Army days – Everything That Happened .com

2018-02-102024-07-11

Graffiti

Back in kindergarten, I wrote my name on the front steps of the school; they made me scrub it off with a brush and bucket of water. They teach you to write your name, then they get all upset when you put that knowledge to work.

The bus stop in Bloomfield center was right in front of a grand old bank building, and kids would hoist themselves up to sit on its window ledge while waiting for the bus. One day I noticed that my brother had etched our family name deep into the sandstone window frame, enclosing it in a perfect rectangle, Roman SPQR style. I could tell it had taken him a long time and many bus waits, and I was very proud.

In high school gym class I wasn’t famous for my athletic ability, so when sides were chosen up for a ball game, I was usually picked about two-thirds of the way back. (“Can’t field, good for a single.”) There was something I liked about rope climbing, though, and once I wrote a small “SMITHEE 56” in black marker on the gym ceiling with my free hand while I was up there. When Mr. Marucci discovered it weeks later and called me on it, he seemed equally annoyed and impressed. He was one of the good ones.

In the army, several guys in my unit went into town and came back with the same tattoo, a stalking panther. These days, every Tom, Dick and waitress seems to have some sort of body art. A girl showing me her ink asked if I had any of my own, then got mad when I said no, I never got that drunk. Actually, I do kind of wish I had gone into town with my buddies that day; I think I missed out on something important.

And then there’s street graffiti, the witty kind. Sometimes it’s just a few words of commentary scrawled in the margin of a subway poster.

Finally, there’s serious, wall-commanding, actual art. The world owes a lot to these artists.

Keith Haring, courtesy Keith Haring Foundation

2018-07-022024-07-20

Sergeants

I, (NAME), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

In our busload of newly-sworn recruits, most have volunteered for the draft, to get their military obligation over with and move on with their lives. I have signed up mainly out of boredom, and once thought I might even put in 20 years and retire. Our Fort Dix training sergeants immediately begin working to break us down and resocialize us to army life, starting with the bus trip from the reception center to our new home in the E-company barracks. Sergeant Santiago is our host on the bus ride; he is a bantam-weight tyrant who does his best to terrorize us.

Civilian operating floor buffer, courtesy rentequip.org

After keeping our platoon awake until four in the morning hand-waxing the barracks floor to prepare for an inspection, our cadre of trainers have an idea – if we each pitch in $2, we can buy a used electric floor- buffer from a place they know of in town. They can get it right now; we can owe them until payday. We’re all for it of course, we don’t want to go through that again, and we buy a buffer that’s probably been sold to a dozen earlier training cycles.

We learn to march, salute, and fire the M1 rifle, good fun that last one. However, I a become a victim of “M1 thumb”, a painful but temporary disfigurement.

During basic training we are out in the field for a week, sleeping in tents. During drill one rainy day, a few of us sneak off into a tent. Sergeant Johnson rips open the tent flap and threatens us with court martial and prison for “buggin’ out” of duty.

While drinking watered-down beer at the Post Exchange, we hear that one of our sergeants, a lifer, has just signed up for three more years. Since he seems otherwise normal, we ask him why. He asks where else could he get drunk and lose all his money every month, yet still have a place to sleep and three meals a day?

Our oldest sergeant is a grizzled Korean War vet. Overseeing our cleaning of the latrine, he spots a recruit trying to clean a toilet bowl while standing as far away from it as possible – with his scrub-brush extended, he looks like he’s fencing. His battle is with one particularly stubborn fleck of matter stuck tight to the porcelain. The sergeant reaches in and scrapes it off with a thumbnail. To the groans around him, he rhetorically asks, “Did j’ever see a pile of [enemy troops] that got blown up and laid there for a week?”

Some of us go on to Advanced Infantry Training, AIT, and a new set of sergeants and officers.

Sergeant Kolikowski gets word from home that his brother has been murdered. He goes to the battalion armory and signs out a M1911 .45 caliber pistol. He’s gone for a week, then returns and checks the weapon back in. Nothing is said about his absence.

We are taught to use the bayonet in offense and defense, no rules, kill or be killed. We drive it into a dummy, we pivot our rifles to bring a butt stroke to a dummy chin, we thrust and parry. Sergeant Doherty doesn’t think I’m trying hard enough; he braces himself and shouts in my face, “Come on Smithee, try to kill me!” It’s hard to say why, but caught up in all the make-believe bloodshed around me,I make a genuine effort to kill him by stabbing him in the face. He’s prepared and fast enough to move out of the way, but it’s close, very close; he is surprised and calls for a smoke break.

A few days later, he tells me I’m going on a work detail with him. Several of our barracks’ light bulbs are burned out, and it’s not easy to get replacements for such things in the army. Our mission is to drive a borrowed Jeep over to a currently vacant barracks and remove its light bulbs. Despite what his name would suggest, Sergeant Doherty is black, and I think my presence is partly to inoculate him from suspicion when visiting an empty barracks. Or, maybe he just wants the company, I don’t know. We stride in looking like we are on official army business; we gather a good number of bulbs; we leave. Mission accomplished.

One day our company commander gathers 20 or so recruits into what we might today call a focus group. It is surprisingly touchy-feely, and at one point he asks if there are any problems he should know about. It’s not like me to pass up an opportunity to complain, and I raise my hand and say there are two problems I know about, a small one and a larger one. I give the trivial one first – during breakfast, the sugar dispensers run out and don’t get refilled, so the second half of the company to arrive has no sugar for their coffee. The larger problem is that we are not getting enough to eat; half the time we leave the mess hall still hungry. He asks if anybody else feels the same way; almost every hand goes up. Looking angry, he promises to look into it.

Here I’ll mention something I saw once when on KP (Kitchen Police: pot-scrubbing, potato-peeling, other grunt work), and didn’t give any thought. A civilian truck pulls up behind the mess hall and the cooks load on 8 or 10 bulk food items; a case of canned peaches is the one that sticks in my mind.

In a few days there’s plenty of food, more than plenty, the servings overload our trays. The scam that scammed too deeply has been ended. As I dump almost half a chicken into the garbage can, the mess sergeant asks me sarcastically if I’m getting enough to eat.

2018-07-062024-07-22

Clarksville, Tennessee

Clarksville was right across the state line from the Army base where I took advanced infantry training in 1957. When we had a day off we’d put on our civilian clothes and hop the bus to get some beers or just a change of scenery. My earliest memory of the town, and of the South, came on our first trip, when I was walking along the sidewalk with a buddy. Two black guys about our age were on the same sidewalk, coming in our direction. Just as I stepped behind my buddy so the two parties could pass in single file, the two black guys stepped into the gutter and continued walking, not breaking stride, and all just as natural as could be.

Later when it came time to go back to base we headed for the bus station, stepping through its front door into a dim and dirty waiting room. It was crowded with people seated and standing, most of them appearing unfriendly or even hostile. Two older women in particular were giving us barely concealed dirty looks.

One wall of the room stopped about a foot short of the ceiling, and over it we could see bright fluorescent lighting. Assuming the space next door was a luncheonette or other place where we could get something to eat, we stepped out of the room we were in, walked 40 feet down the sidewalk to the first door we came to, opened it and stepped into… the white waiting room.

2018-07-072024-07-30

Clarksville thought crime

Clarksville, Tennessee relied on the soldiers from the nearby base to support their businesses, but the town didn’t really like us. One Sunday four of us put on our civies, took the bus into town and headed for the bars. After drinking beer for about an hour in one bar, we decided to move on to another. As we walked, one of us, or maybe all of us, decided to duck into an alley to take a whiz.

We had no sooner stepped inside the alley when a police car pulled in behind us. Assuming it was on its way to a crime somewhere, we stepped against the wall to let it pass, but it stopped instead. Two good old boys got out, the elder ranting about “You Army guys pukin’ all over our town, pissin’ all over our town.” I think we were just astounded and stayed silent. We hadn’t puked, and had only thought about pissing.

Then the senior cop said “You boys are all going to the police station, you’re under arrest for indecent exposure.” Being a logical person and having won many arguments in the past with my grandmother, I countered “What!? We didn’t have our penises out!” to which they replied “You boys get in the car”, to which we countered “WE DIDN’T HAVE OUR PENISES OUT!”, to which they replied “You boys get in the car right now.”

So we piled into the back seat of their shitty police car, only to have them discover that the battery was dead. I don’t know why we did it, maybe just to move things along, but the four of us got out and pushed their car out of the alley and into the street, then down the street until the driver popped the clutch and it started up. I think we all half expected they would let us go based on our good deed getting their shitty police car started again, but no. They ordered us back into the car and we headed for the Clarksville police station.

Once at the station, the desk sergeant took over. He had us empty our pockets, listing the contents and placing them into manila envelopes. Particular attention was paid to our wallets – he counted out each guy’s money in front of him, made sure he agreed on the amount, and gave us signed receipts for everything. Knowing we were not guilty, based on the U. S. Constitution’s it-technically-never-happened clause, we asked to see the judge, but were informed the judge was not available on weekends. Some interesting math was done with our collective cash. The four amounts were added together, then the price of four bus tickets back to the base subtracted from that, then the remainder divided by four to calculate what our bail would be. Perhaps it wasn’t that overt, but that’s just exactly how it worked out.

So far the day had all been sort of a hoot, but now we were walked into the cell block and locked into what I would call a strap-iron cell. I don’t remember the facilities exactly, but it was not totally inhumane.

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Something like this, but with better mattresses

The next morning after a trustee brought our breakfast (grits, bacon, milk, coffee), we inquired about the judge’s hours and were informed “He’s here every Thursday.” So, we gave up our quest for justice, paid our bail, collected the remainder for bus fare, and bussed on out of Clarksville. When we got back to base, our platoon was already standing in formation. Our sergeant spotted us approaching and shouted “Where the hell have you men been?” When we replied “In jail, sergeant!”, he just laughed. He knew how the town worked, and didn’t ask us for any details.

2018-07-182024-06-30

Roadside memorial

There’s a tree here in town just where the road starts a gentle curve to the left. It still has a scar from a drunk driver crashing into it 50 years ago. The car was packed with high school kids headed from one graduation party to the next. Some were killed, the rest injured. I didn’t know about the accident until I drove past years later with someone who had been in that class. She pointed out the tree and told me the driver’s name. He survived, and it turns out I know him. When I see him in town now, I try to avoid him.

There is no memorial at the spot, maybe there never was. The accident happened in the 1960s, and I don’t recall ever seeing any roadside memorials anywhere back then.

I like the idea of roadside memorials. Families and survivors usually place them near, or attach them to, any fixed object involved. They cause passers-by to think about how the memorial came to be, and in my opinion they probably save lives. It’s not always drunk driving that leads to roadside memorials, sometimes it’s just inattention or stupidity. Someone wrote a letter to the editor calling for all trees to be removed from the median of the Garden State Parkway, because people kept running into them and getting killed.

Some people don’t like the memorials because they can be tacky and garish. There’s a telephone pole across town that commemorates a more recent fatal accident. It’s covered with ribbons, photos and cheap plastic flowers. It’s directly across the street from someone’s house, and I know I wouldn’t want to see that out my front window every day.

The memorial I remember best wasn’t meant to be a memorial at all, it was simply a wrecked car put on display as a caution to young soldiers on my army post. The accident left the car mangled and lying on its roof, and it took a while to wrench it open and free the survivors.

Someone at headquarters had the idea of leaving the car on its roof and flatbedding it onto the post as an exhibit. There was a small rise just past the entrance, and the car was installed there, still on its roof, almost like an art exhibit, and allowed to ripen in the summer heat.

Over the next weeks, every soldier on the post was marched over to view the wreckage. Our NCOs made sure we got close enough to get a good look. In the silence as we reacted, we could hear flies, hundreds of them, buzzing around inside the car, attracted to the blood and vomit still pooled on the headliner. I don’t think anyone who saw and smelled that car will ever forget it.

Wear your seatbelts, kids. And don’t drive drunk.

These photos are from Bruce Wicks’ flickr album Roadside Memorials . There are over three hundred so far.

2018-07-272024-08-01

Public transport

Newark trolley, courtesy Al Mankoff’s Trolley Treasures

A few things that happened before I owned a car.

Writing this makes me realize I must really, really hate throwing up; otherwise, why would I write about it so much? Do I remember every time I ever threw up? It might seem that way, but probably not. Anyway, here it comes…

Trolley car throw-up

My first memory of a public-transit event is toward the end of a trolley ride with my mother. I have eaten most, if not all, of a bag of candy orange slices, and I vomit them into the aisle, which fortunately is made of grooved wood to handle such events. I don’t feel sick beforehand, just surprised and embarrassed after. That orange mess sliding down into the wooden grooves is not a good memory, so for candy I stick to spearmint leaves now, they’re green.

Eastern Airlines throw-up

Before my second summer trip to Michigan, my mother asks if I’d like to fly there this time. You bet I would! At about 11 years old, I have never been on a plane, and will fly from Newark to Toledo, which is across the state line from Uncle Bert’s farm in Temperance.

The year before, I went by train, leaving from New York Penn Station, where my mother approached and drafted a pleasant Midwestern couple to more or less keep an eye on me during the trip. They were indeed pleasant, and in the dining car at mealtime the husband explained to me that the money my mother had given me to spend was New Jersey money, and only his Ohio money would be accepted on the train. I argued that he couldn’t possibly be correct, because it said “Federal Reserve” right on the alleged “New Jersey money” in my hand. He said there was more to it than that, and I finally gave in and let him pay for my meal. Thanks for the meal, Mr. Midwesterner, but I’m no rube.

Eastern Airlines junior pilot wings, courtesy bonanza.com

On the plane, the stewardesses are sweet; they know it’s my first time. They give me a set of Junior Pilot wings and tell me where the loo is, but perhaps to avoid the power of suggestion, they don’t mention anything about throw-up bags or the possible need for such a thing. Their mistake. About a half-hour into the flight I throw up, a lot, into the carpeted aisle as I run to the loo. By the time I get back, it’s all cleaned up and they are still smiling, bless them. When I get to Toledo, I make the mistake of mentioning what happened, and get a ribbing from my cousins.

Sweating with the dance instructors

This one has more to do with waiting for public transportation than using it, but here it is anyway. I was going to call it “Dance Instructors Move into the Bus Stop”, but I didn’t think anyone would get the Jackie Gleason/TV Guide reference anymore.

There’s an Arthur Murray dance studio at the bus stop near my job at Kingsway. On Friday nights, Kingsway doesn’t close until ten o’clock, and sometimes I’ll see two or three Arthur Murray ladies already there when I get to the bus stop. They work until ten o’clock on most nights, not just on Friday; I guess that’s the nature of the dance instruction business. They are nice to look at, but too grown-up and glamorous for 16-year-old me to even think about.

A comic whose name I can’t remember said “Minimum wage is what they pay you because they’re not allowed to pay you any less.” When I was at Kingsway, the minimum wage was 75 cents an hour, equivalent to $7.00 an hour now. In my youthful view of economic justice, I consider myself eligible for the employee five-finger discount, and have made use of it tonight. On top of the underwear I wore when I left the house this morning is still more underwear, six new crewneck T-shirts. It’s a cold night, maybe 20 degrees, but I am toasty warm. After a while, I start wiping sweat off my face and worry that the ladies will think there’s something wrong with me.

Girl on Greyhound

I am on leave and headed somewhere by Greyhound bus. There are other young guys in uniform aboard, one of them in the aisle seat ahead of mine, and at a rest stop I see him chatting up a girl. When we get back on the bus, I see he has persuaded the girl and his seatmate to switch seats, and she is now sitting next to him as they continue to chat.

Greyhound passengers, courtesy Pirelli .com

During the night something wakes me; I don’t know if it was a sound or her breath in my face. In the dim light I look directly into her eyes over the seatback in front. She straddles him, head over his shoulder, working her hips, and we stare into each other’s eyes as they screw.

Years later I wonder, what if I had brought my head forward and locked lips with her while the rest of this was going on? Would it even have been possible, given the geometry of a Greyhound seatback? But we shouldn’t fact-check our fantasies—it would be a sad thing to reject a fantasy just because it might be impractical.

You can’t stare into someone’s eyes that long without forming a bond. I think she would have been into it.