Читать книгу The Most Important Thing - David Gross - Страница 9

After a few days of inoculations, haircuts, and uniforms, the boys transformed from Rainbows to Picklesuits. Picklesuit privates carried no insignia, rank, or awards on their uniform. The uniform’s only patches said, “U.S. Army” and “Gross” above the breast pockets. Private Bradley Gross marched with a hundred other newly shorn young men to the Fort Knox post train depot. Soon he was a swaying passenger on a troop train bound for Fort Bragg, North Carolina. It was dark as a night without friendship when Bradley boarded the train. And after a short time, the rhythmic rattle of the rails lulled him to intermittent and interrupted slumber. By dawn, the train climbed into the snowy mountains. The passengers saw melt flowing in waterfalls and in beds down the rocky hillsides. The track sliced through the blanket of trees covering the mountains capped with a frosting of white. By the evening, the passenger car rolled into hills of Carolina. In the middle of the night after a twenty-four hour trip the train braked at Fort Bragg. Rubbing red, half-open eyes Bradley stumbled from the train. A group of yelling maniacs further disoriented the sleepy Bradley.

Military life delivered a shocking wake-up call. Men with lists bellowed names. Groups of sleepy, confused men lurched like zombies. Rotund, old sergeant McCloskey shouted loudest.

Sergeant McCloskey yelled, “Private Bradley Gross!”

With the name on the list McCloskey became Bradley’s Drill Instructor (“DI”) at Fort Bragg. McCloskey spent his life mastering skills such as guard duty. The man of average intelligence mastered skills like guard duty within hours, but McCloskey, a regular Clausewitz, spent nineteen years pondering its subtleties.

The boys on McCloskey’s list stood in a row carrying their duffel bag and civilian suitcases. Bradley Gross carried no suitcase. He possessed fewer civilian items than any other man in his company. He owned few possessions, a suitcase was not one of them. This posed no military problem because civilian items only got in the way. Bradley lugged a duffel bag full of GI (“Government Issue”) uniforms and a few pictures. McCloskey yelled at the boys continually. He alerted his boys that they marched in pathetic formation. He ordered them to stand straight, shoulders back, and eyes front. Every few steps, McCloskey yelled,”Set ‘em down!” Everyone set his luggage down upon the pavement. Then, the boys stood quietly. “Pick ‘em up!” McCloskey yelled, “Welcome to the Army!” The sergeant chuckled. McCloskey repeated this nonsense numerous times. A half hour expired maneuvering the tired boys on the short march to the dormitory.

The boys paraded to a World War II vintage building. Inside the dormitory, McCloskey laid down the law. At the top of his lungs, McCloskey bellowed his expectations. He announced the termination of the days of lighthearted horseplay. He intended his company to be the best in this man’s army.

Sergeant McCloskey produced a list and inventoried each unauthorized bag. Then he impounded their civilian luggage stacking it in a room. With last bag stowed, McCloskey locked the room keeping any personal civilian items from the new recruit until he graduated from Basic Training. The process seemed to take forever. McCloskey produced another list issuing each recruit a blanket, two sheets, a pillow, and a pillowcase. Finally, the boys retired. At four in the morning Bradley finally laid his head on the pillow. The excited, but dog-tired boy fell asleep almost at once.

An hour later, McCloskey stormed into the barracks, hollering as if a rattlesnake chewed his leg. He kicked bunks, yanked covers, and gesticulated like a wild man. A corporal entered the room banging a spoon against a metal pan. After a few seconds of the racket, every eye opened wide in alarm.

“Get up! Get up! You bunch of lazy numbskulls!”roared the sergeant. After a period much too long to satisfy the grumbling sergeant, every one of the sleepy boys stood by his bunk. Most of the boys slipped on their uniform pants, some stood frozen in their underwear.

“Show these ignorant sons of bitches how to make a bed, Corporal Williams!” shouted McCloskey as if Corporal Williams stood in the next county. The Corporal demonstrated the proper technique of tucking and folding. In moments, the bunk was smooth and coin-bouncing tight. The sergeant then ordered every boy follow the corporal’s lead. One soldier stood without moving.

“Why ain’t you making your bed, Private Bonehead?” shrieked the sergeant.

“The Corporal has already made my bed,” said the young private with just a hint of a smirk.

The sergeant reddened, feeling his sense of military discipline intimidated. The big-bellied sergeant snatched the bedding from the tight bed throwing it as far as he could. He yanked the mattress heaving it to the floor. He tugged a corner of the bed and flipped the metal bunk into the air. The airborne bed crashed to the floor. This last action scattered several recruits because only a few feet distance lay between the bunks.

“Now, make that bed!” hollered McCloskey ending the lecture. The boys learned a lesson about their Drill Instructor. The DI represented a figure of infinite power to the privates. Unfortunately, this Government Issue god was an angry god. The sergeant seemed to despise the privates. The bellowing DI bleated continuously over the minutest of flaws seeming incapable of satisfaction. Sergeant McCloskey demanded the floor so clean it shone with mirror brilliance. The whining DI insisted that he wanted to see his face in the floor, on the faucet, and everywhere else. With a face like McCloskey’s, this request puzzled Bradley and every other private in the company.

With the last bed tight, the sergeant ordered everyone to dress. A tinny loudspeaker played “Reveille.” Since it was Sunday, the boys wore Class A dress uniforms. Many of the boys did not know how to tie a tie.

The boys assembled outside. McCloskey taught them how to stand in formation. The boys marched to the chow hall. The chow hall offered the boys good food, and they could have all they wanted. A big sign above the chow line said, “Take what you want, but eat what you take.” Starving, Bradley, pleading for an immense helping of everything. Foregoing conversation with God as well as with the other recruits, Bradley devoured the food quickly. Contrary to the Basic Training stereotype, he thought the food delicious. Bradley’s impatience proved fortuitous because ten minutes after the boys sat for the meal, McCloskey yelled at the privates to stand. Many of the boys barely began this early morning meal. Even the wolfish Bradley had not finished one plate. The boys carried their trays away and exited the chow hall.

Sergeant McCloskey marched them to the door of the chapel. Though the boys marched and dressed in uniforms, Sunday is not a basic training day. Sunday does not count in the days required to complete basic training.

Sergeant McCloskey dismissed the boys. The sergeant did not attend church. Attending church was optional for the trainees, Bradley Gross did. The opulent church and the nondenominational service bore little resemblance to the Missionary Baptist Church and service in the hills. Just like home, the service refreshed Bradley. Afterward, he returned to his barracks. Bradley changed into his fatigues. For the rest of the day the boys relaxed.

The next day repeated the previous one. Noise and haste met dawn like every basic training morning. The uniform of the day was fatigues. Nearly every day at basic training, the uniform of the day was fatigues. Within a few minutes, the barking sergeant hurried the boys outside into the chilly morning.

All day long the boys scrambled. While trotting through the day, the boys learned new things about the military. They ceased thinking like individuals, becoming a company of soldiers thinking as a team. For the heart of basic training is cloning. The Army takes a man in all his variations and reengineers him for Army use. Basic training removes any outward roughness from each boy so that they are all the same. If a man thought of himself as a Catholic, Texan, baker, or halfback before basic training, he became a soldier afterward. It is the birth of a new life. The womb of the Fort Knox processing center delivers the confused soldier. Mother America endures no labor pains, but the ache of delivery flows to the new being—the recruit. During basic training, the birthing continues a seemingly everlasting eight weeks. Every green recruit counts the days until basic training ends. The soldier will gladly face combat or anything else to leave basic training.

Early in the first official day, McCloskey explained that basic training ended only for the good soldier. At Fort Bragg, basic training was not an absolute eight weeks. Common punishment for serious violations of regulation resulted in a “set back” in training. For example, if the trainee advanced to his thirtieth day of training and punches another recruit, he could be “set back” to day one of his training. For this star-crossed individual, Basic Training lasted an unbearable fourteen weeks. In theory, an unruly recruit could spend his entire enlistment in Basic Training.

Basic Training is an exercise in brainwashing. Take a young man and control his surroundings. Remove everything that he knew before. Keep him running. Reduce him by exhaustion and hunger. Instill new goals, friends, and virtues. Even the language of Basic Training is new. At Basic Training, every sentence ends with “and hurry up!” as if the phrase were some form of necessary punctuation. The traditional Basic Training sentence might go like this, “Hey, (insert name of private or “Dumbass” or the combination of the two—”Private Dumbass”) Profanity, Profanity, Profanity (insert task to perform) Profanity, Profanity, and hurry up!” The Army’s plans for the private always require immediate execution. The hustle is vital to the gestation period of soldier training. When the soldier graduates from Basic Training, he is a new man.

Finally, the first day of training ended. The boys collapsed in the big hut. Some used cigarettes to burn strings from their new fatigue uniforms. Some read the training material that described the ranks and insignia of the army. Some privates used Brasso to polish their belt buckles and other brass items.

Bradley and Michael Bates sat on the floor polishing their boots. The boys learned to spit shine shoes. This process began by spitting on the boots then rubbing polish continuously over one spot until it gleamed. A strap with a buckle created severe difficulty in polishing that part of the surface. Yet, with time and patience the entire boot shone with mirror polish. Spit shining seemed to take forever. Each day the boots became scuffed and dirty requiring another shining that night. The next morning at inspection, if the boots didn’t gleam the private’s ass got chewed.

Mike and Bradley had one main goal: survive Basic Training and continue with their lives. They shared much in common. Michael Bates hailed from Lee County, Kentucky. As soon as Bradley heard this, he befriended Michael. Both of the boys were quiet and respectful. They spent the entire day trying to be invisible. The invisible soldier cannot be gigged for violations of military rules. All of the boys dodged officers and NCOs (“Non-Commissioned Officer”) to avoid demerits. The invisible soldiers studied strategy, tactics, and military implements. Occasionally, they met an officer who asked a question. The boys dreaded this. If the soldier failed to respond with the proper answer, he surrendered a signed form to the inquisitor. Thus, he was gigged. Excessive demerits constituted grounds for a set back.

The corporal entered the room, approaching Michael and Bradley. Both boys tensed and quickly snapped to attention.

“I need a volunteer for KP,” spat the corporal.

“What’s KP?” asked Bradley.

“Kitchen Patrol: military lingo for washing dishes,” said Mike Bates whose father was a veteran.

“Right, Genius,” replied the Corporal, “Since you are an authority, you are the volunteer.”

“Have a heart, Corporal, I hate washing dishes,” begged Private Bates.

“What a shame, Genius, you are now our volunteer for the rest of Basic,” taunted the corporal with a sneer.

The moral to this story is that one should never mention the word dish in Basic because someone will certainly start you washing them. As proof of this assertion one only need inspect the dishpan hands of Michael Bates. All around the barracks labored young men who joined the army to fire rifles, but found themselves holding mops.

“Come with me, Private,” said the corporal. The two approached Sergeant McCloskey who had just entered the barracks.

“Private Bates is a genius. He has just volunteered for KP for the duration of Basic Training, Sergeant,” said the corporal.

“That private is a regular Einstein,” said McCloskey and passed by the two lower ranking men. Surely, he might find another Einstein to harass.

While the Army is not known for intellectuals, Bradley’s company possessed one. Ziegfried Bromantis was a scholar. This intellectual wizard hailed from Vilnius, Lithuania, where he earned a college degree in chemistry. How he landed in Bradley’s platoon no one had a clue. Private Bromantis was tall, heavy, thoughtful, and funny. It is inconceivable that such a man became a private in the U.S. Army, but there he was.

During an inspection of Bromantis’ locker, Sergeant McCloskey opened Bromantis’ shoe polish can. A small amount of water trickled onto the spotless floor. The drops of water on the floor changed the mood of the rotund sergeant from disdain to anger.

“Private Bromantis! What in the hell is in your shoe polish can?” screamed the old sergeant at the top of his lungs. The red-faced sergeant howled as if he had found the stolen secret to the atomic bomb, Joseph Stalin, or, even worse, a woman in the barracks.

“H₂O, sir!” was the cool, accurate reply of the academic Bromantis.

“Private Bromantis, you dumbass, when I ask you what the hell is in your shoe polish, I don’t want to know the farting chemical formula for it, you asswipe!” bellowed the ignorance-loving sergeant. The expostulation of the sergeant continued for some time. The lamentation persisted until all the recruits lost every molecule of indulgence for the sergeant. The sergeant turned on his heel and left the red-faced Lithuanian.

Bradley was satisfied with his boots. Wearing the shiny boots, he stepped outside. He had a few moments of peace before Taps. Several boys stood in a group smoking cigarettes. One of them was William Good from California. Thus, Hollywood became his name. Unlike most of the boys, he arrived at Fort Knox with long, greasy hair that the girls loved. Hollywood arrived wearing his bright California clothes. When receiving his first haircut the barber asked him, “How would you like your sideburns?”

“Medium,” replied Hollywood.

“Catch ‘em,” ejaculated the sadistic barber, grinning malevolently. Hollywood’s big, woman-pleasing sideburns fell like an avalanche to the furry floor.

Any mention of that barber irritated Hollywood. To add insult to injury, the soldier paid for his haircut. The old song that goes “they say in the Army the pay is mighty fine; they give you fifty dollars and take back forty-nine!” is not that far from the truth for the Basic Trainee. His first dribble of Army pay, called the “flying twenty,” was nearly completely expended on the haircut and toiletries.

Basic Training bore little resemblance to sunny California. Hollywood had just been appointed to his first military command. The young man complained bitterly at his appointment to the “Colonel of the Urinal.” The Colonel of the Urinal performed the humiliating task of cleaning the hut toilet. “Clean” means immaculate at Basic Training; not one bead of water rests on a sink for the morning inspection. Hollywood received the assignment because DI McCloskey thought Hollywood affluent in his previous life. Malevolent McCloskey enjoyed ordering wealthy recruits to clean toilets. But Hollywood, the Colonel of the Urinal, didn’t clean the toilet solo; he supervised a group of volunteers. Any man receiving a demerit during the duty day “volunteered” for toilet detail that evening. The boys avoided demerits like the pox. As for the Colonel of the Urinal, by giving a man authority over a set of toilets, the Army taught leadership.

In Basic Training, the companies competed with each other. Having the cleanest toilet was highly desirable. The demerit-fearing Hollywood occasionally forbade the recruits from showering in the morning. This forbearance ensured the shower stalls remained pristine for inspection. Most Basic Trainees didn’t bemoan this Draconian edict because dirty shower stalls demerit the whole company. Excellence prevented the boys from showering. Yet, the odor of these dedicated young soldiers ripened like peaches in the summer sun.

One afternoon, some of the boys studied the mimeographed sheet of military insignia and rank. The information regarding the military seemed novel and complex.

Suddenly, a big southern officer approached Private Gross.

“Attention!” shouted Michael Bates. All the boys snapped to attention. Every face became as blank as the face of a statue, but every mind worried.

The clear and blue eyes of the big officer scrutinized Bradley’s face. A weakness could not hide. “Private, what is the insignia of a brigadier general?” said the officer softly.

“Sir, one gold star,” answered Bradley.

“Correct! Very good, Private. Where you from?” asked the officer.

“Ole Buck, sir,” said Bradley. A couple of the boys in the group snickered. The officer glared at them. Quickly, the smiling faces became blank. Then the officer smiled, returning his gaze to Private Gross.

“What state is Ole Buck in, Private?” asked the officer.

“Kentucky,” said the embarrassed private.

“Do they call you Kentuck?” asked the officer.

“No, sir!” said Private Gross.

“Well, they will now,”said the officer. The officer turned on his heel and walked away. Michael laughed at Bradley. The recruits relaxed.

“That is the easiest question I ever heard,” said Bates, “Everyone knows the insignia of a general. Ain’t that right, Kentuck?”

“Yeah, that was easy,” acknowledged Private Gross. In all of Basic Training, that was the only question asked of Kentuck. The Army determined Bradley Gross possessed the intellectual capacity of the successful infantryman with that sole question.

It wasn’t long before every man in the company called Bradley Gross “Kentuck.” The name gripped him; he didn’t want to be called Kentuck. Plenty of boys from Kentucky would have been proud of that name. But Bradley joined the army to escape Kentucky.

At a corner of the barracks, a fight arose. Aaron Jerkowitz hit Raymond Pope. Kentuck, Bates, and the sinister Dutch Wilhelm ran to the commotion. Jerkowitz fought tougher than Pope. By the time Bradley arrived, Pope bled from his nose. Two of the boys interceded. Yelling erupted, but soon quieted. Fighting causes big trouble with the Army. Pope tried to hold back the tears, but some rolled down his cheek. He wiped the blood from his nose with his hand.

Meekness wasn’t Pope’s only problem. Raymond Pope’s bladder was no bigger than a walnut. During that first day, Raymond frequently asked to leave the formation to go pee. The rest of the company ridiculed the unfortunate recruit. Any abnormality immediately fell into the scrutiny of the group.

“Screw you, Hopeless Pope, the bed wetter!” yelled Jerkowitz.

“Screw you!” said Private Dutch Wilhelm eager to fight. Dutch’s temper led to hundreds of fights. Any reason to flatten Jerkowitz was a good one.

McCloskey suddenly appeared at the back door of the hut.

“What’s going on here?” said the sergeant.

Everyone snapped to attention.

“Nothing, sir,” shot Michael Bates. McCloskey looked skeptical, but he departed without noticing the blood on Pope’s face. Pope quickly wiped the blood away again and rubbed his eyes. He walked away from the others. Everyone but Jerkowitz felt empathy for Pope. A few minutes later, the remaining boys piled into the barracks. The darkness announced it neared time for Taps, the last ritual of the day.

Bradley slept in the bunk next to Dutch Wilhelm. Bradley knew Dutch enlisted in jail. Bradley didn’t like that. He knew a lot of jailbirds and most of them were bad news. Rules seemed stupid jokes to Dutch. Unfortunately, Basic Training has catalogues of rules. The Army takes these rules seriously. One evening, Dutch decided to celebrate his first week of Basic Training. Dutch rose quietly. He lifted his mattress, and underneath he stashed an outfit of forbidden civilian clothes. Dutch dressed. Bradley woke staring sleepily at the dark figure of Dutch.

“Dutch, where are you going?” whispered Kentuck, “Are you deserting?” Whatever Dutch had in mind was strictly outlawed.

“I’m going to have a drink at Sadie’s. Want to come along, Gross?” Dutch responded quietly.

“Sadie’s is off limits, Dutch, you know that. You’ll be arrested and get set back. They may send you to Leavenworth,” answered Kentuck. Fort Leavenworth provided shelter for serious rule breakers. The Army built bars on the windows to guard deserters in the Kansas army prison.

“Who cares?” asked Dutch. Dutch didn’t care about anything. Further, the plan avoided getting caught. Dutch strode away stealthily.

Quiet returned to the barracks. Kentuck stared at the ceiling awake and unsettled. Forty snoring privates barred rest. Kentuck questioned himself, “Why do they call me Kentuck? I was the unluckiest guy alive to be from that backward hole. No money, no hope, no education, nothing. I wish that I had never heard of Kentucky. If they would let me, I would forget everything I ever knew about that place.”

The troubled Kentuck lay awake for a long time. Against his will, he remembered his home. Kentuck saw Ma standing beside the breakfast table offering him sugar for his coffee. He almost sobbed. Suddenly, as if to bring the sadness to a crescendo, a crash of thunder broke the silence announcing rain. Kentuck realized the life of a soldier is a lonely life. Finally, sleep relieved the troubled private.

That night, Dutch successfully escaped Fort Bragg for a nightcap. A few hours later, after liquid fortification, Dutch retreated to the barracks and bed. The freezing rain caused a problem for Dutch. The ill-fated Dutch left telltale footprints of mud upon the immaculate floor.

For a few hours, all was quiet in the big World War II hut.

No one noticed the footprints on the floor until the next morning, when McCloskey, with a perennial weed up his ass, barreled into the hut screaming at the top of his lungs. The footprints halted his mad screaming. All of the men froze.

“What idiot went running around last night?” asked the red-faced sergeant, “Nobody is leaving here until I find out.” The sergeant followed the trail of mud that ended dangerously close to the area where Kentuck and Dutch slept. Evidence disappeared as the trail of mud ended, Sergeant McCloskey searched the faces of the privates for a sign of guilt. Each private stood with vacant eyes front. Kentuck’s mind raced. Kentuck knew Dutch would admit to his infraction if asked. The guy didn’t care about his own life, much less his military career. McCloskey glared suspiciously at Dutch and Kentuck. McCloskey approached Dutch when Kentuck spoke.

“Sergeant, there was a guy walking through here last night, he went in the front and out the back. He looked lost. It was dark and his face wasn’t familiar, but I don’t think he was in our company,” lied Kentuck. Kentuck never lied, except when it served a good cause.

McCloskey liked the answer. It wasn’t one of his boys at all. It was probably some asshole from Company D. The dubious McCloskey let it pass. He would speak to the 1st sergeant about the laxness of Company D. It was one of his favorite topics. The fat sergeant walked away quickly, finding another fault in the barracks. Dutch winked at Kentuck. “Dutch, you better be careful or you will get set back,” said Kentuck. “Gross, there are no set backs, there are only opportunities,” replied Dutch with his sardonic grin.

That day the boys received the awesome M-1 rifle, a tool that served as the predominant infantry weapon of World War II. The army insisted that your rifle was your best friend. Kentuck cared for his buddy. Though a poor shot, Kentuck maintained a mighty clean rifle; the cleanest of all of his Basic Training friends. The army insisted upon a clean rifle. A dirty weapon misfired. A misfire might cost a soldier his life. Kentuck grew so familiar with the M-1 that he could disassemble and reassemble the weapon with his eyes closed.

It seemed to take forever for the Army to issue the boys ammunition. It took considerable time to trust a recruit with live ammunition. One recruit was impatient to fire his weapon. As soon as he received live ammunition, he aimed the rifle at his foot and fired. The medics carried the idiot private away. His military career ended as he limped home with a General Discharge.

It seemed an eternity until the boys fired the M-1. First, the troops practiced with “dry fire” without live ammo. Impatiently, all of the young men waited to fire the rifle. Finally, the company marched to the firing range for “wet fire.” Wet firing practice used live ammo. The recruits fired eighty rounds. The Army kept score.

Benny Bell, the company’s finest shot, was a Cincinnati union man. Benny was a big, pudgy fellow, as good-natured as one could imagine. His big face beamed with poor teeth. Benny loved a good story and had plenty of stories to tell. Benny loved his grub displaying the girth to prove it.

Though Dutch drank every chance he got, it didn’t affect his shooting eye. Dutch approached Benny in shooting skill. Benny usually hit eighty bulls-eyes out of eighty. Dutch invariably hit seventy-eight or seventy-nine. They were the best shots in the company by far.

Though Kentuck was a man of vision, he couldn’t see as well as other people. In fact, Kentuck was the worst shot in the company. Some of his fellow soldiers ridiculed him for his poor shooting ability. “Be sure and point Kentuck toward the Russians when the shooting starts!” they would say. Kentuck felt ashamed of this flaw, though in all other aspects of soldiering he performed extremely well. Within two weeks he received a pair of ugly, black-framed, military issue glasses. Though they didn’t do much for his appearance, the glasses improved his skill on the firing range.

Aaron Jerkowitz tormented Kentuck over his shooting. He criticized and bullied many of his fellows. Some people lack common humanity. Kentuck and Jerkowitz shared hatred, that summed their sharing. Kentuck never hated Communism as much as Jerkowitz. They taunted each other until Kentuck seethed with ressentiment. However, fighting during Basic Training meant discipline, neither of them wanted their mutual hatred to hinder their military careers. But with each day and each comment the mutual hatred grew. Kentuck imagined shooting Jerkowitz’s ugly head when he aimed at the target during wet fire. Even with this incentive, the target remained illusive.

Strange how the young privates considered shooting a defining characteristic of a man, but they did. Privates usually didn’t know if a guy was a Christian or had siblings, but they knew how he shot. What is the measure of a man? In Basic Training, physical training, shooting, the shine of his boots, the shave, and the tightness of his bunk created competition under pressure. The ultimate barometer of soldiering measures the ability to perform under pressure. That is the goal of Basic Training.

The identity of the soldier is his unit. When one soldier meets another and asks, “Who ya’ with?” he is asking, “Who are you?” All of the soldiers in a company share a common goal and a common identity. Everyone wears the same clothes, the green “pickle” suit, void of insignia, except for the soldier’s last name and “U.S. Army” sewn to the chest. For the first few days of army life, while the last name is sewn, even that single emblem of individuality is missing. Every soldier eats the same thing. Everyone has the same haircut. Everyone sleeps in the same big hut of World War II design. Everyone is equal, regardless of the wealth or popularity held in his past.

One of the key reasons that soldiers fight is to protect his fellow soldier. Basic Training teaches this lesson early. It is the camaraderie of your squad, platoon, company, battalion, division, and army that fuels the fight in the soldier. As Basic Training neared completion, the boys gained confidence in their ability. Dutch knew that Kentuck felt inadequate because he shot poorly. Dutch knew that Jerkowitz ridiculed Kentuck on his lack of shooting skill. Dutch hated Jerkowitz for hounding others in his company. Dutch devised a vengeful plan.

“Dutch, I’m going to be a good soldier, despite my eyes,” promised Kentuck.

“There is a lot more to a soldier than shooting. Don’t let it bother you, Kentuck. Who cares? Don’t let that creep Jerkowitz bother you,” he said. Dutch truly wouldn’t have cared.

“I just don’t want to let anyone down because of my eyes,” stated Kentuck.

“Kentuck, I think I’ll kick Jerkowitz’s ass tonight,” Dutch announced.

“Don’t do it, Dutch; it ain’t worth it,” pleaded Kentuck, not wanting trouble for Dutch. Yet, debating with Dutch was futile.

The farmer, Kentuck, and the city slicker, Dutch, were opposites but became great friends. Kentuck lacked a high school diploma and Dutch attended college. Kentuck seriously studied when he attended school. Dutch majored in drinking and minored in removing bras with one hand. Kentuck thought Army pay a king’s ransom, Dutch was unimpressed with the meager pay. An unlikely patriot, the law drove Dutch to arms.

“Kentuck, don’t worry, it ain’t nothing to me,” grinned Dutch, and that was all.

That night everyone slept. Dutch woke a little after midnight, a common occurrence for him. On this evening, he quietly walked to Jerkowitz’s bunk, found his fatigue pants, and extracted the wallet. Then, he silently slipped away into the night.

Dutch crept to the fence, keeping in the shadows. He escaped over a half-dozen times and he had it down cold. Once again, the guards and the dogs didn’t notice the six-foot private. To Dutch, the dogs were for show.

Dutch visited Sadie’s to slake his thirst. Hazel, the waitress, knew Dutch and protected him. Hazel was old enough to be Dutch’s mother and looked old enough to be his grandmother. Dutch didn’t want anything from Hazel but a drink. Also, he tipped well. Dutch had manners and grace. He never overstayed his welcome at Sadie’s. When the MPs (“Military Police”) checked the forbidden club, Hazel alerted Dutch hiding him in the back. She hadn’t done that for any of the other AWOL (“Absent Without Official Leave”) privates. Most privates were rude and stupid. When the weary waitress rejected some reckless private’s amorous entreaties, the unreasonable ones occasionally abused her.

That night Dutch stayed for only two beers. He walked outside, turning the collar of his thin jacket. Not many people wandered that night with weather for the hard-core alone. Dutch approached a telephone booth just a few yards away from the bar and called the police.

“There’s a damn drunk private in a phone booth outside Sadie’s,” Dutch yelled at the duty policeman on the phone, “Looks like he is changing into Army clothes in the damn phone booth in front of God and everybody! He looks drunk and dangerous to me.” Dutch removed Jerkowitz’s wallet from his pocket tossing it on the floor of the phone booth.

Dutch crossed the street keeping in the safety of the shadows. The Fayetteville police arrived shortly afterward. The policeman switched on his blinking lights and exited his prowl car. The uniformed officer approached the phone booth. The policeman flashed his light around seeing no one. The policeman approached the glass booth. The receiver dangled. The officer opened the folding door and replaced the receiver on the cradle. He saw the wallet on the floor and retrieved it. Dutch witnessed enough. He returned to the camp, changed his clothes, and retired to his bunk unseen.

The wallet returned to Fort Bragg with a vengeance. The local gendarmes delivered the wallet and a complaint to the camp commandant. The brass summoned Jerkowitz. Jerkowitz moaned over and over that he was innocent and ignorant. The private ducked the severe punishment of courts-martial because he maintained his stolen wallet story. Few believed him. By the end of the day, the entire post officer and noncommissioned officer corps gigged Jerkowitz. Everyone in authority eyeballed his every move. No one can survive that intense daily examination because everyone has flaws and makes mistakes. Two days later, Jerkowitz was set back to his first day of Basic Training. The Army had judged Jerkowitz without any type of tribunal. It was Basic Training punishment, not punishment that blackened Jerkowitz’s permanent record. Still, Jerkowitz started Basic Training again.

The humiliation of Jerkowitz delighted Kentuck and Dutch. There would be no retaliation because neither planned on seeing him again. The real truth never surfaced because Dutch swore Kentuck to secrecy, and Kentuck never broke his vow.

Usually quiet and reserved, Dutch was the only soldier who never received a letter from home. Sergeant McCloskey once asked some of the men if Dutch was an orphan. Though lonesome and morose, Dutch was an excellent soldier. He excelled at close-order drill, the manual of arms, and he could assemble his M-1 rifle in pitch-black darkness. He shot with mechanical precision. At that time, none of the men knew Dutch because Dutch’s least favorite topic was himself.

One characteristic of the Dutchman was readily apparent; Dutch drank heavily. Kentuck, a rebel in his own way, liked Dutch, and they grew very close, but he still never reached the inner man. Dutch wore layer upon layer of skepticism like an emotional suit of armor. He grinned quickly and easily, but seemed eternally unhappy. Dutch, the trickster, rebelled against all authority with a sardonic sense of humor. He constantly schemed. Nothing merely playful satisfied the bandit nature of Dutch. No short-sheeter of beds, Dutch preferred dangerous ventures like escaping from camp for a night of fun in town. The Army never caught the daring Dutch. His other chief character flaw was his temper. When angry, Dutch fought like a bull.

The ancient method of Basic Training succeeded, the boys became men and the men became soldiers. Through the days of physical and emotional stress, a bond grew between most of the soldiers and they became friends. Finally, the big day approached when Basic Training ended. Utter delight beamed upon the faces of all of Kentuck’s friends. The Army rewarded the company with a weekend pass permitting them to leave the post. The graduates decided to make fools of themselves. To the disbelief of the sergeants, the recruits finally accomplished something perfectly. With the pass came a long list of “off limit” establishments. Sadie’s was at the top of the list. One of the first things a soldier learns is the location of the local whorehouses, gin mills, poker parlors, and clubs. The underground network of the camp identified every place forbidden to the new recruit. Upon receiving their first leave, the forbidden fruit tempted the privates.

After enduring the abuse of Basic Training, Kentuck spent twelve weeks camping out of doors at Advanced Training. In Advanced Training, the soldiers learned to maneuver like an army by working field problems. While companies, regiments, and battalions are comprised of many men, the goal is team unity. Kentuck camped in tents in the countryside of North Carolina. The advanced trainees suffered from strict discipline and bad food, but nothing compared to Basic Training. Advanced Training seemed easier because the soldiers understood army life. The stress declined with their understanding. The bodies of the young men became leaner and harder. They laughed at the Rainbows arriving at Fort Bragg every day.

When the troops completed their training, they prepared for war in Europe. Army training was mulish in that once it started moving toward a goal, it took a major amount of tugging to change direction. Though unknown at the time, the training fit poorly for war in Asia. At the end of Advanced Training, the boys received posts in the regular army. Finally, months of military training meant action.

As the day of graduation from Advanced Training approached, two important events occurred. First, news spread that the North Korean Communists invaded South Korea. When the North Korean People’s Army (“NKPA”) invaded on June 25, everyone showed riveting interest.

Kentuck said, “Where’s Korea?”

In a little corner of the world freedom was in danger, but the boots of Fort Bragg would soon be there. Circumstances can change from the time a soldier enlists till the time he completes his training. The world moved from uneasiness to war.

At that time, the Army recruiters approached the graduates looking for fresh meat for the 82nd Airborne Division. The slick recruiters promoted the Airborne with enthusiastic pitches, but salesmanship has its limits. The privates lacked an ounce of enthusiasm. It was like asking a flock of recently plucked pigeons of a con game to buy in again. Many soldiers already regretted their initial encounter with their recruiter. Most had had enough of volunteering to last a lifetime. The unwritten rule quickly learned by all soldiers is: never volunteer for anything. The pitch went over like boiled neck bones for dinner. Airborne training required another eight weeks of Fort Bragg. Ugh! Airborne training meant jumping from airplanes in perfect operational order. Who could be that stupid?

“The Airborne is the elite of the military,” said the recruiters to the utterly unimpressed crowd, “Become 82nd Airborne—one of the greatest units in military history! Not only that—as a member of the Airborne, the soldier is not the common army rifleman. Instead, the Airborne parachutes into battle, performs some vital mission, and then returns to a soft post to enjoy the good life!” The privates were unimpressed with the Army good life so far.

“I volunteer, Sergeant,” rang the clear voice of Dutch Wilhelm. This shocked the others because Dutch was one of the least gung ho of all the Basic Trainees. But the idea of parachuting thrilled Dutch. The other recruits remained quiet as Dutch stepped forward. The recruiters broke into wide grins shaking Dutch’s hand. The others remembered that handshake when they initially joined the military. One of the recruiters slapped Dutch on the back. Dutch smiled.

Then came the winning cast that hooked Kentuck. “Airbornequalified soldiers received an extra fifty dollars a month,” sang the recruiter. Not being one to forgo a fortune like fifty dollars a month, Kentuck decided to leap from airplanes.