed, standing up a few times walking in circles. She got a sandwich ate half of it and asked me if I wanted the rest, I said ‘no,’ so it was left on the table, she seemed fatigued but we continued to drink, smoke and smile.
Chick drank slowly not as fast as I. It seem to me she had a good sense of human nature attached to her character, and her sex-drive went up as my beers went down—or at least it seemed to me to be that way, as her eyes were removing my cloths. Or was it my mind, my imagination doing it for us. Who could tell?
In my mind I was counting the money I had left in my pocket, and how much I would have left for the month after this evening, yet I didn’t want to spoil the inner warmth of our connecting drowsy bodies being stirred up.

I earnestly hoped that this new lady friend would be a little sympathetic with the drinks: --I would have to tell her soon I was a private not an officer, that I couldn’t afford to go on spending money this way, but I’d wait for the evening to get a little more interesting. Timing was everything, or so I believed. And I didn’t want to leave the wrong impression.
For the second time in an hour I had found myself buying another round, another $12.75, this was number five. I had to remind myself again I had not come prepared to spoil Miss Germany with every penny I had, in the broad-spectrum, I could not go on like this.
“Chick,” I asked, “let me explain. I’m a Private First Class [PFC], not an officer. I’ve got to get back to base before midnight, bed check. But I guess the Army is doing away with bed check come next week. The whole damn army is. I hope we can see each other more. And please don’t think of me as being cheap, but I can’t afford this place.” She smiled, one of them cat and mouse smiles I do believe; but she understood.
“Yaw, I know, and you are a gentleman, and tired. Let me buy a few rounds.” I looked a little embarrassed I’m sure, but said to myself if she wants to stay here so be it, and I sat back down and waited for the next round. Actually my beer was the cheapest think on the menu.
It was almost like a holiday for me, you know, on one of those high-class vacations on the Mexican Rivera, the ones I used to read about in the Sunday paper back home. Beautiful bars with well to do women, and everyone dressed as a star, everyone that is but me. I was dressed all right, but these people here were dressed a little more sophisticated.
I almost couldn’t believe it, all this luxury, and a pretty woman to boot she was not any young girl I should say, but not old. And the club was playing my Elvis music, not that disco crap. Chick got a look at me as I was tapping my fingers and moving my feet ♪ with the song “Heartbreak Hotel” ♪ ☺ and then came “Don’t Be Cruel” ♫♫♪
“I see you like him to, Chick?”
“Yaw.”
“What’s your best song of his?”
“Not sure, maybe ‘It’s Now or Never,’ not sure.”
“We all loved Elvis coming to Germany; many of the girls used to try to find him while he was on guard duty, until they took him off. But that was ten-years ago.”
“That’s right he was here just ten years ago, how interesting.”
“He is now making a comeback I see, or so they say.” Chick liked the song, Heartbreak Hotel as much as I did, we both kind of rocked in our chairs looking at each other, and at her friends as they got up walking around chatting with everyone in the bar.
“You like the Everly Brothers?” I asked Chick.
“Some of their songs are fine…not as much as Elvis though—why?”
“They played at my High School Prom.”
“So do yaw like me?” She asked. I hadn’t expected that, but I quickly appeased her by saying, ‘Yes,’ and there was truth in my voice. I’m not sure why I did confirm that, but I did.
She bathed her voice slowly, saying, “You’re quite handsome, I like your square chin, I mean jaw, I guess I mean both, and strong looking face.”
I knew she had been to the top of the mountain, and was not quite sure what she wanted with me, but I had nothing to lose. We were both attractive people in a sea of youth, and the timing was right. Everything seemed just right, too right.
She had reached a stage in which she knew what she wanted, and went after it, I figured that much out quickly. But I lacked the finery she possessed; yet she was proud and unspoiled, as I seemed I suppose, which she chose for her intellectual reasons.
As she fell back into her chair, she became very comfortable with me quickly, and for some reason I was not getting drunk but she was. She had that smile again, that laugh I noticed at the disco, and it seemed to come out sideways. It made me believe it was more of cunning assurance she cultivated for her prey, rather than sincerity.
The bar maid came by, “Can I help you with another drink….” She asked.
“Maybe a little coffee, Chick?” failing to concentrate on my comment, she leaned over the top of the chair and took her finger and waved the waitress on closer.
“You know, Chick,” I commented, “This finger thing with you is a little disturbing, kind of like you would do to a dog.”
“Arf ffff… arfff….” she went, we both started to laugh☺ I leaned over toward her, within inches of kissing, but out of respect, I just couldn’t so I left it alone, it wasn’t the time or place, especially with all her friends around, plus she was too vulnerable. I have learned a few things in my young life and one is that if a person sees you taking advantage of them when they are weak, they will not forget that when they are strong. It is like telling someone your secret-weakness, and when you are arguing and you want to win the fight you take that secret weapon out and use it to shut the person up, yet, to do this is not to be honorable, and it is not a friend that would do this; friends do not do such things.
“Let’s go Chick…I got to get back….”
She got up, I helped her put her coat on; she smiled a little, and held out her keys.
“You…uuu driiive Chick ☻ you’re more sober I--iiii think.”
“Sure,” I replied. As we walked out to her Mustang, I then thought about the way she dressed, I liked it, and it was as if she dressed for success. We both were excited about this first date, this enchanting evening, and we both knew we’d never forget it, how could we, it was the beginning. Chick asked optimistically “How about me…ee-meetng you at the front-gate of the base… tomorrow…?”
I murmured something to the effect, “Sure,” I was a little drunk, but she understood, as I opened her door.
When we arrived at the compound, it was 11:45 PM “See you tomorrow, about 5:00 PM ok?” I asked. She nodded her head yes.
Choosing a moment to wake up and stretch, getting out of the car, along side of the roadway by the iron gates of the military base, I went into the compound, she shook her head slowly, and said, “At 5:00 PM then…right?”
I walked through the gates by two security guards, and into the side door, for I was now one of the guards. I walked slowly to my room, looked for my bed trying to focus, and crashed, knowing it was in front of me.
I had the first shift in the morning, which entailed raising the flag, waving everyone through the gates, checking ID’s, trucks and cars for anything that might be suspicious, or possibly an Army theft. It would be a busy day; being part of the Security Force, they had rotating shifts: involving nights, days and evenings, something I didn’t cherish, but had to adjust to.

In the morning I had showered and shaved in the cold damp showers of this WWII barracks: where you’d have to run back down the hallway to your room before your ass would freeze, and you’d catch your death with the seeping cold from the shower windows, and hallway breezes that seeped through the whole thick building: which seemed to be an every morning thing here in Germany (in winter). I dreaded leaving that warm water coming out of the shower to endure the quick run escape back to our room. I seemed to get cold the moment I got out of my bed, all the way to the shower room and until I ate breakfast: the only moment of warmth was under the warm shower waters; even under my feet got cold a few feet away from the warm shower’s water. The weather was changing, and it couldn’t change too quickly for me, to spring. I pretended to be indifferent of it all, especially if my comrades ever joined me, for it was a huge shower room and several of us might shower together at any given time, hence.
I quickly rushed back to my room and readied myself, putting on my greens: my, green and more green clothing, -- then I put my SG patch [Security Guard patch on] hard hat on; next my white arm band, and blue police band, fatigues, white laced black shinning boots, and relieved my partner of his duties standing outside directing traffic.
I had been a guard for only a month now, originally being part of an ordnance battery before. But because they were short of guards, I volunteered, plus it was good duty, I wouldn’t have to go out three times a year to the frozen elements in the East of Augsburg some one hundred miles for training. It was a plus to be able to stay behind, or at least that was the way I felt, although I didn’t like leaving my four friends from the “Delta” barrack, all being from the south. We’d play [I’d play that is] the guitar while they all got drunk on their bunks.
The Security Police I now worked with, never did such things together, I kind of missed it. But they didn’t vanish from the face of the earth, and I compensated for not being with them when we did get together over at the Bavarian Crossroads Service Club. We always had a great time, and at the Enlisted Men’s Club where we could play slots and drink until we had to carry one another back to the barracks. It was always a good gathering for us.


6

The Passion of
Mid-Spring



Mid-Spring



I wave a few cars though the gate, feeling the sun resting upon my face warming my cheeks a bit, as I stood to the side of the compound entrance; it also was helpful in sobering me up.
My whole life had become suddenly real again I told myself as I continued to wave the cars through, and tighten my gloves. The morning was a bit chilly, I think it was the ‘bitter’ left over from the winter, the chill that is.
Being part of the Military Police, if a high ranking officer seen me just a little untidy, it could be reprimand time for me, and that I didn’t need, so I was constantly—like all the other Security Police—checking and re-checking my uniform, my appearance, I guess like our SFC our boss you could say [Sergeant First Class] would say ‘…you’re the first thing people see when they come to an American facility—LOOK GOOD!!’ I suppose he was right.
I asked myself between cars—had I imagined the whole evening before? After all, I was back doing what I did six-days a week.
My brain was a little slow today, the alcohol I think. I saw Ski in formation over by the artillery-barracks. Would it not be surprising if I told him how the evening ended, he’d evaporate, his mind was probably too involved with fancy crime schemes to pay it any mind: --and how to get over on the Army, nonetheless it was a good thought. I think I wanted to show-off.

As I turned about, Ski was standing by my side, it startled me a bit, a smile on his face though, as if he knew what I knew—I think he had the smirk I was expected to have when he showed up, damn, let me have some fun I whispered to my evil side. Only his eyes were not the same, blood shot, like mine I suppose, if I could only see mine.
But it didn’t matter for Ski he still remained shrewd and charming, and yaw, --undoubtedly—stiffened with grief:
“How was your evening Chick—make it with Chick…?”
“Matter-of-fact, no…oooooo I didn’t do what are you thinking, but I got another date…today….”
He leaned back against the brick wall of the guard post, as was his custom—he liked to lean against everything, as if he was going to jump on someone. But with me he just toyed, I knew his stances.
“Today ---- haw?”
“Yes, today.”
“Really….” He was thinking I busted out laughing.
“You got your answer man…what more do you want?”
“The truth…you got laid…yaw!!!”
“Man oh man, where are you at Ski? You really are something,” I said, adding,”…she was eating right out of my hands…”
“You’re full of shit…out of your hands...” I gave him a grimace.
“Ski, there is something to be said about patients, and that would be… a foreign word for you I know…that is, to be patient, and all things will come to you…plus, what did you expect, for me to get laid in that little car of hers?”
“I’ve done it in a trunk—“
“No way man…in a trunk, you’d have gone to the Grand Hotel,” we both laughed at that.
“I got to work…”
“See yaw later PFC…Evens --”
“Yaw Corporal smart ASS…” I told myself, he’d lose that strip before I leave Germany, and he’d be a PFC like me or, I’d be a Corporal, and he’d be the PFC, just a matter of time.

The cars were now picking up, it was time for breakfast, and the people off Base were starting to flood the gates to go to work, along with the German civilians and off-base housing people: --the rush would last for a little more than an hour now.
The rush hour would always be a little tense, many high ranking officers coming through the gate, --it really didn’t bother me, but a lot of the other security police it did bother: matter-of-fact now that I think of it, that is why SFC Flattery our platoon sergeant never was around at that particular time, in the early part of the morning….
The pain of drinking the evening before simply slows one down in the morning—for a few hours anyway, but we’d always get our focus back, and mine was coming.
I tried to pay close attention to the incoming cars, they liked it when you caught their eyes the driver’s eyes, and then they knew all was well. I could give them a ticket if they overlooked a signal. And they and I—both of us, wanted to offer the other as little distraction as possible, they were going to work, and I was working. I suppose Ski knew this, and that is why he said very little, he could play catch-up with me later.

Sometimes I’d get so drunk the night before I’d be too lame to work the next day, and had to pay someone to take my shift. And end up taking an evening shift for them at another time, it would tie me up from other plans somewhat, but that’s the way things work I guess. I had a ten-hour shift today. Matter-of-fact I have it all week. But I will get three days off straight, with no bed check, thereafter. No more bed checks…thank God.
The cars now were starting to weed out, so I lit a cigarette, shivering a little from the light breeze passing by, the March wind was very cool. Conversations were far and in-between at this gate, it was the main gate, and not like the other one at the other end of this somewhat, large, military compound: there you could talk a lot with passersby.
I liked the cobblestone streets left over from World War One [WWI] throughout Reese Compound [military complex]. My motor functions were improving now, -- my eyes seemed wider … becoming sober.

It was turning out to be a fine day; the temperature seemed to be just right with a light lukewarm-breeze making an interesting morning of comfort; over to the far northern corner beyond the gate there was an empty lot along the side by the flag pole where a huge rock rested, it had an inscription that read ‘In memory of the Battle of Chickamauga,’ someone told me it was some great Civil War battle, a bloody one at that. I’ll have to check that out some day, I told myself. I found for myself—often times, starring at that rock, day after day, it was strange seeing it way on the other side of the Atlantic, you know, the battle was way over in America, not here –I think in Virginia, 1861.
The only thing I didn’t like about this morning shift was I had to raise the flag. Not that it was a lot of work, but if you dropped it, it could be grounds for military madness. And I didn’t care to rock the boat. Plus I was starting to like Germany with its many festivals; it seemed like there was one going on all the time in this vicinity, and straightforward, there was one going on this very minute across the street, up the block from the compound. Or it will be this afternoon. It wasn’t real big, but it had a huge beer tent, as they called it here, and that is all I really cared about, or for what it is worth, what most GI’s cared about. All these fairs had huge beer tents, every one of them.
You could see kids, mothers, and fathers all wearing their Robin Hood looking hats; some were dressed in old German style pants and dresses, --yes, a good assortment of people were there. I liked it if not for the beer, for the home life it brought back into my memories, my body. It just felt good. It had been active going on two weeks and it would last one more week, I had been there three times, I figured I’d go there one more time: perhaps this coming weekend—possibly.
As I took my lunch break in the larger part of the guardhouse which was a part of the barracks adjacent to the city street, and to the side of the gate way to the facility—where a window was, I did my paperwork looking out of both windows watching German made cars drive by—not like back home where you would see a variety of cars like Fords, Dodges, Chevy’s, etc… there was not a great verity here to witness; I also checked out the side window were my partner waved the cars on through—then back to my paperwork, and checking and marking the documentation on my inspection sheets, and insuring they were in order, insuring I marked the trucks, and other vehicles I had inspected in the morning in the proper places, --very seldom did I ever find any contraband, and for today, there really was nothing out of the ordinary to report. There was a stand up metal ashtray by the side window, I sat down turned the radio off and sharpened my pencil and filled in with check marks in the proper boxes indicating no unusual traffic, and had a cigarette.
I was starting to think about Chick, I felt she was somewhat drawn into my emotional charms and frankness, I think that is all men are needed for nowadays anyways: emotional support. It seems they work, make money just like us men; to be blunt, she was doing better than me.
She seemed to be genuine for the most part. She was a German-Jew, she had told me, and her father was killed just prior to the Nazi’s deserting and escaping the occupation of their so-called Motherland, of World War Two [WWII]. I guess a number of SS men—Hitler’s Elite that is, --came into her father’s study room [library], he was some kind of professor, and her mother grabbed her as she was a child then in 1945, I guess she was only a year old at the time, and the SS Germans took him: --that was the last they had ever heard from, or of him. Chick had told me her mother and she hid behind a sofa chair and he tried to draw them away from them, and I guess he did.
He was never seen of again, as I have just mentioned, and I guess her mother took her to London, England, until after the war when they returned and reclaimed their property. She was a little careful about letting me know she was a Jew, not sure why, I guess being brought up in Minnesota, I never thought much of nationalities as a barrier. She was watching my response now that I think of it. And she got it out quick. I was worried if she’d want to go back out with a private, as much as she was worried if I’d want to go out with a Jew. I suppose her being more educated than I at first glance made me pull back a little, but that was past.
“Remember you got a few more hours left on your station, PFC Evens,” said Sergeant First Class Flattery.
“Yaw sergeant, just thinking about a gal I met, Chick.”
“Well you get your head back into the paperwork, and eat, you still got a little time yet before you’re off duty…. Right?”
“Right.”
“Well—ah, how was she—“
“Chick….”
“If that’s her name—“
“Yes, yes. That’s her, something special, I think, --not used to dating in a while.”
“Ah! Have I got to tell you?”
“No sar-g…” I said soothingly “it’s great.”

The Sergeant walked outside, he most likely was going home, he lived off base with his family; he was a nice sort of guy, a little slow at times, he made E-7 [SFC], which is a good rank, yet some of the other sergeants made fun of him, but he had more class than they. It took him 18 ½ years to make his rank though, I guess normally it should take only about 10 to 12-years; he was about to retire in a year and a half he had told us at the guardhouse. He took everything with a calmness I never knew, something I’d like to inherit I told myself many times, I was always anxious it seemed, almost hyperventilating to get to the next step one might say.
Chick had told me on the way home last night she was interested in me, on one hand, but I think she wanted her cake and eat it to, for she was going with another man, a German she said, and had to let me know it was for money reasons, he paid her rent, some rich cat. I wanted to say forget it, and just go on with life, but I pretended it was no big thing. I had nothing to lose, plus I really did not have anything going for me here anyhow. And somewhere along the line, we could deal with that issue if it came up later, if she intended to develop any kind of ongoing relationship with me beyond a sexual-friendship.


It was 4:45 PM, Chick drove up by the gate door, as I walked outside with my uniform on, she leaned over with the window open, “Ant men funny,” she chuckled at me, or was it herself, she had a nice looking green Mustang, it shinned as the sun bounced off her hood.
“Fifteen minutes early,” I said.
“I know,” she replied, “I wanted to see you in your uniform, you look good—delicious!”
“Come please, I need to talk to you…”
There was a tear in the side of her eye, not sure what it was for.
“Wait a minute.”
“Joe,” I said, my corporal friend who was on duty next, “…can you take the shift now, I sense Chick is in a little despair?”
“Sure—go.”

I quickly dressed into civilian cloths and rushed out to see Chick, got into her car asking, “What’s the trouble?” She drove off quickly and parked over by where she was a manager of a pizza café/guesthouse, which were several blocks west of the base.
“I called London, I lost $50,000 dollars, last night, the dollar went down and the mark went up. I had my life savings in it. I was up early this morning and been calling to see if it would go back up, but no luck.”
“Wow… sorry, ----$50,000!” I really didn’t know how to go about comforting her, I never heard of such an amount of money. I felt she was putting me on, but the tears were real enough. I was not sure how to console a woman with such grief—money grief, it almost looked as if it was a death in the family; she leaned over and just hugged me. I couldn’t say a word—I was frozen with stupidity.

She then said:
“Let’s skip it, I’ll be alright,” getting her breath back.
“Frazier’s going to fight some guy by the name of Ellis,” I commented, to create a new tone in the dialogue.
Chick looked at me strange, I think she got a message I was not able to digest that amount of money she was talking about, but it sounded impressive she knew that. Maybe that was what consoled her if anything. It took me another minute to know what had happened, and several more to believe it.
“Who’s Frazier?” she asked.
“Just a boxer, I heard it on the radio today. He’s a pretty tough one though, like Clay.”
I guess one might say I seemed a little—if not a lot—indifferent to her situation, her nerves seemed to settle down though, and the silence of the moment seemed to suggest the spell of grief was broken.
Maybe all she needed to do was tell someone, not sure why it wasn’t that other boyfriend of hers, but I didn’t bring it up, no need to, if she was trying to impress with whatever technique, the route and problem to its summit was stopped. If it was true, I looked dumb to it I suppose, and that may have had a good effect also. I often think people who are dumb are cleaver, they got to be, or they are dead. Maybe that is how she thought I was.
I am not very old, but in my little life span I’ve noticed one deep rooted thing, and that is a man or a woman can stop most any bad habit, like smoking, or drinking or gambling, you know, those kinds of things…even picking your ass, if need be can be stopped, but, and this is a big—BUT, try and stop, or tell someone to stop getting married, or having an ongoing relationship, dating, --they will tell you where to go, and go find another person to have the relationship with. I learned at a young age, I was very replaceable with women, and the prettier they are, the quicker they can replace you.
I knew the moment was gone, still not sure what to say though, then taking meticulous care I increased my voice, I managed to get a final [a little humiliation], “I’m sorry I can’t help you, I’m not sure what to say, $50,000 dollars is a lot of money. I’m sorry for your loss.”
She sensed I did not feel qualified to go beyond that. She would have preferred to leave it alone but felt there was emptiness still in sight.
To repeat a sentence she had first made, she added, “It’s simply been a bad day, nothing I can do about it.”
Unexpectedly a tense face appeared on her, and a tear rolled down her cheek again, as if it could almost reach and touch my shoulder.
“I’m a German-Jew, did you know that?” She told me as if I didn’t know she had already told me last night.
“Yaw, I know that Chick…” adding, “not sure what that means, I’m an American-Russian, with a little Irish in me,” she tried to hold a laugh back, but it came out anyway--☻
Somehow the dark cloud that was developing disappeared. And a rose color came to her bronze face, with a light laugh still oozing out of her.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Thought I take you for a drive through town, and on to the cemetery, my grandmother is buried there and I want to visit her.”
“Sure, let’s go,” I said, as she started her car back up.
As she drove I started noticing all the Volkswagens running through town, and the lights that hung on wires instead of poles like back home in St. Paul, Minnesota; I also noticed the towering clock in town, and the old police station, the Stadtwerke, with its soaring antique architecture.
“Look over to the left,” commented Chick, “the Rathaus, it was once the biggest City Hall in all of Europe. It was built in 1620 AD.”
I nodded my head and my eyebrows went up as if to be impressed: --but I had seen it before, not really knowing what the nine story structure was other than a big building that looked hundreds of years old, and the beautiful water fountain across the street from it. I had sat on its outer rim with a few of my GI buddies.
Augsburg was a military camp I had learned, in the year 15 BC, built by the Emperor Augustus. Funny, it still was today, that is a military city but with American soldiers. When I had first arrived in Augsburg during a briefing at the train station, this was brought out. It was a beautiful city, and old. I had always hoped to come to such an ancient place, with culture, and historical significance; and here I was, a wish come true.



7

The Potato Fields
The Cemetery



We seemed in the process of leaving the city limits, and no sooner had we left, Chick pulled the car over to the side of the street, looking at some potato fields, said:
“Well, shall we go visit the people?”
She started walking towards a tower.
“By the way,” I said, “…who are the people?”
I was following behind her as she got out of the car and started walking into the semi-wet, somewhat dusty and lumpy fields of dirt, and then she said:
“I like it here, yes, I think, I really think…” she hesitated, “…the sky is so blue, it’s not going to rain: -- these are potato pickers Chick…”
I looked about and noticed several women picking or planting potatoes, perhaps both, it all looked strange to me, why were we here? I asked myself, but it was as comforting as it was strange. It told me she had a simple and commonplace side to her like me. We stood in the middle of the field for a minute or two, silent. There was something about this woman that I found very sympathetic. Ever since she had told me she was a Jew, and the tragedy of her family, I had taken an interest in her a little more or so it seemed, -- her openness was fresh. Yet I found we had a great bond growing, something common yet I couldn’t name it, and not sure why I felt this way, she had been through more than me, yet I suspect it was spring to, you know, timing can play a big part in any event; I said to me, my impulsiveness that is, ‘hay me, far from being excited about being on a second date I dealt with her bad news.’ I added, ‘…hay me, I am proud.’ It told me I was growing.
“What’s the tower for?” I asked.
It was like an observation tower in the middle of the potato fields. Older women were picking and planting the potatoes all around us—more than I had notice before anyway, Chick explained the towers,
”…they are for the boss to see what is going on in his field, let’s climb up one.”
I continued to walk through the landscape behind Chick, we came to a wooden structure that looked like a tower about twenty feet high, with four sides to the top, a ladder that went up to its boxed in observation post; a peaceful silence still seemed to fill the air. Chick put her hands on the ladder--, the brisk air reproduce a warm-chill inside of me, I held my jacket a little closer to my body, I was a little lost for the moment—like I was drifting at sea: my stomach and intestines stimulated somewhat, it would have been embarrassing had I tried to describe to her what I was feeling, but it was enticing.
Standing at the bottom of the ladder as Chick Evens started to climb the twenty—foot structure I looked up as she climbed the first four five steps: in as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stop my eyes from viewing her white under panties as her dress swayed with the wind and motion of her slim hips climbing those steps, her long thin legs stretching to the next step; I quickly looked the other way, as Chick just happened to turn her face, just happened I told myself, as she smiled (viewing her side profile); ‘ye!’ I said silently, that smile was as if she knew I was peeking, and I was, I think I was trying not to, but hick with the lying, I was-ssss…! What more can a man say, for some odd reason, I got paralyzed. I wanted to laugh and cry…I was not even ashamed (for the moment: no blood even my face), nor did I feel guilty for getting caught—actually I felt good about getting caught: it made it more daring, or it made me look more daring, not sure, but after a moments discovery, I was a hero to myself or enduring that moment, and I kind of wanted to just grab her and…well, I’ll leave it at that.
She could either have laughed or as she did, smile, I think she chose the more because she was more reserved, her approach in life anyway, maybe she did know. Women are like cats, sly and secretive, so I was learning. Men are like bulldogs, so predictable, so I was learning.
“Come on up,” she commented.
“How about the boss?”
“I know the owners, don’t worry!”
As I started to climb to the top, I noticed this was just one tower of several in the field; I hadn’t realized the field was so big before. Perhaps someday I’d realize what this was all about, at the moment, I didn’t mind being a duck, and just going along with it, after all, there might be some reason for all this, and whatever it was, it was imprinted in my mind to have a good-fun day, maybe I’ll remember it thirty years down the road and find out the reason I told myself. It was another side of the world for me, a common side that was taking me away from the military madness at the base, which was great. If anything, it was at odds with the rest of the world it seemed, or at least the world that normally surrounded me.
Chick leaned against the wooden beam, and gazed about as if she was in heaven. Something caught her eye, “We should go before it’s too late to get into the graveyard, and it’s not far from here. Matter-of-fact, it’s just up the street and across the field,” --if anything, I had found someone as restless as myself.
“Sure, let’s go,” I agreed: --this time she went down first, I think she was letting me know the show was over, ‘Damn,’ I said quietly, she looked up at me, just a glance: now she had gotten to the first step (smiling); next, we both knew for sure what was up.
Beside the car we both stood, Chick turned an enquiring glance at me again, blushed a little, after that said, “That was fun!” adding “you have something on your mind?”
“Never mind,” I said (hesitantly), “it’s true, I want to kiss you.”
“Yes…a...kssssssssssssssssssssss…” said Chick, starring at me now.
She caught her breath, her hand crept up to her mouth, she touched it, and with her eyes wide open she looked deeply into mine: I gave a sigh.
“One feels like that,” she questioned me.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like… let’s go to the cemetery.”

She stopped in front of the cemetery, by a half opened gate, an old gate with a Star of David on it. Trees were all about, moss-topped the stones of many of the old and aging-chipped graves as we made our way through the thick of the mud and the leaves and tossed about branches. Opening her dress pocket Chick pulled out a book, and kissed it, standing in front of a grave, then placed the item on the stone. There was no more pain in her face as we stood there, she seemed to be in a silent prayer, -- catching a deep breath, I started to walk away, and in the next moment, she did also. It was as if her grandmother was talking to her—or someone, as if she had something personal to tell her
I thought of the poem, for I loved reading them, and writing them, I had written a few dozen as I was growing up, I wondered where they are now, must be at the old house cramped away in some cigar box my grandfather gave me; my brother and I grew up with my grandfather, and my mother, all in the same house (kind of an extended family situation), where my mother lives now, yaw, that’s where they are, next it came to mind a poem by Carl Sandburg, a poem he called “Lost,” I liked the name, it was kind of where I seen Chick today, lost that is:

“Desolate and lone
All night long on the lake
Where fog trails and mist creeps,
The whistle of a boat
Calls and cries unendingly,
Like some lost child
In tears and trouble
Hunting the harbor’s breast
And the harbor’s eyes.”

Chick noticed something in my facial expressions, something she could not figure out, but she never said a word to me about it. If I were to guess, I might say it was disengagement of what was going on; in essence, pertaining to our relationship; but she would have been wrong, -- I was enjoying the moment, grabbing the moment, putting it in my pocket for the future, that is all—but it really belonged to her more than I, since she had more invested in this little spot of the world.
“I have a blood disease called Leukemia. The doctors give me five years to live. I am thinking about going to Rochester, Minnesota and see if they can help: -- is Rochester a good clinic?” asked Chick.
“To be quite honest, I didn’t know we had a clinic in Rochester.”
“Oh yes, it is world famous, and maybe it can help me.”
“That would be great…maybe we would end up seeing each other in my home state.” She smiled at me.
It had been on one hand a comfort to know there was more to this visit; she was looking at the face of death…imposing on it.
“Surely they can do something for you,” not quite knowing the severity of her illness, but becoming a little more vested in her health.
“Chick, it is called cancer, it spreads, and really there is nothing one can do about it.”
I reached deep down into the back of my mind, I could not quite understand cancer, and how it worked; how tried to dodge this sensitive area: --I diverted myself from this quarter of conversation… by looking out the window, and remained silent.
“It sort of confuses me, you look so healthy,” I commented (actually I was thinking out loud looking out the window, not directly at her).
“Better still let’s leave this alone I just needed you to know where I am at,” replied Chick.
Preoccupied still as I looked out the window into the fields and houses nearby, I did not see Chick check my expressions out, she was going on to another area of thought, and so I continued with my window observations.

“Well”, she said, it was a good and bad day, all in one. And so, let’s make the best of it while we can.”
I coughed to clear my esophagus, but I think it was really for clearing my head. I turned away from the window, towards her so she could easily look and focus on me, should she care to. She smiled, it was what she wanted, what she was looking for: that is, the opportunity tell somebody neutral whatever she wanted to tell them; I continued to look out the front window now (she could see my profile), quietly, and listened quietly and just remained present for her I guess; I was someone to help her absorb her own air, the sounds of the wind shifting by her car window, that is all she wanted for them moment from me I believe, that was life for the moment, real life for her, and the smile, she needed to smile. I leaned back in the car seat then smiled also.

The Forest

As we drove farther into the outskirts of Augsburg, looking out placidly across the top of cars, houses, and at the dogs running about, I got thinking, thinking how I felt being with Chick, about Chick. It was like I was cast into a spell, an enchantment, or perhaps a curse; very seldom did I ever feel like this. Normally I would feel like this only if I was in the presence of a great person, like my karate instructor in San Francisco, Gosei Yamauchi, or his father ‘The Cat’ Gogan, who was one of the few 10th degree black belts in the world. Normally I’d be high the whole next day. With Chick I felt the same way I knew tomorrow I’d be high all day, it was a natural high.
Once—I can’t remember when—I had read something about the poet Emily Dickinson, she was something like a recluse, but she made a poem indicating nature was her high and I always remember that. How true this can be, grabbing the moment and cherishing it, absorbing it as if there was no tomorrow, and at the same time absorbing nature: the sounds and the heart beat mother earth, and sky; others humans, and the dogs and birds, all such things that at that moment surround you; they are all somewhat magical. I was learning, how to be a listener if anything and it entailed all things within your presence.
Chick was fully alive now, as I turned my head towards her delectation her steering wheel facing me, at which made the moment a little more interesting, as she felt good about me checking her out; a weary kind of sense, not defeat, just a good profile look; I thought dimly in my mind as she drove mile after mile: how could she afford to look so prim and proper all the time. Do her hair in a unique style, not a hair out of place, so it seemed. I guess in our own way we are all unique, I heard that someone say that someplace, not sure where.
An hour and a half had passed on by and she was still driving, and it was getting dark. She pulled into a wooded area; she said it was the outer rim of the Black Forest (otherwise known as the Eyebrow of the Woods), I think I heard of that forest in a fairytale book or at least that is where my mind said I got it from. An enchanting name; I must have said it to my second self, that little person inside of all of us that we talk to: Black Forest, Black Forest…!
“So you see,” said Chick “…here we are!” She added her conclusive little smile to her face as she said that; as we entered the dark huge green forest, parking the car a little off to the side of a dirt road that lead into the deeper and more distant part of the forest, partly covered by trees and bushes now.
There was a chill in the air so I rolled up the window, as she turned on the radio for some music.
Very quickly and carefully she moved her thin reserved neck and shoulders into my area, she just starred at me, as if she was going to eat me up; as her left arm was lowered, it pulled out a bottle of Mosel-Saar-Ruwer wine, 1965 wine, -- I looked the bottle over 9.5% volume; I knew they had been making wine around this intriguing river and hilly area for close to 1700-years. It was good wine I had tasted it before, not sweat or dry, flowerily white wine to be exact.
“Now,” said Chick indignantly, but with the air of a certain point, “…let’s see what we can do with this battle.
We started to drink and laugh.
“Ah, yes,” I said to her, “you have a lovely profile.” She smiled and threw her head back.
“Well,” I thought out loud “… this is a good way to pass the night away, and begin romantic indecencies”-- she leaned over the center-divider of the bucket seats to kiss me. She opened her mouth, sunk her lips on mine, as she pulled her long legs to the under-part of the dash, she then started to unzip her zipper to her boots.
“This,” commented Chick “passes everything…I never did it in a car before.” She had drunk down 1/5 of the wine like a person drinking water.
“Chick,” said Chick,”…come over here.”
I moved my body closer to hers. Everything seemed to be in the way. I could not back out of whatever was going to happen; and I knew what was in the makings.
She was starting to stretch her hands out: --her blouse went over her head, I just kept looking as she started to strip, I was growing, getting as hard as a pencil.
“Oh, damn Chick,” said Chick heartily as she touched my item. Just her saying that aroused me; then pulling off her bra, and her skirt up I seemed to become tranquilized somehow, my mind slipped to King Solomon, of all things, as he once defined the beauty of a woman’s body and how it was to measured for one’s pleasure by enjoying it fully, and this was all I wanted to do now—enjoy it, and I think Chick was feeling the same way for even though we were both a bit on the tipsy side we were fully aware of our responses, I had lost complete focus of the uncomfortable situation, as she did…
◊…now that she was almost completely stripped only her panties on, she curled up in a fetus position holding her legs and leaning back, then opened up her legs slowly… I thought what every on earth possessed her, yet who can predict women I told myself, and started to take off my cloths, quickly…getting out of this spill of sorts. I guess it is true, men like to observe, and women like to touch. I liked both. This was not dirty sex, this was pure sex, at its height, one might even say, it was like a painting; she painted the picture, she taught me how to enjoy what she had to offer.
“I’m going to get it all off in a minute,” I said, it was difficult working in this cramped space… she chuckled, “Slowly please, I can wait…”she softly said as she rested her head back and I caught my breath, that is what she wanted, that is, for me to calm down, yet remain hard and possessed with her offering: I think we both had multi-orgasms

“I feel fine now –“ I said, adding, “a bit cramped but fine…☺”
Chick opened up her arms I couldn’t back away after that, could I?
I told myself: I have a private room at the barracks…. Then said it out loud to her:
“Of course, -- next time…” said she, and we continued to make love for the third orgasm for me, for her, perhaps five or six.
We seemed to flop around the front seat finding the right position…’she‘s looking at me eeeeeeeee’, I told myself, I’m cramped, nothing to grab a hold of, her head leaning against the glass of the window. Without a word we continued: --my body heavy onto hers, my heart beating two-hundred ticks a minute, we both were hot, enmeshed in the moment, a lustful, and burning moment; I wanted to open the door, but feared the light going on and someone would see us, plus the air was cool, too cool. I had no escape we met each other’s eyes as I penetrated her. She looked again deep into my eyes as she tried to catch her breath, to make sure I was still alive I think. It was seemingly unfair for me to put her through this I thought, but the thought only lasted a half second, I found myself exploding … as my heart dropped to my feet, and again, and again, I exploded and burned as if I had opened myself up to a volcano; I had learned at that moment, the difference between happiness and pressure: happiness was listening to her talk before, and then came her smile, now the pleasure, sex; I hurt, this had never happened before.
“Nice evening, isn’t it?” I said as I started pulling her body closer to me.
“I hope you are not offended I am taking the lead?” said Chick.
“Not at all,” I said, adding, “I’ll catch up.”
“There are times,” said Chick, “when rules are made to be broken like now, them...mmm damn silly rules…” she pulled herself up a bit, “I stopped believing in those rules… this is one of those moments I want to remember…remember for a long time, even after I am dead.”

As we tried to untwist our bodies, we caught ourselves laughing at our odd situation. We had made love, and became a little more sensitive with each other…a little more possessive of each other, I guess that is the nature of things in a relationship, they are made to progress, or stop, one or the other, and it was never to take place again in the front seat of a Mustang I knew….
She laid her cheek against my hand.
“Chick.”
“Yes?”
“You realize don’t you, this can’t end here?”
“There’s no reason for it to end, is there?”
“No.”
She spoke some German words I didn’t understand, German mingled with English I should say: then somehow, she went silent…maybe she was taking time to remember the moment, digesting it; I didn’t know, nor did I want to try to guess, I just looked at her, her smile it seemed to promise something, grace; instinct was in it also, around her small enclosed eyes, as they opened and shut slowly they were weaving a web I do believe, “It won’t end here, I promise.”
Pleasant and agreeable-like a well-cultured woman she was, maybe too much for me, she opened the door, and dressed quickly, then got back in.
“Want a cigarette?” I asked, sitting up straight.
“No and neither do you. We are both restless it seems. Come over to me,” she started kissing me.
As she released her lips from mine, she sat upright now, pulled out a cigarette, lit it and started blowing smoke rings into the air.
“You know perfectly well, I’m very much attracted to you…you… right?”
“I hope so, I feel the some way.”

“Luckily the wine deadens the bruises (discoloration).” I commented, she laughed and kind of stretched her back to put it back in place…”Me to,” she replied.
“I wish all relationships could start like ours, it is like saying let’s drop all the game playing and pretend we are on the fifth date, and cut the crap; I like you Chick, I like you very much…”
“The bruises will show up tomorrow,” I told Chick.
Kind of saying maybe we should go, but neither one of us seemed to be all that bothered with that so we simply started kissing again after her cigarette brake…it was a long and needed pause for me, for a second breathe, a refractory period I needed [from uninterrupted sex]; that is, having multiple orgasms drains a man. I’ve learned also, women don’t need this rest period; so in time I’d learn how to last longer, and perhaps stretch the orgasms thinner but again, longer (three hours at the most; and I did).
I thought in my head, she was having sex with me, and then that rich boyfriend she had; she was getting her multi-orgasmic pleasures indeed, perhaps a secret to some women, for once they discover this, it is hard for any man to keep up with them, lest he be a superman of sorts. I did not even at that young age have the capacity to pass six organisms; five was my limit I learned. I was limp now; my penis had been as pointed as a scorpion’s tail a while ago.

As scary as it started out for me I thought my reactions afterwards was cool, I seemed to be letting things take their natural course. It was a dark and colorless evening. Grossly romanticized in such an unimpressive way (so I thought in the back of my mind), yet Miss Chick was perfect.
I thought to myself: maybe she might be annoyed with my lovemaking… I guess every man wants to please the woman, wife, girlfriend, the one he is making love to, or should want to please her, but most don’t; how can they, they pop too quickly. This is a fact, I’ve talked to men, and when they say they go so quick, no woman could get it on in that time period. A woman taught me how to hold myself from climaxing too early, thus allowing the woman to catch up—and therefore, allowing my female mate to get it on and enjoy. I know this evening went a little fast, but Chick was modest about it, like that other woman who had taught me, helped me, to help her, so we both could enjoy each other more; as my slowing down kept my penis hard longer, allowing her pleasure zone to become wider. This was something of the case in hand, but not completely.
Most men think they make love better drinking, but it’s far from the truth. Most men do not know how to make love, no one taught them, so all they do is screw, and that is not love, that is, if anything, a quick climax, like eating a big fat burger, and wiping your mouth in its enjoyment and then leaving the café only to find out: you got indigestion, and had you went to a nicer restaurant, ate slower, you’d never forget the meal.
I have experimented with that theory, and it is nine-minutes verse four-hours, I say four hours, but I knew in my head it was only one time I lasted four hours, two and a half was the norm.

I was thinking now—as Chick kissed me—how I owe some women a bit of gratitude for allowing me to have my pleasure and not returning it to them; that’s the caretaker in a woman I think. But women just don’t know men can learn. And men are too bull-headed to let women teach them what pleases them. I had learned a good lover was worth his weight in gold and even maybe a little more: sometimes they can be irresistible.
One could hardly tell her it wasn’t hastily done, our sex (to me it was) for it was, but she seemed to understand the circumstances, and we need not prove anything today, only allow our bodies to be sanctioned to the other. So I think we both felt. Lovemaking would improve as time went on.
“I’m afraid my lover, we will have to find better accommodations next time,” Chick said, smiling at me.
“Yes,” I hesitated, “absently,” I hesitated-- “I feel the same way.”
“It’s a little hard in such a cramped car luckily we are both a little tipsy….”
“I’m afraid I’m not, somehow I sobered up when you took your blouse off.” She smiled, with a grin.
“Yes. I sense you have, do you really like me Chick?”
“You are growing on me. And what is there not to like?”
She, like a schoolgirl at times, needed to be encouraged, to grow up, and needed to be admired. But she didn’t need permission to live, she was taking that—but I’m learning to appreciate women more, I told myself, and it seems the more I show appreciation, the more they respect me, and to be quite frank with myself, I need respect. And why not … the world will give it, if you demand it, and if not, let that part of the world go, so my second self, my mind’s eye, told me.
But then as I looked at her, if she really felt she was on death row, with cancer, maybe I was just a remedy for a while, and if so, so what, maybe I needed a remedy to make it through my time here in Germany; so seemed just to me.



8

The Spider and
The Web


A warm-wind had picked up it seemed, and April and May in Germany was a paradise of light-cool sunrays, it was a spring never to forget, Chick and I were growing on one another, like white on rice. More community drinking fairs were picking up and Chick and I tried to make a few, drink it up and eat and just go with the flow; it was a good time for living.
Chick and I were known throughout the guardhouse-barracks as lovers and a heat wave at that. She seemed to have a charm with my soldier friends, and often drove her German boyfriend’s Mercedes car to the gate, and about, showing off kind of, not only to me, but it seemed at times going out of her way to show it to the other guards. Most of my friends thought she had two cars, I simply did not up date them, if they were not in my way of thinking or inner circle—why squander my time; and in most cases they didn’t have a need to know; but Ski and a few others knew the truth. I felt: plus, I felt: why not let Chick make an impression at the guard shacks, if it helps her ego so be it. I do not think I was envious, rather amused. I’m sure somewhere along the line I’d have to deal with envy, but who at my age is envious, for what, I have a lifetime to catch up.
She flirted with the guards, and they all thought it cool. At night, if I had to work, she would bring me by a sandwich while on duty; in one way she got the guys a little jealous, or in lack of a better word, annoyed. And sometimes she would simply walk into barracks, which had about fifteen-guards some running around half naked from the shower room to their room, while others went visiting. She’d come knocking on my door. She’d spend the night with me, it was an improvement from the car, and for some reason we only went over to her house once in the following two months. I knew we were not fooling anyone at the guard-barracks, but we pretended to be secret about it anyway.

She had been truthful in telling me she had another boyfriend, a rich one at that, with a Mercedes, in which she often drove his car. She even took the effort to talk about him, indicating that she had told him about me; without being offensive or obvious, she seemed to be asking for permission to continue the relationship with both of us, and to talk about both with me, or to see how I would dealing with him. For the most part, I had put him deep in the back of my mind, so far back in a little box, I didn’t want to open it up: I would have preferred have left it: ‘Out of site, out of mind.’ He was not only a lover of hers I had learned, but also a support system for her. He was older than her—she told me, I think she said thirty-five, and she wanted both of us to meet one another someday. Strange I thought at the time.
Solitude was what I wanted to give him; couldn’t believe when she asked me to meet him, what for. She said he was the one who really wanted it to come about, more than her, she protested. The man thing again I suppose. I said I’d go along with it, even though I didn’t understand the reasoning behind it—fully; it was beyond my grasp of perceptiveness, why. On the other hand, she wasn’t asking for it to take place tomorrow, or next month for that matter. Not yet anyway; so I didn’t need to nurture it for the moment. I was a little surprised he allowed it, a love-circle of sorts to be constructed, why did he not say forget that American private: --the Germans didn’t like us all that much anyway. Maybe he was as mixed up as, or more understanding than I.
She was always with good manners, even when she brought bad news it seemed, no guilt, or at least she would not acknowledge it. And she did not want an argument out of it, nor I, I was getting what I wanted I suppose, and so was she. I think she expected me to try and put a stop to it, but when I didn’t she was going along for the ride also; to we’d see how long it would last.
I still needed to figure out how to share her without being jealous. Something I did not—really did not need to bring up, nor did she. On the other hand, I knew I needed to adopt a new philosophy to survive in this sharing world; or this developing love-circle, except she was doing the playing around, not me. And so I chose an alternate plan, a plan B, you could say; that I could love and date beyond her: if she could have other interests beyond me, so could I.
Yet for some reason I feared telling her this, bathing the idea it would cause our relationship to disappear, and so I’d take baby steps at this, as a result, discouraging myself to talk about it, and if I ended up at a party equal to her lover’s relationship, so be it, I’ll plunge into it. Although it will not be for revenge, but rather out of boredom, and to break that bond a little, the one that ties you to the other person (the codependent bond), while they are untying your knots. Surely if I found another she’d understand. So I thought.

A New Friend


This morning was payday, a Friday to boot, and my three southern friends from the barracks over at the ammo-battery, where I was first assigned at Reese Compound, wanted to meet me outside the Soldiers Club on the compound, and so we met.
It was great meeting them again—we shook hands, lit up cigarettes, talked about what was happening in our lives. I told them about Chick, although they had heard I was dating someone, they didn’t know her name. They mentioned they had met Audrey, a young girl we all three met at a guesthouse the first month I was in Germany. Both Josh [my size, about nineteen years old from Alabama], Tim [taller than I, with ulcers, from Arkansas’], and Henry [Buck Sergeant from Tennessee] had not dated any of Audrey’s friends or Audrey herself, but they kept going to the same guesthouse she catered to and ended up getting invited to a party, a party that was going to take place this very evening, Audrey had said to Josh: “…bring Chick, and yourselves along, ” and so they were inviting me.
As we leaned against the building smoking a cigarette, I remembered Audrey slightly, I was a bit drunk when we met, and I did dance with her at the disco where we had met, she was a mulatto, very kind and not bad looking, about my age maybe a little younger, and the guesthouse came to mind again. I think she had wanted to get it on with me that night that first night we had met, she had said “Sir—” and I had said, “yaw?” and she added, “let’s go to my place…” but that was when I had curfews, and had to retreat…but maybe she still had an interest in me.
“Let’s go tonight, 7:00 PM,” said Josh with his strong southern accent, and excited vice.
I had not dated Audrey nor really cared to after that first meeting, and especially after finding Chick, but Chick was tied up with her other boyfriend this evening, and I wasn’t really shopping around looking, but why stay at the barracks and do nothing but get drunk and look at the walls.
“Sure, let’s all go, ok!!” I said with a decisive voice. I had made up my mind I was not going to stop my life for Chick, nor was she for me evidently. Next, we then went inside the club and we started to play ping pong, I figured we’d play a few games and then pool, have early dinner at the mess-hall, and then get dressed, get some booze, have a few beers and head on down to Audrey’s party.
Audrey was not as well off as Chick, rather, she lived in a big apartment complex on the shady side of the city, but she was kind and friendly, -- there was cuteness to her, and her mixture of a light-black skin, with her German accent made it quite interesting. For some odd reason, I had always felt above her in a way, or at least felt we were equal. With Chick, I almost felt as if she was in the major league, and I in the minor. Like an A movie star vs. a B movie star, something like that. I didn’t let it show, nor that it bothered me, but it was there, lingering about as if it was homeless

as we all went out for a few drinks after dinner, we didn’t arrival at Audrey’s apartment until 8:00 PM, she opened the door, and the four of us walked in. Her two girlfriends were there along with three other couples. I brought along a bottle of wine and a huge bottle of beer for the party. They were playing my song as I walked through the door, El Condor Pasa.
As I walked about the tight and un-roomy little apartment, I seen the pictures of the Apollo 13 taking off in the German newspaper laying on the coffee table with a bottle of scotch next to them, where I had now put my wine and beer, there were also four bottles of Black Daniels sitting there.
It reminded me of home my old neighborhood where we would get together, several out of about twenty-two of us, and simply booze it up either at a house, bonfire, in a basement, garage, any place would do—but this place was cozy, a down to earth apartment.
Out side you could see the lights of cars passing by the apartment building complex, and the noise of their horns seeping through the windows, the wind was also picking up, you could hear that through the windowsills …and you could see the apartment shades half opened with their lights on throughout other sections and floors of the building: people standing combing their hair, others simply talking, and still others, watching TV, and so forth and so on; this apartment complex was a WWII building, it had four apartment buildings to its completeness, that encircled a large court area, like the ancient Sumerians, with a gallery one could walk around to get to the other buildings; and an arch way you had to walk through to get to one of the four doors leading into one of the four buildings. I guess for me it was unique, not especially for the Germans, which was perhaps common.
As I glanced out the window into the courtyard, there were a few trees starting to brace themselves with the oncoming winds. A few motorcars parked along side of the road, as I looked through the archway.
“You got some beer?”
“Nope…ant got a beer yet…”
“What yaw drinking, American beer or German?”
“Here’s a big German beer Chick, I know you’ll like it…”
“Thanks Audrey.”
“I was really hoping you’d come—
Yaw, me to…”
Audrey left me for a bit to say hello to a few other people, then she came back to me, up behind me, she put her hands on my shoulders, and for a moment turned hesitantly to her girlfriend, as if she was shy, and got the ok sign to grab me…
I knew karate quite well, and broke the hold, twisted around in a stance,
“Don’t do it!” she said, as her hand left a defensive posture. Audrey stepped back, “I wanted to give you a bear-huge,” she commented. I smiled. She then grabbed my hand, and we started drinking together.
“Come on, let’s go…” she again grabbed my hand, and brought me into her bedroom, latched the door it was a little past-Midnight.
“Put your beer on the table Chick, I want to make love…” she said--quickly, double-checking the door. Her gray eyes were captivating, as she made a 180-degree turn about and jumped on me as I fell to the bed.
“I like your muscular body, and fine smooth skin, your clear shapely chest, jawbones,” she wasn’t shy, and it felt good to have a woman tell me that. Chick made love with me fine, but never really complimented me like this. Not sure why, but it felt good.
For two hours we had sex rolling around as she put some kind of oil on me, we slid on and off each other’s bodies.
We stopped for a rest, “Who are your other friends,” I asked.
“I don’t know who they were,” she said, “Connie’s friends I suppose.”
“Should we join them?”
“That’s sounds like trouble. Let’s stay here.”

Then we both fell to sleep…

we both seemed to have woken up at the same time, it was 3:15 AM, and again we had sex for forty-five minutes, and again, we both fell back to sleep. It was 6:30 AM this time when I woke up, and then Audrey woke up. I looked at her privately, considering: should we try again? Her eyes giving me another invitation for round three—yup, here we go…we both ended up making love again, rolling all over each others oily bodies.
“You are my sex machine,” she commented, as she sat on top of me, waiting for me to climax.
At this point the shyness seemed to descend for both us to a somewhere else stage, I mean there was none: her voice was evident, she liked me, as it was, and I did not renew her affections to insure her I would be available for her in the near future: I left well enough alone. But as she got dressed I did demonstrate a kind of connection we had made, if not for a commitment, for a friendship, and one that might lead to the same results another day.
As I opened the door, we were the only ones in the apartment, and so Audrey made me breakfast: hardboiled eggs, toast and Jelly, coffee. That was it. But I sensed she had very little money to have even given that.
“Here,” I said, handing her a five-dollar bill.
“For some groceries,” I added, feeling I had drunk her beer after mine was gone, and now eating her food. She really didn’t want to take it, but smiled and thanked me for it.

As I started walking back to base, which was about three miles west of Audrey’s apartment I found myself whistling? I was happy, ‘I did it,’ dated another girl other than Chick. I even wanted to let her know, and gaze into her eyes, let her absorbed it; but remarked to myself ‘leave dead dogs lay. No need to do that.’ I could now see the steeple that was behind Reese Military Compound. It was a good landmark for me; in case that is, in case I got lost I needed only to keep heading towards it.
The morning had a chill to it, it was fresh I liked it. Then after about twenty-five minutes of walking, a green car was approaching.
“Oh, ohhhhhhhoo shitttt,” I said “of ...ff all coincidences. IIII,
Don’t
Believe it.” It is
Chick!!
“Where are you coming from?” asked Chick, as she stopped in the middle of the street, hanging her head out of the car window.
“I’ve been to a party, why?”
“Oh, just fine, greeeeee
ee shit-tt!” she commented, with a lump in her throat.
“What did you do at the party?”
“What do you usually do at a party Chick, get drunk?”
“No, that is not what I am asking, and
Damn… you, you know what I’m asking!”
“Ok, I met a friend a while ago, who invited me to a party. It is a girl. I am not attracted to her as I am with you, but since you are gone most of the time what do you expect. Matter-of-fact, I don’t think we need to assume anything beyond that.”
“I demand you not see her again!”
“You do what!! That seems a little unfair. You mean you can and I can’t.”
“Yes, in Germany it is ok for women to have other lovers, it is not a big thing;” She then started to cry.
“Listen,” I commented, “as unpleasant as this is, I will avoid dating other women I really do not care to date [plus it was too expensive I thought], it’s not a big thing.”
Chick smiled, she got her way, and I think she knew just how to do it; if it would have been a ‘now or nothing demand’ it would not have worked with me…girls are smart though, born with a PhDs in psychology, the day they come out of their mother’s wombs; yes, I do believe, already activated inside their female heads on how to and how not to deal with men; it is like their ‘Antivirus’ is on automatic and can come up with the exact words to win; whereas, men got flex their muscles to find a way out of their web.
“Get into the car I’ll take you back to base. We’ve acquired a smooth relationship, I believe… don’t want you to throw it away please.”
I gave her a glimpse of confirmation…nothing more.



9

The Barracks and the
Gold chain



That night I was with a few friends seeing if I could down a beer faster than Tony, who was the Buck-Sergeant with the girlfriend living in the barracks with him, or should I say harboring two girlfriends, on vacation from school, from the states, in the backroom. Their names were Shelly and Barb. Those three found their way up the block to the local pizza-guest house, where most of the GI’s went when they had no means of transportation, and didn’t want to get drunk at the local EM-Club [Enlisted Man’s Club] on base. Chick and I had been there a dozen times. John, joined us and his wife Jane, who had just come over to be with her husband while he served his last twelve-months of duty, they got military housing not far from base, actually right across the street from the pizza-bar were there were four, -- three stories buildings for military personnel, they lived in one of them.
“Where is Chick,” commented Tony, with his hand over the shoulders of Shelly.
“Gone to her rich boyfriend’s house,” so I told him and everyone who asked. But they still kept it a secret from Chick and never said much to me about it, plus tonight I was getting drunk, I didn’t care who knew.
“Hay, Ski,” I hollered “over here.”
“Chick, haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Yaw, where you been?”
“Keeping a low profile, the Military Police have been questioning me on that robbery at the PX three months ago.”
“Yaw, I heard about it,” I answered, but I knew Ski was the one that robbed the $3,000 dollars worth of cloths; matter-of-fact, Ski had showed me the amount of cloths he took; it was actually in his room, in a chest, he had the nerve: --I never could put my finger on it, but at times he frustrated me. Why I ask myself, why he does these things, the only answer I could come up with was…because it was impossible for him to be God--, and that bothered him. He tried to give some of those cloths to me, unbelievable, why then did he still them if he wanted to give them away. I refused, thank god I did.
“Going to the mountains in Switzerland in a few days with one of your friends in the Security Barracks Chick,” Ski commented.
I said: “I hope you take it easy on him, no fights like we almost got into on the train to Munich,” Ski laughed.
The other guys were sitting at the table looking at Ski, they accepted him only when I was around; Ski was a trouble maker, and everyone knew it, and maybe that was Ski’s perk for staying friends with me, not sure.
“He’ll be able to handle it,” Ski said like a chap ready to add sometime funny to it, but it just didn’t come out or up. He was what I would call a human dilemma; that is to say, he would do the opposite in many cases, which is to fence one’s self in, instead of freeing one’s self of: in order to get out; and if he found a girl it never lasted, he worked more on exclusions than forming an ongoing relationship; his expectations, that is what it was, dealing with girl relationships (and they seemed to know it quick enough) involved a hard core, control factor—on his behalf.
Ski was built well, and nice looking, but no one but Ski knew Ski, maybe that also is what bothered the girls he dated, they couldn’t figure him out: too unpredictable; they only liked what they saw for a very short period, then they wanted to escape; on the other hand, I was too predictable.
We had met a girl once from Denmark (met her at the October Fest of 1970, in Munich), and he dated her for a while thereafter by going to Denmark to see her—yes, he had gone to Denmark to date her; I remember meeting her, and she was a doll, dark bronze skin, healthy from the breast to her little toes. Like I said, He met her at one of the big fest with me then Ski went to Denmark to be with her during one of his ten-day vacations; only to come back and say she smoked pot, and took some LSD when he was with her, along with some other drugs, and he tried to reform her and she got mad and told him the relationship wouldn’t work, and to be quite frank, Ski hated drugs, and she was lucky to get away from him. I think when I was with him I really didn’t want to meet anyone, kind of claustrophobic of some form of impending disaster to befall me. But the train to Munich was a blast, there again we almost got into a predicament.
As we all sat at the bar drinking I figured somewhere along the line tonight, this night, before the evening ended Chick would attempt to find me, it was useless to attempt going any other place, she’d suddenly show up, and if she was drinking she’d drive all over town and the cops would stop her, although they never seemed to, maybe that was more my fear than hers. I was better to stay here, right where I was, if she didn’t show up, it would be fine, I’d just go back to my room, get drunk, go to sleep.
Sandy was feeling good tonight, she was one of the waitress’, I think she was high all the time [pot], especially at after, or during dusk; it was 11:30 PM. They closed the bar at 2:00AM.
“Feeling silly,” I asked her.
“No…just funny………….. Ignite me…eeee baby!” she sat on my lap, head back as if someone was going to pour a drink down her throat. She grabbed my hand and we got on the table and danced…then a few more Germans did the same.
After an hour she stopped, comb her hair, checked her mascara and calmly said, “Chick’s fault he got me drunk,” and she called to the other bar maid, “it’s 12:30 Hun…let’s go home?”
Ski was looking at Sandy, I think he wanted to give her a ride home, not sure if it was all the way home though where he really wanted to take her; if she doesn’t go into tangents, I’ve seen her drunk, and it’s no picnic, she’d be fine, and could maybe just take a taxi I thought.
“Ski, I’d let that one go she’s too wound-up.”
“Yaw, but I like her dressing-gown,”
“Ya-www, sure…Ski,” I said, then she sat up at the bar counter, lit a cigarette, and must have thought about passing out or sobering up, she just starred at the bottles across from her, logic would say she really didn’t care for anyone at the moment, an unanswerable question.
“Chick, take me home…mmm,” she let out aloud.
“Well, -- I am in love with Chick, you know that…” she turned about, almost falling off the stool, “…start the car, I want to go home—.”
“So do I,” I remarked.
“What do you want to do Chick?” asked Ski.
“Be careful, now, she’s coming after you…Sandy that is.”
“Ski, let’s get out of here.”
“We’re out of here man…” said Ski, standing up, as I did, Sandy had turned around again—I figured if I made it out the door quick, she’d not notice, and someone else could give her a ride home (an out of sight, out of mind thing).
Ski and I walked back to the barracks, he didn’t say much, nor did I, I suppose I never said too much, and Chick, she made up for the lack of my dialogue.
“I’m tired Ski, see yaw soon again…bye!”
I walked in the barracks, and Ski walked down along side of the building, then around the corner, and to his barracks which was next to mine.
As I opened the door to my room, I felt at home again, safe I suppose. Chick came to mind; I just can’t figure her out, I questioned myself: She desires the very things that will destroy her at the end. I mean if she really has this illness or disease, drinking, smoking and running all daylong to her pizza guesthouse, seeing friends, me, her kid, and her hotshot boyfriend, she will burnout before her time. Maybe this was the wrong thing to think, for if she was dying, or for that matter if I was dying, I’d want to make some kind of connection with life…live as much as I could, in the limited time I had; I stopped for a second, yaw, maybe this is/or was the connection before: now or never.
As I sat on my bed, it came to mind: here is this girl, a girl I had met a few months ago, sitting at the disco and swaying her finger about for my attention. I was a bit shy, and she made some promising remarks. And now the relationship that sprung from that moment, the one we absorbed, or it absorbed us, with all its moods, ways of thinking, and so forth and so on, here we were: now acquiring doubts and hesitation: these elements, and other things were filling our world, our relationship, and still ahead were some kind of needs we still needed meet head-on, for both of us; maybe to live each day to its fullest, for if five years was all the doctors gave her (so she had told me), hell, make the best of it I’d say, although it did make things awkward I’m sure for her, thirty-years from now she’d have been dead for twenty-five of them, what then would I say? Good question for me. I looked at my clock it was 1:15 AM. Well, she’s not coming (I told myself), go to sleep Chick; I must like talking to myself I was doing a lot of it this evening.
As I laid down on the bed, my head started to spin, and think: what a pity to have her prefer me for her lover; she wanted self-satisfaction in her selection, and along came pains with the romance, and work, I don’t think she was planning on this (a lot of work in maintaining an ongoing relationship), but maybe she just got a little more than she planned for; maybe after I go, she would find another like me (a new soldier boy, so I was contemplating off and on, but not much). It was the first time or maybe the second time it had occurred to me she could have ongoing GI boyfriends (past, present, future), you know, none that would last, only the rich one would last until she was a…dead person: perhaps he was selected to be her death partner. Maybe that was she, and his solution to her dilemma. Maybe he wanted to see me because I lasted the longest of her extra curriculum conquests; what was I made out of: candy and spice and everything nice? I had lots of guesses, and that is all they were.
It would be too bad if she called it off. If anything she seemed to be more seriously dependent on me than I to on her. Or maybe that was just the way I saw things, or felt. And she didn’t know it. Yet she wasn’t all that able to take care of herself, for the sickness was making her lose weight, making her weak; too many thoughts for my spinning head.
I had to step outside my own concerns now, step outside my little world you could say, I did make an effort to understand the situation, or so called one-way relationship; she felt often I did attempt to love her, but only halfway saving the other half perhaps for safety reasons. She never knew it, but she never once said she love me, maybe that bothers me. I never said it either, maybe I wanted to but couldn’t, and that also bothered me. But could we afford to really and truly love? I asked myself. My mind was never broken, and I often thought, how all this was going to end. I guess I felt we had it all, a rare thing one might say: we touched each others lives, and I might have said at one time ‘…it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all…’ another saying I had heard some place, but now that I think of it, love or romances, especially when you know they are not going to last, take a lot of energy, human resources, I’m not sure if I’d go along with that philosophy anymore. Not if I would be able to see in the future that is. But then I’d not trade it either, nor would I try to stop it, nor did I try to stop it.
Everything I seemed to want from her was at a different level than hers, something she could not give, yet she never asked me to go beyond where I dare not go. I guess she thought, beyond it was unreal, and time did not allow it. Which seemed not to have anything to do with love, as long as it was left on the surface? For some odd reason it seemed as if I was shaking myself free, yet, knowing somehow it would not last at the same time; and on the other hand, I would survive I knew this—I would survive through whatever kind of relationship developed from this bond; therefore, while here in Germany, why should I sabotage anything that made me happy, gave me pleasure, and took a little work, and a lot of understanding. And most likely she would do the same. And so that is how my mind finalized this, for the moment.

She pushed her way into the barracks and into my room: “Ok…can I stay for a few hours? I got to sober up?”
“No problem, just be quite, ok?”
She nodded her head yes. The gradual discovery that she was successful in getting into the barracks, and that, faintly discovering no one was there with me, no girls that is, made her happy; she took her cloths off and jumped in bed with me.
I looked at her slim waist, I asked: “What’s the gold chain around your waist for?”
“I have it on so I can tell how much weight I’m losing by it.” I did not follow up on it, for this cancer thing in my mind was still in the premature stage of disbelief, although I knew there was something to it. She then laid on top of me, as I caressed her long thin body as smooth as silk; I shut the window, it had a chill coming through the cracks, we then made love, both passing out within the hour.


10

Music and the
Daughter


A glimpse of July morning sunlight crept through my window, soothing as it moved along my face until it covered my eyes waking me up more than I wanted to be. Discovering with a happy surprise and sense of accomplishment I had slept until 10:00 AM, quite late for me. I normally got six hours sleep, not nine, if not four.
It was Monday, and I had to work at noon, so I quickly got dressed and headed down to the Barbarian Crossroads Service Club. When I got there I grabbed a candy bar out of my pocket I had gotten from the benders in the guardhouse, it would do for now, a kind of quick breakfast; after that, I went to the backroom of the library section, there I sat in my usual chair, shut the door behind me. This was really, a one-person room, sound proof at that, with a record player. I picked up my favorite long playing record that had about twelve songs of Nat King Cole on it, and played “When You’re Smiling,” several times, I could sometimes stay for hours drifting into never-never land in this room: going into fantasies like a movie projector playing one after the other…
I look out the upper small window, which looked over the tall wall of the compound to see the traffic on the other side of it. And then back to my resting spot. The song, Rambling Rose was now playing: --I liked that also, and then came Wolverton Mountain. How we learn to appreciate little things in life! I played the guitar, and music, in all forms seemed to be a delight for my soul; likened to water, rivers, and lakes.
It was nearly noon, I thought I had better not waste any more time and get to my guard-post at the main gate. I could be relieved for lunch at 1:30 PM, if I wanted to, but I really didn’t like going to the mess-hall [military kitchen] on this side of the compound, I’d rather go on the other side where the MP’s [Military Police] ate. They always had good food there. Matter-of-fact, I had just signed a petition somewhat out of duress along with some twenty-five other soldiers, complaining about the lack of food being served at the Artillery mess hall. I really did not want to sign it but my friends kind of made me feel as if I was spoiled because I could eat at both mess-halls, and they couldn’t and needed my support, -- it seemed ok at the time so I did, somehow I think it’s going to come back and bite me though. One should follow one’s instincts I do believe, or at least I should have, they have always been pretty much right on, almost like a second language to me, an ancient inner language telling you of danger.
The letter was sent to Washington D.C., in hopes it would cause some kind of havoc, and generate a food inspection, supposedly a Congressional Investigation. I had heard the higher ups, the officers, Sergeants, on base were taking the meat and selling it on the black-market, which I didn’t care for, for the most part, so why am I getting into signing things, luckily I have access to both mess halls like they said, or it would be more personal I expect: --or I’d starve to death here, which was off limits to anyone other than Security or Military Police, people.
I had also heard the higher ups had used military equipment to create a football or baseball park for the local merchants (we are now talking about colonials and majors and perhaps a general or two); the only problem was, was that they got paid for it, and it was not allocated and properly authorized. That had happened before I came to this military base. And again, I just didn’t want to get into the politics of things. One guy, Terry, had said (to me and everyone else he caught sight of) that he was falsely inducted into the Army, and had started a law suite against the Army, and I think he was the one always trying to get even with the Government. The antagonist I called him, inside my head. I’d talk to him, but he was trouble like Ski, but more trouble I think.
As I walked to the guardhouse, my post, I was already in my green-fatigues and had my military helmet on that read SG [Security Guard] in the front middle of it, and my arm band in place, and so when I got to the gate it was just a simply matter of stepping in front of James, who was on duty, and taking over. The sun was out, I liked it, the grass was a pretty shade of green, dark with light shades interwoven, as if the sun was warming it up right in the center and lit its vanes—and somehow the whole area seemed a little too perfect today, you feel that way I think when you get a few bad days, or things go wrong for a day or two, and then when everything is fine, it kind of pushes you off balance.
“No problems this morning,” James commented as he left his post, and I stepped into his position. Then he turned around and commented, “Hay, Sergeant First Class Flattery, knows Chick has been coming around, he kind of told several of us to whisper to you he knows about her staying overnight in the barracks, and it would be best you let her know not to…You…ooo, you know… right?”
“Yaw, I figured it would be sooner or later he’d find out. But it’s kind of nice he isn’t being a snob about it. I guess if he tells me, he would have to write me up, you know make it official, and I could be busted to plain private instead of Private First Class.”
“Yaw, that’s a good point,” commented James.
I started to wave a few cars through, but my mind was on how to tell Chick she couldn’t walk freely through the hallways anymore. Again I refocused, and again my concentration was broken by the conversation I had a few minutes ago. I continued to wave a few cars through without attention. Then I noticed there was the colonel, I didn’t salute his car, “Oh shit…I suppose this will come back to haunt me also.”
James just kept walking into the main guardhouse, while I walked across the road to the other side were there was a small guard shack, we used both on each side of the road in case we needed to pull over a car leaving or coming in. On that side of the street, was where I normally went at the end of the day, when people were leaving the compound, and on the opposite side in the morning when they were coming to work.
Chick pulled up with her boyfriend’s Mercedes. It wasn’t a moment too late I thought, my mind was on her and what the sergeant had said, also on the thing I signed: everything, and it was a good time to give her the bad news anyhow. She stayed in her car, “You have breakfast?” She commented.
“Not yet.”
She pulled out a ham and cheese sandwich, “Here’s thinking of you,” she smiled, and did a U-turn.
“Shit,” I said, I had to turn my back as to wave another car through… and she did a damn U-turn right in the middle of my guard post: man, I feel my face hot, hold your temper, I told myself hold it, hold it back you’re going to explode, I told myself.
“Here is the sandwich,” she was holding it out of the window for me—
“Chick, I didn’t see that, if I did, and someone saw me not see what you did, they would reprimand me for not reprimanding you, you’re going to get me into trouble…!”
She smiled dumbfounded, as I simply shook my head, and she drove off the post, fast out the entrance. As a matter-of-fact, I was happy she was gone, so I could do my job, but it seemed I always looked forward to seeing her car at such strange moments, and she did show up most often; when you least expected her; as if we both had ESP, and were simply expecting the other.

“Oh,” said James as he was leaving the barracks to get lunch for himself, “Chick was here earlier.” I didn’t respond back, his smirk on his face told me he was not happy with my setup, and him having to report to me about her comings and goings, I suppose I can’t blame him, we both were First Class Private, in rank: equal. Matter-of-fact, I heard enough bad news from him for a day; maybe it was I with the smirk, plus he was no big friend, only one of the guys who kept to themselves. But he wasn’t a troublemaker either, and I respected him for that. He was short, hated the Army, and like me got drafted. He shook like crazy when he was in front of officers, funny, I felt like I was at home with them, just the opposite. He was a big time coward I’m sure, and really didn’t belong in the Army, the kind of guy that would get you killed in battle, god help me if I go to Vietnam and he was behind me. I would be the first one to say, ‘Hay, let this man out of the Army…’ he’s out of sight now, in that nasty mess hall.
Now for this ham and cheese, my mind was a little calmer at the present, for some odd reason. If anything I didn’t have to worry about an unannounced inspection, and the Command Sergeant Major finding her in my room, which could be quite messy; that is, she wouldn’t be around to get me caught.
Matter-of-fact, it was but a few weeks ago when I and some of my comrades were painting the hallways in our barracks with their high WWII ceilings, until 2:00 AM in the morning, and left beer cans all over the place, and the Sergeant Major came through the barrack hallways that evening about 4:00 AM, and reprimanded everyone for the sloppiness of the cans, but thanked us for the fine painting job. This whole Army thing doesn’t make sense, but it’s a meal, a paycheck, and a roof over my head I told myself; that’s a way to survive, find the good out of a troubling situation; put horns on the bad so you can walk away making it look good, that’s my way of thinking, and you can survive the rest, that is, if you got to live with it.
It was a little ridiculous, maybe peculiar, I thought of the Command Sergeant Major coming into the barrack the way he did, because I was naked and had to cover-up and explain to him the situation. What an asshole, --he could have waited until the next day to confront us: --he simply thought he was a hotshot, and I guess he is as far as a military career man goes.
I waved in a few more cars through, and started to think about what Chick had told me the night before, about having a daughter. I felt a little uncomfortable with that, every time I think there is no more to this relationship she comes up with something new. Evidently she did not care to let it all out at once. She would probably decide to let me know the rest later, whatever the rest is, and somehow, I know there is more. In that mind of hers is a constant assortment of business categories rolling over and over, for most everything could be put into a form of business with her I suppose. That is not to say she was cold, not at all, just calculating.

I looked at my watch; I was getting off at 4:00 PM today, doing a half-day for a friend…who I had to pay back for taking an afternoon a while ago for me. I wanted to be with Chick that day, a month ago, or so…
Chick was going to bring Carmen today, her eight-year-old daughter. We were going to go bowling. It was a pleasant idea I thought at the time we talked about it, not sure why she wants me to meet her, or for that matter, everybody she knows, she’s only going to drop me when I leave Germany anyhow. Why get to know the whole clan. But maybe I’ll be here for the rest of my tour, fifteen-months left. Or maybe I’ll stay and take a European out, I heard about them, they are like a delayed free ticket home from an extended stay in Europe, all the way up to a year; that is to say, after you are discharged from the Army; as a result, the US Government will pay us soldier’s way back home, up to a year after our release. Good deal.
As I straightened out my helmet, a car pulled up asked for directions to the motor pool.
‘Let her do what she wants, I got nothing better to do,’ I said out loud as the car pulled away in the direction I was pointing. It was with some effort, I refrained from swearing; she had so many deletions, things she neglected to let me know after months of dating, and then spring a kid on me.
I poised motionless, pausing for a quick release of oxygen. As I gazed up now thinking with a little resentment: of course she had taken her good old time about telling me, no rejection this way. Like fishing, pull him in slowly. When she found I was comfortable in our relationship—at any given point—something else came up, another deletion came up…this is the last straw. A fool of a woman got me lovesick, -- but it was not quite that way really, the truth of the matter is I am a little gullible, thinking women for the most part—in general, that is—do not have that kind of malice inside their bones as us men do. Oh yes, but I am learning, like that damn poem I heard, “The Spider and the Fly,” I was the fly, and she was the spider, and slowly she was humming me on, tranquillizing like, and then –now—I’m in the damn web…and she’s going to eat me up
but many men think like I do, I think (?)
I feel like I’m a frog being boiled alive sometimes, slowly, and the funny thing is I’m just finding out the water is boiling. Yes, yes…I’m like those dogs you train: --put a piece of meet out, turn on the light, and salivate—go for it. And then one day you turn the light on and you look around for the meat, and it is not there, only emptiness. If anything I am learning. On the other hand, I knew I was a little gullible anyway, shit, she even told me in so many words I was, I didn’t believe that, like I didn’t believe her illness, I don’t know if I believe anything, except I’m in Germany, it is summer, the sun is out, and the grass is two shades of green, and I see the flag flying over by that big rock. Everything I believe in is right in this department called ‘a minute’.
I’m here for however long they want me here, and when I go so be it. Matter-of-fact, if I do not get orders to go to Vietnam soon, I will most likely stay here out of the twenty-four month military commitment I have, I would have less than a year left. They wouldn’t send me to Vietnam for eight-months, I don’t think so. They never send anyone to Nam for eight-months, I’m repeating myself.
“Stop,” the car entering the Compound doesn’t have a sticker on it,
“Your ID please!”
“Is this OK sir…I just started working for the MP Mess Hall yesterday?”
“Yaw, it’s ok, you’re German right?”
“Yaw, why…?”
“You really need to get a sticker as an employee, or you’re going to get stopped all the time and checked.”
I looked into her eyes, she was young and pretty, plus she worked at my mess hall…I should say, the one I eat at.
“Go on through Miss.”
She headed in the right direction, so I turned to thinking about Chick some more, right on time—another car, no…it’s Chick, she waved at me, she’s coming back, no, no UUUUuuu-tueeeern…
..pleasessss
ssse no!

“Come, jump in I got to pick up my daughter at the Pizza Café, I left her there with my girlfriend, Holly. Leave your uniform on, she’ll like to see you in it.”
“Hold on,” I said, “I have to wave this car through, I got to get my replacement, is it time already?”
“I got it Chick…go,” said my friend John. I jumped into the car.
“Good lord,” I shouted, you’re dressed so fancy and I’m…I’m you-- know, just kind of plain.”
“Chick, not so loud, I’m right here.”
“Sorry, I forgot I’m off duty.” She smiled.


Carmon


The surrounding scenery suddenly looked rather busy as she drove through the city, --down by the Rathaus, Old City Hall, and the old regal fountain, with its spurting water; I admired it so often when I’d walk down and through this area with my buddies, matter-of fact, there is the guesthouse I usually have a few beers at when I go solo, or with a few friends on weekends walking around and getting drunk.
If Chick thought, she was going to impress me with her daughter, she was wrong, yet remarked to me, “I know, I’m going the wrong way, the Café is back there. I got to pick up some money at the bank before it closes.”
She quickly parked the car, jumped out and ran up the steps through the bank’s front doors. She was always in a hurry I thought, high energy like me.
As I sat there looking out the window waiting, pondering, it seemed to me she was surely in some kind romantic stage in her life; it puzzled me some, perhaps it’s just one of those female phases I concluded. She had a career, a child, -- was I her prince charming, a private in the US Army, no way, yet I was something, for she selected me, but what for, or why, only she knew; she never treated me less for being a private, I’ll put it that way. She wanted the best of the best out of life it seemed, and only had a little time to get it, and maybe she had it, yet perfection seemed to be part of the goal, and maybe this was her fairy tale ending—me. She could do better I thought, if she had time, and maybe I would do better, for I do have time. But it was our time, now, and it was great…but becoming a little entangled nonetheless. This prince charming did not have the silver or gold crown to go along with the show. But that was ok, the other guy did. His money, my charm, if anything, we made a good threesome, whoever the dick head was

she seemed to make the right choices, yet life was still not fair with her, as with child rearing, and boyfriend issues. She seemed to rationalize away difficulties: --ignoring the emotions of others often. She was not like other young women I knew, matter-of-fact, she didn’t seem young to me at all, she just looked young and attractive; not beautiful, but good-looking, eye-catching: not gorgeous, but smart; on the other hand she was a working woman, like my mother, she had to work at making both ends meet for a long time I supposed.
She was the superwoman everyone wanted to be, but couldn’t; she was succumbing to its side effects also, the loss of weight, which she really could not afford. But maybe all this life she was trying to fill her self up with, and being filled up with—kept her alive a little longer.
This might have been noticeable to her friends for they tried to explain to me one evening that stress coupled with her illness was trying on her system, as if I had some control over her ways. Although oddly enough they thought I did. She was trying to live fifty-years in five. Most people would cushion those years; Chick didn’t, not with me anyway, maybe with boyfriend number two she lived to the contrary. Her romantic fairytale was not perfect, but she must have realized there was no perfect people out there, yet, perhaps she got thinking an imperfect prince was better than a toad, for she could be guarded at times with me, making me feel like a toad… and sometimes this prince could make her laugh and laugh and laugh… helping her forget all the painstaking things in life.
I did feel a wedge between us sometimes, jealousy that really wasn’t jealousy, more hurt I suppose, control that she wanted…double standards because she was Chick, and I was I. I think she forgot men get hurt, they just do not like showing it, rather, they’d like to show anger, and throw the hurt away.
But the sex was good, and I didn’t need it all the time like a lot of GI’s felt they had to have it. Sometimes I felt they were putting on an act to brag, kind of, out of necessity. If you say you don’t need sex to the guys in the Army, then the men around you think something is wrong with you, and that isn’t good in the Army, so we all pretended, or at least I did.
But Chick was warm, and affectionate, at times demonstrative, and at times a ting cold, she did not lack in any department. The nature of her woman-ness was activated quite easily when we had foreplay, as if her hormones were on automatic: set in motion within minutes. Somehow her brain signaled the right parts of her body at the right time and made my bloodstream become hot, -- as if she was in an adolescence state almost, overcoming some lost-hidden desire. Whatever it was I liked it, and she threw pretense to the wind.
Most guys don’t know a damn thing about girls, or women, except how to hop between their legs, get a hard-on, stick it in, ‘climax’ then say: ‘…was it great baby?’ With their chest popped out. And the woman goes along with it. I had a woman once who wanted to make love so bad, that when I took her into the bedroom, she was saying hurry up, hurry up, and I was trying to hurry up, and in all the hurry up bullshit, I couldn’t get, or keep the little hard-on I started to get, then the hard-on advanced a little noodle like hard-on, and she said, ‘well, are you going to f… me or what?’ I think I was just a score for her, like Billy the Kid, a notch on her pistol, you know a trophy, and finally I got the hard-on she was waiting for, at last, so I quickly pushed it into her big hole, and she said again, ‘hurry up, hurry up,’ and you know most women say, go slower. And so I climaxed, she jumped off the bed, put her panties on, her dress or whatever she was wearing, I think it was a dress, and said I got to go with Jack on his motorcycle. That was back in my old neighborhood, in St. Paul, Minnesota, on Cayuga Street. The cops used to call it: Donkeyland. Perhaps that was sometime in 1967 or so.
Life is just not fare, I’m not complaining I just don’t know much about women in general, and I doubt any of my friends do either—male friends that is, and even when they think they got them figured out. Guys think they know, but they don’t really. One thing I did know, Chick was so unpredictable she could be draining. If I had learned one thing in life it was you can’t control another person, not really; and when you try to do it, you never come out the winner anyway, who wants a puppet. I suppose I kept Chick guessing with puppet, a prince, toad or me; I come up with a motto to live by: whatever floats the boat—it’s as simple as that.
I guess I learned somewhere along the way, how to deal with the hurt, and throw away some of the anger, it isn’t worth the time and effort, like revenge, no one wins, and you simply bury one another. The best revenge is success.

I was in some deep thinking mode, and then all of a sudden I heard a pounding on the window. It’s Chick.
“Open the door, yaw sleeping?”
“No, I don’t think so, I guess I was daydreaming, something like that,” she gave me a peculiar look, “Let’s go.”
I seemed to wakeup some, slowly, I was really in a deep fog, I looked at Chick, she smiled back, with a curious look, hoping to find out what I was dreaming about I think, but she left well enough alone. It was a quivering moment for me, taken by surprise with all my wavering thoughts.
“Here we are,” Chick announced, as if I couldn’t see, her eight year old daughter was standing by her friend Holly outside the brick, two stories café waiting with a camera.
“Mama,” she called to Chick, “Now tell Chick your name,” she asked her daughter “Carmen” she replied, with a smile.
I took the camera and snapped a picture of the three. Then Holly briefly kissed me on the side of the check. She had a beehive for a hairdo (with dark brown hair), about several years older than Chick, a little shorter, and with a little more weight, but far from being over weight, plain looking for the most part.
Carmen had short hair, a blue sweater on, and long white tights under her short blue dress, a pretty brown leather pare of shoes, and a round face like Chick’, with spicy looking eyes, as cute as could be,

“SNApppppp…♫♫, ☺”
the picture was taken, and she started to sing,

“Chick…listen-- I made up a song… I call it, The Yellow-Flower”:

‘I’ll love you today
… ♫ today and tomorrow
I’ll love you today-- ♪ my flower

And if you---- happen to see
… ♫♪ that I can’t be— all the things
I ought to… ☼
Please still love me…and be eee--♪ my flower’☻…



“Let’s go,” said Chick, as Carmen stood looking at me…
“Did you like it…Chick?”
“Like it, it was greeeeeeeeattt,’ like Tony the Tiger says.”
“Who is Tony…?” asked Carmon.
“Oh, he is just a cartoon character, someone I grew up with when I was about your age, my mother bought me this rubber blow-up toy, something like that, about four-foot tall, and his name was Tony the Tiger.”
“Oh, maybe I saw him [?]” replied Carmon.
“Carmen! … Jump into the back seat, let Chick up front.” Said Chick.
“Hay, I like your uniform…it’s groovy,” said Carmen.
“Shan’t be long now, Mama,” questioned Carmen.
“She’s learning English, how is she doing with it Chick?”
“Great, she sounds better than you.” Chick did a double take on me when I said that.
“Very funny,” she said, than she started to laugh, as did Carmen also…
“We will get there, and I was told Chick there will be no bowling leagues until later this evening so we can get right onto a lane.”
The car pulled up next to a host of buildings and we all walked down a stairway into the bowling alley. Once inside, next to the bowling lanes was a bar with candy and treats sitting on its edge. As we started bowling, I bought Carmen a candy bar, Chick quickly told her not to eat it until after dinner, saying it would spoil her appetite.
“You really should not have given the candy bar to Carmen, -- Chick! She’s looking at it now.”
“Sorry, I guess I wasn’t thinking about spoiling her appetite, but I suppose you’re right …”
I didn’t say another word, she wasn’t smiling; the game was over now. She looked at me strange,
“You suppose what? Let me explain, she is my child, and I give the rules to her.”
As Chick turned around to look at Carmen, she noticed she was eating the candy bar, and then she quickly walked up to her, pulled the candy bar out of her hands, slapped her in the face, and as she went for a second slap, I grabbed her hand.
“Not in front of me… you don’t slap her;” everything went silent for a moment around us, and then you could hear the sound of feet passing briskly by us on the wooden floor, people staring at Chick. She looked about, “Let’s go,” she said.
As we got into the side hallway, she explained again, in a harsh way,
“She is my daughter, and I will discipline her where and when I want to.”
“Just do not slap her in front of me—like that!” I repeated.
Chick caught her breath, and calmed down, she then looked at Carmen, smiling at her saying, “I think he likes you Carmen, let’s go.”
No one had ever dared to do that to her I expect, she was taken by surprise, matter-of-fact it was a little abruptly done I thought, maybe I should have been a little more gentle about it.
“Cigarette?” she said.
“Are you asking for one, or offering one,” I responded.
“No, take one of mine and light me up one, PPPleasessss!” Her pack was hanging out of her purse sitting along side her leg. I lit it and handed it to her.
She spoke in the manner of one who makes unreasonable statements I thought: -- suddenly we both became a bit uncomfortable; Carmen became tongue-tied. And then we all seemed to be looking out our own little windows.


11

The Boyfriend




It was the middle of August, and although Chick and I still had a relationship, and it was going as smooth as one might expect, there was still some tension in it. The child, the incident with the slap, the boyfriend, and now for some odd reason, Chick asked me to meet him at the local guesthouse up the street from the compound. She had brought it up previously and I guess I pushed it aside hoping it would remain there, but now she was saying he wanted to meet me, or was it really her who wanted it, maybe he did, whatever the case, it was coming out of Chick’ mouth almost as a demand. I told myself to keep peace, it wouldn’t hurt I suppose if I went along with this charade of sorts. But I wasn’t sure what the purpose of it was. The boyfriend was rich, a nice car, I couldn’t compete with him, and wasn’t about to try. Then, what for—was the meeting [?] I asked myself… to see the competition, he could see me at the gate anytime he wanted to, and matter-of-fact, Chick did say one night during our drinking, he had told her he saw me, or thought he saw me at the gate. I felt it was no big deal. But again, I gave into Chick.
She told me, he simply wanted to see whom she was dating, and that she would end up walking out with me, which was a prerequisite of mine; otherwise I’d not stoop to such a thing. And she said ‘…we both agreed to it,’ adding, ‘no one need to know the full situation,’ as if it was some big secret love circle. I suppose in a way it was… I wasn’t about to try and explain this to anyone, I could careless if anyone knew—, and it was indeed, too odd for any one’s mind to even digest, let alone, ponder on it. Damn, I thought: what passion can make a person do. It makes you act like a stupid fool; someone told me once the definition of a fool, and I’ve liked it ever since, he said, ‘…a fool is the other side of the coin,’ and I asked, “And what is on the other side of the fool’s coin…?” And he said, ‘…wisdom.’ So I guess a fool is someone who is not making wise decisions, and by the looks of things, he was right.


The Meeting


…as it was Friday, Chick drove up to the gate to pick me up….
there was no fear in me if lover-boy wanted to fight, matter-of-fact, if he should decide to change his outlook on the meeting, that is, not to meet me at all, -- fine with me, or even fight me, fine again, but for some reason he told Chick to bring me up in the car… “I’ll leave my uniform on,” I told Chick as she picked me up… “No sense in changing, let’s get it over with,” I told her as I got into her car.
“How honorable,” she commented, “He’ll like that.” Sure I thought, we kicked Germany’s ass in World War Two [WWII], and he’s going to like my uniform, let’s see (this was only twenty-five years after the war; many Germans had not forgotten the toll it had on them). Maybe it was I who was looking for a fight. I was somewhat guarded. But then it was almost natural for me to be that way, my neighborhood kind of built it in, that is to say, when you are invited into someone’s life, and you’re screwing the same woman he is, men don’t usually take too lightly to that, they do not like to share; I smiled at Chick but did not make a big deal of smiling, there had to be a reason for all this and I was not in on it.
As she drove the several blocks to the guesthouse she parked her car alongside of the building, covered with creamy color stucco: --his car was already parked. Next, we slowly disembarked the car as if it was a train, so it seemed, thus, trying to look about as we (or I) gathered ones composure; Chick in front of me, then we walked slowly to and through the doorway. Chick automatically had seen him as she opened the second door leaving the enclosed doorway entrance open—and started walking over to him. He had a tailored gray fitted suite on, a beer and a glass of cognac on the table. He stood up looked at me, straight in my eyes, a smile appeared, and then he extended his hand for a shake, checking out Chick at the same time. Slowly I put my hand out, somewhat waiting for a sucker punch in the face, it has happened before, but it didn’t appear, just the hand shake. He noticed I was alert to a possible battle.
“So, this is what you look like,” he spoke good English. Not knowing what to say, I just nodded my head. Not sure if I was suppose to say anything.
“Sit down please; -- let me order you a beer.”
“No that’s fine, thanks, I don’t mind standing. I’m not sure what this is all about, but here I am.”
“I feel like I know you Chick, Chick of course has brought your name up a number of times. I’m glad you showed up.” Having said that, I looked at Chick, and no words needed to be spoken.
“Han’s we got to get going” said Chick, Han’s smiled and implied he understood, as I started to walk out to the door. Next, she quickly said something to him and joined me.
“See that wasn’t hard,” she said, “What do you think of him?”
“I don’t even know him, he looks fine, and he was polite, I don’t know. You two got your wish, or he got his. Not sure how it goes. Do you expect us to be buddies or something?” I said somewhat disturbed she brought the question up it wasn’t called for.
“Maybe, but I’m glad you chose to show up, I think he feels better about you and, and possibly, everything.”
“I’m not sorry I was so brief, I felt awkward somewhat in that situation,” I said as we got back into her car and pulled away.



12

The Long Bath
The Party



“Such a shame,” John told me, as he entered his apartment, and introduced me to his wife Jane.
“He is the one honey that wants to take a long bath. He’s one of the security police at the compound.” He said to his wife. She looked at me,
“What a strange request,” she commented.
“I have not taken a bath since I was drafted into the Army, ten-months ago, I’m sick of showers. I really miss it.”
“Incidentally, Chick,” asked John, “when is Tony, Shelly and Barb, coming?” It was 6:00 PM.
“They said they’d be over at 8:00 PM for the party, Chick is coming also,” John knew Chick, but not well. John worked in the mess hall, and was really one of Tony’s friends more than mine. He was a different John, not the same John at the Security Barracks I knew.
I put down a bottle of wine and a huge bottle of beer on the table, my contribution to the party, while Jane took me into the bathroom.
“Have fun,” she commented.
I got undressed and listened to the water filling the tub. I hesitated in the room wondering whatever reason did I suggest this for, like a wish come true, and when it happens, you seem, or I should say feel, dumb for asking for it. But I appreciated it. For a moment I tested the water with my toes to see if the water was just right, moving them a little, impetuous I was, then I jumped in, slowly allowing my body to slide down the back of the tub. In the Army you get showers and that is that, no more to say, like it or not. All my life I had baths. I really missed it. Now I was lying down comfortable in the water up to my neck.
An hour went by.
“Anyone in there?” called Jane…“…are you ok in there?”
“Do you have to use the bathroom?” I answered.
“No, not yet, just checking.”
I then leaned over to see what time it was, I had put my watch on the floor next to the tub and then leaned back for over thirty-minutes or so, I then heard a door open; it was Tony’s voice, and Shirley.
“Uppppppuu…” the party is starting early.
With that I jumped out of the tub, my hands looked white and wrinkly like an old mans, just like back home. I loved it. I felt a little disappointed that I had to stop the bath, but I had no time to deliberate, soon Chick would be here.
By the time I got out, and put my civilian cloths back on, a dark pair of pants, and auburn t-shirt, my black waist-level leather jacket, combed my wavy hair, I was out among the others.
“I do so agree with you Chick,” said Jane, “you look happier now?” We both smiled as she went and opened the door for another guest. It was Barb, -- Shelly’s girlfriend. And right behind her was Chick. Jane was pregnant three months, had been at the base for about thirty-days now, and Jane had just arrived a week ago. So it was kind of a get together. Everyone brought something to drink. And no sooner had everyone introduced himself or she, the booze started to flow down everyone’s throats.
Everyone liked Chick, even though she spoke with a marked reserve.
“Miss Shirley,” commented Tony her boyfriend, whom was hiding her in the backroom of the security barracks, was gone for six weeks to Rome and Greece, had comeback this way [Augsburg] to be with Tony for a week, then she was on her way back home to the states. She was really simply traveling around Europe with Barb, she was not really looking for an ongoing relationship, or so it seemed, it just happened to be she got involved like Chick with a GI and now she was back for a little more action, maybe we were all simply familiar with one another and that made her want to spend her last week with friends.
“Let’s hope we all get tipsy with all this booze. And how was Italy?”
Replied Shirley, “We didn’t see all of Italy, only Venice and Rome. But I liked Venice and all its waterways, and Rome, well, we went to the Spanish Steps, and sat around and talked to the hip kids, you know like us,” then she looked at Tony. Tony was a Buck Sergeant who had been to Vietnam as a helicopter assistant of some kind, and was serving six-months of his thirty-six month military commitment in Germany. Then he was going back to Arkansas to put his life together. He was a little resentful that Shirley would not stay in Europe with him but she wanted to go back to California and finish her law degree. I knew Tony felt that would be it for them if she did. Oh well, once I left it would be that way for me also.
Gently every one started to drink the beer, wine, and scotch. Chick brought some Jack Daniels whisky, John brought a case of beer of Miller High Life, Tony brought a big bottle of wine most all the GI’s got it at the Commissary or PX [military commercial stores on base].
“You’re not much use to anyone sober Chick, let’s see who can put a beer down quicker,” said Tony, he was only twenty-one years old, and often used to smoking pot instead of drinking but a high was a high for him. I guess I’m not much older.
“Ready Chick?”
“I’m ready.”
Doooooo wnn
Nnn
Nnn it went. “Awww…who’s got it, who won,” asked Tony. But as he looked at me I already had my bottle sitting on the end table.
“I should have known better, no one could beat you Chick.” They all laughed.
It was now 10:30 PM, and Chick, myself and Tony were all laying back on the sofa, both of us guys had our hands around Chick’s shoulder, drunker then a skunk, slurring our words, while Jane watched from across the room laughing at everyone.
“We should try another beer contest Chick?” asked Tony.
“No…ooo…” I replied, “I’m too drunk to try another one.”
“We should all take care,” said John.
“Take care of what?” asked Tony, “Take care of this boozeeee that is all I want to take care of.”
Tony when drunk acted the drunk. “Nobody said you had to stop drinking,” said Shirley “but no more contests like Chick said, otherwise you’ll be too drunk to walk home.”
“Isn’t that the purpose…Miss lawyer to be,” she smiled at Tony, and the night went on.
Now Tony moved over to the other side of me, and I had my arms around both Chick and Tony; Tony was holding onto a glass of beer, he could hardly keep his eyes open.
Chick was dressed in a tight white dress, very lovely I thought, with real pearls, three roles of them; she was smiling, laughing, and her eyes were like they were pinned shut. I looked at Chick, “John,” I called, “take a picture of us,” he pulled out a camera from his jacket, “Here,” ‘Snapppppppppp…!’
13

The Fight and the
Blood



“Look, I’ve just read Jimi Hendrix died of an overdose of drugs [September, l970],” said Aaron one of the security police at the barracks to me, while walking through the hallway with a paper in his hands, the paper being sent from his parents, and a few weeks old.
“Yaw, but who is he?” I asked. Aaron thought for a moment, thinking I was kidding, but as he looked at me a second time, looking straight into my eyes, he knew I was not kidding.
“All you know about is Elvis, Nat King Cole, and that Rick Nelson guy. You got to get out of that circle man, check it out. What you doing later?”
“Not sure, why.”
“I’ll meet you at the guesthouse—Chick is supposed to be there with several of her friends.”
“What time?”
“About 9:00 PM I suppose.”
“I expect to see you their Chick,” Aaron said suddenly, as he walked down the hall to his room.
He knew a few of my friends, Holly for instance, and her other boyfriend would not be there, and there were three or four other faces he remembered meeting at the Club down town. But for the most part, he did not know who was going to show up, and wanted to make sure I was there. It was Chick’ birthday, and she for some odd reason chose this bar to celebrate. All her friends were Germans, and that didn’t really put a spark in my mind as to have a night of enjoyment with them. To be quite frank, I really didn’t like drinking with her friends all that much, they couldn’t speak very much English, and I was just as bad at German. And so that left Chick doing her talking mostly in German, plus they were a different breed I felt.
As the clock struck 7:30 PM I walked out of the barracks quietly up the street, several blocks to the guesthouse. I had some bad news to tell Chick, I thought nothing on earth could be worse or better. On one hand it was good, for the relationship was getting a little complex and nervy, and it was really never made to last forever anyhow. On the other hand, it was not what I really expected.
As I continued to walk to the guesthouse, it was odd I told myself, that a good-looking girl like Chick would have so little confidence in herself. The reason being, she was always trying to be in control. But then I was avoiding some of my thoughts also. I guess somewhere in all this complexity, her trying to departmentalize everything and everyone was getting to me. I had never felt love, anger and frustration all in one day over a person, and Chick could do that lately to me: --yet I was compelled to hang on, and at the same time wanting to let go, and now I get orders to go to Vietnam at the end of January, [it was October 5, 1970 now].
I hadn’t kept up with Vietnam much, I did know about the Mylai Massacre everyone was talking about, in the newspapers all the time, and that the South Vietnamese troops went into Cambodia sweeping through a Viet Cong area, and a few thousand American troops had left Cambodia. The war didn’t seem to be going any place soon.
I was called into the Command Sergeant Major’s office the other day, and was told I had orders to go to Vietnam. I knew why, it was because of that damn thing I signed—the petition. The Sergeant Major denied it, when I brought it up to his attention, but who sends someone to Vietnam when after I would leave Germany, take a thirty day leave, and only have eight months left to do inside the country, no one, it’s silly, normally if you got orders to go to Vietnam, they wanted you there for one-year at least. But it’s all right, war is war, and hick, it will be something new: so were my thoughts. Things were getting a little tense around here lately—anyhow. It is just another draft, like the first one that sent me here in the first place so I told myself. ‘It’s all right,’ I told myself as I continued to walk to the guesthouse. Speaking from complete ignorance of the subject, what was there to like, I’d find something about Vietnam, the traveling if anything. I liked to travel.
I was kind of wondering how I would be in a combated zone anyway, you know; would I freeze under fire, hide when the bombs came. I’ll find out when I’m there, f… it, send me I’m ready. I’m not running to Canada, like the other cowards, or maybe they were smart. I don’t give a shit. My neighborhood was probably more dangerous than Vietnam. Life is like a storm, you just got to be optimistic or you will sink before it’s over. Hitler was probably like that, had to adjust getting his ass kicked. Now it’s my turn to kick ass.
‘Very well,’ I said aloud, talking to myself again, indifferent, as always, I gazed upon towards the guesthouse about a half-block away. I had until December 10th to get mentally ready for this, a thirty-day leave, and then advance jungle training in California, or Washington State, then onto Vietnam.
A cold chill came over me; my mind shifted back to something I had read yesterday, Janis Joplin had died from an overdose of drugs. Funny I thought, that was two famous people who died recently, all in a two-month period, they come in threes I hear, and now Vietnam, now does that sound like a coincidences or not? I learned one thing in life, don’t make something out of nothing, leave that for God, and so let’s get on with the party.
It’s funny I thought, no one in the barracks really talked about Vietnam, most of the GI’s stationed at Reese stayed there for the duration of their tour of duty. Matter-of-fact, they were more up on the Beatles breaking up, or the Jumbo Jet that was skyjacked recently and brought to Havana, and Castro celebrated by laughing at the world, or was it the US he was laughing at, whatever, but not Vietnam, no one talked about it, not even Tony, and he was there. Most of the people who went to Vietnam were assigned to Germany if they had time left in the Army to do, the other way around.

٭

I opened the door to the guesthouse and took a sharp right, and through the second door, I was in the main portion now of the establishment, several tables about, and the place was busy. To my far left, was Chick with several of her friends, they had put three tables together with a nice looking tablecloth covering all of the tables together, white as white can be. I noticed everyone was half drunk already.
Things usually don’t bother me, but for some reason watching them pour down the booze, smoking, looking at the half filled ashtrays, a hundred drinks on the table or so it seemed, half of them empty, I simply wanted to swear. “Mm-m?” I walked closer to them looking at one of the two waitresses’.
“Look,” Chick told her friends, “Chick is here.” They all looked at me, as I put on a smile to join them.
“Good-en talk,” I said to her guests, and friends, as if they really could understand my Germanic-gobbledygook. They all said their hellos to me in German.
“Holly,” I said, “Hi, how yaw doing…” two of the men, who were at the pizzeria café where Chick managed, who got drunk there one occasion, one evening with me and tried to explain to me the illness Chick had, were at the table also, we caught each others eyes, and their hello’s came.
I ordered a beer, told Chick that Aaron who she had seen at the security barracks, and knew of him slightly—but did not know him as well as Tony knew her, whom now had gone back to the states—was coming up in a little while to join us. She smiled nodding her head as if to say, ‘so what,’ then turned to her friends and continued talking in German to them. They were talking too fast for me to understand anything clear. I spoke a little German; it didn’t of course take into account the proper pronunciation, but only the real basics. That is to say, I could order a meal, drinks, say goodbye, hello, and those things, and at times beyond that, but not too far beyond.
I sat idly as they talked for about an hour, everyone smoking, drinking; the tablecloth looking at me, starring at me as if it was the dominant figure in this whole darn scene. For some reason I told myself, my Irish and Russian and Polish temper was emerging, and when I got mad and crossed some kind of dividing line, I lost all senses, which I normally did not get mad, I had what they called a long wick. One could say I wish it was longer tonight, but it isn’t…but god help me and everyone around, and the establishment if I could not control it. I have tried all my life it has been one hell of a task. Matter-of-fact, one night in the NCO-Club [Non-Commissioned Officers Club] here in Germany at the American Hotel, around the corner from our base, I got drunk and someone called me a Niger lover because I was with a black friend, who walk in the club with me, a big black dud, and yaw, I walked right into trouble. A man confronted me, calling me on, I kicked him in the nuts, and as he fell to the floor, I elbowed him in the spine which bought him smashing down on his face, head first on the bar floor. The Command Sergeant Major, grabbed me in a full nelson to stop me from fighting, and I broke his nose, with a back punch with my fist. Everyone wants to stop the winner, why? At any rate, that was the second month I was here, and I thought the Sergeant Major forgot what I looked like, maybe that was why he is sending me to Vietnam, that was hidden in my subconscious I think.
“Chick, Chick…aaa…”
“Yaw, what do you want?”
“Nothing,” I really wanted her to take notice though. I tried to get her attention again but she did not answer again.
“Look, I’m going to go.”
“Yaw, all right…” she mumbled without even looking at me, “damn bitch,” I mumbled. She didn’t even look.
The next few second, I seemed to be going into a trance looking at… observing everyone across the table, down the table, down and up, down and up, I felt indiscriminately on Mars, I wanted to jump on the damn table, and say look at me!! But I kept looking at the tablecloth, no one paying me an ounce of attention…going on two hours, f…en! Hours. I couldn’t go cheerfully anymore, with all the strength in my focus and hands I grabbed the tablecloth with two hands, and jerked it so hard all the beer, cigarette butts—everything… flew all about, -- flying on everyone’s laps, in their faces, onto their pants, Shock-Shockkkkkk everyone was in shock. I loved it. I just stood there and watched as if I had landed on Mars now. Now I got my attention…you see I said to my alter ego: there is a price for everything, and silence my friend does not mean life is going smoothly, it often is the opposite.
I was standing looking at the mess I had created and the Germans were looking at me… “…F..k yaw all,” I said
“Who’s first,” I added, I looked about they all wanted to be first, not a very good idea, I told myself, but so be it…
Said Chick in shock, “You better get out of the bar,” I then turned about and started walking out. One of the Germans picked up a chair, and was about to hit me in the back of the head, and Aaron came in, and evidently hit him, and a fight started, at which time I was half drunk standing outside cooling off. Not knowing what was going on.
Three or four guys came running out of the bar after Aaron and Chick behind them. The guys got into a circle and started to punch him. I grabbed one by the shirt, and Chick pushed me away, said, “Let it be, he hurt one of her guests,” and the punching went on.
“Stop the fight or I’ll stop it,” I said. It continued for another minute, and I said it again, --then before I could jump in, Chick jumped in telling them to stop. Then I walked away, --my friend on the ground and Chick walking away with her friends…’f..k you all…’ I mumbled as I walked the dark pathway back to the compound. I told myself as I walked away, I should have helped more. I didn’t know exactly what happened, but I didn’t feel good about it.

٭

The next day Aaron came to me and asked why I didn’t help. But I did, I just didn’t help enough, yet I didn’t say a thing, no matter what, it would not be good enough and I knew it.
“What is it, I was there for you, and I stopped a man from hitting you with a table, when your back was turned?”
“Aaron, I don’t know,” I said with a low voice. Everyone knew I was not a coward, but maybe this girlfriend of mine was making me weak, for that was not my style. Whatever, I did not want to talk to her, or for that matter, anyone in connection with the previous evening.
A week passed, and Ski came by and asked why I didn’t help Aaron, and I just walked away from him also, said I didn’t want to talk about it. I went to the river, it’s really kind of a …kind of a cannel with a dam not too far from the compound; it was on the way to the city; I liked the area, walking about its wooded area, watching the water flow through and over the dam, water always calms me. I liked the bridge, which was kind of a walkway over the dam one could walk over it, stop and watch the water beneath them. It was a small, but intoxicating dam.
Then I walked by the civilian complex [housing] where John and his wife were living, they looked more like huge square boxes to me, compared to the antique buildings throughout the rest of the city. I was alone most of this time trying to figure why I did what I did, and the only reason was Chick and what I kept hearing in my head, “Don’t, don’t, or I’ll…” threatening to leave me, or something. Was I that into this woman, boxed in. If I was that drowning with passion for her that I would step back from a friend, the affair wasn’t worth my time. This was not I, and I did not like what I was becoming. She was like salt water, you couldn’t drink, yet I kept trying, didn’t I?
The second week, I decided to call her boyfriend up, I had his phone number, Chick didn’t know but I kept it, saw it written down in her phonebook, which I checked out when she went to the bank a while back. damn bitch I dialed the number. I had found out he was married, and he was paying for her apartment, what an ass.
“Good Morgan,” said a woman’s voice over the phone.
“You a,” the voice said again.
“Nothing, just nothing,” I said, and hung up the phone. I can’t even get revenge. It just wasn’t worth it. I’ll be gone and this will all be history I told myself.

The Confrontation

Another week went by [the third], Chick came by in her car but I wouldn’t wave at her, she acted as if nothing had happened. She also called but I didn’t answer the phone, or return her calls; then out of the blue my superior NCO, Sergeant First Class Flattery, called me to the side of the security building along with Aaron one evening.
“Listen,” he said in a fatherly voice, “I try not to get involved with your personal affairs…” he hesitated, Chick walked around the corner—stood still as Flattery continued to talk, “As I was saying, you have your own personal life, as well as your military obligation but when it comes to fighting, causing problems in the German community, it becomes my problem. Come here Chick,” he ordered, and she did, “she says she wants an apology from both of you or she is going to the Command Sergeant Major, and possibly the Colonel. It would be nice to settle this here.”
I looked at her as if she was crazy, “This Sergeant Flattery is ridiculous, she is nothing but a trouble maker, and wants more blood, what more does she want, I’ve had enough of that, bitch.” Aaron was standing against the wall of the barracks, looking at me as I started to walk away.
“Listen,” said Sergeant Flattery, “I did not excuse you private!” I stopped, “I’m not apologizing to her sir, do what you got to do, but it stops here.” Aaron to my surprised apologized to Chick.
Sergeant Flattery shook his head, “Aaron,” he asked, “…say something to Private Evens or this is going to be out of my hands soon.” Chick (Stewart) looked with her eyes glued on me, as if a nightmare was being activated.
Said Aaron, with a pleading voice, “Listen, I’m not sure why it all came about, but it isn’t worth what’s coming down. For me, please say you’re sorry Chick.”
I caught my breath, holding back my anger, Chick started to come to me, “Don’t come this way,” I ordered, “I can see you from here,” she stopped, not sure if I was bluffing, “I’m sorry,” I said, pushing it out a little muffled. She looked at Sergeant Flattery, “That was really not sincere.”
“I said I’m sorry, what more do you want, blood?” I said again. She looked at Flattery.
“I think you got what you came for, miss.” Chick turned around and walked by me, “I’ll call you later,” she said as she walked across the street to get into her car.
Aaron came by, put his hand on my shoulder, “Let it go, I now understand,” I looked at him, and then at Chick’s car going, I didn’t understand, any of this…how could he.

As Sergeant Flattery walked by me he smiled, said, “Carry on,” he was happy he could settle it without taking it to another level. He asked Aaron, I could hear, ‘Who won the fight,’ Aaron said, it was even, with a few flying cigarettes in the faces of the Germans. Maybe it was water over the damn I thought; I noticed everyone was making light of it now. Maybe it was a tense issue for everyone. It becomes that way when people don’t know how to react I suppose.
I was telling everyone the truth, I didn’t know why I acted the way I did, if they knew… well, it was more than I did. If anything it was a bracing strain on my mind, a good reason to get drunk and stay drunk. I did not feel misunderstood, only alone with the issue, hurt like an animal; one could call it hard luck, a poor break, but whatever, I wanted to forget it. The phone rang in the guardhouse, I picked it up, and it was Chick. “I suppose you don’t want to talk,” she said.
“I’m talking, aren’t I,” I responded.
“Please,” she said, “…aaaah, you mustn’t hold this against me. I’ve been troubled already with this. I can’t think why it all came about.”
“Yaw, why not call me tomorrow, about noon, if you want, we can go some place.”
“Sure.”



14

The American Hotel—
Minnesota Bound


We continued to see one another off and on, almost as much as we had before the fight at the guesthouse, but it was never quite the same, we were not really the same, in fact I made a moral decision which weighed on me, that I needed to let go, but somehow I was co-dependent on her, a little, in the sense, she filled my time, my mind, my needs, and I hers. When I talked I spoke her name, when I ate she was a ghost by my side. We had bonded somehow internally, it would not be easily broken, if ever. No one condemned us for our actions at the guesthouse, not even Aaron, but it stuck nevertheless in my mind.
On December 10th, I went to the American Hotel, around the corner from the compound, as I walked outside the main gates I could see the top of it, it was painted drab-yellow, I had eaten there once every month I had been in Germany, on paydays usually, had a porterhouse steak. As I walked over to the Hotel, there Chick was waiting in the restaurant area. She was crying. It was about to come to a finish, --end.
It’s as though we both wanted it to end but did not know how to do it, and I guess it was being done for us. I would have liked to stay there in Germany, but psychologically things would have gotten worse, different, yes, not better though. Considering this uncertainty, it was better I simple get on that bus when it came to the hotel, and never looked back, as I expected Chick would. That’s the way it should end I told myself, like it started, fast and brief, like it never was.
We ate, looking up at one another; we caught each other’s sadness, and relief. People around us, some of my old friends were there, even Aaron, to bid me farewell. Maybe they all forgave me, but I didn’t quite forgive myself one hundred percent yet.
I remembered the poem by Robert Frost, “The Road not Taken,” as the bus pulled up. Chick walked with me out of the busy restaurant and onto the sidewalk, we hugged, and I looked at her, thinking there was only one thing I hoped for, perhaps even wished for, before I got onto the bus, that the pain of leaving for both of us be gone, but I guess sad feelings mean you had good times, we both could have taken a different road many of times but we chose not to, for whatever reasons, everything seemed naturally taken, we never seemed to have any doubts of that. Had we taken a different road in the beginning…oh well, let’s leave that alone for another day, maybe down the road I’ll be able to answer that question more clearly for myself.
As I got on the bus, got situated, I sat down looked at her out of the window for the last time, gave her the victory sign, with my two fingers, not sure why, maybe because we both needed to feel we won, you know, in any kind of transaction, deal, everyone should be a winner…and I suppose we both were, we just got a little too connected; she smiled... the bus took off…I seen that smile for miles….


Minnesota-to-Vietnam


[1971] I went home for thirty days, got a letter from Chick, she said she missed me, as it read it several times sitting on my twin bed in the attic apartment at my mother’s house, in St. Paul, Minnesota, the snow covering the window by my bed, as I looked outside at the below zero weather. I carefully put the short letter back into its envelope.
I somehow found a tear wanting to come out of my right eye, not sure why, the grieving processes I suppose. Life had no road maps and very little instructions I was learning, no formulas for such pain—I guess if I was successful, it was in the area of recognizing my limitations and to appreciate the interaction we shared, heart and mind, and a little of our souls. I guess I never expected the letter.
In a way it seemed more like a ‘Dear John Letter,’ they used to get in WWII, that is the American soldiers fighting over in Europe got them; I suppose they got them in every war, it was just my time. Pat Boone once made a song called ‘Dear John,’ it was a pretty song, but now it was reality. I used to sing to it when it first came out into the public domain—in the record shops, I was a teenager than I think, now I didn’t want to look for the record, let it lay in the dust. As I glanced at the letter again, it said she was not going to write much. That she knew it was over, yet she missed me, she had very little to say, which I suppose I could say also, I didn’t write back.

It was close to January as I looked out the window again in my attic apartment, the trees bare, winter snow filled up every inch of the ground, the wind could be heard whistling as it tried to make its way through the openings of the decaying window sills in this attic apartment, which is really a biggg-bedroom. I would soon have to go to Vietnam and fight a war I knew very little about, a new adventure, a new turn in the road of life. The sun was hiding, it would come out for a few hours I knew, and then be covered with a canopy of misty-gray white. But that was Minnesota for you. We live in an Ice Age here.
As I sat back starring at the letter one more time, I felt I was learning kindness at a young age, for we both were kind to each other if anything, she may have been wiser, but time was on my side to gain wisdom.
I had left some real good friends behind, especially Aaron, for he was a real friend, he let me know the rift between us was not eternal. He portrayed the person I would have liked to be, not what others wanted me to be, with all his imperfections, he was kinder than I would have been to someone like me. So many thoughts were going through my head these days.



Train to Munich
(Augsburg, Germany, 1970)


We had met a girl from Denmark (met her at the Oktoberfest of 1970, in Munich), and my friend Ski, he dated her for a while thereafter, after going to Denmark to see her that is—; I remember meeting her, and she was a doll, bronze skin and all, healthy from the breast to her little toes. He met her in one of those large fiesta tents, with me, and they must have talked for an hour, and he assured her he’d go to Denmark to be with her during some of his leave time, we were both Private First Class soldiers at the 1/36 Artillery in West Germany; in time he would do exactly what he said he would do, and tell me when he got back that she smoked pot, and took some LSD and he tried to reform her (he never liked pot-heads, as he called them). In any case, that was the end of their romance. But before I lose track of my plot, and theme, let me get back to where I was heading.
I always kind of felt she was lucky to get away from him, he was what we called in the Army, a loose cannon, he could go off at any given moment. I think when I was with him I really didn’t want to meet anyone, I was kind of claustrophobic that whomever we’d meet together, there was impending disaster to befall us, in particular, me, but all in all, the train to Munich was a blast, there again we almost got into a predicament, let me explain.

As we got off the train (Ski and I) we were obvious to any onlooker, that we were soldiers, as obvious as someone carrying a sack of potatoes, I would expect, walking through that train station, out its doors, then outside onto the sidewalk, at 5:00 a.m. I witnessed right away young folks walking, waking up, from few a hours sleep in the corners of the train station, sacks in their hands, wrapped around their hands, laying beside them, or laying on them, the renowned Oktoberfest was in motion, it was the main event in Munich, and we, Ski and I, were going to it, and this was the place to be, if you were in Germany and it was October, of 1970, or at least the place I wanted to be. No reservations needed, just your body, a few bucks in your pocket, time to spare, energy.
Several young Germans were walking on the opposite side of the sidewalk, several blocks from the train station, where Ski and I crossed over to the other side:
“You speak English?” asked Ski, to the group. They looked at us strangely; we simply wanted to find our way to the fairgrounds. Ski was almost, always, abrupt with his way of trying to make a dialogue—with anyone (but me).
“American GI´s” a voice from the group said.
Ski lifted his eyebrows, I figured this would be a fight, or it was at least in the makings.
“No, we’re reporters from New York City…”said Ski. In consequence we got a lot more respect instantly, I was a bit surprised.
“We’re from a …” (a magazine, can’t remember which one he said, but they were impressed, and so was I that we could get away with such a fib)—and to be frank, I felt something like a volt of electricity in the air, after this mirage was created; I was heading into my part of the charade.
—We then walked about Munich for a number of hours, I saw an old bum laying drunk on the sidewalk, everyone just stepped over him or around him, and I stopped and starred at him, I wanted to help him I think, but Ski said rapidly:
“Come on… we’re almost there, he can’t be helped, and he’ll sleep it off!”
And for the most part, I think for once he was right, and we could see the entrance to the Oktoberfest from where the guy laid, and we were both getting excited at that moment.
Once through the entrance, we found a big beer tent, like a great hall, and we couldn’t pass it up, or I couldn’t, and we stopped in it and had purchased a few giant mug beers filled to the brim.
The Oktoberfest was huge, with big beer tents all about. It was perhaps 11:00 a.m. We walked about for a while, I didn’t want to get too drunk too quick, so I slowly drank my beers, and found a place to rest under a shady tree, on an embankment, where a lot of hippies were; that evening, Ski and I would return there to rest again, and watch all the hippies sack out for the evening, having their own personal picnics.
Then we went onto the biggest beer tent of them all at the fiesta. I was getting drunk now, and ended up dancing on the tables with folks I never knew, holding hands, looped within theirs. I was talking to a woman later on at the entrance of a beer tent, I had said a few words in German, and she rattled on for an hour, and she thought I could understand her, but I could only understand every fifth word or so, which I suppose was good enough. Then Ski came along, said he had met this gal, and he introduced her to me and we both went to the bathroom, and some guy took a picture of us, urinating, not a good thing to do, and Ski blew up, grabbed his camera and broke it in front of him, broke it into several pieces, and the guy almost cried, and when he started yelling, Ski leaped towards him, and I had to pull him off the guy before he’d kill him.
“Let’s get out of here quick Ski, German police may somehow take his side…”
So I told Ski, and out we went into another tent, with a chicken leg and a mug of beer in our hands. As I said, I was getting drunk, but I never saw Ski get drunk, not at the fest, or anyplace else, not even at our base in Augsburg.
And we left the tent, and then the gal showed up, and he introduced her to me a second time; lovely as could be, nice shape, from Denmark.
Our ride back to Augsburg, on the train would not be so exciting, we were both tired, and wanted to rest somewhat. Which was good for me because I didn’t want to be confronted by the conductor, and his comrades again, like on the way down, which I forgot to mention, but we ended up in his cabin, because Ski wanted something, and pushed the porter, and a fight right in his cabin was mounting, and there was three or four of them, and two of us, but I was ready, and Ski was more than ready, but I smoothed it out, at the last second. All in all, the train to Munich, the trip and the fest, was exceptional.




“Where the Birds Don’t Sing”





Farewell to the Birds

There is a place on this earth
Where the birds don’t sing,--
Where the troops march,
Eating dust and rain; --
Always wondering
Where the birds went
As they swiftly move away
When one gets off the plane: --
“Farewell!” they sing, “Farewell!”
“See you
Another day…”

Chick Evens, Vietnam l971




“Where the Birds Don’t Sing”

Preface



A Letter to the Editor by Chick Evens, l972


“It was a decade of change and challenges for the world, America in particular, it was ‘The New Generation,’ that’s what we were called it I guess, the Age of Aquarius was around the corner. For me it started in l967 in St. Paul Minnesota when I decided to join it by preparing to leave my nice little city by the Mississippi, and it wouldn’t stop for me until December l971, we might just as well say l972. In any case, the 60’s and early 70’s produced an avalanche of changes. As I went from St. Paul, the conservative city of culture, to San Francisco, the radical city of the west, and onto West Germany, for a romance that would stick to me like glue for many years to come, and over to Vietnam, for a war that had many limitations, some expectations, and too many variables. In this short time of 42-months, between the Summer of l968 and the fall of l971, the long hair, mod dress [hippies], drugs, sexual freedoms, anti-establishment ideas where much more plentiful, one might say, than ten years prior to this. The so called, ‘New Generation,’ had a romantic fever within its veins. Actually, between l959 and l965, such things would have been unbelievable. But it is how it was, and I was in the heart of it.
Chick Evens



A Night with Tequila
[Post, San Francisco: -- l969]



I was in-between going into the Army, which would bring me to Augsburg, Germany, and then on to Vietnam, and leaving San Francisco, where I had lived for a year, and practiced karate with the famous Gosei Yamaguchi, and worked for the famous cloth designing company, Lilli Ann. Thus, leaving San Francisco, I had went down to Southern California to meet with my brother, he and I then ventured down to Mexico for a day where I bought a bottle of tequila, with the worm in it. This would prove to be an adventure in itself, with an unforgettable night, linger in the future; notwithstanding, I will leave out the trouble that took place in Mexico, and be thankful we got out in one piece, and with my bottle of Tequila: and leave it at that, but let me add, the beer was heavy, and we almost got in a fight with several Mexican Soma -type looking wrestlers. In any event, we did make it out alive, as you are reading this, and therefore I must have.
And then on to [bask to that is] St. Paul, Minnesota our home city and state—my brother, myself, his wife and two-kids went by car, and yes I carried my bottle of Tequila, all the way. I had never drunk the stuff before, and figured I’d save it for a special occasion, hoping it would come soon. Plus, it would be a new experience for me when I did drink it, that is to say, showing everyone that damn famous worm, everyone talks about. When you moved the bottle of Tequila about–you could actually see the worm floating every which way.
We spent a day in Salt Lake City, Utah, as we had found a cheap, small motel close to the inner city; my brother’s wife got chased back to the motel for being out past 10:00 PM without her husband, as she was trying to buy some groceries.
I think we had a good laugh on that, that evening.
I didn’t see much of the city, although I did look for a few bars, I guess everything was either underground, or they had some secret black market where they hid the booze, but there was no chance for a nice cold beer, I figured that out quick. In any case, the night came quick, and we all slept well; the morning came quick also.
We took turns—that is, my brother and I took turns driving his car over the long dusty roads, but the weather was pleasing, a bit warm yet it made driving comfortable.
When we arrived in St. Paul, it was but a few weeks before my brother decided to head on up to North Dakota, Grand Forks, to help put in a cement platform, for a garage in, helping out his father-in-law. I told him I’d go along and help if he didn’t mind, and it all seemed quite productive, for the most part. And when the day arrived to leave’ --yes again, I carried my bottle of Tequila all the way to the Dakota’s with me: almost as if it was a gift from the god’s.


As we arrived in Grand Forks, we all stayed at my brother’s father-in-law’s house, the very house we were to do the construction work at, in the back yard. The hot weather was starting to leave the Midwest, and the cooler air was coming down from Canada, as September crept in slowly. It was a good time to work the construction part, that is, without sweating to death. The Midwest was extremes, hot in the summer and cold in the winter. In fall, it was perfect, especially for construction.
As I got to meet the rest of my sister-in-law’s family, I think I must have been saving this bottle of Tequila for this occasion, for I had a sense it was not going to make it back home. I had hid the bottle in my brother’s car, and drank beer the first night I was there with the rest of the relatives. His wife had several bothers and we all sat around getting drunk, --talking about how we were going to go about building the wooden frame of the foundation, to pour the cement for the garage: that is, the ground work was already done, leveled and the wooden frame needed to be made, this could be done quickly in the morning with long two-by-four boards, thereafter, we’d do the cement work, and then we’d stay an extra day and have a get together, kind of celebration. It all sounded grand.
During this time I had met Paula, a friend of the family. I was twenty years old, and she was seventeen, we both seemed somewhat attracted to one another—time would tell.

As we worked all day the following day on the cement, digging a foundation, putting up sides-boards to pour the cement, and measuring, along with putting in other sources of support like, stones etc., we finally did pour the cement, and it turned out better than what I had hoped for. We really did not need professionals, only a good thought out plan, effort, and a gathering of the willing.
Now it was party time. Paula told me to skip the get together with the family at my brother’s wife’s house, for the time being, and head on to her friend’s house, and join their party this evening, and we’d come back to join the family workers later, for they also would be having a party. It all sounded reasonable to me.

As we got to the party [7:00 PM] Paula introduced me to several of her young friends, and I pulled out from underneath my jacket the bottle of Tequila I had purchased in Mexico, the one with the worm in it.
Paula said,
“What is that thing in the bottle?” As she was reading the label that said ‘Tequila,’ on it, she added, “I heard of this stuff, it’s pretty strong, isn’t it?”
[A rhetorical question at best] “It’s a genuine worm alright,” I clarified, adding, “…that is what indicates it’s the original Mexican thing.” I really didn’t know what I was talking about—for the most part—but whatever the ‘thing [worm], meant,’ nonetheless, made for good conversation.

As we sat on the sofa in the living room of her friend’s house I checked Paula out, I liked her, she looked a little French-Canadian, that is to say, she had a natural tan to her skin, almost olive. She had short black hair, a shapely body, to include a pear like base [or underneath --about 5’ 3” inches tall, stunning looks, a real beauty.
We both had a few of the beers the folks at the party offered, and then I opened up the Tequila.
She asked me [pleadingly-with a touch of humor] “Should I try to drink the worm when it surfaces out of the bottle or see if it comes out of the bottle while I pour it into my glass, and then drink it?”
“Forget the glass, take a swig right out of the spout, and if you get the worm, swallow it. That’s the best way to do it. Let’s see who gets to it first.” We both smiled at one another, and down the ‘hatch’ we drank our first, long…shot. I drank about three shots at once, --along with taking some salt at the same time putting it on my hand and licking it; someone had told me to do it, it was actually a little more agreeable with the salt, the Tequila that is. And then Paula did the same. No one got the worm; we again looked at one another and laughed.
“Ham m,” we both hummed at each other.
“Let’s try again,” I said contentedly...

As the night went on, a few of the folks from my brother’s wife’s family, along with my brother came over to the party to check on Paula and me. They saw we were drinking away like two silly kids. I was now 21-years old, I could legally drink, but Paula wasn’t, --I think they were more worried about Paula, being 17, and I suppose I may have looked a little dangerous to my sister-in-law, being with her younger sister.
They sat by us and had a few drinks of the Tequila, and then feeling all was well and under control left us to ourselves. They were only up the block about four houses in any case, meaning, if they needed to run to her rescue, they could. I think they were afraid I’d steal her away and run to Minnesota with her, --or her with me. We were just having a good ole-time, no more, no less.
At 11:00 PM, Paula asked if we should call it a night, we were both getting pretty drunk.
“No, no,” I said, “Let’s finish the whole bottle and whoever ends up with the worm is the winner.” [Although the winner only got the worm.]
“Ok, Ok,” she atheistically said, at first glance.

1:00 PM

[Halfheartedly I told Paula.] “It looks like my turn to drink.” Yet, I could hardly find the bottle, let alone see the worm. At great length I put my hand out to grab the bottle:
“Ok, here it is,” I took a big drink, “…the worm is still in there Chick,” Paula commented. I looked I couldn’t see it, “I must of drank it,” I replied, no answer.


Morning


Paula [who has risen] “Who got the worm?” she asked, no answer. She moved about, trying to stretch, laying on the floor next me, where she had passed out, and I on the sofa had passed out right along with her [a pause].
“I think I got it,” I grabbed the bottle on the floor with the Tequila label on it, it was empty, and the worm was gone.
“I think I ate it, or swallowed it, and then I must have passed out,” I explained to her [a little stiffly].
“No,” she replied, “I think you tried to get the worm out, and couldn’t, and there was a little substance left, and I had the next try, and got it out.” We looked at each other [wearily] struggling to up on a smile and started laughing. Whoever got the worm we would never know for sure? But one of us did.
“I think Paula,” I commented, “…we both ate the worm, I got half and you got half. If I recall right, I got the worm out safe and sound, and poured the rest of the Tequila in a glass, and cut the worm in half, and we both had the last drink together each getting half the worm.”
“Really,” she said, [after listening for a moment].
“Absolutely,” I wasn’t sure of anything, but I dreamt it or for some reason it came out naturally. Who knows after you drink a fifth of Tequila what happened to the worm, maybe it walked away. Whatever the case, Paula was a little more agreeable with that ending to the worm.


Vietnam
1971

I doubt in any war you’ll find the birds singing: --
I never did hear them in Vietnam, nor did I hear the
Sounds of Americans hooraying their heroes as they
Came home; --there was really nothing for a Soldier
Except another Soldier in those far off days.



Cam Ranh Bay
[Vietnam-l971]


In a war zone, --a combat zone that is, or for that matter, in a support unit that is in a war zone, there are very few flags flopping out in the wind, or for that matter, finding soldiers standing erect with dressed greens, gloriously waiting for combat around the bend [like in the movies], sorry, just squads of the military marching, trampling through the rain and mud, dodging bullets, rockets.
The soldiers in Vietnam, for the most part young men, were a little frazzled in the nerves trying to figure out where they fit in, in the scheme of all things that is. Having said that, what was the objective [that is what we all asked ourselves sooner or later]: --to win, stabilize, or contain? Nothing was clear except one thing, or so I found out soon after I arrived in Vietnam, it was not to be won, that is the war, that is, won in the sense of a straight out victory.
Whatever was on the political minds of the decision makers in Washington D.C., the soldiers didn’t know, but it was not to win the war. For we all knew it was or could have been a simple task. But then we did not want to incite Russia, did we, that was our way of avoiding a nuclear confrontation I suppose; likewise, in Korea, we did not want to incite China, and face a nuclear stand off in that area, that is to say, we’d have had to use those big bombs to stop the horde of oncoming enemy soldiers. Or at least that was the way our decision makers were thinking, or so I think.

Back to Vietnam, again, I do not think it would have been a hard war to win [had we not put limitations on ourselves, and overlooked targets for the sake of getting other nations mad at us], but then you had your negative forces working against you/or us, such as Jane Fonda’s [see also Last Words] in addition to the indecisive political minds in Washington D.C., and throughout the states… that made it harder. [As in many wars, you get your wild radicals, even in the Persian Gulf II War, such as Sean Penn, and a few like him.] All wanting to arouse our emotions to go see their movies, and side with them on a protest march, but when you protest against them, they get emotional unstable, they don’t like it [like President George W. Bush, said, “…it’s a two way street…”]. And in most cases the protesters such as they are, have never seen a day of combat, but there is not lack of wisdom with them.
My way of protesting would be when I got home out of Vietnam, I would not go see their movies, although I did see one, and purchased another, but it was very hard for me to watch them. I guess big movie stars have an edge they can get on stage and can give their opinion to millions of people in a matter of minutes, someone like me, well, my only way is, or was, saying it by not supporting them in whatever way possible. Some people feel this way is not the right way to respond, but it’s the only I know, and a non-violent way I knew, and it’s a good old American style way of protesting, I know.
And from what I’ve seen of such times and events, most people couldn’t tell the difference between being assertive, which I think is healthy in protesting one’s view in war or peace, and aggressiveness, which I think is hypocritical at best. But that’s the way it always is. You go on a peace march, and create a war. To me a peace march should be peaceful and so on and so on, but we see the creation of hysteria; exactly what are they protesting, should it not be their own behavior? But that was the way I was thinking at the time.

Life in general in Vietnam [in a support group environment as I was in] had its regular duties as back home, or in Germany, you were cleaning rifles, washing socks, grabbing the warm rain and using it for a shower. The married men were trying not to feel the pain of missing wives; I got a Dear John Letter, saying, my gal from Augsburg, Germany, was no longer going to write me: --as I expected, but I did my grieving on leave in St. Paul, Minnesota, a tear, a river destroyed, or was it two rivers, whatever, I can’t remember anymore, it was too long ago. In war it is best you leave the love letters behind.
But it was over [the relationship in Augsburg], and I was glad, I didn’t want to end up doing like the other guys, ---that is, you hurry up and wait for the mail bag to arrive hoping you get a letter or two, day after day you give power and control of your life to that person to decide what and when to write you, --this all plugs up your mind. You think ‘…do I go to war today, die and go to hell, or do you think I’ll make it home.’ This begs the question, who wants to live, for surely Charlie, the enemy does, and as I always said, I do, and I said I’d go home all together, or not at all, and if Charlie got in my way, we’d both go to hell together. But the married men always wanted to go home; were thinking about home. And you knew what was on their mind most of the time: especially if they were, or had been married a short time, they always seemed preoccupied. In a combat zone this can be dangerous.
I didn’t want dark footsteps to awaken me in my sleep, while in Vietnam, so with one eye open I slept all the time while in Vietnam, and if a shadow crossed my path, he would die, or wish he had.
On other occasions, some of my comrades would say,
“Why do you keep your rifle always locked and loaded…?” meaning ready to shoot, “…even when you know Charlie is up in the hills, two miles away, somewhat harmless, if only he stays there.” My response was always,
“I liked it loaded, --it makes me feel good, like I’m in control, the way I want it to be.” It would worry some of my friends, that being, afraid I’d shoot them by accident. And I suppose anything was possible.


Vietnam was many things to me, one might say, that being a pocket full of experiences, somewhat like, but not quite like, Augsburg, Germany, where I ended up in a romance, yup, that was where I was stationed prior to coming to Vietnam. And San Francisco was also quite a learning experience, which was where I was living for a year prior to going into the Army, and being sent to Augsburg. Somehow they all seem to connect because they all blended into one another, ending up here in Vietnam.
Some of my new experiences would entail heroin usage, and finding me dancing on top of a vacant supply-hut in the middle of the jungle, where I and four other soldiers were dismantling the metal supply hut. Again, here we were dancing on the top of the roof, listening to music some of Bob Dylan, I think, and the Turtles, etc., as if there was no war. I still kept my M16 locked and loaded though; --but god forbid should the enemy come; I’d had left it down on the ground by some other garments I put. I’d have had to jump off the roof to get to my weapon, by that time we’d all be dead.
After several hours of our rope-a-dope adventure, we had the place all dismantled, so Charlie could not use it and we then went back to base camp. That was my first usage of the white gold, heroin. Three dollars a capsule and you could smoke it, rub it in your veins, or for that matter, inject it; however you liked it. It was so good I told myself, this was not going to happen again. I would surely end up a dope freak, and this was not the place for it.
As the sun was disappearing that day, we had made it back to our hutches in time for dinner. We had white rice with eggs, hamburger and green peppers all mixed and fried together it was great.

In the ammo dump, as we called it [ammo supply area], where I’d work now and then, I swatted flies all day it seemed in the little wooden shack we used for an office. And to be quite frank, that in itself is a tiring job, especially if there is no wind cross-venting the place. And just try not swatting them, they eat you alive, that is, they land on everything, everywhere, all day long.
Outside of the hut, was the copper sun descending on top of you as if you could touch the sphere itself; you could cook an egg out on a rock, one of the soldiers tried it, it works. Often times when things got slow, and they often did, you’d be day-dreaming on the porch of the hut, or walking around looking for a stick to wipe your ass with, for there was no toilet paper.
The ones with wives, or lovers back home, were lovesick half time, truly lost in the heat and rains of Vietnam; again I say this because it was cause for alarm at times. I often thought of the Israel Army, to my understanding if a person had gotten married, they would not allow him into the service for a year or so. That made good sense, he had his sex, got his house in order for the most part; and was focused.
Nights seemed star-less, no birds singing at all, matter of fact, there were no birds. Not in the jungle, or out in the ammo dump, only dry-heat, lizards and not too far away the South China Sea coast. No birds, no birds, no sir, never-ever heard them, no birds at all --and if there were I had never seen them. [As I write this I can hear them now outside my windows, chirping, and singing. What a lovely sound!]

It seemed to me I’d make it through Vietnam alive, I guess I never thought I wouldn’t as long as I was breathing and not bleeding. One of my friends got out the hard way, he screwed so many women so he got all these different kinds of venereal disease, some I never heard of, and had to get sent to Japan for treatment. His spine was bent over backwards, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. We’d talk at night, and he told me point blank, “Chick, I screw sometimes three times a day.”
I said, “You got to stop, look what it’s doing to you,” that was a month before he got this disease the 5th time, or was it the 7th? In any case, this time he had a hard time looking up at me, he was so bent over from spine problems, and talking was too painful I could tell, and the next day he was gone. What a way to go, no combat, just bad company. I guess we all chose our sins, and our own way of dealing with them and the unknown, along with boredom and the funny rules they had over here: and most of the ways we dealt with such issues like that were by disassociation [blocking your mind to/or from reality], be it by sex, dope, gambling, fighting, or booze, like I chose often, or whatever was available. I guess war is to be war, not sitting around waiting for the pizza man. That is to say, we should be fighting or training, not doing what we were doing.


And so here I am in Vietnam, the year is l971, halfway around the world, with no poets, no rich people, no lawyers, but one of the guys named Presley, was a relative of Elvis’ [or so he said]. Anyways, the rich and famous were not present, isn’t it always that way? It simply told you, who is and who isn’t dispensable to the government. No disrespect intended, for I do not mind being here, I have no better place to be, no one waiting for me at home, no girl that is. So to me it is simply a trip in the jungle, along the seacoast.


My Hutch

It was the winter of I971 I lived in a hutch at an Army Base in Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam, looking up and across the dry white sand, and hard-dirt that compressed against the hills surrounding our camp, there was a radar station, right above us. Down by the shore, the coast of the South China Sea, there were a few shrines, temples hidden in the jungle, and a road that lead out to three ammo dumps, Alpha, Charlie and Delta [Alpha being the Air Force dump]. The sand was dry and white, actually perfect for a beach for swimming, and to paraphrase a rumor, there had been talk about this area being turned into a resort type area after the war, it could very well make a good area for a resort, with some financial planning and capitol, it could be perfect, it was actually in the air, or should I say, under consideration, with some American businessmen. I couldn’t picture it as a resort to be realistic, but who knows, dumber things have happened I told myself. War does not always allow you to see two pictures at once, the present and the potential. But it could be reconstructed to be a resort.

I belonged to the 611th Ordnance Company, there were 167-troops to include myself; with two rolls of hutches in our camp site, [four men to a hut]; a mess hall across from the hutches, of which, in-between was a metal floor extending itself from the hutches to the mess hall with holes in it, which covered the courtyard. A safety measure for all the little and big creatures that wanted to visit us, like snakes, lizards and scorpions, and who knows what else.
We also had an orderly room [main office] in front of our military compound [or camp site/complex], a shower room way in the back of the complex, where the outside toilets were, to the left of it, somewhat isolated though; --not bad for a combated zone compound. And right next to our company, was a Military Police Company [MP’s], and their set up was similar to ours. Outside of our compound area was a dusty-dirt road made of compressed hard, very hard dirt on dirt, --well, let me add to that, with some rocks covering the surface also.

Winter in Vietnam was not like winter in St. Paul, Minnesota where I was from. Here in Vietnam, it was hot, hot, muggy and hotter, and at times the humidity was like taking a shower in your hot sweat. There were more lizards than dogs, some as long as six feet. More scorpions than rats, and more jumbo, bull-mosquito’s than wasps, yet there were cats, I think we were equal to them in that category in Minnesota vs. Vietnam, or Cam Ranh Bay in particular. Yes, this was a cat lover’s haven one might say. But these monster long legged bull-mosquito’s and giant cock-roaches, always flying a foot over your head was enough to keep your mind occupied when you had nothing else to think of, and you found yourself walking about at night with a crown of them over your head; -- a giant cockroach falling on your face at night waking you up, and sometimes they would bite you. And if you think they don’t bite, you are wrong.
And when I got comfortable in my hutch, I had to spend twenty-minutes out of thirty, killing flies, I know I keep coming back to these fly-issues, but they were everywhere, even in my dreams, yes, instead of sheep jumping over the fence, I had flies I was swatting. But why complain I told myself, I didn’t have to comb my hair, shine my boots, or for that matter, dress to impress the brass [officers], not like in Germany. I suppose everything has its bad and good elements to it.

When I had first arrived in Vietnam, it was a shallow evening, the air was thin, --as if you couldn’t breath, gently we [the two hundred plus soldiers with me from the jet] were moved onto a metal platform [something like our camp had here], again, I suppose, so the scorpions and the other creatures didn’t get to you before Charlie [the enemy] did. We were moved as I said, from the airplane to the platform, and the plane was then pulled away quickly so the enemy could not zero in on it and destroy it. Thereafter, we took busses to this processing center on Cam Ranh Bay. And there in the middle of the night, we waited and waited and waited.
We were like a stream of soldier-ants as long and winding as a football field. And although there were 205,000 soldiers in Vietnam upon my arrival, or so I heard, that was not as many as were here a year prior, --in review, they were withdrawing them slowly, where at one point there were 500,000-plus.
In any event, more were coming and going twice a day from this location, to my understanding.
We didn’t know what to expect those first hours, and nothing was happening, just like the old saying goes, ‘Hurry up…wait.’ The Army is good for that. I only had eight months to go before my tour of duty was up, and I’d get out of the Army, yet I heard they were extending some soldiers an additional six to nine months; --to be quite frank, I met a few that did get extended within a few weeks of their so called leaving Vietnam date. In any case, I felt I could do it standing on my head [the eight months that is] yet, this heat was not doing me much good, and I felt at that time if anything got to me, it would be that.
Being from Minnesota, I was more used to the cold than the heat. Matter of fact, I had spent ten months in Augsburg, Germany just before coming here, and it was a bit nippy, but not bad weather. It seems I adjusted to that easier than I have here—or maybe it was simply familiar back in Germany, and I was fussy with this damn heat.
In Minnesota we actually had extreme hot summers so again maybe my complaining is unfounded, and extreme cold winters. And so I told myself I’d adjust [and so I did]. Likewise, I did appreciate getting away from the snow and cold of both Germany and Minnesota, for the most part.

“Is this it,” commented the soldier next to me [while I was waiting with the other 200-soldiers who had first arrived with me in Vietnam].
[I gave him a nod to assure him I was in dismay, or not sure of anything myself] I didn’t know him.
Another guy to my far south [about 100-feet] found a pop machine and purchased two cold Coke’s, drank them down faster than you can count to ten, and must have shocked his system because of the extreme heat, and dropped over as if he was dead, --but he simply just passed out from the change of body temperature.
[It was February, l971.] I took off my khaki shirt that day, wiped the dirt from my eyes, and lay back against the wall. Something told me it was going to be an all night and possible all day tomorrow thing, that is, processing me into the country along with the over 200-soldiers with me [and it was].


2


The Bay and Frenchie
[The Village]


Often in the morning as I’d get up, ready to start my duties, I’d see the ARRVIN-Army running by, they were the South Koreans; very disciplined, and seemingly rouged. They’d be running in full dress camouflage uniforms, with heavy boots on, running through the soft white sand the bay area was made out of. Even at night, in the dark they’d run until they couldn’t anymore, sometimes right past our company area, as if they never got tired.
On a similar note, on Cam Ranh Bay, there were enough roads built up to run the jeeps here and there, and we had some ¼ [quarter] ton trucks to bring out boxes of ammunition for practice shooting, and we used five-ton trucks for hauling soldiers around: and longer cargo trucks when we had to load or unload ammunition, -- supplying units within the area.
In both instances, the trucks were also used to carry troops out to the ammo-dumps, several miles from our base camp.
Over surrounding mountain sides were infested with Viet Cong [the enemy], they had dug in and circled the peninsula of Cam Ranh Bay. It was just a matter of when, and possible if, they were going to come down from up high and attack; and if not attack, covertly steal what they needed for their troops from our ammo dumps; I had often thought the only reason they had not come down to attack was because they could have the village people, who worked for us in the area and convoys, steal what they needed.
They were dug in pretty well [as I had previously mentioned], into holes in the ground, tunnels, like ground hogs: --in small groups they’d be seen by some of our surveillance teams.
Often a number of the Viet Cong [VC] would go down to the local village; about two miles from my base camp and sneak into the village at night and kind of takeover. It seemed to me the Americans had control of the village during the day and the VC at night. I guess to them it seemed ‘just’ a quite and nice workable situation; both the ammo dumps and the village being near by. Plus, there was electricity in the village, although shut off at 10:00 PM, and turned back on at 10:00 AM the following morning. In comparison to the tunnel they lived in, this was heaven I would guess.
The South Vietnamese, who were on our side, would guard the village fortress-walls night and day from four towers in each corner of the village, looking over the enclosed city, again with its fenced-in walls; I had stayed a number of times overnight there, --yet, none the less, the Viet Cong, I witnessed each time, and through out my nightly stays, continued to roam the streets, were let in willingly by the tower guards [supposedly the guards were on the United States side]. But I didn’t want to get into the politics of this, everyone was trying to stay alive, and if appeasing them kept the peace in the village, people looked the other way.
Whatever I couldn’t find on base, or at the local PX, I could find on the black market in the village. It was as if they had their own tunnel to the commissary.
Once in the village [and it was off limits for GI’s to be in there] you had to get out of the village early in the morning and make sure the tower guards saw you when you left. If you tried at night, they’d shoot you, not knowing who you were [not a very good system]. And so at 6:00 AM, I jumped the fence, while the guards were watching me [and for the most part the VC were also doing the same thing], and I ran back to base camp [like the VC did] some two miles away. When I got into my hutch, I’d pretend I was just getting up, and rushed to make formation in time. Most of the GI’s were scared to stay overnight in the main village, or better put, the big village, they’d rather have their girlfriend sneak into their hut at night, and leave in the morning before dawn [the other way around].
One time in the main village, I was quite hungry and a woman I had known had me sit with her and her friends and family to have soup. She said it was pork in the soup, knowing GI’s didn’t take to eating dog meat; in any event, we all knew [that is to say, the GI’s] there were no pigs around in Vietnam—or at least I had never seen any in the bay area, so what else could it be [?] And for the most part, rumor was fact, for I had a friend this happened too, that is, they’d [the Vietnamese] sell the GI’s dogs, and come back the next day and sneak them back home. Not sure exactly how it went, but I would guess, they had some kind of system. Thereafter, cook them up and have dinner. Actually they tasted a bit like pork.
At night you could go down to the village at 7:00 PM and pick out a woman who would be standing behind a fence, and take her wherever you wanted to for a price; but when you brought her back, the women needed to walk back through that gate with money, or the Cowboys [Young Vietnamese hit gangs] would harass or even beat the girls should she say the GI never gave her a dime. So even if you did not get sex with the female, you still needed to protect her by giving her something to appease the gangs.
I had done this a few times going out to the beach area and grabbing a few kisses from one of the gals behind the fences. But I really didn’t have, or for that matter, want to give all the money they wanted for their services. Some GI’s gave them two-third of their check so they would not go out with other GI’s; --what they got was a piece of ass [sex] waiting for them nightly. But when they’d go on leave, the girls would screw everyone in the camp for a few extra bucks anyway. Some of the foolish GI’s paid them to be faithful while home on leave even, and to my knowledge there were very few that were faithful. I should say, according to my observations. One Vietnamese woman, in particular, even asked me not to let on about her even being in the camp; not to even mention what she was doing for she knew I knew. I suppose it’s much like an addiction, sex that is, especially when you make good money, and you enjoy it, and it has been part of your life and occupation for awhile; --much like dope, alcohol, and gambling.
We—the soldiers at 611th Ordnance Company, were [it was winter] tolerant of this, and for the most part, left well enough alone. One reason being, no one wanted to get anyone in trouble, not even the whores, and the other reason being, everyone was screwing them anyways, and so everyone would have to tell on everyone else, so it was best left alone [sad but true, no one was innocent]. And if the soldiers going home were that stupid to give their money away so freely, so be it, --I often would shake my head at them, when they’d tell me such foolishness, and walk away as if to say, be dumb. I figured any man worth his salt, or put another way, anyone dumb enough to do it, deserved to be taken.


Thoughts

[It reminded me of Augsburg, Germany, where a friend of mine, a corporal, was never involved with a girl, until he took a leave one day—after being in Europe going on four years, and met this girl back home in one of the southern states, I can’t remember which one, Kentucky I think. Anyhow, I kind of looked up to him [that is, for awhile, until this happened], he saved a hell of a lot of money, and was level headed, until one day when he came back from leave,
He said,
“Chick, I met this wonderful girl and I’m going to ask her to marry me.” Yes, just like that.
Well, I kind of looked surprised. Inasmuch as I respected him, I still had to ask [he looked at me a little guarded when I did ask]:
“Why, you’ve must have known her from before,” for some odd reason it never occurred to me he didn’t know her, I was thinking this was old stuff, and he commented,
[Timidly.] “Oh, no, I just met her,” then he pulled out a picture of her for me to see. She was a doll, but I told myself, here it comes, the train, he’s going to get hit by a train; too close too soon.
“Not that that made any difference.” [His voice sounded a little hurt].
“What do you think?” He asked me, carelessly. Well, on one hand I was happy for him; on the other he was being taken. And to me, I felt he could wait, but try and tell someone to wait when they got marriage on their mind, it is better trying or easier, to sober up a drunk. In any case, he couldn’t, and wouldn’t wait [I just shook my shoulders dumbfounded].
He sold his stereo, and a few other items to accrue some more money, plus, he took all his money in the bank he was saving and went home and married her, then came back to finish his tour of duty a month later.
During the mean time she wrote him a letter saying it was over [that is, with in the following 45-days after he came back to the unit], and he was just blown apart, started drinking, and went crazy. Well, believe it or not, he had to borrow money to go back to the states again, and he tried to patch things up, but putting it back together was not part of her agenda, --when he came back to base in two weeks, he was broke again, crying, and it was over, I mean really over this time.]


Women can sure damage a good man, or a stupid man, that is, make a stupid man more stupid. I often thought about the sexual gold mind woman have, some know and some do not know they have this; --and some know and will not use it, the sexual gold mind that is, --if you follow me, and if you don’t in simple terms, I refer to the poem “The Spider and the Fly,” [where the spider tries to coheres the fly to come to her, and no harm will become her, and when the fly does, that is it for the fly, and the spider gets her dinner] they have a sexual weapon they can use to draw us like a magnet, and it’s powerful. And so I didn’t care to jump on any one thing, girl that is. That’s right. No jumping. I took my time, looked at the consequences and tried not to get too emotionally involved while in Vietnam, and avoided all ongoing affairs with women.
One might say I kind of stuck to my own in this area, having a girl called “Frenchie”; she’d sleep with me when she was done with most of the other guys. That is to say, she’d come in my hut in the middle of the night, after making her rounds with the GI’s in the company area, push me over in my bunk to the opposite side of the bed and fall to sleep along side of me. If I wasn’t tired, and we were both awake, she’d say [with her luring voice],
“Three dollars for you…I give you credit, I feel safe with you, you’re my friend.” [And she was a friend.] She just liked to screw, and screw and screw, for she could have slept there without offering anything, she knew me well and knew I’d not bother her. She had big breasts, for a small Vietnamese girl, and she’d push them next to me, and get me hard until I couldn’t sleep. She must have stayed with me a dozen times during my eight months in Vietnam, until one day the First Sergeant woke me up, and told me to get rid of Frenchie once and for all.
She was a lovely young lady, and those big lovely breasts, and still somewhat firm, unheard of for a Vietnamese girl. She looked more French than Vietnamese, and was taller than most of the girls, about 5’4”. She had a very smooth body, and slim waist. Her breasts were very full and healthy looking. She had dark black hair, and dark mystic eyes –very feminine, and uninhibited. She told me some nights she made $500 dollars, which was a great amount of money for anyone, GI or Vietnamese. She would have had to sleep with thirty guys at least to make that sum. But then some GI’s were more willing to pay higher prices for extra things done. She stashed her money under my pillow, or mattress, depending if I was half asleep or not. I’d never touch it; it was always where she put it when she came to get it. Sometimes she’d come back later and get it that evening, that is, she’d drop it off at midnight and pick it up at 4:00 AM in the morning, giving me a good night kiss, and farewell, she was gone, as quick as she came. Sometimes I never knew it was there and she’d come back two days later saying to me, “I left a little bundle under your mattress,” and there’d be $300 or $400 hundred dollars. I don’t think she wanted to share with the cowboys sometimes. They wanted 20 to 30 percent of what they brought in, and sometimes they would search them completely, having them strip naked in front of them to make sure they were not being cheated. [The cowboys being a group of youth-gang running loose in the village, who made the girls pay for protection; that is protection from other gangs and them.]


3


Raquel Welch


Say what you will, but in my Company area, Raquel Welch was the pin up girl on my wall [black and white], I got a poster from her, signed, but I think it was printed on by machine. No one else in the company had what I called a poster. Calendars yes, but not an original poster, and of Raquel, surely not one from her, so that made me a kind of hot shot [but there is more to this].
Most of my friends in Vietnam believed she [Raquel Welch, whose poster I had put it up on a back-board of the bunk at the head of my bed] was my girlfriend, until I told them, three-weeks after I had gotten it and set it in my room, that I had gotten the poster by request via mailing for it. When I told the guys this, I also told them I was just kidding, that she was not my girlfriend after all —woops, that didn’t go over so well, but to make up for it I told them that when I left Vietnam, someone would get it in the company area.
But during the time when they thought she was my girlfriend, the truth of the matter was, they’d come into my hutch, the GI’s that is, check out the picture when I was gone, and go tell their friends [sometimes I would ask my hutch buddies ‘…who was in looking at the picture?’ and they’d shoot a few names off to me]. And so, I became quite popular. But again, when I told them the truth, they felt a little dumb, and gave me some dirty looks, but life went on in the hot monsoons, nonetheless, and they still liked the pin up.
I kept her picture on the back of the board by my bed to the day I left. I had a few takers when I left Vietnam for it, as I had told them I was going to give it away, and I couldn’t think of a reason not to give it to them, they’d most likely play the same prank on the new GI’s coming into the company as I did. Nonetheless, I did end up giving it to my friend in the mess hall. [I kind of wish I had kept it now that I think about it, a good memory for those long dark lifeless nights, so long ago.] But Raquel thanks for the 6-months of watching over me.



One might say my first love was always, or for the most part it seemed to be, either poetry or playing the guitar. One might even add to that by saying, they both went hand-in-hand, poetry in motion that is. In those long lonely far-off nights in Vietnam, between being drunk, guard duty, my regular job, screwing, going to the medic’s because I was screwing and got something I’m not proud of, I would sit back and write my poetry, or play my guitar [yes I even found a guitar over there]. Three of my several poems were found recently in one of my old Army Greens I had left in the closet, with the mothballs [in l980, I would publish my first book of poetry, but I did not add these three poems into them, here they are now]:


[I was sitting back in my bunk, playing the guitar low, looking at my poster of Raquel, and started writing out of the blue…thinking of Minnesota I think “One Autumn Evening, Long, Long Ago, --1971]





4


Who Heard Me


The second day in Vietnam often times came back to my memory throughout my stay in this hot-hell-hole, when I had time to sit and think after duty hours in my company area. I’d sit back with my green t-shirt on, kick back, and think about how I got up, out of bed that second day; --it was 7:00 A.M. I had breakfast, then afterwards I/we ended up standing in a formation, all 400-of us, for there was a second flight [plane] that came in the same evening ours came in, although a little later. In any case we all stood in this large horseshoe three-quarter circle. The Command Sergeant Major, a First Sergeant, and a Major were present, --along with a Master Sergeant [E-7] who did the talking. Then he started calling names,
He said, with a stern voice [the Master Sergeant]:
“The next seven names are going to be infantry,” adding an even more aggressive and dominate tone to the demand,
“… And I don’t care what your MOS is [job title], you have two occupations, one is what you are trained to do, and the second is infantry [also what we are trained to do], and we are short of infantry.”
He was right, we were trained usually in one area, and the infantry side was the killing training, which everyone got the same dose of. The good point was they didn’t call my name for the infantry. Now there were three of us left, and the sergeant said,
[With a warning emphasis.] “You three will stay here,” --strange how things happen, I whispered under my breath. This was not democracy, but it worked. I had said under my breath again, in the heat of the morning, ‘…it was a prayer…’ I was not used to praying, but I did say, ‘Lord, I wish I’d stay right here…’ and I did. Not sure why I liked it, because I didn’t know a thing about where I was, but it seemed like home, --anyplace would have felt that way I suppose but I have learned “…ask and you shall receive…” [Matthew 7:7 New Testament]. I was not a religious person back then, but I knew of him, maybe that was good enough, you know, like the preachers say: just a little faith moves mountains.


5

The Bomb
[And the toe]


I had hurt my right leg [foot really] in Germany, by having a bomb fall on it, an eight-inch projectile [about 200-lbs of weight]; it smashed my toes to hell on my right foot, and so I limped a little, shifting about fourteen-pounds of my weight to my left side. I was not a good runner anymore. And while taking jungle training in Washington State, I was getting a medical deferment for [or put another way, --from] going to Vietnam because I wouldn’t be able to run like the rest of the soldiers, when I most needed to, I suppose they felt. But back then I was a restless kind of guy, which I still carry with me to this day [the restlessness that is]; but on the other hand, needless to say, I ended up in Vietnam nonetheless. Let me explain.
I jumped on the jet going to Vietnam without seeing the doctor, or waiting for the deferment; --why, there we go again, that restlessness. When I got to Vietnam and went through the assignment process, the medics, after checking me for what they called a ‘basic-check up’ upon entering the country, then started to check my medical records, asked
[Unenthusiastically— wiping his forehead from the sweat] “…Why are you not in the hospital at Fort Lewis PFC Evens?” [He showed my medical records and what was indicated in it, which was to be examined by a foot specialist].
I said, with a squeaky kind of voice, I think:
“My appointment was for Thursday, and the plane was leaving Tuesday.” They looked at me strange as if I left out something. So I added,
[Quickly.] “I got fed up.” The medic looked at me, shock his head,
“I’m from Alabama,” [He pronounced the a like in random]. “And we’re not that dumb down there.” Then gave me a half smile, and laughed a bit, looking at his friend [his friend sitting by his side that is] who shook his head, not knowing if to cry, or laugh because of how I approached life I suppose,
And said,
said that [the assisting medic],
“You’re here now buddy and you’re not going back, --no-p Uncle Sam is not paying for a round-trip ticket yet, you are not going back, not right now. Sorry…!”
[I understood the first time he really didn’t need to repeat it, I think he was thinking I was going to ask to go home but I didn’t] I commented,
[And I was being truthful] “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me.” He all of a sudden got frog eyes, big as big can be.
In most cases, I cared more about where I was going to get my next beer more than if I could skip the war and go home. Needless to say [but I will anyways] I was not a married man, --I was free as a bird in a tree; I loved traveling, and war was part of being a soldier, and traveling was also, and so I said to my brain, let’s go, no big thing. It was not crazy talk, just a pinch of reality. I promised myself one thing in Vietnam though, I would not go back in pieces, and whoever was in front of me would go down with me, and that seemed fair enough.
And so I told myself with an assuring look, ‘I’ll simple make the best of it.’ [And I did.] I had learned people do not make fun for you, you do it yourself. And if you want life to be hard, life can accommodate that also. I was here for a mission, and I’d do the best I could with what I had, now. I felt it was a simple philosophy, for a simple man.


Tommy the Coke Man


We all had jungle camouflage fatigues--- along with boots that were specially made for this kind of terrain and weather. We got old newspapers from back in the states [but as I said they were way out dated by the time we got them] along with the ‘Stars and the Strips’ [the military version of a large newspaper that was sent out to all military unites wherever US Armed Forces were]; from all sides of the world Vietnam was much in the news; yet after being in this country a while I realized people back home were given only light sketches of reality of the soldier in Vietnam [such as would be the bombing of the tri-ammo dumps here in Cam Ranh Bay].
Tommy, a Specialist Five, like a Sergeant, worked for the mess hall. Like me, he often just wore t-shirts, and was in the base camp most of the time. He was a large man, both tall and wide; not as strong looking as the Crusher in the company [a person I’d get in a fight with], but none-the-less, no one to wanted to mess with if you didn’t have to, he was perhaps some 230-lbs, 5’ll. In any case, he used to sell pop [soda] to us—GI’s [soldiers] at the 611thOrdnance Company.
He was one of the few who had a refrigerator [although I acquire one about four months prior to my leaving, and often the electricity would go out leaving the pop warm anyways, not sure if it was worth it.] In any event, he used to sell the pop for .25 cents to anyone in the company wanting it, and sometimes gave credit. He told me once he made $900 in a month. Told me to hush that up, “People get envious you know Chick, be quiet about it…” Well he got that right, people do, especially when they are in need of dope [and to me I had put all drugs, other than alcohol related substances, into one category, being dope] and we had our share of folks with that issue.
He didn’t wear a hat for the most part [as I most of the time did] no hat in this region, in this region of the world that is, could be fatal. Yet, and I say yet, lightly--if I was to call him odd, meaning, a bit eccentric in my world, then I’d just as well have to call myself odd, for I was on such a cutting edge if there is one. I suppose [if someone was to give me a nick name it might have been ‘Trigger-happy’] my trigger-happy hand, was considered in such a class, everyone told me about my oddity, I was too paranoid.


6


The Last Fight
[And the Thief]


“The Last Fight,” not sure why I called it that [for there were a couple of fights in Vietnam I had, before and after this one], but this one had its moments; and the karate I had learned in San Francisco would come in handy, very, very handy. I had thought of saving my energy for the enemy, but trouble in those days seemed to find me no matter where I went, and the company area with my fellow GI–comrades, took the best out of me. Meaning, sometimes your own comrades were more dangerous than the enemy. Having said that let me explain:

I called him the Crusher [as I had previously noted] --I called him that because he had a few fights in Vietnam with other GI’s, and I watched a couple of those fights, where he, the Crusher was involved, and he was mean looking just like the wrestler back home called the Crusher.

٭

One night a black soldier [this is another fight, not the one with the Crusher yet] tried to steal some of my things to sell them for drugs/dope, if you will. I always slept with one eye open in those days--believe it or not. His shadow that night, as he crept in, and around my bed, his shadow crossed my eyes…just a little draft came with it, as he turned around starting to’ --to go the other way, back where he came from; --I jumped over my boxes, several that made a barricade to the side of my bed, thus, one had to go around it to get to me, --I jumped right over and onto the shadow, with my one open eye, it was about 3:00 AM. I beat the shit out of the man-shadow, [he was a black soldier] as his buddy stood there watching, both high on dope—then they both ran, --I picked up my merchandise he had stole and dropped when I landed on him; his friend was simply ‘a watch person’: --watching to see who would come in or out of the hut, while the theft was taking place. They really never expected me to wake up. They were looking for things to sell to buy dope with.
The hutch was not much to speak of, four walls, and a door to close, but it was home, away from home. And there was not much room. By and large we all had the same amount of room, [or space, square footage if you will]. And although we woke up everyone, and the two blacks ran, --its funny no one came to my rescue. I think everyone wanted to keep out of everyone else’s affairs. But then on the other side of the coin, everyone was on something most of the time. Thank god it wasn’t Charlie [the enemy whose shadow I jumped on].
The following morning the other black soldiers were wondering if I was going to go to the Captain [I could tell this by the looks I was getting], but I didn’t… --it was an internal thing I felt, and he [the black robber] was no more than a wasted dope freak. He would eventually get short [his time would run out for being in the Army], and instead of leaving Vietnam and going home, he’d choose to go and live in the village of all places, hung up on that white shit, heroin. He is probably still there [as this story is being written], or dead.
When I took my shower the following morning [after I beat the shit out of the thief] I felt this was it, a new battle brewing, several blacks approaching me. I stood in the shower with the water running over my back [adopting an equally to the point manner]. But what they simply said was [standing beside the wooden shower house:
“Look, there’s mighty mouse [then switching the subject as they walked away].” I was a quiet soldier for the most part [quiet in the sense I kept to myself] and surprised them I think with my hands on approach in defending my territory, it shocked them. Plus I had a few black friends of my own; and back then the blacks and whites pretty much kept to themselves, except for me I suppose, I didn’t realize, nor did it occur to me there might be racial, if not radical issues floating in the air in the racial area. And I’m sure they asked my black friends, and were told I was ok, for being a white guy. Back then, the blacks as well as whites had clinches; in any event, I was the victim, and had done a few favors for a few of my black friends, as they had for me. And so a simple monologue was expressed and they went on their way.
One of my black friends, a Buck-Sergeant, let me use his beautiful leather shoes for R&R [Rest and Recuperation] in Sidney, Australia. Hold your horses—[I’m getting back to the Crusher in a moment]. He was most likely one of my supporters in this theft vs. fight.
Anyway, the enemy was not always the VC [Viet Cong], as you can see. Matter of fact, even though they would sneak into our camp, set up a few traps, liked putting a bullet behind our hutch doors, so when you closed them a small gun shot noise would go off, just enough to scare you. But that was nothing compared to the Military Police, next door to our compound, who were camped beside us, who caused us a little trouble, and we retaliated by throwing a grenade into their camp one night, and blew up the whole movie screen. Things got a little out of hand now and then; --the things no one much hears about.


The Crusher

As I was about to say, I lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, and used to go to see the wrestling matches downtown at the Armory [mid-l960’s], and once the wrestler, called the Crusher, walked down the isle to the ring, he walked a foot from me, right past me, I’ll never forget that, not a hero, but surely a good entertainer, and a sight to behold, he was muscle, muscle and strength. Anyhow, people were trying to touch him, in particular, one guy was trying to push him, etc., and actually touched him in the process, --the Crusher took one hand and shoved the annoying spectator backwards off and over the stool he had behind him; one sweep, that’s all it took just one quick sweep, and the guy went flying like a fly. As he fell back, he landed on his arm; --no problem, I think the guy liked it.
In any case, my sergeant friend looked like the Crusher, and I say friend loosely, for he was quite boastful. He was an infantryman, and had spent a few times, long periods of time [s] that is-- in the jungle. He was starting to loose mentally it seemed, so whatever company he was assigned to, prior to coming to the 611th, for they sent him to us, he was not to go back until he got mentally stable. For the most part, it was long-term jungle fatigue. As I was saying, he was assigned to our Ordnance Company to assist with the supplying of arms to other units throughout the area, and would have to do so, until he gained his sanity back. He did though his of work along with his share of drinking, and was for the most part a bully.
He could be a good sort of fellow at times though, when he wanted to be, when he was sober that is, but the other part of him was strange and mean, boastful, quickly offended. He liked Vietnam, or so it seemed, for he never came out and told me so, and he liked killing I think, again a conjecture, but befitting. Once he took my taller friend Bruce, I being five feet eight inches, and him five feet eleven, and the Crusher being about six foot-one, and pinned Bruce against the wall in our hutch, right by my bed, and hit him several times----he fell to the floor like a paper bag. He was half snapped though [drunk].
Bruce’s bed was across from mine, and the Crusher’s was in back of mine, in an enclosed area [his being the only enclosed room in the hutch], being the ranking man. The sergeant, that is, the Crusher, looked at me, and around the hutch, as if to say: I got some more of this for anyone who would like some, --kind of bragging, and provoking almost, hoping someone would say something [all remained quiet]. I told myself I’d be ready for him because somewhere along the line he was going to try and beat the shit out of me, just a matter of time I told myself. I knew the day was coming though; I have good senses if anything. Apart, from my Irish-Russian temper I could surely get in the way somewhere along the line with the Crusher, and could even provoke him, and should I annoy him along these lines by not obeying his every wish [my temper that is could get in the way], I would not be as easy taken down as Bruce was, I assured myself of that.
Bruce was the sergeant in the orderly room, who did assignments for everyone, and I guess he did the Crusher wrong on a few occasions, such as not giving him leave, but Bruce did everyone wrong, and he surely had it coming. But what a mismatch, I mean the Crusher had muscles coming out of his nose; his arms were as big as my thighs. He was like a bull if anything. How would you fight a guy like this? And when he got drunk, and mad, boy oh boy, you couldn’t hurt the demon inside of him I’m sure. Or so I thought, evaluating the situation that evening when Bruce got it.
Well, we lived in what we called this hutch [short for wooden and tin cage], four men to the place; --again, the Crusher was a sergeant, and I was a corporal. And so he got the enclosed sleeping room, as I have already mentioned. When a friend of mine left, he gave me his outside antenna, and so I made sure it was hooked up to the top of the hutch, getting Saigon’s transmission at night; I had also bought the person’s TV, which was quite the commodity in Vietnam, if only you could get good enough reception the TV would be worth having, although you only got an hour or three of reception-time, and it was mostly news.
Well, the Crusher saw my antenna hooked up on top of the hutch, and that I got good results with it by checking out my TV, as he walked daily though the front door of the hutch, and put his wiring on to mine [when I wasn’t around] so he could also get good transmission, for he had just purchased a TV from a GI leaving, like me. Again, we only had a few hours a night of TV reception, and mostly it was all news, but what the heck, it was a distraction. In spite of it all, I took it off [his antenna]. His sergeant friend, George, who had a Vietnamese girlfriend, and was fighting with her and trying to make an agreement with her not to screw anyone [everyone] while he was on leave, for he was about to go on leave shortly, --going home to see whoever, probably his other girlfriend. Well, he came to me and told me the Crusher didn’t like the idea I had taken his wiring off my antenna and to watch out especially if he got drunk he’d take it out on me. I told him to go tell his Sergeant friend, who was in the room about ten feet away from me ‘it stays off,’ the antenna that is, and he could see me about it if it bothered him.

٭

However, it was about three days later, about 9:00 PM at night, when the matter came up again. He was drunk, and he came to me and said he wanted to talk to me in his little room, and so I went in it. He put it to me quite bluntly, saying [appalled at my actions]:
“You best put the wiring back on or I’m going to nail your ass to the wall…” I said no. His sergeant friend [George] stayed outside of the enclosed room within the hutch, with my black friend Terry, a sergeant who was to borrow me his shoes for my R & R [Rest and Recuperation] trip to Australia coming up. I could hear them talking. I think Bruce was telling Terry, I told Chick, now he’s going to get it. If I knew Terry, he’d had said nothing, and I couldn’t hear him, so most likely he didn’t, and was simply awaiting the fight, because if anything, he knew I was a little crazy, or possible just as crazy as the Crusher.
As I looked at the Crusher [swallowing, and clearing my mouth, as if to clear my throat also to prepare for battle], I told him it wasn’t his wire, and he was rude, and if he wanted to ask in a nice way, I could be persuaded to let him use it. I tried to speak in a tone of voice I would call ‘quiet humor’--, that is, trying to defuse the situation.
I said [hesitating] “Ask, don’t assume you can use what doesn’t belong to you.” Outrage came in this man’s face [the man called the Crusher] He now was not responding and now we both had a silent glare –staring at each other’s face, as if we were not close enough, --our faces seemed to stretch forward. [He was a beast, bully and fool, and I do not use the word ‘fool’ lightly.] He was thinking—without infinitesimally, only with misplaced emotion.
“Screw you and your nice way…” he told me point-blank. I started to turn around, I said, blatantly:
“Have it your own way, but don’t put it back up, I’ll just take it back down.” I knew as I was making my turn he was going to try and start tossing me about in that little room, and the room was way too small for a fight. And he was getting madder, redder and stuttering with not knowing what to say. I went for the door, his shadow moved,
“Stop,” said the 210-pound sergeant turning [it was the tone, not the words that said to me, that I recognized, it was that of battle, no less]. My 165 pounds, pretty solid poundage, and fast with my fists, and I had three years of karate backing me up, I saw him become reckless with his open posture.
“Ah,” he said, “Yes I see you now a little waking up boy!” Now he stopped, “I’m from the jungle where all the action is, you’re just a support nobody,” he spit out with carelessness.
[Modestly] “But without us ‘support nobodies,’ how would you been able to kill those little Vietcong-gook soldiers? …Matter of fact, how come they sent you back, too much for the big man out there?” [Now I was getting mad and mocking.]
That was it, I put salt on a wound, not sure what wound that was, except he was sent back for mental and fatigue rest [or so I was told].
“I warned you,” he said, “that’s not good enough?” I noticed the dim light in his room…………….
His head was huge, a good size stomach also, a wide face and large hands; he now stood about five inches from my face.
“You better change your mind Corporal, or I’m going to pound your head in!”
Aggravatingly I commented, with a half smile: “Start pounding,” adding, “It’s still no, and that’s the way it is.”
He pulled his hand back as if to cock it like a gun, preparing to hit me, actually expecting me to allow him to do so without doing anything [like he did to Bruce], but I surprised him; I blocked his power punch, and shoved him back onto his bed, he fell backwards lost his balance, like a hippo. I could have jumped on him, but I thought that wouldn’t do a thing, I needed room; --as that thought faded the war between him and I had started…………..Œ∑w
…………………….
……………….wwwwwwwww the sound of war was everywhere…

“Mother f…er, mother f…er, I’m going to kick the shit out you; just wait …!” He was slurring his speech, and I think I was also, both a little drunk. I didn’t swear, which was really normal for me, I just said, “Yaw, yaw…” keeping my cool, as I was taught in San Francisco, by my master instructor, Gosei Yamaguchi.

He looked up at me, and then looked at the door░; he knew he was in a vulnerable position.
“Let’s go outside by the hutch,” he demanded.
As I opened the door and walked out, Bruce stood there dumbfounded. I commented, “Just stay where you’re Bruce, we don’t need an audience, and you too George.”
The Crusher came out, roaring and swearing and we both ended up on the boardwalk outside the hutch

there were three others looking at us, his friend in disbelief, surprised I was still alive as I looked in the entrance way, the light of the inside hutch shinning on him, and then I noticed it was raining a bit, and so within a few seconds, the Crusher joined me, --he started to throw rights and left punches. I blocked everything he threw; he was madder than a hornet, he couldn’t hit me though [mad as a hornet, huge like a hippo, and slow as a turtle]. Almost shaking his head, and getting tired of trying, he went to grab me and I broke his hold onto my arm and shoulder, then I kicked him in the groin with my knee, but he kept on coming. He was like a train charging through a barrier.
I was not getting tired yet, and wanted to fight a closer fight. I had fought taller men before, and one of the main things is to get close, the reason being, they need room to stretch their long arms and legs, --so I moved in, which prevented him from cocking his fists, or getting a punch in on me, --every time he tried, I’d hit his arms, throw them to the left and right, almost putting him off balance, and with all that weight he carried on him, it wasn’t too hard to get him off balance, it was just hard to block his solid heavy arms as they came crushing forward for a knock out punch; unknowingly, he left me several openings; I gave him elbows under his arms to the ribs, punches and kicks, but nothing would put this guy down, yet he was getting tired. I don’t think he ever hit me once.
Then getting frustrated on what to do with this guy, I twisted my body like a spiral, stepping back two feet, knowing he would come forward any second, which he had already started to, I jumped in the air, when I came down, I took my fingers and planted them into his forehead, and scraped all the way down and over his face to his neck; I had long fingernails back then, just for such occasions. When I landed his face was all blood. I had put such deep groves into his face he screamed and stepped back. Now we both were looking at one another.
Bruce said,
“Let’s stop here, we’re all going to get in trouble,” meaning a Non-commission officer, the Crusher, was fighting a corporal, [me] a less grade, or rank, or enlisted man; this was grounds for an undesirable discharge, or Court Marshal for him. Plus, he threw the first punch in and outside the hutch. And so I walked in the hutch, and the Crusher walked behind me. When we got in, he grabbed me and threw me against the wooden wall. Before he could come any closer, I jumped into a stanza position.
“I thought it was over,” I said, as he went to grab me and try to throw me against the wall again, but this time I got in a solid stance [as if my feet were plastered to the floor] and egged him on [but this time he was more careful, he didn’t rush me in fear I might know or do something he’d regret],
“Ok, you want it, come and get some more, big boy;” now they were holding me back and him [that is, George and Bruce were holding me, and two other GI’s were holding the Crusher]. I figured the only way to put this hippo down was to go for a kill blow, but god forbid if it worked, under his arm pit, I could puncture his lungs, or I could go for driving his nose bone up into his spine or break an arm and hope that would stop him. I guess it came down to, whatever my mind said at the last second, and if he charged me, and gave me an opening.
Bruce said, in a preacher’s tone:
“The First Sergeant’s coming, we can all get in trouble for letting this fight go on,” he repeated himself sternly.
Everyone started leaving and the Crusher and I stood looking at each other for a moment, and then went to our living spaces. Bruce and George went into the enclosed room, with the Crusher.
We both needed to cool off, --to carry this any further was really not needed, --our tempers got wild, when least expected—we both had come to this conclusion I believe; yet in a way I kind of was glad it happened, get it over with. I had sensed for a long while he took a dislike to me, or if not that, at least in some way I did not look up to him, and it bothered him; but then I didn’t look up to many people in those days.
His friend George came back the next day and asked if I was going to press charges on the sergeant for him hitting a lower ranking GI. I said I had no reason to.
Then he said, with a soft arrogant voice:
“You know his face looks bad, he said you fight dirty, like a woman…sort of. And if you want to continue with the fight he is willing.”
I said back to him [lightly offended],
“First of all, I doubt a woman can twist her body and jump in the air high enough to leave marks like that in his face, and second, there are no rules in fighting, if that was the case he out weights me by 100-pounds, and is four inches taller than me. Who is doing the cheating here? Go back and tell him, I don’t want to fight anymore, but if he thinks he can push me around, he knows where I sleep: I’ll fight him everyday of the week if that is what it takes to satisfy him. Plus, fighting dirty, what’s that, something you made up?”
I added, “He just doesn’t like that he can’t push me around like he does everyone else.”
George commented [arrogantly], “You know he can take you?” I knew he was trying to start something then. Why didn’t he say, ‘I know I can take you,’ and fight me instead of having his friend who wasn’t there be the recipient of his wish list.
I replied [and didn’t give him much to bring back to the Crusher], “Maybe he can, but that is not the issue with me. The issue is, I will not be pushed around by him or for that matter, anyone, and if need be we can/or will have to fight everyday, as I already said, and that is that.”
Well, it must have worked he never bothered me again. But for a few weeks he gave me some stares, bad look, edgewise looks of contempt, almost as if to say, “I wish you would start something.” And my looks said, “You know where I sleep.” For the most part, I tried not to look at him; I had other things on my mind. So often people think they possessed every thought of your time, when in essence they don’t, plus I didn’t let it. I figured if he wanted to go through the ordeal again, he’d get drunk one night and start it back up. But that never happened. Incidentally, he never did ask to attach his wiring to my antenna after that, but had George ask about a week later, nicely, and I said, “Yes, it was fine with me.” And that was that.


7


Rockets at the Ammo Dump
[Where the Birds Don’t Sing]




The rockets were coming all around us, and within the ammo dumps grounds, I was in the middle of it all, --this was the first time I had ever seen Commission Officers of every rank running and hiding like mice running from cats, and high ranking sergeants doing the same; soldiers digging holes in the dirt so not to get their bodies torn apart from the scrap metal [shrapnel] flying all about. Three rockets hit, one behind the headquarters hut, more like a shack, another by the water tank, and one by the five-ton-truck that was suppose to take me back to base camp, every time they hit, I had breakfast in my hands [and I counted three times]; that is, I’d be climbing up onto the back of the five-ton-truck, just before I got onto the trucks platform wanting to get to one of the wooden seats on each side of the truck to finish my breakfast], a rocket came. I could hear the rocket’s whistle-at times a humming sound; its velocity had that stunning and almost paralyzing tone; a twisting velocity sound that went right to the marrow of your bones. I ended up throwing my breakfast in the air ALL THREE TIMES, jumping to the ground some several feet down, and finding a place to hide.
This was not the first time rockets came in and around where I was, but it was nonstop and oncoming this morning more so than usual, as if they had zeroed in on this particular location, right where all the Officers [brass], and sergeants were. [I would find out later, that it made the newspapers in Vietnam and back home, in either case, they indicated 50% of the tri-ammo dumps were destroyed in this area, by and large, the paper really toned-down the journalistic-truth of the matter].
During the first hit [bombardment of rockets], I hid under a truck; the second, I jumped off the truck, and under the water tank, which was about 15-feet to the left of me, I was thinking the truck might get hit, since the rocket came pretty close last time, which was about ten-minutes ago; the Viet Cong [enemy] had us zeroed in within a radius of a square block. Each time I heard the sounds of the incoming rocket, I stood still for a moment checking out, or trying to, in what direction it was coming, it was like a bee getting louder, and louder, everyone reacting differently, I looked about amazed; yet, it was become old news, that is, --after hearing the first whittlings of the incoming rockets, then the explosions, I kept my cool. No need to over react I told myself.
I didn’t realize at the moment, [but I do now] I could actually pin-point which direction the rockets were coming, and I did, and I hollered out which direction to the hundred or so soldiers standing around.
You’re never sure, that is to say, you never quite know if you are able to react properly, and promptly, --not until the first time has passed, thus, moving in the right direction and keeping focus is the main objective I learned quick. In such a moment a gun or rifle is useless. But you learn swiftly in this war you needed to know how your mind and body would react, or at least I did, by knowing this you knew when to stand, run, hide, listen; in essence, how to react so you didn’t run into harms way. Matter of fact, today, as well as two other times being under attack, I was becoming aware of many things, one being I’d leave this war in one piece, or a lot of the gooks [Viet Cong] would go down with me.
That’s what we called them, yes, a dehumanizing name, not sure what they called us, maybe round-eyes, or worse, but I would guess it was not the Great American Boys. In any event, they like us, had to kill and to kill you had to dehumanize; it’s part of the preparation for taking a life. That is what Uncle Sam teaches you, trains and pays you for, to be a killer. What else in the long run is a soldier good for? It is like an accountant with no numbers to deal with, what good is she or he good for. You can use them, as you will, but when you need them, they got to know accounting; like a soldier, he has to know how to kill. [Or be killed. Not much gray in this area.] In essence, no matter how you looked at it, one had to be ready. But again, I learned keeping my cool was something that came automatically, thank god.
I had wanted to get the hell out of here on the truck and back to base camp [several times], I was tired and hungry. I had been out all night long, eleven of us out of 169-soldiers in our company. We got hit last night, and for some reason, the rest of the soldiers were not able to function properly, some out of heroin usage, others on pot [in essence, a high majority on drugs] and still others passed out on booze [alcohol]. And so there were just us 11-soldiers available, ‘what a joke’ I told myself.
I had my share of beer the night before, but I was ok, my sensory-perception seemed to be 70% effective; I was aware of all movements about me. We got hit bad last night, and I went out along with a squad into the dark empty unguarded ammo dump to secure it, thinking Charlie [the enemy] would infiltrate it.


As I stood by the truck again [for the umpteenth time], thinking this morning it was all over as far as incoming rockets were concerned, I heard the sound of the humming-bee again, getting closer and closer,
“Oh shit,” I said [hoarsely], “…the whistling, another damn rocket.”
I looked about, no place to hide. There was the Colonel, he was running like a jack rabbit, and the sergeant who talked a good battle while sitting in the wooden shack-office day after day counting the stock in the ammo dump, and for the most part, wasn’t all talk, he too was running, and the Major, the Captain, and all the privates. I jumped along side of a thirty-foot embankment. Somehow I missed it before, ‘where was it,’ my mind asked my eyes [?] A rhetorical question at best, for it gave no answer only curiosity itself. I asked myself, it’s better and safer than the damn truck half full of gas, or the water tank that could have collapse on me had it got hit, and a few thousand pounds on my frame, this was less vulnerable; but there it was, a short distance from the lopsided wooden headquarters shack, --the things you miss when the shit hits the fan. This shack or command station in the ammo dump was really our home base, away from home, the camp being several miles away [which was about three-miles down the road, and four-miles along the coast of the South China Sea, and about two miles inland from the peninsula].
I had my rifle in my hand now, my helmet was still on my head, it fell off twice before when I was running and jumping for shelter. Another sound ----a whistle was coming in closer; another bee I told myself. As I turned my head around to look down the thirty-foot embankment to the people on the ground below me, several were digging holes in the ground like ground-hogs; others looked like dogs digging for bones, they hid their faces, throwing dirt on their backs, waiting and hoping the metal fragments, when they started to fly, would miss them, or if not miss them, at least miss their face.
The whistling-sound of the rocket [one rocket this time] was getting closer and closer. I peeked-–slowly—above the embankment, to my left, -- in the best sense of the word, there was my ‘homey’ [my friend from my home town], yes, it was him, standing frozen by the guardhouse. Why he didn’t move was beyond me [I told myself]. But then I had seen it before; you freeze sometimes in such situations.
“Move, MOVE, in coming!” I yelled.
He didn’t move, but he caught my eyes. The sound was getting closer, I looked in the sky, you can’t see those rockets coming, just hear the whistling-sound [the humming coming from the twisting velocity of the projectile] as they approach, closer and closer; -- and these are multi-seconds I am talking about some times, --not minutes, but things happen that quickly in war.
“Move…!” I yelled again
I had no choice’ I pulled my head back, covered it with my forearms and helmet, and waited for the sound, the explosion. I think I heard a thump, yes, that’s what I heard, nothing else. I stayed put [not moving], then looked [waiting to see if this was round, that is rocket, with a delayed reaction] slowly over the embankment again l looked. The shack was still standing; the truck and water tank was in place. Everyone was hiding, and there was my homey, on his knees, his hands in a prayer position. What happened I asked myself? I looked about again, scanning the whole area, where is the rocket, and then I noticed my homey shaking, just shaking like a loose leaf on a tree. Everything was silent, no birds singing [birds don’t like war zones I was learning], no lizards moving, nothing, just silence, as if the clock-of-time had stopped.
My homey moved a little, there, there, I saw something, I started to get up from my position, and the rocket was three feet from him, ‘my god,’ I said, ‘what luck.’ He looked at me as if he was frozen with fear, afraid to take his hands out of the prayer position, in fear that is, the rocket would go off. His eyes were the only things moving on his body.
As I got up on my feet and started to walk towards him, many of my comrades came out of their hiding places, and then I saw the rocket [the one that I heard the whistling coming from, but no explosion] about eight-inches into the dirt.
“I’ll be damn, it didn’t go off, it didn’t go off, and it didn’t go off…” I repeated to myself several more times; prayers must work I concluded, for this was surely a miracle. I stood erect, walking closer to my homey; it was to his right [the rocket that is].
When I got to him, I asked if he was ok, he started to stutter, I knew he wasn’t ok, and wouldn’t be for a very long time. The medics came, walked him over to the truck, I jumped on the back of it, he was in the front seat with the driver, and medic. We went back to base camp. I felt good on one hand to get the hell out of there, I had been there since 1:00 AM last night, and now it was about 10:30 AM; nine and a half hours of dodging scrap-metal, rockets, and this was my third victory over death, not including the nighttime.
When we got back to the company area, my friend was taken to the clinic where in about three days they took him to Japan for medical treatment. [Seven months later I ended up going home. And about 18-months after that, I called him up, he told me he couldn’t talk or see me anymore; I was part of his memory, a part that triggered the elusive moment when the rocket froze along side of him, where time stopped. He asked me not to take it personal; --it was simply too much for him. And so I honored his request, and after thirty-five years, I have yet to call him, nor will I; he was a good soldier, and a lucky one.]


8

Engagements
[Other Activities]


I had worked eight-hours that following day, got about three hours sleep, then nine-hours in the field of dreams, dodging the rockets, and once back to base camp, I had three more hours sleep, and had to go back to work. I had at this point left out the evening conflicts [prior to my homey getting frozen, and the rocket not going off, so I will now], but I was asked, thereafter [about two weeks later] if I would accept an Army Commendation Medal for Valor. I refused it on the grounds, my ‘homey’ [person from my home town, in this case he was a relative of a friend of mine back in the neighborhood who I used to hang out with] should get it, not me, but I did accept a metal for extra ordinary service, for that evening, and morning conflict. But I should add that that evening conflict was even scarier than the following morning bombardment. Let me explain:


One man died, three ammo dumps were targeted and bombed and blown all over the area, and for some odd reason, Delta, the dump I was in, got only the incoming shrapnel which was flying all about from the Air Force Dump [other than receiving incoming, the enemy only hit dirt at Delta dump, Charlie dump was emptied out, which was next to our dump, but the papers would read, 50% of all three dumps were demolished, this was not true; although 50% if not more of the Air Force dump was]; the shrapnel went as far as the South China Sea, three to four miles away --yet the dump was but a few miles from me/us [the Air Force dump].

The evening was horrific, deadly.

A huge hot red piece of metal [about the size of my fist] flew by my face that evening [2:45 AM], about one, maybe two inches from my face. I told a soldier, who was suppose to be guarding a part of the dump to the south of me, but wasn’t because he was standing by me talking like a manic-fool [haphazardly], who was falling to pieces [in the sense of mentally that is]; --in point of fact, I told him he was not in his proper location, guarding and insuring the enemy did not infiltrate the south area, accordingly, endangering lives, if not me, himself.
He was scared to death, I tried to calm him down, and told him to get himself together [more shrapnel was flaying by us, all about]; —we being only eleven that evening out of 169-soldiers— we needed all the eyes we could get to insure the area was free of the enemy; watching him tremble made me nervous, and just standing there was dangerous, I repeated to him,
“What are you doing here; get the hell back to your location before we both get killed.”
“I can’t. I don’t know what to do, where to go,” he said with a tear in his throat, as if I was going to abandon him.
I said,
“Just go back to your location, secure it, and make sure no VC gets in.”
He replied with reeking anxiety throughout his whole body,
“Secure what, we’re being blown apart all over the place.” Well, he was right, but none-the-less, we were here and we needed to remain for the time being, you can’t really guard anything when you are being rocketed, and so on, not very well anyways. The main point was, was that we couldn’t go back to base camp, we were stuck right here, and we had to be here, and therefore, protect ourselves until it was over. Survive the moment.

He did then return to his post south of me, I told him to transverse when he run, less of a chance to get hit.

As the night went on he came back to me wondering aimlessly again, asking what to do after the Air Force ammo dump went up in flames [everything was being hit, all three dumps]; the explosion was so powerful, it shook the whole foundation of the area.
I got thinking, was he in shock [?] ----Or simply fear and disbelief, --as you looked up into the night sky, the overhead was a mushroom; it looked like an atomic explosion had taken place.
Here is this man wanting to talk, with flying metal all about. I told him to get to an embankment again, to stop walking around and wanting to talk like a fool, that he was a dead man if he didn’t wake up. Scrap-metal was flying by our faces again, at one point he was going into hysterics, the scrap metal went by my face missing it by an inch this time, --it was a heavy solid square piece of red hot iron, --he saw it as the velocity and the sound of the hissing hot metal filled his ears, he leaned over as if to puke; I told him at that point,
“Get the hell out of here now,” [meaning he needed to move and so did I before more scrap-metal came flying by]; in consequence, he ran south again, as I was running up a hill to the right of me, another big explosion went off, and I flew in the air some fifteen feet: --when I landed my rifle went two feet into the mud, it had started to rain out that evening off and on. Actually that was good in the sense it helped put out the fires at the Air Force dump.
On another note, we were pretty lucky, because we had three dumps in the vicinity. The one I was in, Delta dump, which was full of arms, and Charlie dump, which was emptied out just a few weeks ago, and its ammo put into Delta, and the Air Force which had high explosives.
Well, when we got rocketed, they hit all three dumps, but mostly Charlie and the Air Force, and nothing was in Charlie Dump, as I had mentioned, we had moved it. So we lucked out really well, except for the three men who got caught in the atrophy at the Air Force dump. When it went up, that is, when the explosions took place two got out alive the other didn’t make it.


Soldier at the Fence

The attack had gone across the three ammo dumps, throughout the night, and morning, I did make it back to base, and had a good breakfast. In point of fact, several helicopters were called in to hit with arms the Viet Cong Units across the bay that had been shooting rockets over at us, that is over the ammo dump, around the dump, and in the three dumps that rested by one another like a triangle [carelessly shooting rockets that is]: and so they did, and in consequence that was the end of the enemy, and it took the edge off our unit. At that point of time, the tri-ammo-dump’s evenings patrols were doubled, especially those areas that were most vulnerable to penetration.

Two Weeks Later

I never knew what day it was unless I looked on the calendar, or for that matter what time, sometimes what month, for it always seemed summer or spring to me over there.
One evening I had guard duty, that evening I was sent out to the dump to guard an area equal to a two square block area, and Tommy my friend, was to the north of me, some four blocks at any given time, for he also had the same amount of area to secure. Again, it was normal to guard the area, but we usually had two patrol men in a jeep making rounds three times a night: not anymore than that, but because of the tension within the Army circles of Cam Ranh Bay, the higher ups, and the amount of munitions lost in the previous explosions, at the Air Force Dump, the General wanted more security within the dump areas itself, all night long. Matter-of-fact, it was rather quiet for the past two weeks, and possible that may have contributed to it [us being there 24-7 now].
And so, instead of the eight that normally secured the area, along with the Military Police, --now we had sixteen of our own men guarding the dump, along with twice as many MP’s. When we got the duty, it didn’t stop our other jobs. We’d get off guard duty and clean up only to go to our other jobs in the morning. Yes, it was a 16-hour day. But heck, it was just part of the fun.
As I walked my post along the fence, the silence almost put me into an estranged mood. I could hear every sound it seemed. The far off trees and bushes with their dark tops, grassy bottoms, harbored many shadows with the few lights we had. In addition I had a flashlight, when in need.
The fence between the forest and me was about 100-yards directly west. I had my M16 locked and loaded, carried it barrow down: pacing and thinking, thinking and pacing, thinking, and thinking; it seemed like I never stopped thinking, and I never quite got a good night sleep.
The moon looked a little blood-shot this evening I thought, like the way my eyes looked when I was coming off a good drunk the evening before; although the moon was not real clearly light, but enough to spot any unwanted movements in the distance, and with the fog around it, it radiated some colors, or so it seemed, and I wasn’t on anything like drugs, but it was kind of psychedelic, in a manner of speaking. But often nights were like that, you just didn’t notice those nights until you were on guard duty alone.

“Who goes there,” I challenged. The figure kept on walking; I could hear his feet pushing the wet grass aside, moving the mud, --it had rained the day before, and out in these area things did not dry all that quickly, plus the fog seemed to make everything wet.
“Who are you,” I said again, pulling my M16 barrow to my waist level; at the same time I was double-checking any movement in the wooded area behind the figure walking. Shadows, shadows that was all I got, I questioned, mumbling to myself: ‘…could be Charlie, could be Charlie…’ and this man figure showed up, --who know! I questioned myself.
My partner was too far to the North to assist me so I left that for the lizards, I raised my rifle as if to aim it, and the shadow-figure stopped.
“Private Benson,” said the voice, “I’m Private Benson, put down that rifle.” I wasn’t sure what his motive was for being so far off the beaten track to be here that was questionable in my mind. Was Charlie behind him, forcing me to show myself so he could shoot me, using him as a shield, which knows I pondered?
“All right, put you hands up where I can see them, --walk to the fence, and grab the fence, NOW!”
He started laughing, I thought this guy was really something, and I didn’t have time to play games, so I moved the safety-clip to the off position, downward, so the rifle would be ready for what we called ‘rock and roll,’ if need be I could spray the whole area behind the figure with bullets. He heard the click of the safety pin move. I figured I had three more magazines [metal cartage holders you put into the M16] fully loaded, in case I needed them.
The Private heard the click of the rifle, and started stuttering, as he saw my weapon being positioned upward from my waist, and starting to be aimed directly at him and my finger was combing the trigger. It’s funny when your body is in danger: --your senses are heightening and activated.
As he got to the fence he grabbed it securely, as if to reinforce the fact he was doing as he was told, he had tears in his eyes, he knew he was a breath away from me pulling the trigger. He was a white young lad, about 19-years old, tall, slender and dumb.
“See, I’m a GI like you,” he said, in a cocky voice.
“What are you doing out here, setting up something for Charlie?” I commented spartanly, adding, “This area is off limits, and …” he quickly voiced: “I have a girlfriend in the village northwest of here, about a mile.”
“You’re full of shit; there is no village in this area.”
“Oh yes there is, but it only has five shacks, I guess it’s not really a village but a number of families live there, I go to see my girl every night, you’re the first one to challenge me.”
I said with distain,
“Where have you been Private? Last week we almost got blown to hell, --and you’re walking like nothing happened.
What unit are you from?”
He had mentioned it, but it went through one ear and out the other, I had not heard of it, then I said, “You mean the radar unit above the hill?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Well, you know, my unit is right below the hill, the 611th”
With a little more relief in his voice, “Yes, I know your unit is.”
--“Show me you’re ID card,” I requested.
--“Here~!”
I looked at the photo the Army seal it was in order.
“Ok, put your hands down, you’re free to go, but I suggest you be careful where you’re walking, especially drunk.”
“Listen Corporal, I feel like I should go to my Commander and let him know how you treated an American soldier.”
“Listen Private, at this post I have the power of a General, and don’t forget it. You’re not a threat and that is why I am allowing you to go, but don’t forget I can get you for charges on disrupting my duties. Don’t push me.”
The private shook his drunken head and walked away from the gate as silly as before.


9


The Truck
[More Engagements]


Barbwire


It brings to mind the first time I got caught under fire. We were on our way to the ammo dump, again to secure it thinking Charlie would sneak in. Three soldiers caught two Viet Cong all tied up in barbwire, they were about three hundred feet from them [I watched it all from a five ton truck] and they had their M16 rifles aimed directly at them, ready to shoot. One of the men [carelessly] told the other one to call back to base camp to find out what to do. I mean, he didn’t know—didn’t know really what to do. There were four American soldiers now looking at these two men all tied up [the forth soldier had brought a radio from a jeep to the other three], somewhat cut up in the barbwire were these gooks wondering why they were still alive, why didn’t the Americans shoot [how dumb can you be, is most likely what they were thinking]. Would you believe, I told myself— would you believe what you are seeing?
One of the American soldiers said,
“Let’s just kill these gooks, get it over with,” then the other started fighting with words [aggressively attacking], “We can’t, we’re American’s, and we don’t do such things.”
I’ve always been an ambitious sort of soldier—sort of aggressive when need to be, but this was down right dangerous, and would cause some kind of complications down the road I told myself [mark my words, was my way of thinking]
And so they called back to the Captain, who called back to the Major, who tried to get permission from the Colonel. By the time they got back to the four soldiers, the two Viet Cong had gotten through the wire and were on their way up into the surrounding hills. [I told myself, these damn limitations would kill more soldiers. This is what causes one to loose a war. I kept telling myself to calm down, yet I knew these Viet Cong would come back to fight another day]. We are trained to shoot, kill, not this bullshit, I mumbled as the truck took off. They will simply live another day to kill one of us I told the soldiers next to me.

The Truck


As my truck got closer to the Delta Ammo Dump, going down a long dirt road, where it was built up on each side as to create a causeway of sorts, --had we gone too far to the left or right, we’d had be off the man-made-road, and on each side was a cliff, consequently, we’d had been down the cliff also. And so every time I came down this causeway [or land bridge of sorts] I was hoping the driver wasn’t high or drunk.
In any event, we now were trying to make it as fast as we could with this five-ton truck, to make up for lost time; down this dirt harden road we went fast and faster, knowing damn well Charlie was up to no good in the hills, and having seen what happened with the four soldiers letting them go, [getting through the fence] we knew we were in trouble, that Charlie had some plans now; if anything a good map and where to hit next. Oh, I could see…Oh— I surely could see something was up something was in the makings.

It soon became dark, about 9:00 PM; all of a sudden rockets came to the left and right of our truck; explosions and shrapnel became the surrounding scene. The driver stopped, I jumped to the floor [the five-ton truck had an open top]; I was now hiding under my helmet, covering my face. As I noticed the rockets kept coming around the truck, but hitting the bottom of the causeway, I also noticed we were standing still, I look up to see the other eight soldiers frozen to the side of the truck of which they were sitting on the wooden benches provided on each truck for carrying troops back and forth. They had attached themselves to them like ‘white on rice’. Then I hollered at the driver:
“They have us zeroed in, get this damn truck in motion,” I knew a moving target was harder to hit, and he froze just like the eight. The rockets stopped for a moment [all the sounds were behind us now], and the truck now was back in motion, going as fast as it could go; I now found my seat among the other eight, I asked:
“Did I do something wrong by jumping to the floor?”
Said the soldier next to me, as everyone else remained silent:
“You’re the only one that did it right. We’re all lucky we got our heads on our necks yet.” A few of the soldiers looked at me, and that was it [no one looked at each other]. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was right or wrong, but the clarification was good enough for me. I had acted on instinct and how I was trained. I guess I can thank one of those sergeants back at Fort Lewis. Matter of fact, I remember sitting on a bench at Fort Lewis [Jungle Training they called it, prior to going to Vietnam, additional training to the Basic we got at Fort Bragg], and they were going through a map. It was a hot day. Someone asked, “What do you do if you’re under rocket fire?” And the sergeant asked several people what they’d do. [Somewhat similar to Quick Fire Training we had in basic, working out of instinct, and automatic reactions] Then he explained, and I did it his way, as simple as it may seem [so whoever you were, God bless you].


10

Free Supplies and the Feud


As everyone did, I also did, mark off the days on my personal calendar. It was a short-timers calendar [meaning when your time got short in Vietnam and you only had days left, not months in the Army, you marked them off, one by one]. But you normally didn’t start until you had 30 or 60 days, was the normal rule of thumb. Hell I started at 120-day countdown almost as soon as I got to Vietnam, or so it seemed; --it also seemed more real to me to look forward to marking those days off in the mornings, --that is, before breakfast. But to be quiet honest, what was at home, nothing for the most part, on one hand I didn’t care if I marked the days, it was something to do, no more, no less. [But as I may have mentioned, it was a free trip to Asia, and hell, not bad, and I suppose that is where my mind stopped for the meantime.]

Evenings seemed especially dark my mid-term in Vietnam. It seemed this period many things were happening not only in and around me, but also throughout the world. The Apollo 15 Astronauts, Irwin and Scott took a ride on the moon, with a four-wheel moon-rover. Nikita Khrushchev was ill. Papa Doc from Haiti had died, only to hand over his empire of terror to his son Baby Doc, I had not known it then, but I would end up in Haiti, some years down the road. And Bangladesh became established as a new Country inasmuch as, it really belonged to India [the whole world was changing when I was in Vietnam], and now Pakistan would be another bite taken out of India. The hippie era had come in and was on its way out
yup, here in good old Vietnam, the South Vietnamese troops crossed into Laos trying to cripple Hanoi’s supply line along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, for that is where their main road, their life line for supplies were coming down. Yet the VC pushed them back after a while. We lost 89-helicopters, and forty-four American GI’s in the ongoing battle of the ‘Trail’, only to give it back to the takers.

Free Supplies

As I was about to say, the nights were a bit bleak, and we got some scares that Charlie was going to come down out of those holes he made in the mountains and test our skills. If he did, I think we would not have been prepared. Plus he liked getting supplies from our ammo dump. One day a nine-truck convoy came into get supplies from our dump. We supplied the South Vietnamese Army with whatever they wanted. In any case, I was out at the dump that day as our American soldiers were loading the trucks, they never said too much [seemingly, to me a warning emphasis]—they were not as friendly as I was used to experiencing them, one might say, --uneasy, to the point of being on the edge. I mentioned that to a few of the higher ranking sergeants in the ammo dump hut, where they did the paper work, slap flies and do allocations. But they paid little head to me.
“They got the orders, and orders are orders Corporal,” they told me.
Well, to make a long and insidious story short and predacious, they, and I say they, for I didn’t do it, loaded nine- truckloads of Ammunition for the Viet Cong. It never got into the papers. In any case, we had found out they ambushed the South Vietnamese Soldiers, the ones on our side, took their uniforms, and hurried on up to the dump before it was reported. We got wind of the news about two hours after they had left the area. By that time, they [the Viet Cong] had been long gone, and the trucks with all the ammunition they got free from at the ammo dump, and us Americans, had loaded and inventoried for them, were unloaded now. Empty platforms from the trucks were found along with the trucks a few days later in the jungle, empty.

Soldier against Soldier


Along side of the dirt road, yet some three hundred yards separating them were the two Orderly Rooms for companies, ours, the Ordnance [Ammunition], and the Military Police’s. We were like neighbors that never knew the color of each other’s hair. We simply never seem to talk; yet we all spoke the same language. The orderly rooms were small in comparison to the ones in the States, and Germany, which had about 100 square feet in the front, and possible the same to the back section; which half of the back section was the Captains quarters, or office. Our Orderly Room looked identical to the MP’s. As you would walk out of the metal-rounded screened-in doors, you stepped out of the office, up about two and a half feet; you were on the dirt road level --where I was standing.
This is just a story of one of the many red-blooded historical scenes that was going on in Vietnam, when we were not fighting or doing something related to war. As one knows, many things are over looked, never said, and often put under the rug. This was one of them. It was soldier against soldier, but then as I often said, I was more worried about my fellow GI’s than I was about Charlie, and there is more truth to that than historical-fiction.
Now allow me to get to the Orderly Room event, it was American soldier against American soldier. Captain Bowman was the Military Police’s Commanding Officer, even though, we [being] the Ordnance Company, we never got along with the MP’s, or him per se [the Captain], we none the less, still heard rumors of the Captain, such things as: he was not all that fair, and was somewhat arrogant; but then many officers were I suppose. I guess he had an extra dose of it, plus he’d go out of his way to antagonize his troops. In Vietnam, we never needed to get haircuts, or shine shoes or for that matter, all we had to do is work, sleep, fight, die, eat, shit, and wake up to start all over again. But Captain Bowman took his Company to a higher level; --spit shinned shoes, and the whole works that go along with stateside duty. It was also hard to get R & R’s from him, and Leaves because he never wanted over 10% of his company gone at any given time and his company was only 40% strength to start with, so he would not sign for his men to get ‘Rest and Recuperation’ although the Captain would allow time off for his soldiers if they wanted to use it for in country leave. So all in all, they had many elements [issues] to deal with and a captain that was on top of you, like white on rice, was not worth his salt, not in Vietnam, and the way the war was being run.


Corporal Thomas, who I never had the pleasure of meeting personally, and probable was lucky to be able to say that, although I had heard his name in passing during several drunken discussions about the MP’s, he was a heroin user and trouble maker for the most part and was to become the trying issue of this dilemma, and nightmare, the one that was about to take place in the Military Police [MP] Orderly Room. [I had seen him walking by our Company area a number of times]
As he walked by everyone on this dreary and warm evening, on the roadway just in front of the MP orderly room, I caught a glimpse of him, --he was unkempt, bare footed, armpits stained with sweat, only a green t-shirt on, and some un-ironed jungle-issued-pants. His belt buckle was loose and dangling, and he was unshaven.
By the looks of things, we all thought, that is a few of the fellow’s that was with me, he was cleaning his weapon, and was going to the orderly room for some odd reason, possible to see if they had some extra soap they’d give him [maybe that was our wishful thinking, or mine], that they kept on hand for new recruits, or for those who for some reason didn’t have any, for it was past normal-duty hours. The CQ [night Sergeant on duty] could get them.
This evening the CQ was there, and the Captain was in his office working late.
Thomas was shaking his head [consoling himself] back and forth, as if he was talking to a ghost or simply talking to himself. His face showed anger mixed with a little hate, he seemed to be spitting as he talked, or it was just slime coming out of his mouth, a finger raised as he walked by as if he was rehearsing for someone to pay attention to him, or even possible for us to stand down, but that last thought didn’t come into my head until after the fact.
Whatever he was thinking, he thought he was cleaver, or would be, for the mere fact he was pointing his finger toward his temple slightly to one side as if to gesture intelligence. Again, whatever was on his mind, he had convinced himself he knew what he was doing or about to do.
As he got to the outside of the door, he paced in a circle with his rifle barrel pointed every which way. Now we all started to take note. The CQ came out, we all could see, several of us were standing by the roadway a little in disbelief, or was it shock, not sure.
“Corporal Thomas, what’s the problem, do you need something?”
Said Thomas with a little gunk dripping from his bottom lip,
[Now thoroughly resentful—and showing it on his face] “I need to see the Captain, my leave was disapproved.”
Said the CQ [emphatically], “Corporal,” [Thomas alarmed stares in the CQ’s eyes] “He is in–no-oo mood to see you, plus you look too messy, actually you look like shit. Get out of here before he sees you and you get in trouble.”
Well, that didn’t go over very well, the Corporal looked at the CQ, showed him his fist, with the rifle hanging loose, as if to say you want to fight, then forcefully pushed his punches into the air, he didn’t hit the Sergeant, just his fist was clenched, he was like signaling the gods of the air, ‘here I come.’
Then he raised his weapon, and the CQ stepping back a foot, looked a little nervous, the Sergeant was clean shaven and you could see his chin from the light over their heads, he thrust his chin towards the Corporal, as if he was meaning some kind of threat, I couldn’t hear what was being said. Then the Corporal put the M16-rifle into his belly, and the Sergeant started to rub his chin, as if not to believe what was going on, and shut his mouth. No words needed to be said now.
The sergeant had to do some quick thinking, I was hoping he’d come up with something; we all stood in a trance watching this develop. The sergeant put his palm on his chest, as if to say ‘me’. And Thomas told him to leave, and so he did, he came over by us shaking his head and taking in a deep, deep breath; --but not too close to us, I’d say he stood some 20-feet away. And Thomas went through the screen door, right into the Captain’s office, several of the MP’s now were gathering by the CQ, as he started to explain what had taken place.
Within a matter of minutes, the Captain was being confronted by the Corporal to get off his chair; --then Thomas shoved the Captain in the corner of the two walls behind his desk, we could all see it developing through the Captain’s office window.
“How do you like it!” he asked the Captain [pointing his finger at him], with a high ring to his voice.
Adding:
“Can you tell me why the hell I can’t go home?” He pointed his M16 at the Captain’s head, the Captain was sweating, and I also noticed, a few tears were rolling down his cheeks, plus it was in his voice [the boarder line of crying]. The only thing I could see on Thomas’ face was disgust. He slid his finger under his nose indicating it was too late, and I thought this was it, --the CQ shouted there were several armed MP’s out ‘here’, that if he killed the Captain, he’d die along with him, although I felt, they really didn’t want to help the Captain, otherwise they’d had been down there talking to him and trying to persuade him. As I had mentioned, not too many of his own liked him.
Three hours went by, --they kept talking and talking. Then out of the blue, the Corporal came out of the office, gave his weapon to the CQ, and told him to take him to the brig [jail]. However, we didn’t have a jail per se on Cam Ranh, but rather what we all called, sweatboxes, where we kept prisoners. That is to say, metal containers that were about six by nine feet with holes in them used for ventilation and that is what the prisoners lived in and the guards, guarded. We all stood—stood there in amazement [with brows high], not quiet mentally taking all this in, rather storing it to digest later. And that is where he went. It was all hushed up the next morning. And from what I gathered in the passing weeks, he was a much better and watchful captain.





11

The Scorpion



I can’t remember all the details, of that particular evening out on patrol in the Ammo-dump, but Charlie was to have penetrated the area, and we were to go find him, seek and destroy. And so when we got to the dump, I lock and loaded my M16, as always. It was about 10:30 PM, and when we finally did a two hours search, found nothing, and was suppose to go back to the company area, our truck was nowhere to be found. We figured the driver and his assistant was getting high, laid or something. So we found some 155- millimeter-rounds to lay against, all crated, others in boxes, and some simply on containers ready to be moved, I lay against those [the wood-crated ammo stock]. There was about seven of us standing around, the others were still doing additional checks for some reason, down to a lower level area; --I think they were bored and didn’t want to be found resting for some odd reason, and were doing a double check, it was not called for though.
As I shut my eyes for a moment, my thoughts went all over the place, I actually thought about dying, and came to the conclusion I didn’t mind dying then [thinking today might be a good day for it], actually sometimes more so than others I thought like that, today was one of those times I didn’t mind.
Smiley, my friend from Alabama, [uneasily], said,
“Don’t move…” I opened my eyes, and noticed a scorpion crossing my boots, I was going about to swat him off me, then it occurred to me what Smiley had said, ‘Don’t,’ and then he said again [with a warning emphasis],
“I said don’t move, I can get him quicker than you, I’ve done it before…” He was from the south, and always was making jokes with me about being a Northerner and not knowing about bugs and that kind of crap, but he was right, I didn’t know. I noticed he was quite focused on the creature, and so I agreed by nodding my head.
“Don’t make a sharp move, “he added. He gave me a five, that is to say, thumbs up [in the air] meaning, ‘ok’. All was in order. So he wanted me to do nothing. I wasn’t used to that, but nothing I would do would help at this juncture. Slowly the creature walked up my boots, up to the area of my pants, and Smiley leaned over a little, he knew it had to be soon, for he knew now the creature was going for my warm fabric, not leather, but he was calm and steady, and the back of the scorpion’s tail never went up. The scorpion did a side turn and crawled off my boot and pants, I rolled over a little getting out of its way.
“See, no problem…Chick,” he [confidently] chuckled a little and I stood up, that was the end of my napping.


12

Vietnam the Country

Much like any other country under the siege of war, South Vietnam back then in the early 70’s was no different, that is, it was underdeveloped, lacked good healthy food for its population [yet its Army always seemed to be feed well], to include vegetables and dairy products, and so forth. That is to say, the cities, towns, villages all had shortages of everything, water, electrical power, you name it they had it under a shortage category, --but much like Germany, there was an ongoing black market, --where you could buy anything. If you couldn’t find it at the PX, you could at the black market.
As far as we went, the Army that is, we never had hot water up to the 4th month I was there, and then when we got it, it was like a prize, yet in most cases the rain water was warmer, or warm enough, and many of us soldiers just got naked and grabbed a bar of soap and washed in the rain.
On another note, I was a good friend with the cooks, and like anyone who had something to offer in trade, they would trade. And so, sometimes I’d go in the back of the mess hall and do my bartering.

Ken the Cook

Ken was 19-year old; he was one of the four main cooks. He happened to have gotten a cute little Vietnamese girl pregnant, and had extended for six more months; it would be his ETS date [meaning, his date to get out of the Army]. He did that for two reasons, one for his girlfriend, for he was confused on the matter of trying to marry her and take her home, and the second was, if he went back to the states with six months to go, where would he go. And so instead of battling the unknown, he stayed put, still as a statue, and when it was time to leave, he’d simply go home.
He came up to me one night and was real puzzled. He brought a few letters from his mother and father, asked me to read them, and so I did. It implied he should not marry the girl of whom he had a child with and simply come home and start his life. That he was much too young to settle down. He asked for my opinion. It was hard to even want to give it, I liked him, but I also liked his small young girlfriend. She was always quite timid, and frail looking, but nice and friendly. She’d had made any man a good wife I think.
Asked Ken [on the verge of tears] “What should I do Chick,” worrying of displeasing his parents.
“Do you love her?” I asked, or “…is she just a good time away from home, someone you got pregnant and, oh, well, things happen?”
He said [wide-eyed and stunned], “A little of all that,” his voice tiring, as his mind seemed to have gone over it for the hundred time.
“It sounds to me,” I said [sarcastically], “As if you have made up your mind to please your parents; or maybe they are making it easy for you to do what you all really want to do.”
[Offended] Ken asked,
“And what is that,” adding, “… would you—would you mind telling me?”
“A reason to leave her; tell her you will be back to get her and not really come back, or send for her.” He looked at me strange,
“Yaw that may be it, is that ok?”
“No,” I said, “That is not ok, unless you feel you are at least going to try; plus, you’re in Vietnam, in the Army, your parents are not in charge of you anymore. You are not too young to die for your country, and therefore, you are not too young to make a decision. You can’t have her waiting for you though, thinking you are coming and you’re not. She can find someone else; you’re not the only one in the world.” Not sure if he liked that or not, but he responded well.
[Optimistically—his tone of voice sounded] “Ok, I’m going to be up front with her and tell her I think it will not work out, that I’m going home and try to figure things out. And no matter what I come up with, I’ll always support my child.” I smiled, nodded my head, and commented, “Make sure it’s your decision, because you’ll have to pay for it all your life.” He then stood up; we were sitting on the boardwalk across from the mess hall where the hutches were. He had the night shift and went back to work.

New South Wales—City with the Rainbow Door

Sydney, Australia: R & R


When I arrived in Australia, a country plus a continent in itself, I landed in the city called Sydney, which in its own right is in a section of Australia called New South Wales, in comparison: --it might be considered another state, had it been in the United States. Within the city of Sydney I would end up in a hotel in a section of the city called Queensland. And to make my visit a little more geographically complicated, --when I looked from the roof of my hotel you could see the beautiful harbor and a park, I always called it simply, Queen’s Park. There were huge trees, a waterfront, shrubs, flowers, and a kind serene wonderland. Yes, the view was meticulously beautiful.


13


Girl from the Farm
[Sydney]



It doesn’t seem to matter where you travel, for there is always one thing that stands out among most of the others; --while taking R & R [Rest and Recuperation] in Sydney, for seven days, it was no different [and we’ll get to that in a second]. But what made it especially unique, for me anyways, was, it was paid for the US Government, that is, the airfare and my extra seven day leave—and possible the main thing that stood out was the women were much more friendly than the men, or at least to American’s and in particular, GI’s.
Most all of us GI’s in Vietnam got a seven-day to go someplace [such as Hong Kong, Bangkok, Hawaii, or Sydney] even though I had only eight-months to serve, they gave it to me none the less. But back to what I was saying, that you always remember one thing, attached to that female-friendliness was Zolinda a girl I met on a tour. Although I had met quite a few females on that seven-day adventure, she would standout among the rest.
To repeat myself, I was on a city tour, it was 7:05 PM, and she had already been on the bus when I arrived, so I sat in the seat in front of her. She quickly gave me a smile, standing up, and asked if she could sit with me. She was as petite and cute as a sparrow.
Soft spoken, slow and witty with chosen words, if not editing herself her introduction seemed most sensitive, and curious. The bus had to go to several hotels and pick up other people for the city tour, and in so doing, she seemed to do most of the talking, if not asking many questions.
I told her about my hometown, and state, being: St. Paul, Minnesota, and my high school, along with how cold it was back there in Minnesota, implying it was like living in the Arctic, which is not far from the truth; --and how my life had turned when I left San Francisco, and got drafted, and now was stationed in an Ordnance Company in Vietnam.
She explained she was from a small farm outside of Sydney; and, that seemed to consume most of our bus time during the first thirty-minutes of our getting to know one another. Actually we were finding out we were both very easy to talk to, which she seemed quite taken by.
We were now sitting, or so it seemed, a little closer together than we were in the beginning, looking out the window as the woman guide pointed out a few things.
Her hair was silky blond, very slim, and a creamy light completion. Her lips were thick and very sexy looking.
I told myself, as I was thinking, remembering what I had said to Rosalie, the Guide, which was, “…what’s the use in going on a tour with young girls, when you only got a week in the city. What can you do?” She simply laughed and said, “Have fun, that’s what you’re here for.” But I was now glad I let her persuade me to go, I was having fun. And I liked Zolinda.
As we continued on the tour I maintained my posture, and was kind of showing off my brown leather jacket, with long fringes like Wild Bill Cody, and his Wild West Show –I saw on T.V. I had it especially made for this occasion, or may I say, vacation, plus I’d take it home with me when I left Vietnam, and back home it would cost three times as much as what I had paid for it. I figured it was a good investment. It was tailed made in South Korea for me--, I suppose I showed off to her a little too much, being proud of it, but it was really the only nice thing I had in the world. If she had noticed my little arrogance, she never showed she did, or complained about it.
By and large, I think I was not used to being with round-eyed girls and one that was well mannered. I felt like I was more the barbarian, therefore I played a little hard to get, but not too hard. Plus, I was not going to try and get laid, she was in high school, and I was in my early twenties.
I commented [soothingly], “You are really fresh looking, stunning….”
She said with surprise and delight, and a little laughter [contentedly], “I’ve never heard anyone say that before, I think that’s good, right?” I nodded my head with a smiling-grin, implying yes it was good.
[Puzzled] “How come you came on such a tour?” I asked her.
[Aghast—but attentively] She said with a little disappointment in her face,
“Well, to be honest, this is my first tour, and I had heard many of my senior classmate High School [girls] talking about it, and how polite American GI’s are, and I asked my grandmother, who is ill now, and my father and mother—we all live together you know; anyway, I asked them if I could, and they agreed I could, at least one time. And so here I am. I just wanted to have some fun. And I’m having it now.”
The night was not over yet, but I wanted to make a little move so I asked, “I’d like to see you tomorrow, if that’s all right with you and your parents.”
She smiled saying, “I’d like that very much,” and I’m not sure who took whose hand, but we ended up holding hands on the bus now.



The Bar – The Hippie


As we all sat in the bar, the tour folk that is, the girls having coke and other soft drinks, and I with a cold beer, I left the group for a moment to go to the bathroom. As I came back out, having combed my hair, five men came up to me, asked where I was from; I said the states, “…why?” they seemed to circle me after asking that question.
[Appalled, with a scornfully voice] “We don’t like hippie’s here that’s why!” Said one of the brave; I started to walk away, but they quickly surrounded me, and then I figured here we go. I’ve always been a fighter, sort of a fighter that is, but this was turning out to be a no win battle.
[Talking nervously, yet stern] “You all want to fight one man, how about one at a time or you’re only tough with a group backing you up; --I fought bigger guys than you in Vietnam, who’s first?”
[Laconically] “Wha’dya-sa…” said one of the men half drunks, trying to find his self-confidence.
[Boldly now, with a rush of a fighting spirit] “I said I fought better men than you in Vietnam, who’s first?”
“You’re a soldier from Vietnam,” another asked.
“Yes, why?” I was now encircled [this was curtains I told myself], and they were too tight against me to do much kicking or punching, there was no real way to fight my way out of this circle of bodies, I would have a hard time moving anything, what I could do is jump down, I mean, stoop low, hit a few groins, knock them balls to Mars, and take a beating, that was the best I expected to do now.
As the men started to look at me, it dawned on them, they had troops over in Vietnam, and so what was their ‘beef’ over me… [It had the hippie look, the long hair].
“Let’s see you’re ID, said a man,”
And I pulled it out,
[Looking towards the other men] “Damn Joe, he is, man o man, I’m sure sorry soldier, I mean real sorry, let’s buy this man a drink on us.” And then all of a sudden they were all buying me drinks, patting me on the back, and had everything good to say about me. I shook my head, thinking, what a life, from the frying pan to the snack bar.
Zolinda was looking over by me I had noticed. I think she was scared for me but didn’t know what to do, and now confused about everyone being friendly. As I said my goodbyes to them, telling them I had to join the group, Zolinda, asked [with a voice that seemed to be coming out of a light panic state],
“I thought you were in trouble for a moment!” And she grabbed my hand, and pulled me to the group, “Why not stick with us,” she added. [It did seem safer.]

The Party’s over

The tour and the party was over, the tour guide told the group whoever wanted to stay there at the bar, they could, except the high school kids, and so I left with Zolinda. We talked again on the way back to the hotel, and she assured me we would see each other around 4:00 PM tomorrow, after school. But it wouldn’t work out that way. Her grandmother was ill, and the tour guide got a hold of me and told me she was under obligation to remain home and care for her grandmother. I found out her number and called her and just reassured her I had a good time. She didn’t ask me for my address, and I didn’t offer it. It was a one time meeting, but for some reason she had taken a little of me with her I think, as I most assuredly took a little of her. I guess if things in life do not work out, it is good if one can take the best out of a person, for we often have a long journey ahead, we might be able to use it.
Maybe her parents didn’t want her to get involved with me, she was like a rose ready to blossom, and her hard looking breasts were almost fully developed, along with many other womanly features. She was a prize in a confused world, and I respected her for staying home with her grandmother, if that was truly the case, and if it wasn’t, I still had a grand time.


14

The Park in Queensland
[Sydney]


Several boats were along the sides of the lagoon---or so it looked kind of like a lagoon, but then maybe it was more of an inlet, --none the less, several small boats were tide nice and neat to the dock area, along with several boats out in the lake type atmosphere of the water. The sky was—was romantically rich with clouds hanging over like white umbrellas, and shades of blue like mirrors reflecting back and forth, one matching the other from the waters to the sky, made for a lit up day: --everything reflected blue [my color].
A huge tree decorated the main area of the park; it was like if Rip-Van-Winkle had been resting there for 20-years, ----it was all so serene; -- The sun making its way between the clouds and the blues and the trees; --the warm wind soaping my face. I pulled out my small Polaroid camera and took several pictures, then noticed a woman near by me, she seemed to be interested in me --, she came walking over towards me, about five foot four inches, slim, brown hair, with glasses, her skirt hugged her legs as the wind pushed between them, and her light scarf was loose around her neck; then stepping within a few feet in front of me, she introduced herself, “Hello,” she said softly, an older woman, maybe thirty-five at best,
Then—
Hearing my accent, realizing I was an American [after a pause], she become even more interested in me [dropping her guard], and thinking with my long hair I was in Sydney on some kind of business. Evidently, I was learning I did not look like a GI at all.
When I told her I was an American GI from Vietnam, she seemed to have been letdown a bit [became a little stiffly]. I think she was looking for a Berkley graduate, too bad, she was a fine looker, and I just didn’t have the right DNA.
And so I walked around the park, looked at the gulls gliding through the air; moreover, I continued my stroll along the shore line, talking to myself, singing, humming; grabbing the moment, for one must not let themselves down, because the woman will not dance with you. No need to do much else, just go about your business I always say, it was all here, the moment, the camera, the sun the trees the water, it was at best intoxicating; the woman, well, a plus, a conversation. What would I do with her anyway?
15

The New Zealand Maids



I did find out I had the run of the hotel, well, for the most part anyway. Two maids, Rena and Hanna, sisters from New Zealand, 18-years old would come into my hotel room in the morning to make my bed, clean my room, and we became good friends quickly. Most of the time I’d either meet them as I was leaving, or they’d actually wake me up, which was good because I didn’t want to sleep this R & R away.
They were soft spoken, assured of themselves, and both with wavy long black hair. Hip to the tune, tone and fashion of the day; --fun loving, high energy. The older of the two, which surely was only by a few minutes at best, was hard to tell, for them, although were fraternal twins, yet, with a lot of similarities, was Rena.
Rena seemed to have taken more of a liking to me than her sister, or maybe felt sorry for me, in either case; she liked talking a lot with me. She and her boyfriend, of sorts, took me out to the oceanfront one day, there we had a picnic, took pictures, and looked at the mermaid on the rock, looking out into the waves. As always I grabbed the moment, and sat on the huge rock overlooking the ocean, the city was to my left side as Rena snapped a picture.
I didn’t want to go back to Vietnam I suppose, but I never thought not to, even though a few folks stopped me here and there, on the side walks streets informing me to stay in Sydney; --I suppose most GI’s had to think of returning, and to my understanding, there were many here who had deserted. But that also was not in my DNA; I never thought of that as an option, they did for me. History would not record such a coward’s deed by me.
The day would end, and a few more would be left; that is all I thought about, it really never occurred to me to desert.
The girls came back to my hotel room, and we all sat on the roof, drinking from my little refrigerator that they stocked each day with beer, wine and a greater assortment of those little bottles of rum and scotch. From the roof you could see the whole section of this city, within a city, called Queensland, it seemed the small harbor that looked like a lagoon to me was the most beautiful spot in the world, other than possible Como Park, back home in St. Paul, Minnesota. I was not yet twenty-four, but it was right around the corner, and somehow I felt much older, much worldlier, traveled if you will.



18


Saigon-Going Home
The Cage and the Stranger
[Vietnam]


Just when I thought everything was back to normal, in the process of leaving Vietnam, sitting in the packed–air terminal, going through three days of the military checking of this and that to see if I had any issues in the area of drugs, psychological or physical; consequently, putting me in one cage after another, separating me from one group to another, finally I made it, that is, I made it to the inside terminal, a feat in itself, --I mean…I was really warn out.
During the processing, one guy [GI] came up to me in the bathroom where we all had to piss in this container and give it to the Security Police at the entrance, upon one’s departure from the latrine, then they’d have it checked for drugs. If you had any kind of dope in your system, [god forbid] it would come out showing, and you’d have a long wait before you got that free steak in your out-processing at Fort Lewis
a man next to me a young [anxious] white lad, asked me to save some of my piss for him, that is, put it in his container, as he was holding it in his hand [impatiently]. I looked to my right, the guard was always looking everywhere, he’d start on one side go down to the floor with his eyes and up to the ceiling, or almost that high, across and up the other side, and continue doing that; then look outside a bit, and do it again. At the same time, as the guard was doing this, he’d grab the piss bottles of soldiers leaving the bathroom, and give them to another Security Police person and he’d take them away.
For the most part, there was only a few seconds to make such a transfer, if one was going to do it in the first place; that is, making any transfers of the liquid from one bottle to another. The Security Policeman, standing at the doorway, had firmly said, when each person came through,
“…if you are caught giving away you piss, you will be put in jail, along with the fellow you’re trying to help…” and we’d not leave this hellhole. I told the guy standing next to me, in a somewhat, panic, to move on, get away from me or I’d exploit him for what he was trying to do, I said this as the guard started to look my way.
“What’s going on over there?” The guard said [craftily], as he started to walk towards us. The man next to me [desperately] seeing the movements of the guard, put his hand under the other guy’s dick to catch his piss, and quickly maneuvered on over to the other side of the latrine, where there were parallel urinals. [I think the guard overhead me telling him to get away from me quick or else.]
“Something wrong Corporal?” asked the guard. I looked at the dope addict, slyly, and said no, just minding my own business. “Good,” he commented, “then move on out of here.”
The other man now was on the other side of the bathroom, trying to fill the rest of the bottle up in the urinals, he needed to fill it up a little over the middle line, but now the guard was suspicious. When I left, I turned around to catch a glance; the guard was watching him directly. I shook my head as I walked past the gate to get into another processing area; I’m sure the guard knew the man was up to no good, but it was best to just move on.

For three days [at times somewhat bored] I went through this process of check, and recheck. I couldn’t even find any booze to drink.
Then on the third day I was put into a cage with three other GI’s as there were several of them. They were [the cages] as big as a small kitchen, possible 100-square feet. As they [the processing people] got to you, you would go to another cage, until you got through the whole gamut, three cages in all [to insure you were drug free, this process was started in the summer of l971, just prior to my leaving which was in the fall].


The Stranger


[Abruptly.] “Hello, my name is Star.” I looked at the stranger, he sat to my left, and actually I only turned my head slightly to get a glimpse, giving him a preferred profile incase I didn’t want to talk. As I looked at this stranger wide-eyed now, he seemed calming; at the same time, I was listening to the sounds of the airplanes, their engines, and the chatter from within the terminal, the sounds of walking feet, pacing feet, --pacing back and forth, just waiting to get on the flight, everyone was doing it but me, and here was this small man ‘Star’, youthful, inquisitive. I thought at the moment, now what does he want. Maybe he was twenty-one, maybe not. I was twenty-four now, had been for a week. He looked like he was built solid. He was in green-fatigue Army garb. Not dressy at all but kept, no rank, no anything signifying who he was. I wasn’t much for talking, but I guess I could be friendly I thought.
“Hi,” I countered back, with a smile, hell I thought I’m on my way home; if he wants to rob me I could care less. I say that facetiously, for I knew it was not his intention. He was most likely boarded like me, having to go through all this gobbledygook bull shit.
He smiled [wisely], his face was smooth, almost illuminated it seemed, so clean looking, too clean looking, I figured he was not an ordinary soldier, maybe one of those undercover Military Intelligence chaps, but so what if he was --I thought.
He said [soothingly],
“I say—it’s over for you I see; the war that is, you’re going home I expect?” Knowing that was more of a statement than a question, I nodded my head ‘yes’, and smiled. At best, it was a rhetorical question, in the sense: -- it was not a matter of if, rather of when, which was happening at this very moment. I got a little more composed, and asked [a little carelessly],
“How about you, I mean are you, are you headed on home also?”
“I’ll be back here, one way or another, I’m sure—it all depends… (‘Flight …’ some one said quietly.) Do you believe in God?”
I thought, man oh man, a preacher in the middle of the airport, maybe one of them you find back home; I’ve seen them all dressed up in old looking garb, like in the days of Jesus, sandals and all preaching around the airport, going into fast-food restaurants and asking for hand outs. But he couldn’t be one of them he didn’t fit the bill.
“Yaw, I guess I kind of know of Him—” adding, “I’ve said a few prayers in my time.” Actually the only time I prayed was when I was young, and was studying to be an altar boy, and when I drove drunk, and a few times here in Vietnam; but I felt I needed not explain all that.
He smiled again, as if he knew something I didn’t know, or knew something I knew and wasn’t willing to share, he wasn’t snobby, or impolite, and I seemed to be in a trance as he continued to talk, and everything seemed to be related to a solitude with God. What could I say I told myself, I had nothing better to do today, and I wasn’t sure what they were saying over the loud speakers but it wasn’t let’s go, it’s 9:00 AM, but it was getting close to my time to get on the plane I knew. His voice was comforting, and tranquil.
Forty-five minutes later


[Bewildered.] “Excuse me,” I said to the stranger, as I got up and went to the counter asking why I wasn’t being called to get on the 9:00 AM flight, it was now 8:55 AM. She looked at me strangely [almost amused], then scratched her neck, saying [as she tried to clear her throat]:
“Everyone is aboard airplane, we made last call 15-minutes ago; --it looks like you’ll have to take the next flight out, sorry.”
[Un-thoughtfully I yelled.] “What!” A few of the soldiers around the counter looked my way. “What’s that?” I asked in disbelief. Then settling… slowly calming myself down…I continued to speak:
“I mean lady that was my flight; I need to get on it [I didn’t stop to focus, and listen to what she had said].”
“Sorry soldier, it’s all secure, and ready to take off, you really can not get on it.”
I took in a deep breath of air, and let it out slowly.
“Oh well,” I said, trying to be cheerful, and then walked away. That’s what I get for talking, I told myself. The next flight was at 9:00 PM, I had time to walk around and get a sandwich and some coffee, they had a few carts with Vietnamese women selling food, and some machine venders. But as I looked for my friend in this somewhat 2600 to 3000 square foot waiting area, I couldn’t see him. No way could he have left, unless he decided to stay in Saigon, at this air base [Tan-son-nut].


Sitting Thinking Waiting for the Flight


I sat back down, got thinking how slow time moves when you’re patiently waiting; telling myself, this time will all pass, and be but a memory in time to come, you know, this was simply how it was [plaintively but true].
My mind now was shifting to a few days ago, I had met a gal with a blue dress on a few days ago, she wanted me to go down to her house in the city of Saigon, it would be a lustful afternoon at best, and if caught, a bust at worse, that is to say, I could get in trouble. Not sure what her price was, she said we’d argue about it later, she was a doll, big round breasts poking out of her flimsy silk like dress, a little like Frenchie, with nice sculptured legs. She came into the men’s latrine right behind me, she was a secretary to some Command Sergeant Major I believe, she kept on telling me we could do it right in one of the stalls there, right in the huge Air Force, latrine [actually who would know or tell, many women came in and left, all supposedly working— but I said no, it was too wild for me, but really meaning, too careless.]
Joe, my friend from the 611th followed me here to the Air Base, and was going to Hawaii, where he was going to meet his wife. He told everyone back at base camp, he was done with the Army, saying,
“Chick, don’t tell anyone. Make sure you don’t tell anyone, they gave me $2500 to stay in, and I took it.”
He seemed to be in a little panic as he emphasized not telling anyone, he even told me to ‘shut up’ about it a few more times, almost sorry he told me in the first place--that I was the only one he was telling [he was regretting—and here I’m telling everyone in the book, 33-years later]. I told him it was great, if that’s what he wanted; not sure what the big fuss was about, but I’m sure he went a cut the Army down from head to toe, and you know, that made it worse when you turn around a join right back up. In any case, he made sergeant, we were both corporals at the 611th; I think the extra strip he got was for joining. For myself I needed to get out, it was time. He had taken a flight yesterday; I figured he was in Hawaii right this very minute.


Flight A102/9:00 PM


As I got ready to get on board the 9:00 PM flight, information had come back, seeping through the ranks, the grapevine as one might say, --it was that the previous flight had gone down in a storm before it reached Japan; sadly but true…
I stood like a stick in disbelief—
[With profound disgust.] I had to be pushed by the soldier behind me to wake up; I think I was in a daze for a moment.
“I was supposed to have been on that flight,” the soldier behind me caught his breath, “No kidding.” As I would find out later in life, this would happen once more; in l980, flying back from Italy to Germany, and back to New Jersey. I would take an early flight out of Italy, not the one I would be assigned to because I had gotten to the air base early, and they had several seats available, and asked me if I wanted to take it. I’d find out in Frankfurt that the plane I was supposed to have been on, after my flight, went down.
In this flight [from Vietnam to Japan I was suppose to have been on], there were 220-soldiers killed; --in the flight from Italy to Germany [to take place in l980], over 240-soldiers would be killed.
Anyhow, I shook myself sober, and forced myself onto the flight, walking slowly, and thinking about the 220-soldiers, and my friend who had disappeared. I guess life would be boring without mystery, and so I left well enough alone. It was the hand of providence that rearranged things, not sure why, I was no better than another soldier, by far. Matter of fact, I was probably worse than most. But I knew I couldn’t dwell on that too long, it was just the way things were.


19


A Steak at Fort Lewis


As I was on the flight, going to Fort Lewis from Vietnam I knew once I’d get to Lewis, I’d process out of the Army, get a de- briefing, and be on my way home. It was the way things worked. If anything I had lots of time to think of the future. I started to think as the plane went over more land and water on its way to Japan [where it would refuel and I would buy my mother a beautiful opal necklace and earrings], and then onto Alaska [to refuel again], I thought about a reoccurring dream I had while in Vietnam. It was about being in the back section of a plane, and somehow the plane had lost its upper section in mid air. The dream never went past that [I had it several times]. Maybe this was the plane I thought, but I was seated in the middle of the plane not the back, it couldn’t be the same plane, or dream. Funny what you think when information is constantly being processed in your brain.
Two hundred soldiers dead in a flight, a preacher of sorts talked me into missing a plane. I was about to process out of the Army. The dream may have been right, the plane I was meant to be on went down, and possible I would have been in the back, like my dream indicated. It never had an ending [my dream, as I have already said] because, maybe and just maybe, God tore that part of the page out of the book of life [After I would arrive home from Vietnam, I’d never have that dream again for the rest of my life, or up to this writing, anyway.]
War is never good, but I had really gone to Vietnam thinking it would free a country; what I had learned was peace does not mean freedom, for they had peace, as long as they did what the dictator told them to do, yes, then he gave them peace [meaning North Vietnam of course]. At best I felt, maybe a slice of Democracy with a slice of Capitalism could benefit Vietnam. I didn’t know the combination for them, what would work, and I’m not sure if anyone else did either.
But what I did know was such regimes did not give the people, [although in pretense they may have] peace with freedom, something they never knew in the first place, but it seemed to me like they wanted to test it out; possible something new for that whole part of the world in general. Why the world was willing to let a dictator hold this country in ransom was beyond me; --especially when the nations doing the squabbling were the countries that had peace with freedom. It was a time of countries domineering people, and in some cases countries domineering countries. Who was right and who was wrong would be talked about for many years to come. Wiping my brow, I sat back and enjoyed the sun coming through the window.
Maybe the whole world couldn’t tell the difference between peace for sale, and peace with freedom [sometimes we’re just too close to the forest to see the trees].
In my short lifetime, I have witnessed at points of time, where the whole world was wrong and one-person right, it has been proven time and again. But I didn’t know if I was right or wrong, I just went by my values, I couldn’t violate them. And so maybe our truth is simply our values that are what makes us right and wrong. I don’t know, in any case I was glad to be going home.
I looked at a few clouds outside of my porthole in the plane; it looked like a cluster of candy frost. I liked it; still no birds though. [I hesitantly looked at a number of faces in the seats, some sleeping, some tired, some couldn’t sleep, but all happy to be getting out of Vietnam, I think.]

My mind started shifting into daydream mode again.

I think all my friends in Vietnam would not have minded dying for that reason alone, that is, peace with freedom. I knew all the controversy back home was more on blind-sight, and hindsight; a bunch of people blind following the blind not free thinking. The very same way the government runs the war, the blind leading the blind.
From what I’ve seen, read, and heard most of it was showmanship, news on news, and the spot light. We all forgot people were dying. We forgot peace with freedom. We all had our sins though.
The sorry feeling I always carried around was [although it didn’t bother me as much as my friends] was the naked fact we had no support, not by our own people, much less the rest of the world.

I got thinking about the steak you are suppose to get the last day in the Army, no, I mean, when you come home from Vietnam, I guess everyone gets one. I hope they are right.

I had also learned, --and thought as I sat on this stuffy plane, with all the body odor shifting around like in a horse stall, and believe me, it was enough to kill a skunk-- no one knows you as a soldier; --that is to say, because while working in San Francisco, at Lilly Ann, everyone in the world knew of, or about Adolph Shuman even me, I worked for him, but here in the Army I was no more known than a ‘wino’ on Wabasha Street, in St. Paul, Minnesota. And I’m sure if Mr. Shuman had been on this airplane with me, no one other than a few people on the plane would have known him. So that told me something for having a long career in the Army. But I knew I needed to get educated somehow and I would take advantage of the GI Bill now and go to College. That is what I had to do.
The world was changing and you had to change with it. To have a degree, and not be licensed in some profession, you were not in demand. Plus, I needed to learn how to be more assertive, and talk to crowds, and so I had a lot of work ahead of me.


When I got to Fort Lewis, I was given a big fat steak [and I don’t mean with a lot of fat on it], just like they promised, and some letters from the President saying what a good job I did, and from a few Generals and so on. I was also told they’d send me an Army Accommodation Medal in the mail in a few months, and then I was on my way to St. Paul, Minnesota, it took all of twenty-four hours.


20


Back Where I Started
[Last words-St. Paul, Minnesota]


When I got off the plane in St. Paul, Minnesota, and crossed the road to get into the cab to take me home, a car almost hit me. A driver of another car stopped, saw me in uniform and said [caringly]:
“Be careful soldier, we had a Vietnam Vet cross the street yesterday, and got killed.”
I’ve always been on one hand careful, on the other carelessly cautious, but normally I’ve never been sort of—sort of in a daze; but I seemed to be now. Funny how things work out, you go through the training, a war, only to come home and get killed by a driver the day you get back. In any case, I went home, it was as I liked it, expected it to be, I remember the very thoughts that were going through my mind that first day home, when I got out of the cab, just staring about: it was as though dawn had come among the city, ---for the birds were singing---.
I looked in my backyard and within the vicinity, [trying to grab the moment—still in that daze] and yes, there they were, perched on the lilac bushes chirping, tweeting, peeping [interrupting one another], on the telephone wires, on the roof on the garage, the house, it seemed I could spot them all over the place, and they all were singing, singing, singing [as if they had just noticed me]. Funny, I had lived here all my life and never heard them sing like this before.

٭

It was the second evening at my mother’s house; --I sat on the porch thinking, listening to the birds sing, and staring out the screened-in-windows. Grandpa was pacing the floor, he had been in WWI, my uncle a POW in WWII, and my Uncle Frank was killed in Italy in WWII. And so the whole family knew I suppose about the birds, that they don’t sing in combat zones, they never do, not in any wars. Why should they [?]…There is nothing to sing about. But I was lucky; it wasn’t bad for me, not like for many others I knew.
Before I left St. Paul to go to San Francisco, in which I went from there into the Army, the neighborhood was my world. It was all I knew of/or about. Now there was a much bigger world out there. I was becoming calm again, as I smoked my cigarette slowly grandpa pacing in his living room behind me, like he always did. Like he did before I left him.
I told the birds, I was a good soldier, they seem to listen to me, and I told the birds, I liked their singing; plus, they were the only ones that didn’t spit at me.


٭

Ye Little Birds
[Back from War]

Here, then, I came back
So they appeared before me; --
But I am no child anymore
‘Oh, but I am happy

I see you fly perched
On trees so high--,
As if you know God,
Himself—
Thank you for the blessings…
Ye Little Birds


Here, then, I came back,
[Ye little birds]
To watch you in your blues
Your skies, your waters,
And in trees so high:

I find myself somehow
Entwined with thy; --
With sounds of wings, --
Fading sounds of song:

Caw-caw
Coo-coo
Cluck-cluck

“You are home,” they cry.

Tossed images inside my soul,
Floating, floating, no more:
Left behind images of war; --
For the birds do not like wars
[They have told me so]
“Do not depart,” they say--
But yet we go,
Time, and time again…


Here, then, I came back to you
Who have never left my mind?

Ye little birds—.




The Big Brick House in Erie
(1972-1973)


I was invited to my boss' house, worked for Pennsylvania, Electric Company back in 1972-’73, I was young so very young back then freshly out of the Vietnam, and its ongoing war, just got married, had twins: perhaps twenty-five years old at the time; l lived in Erie, Pennsylvania for a year, total, worked for an Iron Foundry prior to getting a job at the Electric Company; had it not been for my origins (being Russian), like my boss’ I’d not have gotten the job. After working at the company for a few months, I hung around with his nephews (not knowing at the time, they were his nephews) and when I saw his big, red brick house, it somewhat startled me: made of: red-brick, smoothly mortared. In-between: a few chimneys on each side of the house, Victorian style. It was a big, red brick huge house with windows everywhere: all around the house, up and down each of the three floors, and a window in the attic to boot.
To a poor Midwestern chap like me, my eyes were mortified, they were shaken (hands fidgeting, legs weakening) had to catch my breath, I even questioned myself, “Did people really live like this?”
On one hand, I was delighted, in that I got an invitation, to see a friends uncle’s beautiful country style house in the city, as big as a mansion down south, let’s say as in Alabama or North Carolina, in which I’ve been to both locations. In life certain things impress you, and you never quite get over them until you somehow wrap them up in some kind of bag for later examination, and if life permits, it haunts you until you deal with whatever causes the haunting.
His wife answered the door, she said hello to us, his nephew and me, and when I walked inside the house, my boss was surprised, yet greeted me well, cheerful, I wanted to say, “You have everything here.” But I didn’t say a word; I just looked and listened, observed and appreciated, without envy getting in the way.
I think he noticed I felt a bit Uncomfortable (I was brought up in an extended family where two bedrooms fitted four families); so, I smiled the best I could, looking about the house it was to me: Buckingham Palace.

I spoke to him loosely about trivialities, very shyly, when we left he thanked me very much for coming, but his mind was already looking forward to other businesses. He appeared to be very eager, and self absorbed. The weather was windy outside, and a chill was in the air, winter was coming on, it was November.
I had heard a few weeks after that experience, he had put his housed up for collateral, he was working on a side project, and it fell through, meaning, it didn’t do very well, and he was losing that beautiful house. When I saw him the few times at work--thereafter, I could hardly lift my head to greet him, but I did, and he was as if he was normal.
A few other times he sat down in his office, on the second floor, I noticed him when I needed to visit the office, he was quiet and reserved self-absorbed sitting alone in that big chair, on the verge of bankruptcy. I guess I was thinking at the time, if I was he, I’d be hollering and throwing things in the air, into the bull ring to fight the bull if necessary, just to make me feel better.
Well, that was a long time ago of course, and writing this, it is 2-23-2006, autumns have come and gone quicker than a clap of an eye.
I am now fifty-eight years old, yes, a quarter century plus, has passed, I owned several big houses a few years ago or so, retired at fifty-two, sold all the houses—one each year, I got two left, one bigger than his, and one smaller than his, the smaller one is in case I have to file bankruptcy or sell the big one; his big house has always been a reminder for me, things come and go, change as years pass, and never did I once forget that big house, in Erie: never once, that’s why I have a plan B.
Written 2/23/06 (St. Paul, Minnesota) revised and rewritten at my home in Lima, Peru, 1-7-2009)





The Old Russian Bear
(Waiting, prior to second hitch in the Army)
[The Old Russian Bear: 1973]



I had been out of the Army for 30-months, had rejoined the Army while up in Erie, took a bus to Buffalo, New York, for testing and a physical, and was waiting for approval to reenter, in the meantime I had went back home to Minnesota, and lived. I lived on the 900-block of York Street, on the East Side of St. Paul, Minnesota, and would visit my mother and Grandfather who lived at the time, at 186 Cayuga Street (I would reenter the Army in the fall of 1974, prior to the death of my Grandfather). Thus, this is where this story originates, prior to my second hitch in the Army…


Old Grandpa Tony [Anton] swore more than the best of the clergy prayed, and I’m talking about the higher up elite. He was all of five feet tall, complete, that’s all he stood, I always thought he was at least six foot tall myself, even when I went to high school when I towered over him, but no, he was only five feet tall, period. It’s not the unpardonable sin, I know—to swear, but if you added them all up, all the cussing words he done in front of me, and only me, not to add the rest of society in, and adding up those 24-hours days into years, and thirteen years, it would top the Andes, and then some. But he was kind enough to allow my mother, brother and myself to live with him, in his house during my formative years. And back in the fifties, it was rough, so I suppose I can say, thanks gramps. But the Old Russian Bear, used to say:
“I tell yaw vhut you gottaa wtch dem boys Elsie (his daughter, my mother)—dhay make-too much noise!”
All the time we had to be quieter than mice in the house.
Well, I heard mom say once, “I can’t watch them boys every second of the day?” to grandpa.
Grandpa thought about that for a while, a minute or two, “I gonna throw dem out den!” he said.
I think he started telling mom that from my thirteenth birthday on, steadily. He liked my brother Mike for some odd reason: perhaps I didn’t pay him much attention, or for that matter any attention. I was very active, meaning: overactive, I could never seem to slow down, and that may have bothered him some. Nowadays, they give kids pills up the yen-yang to slow them down: back then, mom would say: “Go run it off…” and out the door I went, and I’d run a mile here or there, and come back and eat up a storm, that seemed to do the trick.
Yes, mother would say, “I’ll tell him to play outside more…” (I was but ten, at the time).
I think it all started one day when I was in Ernie’s car, a 1950 Chevy (my mother’s boyfriend for forty-years), and mom was looking at me in the backseat, and I was about seven-years old then, and I asked about this and that, many questions, too many questions, I never could be settled too long, and she noticed that, and would try to answer my numerous questions, and she’d get tired, and say:
“Stop! You’re wearing me out….”
So when I got older I bought an encyclopedia set and read it a few times from start to finish: a to z. One year I read 400-books, after all my other activities. I slept four to six hours all my life, until I got ill, and slept 10 to 14 hours; made up for all that lost sleep.

—Grandpa would put his pipe in his mouth, pace the kitchen, mumbling,
“Them god…d…m..kids.”
He didn’t want us boys to stay with him in the house, but he didn’t want mom to leave, she did all the work, and bought the television and the furniture, and did his laundry, and bought the groceries: she was an economic asset for him, as he was for her (or us). He bought the meat for the Sunday meals, paid the heat and water bills, and phone bill. They had a good system going I suppose. I always prayed mom would take us kids out of that environment, but it was as it was, and it gave me a father figure I suppose, he had good work ethics, and I suppose I got that from him. In any case, mom, she’d reinforce me, by telling me,
“Nobody’s going to kick you out,” and he never did.
When I grew up: went to Vietnam, and came back home for a visit, Grandpa, being in WWI, was proud of me, but he still had that bear in him, and one day he said something, and I got mad, and I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I said:
“Grandpa, don’t swear at me, if you don’t want me here I’ll leave, but if you swear once more I’m going to knock your ass!” and I walked away angry.
I had always felt bad about telling Grandpa that, even to this day, it really wasn’t called for, I could have walked away like always, I just wanted to let him know, I was not that little kid you could pull his ears, when you didn’t like what was happening. And I was sorry for that, as I had said—but I did make up for it, I think. When he was too old (meaning, 83-years old, he worked all the way up to the ripe old age of: 78) and his children were coming over to count his money (he had several children living at the time), and was being threatened by them, I heard about it, and made myself present when they were present, and told everyone: the threatening was over, that if I heard about it again, I’d throw them out, everyone out, one by one if need be. I think, Grandpa may have heard it from the dinning room, not sure what or how he felt, but I guess, if I made up for that bad remark, so be it. On the other hand, he asked me to make him eggs, and I did.
I guess if there is an insight to this story, let it be this: we are more than we think we are and that part being, of our environment. In other words, I had a little of that Russian Bear inside of me also, and sometimes two bears don’t mix.


The Old Russian Bear, a Cobbled Evening in Babenhausen, Germany, and Fargo’s Mid-day Sun (in Huancayo, Peru)






The Hearth in Amsterdam
(From Dieburg, Germany to Amsterdam, 1974, while Stationed at
the 545th Ordnance Company, in Munster by Dieburg, Germany)




Two police men were riding down the cobblestone street on horses, I stood alongside a building watching them, while also glancing at the several other folks standing inside a building, sipping on different kinds of wine, and I and my two twins-boys, continued to stare, then looked at one anther and one of the two asked,
“Dad, what are they doing?”
“Tasting wine I guess,” I said randomly.
We had just left the center of Amsterdam, where statues of lions were, and we ended up wondering the streets. A young American hippie near the statues asked me,
“Sir…yaw wanta-buy some pot?” and I never answered him, just kept walking.
Cody, the older of the twins by nineteen-minutes was in one arm, three years old, and Shawn in the other, and I carried them like two sacks of potatoes off of the ledge of the statues, and down to earth, and we continued our journey.
It was my first time in Amsterdam, and it would not be my last, I was, twenty-seven years old then, a Buck Sergeant in the Army, living in a little city called Dieburg. I wanted to take my boys on a trip, they never really made much of a fuss on such trips, and Cody was quiet all the way down on the train playing with his toy car and Shawn looking here and there, inquisitive.
I didn’t bring much luggage—I never did, and I suppose I should have found a hotel first, but I didn’t, in those far-off days I was unprepared, I often just picked up and went on a trip without much planning but things always worked out somehow, or I made them so, or the Good Lord was looking after me, or my guardian angel had his work cut out, or one of a dozen reason might have been in place, but all in all, things always worked out, and I felt me and the boys needed some excitement.
It was winter time, November, and there was a chill in the air. In those days I often just jumped up, grabbed some money and took off, as I previously mentioned. Life was ever so fast for me, and I liked it that way. My apartment back in Dieburg, Germany, was simply bricks and whitewash plaster on the walls, too much to look at everyday, so I went to castles up and down the Rhine, and Morsel rivers whenever chance permitted, thus, I got up and out of the city, and visited most all the countries surrounding western Germany. And this weekend was Amsterdam, and I had liberty to do so, no extra duty on the military base. The railroad ran unbroken from Dieburg to Amsterdam, a hundred stops, but straight through otherwise, no disembarking to get onto another train, hence, life was simplified, the way I liked it when traveling.

It was now late, and the kids were tired, their heads leaning on my thighs, and falling to sleep as we walked, and accordingly, I found a midnight hotel, and I and the custodian talked about the night’s rent, and I argued that the night was half over, so he should give it to me for half price. And he said no, and then he saw my kids, and perhaps was overtaken by that, and said,
“Well, I’ll give you a break, I’ll only charge you two thirds the price, and so we shook hands, and we had our room.
After settling down in the rooms, my tiredness had long sense departed, and I think the twins were also on their second wind, so we went downstairs of the small hotel, there was a fire in the hearth, and I ordered myself a beer, and the boys each a sandwich. Some invisible arm was put on my shoulder, said:
“You come over by the hearth, bring your boys, warm up, and drink with us.”
I turned about and it was an older man, he had a smile with a flow to it, it was contagious, and I smiled back. Shawn and Cody were on each side of me, each on a separate leg, chewing away on their ham sandwiches.
The fact now was, we’d be really tired tomorrow, but the railroad ran back to Germany almost hourly so I felt if I overslept, no problem, I’d catch a later train out of Amsterdam. So, light-headed, I sat with my boys, the fire crackling, warm heat soaking through my pants, my legs being warmed up, the light from the hearth was like sparkling firecrackers, and I could have hugged those three fellows for inviting me over to the hearth.

There were a few ladies in the background, whom seemed to drift here and there, one a waitress cleaning up things, actually the bar was closed and it was just this group of guys by the hearth. A cat and a dog lying near the fireplace, but they kept their distance as if not to take the heat away from us folks. Then a woman brought me a guitar, knowing I could play—I had mentioned it in passing during our conversation, and we sang some songs, I didn’t understand them, but who cares when you’re half lit up.

That evening, I put the boys to bed, and snuck outside for a moment (had a baby sitter watch them), found a bar nearby open, and ordered a big beer in a bottle, to bring back to the hotel room. Two guys followed me, once out of the bar, then another joined him, and still another. I couldn’t fight all four I felt, let alone being half lit, and so feeling incapable of charging these fellows, I simply broke the bottle against a stone wall I was passing by, and now I had a weapon, and they saw it, and they talked amongst themselves, taking their eyes off me for a moment, and I grabbed that moment, I ran down the side streets, couldn’t find my hotel at first, then it appeared out of nowhere. Bells were ringing in my head, iron bells, ‘I made it,’ I said to myself, as I ran up the steps to the apartment, and jumped in bed or passed out I can’t remember, and counted myself lucky to have made it back alive in the morning.
The trouble was not unavoidable, had I stayed in the hotel room, and thereafter, I did. I never seemed to challenge fate twice; I was a quick learner in the area of survival.



Late Train to Haguenau
((France, 1974) (Italian mafia murder squad))


He was the same man, I told myself, the one I met in Strasbourg, the one that sat at the bar on a stool, near me, not too near me, but near enough to talk to me and for me to hear him without difficulty. He was in his sixties I believe, but looked more in his late forties. He wore one of those panama hats, white with thick black trim. His suite was dark, pressed, and he had a thin light tie on. Dark glasses,
“Can I buy you a drink?” he said, friendly like.
“Sure,” I said, and smiled.
“Where you headed for?” he asked.
“Haguenau?” I said.
“Haguenau, what in heavens name is there?” he replied.
“Perhaps nothing, but I got mad at the waiter out on the pier where the outside cafes are, that area, and I got mad at a French waiter: are all French people so rude, they’d not let me sit at the table with my sandwich, told me to move, and I should have beat the day-lights out of him but, I didn’t.”
“You look like a soldier, American soldier, right?”
“Yes,” I replied, “on a long weekend with my twin boys, they’re sitting over there at the table drinking a coke.”
He turned about, took a look, “Twins you say, how old?”
“Four years old,” I answered.
“So you got real mad at that guy, haw?” said the stranger.
“I suppose so, why?” then the stranger lit a cigar, blew some smoke in my direction, smiled, pulled out a calling card, it read, “Sam the Cigar,” and in brackets, (gun for hire), I started to laugh, but held it back, and he said with a different tone of voice now,
“It’s for real, but I use it for a joke now and then, but if you could afford me, would you?”
I smiled didn’t really know what to say.
“Got to go,” I told Sam the Cigar, man, and he waived at my two boys as we walked out onto the platform where the trains was waiting. I had tickets to Haguenau, and we sat huddled on one side, inside of a cramped train car, it was more like a second or third class. Several women were about, it was 4:00 PM, we figured we’d get into Haguenau late, about eight or nine o’clock, depending on how many stops the train would make.


About halfway to Haguenau, a woman who was near us asked,
“I see you are going to Haguenau, an American soldier stationed in Germany, is that right?”
“Yes I said, and my two boys, Cody and Shawn, they’re going also.”
“We’ll, by the time you get to Haguenau, it will be late, and the hotels will be shut down, closed. They lock the doors early there. Incidental, I work for the museum there. Your children will be hungry, and so forth.”
“Yes,” I said, and then wondered why she said what she said, and she looked me in the face—somewhat sternly yet concerned for the boys I think, I was twenty-seven years old at the time.
“I know a hotel, my friends own it, and they’ll be glad to take care of you, I’ll bring you there when the train stops in Haguenau, if that is ok with you.”
“Oh yes,” I said in reply (trying not to show my apprehensiveness, but not wanting to lose the opportunity of her goodwill should I need it), “that’s more than ok…” I added to the comment, and I didn’t quite know what else to say, I was mad at all the French people because the waiter had the nerve to kick me and my boys out of the café area in Strasbourg, but I guess she was making up for his bad behaviour. I had told her point-blank, I had intentions of staying in Strasbourg, but was to angry to, so I simply bought tickets to wherever the train went in France, to be able to say, I was in France (it would be my first trip to France, in later years I’d come back four times, but never back to Haguenau), and they said next stop was Haguenau, that is, a city with a hotel in it (the township had perhaps some 20,000 to 25,000-inhabitants).

The train stopped, it was 8:30 PM, and the kind French lady, who spoke some English, slurred and broken, took me and my boys to the hotel. It was locked as she said it would be, and she knocked hard on the door, someone came and looked though the peephole of the door, they saw her, and opened the door,
“These are my friends,” she said to the owner in French, “and also friends of Sam the Cigar, if you know what I mean, take care of them, ok?”
“No problem,” said the owner, and we walked into main room, it was more likened a three story house, with a small dinning area on the first floor to the left in a room, several folks were drinking and looked at me at a round table in the main room, and a stairway was to my left,
”You can have room 202, if that’s fine with you,” said the man, the proprietor, and the lady said, in French,
“Make sure they get something to eat.” But I didn’t quite understand it then, but I would later on. And she left.
“I’d like dinner for me and my boys brought to the room, please,” I told the owner.
“No dinner” he said, “all closed.”
I insisted, “My boys have to eat?” And he looked at his fellow men sitting at the table,
“You want beer?” he asked me.
“No,” I said, I’m tired, just something to eat.”
Then he said,
“Go to room 202, see you soon.”
And we did, and I did have a beer with the fellows just to show them I was ok by them, and sociable, prior to going to the room. Then I went to our room, and to my surprise we had a fine bottle of wine in a silver bucket with ice, and three large sandwiches of ham and cheese, on dark bread. The note read in English,
“Compliment of your friends and this hotel!”
In the morning we went to the park, there the boys played in the fountain, and there was this kind of rotunda, with pillars, they ran around it like little gothic knights. And we caught a train back to Augsburg, Germany at 1:00 PM.



Christmas in Luxembourg, 1975

Ville de Remich

Part Christmas Eve Day


From Germany, I headed west, to Luxembourg, crossed the boards with little to no difficulties. I went by car, a 1967-VW, dull green in color, it was not the best running of cars but it seemed it could make at two-hundred and fifty miles, so I decided to take a quick trip. The road was dotted with quaint, rural hamlets that most people associate with fairy tales. It was midwinter, and winter in Luxembourg, is not as extreme as it can be in nearby countries, and I had been to Europe a dozen times, and during this tour duty, I was stationed near Darmstadt, Germany. For a land locked country, it had what I would call pretty standard climate. It was a day before Christmas. The trees were filled with crystal like frost, as I drove through an area that seemed the landscape had its share of wooded extremes. A very beautiful and pleasant area, it was brisk in the woods, and when I drove out of it, it was cool, with a warm sun leaning on top of my car. I had my two boys, Cody and Shawn with me, twins; they were five the previous October. I found myself in a little quaint village called Ville de Remich, I didn’t see much of it, I stopped the car to have breakfast, the street was of cobblestone, and the guesthouse, was old Germanic in style, the owner with an apron on, looked at me and my two boys, it was Christmas Eve morning, and no one was in the guesthouse, no guests that is, no one but the proprietor, and he was I fear about to say: we are closed, but his wife walked up, and asked,
“…do you need something?”
“Yes,” I said, “for me and my boys, a room for the night and breakfast.”
“Well, ok,” she said, “but tomorrow is Christmas, and I do hope you will not be staying over that day, we are always closed.”
I assured her we had just come for the day and evening, that we’d like to have breakfast if possible, and we’d be gone early Christmas Morning. In between, we would go to the nearby cemetery I noticed on the way down, and climb those 100-steps up to its domain, and visit the city. And she and her elder husband both looked at each other, then back at my twin boys, and me, “Ok,” they confirmed, and I filled out a guest slip.


Breakfast


The boys and I sat outside around a wooded table, and chairs, my car parked alongside the road, and cars being driven by, it was chilly, but not cold, cold, everything in the café area was put up on tables, the chairs and ashtrays, and so forth, a message they were not expecting any company on Christmas Eve day.
I ordered eggs and bacon, toast and jam, milk and coffee for the breakfast, and all three of us, Shawn, Cody and me, sat waiting, I think our mouths were salivating, we were hungry. I had thought she understood the order, she brought three pouched eggs, which I did not know how to eat, but would learn quick, I had to ask him how to go about it, “You just crack the egg on the top with your spoon, the shell,” he said, “then dig out the inside of the egg and eat it.”
I had a hard time doing that for some odd reason, can you imagine the boys. Anyhow, we did not get bacon, but we got bread and butter and jam, and that was that, and the boys did get hot milk and I got coffee, and that again was that, I dare not complain, although I left a kind of empty blank face, when I paid for the meal.

And then we did go on to see that cemetery, and the village and that night I bought two large beers and drank them down, and kind of stared out the windows, looked at my boys, cut, blond hair, blue eyes. They were good boys, never complained much, or cried much, only fought and laughed with one another too much, but not creating any profound disturbance.



Part Two: Xmas Day, 1975


It was Christmas day, and we had said our goodbyes to the owners of the guesthouse, and had about 250-miles to travel back to Darmstadt, or thereabouts. As we got on our way, it seemed to be a long road back, our brakes were going out, mental on metal, squeaking and burning up, and you could smell them. The twins knew something was wrong but not exactly what. As we drove further, into a hilly area, the sky turned dark, and the transmission was jamming in first gear, couldn’t get it out, thus I drove in first gear for miles. The heaters had stopped working and the fan belt had broken, the car spit and sputtered; when we’d get to a long hill, I turned the car off, and rolled down the hill allowing the motor to cool, and then popped the clutch to start the car again—it was indeed a long and trying morning, and extended into the afternoon, and we got no place it seemed, I mean we should have been back home by 4:00 PM, but it wasn’t going to happen, we’d make it home by 9:00 PM that evening.
It was turning out to be a worrisome Christmas Day. The boys had insulated snow suites on, I had purchased them in Minnesota, oversized knowing they could and would grow into them, and glad I did. Finally we drove along side of a guesthouse, it was closed for business, but in the back of the building, some lights were on. Actually, we were on a lonely road, deserted somewhat. And I really didn’t know what to do, and I put the hood up, of the car up, and knocked on the door, and asked to purchase some food for the kids (the woman of the house, brought out sandwiches for the boys and me), and they speaking German, and me a little German, along with English, and sign language, I got the message through. The middle aged man in the house saw the car, took a look at the motor, knew we were in trouble, and went back to his garage, and found an old fan belt, it was too big for my car, very loose the say the least.
“You got to drive slowly,” the German said, indicating if I didn’t and if I went over too many bumps, the belt would fly off and perhaps get entangled into my motor, and loosen up or break my fan.
Well, what could I say but thank you and I had a hot cup of coffee, and the boys got some more bread and cheese with ham, and they would not take any money, it was Christmas, and they felt they just couldn’t. It all took an hour or so, and I felt I was intruding, but in life to get a step ahead, is exactly what you got to do, intrude, lest you die where you stand, waiting for somebody to say something only to find out they will say nothing. And I think they both bite into their lips, wanting to say, “Wish we could have you stay until morning,” it was now about 3:00 PM, we had left at about 11:00 AM, and it was now even darker, gray dark, not black dark. A snow storm was building up slowly.

When we arrived at our apartment in Babenhausen, Germany (although we had actually left from Darmstadt on the trip), the boys were tired and fell to sleep like two little sheep, and I sat up, had a beer, a cigarette, and was thankful for the trip, and got rid of that junk heap of a car a week later.

A Cobbled Evening in:
Babenhausen, Germany


With his foot drawn up against the other chair, the one across on the other side of the table, he leaned back and drank down his beer. Cody next to him, Shawn off at the other end of the almost, near empty guesthouse in Babenhausen Germany.
Shawn shot into view, he seemed motionless, staring, uncertain why he sat at the last table (he actually had went there on his own, perhaps they, his brother Cody and him were kicking each other under the table, and that of course annoyed the father, and Shawn knew it might be best he simple get away from Cody), a window to one side, he was visible if anyone came by, walking down the sidewalk, or across the cobblestone street, yet he never thought of looking up to see, who might be looking in.
Cody sat by his father, it was a quite evening, it was a month since they had been back from Luxembourg, and their father had gotten paid from the Army, and was taking the boys out for an evening meal, although it was a weekday.
The German world was a tinge alien to the twin boys yet, Cody and Shawn; the raddled twilight had died away.
“They are Germans,” said the father to Cody, who had asked him why he could not understand what they were saying when they talked. Then the father rose to his feet, and informed the proprietor he wanted another beer. He said “Yes sir,” in English, Cody was surprised he heard words he understood, being quite distinguishable from the German language. He said without moving.
At that moment, the church bells down the road, across the old stone bridge, started ringing, thus, the vacuum of the near-night was filled.
Unmotivated, the father, ate his sausage and French Fries, while washing it down with his beer, as did his twin boys: sausage and fries and coke, and beside the three, tenderly born into this world, Cody and Shawn who were used to kicking each other under the tables, at cafes and restaurants, glowed at one another, giggled a bit, and made faces at the other, a cobbled evening indeed.
The mass behind the city walls, nearly no sound, just a few cars driving by the guesthouse, three blocks away, from their apartment.
Simple as it was, it was intriguing for the father to watch the city darkening, its mass, flowing back across the cobblestone streets and boulevards into a fading scene for the night, with one long quiet inhalation, the father immune to the world at large, perhaps because of the alcohol, perhaps because of the free falling tumult he lived in, or rather the evening effaced for humanity sake so it could rest.

Folks, in this West German City of Babenhausen, were unlike those of Dieburg (so the father got thinking as the night waned on), where the Twins with their father had lived prior to moving to Babenhausen. Different he claimed, for those in Babenhausen no longer held grief or dark shadows over the American Soldiers’ presence, the city was silent on such matters of WWII, allowing no rising tiers to create a tremendous beehive, nor was there no longer the blind following a demolished Nazi regime.
Here in Babenhausen, the soldier was more the host; no memorandums to the old way.
The father now grabbed the hands of his two boys, cleaned shaven, cut hair, to a neatly trim, polished black Army boots, brass belt buckle shinning, he looked splendid and shinny, a Buck Sergeant, quite distinguishable from civilians, mostly because of his uniform. He knew like the old time Germans knew what war was like, he had come out of the battle zone of Vietnam, his war. Now he was in a gun less city.
He held the hands of his two boys, and slowly they walked to the apartment, down along the cobblestone street. Perhaps he liked the Army for the very reason it never lost you, it never forgets either, it kept a record as close as he kept an eye on his twin boys—no matter how inconsequential.

On the way back to his apartment, he didn’t see any soldiers: no sergeants, or corporals, or even privates, mostly they were on the Army base, a mile away, in barracks, or Army Housing, he preferred the German Economy, although he was waiting for housing to open up for him at the Army Base, it was a lot cheaper.
The boys got to the apartment with their father, walked up a flight of stairs (it was furnished), toys lying about in the hallway of their apartment, they walked around them; the father put the boys in bed, and sat on the leather couch. Fell to sleep, a cigarette in hand, and when he woke up, he had put a few burn holes in the sofa. He shook his head, knowing it would be costly when he left, his whole deposit, they’d charge him, which amounted to a whole new living room set, and not allowing him to take the old. ‘Oh well,” he thought, “it’ll pass,” and it did.


The Pool Sticks


…control of people by people is what was going on at the base, the 545th and the 9th MP’s, in short, watching evil prevail over evil, bigots over bigots, I would say they all were guilty, it is just a matter of degrees; that there is enough sour-soup for everyone to go around: --the point being, there is enough criticism for white and black, black and white to eat crow all day long, should there be a need for it. That is if one is pointing fingers, and from Alabama to West Germany there had been a lot of finger pointing. Yes, yes, everyone hides when the finger pointing starts, but they keep pointing those fingers; it is what people do best, no need to stop now. It reeks to the point of no return, but we must live with the dirt between our fingernails most of our lives, or so Chick noticed. NO-body, I mean NOOOOO body was innocent not at the 545th. Matter of fact, there were as many so called helpers who spoiled the soup than those called non helpers. Chick Evens found out in a very short period of time about this human err, where we want to be gods among men, and not feel guilty how we acquire the emotion. What Chick was learning was that resistance breeds resistance, and peace does not necessary breed peace.
9:30 PM
Never-ending music was playing in the Enlisted Men’s Club as Chick walked through its doors; the lights dim, smoke seeping through the air just resting like a cloud on some kind of gravity, trying to make its way upward, but dissipating before it got too far; most of it settling for moments here and there, some sinking to the wooden floor boards, seeping out the windows, resting in the ceiling spaces above. The bar was in the next room, tables were the first thing one saw in the small-dinning area, as you’d walk through it to reach the bar in the adjoining room. Chick leaned his elbows on the extended bar ‘rests,’ kind of a padded dash one might say, it was black in color and attached somehow to the wooden bar. He lit a cigarette, Luck Strike, put the matches to the right of him, pored a beer, Past Blue Ribbon, in a glass, it was chilled—, as was his glass, and he drank it down, all the way to its bottom, good, so good he pushed the glass aside and drank it out of its nipple of the bottle, loving it as if it was a woman. Thereafter, he used the chilled glass again. The bartender was a tall heavy black male; with an iron face to go with his iron forearms. He seemed pushed into a tight bar area, a square area that actually made him look huger than he was.
The beer went down quick and easy like a waterfall again; -- Chick ordered another one, pouring it down this time a little slower, as not to allow the foam to roll over the top of the glass, and on to his lip, chin, and cloths. He then looked across the bar to the other side, there were two black soldiers playing pool. Three other blacks standing in the background watching, possible watching the two white men, one a Buck Sergeant, he was in uniform looking as if he just got off work, watching impatiently the game of pool going on between the two blacks, for he wanted to get to the game himself, Chick, guessed at that, for he’d played enough pool to know when you hauntingly stand about waiting for the others to stop, you’re waiting for your turn to come; supposedly with his white friend he would play once the two blacks quite, or possible he’d have to play one of the blacks and beat him so his friend could play him, or possible with the black dude he’d loose, and consequently that would eliminate his friend playing with him [however the combination, at the moment, the black men didn’t seem as if they were in any hurry]—all was conjecture for Chick, but something was in the makings for the blacks didn’t stop playing, thus, giving the whites a chance to play. Then he noticed the Sergeant, tall, somewhat muscular, he put a quarter down for the pool table—getting tired of waiting, so he could play the next game, but the two blacks just gave it no notice, and continued to play: unabated.
The taste of the beer was great, Chick told himself, as he watched the game, off and on, looking at the bartender and the fourteen or so people around the bar standing. Matter of fact, he took a second look, a more intense look; he was the only white person, besides the Sergeant and his friend in the bar—coincidence or for a reason, he pondered. The other ten or eleven or so were black. There was a black man sitting across from him on the other side, one to his right, about three seats up. An assistant to the bartender was also a black male, and would go under the bar to get beers for people standing and watching the game. The music seemed to go louder, and the lights dimmer as the night went on, Chick now had ordered his forth beer, and had been in this bar for about an hour and fifteen minutes. The white sergeant remained standing and watching the two pool players still playing and the bartender watched carefully the players as if a cloud of rain was about to bust open: granted for the moment, it looked this way even to Chick.
Outside was dark, real darkness very few lights from the EM Club to the barracks, the window was to the back of the building,-- light rain seemed to be hitting the window, kind of tapping it made, disrupting the stillness that was breeding within the bar; you could see it right over the heads of the pool players: the small window overhead—the small window with many reflections that seemed to drift past the window, as the two players looked at one another—as if there was some kind of secret agreement, code if you will, going on between them: then the white sergeant seemed to glare at the pool sticks—so as they’d like to put it: what’s next [?]—but said nothing; yet the sergeant’s eyes, was measuring something; along with him getting more impatient. [Chick would find out the next day, the two blacks were part of the sergeant’s squad, and that there was no love between them. Also there were descriptions of drugs being trafficked in his squad, and the white sergeant was not too fond of it, possibly annoyed with it, as potentially the blacks were annoyed with him.]
11:15 PM
No women were in the bar this evening, no German ladies. Matter of fact, Chick had only been assigned to the company going on 2-½ weeks.
[Calmly, with interest, the bartender asked] “You look new to the area—I mean company, Corporal?”
[With an intoxicating smile] “Just arrived here a few weeks ago,” The bartender then walked away as if a note on a piano went sour.
Simultaneously, the two blacks picked up their pool sticks as if to give them to the white sergeant and started beating him mercilessly. Four other blacks blocked the other guy from helping.
As they hit, and beat the Sergeant, the sound of the sticks hitting his head, knees face against the sounds of the outside rain, and the loud music was becoming overwhelming—the blows of the sticks superseded all other sounds. Transfixed eyes, eyes, everyone’s eyes were on the massacre that was taking place. They hit and hit and hit and hit, the sergeant. His face was turning colors, purple, pink, blue, pale, the side of his eye seemed to be ripped open, now he covered it as not to get it hit again, and fell to the floor on one knee trying to get up, but couldn’t. If ever a man was beaten worse, Chick had never seen it, not even on TV where they dramatize such things into glory had he seen such a beating like this: all the same, it continued as all eyes continued to be mesmerized at the happening. Then the one black stopped, and the thin, shorter one continued with the beating, he looked as if he was on drunks, swaying his stick like a whip, every which way, sometimes missing—mostly striking his man-dog now on the floor, but the sergeant was too hurt to defend himself now and remained coiled up like a fetus on his knees.
As the beating continued for a few minutes more [a life time to Chick], Chick started to get up from his stool, grabbing his beer bottle, and the bartender shook his head: ‘no’, with more than a serious look as if, as if Chick didn’t understand, and if he did assist, he would be next. Several more strikes with the stick came, and then Chick said to the bartender,
“Stop it, you’re going to kill the man, and if I see it…you’ve seen it,”
the bartender didn’t like what Chick had said, meaning, if he didn’t stop it, and he killed the man, the bartender would be held responsible for doing nothing, and he and the two blacks would go to jail. The bartender stared a long stare in Chick’ face, and knew this was not the time to play poker, and yelled:
“Stop, stop, before we all go to jail for killing him…let it be, he had enough, enough I said, enough…!” The fight then stopped, and the bartender approached Chick, “Ok, it’s over, and I mean, over…!”
-- [Exhausted] Said Chick with, with a great sigh: “So you say,” and got up and walked out of the bar. But it was the end of it, regrettably. The next day for some odd reason, the sergeant was taken out of the company area, and no one ever heard of him again, as was the black men who beat the sergeant. Oh, Chick asked people about it, and he was told point blank, leave it alone. And so he did, and no one came to him and asked questions.
At this time, he had noticed on the tree outside the MP’s barracks, were military boots tided like Christmas bulbs to the branches, he asked around what that was all about, and one MP said, “Defiance, no more, no less…everyone leaves us alone, and whoever takes those boots down, wants a war with us;” Chick shook his head, what had he come to, a military base, or some wild, untamed back street gang war; this wasn’t Chicago, or New York City, or his neighborhood. It was an Army base for god sake. But he left well enough alone, again. This whole place was a sizzling hot spot he told himself, and he’d have to learn how to deal with it. The weather was extremely hot this summer, and for better or worse, he’d stick it out he told himself. Hoping things might get better; on the other hand he didn’t really have much of a choice.
[At this time, there was a Major in charge called Foley; he was a football player, who drove around with a little sports car, a Jaguar. He and Chick would get to know one another, and the Major would be the first to recognize Chick’ potential in running the Surety Office. But then he’d leave shortly after their acquaintance and be replaced by Major Wastrel.]



Second Lieutenant Goodwin


Two weeks after the crisis in the bar [EM Club] had settled, another one emerged, which would be one more of many to be. It was coming to the point it was less safe here than in his neighborhood, back home on Cayuga Street, where his gang members were, well kind of gang comrade might be a better name, it was no official gang, and had no name back then, just the neighborhood-hoods to speak of; they were more reasonable than this black-haven for injustice. From Alabama the white haven to the 545th, the black haven; so Chick shook his head and thought, and mumbled as he walked the dark sidewalk coming from the EM club, 2:00 AM in the morning, it had closed at 1:00 AM, but the bartender allowed him to stick around and have a few more beers—why not he told himself, there were no rules here, or if there were, one had to learn which ones they were. In any case, as he walked the dark street back, he quoted the Bible, “…Whatever a man sows, and this he will also reap.” Galatians 6:7. He wasn’t sure why he was quoting the Bible; he was not a Bible person, per se. But it seemed to fit the “Little Alabama,” what he called the 545th now, although it was the reverse in essence. Here the blacks treated the whites as the whites treated the blacks in Alabama, or tried to.
As he was about to open the huge doors to the barracks, he saw four black soldiers talking, swearing about hurting Lieutenant Goodwin, it was the one in the other barracks—the first barracks by the Mess Hall, not the one in charge of his platoon: granted for the moment, he thought it was, but put two-and-two together, and it wasn’t. Quietly he walked behind their shadows, the shadows of the four men: listening, attentively listening, trying to decipher every fact they were saying as the wind shifted their words back to him: but all he got was gobbledygook, swearing and unquestionable defiance, also statements like, ‘…what can they do,” plus, ‘…let’s teach him a lesson,’ etc. He knew he was on forbidden ground again, or going to be soon if he didn’t stop right there and do an about turn and go back to his sleeping room, but he had to follow none the less: his mother had always worried about things like this for him, that he’d walk into danger, but he somehow always walked out of it. He had seen these men at the club; one of them was one of the four who held the sergeant’s friend back when the two blacks were beating him. Actually, he seemed to be more of a follower than a renegade. It was funny though, the young corporal thought, his mother always telling him be careful, as if he was clumsy, or would walk into harms way, in which she was absolutely right, he always did, but for some odd reason, he always walked away from it also—in one piece, so far anyways; he was never sure how, but he did. Hopefully, this would be no different.
The four soldiers went in through the side door of the barracks, which lead straight down to the lower level—a partial underground level, by the arms room. There to the right was the 2nd Lieutenant’s room. Still Chick followed behind, slowly, quietly; as he followed the group down the steps, he knew he was getting closer to the exhibition of some kind of human cruelty about to take place. Why in heaven’s name was he here he asked himself, but no answer appeared; for he could only end up an accessory to this to be crime about to take place.
The Outrage/the Crime
One of the black soldiers said to another standing by the Lieutenant’s door,
“REALLY DO YA THINK WE SHOULD?” It was the familiar one Chick digested in his brain, the one he saw at the bar.
“I thought I told you …” [a pause came], the Corporal standing twenty feet behind them, tight against the wall.
“Get your mother-f*cken ass up, LT., were here to mess you up…LT, LT, officer in charge of shit…!”
There was no time to run and get help, and the Lieutenant had no gun, he had turned it in to the Arms-room [of which he was in charge of], Chick had overheard one of the four men mention that earlier [that he had no weapons in his room, for he didn’t take one from the Arms room], he had not quite deciphered it out until this very moment though: --for the most part, the lieutenant was on his own.
“Get out of here,” said the Lieutenant, adding, “I’ll have you court marshaled.” But the four just laughed; as if intimidation was like stale bread, should he live through what they had in mind for him.
“Open the damn door or we’ll break it in!” said a thin back dude. But the door didn’t open. Then three of the men started kicking, and pushing on the door, until the hinges broke, and there was the Lieutenant, standing in the corner with his small, tent shovel for a weapon, and as they came closer, one of the four pulled out a knife, telling the Lieutenant if he wanted to use a shovel, he’d use a weapon also, and so the Lieutenant dropped it, and feet started kicking him every which way until he was a fetus in the corner like the man in the bar. Then the familiar one looked at the shadow in the door way, it was Chick—a lightly familiar face for him.
By then, it was the end of the massacre; the Lieutenant’s shape was thrown off his creative balance. They broke his nose, disfigured his face, broke his knee caps, metaphorically, the outrage within these four men blurred this man’s future, he was broken emotionally, and physically, he would never be the same person again.
As they went to hit him a few more times, they did a double-take on the Corporal, and stopped—paused for a moment, said the familiar one, “Let’s go, we made our point.” But this time it would not be like the last time, where the two blacks got reassigned, and no charges. This time all four would go to jail, one would escape along the way, the one on drugs, the rest would serve time. And the lieutenant would be reassigned.
Oh, it would be a long four years at this military base for Corporal Evens, and he’d watch it become one of the best run Military Sites in West Germany. He would become a Buck Sergeant, and run the Surety Office. And in two years time, he would be asked to deliver the one who escaped this evening, to be held during pre-trial in Frankfurt; he would be assigned to take him to prison. During this period, the prisoner would have been found three previous times, and let loose by his captures for drug money and he’d ask Chick to do the same, bribed him for $5000, to let him go, which was a year wages. But, without hesitation, and remembering the un- mercifulness of this creature, Chick brought him to prison, he would see this brave drug person, a man beater himself, cry in fear as two prison guards threatened to strip him if he didn’t strip himself: white prison guards, who took him behind a pillar, and beat him, as he beat others. Chick again, doing the watching. How things seem to turn around he thought. At that point, while the two guards were questioning him: after a few kicks and blows to the stomach, Chick was signing papers to release him officially; -- thereafter, he was asked to be taken out quickly of the prison, he felt it was going to start all over again—a third Alabama.

Winter in Garmisch
[1976]

She stopped the car on the road, it was full of ice and snow, the road leading into Garmisch that is, Garmisch, Germany; Carmen’s right forearm resting on mine for a moment; in the distance ascending into the sky were the ski slopes. The wind was whistling around the car windows and the pine trees were swaying, it was a chilly winter’s morning. The mountain pass had to be made by car or bus; no trains could make it through the pass only around the mountain, and within a certain distance of the ski area resort. She stopped the car, rested the motor, there was a lodge behind us, about a mile back down the road; and just beyond the pass ahead of us was the village (or town-let), called Garmisch, a ski region, a wintry haven for all of Europe; and a simple old tourist village the rest of the year.
Everything was shinny white, in the frosted weathered morning sunbeams; so much so, it was almost blinding you could say; I was wearing sunglasses, to distract the glare of the snow Carmen was my German girlfriend. I was in the Military Armed Forces in Europe, about a year earlier, I was living in Babenhausen I had moved onto the military housing area now, where a PX—and a lot of other facilities were.
I seemed to have braved the elements of this trip without much difficulty. Carmen gave me a brief smile, a comforting intake of air, and drove forward through the pass.
“Is this Garmisch?” I said to Carmon, exited blowing my head to her diaphragm, trying to absorb the wintry wonderland beauty.
“Yes, yes, but it’s not quite the way I remember it to be, it was long ago you know when I was last here.” Said Carmon.
We now had driven closer to the village where we both could get a better view of the whole countryside, a breathtaking panorama—; for a moment, a fairytale moment you might say, I was taken back, a bit in awe, struck from its beauty; then as we drove a little further we were in the village itself; a little quaint Bavarian Village in the Alps.
“The hotel is farther down,” Carmen instructed.
I looked over her shoulder, out of the back window, it was a long ride from Dieburg and the incline was steep and slippery, I was adjusting. “Happy to have made it up here in one piece;” I commented. Carmen burped out “We’ll have to cross this small bridge ahead of us,” turning at the same time to look at my expression, then added “…the hotel is right beyond that (pointing straight ahead).”
I noticed a stream went under the bridge she was pointing at, and all the way (seemingly) through the village up to some farm pastures towards the mountains.
Said Carmen hesitantly, but with pride, “This is lovely country in the spring as well as summer: streams and forests all mesh together and give out many shades of green; and as you can see, most of the houses still have that old Bavarian architecture.”
“I see,” I said.
“Across the bridge is the hotel,” commented Carmen.
“And where exactly is the skiing area?” Although my brain told me the whole area could be considered a ski area, for it was all mountainous. “There, over by the big hill, mountain I mean, you can’t see it fully, got to get a little closer, but it’s over a mile run down those smaller slopes alongside, there are several you know. We’ll be able to see it closer later; the mountains all kind of blend together, as you can see.”
As Carmen pulled up to the hotel, I cleaned my sunglasses a bit. At times, things were so bright, it was blinding, therefore, I rubbed my eyes, shut them for a moment. The snow was heaped up several feet high along side the hotel. Carmen parked the car. This was our first trip together; we had only known each other going on a month.
“There’s no bellboy here,” said Carmen.
“I see the ski-lift now,” I said, tucking in my shirt as I got out of the car, grabbing the two suitcases in the backseat.
“Perhaps we can ski this afternoon,” Carmen explained, walking into the hotel. “The weather is perfect for it, it being twenty-five degrees out.” “How many folks are skiing do you think?” I asked, pointing now at the ski lift way in the distance, or where I thought it should be, although it was only a configuration for my eyes, yet a shadow of one was noticeable.
“Perhaps (she paused to look about, thinking before saying another word)…conceivably about one fourth of the normal folks that would normally come on a holiday or weekend here, you know today’s only Thursday, we got a few days before the rush starts.”
“Great, great, I don’t like it crowded, in particular.”
“Do you wish to ski as soon as possible?” she asked.
“Depends, ah, depends on what we have to do now I suppose!” i said aloud not realizing we were being overly loud; overcompensating for being tired I’d expect. She did a double-take on me when my voice had exceeded her calm zone.
“Yes, yes, I hear you…!” Carmon said. “But we should eat a fine, if not resilient meal first, rest a bit, and go later on towards early afternoon—we’ll be fresher and not so…(she hesitated, lost her thoughts, said), you know, not so loud please.”
“I’ve forgotten I’m hungry, and I didn’t mean to be so sharp, I suppose I’m just ornery from being tired, it does that to me some times,” I said.
[Inside the hotel] “Guten Morgan,” a voice said behind a counter, noticing I was an American: “My name is Koln, do…” before he could finish his statement Carmen interrupted.
“I am Carmen Schmidt; you should have our reservations here?”
“A moment…bitte…please (he corrected himself back to English),” Koln said as he thumbed through some reservation cards: ‘hmmm,’ came from his mouth.
“Ya... (a pause) Ms Carmen R. Schmidt, and…dd, of-course—your guest…” (He said with a reluctant voice, or so it seemed).
“Yes, that’s me,” replied Carmen.
“Kabine sieben,” said the desk clerk [Room seven], adding in English,
“…second floor, I see you’ll be here just three days…”Es ist schon” [fine], “…it’s good skiing weather,” he smiled and gave her the key, trying to readjust his earlier tentative sneer. I knew many German’s knew English, or at least conversational English, I myself knew a little German, enough to get a meal, a beer and an occasional date. And both Germans and Americans tried to use what little they knew; either out of respect, or simply for the recognition of knowing it.
“Danke,” said Carmen as they left the counter area, heading toward the main lobby, down the hall, I’m saying: “Tschus“[by]; then asked Carmen: “What is the ‘R’ for?”
“I told you I was a German-Jew, it’s my father’s last name, Rosenbaum, is that a problem?” she said with a higher defensive voice. “No, no-oo… (a pause) not at all; what’s a Jew got to do with anything anyhow? I mean, I’m Russian-Irishman, American—big deal.”
She didn’t look my way, just asserted herself forward as she found the room and opened the door, smiled at me as she laid her suitcase on the bed, as if to say, the adventure of the weekend is about to start, let’s not draw back from each other.
[The Ski Lift] “We must have climbed a mile?“ said Chick, stopping to rest by a farmyard fence; two cows came up to the wooden fence, with two big bells tied around their necks, Chick was leaning against the fence.“How charming,” commented Chick, satirically? He walked up the path a little further, toward the farmyard; two little boys came running down the path towards him, and two cows followed along side them, along the other side of the fence. It was as if one boy ran after the other, and the cows just followed. They were twins.
“Guten Morgen” said one of the two blond haired boys, the one by the name of Cody.
Said Carmen with a perfect pitch to her voice, as if it was a soft flute playing (wanting to know where is the ski lift): “Wo ist…der Schilift?” Said Cody with an impetuous smile, “Er ist…gehen Sie… geradeaus… (go straight ahead).”
Carmen looked straight in back of her, where the boy was pointing: ah, she could see it now.
“Gandige Frau…” said the boy, “wie heissen sie?”
“Carmen,” she said, was her name, to the boy. And she explained that Chick was her American friend.
“Aha…” said the boy with a bright smile again.
Then with slow and broken English, the boy commented, “He’s…my cow sir, isn’t…he big?” Chick looked at them, “H...mmm, they are big and healthy looking cows are they not?” Possibly it was a statement-question, but the boys both looked up and understood most of what was said; then they looked at each other, and were indifferent to it, as if they were holding back a laugh.
Both boys now looking at Chick, Cody said in English, “My name is Cody,
and he’s my brother Shawn, we live there (pointing to the house up the path).” Carmen thanked the boys in German, saying: “Danke,” as the two boys stooped under the fence and ran towards the cows at which time the cows started to run, and then all of a sudden the cows stopped turned to them (the cows, stopping and turning about) the boys jump back and laughed. Said Carmen to Chick, “They are quite interested in Americans I think, they took a shine to you Chick,” Chick Evens didn’t say nothing; it was more of a statement he thought, than a question.
“Nice boys, cute blond hair, just like little Germans. Anyhow, do you mean we got to walk all that way over there, I mean we’ve been walking for two hours, I think, or is it three [?]” He looked at Carmen, she didn’t say a ward, I suppose nothing to say, then finished his thoughts, “It’s just a little ways now.” Having said that, they started to transverse over to the area the boys had pointed towards.
Then she got thinking: perhaps she was a ting cold hearted, she should ask how he is doing, and asked, “How are you doing Chick?” “I suppose all right, I’m a bit fatigued, I mean, I mean, I only rested, not slept but an hour at the hotel. And this long walk, and the long ride up here, don’t you German-Jews ever get tired?” She smiled; not saying a word, figuring it was a rhetorical question at best.
Chick, at the present, took off his jacket, he had a sweater under that, and a wool-shirt to boot, and a cotton undershirt under all that, and as a result, he was starting to overheat.
Now, noticing Chick quite exhausted, Carmen (shaking her head) stopped, said with a humbling voice, “You can wait here, I’ll go check and see if we can ski.”
Chick [brooding] “O—No—no, I came all this way here, walked all this distance, no need to stop and rest a few hundred yards from the site now.” It was more like a quarter mile, but the mannish part of him—the Id was the driving force, although not destructive at this point, and it was a little ego involved, that is, which got its demand from the Id, I suppose, thus, he felt in control; in any case, he—the mannish part of him was not going to allow the female species to have the upper hand.
—Said Carmen to the husky, beer bellied man in the green ski-lift hut, sitting down operating some gears, occasionally looking through a window in front of him, and Carmen to his side, “Wo kann ich eine Fahrkarte kaufen? (Where can I buy a ticket?)”
“…Hier Schatzi!” (here darling) said the burly German, watching several ski-lifts going higher and higher up the mountain, threw the sparse wooded area. “Zwei…” (he said, implying she needed two tickets, as he looked, or tried to look, deep into her bottomless and blue beautiful eyes; Chick catching his gaze, the German paying Chick no heed.
Carmen responded in German: “Bitte…vielen dank” (please, thank you
much). Carmen was catching her breath, said to Chick in a low tone, “Three Marks for a ride, three each, that’s close to a dollar!”
“Swell,” said Chick [suddenly], “let’s go for a ride.”
“Guten Tag,” said the man—he now pointed to the ski-lift they were to go on. Chick saying in English, as if to impress Carmen in the fact he understood
a little German, and very little, “And good day to your sir…!”
“Are you able to ski?” asked Carmen, realizing how exhausted she was, and he seemed even more so.
“We shall see once we get to the top.” I think he was thinking if she would, he could, but if she gave a little hint she was tired—well, I suppose he could go along with anything to get a long rest back at the hotel; anyhow, that was his answer.
He sat back tight against the ski-lift as it ascended up the mountain; Carmen by his side, the seat was made of wood, the rest was made out of steel. It was all painted green, like the woods around them; under him were some twenty feet of air, and accumulating more the higher they went of course. Chick gripped his hands tight onto the sidebars of the lift attached to the seat. Being somewhat fatigued, his eyes started to close. Carmen noticed that; she nudged him to wakeup: reinforcing the fact he needed to hang onto the side of the seat’s side-bar.
“To ski down this mile run is nothing,” said Carmen, “if you are not tired that is; but if you are—tired like me or more so, you—you could possibly break a leg.” She was a much better skier than he, and Chick knew it, and so hearing that, he took in a deep breath of air and thought on what she had just said a moment ago. On the other hand, Carmen knew that men seldom listened to women when they sounded competitive, or she felt they could outdo them, so she added: “I’m more tired than I had previously thought,” and although she was tired, she could have skied a few hours more without much effort. But for the most part, this was the best she could do with a warning for him, in allowing an escape path for his ego; thus, let him do as he pleased with this kindest escape clause, she had done her best to create.
“Yes, yes, I understand,” he said with eyelids half open.
“Yes, I see you do,” commented Carmen. At the same time Chick started tapping with his fingers on the steel bar next to him.
Said he, “How do I determine if I’m too tired or not, or how have you determined you might be…?”
Carmen [interrupting] “You are not deaf, are you?”
“No,” said Chick wiping his brow.
“Well, I’m telling trying to tell you we both are—tired, but if you’re not going to listen we’ll both break a leg together—go ahead, I’ll risk it also, otherwise we can turn about and go back to the hotel; I mean we got three, or is it, two days [?] anyhow, we got more than enough time to go skiing, it’s no big deal, as far as I feel, we do not have to push ourselves beyond what we know is not safe”; having said that, they both got off at the next stop and jumped on the returning ski-lift and back to the hotel, not even stopping to warm-up.
—When they got back to the hotel, they sat at a table, the bar area was behind them with stools and a few guests lounging about, but practically the whole place was empty—for the most part, perhaps four or five other people were present. They stayed for a few hours talking and drinking. A man and his ten year old boy were both playing violins with German, Bavarian traditional festive cloths on. As the waiter came up to take their order Carmen quickly took charge to order, “Ich moechte zwei Stueck Brot, ein Kruegel Bier, und ein Glas Wein…danke.” Carmen had two glasses of Mosel Wine, and Chick some dark beer, while the father and son team played away: a most handsome pair, if not down right touching thought Carmen.
It was going on 10:00 PM, when the hotel waiter asked if they wanted a last drink before they closed up.
“Nein,” said Carmen, politely, rubbing her arms together as the waiter looked at her mysteriously, “Kahlt,” (cold) she told him, as he walked away with a flat shape to his face—with no smile. When they got back to their rooms; as Chick undressed, he felt stiff and cramped, it had been a long drawn out day—to say the least. Halfway through the undressing, ready to jump under the cool linens, he told himself it was a worthwhile day, a great day, and he was happy he had come at her request. Carmen wanted it to be just such a day, very much so, and noticed him content as he pushed his youthful and muscular body quickly under the heavy quilt.In point of fact, she was not feeling well, her head felt light, as she had a sensation sharply move through it, the temple area and frontal lobe to be exact, even a numbing of her teeth surfaced slowly, agonized her, along with a jagged feeling in her spine, then came an explosion with wreckage within her cerebellum. She had these signs and symptoms before and never told anyone outside of the doctor at the clinic, and a girlfriend who worked with her at the restaurant, and I suppose Günter knew something about it; I mean the surface information, not the underlining facts, the symptoms themselves: thus he referred to them as headaches, as she did. The doctor had ruled out such things as viruses, direct damaged, destroyed nerve tissue, or infectious diseases of the brain. But there was no denial of a general personality deterioration; for some folks would agree she was more unmannerly, and tactless, and at times more unconcerned with her appearance than a year earlier.
She noticed his trousers and shirt lay on the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed, tried to smile as not to spoil the day, which had now of course, turned into the evening.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Nein…no, I mean, I don’t remember…lieben…I mean Chick,” came out of her mouth, as if it was automatic. She added, “I wonder if they have a tower around… hier…I mean here?” She seemed to be drifting off, Chick notice, drifting into some dissociate zone… thinking in English and German at the same time.
“A tower,” said Chick [inquisitively], “what for, what kind of tower?” his eyebrows up in confusion, his eyelids closing out of fatigue. “Pay no attention to me darling, you look absolutely dead, please go to sleep, I’ll stay up awhile.” Intracranial pressure increased her headache almost bringing her to the point of vomiting; she was a bit confused, if not with a little memory loss. She picked up his cloths, found a proper place for them; everything was in slow motion for her now. Then she went to look out the window slightly depressed. The view was not great, not as great as in Dieburg she thought, as at her apartment looking out her window; this view was of the back of the hotel. Chick was falling fast to sleep, but he had a few peculiar thoughts going on about Carmen in his head, she seemed odd this evening, he deliberated, but it was soon forgotten as he fell into a deeper sleep.


The Sad Young Sergeant

((… Agent Orange) (1977, Fort Rucker, Alabama))


His dull face showed a shade of vengeance by some inward self-satisfaction needed, a smugness almost that appeared to offend him, yet gave him content, if not joy—it wasn’t in his nature, but it was there nonetheless, that he found something out of nothing, and now could utter what it was, he had learned the name for it, ‘Agent Orange.’
“They fired bombs and guns I thought,” he told Chick, adding, “I never expected to live through the war, only to die at the hands of some mysterious, infectious chemical agent called ‘Agent Orange.’” He told Chick Evens, his back against the wall, chair up on its two hind legs, Joe Montgomery, from Fayetteville, North Carolina, it was the summer of 1977 (furthermore he added, ‘It had a delayed reaction, somehow’), nine-years, then buff, all of a sudden it was there’).
“It was Chick, to me, the final boom! And now it is the last part of the war for me, which I thought was over nine-years ago, evidently I was wrong. Yes indeed, a lost war, that I forgot was still embedded in me, to my death do I part with it.”
Furthermore, added Joe (in a voice of discontent), “they all fell dead around us, when we went to pick them up, to check out their pockets for papers, and so forth, they were silent, discoloured; the dead are smelly, and ugly, and discoloured, and bloated, and just awful.” He said to Chick, at the mess hall.
Then Joe’s had started to shake, I mean really shake, as if it his system was on automatic, like someone under electric shock, his left arm, dancing in the air, as he looked at it, then Joe looked at Chick, looking at him, “You see, I have no control over it,” and his face started to pulsate, and his legs seemed to tap, and his back arched. He had to let go of his coffee, and his spoon, he had to wait for his system to cool down. He no longer was in control.
After a moment’s agony, he smiled again, “Everyday now, it gets worse,” he tells Chick, Chick looking, unable to speak, and if he could what would he say, so he told himself.
“No kidding aside, I’ll be dead in two months, so the doctor tells me, and my lawyers say, this substance was used by the army for experimental purposes in several areas in Vietnam, during the time I was there, and I was in one of those several areas, and they are unsure of the affects, but here they are, in full motion, yet I fear my family will not see any money from this for years, it’s under investigation, and you know what that means in the Army. Listen up, you need to check out and see if you were in any of these areas, I mean it lays dormant for years, and then like an eruption from a volcano, it explodes one day.”
“How long you been in the Army?” asked Sergeant Evens.
“Going on fifteen-years, I won’t live to get my pension; perhaps now you understand Sergeant Chick (right then the spoon fell out from under his fingers).”
Under the stringent circumstances, Sergeant Joe Montgomery, still had remarkable agility, and his large black frame, bruised here and there, kept a smile on his face, knowing somehow, there was no escape from his fate, yet, with the brief time he had left, he was not going to ask for pity, or any such thing, and let it imprison him, he committed no crime, he was the victim, and said, sadly, “Too bad I loved the Army so, and it would have been great to get to know you better Chick,” and then I noticed across his arm he had a tattoo of the American Flag, underneath it, it read, “The American Flag, with all its Glory!”

1-4-2009 (Written in Lima, Peru)











Books by the Author

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1981] ((poetry) (poems written in 1960s & ’70s))
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1982] (chapbook)
The Tale of Freddy the Foolish Frog ((1982) (chapbook))
The Tale of Teddy and His Magical Plant ((1983) (chapbook))
The Tale of the Little Rose’s Smile ((1983) (chapbook))
The Tale of Alexi’s Mysterious Pot ((1984) (chapbook))
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984] (chapbook)
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985] (for teachers, of Minnesota Schools)

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon (2002) Visions
Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants (2002) Visions

Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I (2002)
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II (2002)
Revenge of the Tiamat III ((2002) (in English and Spanish))
Every day’s Adventure (2002) Pot Luck
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib (2002) Opinion

The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety (2002)
A Path to Relapse Prevention (2003)
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery (2004)

Autobiographical

A Romance in Augsburg I “2003)
Romancing San Francisco II (2003)
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III (2003)
Stay Down, Old Abram IV (2004)
Chasing the Sun [Travels of D.L Siluk] (2002)

Romance and Tragedy:

The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury 1199 AD (2002) Novelette
Perhaps it’s Love (Minnesota to Seattle) 2004 Novel
Cold Kindness (Dieburg, Germany) 2005 Novelette

The Suspense short stories, Novels and Novelettes:

Death on Demand [Seven Suspenseful Short Stories] 2003 Vol: I
Dracula’s Ghost [And other Peculiar stories] 2003 Vol: II
The Jumping Serpents of Bosnia
(and other Suspenseful, Eldritch-writings) 2008 Vol: III
The Mumbler [psychological] 2003 (Novel)
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure] (2004) Novel
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast ((2002) (Novelette)) supernatural

The Poetry of D.L. Siluk:

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale)
(1982; 1983, 2008, four printings (in Spanish & English)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003] (poetry from the 50s thru the ‘90s)
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]
Last Autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]
Spell of the Andes [2005] English and Spanish
Peruvian Poems [2005] English and Spanish
Poetic Images out of Peru [And other poems, 2006] In English and Spanish
The Magic of the Avelinos (Mantaro Valley, book One; 2006) English and Spanish
The Road to Unishcoto (Mantaro Valley, Book Two, 2007) English and Spanish
The Poetry of Stone Forest (Cerro de Pasco, 2007) English and Spanish
The Selected Translated Poetry of Juan Parra del Riego (by D.L. Siluk, 2009)

Orion’s Orchard ((poems from the book) (forthcoming: 2009-2010))
Old Josh, in: Poor Black (Sketches of the old South) Forthcoming: 2009-2010
In Haste for a Sea (Biographical, Novel) Forthcoming: 2009-2010 Volume V

Back of book
The book, “In Haste for a Sea,” narrated in the person of Chick Evens, is a fast paced book, its premise, is that of the times, the era, the 1960s, into the ‘70s, how a Midwestern boy living along the Mississippi, steps out into what was considered the coming age of Aquarius, and travels the states settling momentarily in, Seattle, then Omaha, Nebraska. However, this is not good enough, he needs to see the world, and in haste he does, within this measured decade. The author brings out the Hippie Period, while living in San Francisco, then finds himself in Augsburg, Germany; next, in the Vietnam War; then back to Europe: Haguenau, France, Luxembourg, Luxembourg, Amsterdam, and Garmisch, Germany; now with his twin boys. The book concludes, in Alabama, when he finds out a friend has Agent Orange. (Autobiographical)

Although temperate, the plot moves along with the theme, from sketch to sketch, and novelette to novelette progressively; an episodic novel per se, with expressive and fascinating dialogue, explanations, and wording techniques. Written in stages, over a nine-year period; the descriptiveness is vivid, and alive. It covers many dimensions of the human scene. It expresses, and brings alive a vanished age.




This is the author’s 40th book, and perhaps his most in-depth, without equal. He lives in Peru and Minnesota with his wife Rosa, and is working, “Old Josh, in: Poor Black” (sketches of the old south), “The Poems from the book: Orion’s Orchard,” and “The Loro Machaco of Villa Rica.”