Stay Down, Old Abram [And other Linkng Stories]

Stay Down,
Old Abram
And Other Linking Stories




Dennis L. Siluk








Copyright© Dennis L. Siluk, 2004,
“Stay Down, Old Abram”
[And other Linking Stories]

For Rosa [my wife]



Books by D.L. Siluk; check at your local bookstores, and at: www.amazon.com and www.bn.com http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [l980]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [l984]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [l981]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [l985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants

Tales of the Tiamat [Volumes I, II, & III]

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

A Path to Sobriety,
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery

A Romance in Augsburg
Romancing San Francisco
Where the Birds Don’t Sing

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]

The Mumbler

Sirens
[Poems-Volume II, 2003]

After Eve

Stay Down, Old Abram

The Eldritch Tombs
[The Dark Writings of D.L. Siluk]
[To be released]

Note: Some books are not shown




Index:


Stories:

Prelude: by Rosa Dalila Peñaloza

Introductory Chapters [sketches]:

Shoeshine Boy [l959]
First kiss [l960]
Milwaukee [l967—interlinking]

Book: 1—“Stay Down, Old Abram,” [l969-l970]

Book: 2—“Through the City and Into the Woods,” [l974-l977]

Final Chapter/ A short sketch: Assignment Italy, l980


About the author’s books




Prelude
By Rosa Peñaloza


From two short stories and fragments of others by the author, grows a masterpiece, a most lucid novel, perhaps the best account of a cross- cultural form of intolerance: bigotry, produced in historical-fiction in a long time. In this book [parts based on actual events], “Stay Down, Old Abram,” the author paints a two-way street, one white, one black—in this tragic game where moods and friction bring out the roots of deeply idealistic rejection and suppressed tendencies, all embedded in the narrative.

One might even conclude, this story is not all that much different than what took place in Iraq’s prison [referring to inmate abuse], Abu Ghraib, outside of Baghdad [although in a thinner perspective]: says the author: “In both cases [mine and theirs], there was a lack of discipline within the units: my unit: the 545th and theirs, the 320th, Army Reserve Unit who was given the responsibility to guard, monitor and direct a 280-acre prison of 7000-prisons, with less than 500-soldiers; in a like manner, I was at a unit that had 90-nuclear bombs, each containing almost 300-megatons; with the constant demands put upon these young people, one need not look far for the results. In consequence, both theirs and ours [units] were ineffective.” The author adds: “The dehumanization may have come in their case from suppressed tendencies [in Vietnam we had to do that or how could you kill the enemy]: that is, watching the Islamic Arabs hanging Americans from bridges in Iraq; remembering how Iran scorned the American Hostages a decade earlier, manhandling them as they pushed them down the streets; and Lebanon, how they killed our Marines. War is war, and possible this might be the age where Americans become more like the rest of the world, burying the Geneva Convention rules, as it seems so often, the rest of the world has already. Should we be mocked for our shortcomings, so be it, yet we need only remind the world ‘He who is innocent, cast the first stone,’ [as Christ put it]. I think then the world would be silent.”

All the same, the author points out, cleverly, the novel is not so much about prejudice per se, or racism, since, underneath the issues resides what is presently for the most part: power and control—and people wanting and taking it, because they can [much depending on the time, location and other variables being in place]; for if anything is constant, it is change, in which the author shows plainly.



[About the Story] “Stay Down, Old Abram,” with its interlinking stories and sketches, this forth episode fills in possibly some gaps if you have already read the author’s other three linking books to this now ongoing saga, yet it can stand alone without the other three: but this one will take your breath away; seen from a youthful Midwestern boy’s view at first, then it shifts and the story delivers to you a soldier’s view.

The story starts in l959; as told by the observer, through positive narrations. From the streets of St. Paul, Minnesota, to Milwaukee, and on to Alabama, and across the Atlantic to West Germany while in the US Army. The main character takes you through a bonfire of emotions. It is hard to stay neutral throughout the book and the reader may find him or herself changing views heretofore: and even some folks that read this that might not have been once open minded, may find themselves making a transformation. The main character deliberates—[Sergeant Wright] might he have to pick sides, or can he go with his values and outlive the strain? It is a question he needs to work out for himself. It will test your will to turn the next page to see where it all ends up.




Introductory Chapters



—1959—
Shoeshine Boy



Christopher Wright was walking home one evening, he was 12 ½ years old, a strong looking lad, reddish hair, determined if anything to make a few bucks. He had already made $4.35-cents; he charged .15 to .25 cents per shoeshine, depending on the bars he’d go into, and the composition. Yes, even at thirteen, or almost being thirteen, he was using psychology to make a living, or better put, to at least figure out if he could outsell his opponents, for there were other shoeshine boys on the beat. If he saw one, the shoeshine was automatically .15 cents, for he knew there were between .25 to .35 cents. Plus, when he charged .15 cents, he always got a tip, making it .25 cents anyway. The end result, it was a busy evening, and he had to get home by 11:00 O’clock, or his mother would surely be fuming thereafter [wondering and worrying], and so he made his last bar, leaned against the building next to the arc light, and started counting his pocket full of change.

--Not looking about, just counting, counting and recounting, with a smile on his face, it all came to $4.35 each time, thus, he was satisfied with the tally. Dust had crept in, as his blue-green eyes looked at the coins in his hand, and sensitive ears heard a voice, a demand,
“Hay boy,” it said, “hand it over…” the stern voice unrelenting.
When he looked up, holding two hands full of change, it was a tall thin white boy, about sixteen or seventeen years old, possible too tall for his weight; --Chris being about 5’5” at the time, and this kid close to six-feet he simply looked up, and straight into his eyes, not saying a word.
“I said boy, hand it over, or I’ll beat your head against the brick wall.”
Chris hesitated, somewhat in disbelief, then as he adjusted to the surroundings, taking in a deep breath, as if he had but a second to deliberate and spit it, a yes or no, he said,
“No-pp!” and the boy stepped two feet in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him against the brick wall. Now things were seemingly becoming a little gloomier.
“I said boy…hand it over or…!” another voice came from behind this tall white robber, it was a heavy voice this time—a strident voice, it had kind of an accent to it, and when Chris looked around the thin kid’s lower part of his right shoulder, he saw even a taller person than the white lad, a big tall black man: the scene became a bit dubious (was he going to rob the tall white boy after he rob me, Chris was thinking? Inasmuch as that was one thought, it was not his only; but often times when such things happen like this, one swears—hours pass by, when in essence it is but a few seconds if not minutes, yes, time for Chris was lost somewhere in-between.
Before Chris could run and escape, or come up with something magic, something peculiar happened.



“Leave the boy alone… [pause],” said the rustic voice of the black man—as the pandemonium thickened the ghostly scene of the evening; Chris looked, at the taller black man’s eyes, eldritch-black, they had opened up wide, like umbrellas, big and broad and strong, real burly looking. The white boy didn’t pay too much attention to the voice behind him at first: only giving a morbid twitch with his mouth and eye [or at least that is what Chris observed], and then the voice said in a more gaudy way, a second time—more macabre than ever:
“You just can’t hear, can you, I said NOW!” and as the huge black man was about to grab the white lad, the white chap turned about, his eyes opened up as wide as White Castle Hamburgers, for they were right across the street from one of those cafés. With one hand the black man pushed the tall white lad away from Chris like a twig: making everything a ting more haunter,
“You want to make something of this,” he asked the white boy, adding, “If so, let’s get to it, if not, and get going before I flatten you on the cement.”
And the white lad was gone, just like that. The black man then turned to Chris [whom at this time was more concerned about getting home than a punch in the face],
“You best be getting on home, you’re lucky tonight,” he added with a grin and smile as if to say, ‘…can’t believe a black man stood up for you,--haw?’ Had he been reading Chris’ mind, for that did occur to him for a millisecond.

--Chris, up to this moment in time, never really knew a black person. But this deed or call it act of kindness or even endeavor on behalf of him was imprinting for the most part, his first encounter with a black person would stick thick with him the rest of his life. If anything, as he would progress in life, he would see the character of a person vs. the color before he made his future judgments, and not even know why; that is to say, he didn’t know why, until he was much older in life, when most people examine the ‘whys,’ and ‘ifs,’ of life. If anything, racism would be a foolish noun to him, not fully comprehensible, not fully accommodating, yet in life despairing moments would prop this noun up, here-and-there; it would not have the impact it had on others for him, it would not dominate his life, nor alter his sleep like others. One might oversimplify it, as he did, by scarcely looking at it, yet observing it he did, but such perfect simplicity would mean being somewhat naive, and if anything that may have been his worse sin in a world he was about to enter, for it was the being of the 60’s.





First Kiss
[1960]


If thirteen is not the year you grow up 40%, from being a simple kid to being a un- mystified, perplexed, bemused kid, I don’t know what year to pick out then. But it was for Chris, in many ways. His first everything it seemed; kiss, drink, cigarette, and sex, and I hate to think any deeper into this area in fear I may come up with a load of other adjectives, this was the year of what might be labeled: year of the mongoose: like a snake eater, he ate everything life had to offer.



Said Rodger with a little reluctance in the tone of his voice, yet wanting to impress the guys, and Chris, whom had never kissed a girl, thus, he was willing to share a kiss from his girlfriend, who now after ten-minutes of trying to get Chris into the mood to kiss her, was willing, as was now more than ever his girlfriend, so Rodger said:
“What do you think Chris, she’s ready to give you a big kiss, you ready?” said Rodger,

“No, I don’t know, I’ve never kissed a girl before,” Chris answered with hesitation, but more than willing to give it try now that he had time to let it settle in his mind, in the back of his mind, or so he was trying to convince himself.
“Does she agree without you making her?”
“Yes! She said ok, but the offer is not going to last forever. If you’re afraid just pass it up, it’s your loss: Sherry is waiting with warm lips, make up your mind.”
“No, I’m not afraid:” Chris took a deep breath, looked at Sherry, the other guys, her beautiful blond, silk-like hair, long shapely legs, dark blue eyes: her thin waist was more than eye-catching, rather very attractive to gaze at and now he was as if he was granted a poppers-rights. He was thirteen-years old, she was seventeen, and Rodger was nineteen. He always got the good looking babe’s, thought Chris, as several of the neighborhood kids were standing about waiting for the event to take place, which started as a practical joke when they found out Chris had never kissed a girl.
The gang was watching impatiently, making gestures to one another as if to say: let’s get this on the road, or forget it, it’s getting old news: their attention span was not concussive for another era they were born in the right place at the right time, as free as birds, and as strange as lions.
Chris decided at that moment as the gestures were being thrown back and forth, he’d make his move, to make the most of it, glancing at Rodger,
“Ok, I’m ready!” he confidently said with a heroic smile.

--Rodger was one of the main members of the unofficial neighborhood gang [what the police called: Donkeyland], or if you will, group-members, otherwise known as the ‘The Cayuga Street-Donkeyland Gang,’ so nick-named by a police officer that patrolled the area, and for the most part was partial to the kids. He had said once, and Chris overheard it,
“You guys down here, live in Donkeyland, and are a bunch of hard-headed kids.” I guess when he went to the St. Paul, Police Station where he worked it was well known as such; again, referring to the location of Cayuga Street by Oakland Cemetery, as Donkeyland. As a result, Chris did pick up on it and it never left his character [as it is now written here].
As Sherry approached Chris, standing at one time several feet to his side by Rodger, now stood next to him, making him a bit nervous, she was within two feet of his face, that is to say—both looking, staring—almost gazing with a glimmer, right into each others eyes (it was a magical moment for Chris). His heart was beating, pulse rapid, and his bowls he could feel in his stomach, in the form of cramps, he actually wanted to grab her for a moment, but did not. She smiled that soft, reserved smile he had often seen her give Rodger, then put her hand on his shoulders: “You ready, Chris?” she asked with a sincere, cheerful voice.
“Yup,” he commented, now breathing hard, and for a moment, not breathing at all. And then she touched his lips gently with hers, softly positioning them both (that was when he stopped breathing), as if to fill all the space available she had room for on his lip with hers; not wanting to slid off and catch the side of his mouth, but wanting a perfect kiss, and a little harder she pushed; she had already moved into, and onto his lips completely, within a foot of him now she moved the other foot closer as the kiss extended into a long minute, and her body was touching his, and the kiss became long and wet. Then slowly, and carefully, she withdrew from the process, from him. Rodger was a bit startled, and couldn’t help from staring like a hawk ready to devour someone or something, should someone say the wrong thing: he was by all regards somewhat surprised she seemingly enjoyed it; everyone looking at Chris for a response. But if anything, everyone was moved by Sherry’s performance, as was Sherry herself.
“Well,” Rodger said, “Did you like it?” Sherry still looking with a smile at Chris,
“I want another, another one, a second kiss…I mean, if it’s ok with you and her…?” said Chris with his eyebrows almost touching the top of his forehead, opening up his eyes wider as if to absorb every little piece of warmth the kiss gave. Everyone started laughing, that is, everyone but Sherry, she remained reserve and together, and simply displayed a smile: --that is to say, everyone but Rodger, who said immediately
[Frank and to the point]: “I shared enough; you’ve got to get your own girlfriend.” For Chris the kiss would last a long, long time. Sherry seemed willing to go for seconds but for the sake of preventing a war, she remained silent, as the several members stood in Lormer’s yard, two houses away from Chris’ taking in the moment, said very little, the magical moment, and entertainment had passed; -- Lormer’s house was where many of the kids went to play pool in his basement. Or as in this case, hang around the backyard and until his parents told everyone to scoot. His father was a top chef, and he was related to Frankie Yank Vic. Chris and he were best of friends, Lormer being a year older, a few inches taller, had a hook for a nose which the guys made fun of, sometimes calling him, “Eagle Beak,” but then everyone had a nick name back then it seemed.
He had a professional pool table in his basement, and his mother and daughter played the piano often, and when possible preached the Jehovah Witness’s Gospel to whoever would listen. Lormer had several brothers, all older. One who had just got out of prison, one that hung occasionally around with the gang, and one that was older and was hardly ever seen. The daughter was but seven years old during this time, and was as spoiled as spoiled a child could be, and everyone made fun of it; she was as spoiled as, as a cat with five dead mice, wanting more.
The yard was huge; they not only had a front yard, but three sections to the back. At times, it was hard for either of Lormer’s parents to see what was happening in their backyard. Chris’ yard was also long in the back, with his house being on a hill, and the garage being below it, a little land in front of it, and an empty lot next to it, it became a turn-around for the gang’s cars on Cayuga Street, especially when they went dragging.



The summer was warm, and by the looks of things many other things were in store for Chris, not just this first kiss, but it was the catalyst to a long run play in life. He would measure all kisses according to this one possibly. Sherry’s father was the Cemetery Custodian, and lived with her family in the Cemetery, she would never be forgotten; her charm, beauty, and her kind approach
I guess we observe more than what we think we do, growing up, and this would be one moment that would migrate into Chris’ fibers. Another one being: a black family had moved into the neighborhood, and Chris’ grandfather, Tony, had befriended the male person, or only black man of a family in that neighborhood. As the gang within the neighborhood structure asked about him, and why his grandfather had taken a liking to him, Chris simply explained (now being older than that shoeshine boy),
“He walks and talks with my grandpa, what’s the problem, I suppose they must get off the same bus, or meet at the bus stop or something on the way back from work,” trying not to make much of it.
Chris got thinking, no one really knew where he lived, that was how important it was yesterday, but today, for some reason, they were wondering, the why of it had not come to surface yet; and this black-man had moved into the area about six months ago to Chris’ best guess. Oh sure there was talk about him, but no one ever seen him after dark, or when the whole gang was around. And the few that did see him, may have insulted him with a few bad remarks, but they were not laud ones, and he may not have even heard them. But surely he got some stares now and then. Therefore, at this point and time, he was more of a ghost than a picture on a wall you might say, no daily contemplations on this matter, that could have possible turn into an issue.
Chris had noticed his grandfather had walked with the black-man on several occasions. But for some reason, the gang of about twenty-two white-members, never fooled around with family or the friends of family members, kind of an unwritten code, and Chris knew this, and simply added to his statement,
“My grandpa doesn’t speak to many people, everyone knows that, I’m surprised he spoke to the black-man, he must be out of the ordinary.” That was the last anyone ever said anything on the matter. It was his grandfather’s friend, and the gang respected that. Had he said anything other than that, who knows what? At the time Chris didn’t know it, but this second impression of sticking up for a black-man was stamped on his soul also, as was the first, as a shoeshine boy.




Milwaukee Bound - 1967
[Fall]


Chris didn’t know it, but the following decade would be one of intolerance: and some growing pains. They lived in the same old neighborhood both Jerry Hines and Chris Wright, only two blocks west and down a block on Jackson Street from one another—this was Jerry’s and Betty’s house, just a hop-skip-and-jump one might say to each other’s abode. Across the street from Jerry’s house was Oakland Cemetery. Chris was twenty-years old and Jerry about twenty-nine—back then. Jerry being several years older than Chris Wright was available and usable in the sense of travel—something that was stronger than most anything else in his life for some peculiar reason, something that would stay with him all his life most variably; and so in the summer of l967, Jerry got into a dividing-harsh fight with his girlfriend Betty. Having told Chris about this, they both decided to go to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And this is where the story begins.

--Chris had a l960-Plymouth-Valiant [white], it didn’t run all that good but they, He and Jerry figured it would make it to Milwaukee, and so in the middle of the summer of ‘67, hot as a volcano, they loaded his car, when Betty was gone [Betty being his live-in girlfriend at the time], each grabbed what money they had, Chris having about $125.00 and Jerry about $250, and off they went.
As the miles went by on their way to Milwaukee, one right after the other, they kept drinking cans of beer, smoking cigarettes—chain smoking for the most part, as the Valiant strolled along the black asphalt interstate [s], 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, they were making so many stops, they both got tired of stopping and started pissing into cans, and whomever was not driving would throw the cans out of window into 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 them two.
Now with loose conversations, the heat coming through the windshield, the breeze hitting their hands as they flopped out the window going down the highway, a bird wasn’t any freer. They lit cigarette after cigarette, talked, laughed, drank and sang. They didn’t do a lot of planning, but enough, --barely enough, but enough, their plan was: they’d sleep in the car until they found an apartment, then get a job, and stay in Milwaukee for a few months, then they 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 them, and again I say, at least they had a shred of a plan, like a slice from a piece of pie. Their quest, their goal, if you could call it that, was to chum around, that’s what they’d do, and just chum around is what they 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, in a way he was running away, as Chris was not. Chris was simply running to escape a city he saw too much of, he got the travel bug early in life; he was running to run. No one really knowing where they’d end up, at the end of it all to be exact, and no one putting anymore thought into it past the planning I had already explained: Chris again, was simply available, usable, along with willing, and had an ardent desire to see how far he could go, travel, and the farther the better.


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 they 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. Chris’ face flashed with undeniable excitement, it was as if he was being reborn, his 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,” he said with anxiety of not being there at that very moment. Jerry gave Chris a more mature chuckle to the fact they had made it. Specifically, about to make it into the city limits their 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 them out to go directly ahead you could not see lights appearing in the distance, an illumination of dotted-lights. They both smiled, they had almost or nearly gotten to their destination—it was getting closer by the second. Just down and around a bridge or two now.

The one thing they did not take into consideration was the times: it was the 60’s, and neither Chris nor Jerry, could bridge, or even conceive the white and black dilemma that was sweeping the country; for the most part, they 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, store, and tenant-building 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. 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 it. They 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 them, 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 Chris’ grandfather, and therefore was left alone. But no one ever saw a black man in the neighborhood before this, much less deal with riots.



No one came to the Cayuga Street area—or walked through the area without good reason, unless they lived there; for 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; for 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 them [them being, the whole area—the gang of sorts]; matter of fact, they nick-named it Donkeyland because there were so many hard-heads there: and yes, it suited them. They beat the police up if they chased them up Indians Hill, which was in the center of Cayuga Street, right next to Chris’ house. But as I was about to say,
as they rode down the turnoff, and on-into the city center, a white, a huge white car was following them. Chris first noticed it—a ting after they entered the outer rim of the center.
“Something wrong Chris?” said sleepy-eyed Jerry, driving.
Chris turned about for the third time to examine the white car, again seeing the car following them…then all of a sudden said Chris with a crisis voice, a voice trembling, a decadence to his face:
“Oh shit, look, look at what they just pushed out the damn car window, the white car—there…” almost along side of them now, “…looks—J-j-Jerry, a damn shot gun…”
Jerry looked quickly, “What is going on?”
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 they 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!”
Chris looked at Jerry, “Where’s the way out Chris,” asked Jerry [the word shoot sticking in both their minds like a spider to a fly caught in a web,
“To the right, to the right, over there man…” Chris pointing toward a half lit up bridge: without hesitation, and responsive to his tone of voice, Jerry immediately turned the car southwest, and out they went as fast as that six-cylinder car would go.


In short, both Jerry and Chris’ tempermentaity was shock, disbelief, and spellbound, but somehow they must had caught a sign that said, Madison, Wisconsin, for that is where they headed; and sometime down the highway they had stopped to check the map, and talk about Madison to see if both agreed of the new destination, prior to this stop it would seem they were both ill-balanced.
When they both arrived in Madison, not being able to find a job, they both would end up in Omaha, Nebraska, whereupon, just across the boarder was Counsel Bluffs, where Chris would find a job working for Howard Johnson’s as a dishwasher, and three weeks later Jerry’s girlfriend would show up, and that would be the end of the adventure. She’d stay until the end of the month, and they’d all return back together to Minnesota. It was for Chris the first of many adventures—antiquarian pursuits, and the first real racial confrontation.


Heavens Dilemma

What will we all do?
The Black man,
The White man
The Arab, the Jew:
The Christian,
The Muslim,
Fool, and you—.

All tossed together
[Like a load of old shoes],
Waiting to go through:
Through those pure
Pious gates,
Awaiting new souls?

What will we all do?
For it seems [does it not?],
That is the one place:
We all want to go–too.






Book: 1




Stay Down, Old Abram




Alabama Days
[l969- l970]


1.


Black Girl Walking


Her profile was of a black silk like portrait of Cleopatra; yet her eyes saw devastation, Chris wouldn’t say it but he knew it, sensed it. Her hair was well kept, treated somehow, somewhat, cut almost perfectly; it looked quite soft: --like her face, nothing out of the common he thought, just well groomed. And here, this black silk Cleopatra, walked reminiscent to how one would expect Cleopatra to walk he gave notion to, with a good arch in her back, neck slightly risen to lower the backside of her head; very dignifying. She was walking down the street, stopping here and there, window shopping—as if she had no cares; as if she was in charge of her life, so Christopher, namely, Private First Class Wright, told himself: Get some directions to a drycleaners. Yet, for a moment she reminded Christopher Wright of his mother, who’d take him shopping as a young lad: looking, gazing, seeing, and then finally inquiring about what was most interesting in those big windows of his Midwestern hometown stores; his hometown, being St. Paul, Minnesota.
But he was now hundreds of miles from his Midwestern city, his principal objective was not to window-shop—he had business to attend to; he was at Red Stone Arsenal, a military base, and a Space Station as well, just outside of Huntsville, Alabama, used by soldiers for advance training in a number of fields. They came from military basic training facilities all over the country. Christopher Wright came from training at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for training there; he was to spend three months at Red Stone, then go on to a new duty station. He was downtown looking for a drycleaners, no more than that, but isn’t that how everything starts in life— with a simply gesture.

--During the weekdays, the evenings explicitly, and most unobjectionably on weekends [day and night], gambling was going on in the soldiers barracks, drinking in the dayroom at night was common, especially when someone would bring some: ‘White Lightening,’ down from the local stills in the surrounding hills. And outside of the base, outside the gates of Red Stone, was Huntsville, there on any given night you might find a few barroom fights with GI’s and locals. During the weekdays, sometimes the soldiers would drink all night—and play avoidance games with the sergeants in the morning after formation and roll-call; as to try to play catch up on their duties and daily studies later, for this was a school for most of the soldiers, not duty assignments—per se. As precious as sleep was, and it was precious to say the least, for one could get hurt during school training without the proper amount, especially with the hands-on part, dealing with munitions,-- very few soldiers got it though, and lucky no one did get hurt, a little miracle in itself; on the same note: a commodity no one had time to take advantage of, and not willing to buy it. Yet it was a factor in the carelessness that prevailed within the school structure, or at least in Chris’ eyes. And so the marksmanship shooting of the M16 rifle went on as usual, under sleepy eyes, with the lack of energy, as did the Mess Hall duties, and the womanizing down in Huntsville; it was a wonder anyone got any kind of studies done. But that was the way it was, Chris told himself, and it was now, and as far as he considered it, it could be forever wrapped in memories for the future, and figured out later.
Christopher Wright, had been at Red Stone going on six weeks now, and was no exception to the rules, --if not more so than others, he was rather abusive to them; and to be quite honest, his platoon sergeant didn’t even know his name. He’d be in the third roll of the platoon, second man on the left, each and every morning for, formation, standing tall for military inspection, as all soldiers needed to be accounted for twice a day; there were forty-four men to the platoon, and twelve-men to the squad. He always seemed to try and avoid being noticed, and was for the most part, unnoticed within his platoon and squad. It was better he felt, the less they see of him, the more they leave him alone, the better off the world would be, his world; by and large, that was very much the truth of the matter.





2.




Elsa and the Soldier
[Black Girl Walking]



On a cool clear February afternoon the same brisk chill that made the white soldiers on base rub their hands to warm themselves, Elsa was doing the same thing as she window shopped in downtown Huntsville. She knew not to be distracted by the white soldiers that walked the streets, and avoided them quite mechanically, not catching their eyes, or even noticing them, if at all they were noticing her. She was—for the most part—oblivious to their whims, or stares or even wolf-calls and remarks. She just kept on walking, shopping, and looking, gazing into the windows. As Christopher Wright caught sight of her, he motioned to her while asking directions, in which she became unstable, her face radically alert to everything around her all of a sudden, “Doan mess wid me now,--go,” she demanded of Chris. Both Christopher and Elsa were in disbelief [each for different reasons], a white soldier trying to talk to a black young woman, this was not at all common in this part of the country; and a black woman abruptly telling him to scoot: --be gone, when all he did was ask a simple question; for in the Midwest, no one was so rude, so down right un-neighborly. Then Christopher noticed a ghostly look overtook her face. In his mind’s-eye he was saying, ‘God what did I do,’
“I say get away from me, please—you-all!” she repeated herself, with a more nervous tone to her voice this time; while trying to avoid him by ducking in-between a passageway leading into a store, pretending to look here and there, but trying to get away from him in reality.
“Shoo…,” she said uncomfortable, as her eyes opened up wider—like golf-balls, and shown those dark enchanting colors to him, and then saying:
“I just know something’s gona happen…” a hastily comment with a quick glance through the glass windows to see if anyone was watching them, it had mirror like reflections. But the Private First Class just was too naive to catch the warning as a warning; he had thought he had done or said something to offend her, and was searching his memory banks—in a flabbergast manner.
They were now, by a large department store close to a four-way intersection, with a crossing that had stop and go lights attachments on wires crossing the streets. This dark eyed Negro woman was shaken, “Soldier,” Elsa said with seriousness, her posture becoming more closed, hands crossed, if not dread to her voice,
“Yous gona gets me in trouble, I swear, I be hung sure as Uncle Abram, if yous dont leaves me alone.”
“What!” said Christopher, adding with a boyish coyness, “I’m just asking for directions? I need to find a press shop for my Military Greens—a drycleaners,” Chris was in green Army fatigues at the moment, ironed stiff, to make him look like a sharp soldier, and polished boots that shinned, but not from polish, from spray, which was offensive to many soldiers, for although it got the boots shinny, it made cracks in them also. But Chris felt he could spend his time more wisely by spraying the boots, vs. two hours shinning them—that was the offensive part to the other soldiers, yet they sold the items at the PX [military store]. Thus, hung over his forearm was his dress-greens.
Elsa’s eyes now rolled up into her head, as if to say: you got to be kidding, then turned into the big department store horse-shoe turn-around, which possessed a glass display of cloths; she started walking around it, slowly, without going into the store. Then exhausted from trying to rid herself of this pest of a soldier, she stopped for a moment, just a moment, leaned against the big display window, and began to talk,
Saying:
“Soldier, I’s be a black girl, yous a white soldier, you’all in Alabama, now, not back wheres yous come from, --two weeks ago mies Ol Uncle Abram was beaten and hung for hanging out [fraternizing] with white folk; if I’s be standing here talking to you much longer, I be hung just like Uncle Abram, you’akk se? Does you’all understand? I gots to walk on this side of the street, and yous needs to walk on dhe, dhe uther-side. It’s just plan trouble if you dont. “
“Where’s your Uncle now,” asked the young Private.
“They’d done left him in the field to rot, could be, they-all buried him by now, in da farmyard outside of town a mile or so.”
“What farm?” asked the Private, seemingly more curious than a moment ago.
“Ya looks like a good soldier, stays out of this I warns ya; I mustn’t talk so much [looking about to see if anyone was watching]. O-k, I tells ya, but then leaves me alone, ok?” Christopher shook his head --yes, “Samuel Brunson’s farm, now leaves me, please, --ahim goan home!” A tear came from her eyes, as they both took a moment to look at one another for the last time; finally Christopher comprehended what the youthful Negress had meant, as her last words came out:
“Done killed my Uncle—dhey done kill him good. “
She didn’t look at him again, as he walked across the street to the other side, as she had wished he’d had done much sooner. As he turned around to see her walk away, she had already disappeared. Christopher Wright simply told himself, he mustn’t do that again, that he would be, and didn’t want to be, the one responsible for another hanging; as unbelievable as it was for him to absorb, he allowed himself to believe it.


3.


The Trailer Court


On another brisk February afternoon, not long after, it was as if the same lukewarm wind was circulating in the air as when Christopher had met the black young lady, [about a week prior]; Benjamin Johnson, [Ben for short], and Chris were hitchhiking from Huntsville, back to the Army Base, when Ben mentioned, after noticing from his side-vision, a car following, “The Police,” he commented, adding:
“I’m a dead nigger, if you leave me Chris—” Chris opened his eyes wider than an owl, as if he was stunned, he had not heard any black man call himself a nigger, it was offensive he thought.
“Oh yes,” Chris said to his Army friend, adding, “I’m sure he’s just doing some routine stuff.” Thinking Ben was simply paranoid, yet he was still lost in thought on what he had said.
“A telephone, where is a phone, I can call someone, not sure who…? They don’t like white folks with blacks, I’m telling you, I mean they really, really don’t.” This time Christopher didn’t need to be told three times, and listened to his friend’s voice crack, and his face become reluctantly serious, as Chris showed more comradeship.
“The police man will do what, Ben?” asked Chris.
“Kill me,” he answered quickly, and simply as if there was no doubt in his voice—steadfast and without question he looked scared. Christopher felt he was looking at this from an extreme vantage point still, but he was not taking any chances, not a second time, it was becoming more believable by the week he told himself—
“Wait,” Chris said with thoughts floating in his mind as he looked upward trying to visualize where exactly he was. “Hay man, not far from here is a trailer-court, just up the block, Corporal Thompson, Greg Thompson, my friend lives there, he and Chief, otherwise known as Henry St. Clair, from my basic training are supposed to be there getting drunk today—now, this afternoon, or so Chief told me, let’s stop there. He’s Navaho, and can’t drink worth shit, gets all fight happy when he’s drunk. But he’s ok, and maybe it would be nice to drop on in and see if he and Thompson are still friends.”
“Yaw, sure let’s go there, the sooner the better,” said Ben with an uneasy tone to his voice.

--Fifteen minutes later they crossed a dirt road that led into a trail court, the police still following their every step of the way down the long two lane highway, in his car, wearing his big hat, sun glasses, and smoking a cigar.
“Listen Chris, don’t look back at the policeman—I mean, the police car, if you do he’ll arrest us for being suspicious, and there it goes, you get your ass kicked and I get a rope around my black throat.”
“Got it Ben—“said Chris.



Now they were standing in front of the door of trailer #23, Corporal Thompson’s residence. The policeman staring out of his car window, thinking the two soldiers were bluffing [as far as having a friend in the courtyard, just buying time]—simply, the officer would just wait—he told himself, like a good fisherman, then he’d get his prize fish, but then the door opened, you could hear Ben’s sigh from his stomach all the way up through his chest and out his mouth and nose ‘aye wwww///…www////~!…
A voice came from within: “Hay you guys, come on in, we’re all getting tanked….”
Chris took a quick look in back of him as Ben walked in first [Ben never turning around to see the policeman], and the policeman simply looked at Chris, as if they’d meet again, as if it was inevitable, as if it was not over, then the police car took off, burning rubber off the hot and vibrant asphalt street for a little ways; so be it, thought Chris, he knew he was as angry as a hornet whom just lost his prize sting. But Chris, like Ben, was relieved also, it was intense twenty-minutes he figured, and a growing concern that there was so much intolerance, or racism so alive in the South.
The sun was now out, and the gray clouds disappeared also; it was as if God had polished everything new. As they all sat down in the cozy little trailer house—somewhat cramped, Corporal Thompson started handing out beers and wine bottles to both Ben and Chris, “Drink up, it looks as if you both walked a hundred miles.” Ben was thinking: he had aged one-hundred years in those last twenty-minutes, and down went a beer. Christopher Wright, twenty-two years old now, was the oldest of the group, learned again, it was quite different in the South, compared to the Midwest as far as acceptance for minorities went; in this case blacks. He was wondering what else they didn’t like down here—soldiers possibly, but surely they liked their money, for it provided lots of jobs for the communities, and so they had to put up with them, or starve to death. On another point, he had learned some counties were dry, no alcohol, and others were trying to stop the ‘no alcohol sales,’ wanting to sell to the GI’s, to make more money, while others were not. And so, when you drove from county to county, you never knew if you were in a dry or wet county; but Chris, like Chief, and Thompson, and most of the soldiers either drank on base, or in Huntsville itself. Thus, eliminating the endeavor to try and figure out if you were in a safe drinking area or unsafe one.


4.


Stay Down, Old Abram


Old Abram—
Stood up, only to be pushed
Back down; --
Twenty-Times they say—.

“Stay down, stay down, Abram,”
Cried the bystander’s,--
Hoping, praying,
[For entertainment]
Begging, He’d stand back up…
And he did just that: --
[Poised and brave],
With a smile…dying
With dignity…


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, now leaning on his porch railing—
“A damn soldier,” he grumbled out and up from his stomach, up through his vocal cords and out his mouth—almost vomiting it out,
the figure was now standing by the hanging tree the old man shaking his head as if to say: it was none of his business, and to, to move on out of there, it was his land: get off, get out of here—[he thought] but he just stared, almost liking what the soldier was seeing, evidently noticing but he couldn’t be sure what expression was on the soldier’s face, but he hoped it was punishing, then he’d tell him to get out again later, in a moment. 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.
The old man yelled:
“He’s dead, can’t yu’all see, move on now, yous-just a …more-on, that’s all you are…move on now—boy-!”
“Yaw I know,” Chris mumbled to himself, out loud, but mostly to the moment, so he could hear himself. But of course the old man couldn’t hear a word; he was aghast at what he was witnessing. The blood soaked ground, a rope hanging frightfully from a strong branch that come outward from the 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 possible before that old man was born, and all his relatives.
Yelled the old man again:
“I says now, get on out of her boy, do as yous told, I told him twice, yes I did, two times to ‘…stay down, stay down, stay down,’ but he wouldn’t—he gets back up, the crazy old fool; now you get-ts out of here—before I shoots your ass!!”
Chris pretended not to hear the rustic-yelling’s of the old man, somewhat afraid to speak, least 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. 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 you cough, gag and almost vomit;-- his skin 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; --objects, everything looked like unkempt matter, meaningless to most people, even to some animals, but Chris knew they would be most reflective if not emotionally intense for Elsa.
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.“



Bones of Bigotry



No window could shut out the sounds of bigotry to Chris’ ears that he was hearing and seeing. He started to dread a longer stay in Alabama—and yet he had only seen, or better put, scratched the surface of the face of bigotry. 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, he told himself: seeing and watching the old man hobble his way in the field trying to get to him.
The farmer was not sensitive to, or offended by the Blackman’s remains, his bones, and his rotting flesh—Chris knew that immediately, and Chris had also seen autopsies in the Army, so this made it bearable to deal with, but just bearable. When a man sees flesh and blood, and exposed parts of a body, all discolored, all raw, it can be sickening to the point of becoming ill, or vomiting, 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, and so he did.
What could produce such indifference in a human mind; he asked himself, in that brain of his—that old coot’s brain? Possible he had seen too much in his life, or much, much more than his mind could take, and became insensitive; he tried to apologize for the old man. But that was really not the answer; he was making up the questions and now started to answer them, for it sure was the only way they’d get answered. 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 was doing 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 haunt him somewhere along his life’s journey; there would turn out to be, faces among faces, pious at first, but intolerable at second glance if he stayed 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 one, but for the present, one would do, for all; he knew he was too young to put the world on his shoulders, but possible a moment would suffice—one that brought him in, sucked him in, willingly, but none the less, like a vortex.



Christopher leaned over quickly picking up several more fragments of bones, the skull which was separated from the body included,--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 running mode—hobbling like a sick duck. Chris 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 was parked, more like a lane than a road, I’d estimate, it was Corporal Thompson’s car to be exact
jumping the fence with a quick stride, he now felt a little safer being off his property; as he looked about, it was middle dusk, and the evening shadows were creeping in, with the rain clouds getting darker.
“Whar you gwine—?”
asked the old man, exhausted from the walk, then knowing he had no way to get to Chris, added, “Gwome keep dhem old bones,--ya keep dhem I don’t car, can’t prove a damn dhing, I told Abram to stay down, stay down, but he-a he-wouldn’t-damn-fool, he kept getting up, dhen they hung him…keep dhem…dhem old bones, black bones…”
the old man rattled on and on; --the old coot didn’t notice the bones were even white, thought Chris, 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 Chris 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 it. Chris 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 legend, the story, or was it a saga, it wasn’t a fable, for it took place for sure, it wasn’t talked about much thought, not now-a-days anyway, but it wasn’t a yarn either, it was, it did happen, and there is an account of it, simply one need only go to the town library? 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, whose 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, he said. 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, saying:
“You’all promised me it coms my fifty-ish ber-dy, eyes 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 just 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:
“Yous like it rite, to be dhe boss, ya, yous like it, al-rite so boss, wht yous tells me now--Haw?—nots a thing…[hahaha].” By the time he put the old man down he was dead: he didn’t mean to kill him, but he was dead none the less: 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.



Over five thousand people came to see the lynching the following week, they came from every county within 150-miles, and here Jeremiah stood in front of the crowed, stern-still, stoned-faced, flat affect, deep-narrow eyes of black and red—an iris as big as a cows; there he stood on the wooden gallows: yelling to the crowd; --and as he yelled the several closest to the gallows got sprayed purposely with slim and spit from his mouth, dribbling, slobbering all over everyone as he laughed and spoke:
“Get on with it whitey [he shouted], yous keeping mes from having dinner in hell, whts ya problem boy…! [Then he started to swear again at the crowd, obscenities no one had ever heard, the white women held their hands over their children’s ears]. Every white person stood there in shock, as if he was supposed to use his last words, his last moments of life to repent with, and show some kind of remorse, yet he didn’t, not at all, matter of fact, it was dramatically to the contrary. Yes, these brought back some old memories for the group watching Old Abram hanging. A hundred years had pass, but the attitude of the county had not changed.


[Somehow those old memories were started to settle wrongly in the old man’s head, he couldn’t squash them in the corner of his brain anymore, they started to seep out, as he sat back in the rocking chair, grabbing a little white-lightening.]



5.




Back to the Trailer Court


Unhurried now, yet a bit tired from all the excitement Chris looked in his rearview mirror witnessing the old man steadily plowing through the mud to the porch beyond, trying to get to that old rocker, from time to time, checking out the dubious looking sky.
As Chris drove the road steadily, the rot, stink of the flesh and wet bones was on his person, he could smell himself, it was nauseating, and his stomach was turning. He told himself, dead bodies smell, look nasty, have many colors to them, dull brushed colors. It was not a pretty sight by far. The sky was getting even darker as he raced down the lightly paved road: --racing as if the demons themselves were against him for taking the bones, an unblessed treasure, their feast, to look at, how they made man into a beast and had them kill for them. And now Thompson’s car would smell it was no more than a hearse for the moment. Along with the dark clouds, dust was befalling the earth around Chris. A chill went up his spine, now he was questing himself, did he do right? It was not a chill of fear he told himself, rather one of tampering with the sacred remains of another person. Yet it was better to preserve a man’s remains, bring them to a dignified closing, than let them rot like a meal for a vultures on a white man’s farm; his sins were no greater than anyone else’s, he told himself—[for he really didn’t know Old Abram], and much less he presumed than the old man’s, the one with the rocker on the porch.

--As he got closer to town, outside of the city was a cemetery, he entered it through a back road, saw a sign that read, “Cremation,” and parked the car, went inside the one story building, and made arrangements for the body parts [mostly bones, and the skull] to be cremated, and picked out an urn—: one of wood. The cremating cost him $50, which was ten-day pay, and the urn, which was five-day pay. He was making about $127 a month, and that was taxed, with six-dollars a month coming out for bonds. But he figured he’d drink off the other guys for a week and mooches cigarettes off his friends-likewise; what the heck he thought, they did it to him all the time. It was all worth while he told himself, feeling guilty for putting that young black girl, almost a woman, and possible a woman in harms way; this was the least he could do. Plus, it just felt good. He told himself, God puts people in funny situations, and most people go tell someone else to do whatever they think should be done, when it is them who should be doing it, and so he did it. His mother had told him that once; he never forgot it; kind of like telling someone else to take their own inventory, instead of taking yours, which so often people do.

--When Chris returned the car to the trailer court, he explained everything to his friend Thompson, whom simply shook his head, saying:
“Things are quite different around here Chris, you got to stay out of the way of the issues they got down here, you’re going to get yourself killed, and my damn car impounded for being part of this southern charade.”
Then he added,
“But it’s quite noble, I doubt I’d have done something like that, matter of fact, I’d never would have talked to the black girl in the first place, you know, one thing leads to another, just like it’s happening now…” then he gave Chris a pat on the shoulder, kind of man-hug one might say for his daring. After that Chris grabbed a phone book, he remembered Elsa had a diabetes name chain around her wrist, it read, he remembered: ‘Elsa something,’ and quickly thumbed through the ‘location’ section of the phonebook.
“Whitehead—Boston …Boston…Boston… Rebecca Whitehead-Boston,” he said out loud, “it must be Elsa’s relative.”
“There,” he told Thompson, “There she is, Elsa’s last name, it was a funny one, a double one, Whitehead-Boston, got to use your phone please.” At this juncture, Thompson thought Chris just had a baby, he was so excited to have found her identity; then Thompson handed him the phone with a sigh oozing out of his chest and mouth as to not delay Chris’ mission,
“Good luck?”
“Hello,” a female’s voice came over the phone.
“Elsa Boston?” asked Chris “I mean Whitehead,” Chris confused.
“Yes, yes, dhats me, why? [A pause] this is Elsa, why?”
“Hello again, this is, is—I hope you remember me, I’m Chris, and I met you about a month ago [‘Oh…’ came over the other side of the phone—with nervousness to it]; I don’t mean to bother you but… [A pause—‘But what, doan mess wid me again’ replied Elsa].”
She was listening intensively now.
“As I was about to say, I have a gift for you.”
“I’m using my Auntie’s last name and … [she hesitated to fill in the sentence],” she corrected Chris, as if to alert him that she was the right person, but she was not giving him her legal last name, possible for personal reasons. “And what might that be, and howd-ya get my phone number?” she commented a little sarcastically.
“It’s a grief gift, the ashes of your Old Uncle Abram… [Then Chris explained what he had done].”
During the clearing up of events [namely, telling him her story], Elsa was idle, without words, and a few tears were sensed over the phone, which came with a sniffling, a cry, a moan…: thought, Chris with a sense of relief, ‘now she [they] can grieve,--put a closure to it, if that’s what is really needed.’
“Aunty,” Chris heard over the phone, “Uncle Abram…hes-a…hes comon hom I guess.” Then with a pause, as Elsa clarified to her Aunty what was happening, she said—in all the excitement—she had forgotten his name, then abruptly said:
“Is you gona stop over tomorrow?”
“Yes,” replied Christopher Wright, as she thanked him several times.




6.



Returning of the Bones



[Wirily and still a bit tired] Chris woke up early the next morning, it was Saturday, and borrowing Thompson’s car again, he went and picked up the ashes, with the wooden urn [he had ordered], which had a wooden cross and butterfly carved of wood attached to the urn in the front of it; and headed out to find this black-girl’s house.


[Chris had stayed overnight at the trailer court, drinking the night away with Chief, and Thompson, talking about his good deed, and not so good idea to get involved; --but both friends encouraged him to follow through on it, none the less. They all had but two weeks to go to graduation, and it was best to settle this so he could get back to studying for the examination coming up in a week—thus, clearing his mind.]



The Shanties



On the way to the black-girl’s shanty, Chris noticed, as any single GI from the Midwest might have noticed, the strange area he was driving into: strange because it was extraordinary in contrast to the area he had just left, which was quiet visible, immediately when he turned the corner off the main highway, prior to entering the shanty-city; for the most part, now there were no more road signs anywhere to be seen—dirt compacted roads only [in St. Paul, there was nothing so drastic in changes like this, from one extreme to the other], ‘why: where’s the tax money goin,’ he whispered-out loud to the windshield. The shanties were sparsely placed he noticed, some clusters of them here and there, some black kids running after chickens, chasing them down. A man with an ax chopping away at the roots of an old tree, a stump of a tree that is; another someone: somebody—black-lady, collecting eggs inside a chicken-coup he noticed [she was walking on her hands and knees backwards to not allow the chickens to escape in front of her; as he drove down the zigzagging road].
The countryside, to include the outskirts of the city was quite a ragged sight compared to the inner city structure, or the Military Base; another world one might say—of itself. It seemed like a version out of one of Steinbeck’s novels, of the Depression time—figured the soldier. Like most country roads, this one was of hard gravel, deeply rutted by trucks and car tires; some old timbers were lying about, erosion beaten, and with the window open, the landscape reeked everywhere, leaving a bad odor to his senses.
[Inquisitively] Chris saw an old man resting [as he drove his car between five to seven miles an hour over the rouged terrain], doing a double take, he almost smiled at him, --the old man was lying peacefully against a huge Cyprus tree, laying against it with a shoe for a pillow; --his head pillowed on one of his shoes [an idea he thought that might be useful, ‘…come in handy on some of them long Army marches,’ he told himself, especially when one gets only a fifteen-minute rest after several miles].
In the not too far distance he could hear a train whistle, --couldn’t see the tracks nor the train, but they had to be in back of the shanties somewhere he presupposed, where else, that was where the sound was coming from? The car came to almost a complete stop trying to get around, and drive over the holes and bumps in the soil, trying without breaking the car’s axel, for should he continue this way, he’d surely break something: again, the odor, a different smell to his liking, come through the window, garbage possible. It hadn’t occurred to him, lifestyles were so drastically different, to be precise, poles apart, when everything was so close to the city or Army Base. The only possible conclusion was, wet wood, a cooler atmosphere, less grass and more bare-brown earth, and a graveyard that was being used as a garbage facility; everything uncultivated, long-haired grass everywhere. He concluded the benefits of modern life had not yet brought profit to this section of the county, or for that matter, country. Bad roads, bad schools, bad shanties, and bad health; everything was poorly maintained--: no resemblance of a plan. Houses zigzagged all over the place.
The so called Negro settlement was an abandon area for the most part, an area in a process of decay. Yet still, Chris was intoxicated with the idea of bringing back the bones of a black-man to his kin; therefore, he looked every which-way for her, or her shanty. He was now a half mile down the dirt road, and some old Negroes congregated at a corner of the road, they were doing something, playing chess or checkers, he couldn’t make it out, yet he could see the uplifting of one old man’s brow, seeing the whites of his eyes, big eyes: both eyes checking out his bluish-green eyes. He was, or so he noticed, the only white man in this shanty-town.


Revenge or Redemption


It was [thoughts going through his mind: Chris’s] about 104-years in the past when this area was a slave society; where slaves and slavery were frequent subjects, and the white man was still at the forefront of this, a century later, or at least in the eyes of the black man, he had just seen, it seemed to be not much different: that is to say, decades had not washed or cleansed the sins that evidently were committed here, and his bones, the ones he had sitting on the seat beside him, proved just that. Another amazing thought that went through Chris’ head was the display of rich and poor living so close to one another, sometimes a grave apart, or a graveyard apart; he wasn’t quite sure how to place it—to measure it, but it didn’t seem to digest quite right.
Now he saw her house, it was standing as she described it, her shanty, like a dog-trot log cabin with planks, and a huge chimney to the side of it that stretched from the ground to over the roof, the chimney looked as if it could have heated up a mansion at one time, and probably did. It looked as if it was built over another foundation [the shanty], and it was held up on short pegs, possible to keep the wiggly creatures away, such as snakes and so forth
what was going on in Chris’ mind, no one really knew, possible not even him, possible only God Himself; but what it seemed like, what it gave the impression of was a poor response, from a poor white boy, a soldier, a white soldier who put aside, or wanted to push aside resentment and revenge for an alternative response called redemption for his race. And so he looked at the bones, and the black girl’s shanty, and proceeded with his forbidden quest.



Returning of the Bones



It was now 9:30 AM, he parked his car at the bottom of the road that led into what looked like a campsite; walking up the incline, he showed up outside of Elsa’s house [shanty], it was in the back of the cemetery, he had found out, as he looked south-east, her house being more north-east. Not all that far from where he was [he noticed] was actually the city. Matter of fact, he noticed the cemetery was used for garbage—as expected—and people’s old car parts, old tires and so forth—yes a junkyard to boot, and some very old graves where about [as he had walked up the dirt road, he had noticed the unfenced in cemetery’s abandonment, and walked through it partially], so old were some of the names, that they were worn down to make the stone only carry a shadow within its surface, and only a few dates remained clearly identifiable.
Her shanty was quite small [as he looked ahead] compared to the houses he was used to seeing in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he was from—the Midwest. There were several houses in a row; actually they all looked rather small, similar to a one car garage back home. There wasn’t much grass around her house either, weeds for the most part, and only dirt roads in and out of there, that lead in and out and around the back of the cemetery, her neighborhood. It was startling for Chris, for not far from there were expensive mansions—with seven bedrooms mansions, four bathrooms in some, and here were almost dugout houses of a century ago—now called shanties. What a difference, what a 360-degree turn about—he pondered.

As Elsa met him at the doorway, as she was expecting to, she took the wooden box from his hands, hugged it for a moment, almost fearful it might drop, it was about a foot tall, and half foot wide, still holding it as if it was a baby, her eyes filled up with tears, and her mouth quivered, her legs seemed to weaken, the grieving process had started Chris told himself, it was marked by pain, and relief, sorry and sadness, but mostly love. The young soldier [Private First Class Wright] looked kind of down on the ground for a moment, almost as if to give her a moment to get herself back together, yet he really didn’t expect or demand that, it was all a new experience for him also. He was trying to figure out what a person says in such a case, and in lack of anything intelligent he babbled:
“I don’t know what to say, but I’m here for you,” she slightly glanced up—and smiled, evidently that was what she needed to hear. He never expected she was that close to him, evidently, he had lived there with them; it seemed that Aunty, or Rebecca Whitehead [Boston] was the sister possible, to Abram: or so Chris deduced. But he left well enough alone, and didn’t pry—said no more—shifting a series of illusions in his head [phantasmagoria] as if he had made the world a little bit better; plus, he knew he was getting too involved, as he was told by his Army friends, which wasn’t wise, and so he concurred with them at this point; for her he felt the previous unfinished grieving (she needed to do), could now be done properly; wherein if not done, possible creating more resentment, for as the old saying goes: ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ if that was the case, time would tell.
She implied to the young soldier: he now would be handled with respect and dignity. She didn’t ask any questions, it just didn’t matter anymore it seemed, or so her face showed—pale as it was with holding of the ashes—with a little animosity. He was dead and right or wrong would not bring him back, nor would the people who did this atrocity get punished for it: not here on earth anyhow, and if so, she’d probably not hear about it, but she had learned the old saying was true: ‘What goes around, comes around,’ and so the monsters that did this could only expect some kind of ongoing nightmares concerning this matter, knowing everything has a price. For the moment she was just happy to see that there was a proper ending to all this—a closing if you will; something she had not expected. Chris couldn’t see her aunty but he heard her:
“Wes got a jug in de bushes—“she bellowed; there was a long pause, as Elsa held the urn, and Chris stood on one foot suspended over one of the three steps to their home, the other foot on one of the square blocks of cement leading to the steps, his balance—readily available to go up or back at any command. She was trying to be polite, and possible it was all they had to offer—the home made whisky. Then she asked a funny question, or so it seemed to Chris, since this was the first and only meeting they’d ever have, and under such circumstances, she asked:
“Hows it to be a soldier, I mean, is it a good life?”
Said Chris with a stunned look: “I like it, it gives me a roof over my head, three meals a day, a little money, some rank: I hope to get more rank, maybe be a sergeant someday and make more money, and I can go to school on the GI bill while in the Army. I guess you can’t beat that,” smiling.
“Oh,” she murmured.



As he stood there stone-still, in a silent manner, for some peculiar reason, it occurred to him, she was window-shopping, not buying anything when he first met her, why now was it crossing his mind, staring at the crumbling house in front of him? Yet she kept herself groomed well, and dressed in the style of the day. Not sure what all that meant, he told himself, just a fleeting thought at best, but if there was a hidden meaning, it must be in the due credit she deserved in looking adversity in the face, and marching on, he told himself, for the house was depressing, the surroundings were depressing. It couldn’t be more than four-hundred square feet to the house, if that. And the roof was sheet metal, surely it leaked all over the place when it rained, and the sides were boards of wood, not necessary all fastened so well either. A window on three sides of the house, not sure if there was a back one. The paint was of a pale egg-white, mostly pealing.
It was simply written on Elsa’s face, as she said,
“Aunty will be most grateful, would you like to come in for a moment?” never once looking around to see who was watching [of herself she had no fear], for that moment in her life she either didn’t care, or it didn’t occur to her.
“No,” said Chris, “possible another time, I got to get back to base and study for a test coming up soon, but I’ll take a rain check on that offer.”
Said Aunty Rebecca again,
“We gots… [Elsa interrupts]”
“He dont wants ter comes back in Aunty, hes got to go back to the base…”
“Ya needs to eat Elsa, com her now dhen.”
A smile appeared between both Elsa and Chris for the second time, and then he walked away. He knew she’d be in trouble should someone see either of them together, not that he cared for himself, the locals had a little more tolerance for the Army personnel, plus didn’t want a scandal with the military base, or Military Commander, --the soldiers kept Huntsville lucrative with the business they brought it; plus, it would only endanger her
as Chris turned about to leave, walking to his car, he never looked back, if he had, he was sure he’d of had that small visit, that rain check now, with a little of that ‘white-lightening’ and then what, who knows: --he told himself, although nothing seemed right, this one act of kindness was right, the rest, well, he couldn’t change things, it just was the way it was, and better to keep walking even if every bone in your body told you to turn back—. If Chris had learned anything, and possible Elsa, notwithstanding, black and white issues of the times, it possible was to value individual worthiness of each other as God-created creatures of one humanity; and playing safe was not always the best thing.





7.




The Warrior’s Bar



There was a man standing about several feet from the left side of the corner of the bar, the bar was crowded, matter of fact, the whole bar was filled for the most part with bodies. About twenty tables and some booths, all filled; in particular, there was one table and one booth—side by side—filled with GI’s, of which there were black soldiers [three of them] mingling with the white soldiers: twelve of them in all, to include Chris and the Chief his Indian friend, along with Corporal Thompson, a man named Robert Benton, Dan and Sara Hanson, whom were not military and a few others. The man standing towards the end of the bar, towards the north end corner, was a robust, beastly-hairy looking man thought Chris as he left the table of friends to get a glass of beer at the bar, the waitress was either too slow, or was avoiding their table for personal reasons; plus, Chris was impatient as he always was, and not waiting for the waitress was normal.
“Thirty-five cents,” said the bartender, not smiling as he moved the beer glass over to Chris—anxiously; --as the robust man about four feet to his right stared at him. Chris slapped .45-cents on the counter [.10-cents being a tip], and then noticed the man gazing at him, an opinionated kind of look, if not simply a narrow-minded gaze; he was a trifle irritating with his beady-little eyes smashed into his skull, his brow [forehead] stuck out like a Neanderthal he thought. This was Chris’ first time at this bar, and had heard it was a bit, small-minded to say the least, but there was never any trouble—or so he was told; and so he told a few friends he’d stop on over for a while for a few drinks. Now he was questioning his good-will, and sensibility.
The robust-diehard was now giving Chris a reactionary smile, self-righteous look—he stood about 5’ 9”, a muscular man, who looked about thirty to thirty-five-years old; a man of war, thought Chris but not of real war, not the Army type,--rather the coward type, one who would fight for the glory of the old south, but not for the glory of America; yes he would fight, in the name of rigorousness—that is, his southern righteousness, so he could kill a few blacks and tell his grandkids how great he was. At about this point in Chris’ stay in the South, he had gotten his fill of doing things the right way, or the wrong way, or even the Army way, and didn’t need anymore of doing things the Southern way, which was intolerance, for whom they didn’t like the soldiers for one thing, and blacks, and especially blacks with whites.
Chris could tell by the man’s mannerisms this was going to be one of those intolerant moments, his body could feel the warning signs, called ‘negative sensations’. The man had a flat affect on his face, no smile just plane old meanness—rotten looking teeth and an arrogance for being white, as if God himself came down and didn’t make the Blackman, rather he simply spurted up accidentally from accident.
As the robust man rested his turned about, resting his back and shoulders against the bar, hands on his hips, as if to say, stand down, or mind your business, or be careful, whatever his message was he was scooping out the bar scene—testing the water, playing the captain courage’s game. As did Chris, watching the GI’s drink, others eat, the waitress deliver shots of whisky, then out of the blue he said [turning his bulldog face to Chris]:
“You like dhem blackies haw, --dhem niggers? All you northern GI’s like dhem, why? Why are you a nagger lover soldier, and bring dhem down here for us to deal with?”
Stumped for a moment at his remarks, Chris simply tried to put together his composure, and absorb what he just heard, at the same time he looked at a nearby empty bottle in case he needed to grab it for a weapon—for a battle was brewing.
“What’s the matter,” said Chris in a cocky voice, “Nobody’s causing you trouble?”
“Listen buddy, this is the south, not the north where niggers run the place, they don’t run it here;” both looked at each other as if a volcano was ready to bust, the bartender shaking his head as if to say, ‘here we go again,’ then added, “I should kick your young ass for loving them blackies.”
Said Chris with a secured voice: “First of all, they never did me any harm, second, you couldn’t kick my ass, old man, --matter of fact, I’m still standing, if you think you can, throw your best, I’ll bury you before in your southern soil.”
The dogmatist got a little nervous, not sure where he stood now, and not daring to try to out punch Chris, he knew he was a fighter as well [and Chris knew he was also, he had 2 ½ years of karate by the best teacher in the world—out of San Francisco, and anyone willing to fight a fighter out right is crazy, fighting is a daily thing for a professional fighter, it’s second nature, and to an armature, it is simply a waste of time—in the sense of, if he thought he’d out punch him, or fight him; much like an electrician, who knows where, and how and when to put the wires on, and turn the juice on].
There was a long, very long pause, as Chris leaned over his glass of beer sipping on it, watching the bigot from the side of his eye—figuring if he leaped toward him or on him, trying at the same time to throw a punch, or tried to kick him: he’d need only make a step or two back, forward, or to the side, block the punch, and once he made his move he was open, thus, he could produce his combination before he could get back into an offense or defensive posture. Plus, at thirty-some year old, his stemma was normally weaker, and his reflexes slower, unless he was a professional fighter, he’d never think about closing up all his posture, and would most likely leave a good opening either in his mid section, groin area or face; one of the three would be open. Thus, an elbow, kick or punch in any of those sections would disrupt the man’s thinking and again produce a second opening, where he’d again take advantage of it, and this would be the end of the show.



Said the angering man, “Then you best leave this bar stranger, we don’t want nigger lovers here. You see I got about forty-friends here, all I need to do is yell for help, or nod my head, and they’ll be fighting with knifes, clubs, you name it they got it; so clear your ass out of here, now!”
Said Chris, with a steady voice, and a little bullheaded-bluff, “I’ll finish my drink, and yaw, I’ll go, but not before;” Chris for some reason, disarmed the bigot for a moment, he didn’t expect that answer—and both he and the dogmatist held their breaths, a few eyes at a few tables looking up at the bar, as if waiting for a signal.
“I said now,” responded the extremist again.
“I paid for the drink, and I’ll drink it,” commented Chris. The bigot was now looking about, nodding his head to a group of people sitting at a table; then shifting his eyes elsewhere, Chris took his third gulp, and the beer was gone.
Then looking at the man, Chris gave him a smirk, and a “Yaw…” and walked over to the two groups of GI’s, told them he was leaving, that if they stayed beware, that a number of people in the bar didn’t like the idea of the blacks chumming with the whites. The Chief jumped up, “Who da are, wher tha? I’ll fight the muder-futers [with slurred speech].” Chris, like always, had to calm his friend down, he was half lit.
“I’m going back to base Henry, if you want to come, let’s go, I get the feeling people are going to jail tonight, and I don’t need any trouble if I can avoid it.”
“Ya, sure, l-its go.”
As Chris and his friend walked out the door, before it closed, all the GI’s had stood up, and a taxi was waiting outside: for someone, anyone, and they jumped in it [and in the bar you could hear the chairs being thrown],
“Back to Red Stone,” said Chris [and the music in the bar was turned up, and the fighting started, and the cab took off].



8.




The Negro Bar



Henry St. Clair and Chris came up the street, following a group of GI’s, as they were hitting the bars in Huntsville. Chris noticed in the big bay widow beside him as they both stopped to check out the neon lights across the street that read: “Cold Ice Beer,” seven black people sitting around table’s playing cards and drinking wine and beer; the bar was kind of plane and discolored. This evening both Henry St. Clair and Christopher Wright had civilian cloths on. The few people standing outside the bar across the street surely noticed the white boy and the Indian lounging about like stray dogs, looking in on the Negro bar. There was a chill in the evening air, and as always, Chris did the unthinkable, walk into the bar saying to Henry as he opened the door,
“I’m tired, worn out from drinking and walking, let’s warm up and have a beer.” Henry, drank like a needy fish out of water, falling a bit to his right and left, couldn’t really see if the folks were white or black in the bar, or if he could, he wasn’t making an issue of it; --“Sure pal, let’s get a drink here,” he said with a drawn out ‘errrrrrrr’.

--All the customers to Chris’ anticipation were Negroes, mostly black men with brick hard looking faces. Some with yellowish teeth, others with hands that was as big as his face. As he faded into the center of the barroom, a few faces followed his every step, wondering what a white boy was doing in their restricted haven, for Chris noticed there were not many black bars in town, matter of fact, this was the second one he had seen, and the other one was more of a shed than a bar—which was down the block, to the right up another two blocks, kind of out of sight
said the old white haired Negro behind a make-shift bar, with a low sounding baritone voice, standing about 5’, 11”, “What ya white boys want herre, you done got lost [he laughed, ‘ha,ahhah’], I just knows there’s agona be trouble now; ya be staying, iss hopes not—don’t needs any trouble here, ya-see?”
“Just to warm up, and a beer please, “said Chris. The black bartender shaking his head as if to say, ‘what’s next’?
“All’s we got here is glass beer, and yous white folks don’t like glass beer from a nigger, now does ya?” Chris shook his head ‘yes’ and the bartender went and poured two beers for the white folks.
Said the old bartender, politely, almost scared to repeat himself, “Yous know therees a bar, white GI bar, across the street?”
“Yaw, we know, just one beer and we’re going.” There were a couple of fine looking black women walking around a pool table in a backroom, nice shapes, one did a double-take [looking hard at Chris], when she saw the white boys standing at the bar, then she smiled, and quickly turned about; as if she was saying, ‘…you can’t have this sugar, baby—not today, not any day,’ but she liked showing what she had.
There was one other black man standing at the other end of the bar, and a few heads of the ten or so black men at the tables keeping ‘check-mate’ with their eyes, to see what Chris and Henry were up to.


“Hay boys, watt’s ya-all up to herr for?” said a tall lengthy looking black man sitting at table playing cards. His head twisted around at a 45-degree angle, as his body continued to face his three friends, while holding the cards in his hands.
“Just warming up a bit, and a beer, any problem with that, sir?” The man paid Chris not heed—but liked being called ‘sir,’ and looked at the bartender, then back at Chris. If anything, he had gotten respect from a white boy, not used to that. The man next to him had a snuff-box open, putting some into his lower lip. His eyes had followed Chris when he first came through the doors. He reminded Chris of his grandpa, who smoked pipes, cigars, and chewed snuff. The tall man now looked out the window to see if there was anyone looking in, or possible trouble—brewing.
“Well,” Chris said to Chief, “I reckon we should be getting out of here---you see, I’m getting to speak just like these southerners.”
As they both walked out the door, the old bartender pulled the shades down, and locked the front door. Then within a matter of minutes, Chris and Henry flagged-down a taxi to go back to the base.





9.



Indian Fight


Upon arrival at Red Stone, the Taxi let them off at the front gates, and both Henry and Chris walked along the edge of the road towards their barracks. A few lights were reflecting here and there, but the 1/3 mile walk was sobering, thought Chris. As they got about halfway to the barracks, Henry stopped:
“I should punch your lights out boy…!” said Henry with a rough sounding fury.
“For what?” asked Chris, knowing Chief liked to fight when he got drunk but usually with someone other than him, and the few fights he got into he was normally drunk, and didn’t win many. Chief was strong, but too damn drunk all the time, and as far as fighting, he was really no match, possible in a bar scene when all were drunk, if he threw the first punch. For surely Henry could take a punch, but often times had such a long delay in producing the second and third, so if his first wasn’t good enough, and the other guy was more sober, and faster Chief would normally end up on the loosing end of the stick.
“You pulled me out of the last bar and I don’t, didn’t-finish my drink,” said the Chief, getting madder.
“Let’s just get back to the barracks, talk about it tomorrow,” said Chris.
“No, we talk now,” said Henry.
Henry then threw a sloppy punch at Chris, and another, as Chris was trying to back away—back step as Chief leaped forward, “…get over here, I’m going to kick your ass?” the Chief shouted. Then as a third punch came, Chris went into a karate stance, blocked his left hand punch, with his left hand, and put a right blow into the left side of his ribs, knocking Henry off balance, but he got his balance back in a second, and then Chris threw a kick to his groin—as he was cocking his fist apparently leaving his midsection open, and legs separated, and as he went down, a sold blow to the left side of his face—with his palm made its connection; then he stumbled, cramping over trying to avoid another blow—but Chris had stopped, he knew he was done—Henry fell in the grass and mud along side the road,—on one knee he got back up but that was it he was too afraid to get up the rest of the way.
“Why’d you hit me so hard for,” said Henry, extending his arm for Chris to get up. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“Yaw, I guess I did, sorry old buddy, I kind of lost it, over kill…” and Chris extended his hand and pulled Henry up in the nick of time, the Military Police just drove by, looked at them, as Chris put Henry’s arm around his shoulder to help carry him back to the barracks. The Policeman simply smiled.
“You fight well,” said Henry to Chris.
“Yaw, I do I guess, my mother once told me, after five kids beat the shit out of me and I came home crying, telling her the story, anyway, she said: “Either learn how to fight, or learn how to run.” I guess I learned both pretty well. They both started to laugh.





10.




Dan-The Unbelievable


Dan Hanson and his wife, Sara Hanson, lived in back of the Trailer Court, where Chris’ friend Thompson lived, in one of several small, one bedroom houses—made out of wood with no basements, thin walls, about the size of a double garage, back in Minnesota. They had an eighteen-month old baby boy, and Dan attended the Aviation School, down the highway a-ways, just past the military base. He was not in the military like most of Chris’ friends, but simply a friend that hung around at Thompson’s house and either got drunk or high off pot when not in school; and they both, he and his wife got to know the group at Thompson’s quite well, to include Chris. If either he, Dan or his wife, Sara were standing in their backyard—at any given time, possible on the small porch that extended about four feet out from the edge of their house, that had three steps to it, leading up and to the platform and to the back door, one could see the trailer court, and if the moon was out at night, which it was this evening, you could see Thompson’s trailer—for it lit the backside of it. To the left of them was another cemetery, small—and undoubtedly unused for that purpose for a few decades, and behind the graveyard, like the one outside of town, were a few shacks, not many, three in sum, where black folks lived—and again the cemetery was used for trash.
Sara was a nice looking young lady, about the same age as her husband, Dan, and Dan being around the same age as Chris, somewhere around twenty-three years old. He had tried to sell Chris his guitar, wanting $100 for it a week earlier, but Chris only offered $25, which outraged Dan, so he gave him $35, telling him he really didn’t want it in the first place, he had a guitar, but Dan needed the money, and so Chris purchased it. In a like manner, often times Dan would try to induce Chris to go into business with him, selling pot. At the oddest times he’d show up with a sack of grass as full as a two five gallon garbage bag, a pocket full of money, give some of his pot away to the folks at the trailer house, and go elsewhere to sell the rest. In a week or so he’d be broke again trying to find something to sell and to get Chris involved. Sometimes Chris would go over to see if Dan and Sara wanted to join them at Thompson’s house, and find they were having their own party, and laying all about half stoned—lazy like, drifting into cornball-heaven. And Chris would sit around have a few puffs off the joints—which he didn’t care for in the first place, and then go back to find some beer at Thompson’s and get smashed on good-ol-alcohol.
Well, this Friday night was different. Sara and Dan had been outside, seen Chris walking about the Courtyard at Thompson’s place, and Dan having to go to work, said something to Sara, then he was gone. Sara called over to Chris, getting his attention, and waved him on over. Again, she was an attractive 5’5” redhead, with a slender, curved body. No one would have ever known she had a child. As Chris approached, Sara all alone, Chris lit a cigarette. Looked at her, she was appealing, and a little tired looking from probably smoking pot he figured, but her speech was fine, a bit slow, but ok.
Sara: “Hello?” she said, as Chris stood within a few feet now of her—with a half smile; then both gave one another a few more pleasantries.
Sara: “Say Chris,” Sara says in her puzzling looking eyes, “I’m not sure how to say this—”
Chris: “Say what?”
Sara: “Do you want to go to bed with me?” Chris was tongued tied. There was no doubt she would be a good sort to have fun with in bed, and they liked talking to one another, and talked somewhat freely, and the age was right—in that they were about the same age, but she was married and her husband was a friend, and this was quite peculiar, what was behind this thought Chris.
Chris: “It would be a good thought, you’re quite attractive, but married, and your husband is my friend, and he’s most likely not far away.”
Sara: “Well, I’ll tell you the rest, Dan asked me to ask you, he also asked me if I wouldn’t mind going to bed with you, and I said, if I was to go to bed with someone other than him, I wouldn’t mind it being you, but there is one thing he’d like.” A pause took place—she was looking for the right words.
Chris: “What might that be,” he said inquisitively.
Sara: “Well, he wants to be in the room with us—I, I mean, look, he wants to watch us make love, he’ll sit in a chair, and he’ll be home soon, and then we can do it.”
[Chris—thought for a moment, not sure what to say] “Would he care if it was just you and I and not him in the room [Chris knowing it was not really what he wanted]?”
Sara: “No, he was pretty affirmative on that part,” she smiled, she almost looked a little let down; Chris also knew Dan was trying to get him to go into business with him, and so he gave her a kiss on the cheek, a hug, and told her he needed to get back to Thompson’s, knowing he did not want to be persuaded, and didn’t want to embarrass her, and once Dan came back, and him being already excited about her, that is, in a lustful way, it was best he be gone, least he let him talk him into the game, hence, to avoid them completely for a few weeks would be the answer thought Chris, and thereupon, dismissed himself.

As he walked away, her face was a little illuminated by the light of the moon: Chris then brandished a cigarette—in his hands waving to her, she: Sara, to him had a peculiar ambition, loyalty to her husband being part of this, he thought, then Chris scanned the skies as he talked to himself on the way over to the trailer-court—walking between a fence with some foliage growing around it.




11.



South Carolina Marine



Corporal Robert Benton had been used to being far from home, a-train ride from Charleston South Carolina, to Red Stone; Alabama for training was but a hop-skip-and-jump for him. He had joined the Marines at age 17, and had already been to and back from the Vietnam War or conflict as it was being portrayed as; now sitting at Corporal Thompson’s trailer home outside of Huntsville, and the military base nearby, he was getting drunk with Thompson, Chris and the Chief, Chris’ Indian friend. He was at Red Stone for the same purpose all the other three were, explicitly, for training in advance munitions
as they all sat back in the somewhat cramped spaces of the living room area of the trailer house, wine bottles, cigarettes, beer cans all sitting on the table, some in the trashcan by the sofa, to the left, a case of beer sitting along side of the somewhat small sofa to the right, the background music was that of Nat King Cole’s Trio: everyone was chatting, chumming about, squirming to get situation on the sofa and side chair alongside the coffee table—smoking cigarettes and playing cribbage. It was a restful Saturday, one that was but a week away from Chris’ leaving for his new duty assignment. He was a week short of getting his orders to move on to his next duty station but was not sure where it would be yet. Robert had gotten his a few days previously, he was headed for Panama.

--Chris, every so often would get up and look out the trailer window—[on the other side of the coffee table] looking past the other trailer houses onto the parallel highway about one-hundred yards from their trailer—[inquisitive—and becoming quite the habit since his run in with the cop car a while back] to see if there were any cops leaking about in their automobiles—in hopes they might find a stray black and white man walking together, or possible, just an alone black man.
Said the tall husky black Robert, with a somber voice:
“I used to look out windows in South Carolina—I sure did, many of times, where I’m from; took training next door, in North Carolina, at Fort Bragg, like you Chris, ya, sir, I looked out those windows many times, there also, but I can’t figure out why a white chap like you are looking out a window, they not looking for you brother…the cops, you know that [with a smile],” he commented.
Said Chris: “You mean to tell me, they followed you around too?”
Said Robert: “They sure did, just like a mountain cat they’d do, but you’re white, nothing to worry about?”
Said Chris: “Not sure why I’m looking--: still can’t believe they followed me and my friend, my black friend for a mile or so down the highway—two soldiers, that’s all we are, two damn soldiers, --and the cops like a cat after a mouse follow us like we were the mice.”
The big six-foot-three black, husky Marine, with his big wide shoulders sat back in the small sofa, made for the trailer house specifically: made for a smaller man also—filling half the sofa up, said:
“…dem windows get to ya after a while—ya-know.” Chris almost laughed, he was really feeling stupid for constantly looking for the police, as if they were going to show up any minute outside the trailer: pulling aside the curtains, as if he had done something wrong.
“All black-men on base know police in the South follow black-man, especially if they look like they are walking aimlessly along any roads, mainly isolated ones, matter of fact, it bothers them when three or four of us are standing together, as if wes gona rob the bank down the street [he chucked with his heavy and large looking head].”
“You like the south,” he asked Chris with a flat affect on his face.
“Yes and no [baselessly he commented],” then added, “I’d prefer to live in the north, and visit the south, it seems safer that way, plus, I wouldn’t need to look out windows all the time,” everyone started laughing at that.
“Me too,” said Robert with confirming eyes, “I’ve lived in Ohio for a spell, I like it there, going to move to St. Paul someday, be like you, a Midwesterner.” Again all at the table laughed—a friendly laugh.
“I’m from St. Paul,” replied Chris.
“I know, Thompson told me so, haaaaaaa—but someday.”
Chris was two years older than Robert, he had already been to Vietnam, and back, and Chris was yet to go, but it looked very promising for the near future. Then Robert asked: “Why not finish this game?” he said it with a peaceful happiness, slowly moving his big bulky shoulders forward toward the coffee table.

--It would seem Robert was a little like Chris, or Chris like Robert, there were battles to be fought in the world, but it was better to have the ability to hand pick the ones you wanted to fight, like quite rain, instead of them picking you. And here, the game started back up, and it would seem they [they being: Robert and Chris]: were not about yesterday, today or tomorrow, it was for them, about right now. For a black man, it was how it was, for a white man it was how it was becoming. Chris was learning about the south and Robert was to learn more about the north. Both were in the happening, both on the new world stage.




12.




The Fountain and the Test


It was forenoon, Sunday when Christopher Wright, and Henry St. Clair [the Chief], reached the town’s fountain, as they talked,--thinking about the test they took yesterday, and all passed, and had to get ready to leave soon for their new assignments—which would be in a few days. The instructor gave everyone the answers in fear they’d not pass, and he’d get a bad reputation; consequently, everyone got high marks, and thank goodness for the answers, thought Chris, it was a busy three months, too much drinking, too much everything. He had sent his mother a Post Card and a picture of the rockets at the center, and watched a few future astronauts as they tried to assemble some apparatus in a big underwater tank, getting ready for a future space flight. It was a good time to be living thought Chris, and especially today, the sun was out, he had a yellow-wind-breaker on, a very light jacket. A warm wind in the air, everything seem so fresh. He had met some good friends he thought, here in Alabama [plus he hadn’t known yet, but in a year from then, he’d meet Henry again, in Vietnam].
As the two sat waiting by the fountain for something to happen, sitting down smoking a cigarette, too early to get drunk, too late to get breakfast—just wasting time. Then like magic, two lovely teenage girls showed up, out of nowhere. They both looked at the two soldiers.
“Come over here,” said Chris with a very approachable voice, and smile.
“What for,” said the taller blond?
“Come here, we’re not going to bite you, I want to take a picture with you, you the black haired gal take one of me and the blond.”
“That’s crazy, what for…?” said the blond.
“Well, to be honest, I want to send it back home to my friends, and also to show my Army friends what a pretty girlfriend, southern girlfriend I have or had, while here in good old Alabama; you know, show off.” Everyone started laughing, and the taller blond, that looked about sixteen or seventeen, quite developed, and as pretty as a blue-jay, said to her shorter, slim, girlfriend—brunette, “Why not, a favor for the US Army.”






Book: 2


A poet mirrors truth--:
Quite wittingly—upside down--;
So says, he, the clown!

[From the poem: The Clown]





Through the City and into the Woods

[Sketches of military life in the mid--seventies in Europe]

As told by Buck Sergeant Christopher Wright—l974-l977]





1.





It was a time when Russia was equal to the United States—so it was measured in nuclear out put—and so declared by many; and the measuring stick was: who could destroy the world fifty-times over? In consequence, there was two nations that could; in considering both to be a Nuclear Super Power, yes, by all means: both had such capabilities; --a time when the United States military was haunted by the rupture of the Vietnam War. A time when the Panama Cannel was being given away by the President of the United States; it was a time when the Military Forces were widely overlooked as a vital national resource. It was not until the 80’s when the new President would see our military might was at its lowest, thus, he revitalized the internal and external structures of the United States Armed Forces. Had it gone to waste much more, for everything in the US Military arsenal was getting rusty—the nation surely would not have been a strong enough country to take on any wars that lied ahead in the future; thus, an unpolished, and weaken America, was Chris’ dilemma, neglectfully and careless one could see this at the 545th Ordinance Company [possible as well as any other US Military Installation, worldwide]; where the young sergeant was to be stationed.

--Again, to the point of brooding over what the soldiers felt, to be precise, the ones who had been in the military for a while—during this time period, and a decade before, knew the military well, lived and ate the military life, was in war they knew and felt the insecurity of the times. And so did Chris feel this way, the way of the old timers: that presidents of this era filled their own beliefs and agendas, filled them with complacency, while others in the future would set them to alarm status.




2.



Troubles at the 545th
[1974-77]


Christopher Wright was entering the unknown and surely the unexpected as he readied himself for his new military assignment. He didn’t know upon his arrival at the 545th Ordnance Company, there’d be no Post Cards sent home from this shadowy adventure. From the city of Muñster by Dieburg, as it was called, or Little Muñster, was a long, long desolate road that lead to its gates—: cow-pastors on the left side of the road, and weeded open range, with bulls, on the right: a meadow of sorts one might call it. And along this dirt dry long road which halted in front of a reclusive military base, which was also attached to a military nuclear site behind it, resided the 545th Ordnance Company, along with the 9th Military Police Detachment who guarded the nuclear site in what was called the back area. Above Chris’ head was a sign—as he stood at its gates, the shadow of the sign reflected alongside his feet: “Welcome to the 545th Ordinance Company”.

--And here was where he ended up, [l974]—he was 26-years old. As he looked through its gates it seemed quiet helplessly calm, almost too vulnerable to be a nuclear site, but then he had never been to one before. One could not help but notice the atmosphere that prevailed though, the gauntness about the place; he thought of the Pale Rider of the Four Horsemen of Revelation—in the Bible: but that was too gauntly he told himself—he convinced himself it was just a trifle mysterious. The long ride down the extended stretched out road from the city to the wooded area, the wooded area that also surrounded the military site and base was tiring, that was it, --he was just worn out, tired, needed rest [the site being in back of the compound, and absolutely, and completely camouflaged with all its neighboring greenery was now his home].
The air was cool, kind of a fresh water breeze circled his aura; he took another step into the gate area, he had his dress greens on—some ribbons above his left chest and a combat stripe on his right forearm of his Dress Greens. Some people walked by the guard post, which was not far from where the Orderly Room was, as the Corporal stood in the gateway, Corporal Wright. Then with satisfaction of finding some kind of balance in all he saw, he walked through the gates completely, showing the guard his orders of assignment, --the guard looked at his chest, he had Vietnam ribbons on along with others—a few others. He looked impressed though and taken back a bit: for he had as many ribbons as any career soldier of a much older age; at the same time he put on a smile. The guard was a private. Corporal Wright was now inside the compound officially, the long road behind him looked like a picture that faded away into nothingness; you couldn’t see the little town of Muñter anymore.




3.




The Military Base
[West Germany]



Along the side road, about two blocks, short blocks to be exact, from the main gate of the German-made US Military compound, called the 545th Ordnance Company, in West Germany, about forty-five miles from Frankfurt, by car, was the Company’s EM Club; --short for Enlisted Men’s Club—where the enlisted men went to shoot pool, drink and congregate. Along side the Ordinance Company, of which had about 160-military personnel, was the 9th Military Police Detachment, which had some forty-four soldiers attached to it; a perfect size platoon, one might add.

Going in something of a circle of the compound, starting from the gates, was: the PX [shopping area for the GI’s]; next to that was the Mess Hall, where the soldiers got to eat, and on top of that building was the quarters for the cooks to sleep, mostly males, one female. [It was at this time an early stage of the New US Military, where females were starting to fill more slots, or positions on military posts that were once filled by men, both stateside, and overseas.] Along side of this were two large, three floor-barracks. The first one had a young First Lieutenant that slept in a private room in the basement—Lieutenant Goodwin. The second building had two Lieutenants that stayed there, both Second Lieutenants in rank; one was where Corporal Wright slept, on the third floor, Lieutenant Inman; and the other slept in the basement, Lieutenant Crawford. One was ahead of the ordnance battery [Inman], and Crawford was in charge of the arms room [where they kept the weapons], along with other duties. The Major and First Sergeant lived off base in the town of Babenhausen some eight miles away, along with some of the other Sergeants; actually about 15% of the Military Base, lived off base, to include that percentage for the Military Police Detachment
on the other side of the compound, or directly across from the PX, was the barracks of the 9th Military Police, of which they had only one [the whole compound being of about 300-acres ]. Now going back by the EM club again, across the street was the Surety Office, to its side was an open field somewhat, and then the barracks; the Surety Office was where one got their security clearance to work in the back site area [of which was the nuclear weapons—the clearances were conducted by the FBI for background checks, and the Military Intelligence checked out the local and military areas]. Going further back, to the side of the EM club was the Motor Pool, where the jeeps and other motor vehicles were kept. Around the enclosed compound was cement walls, and barbwire fences; wire if not stone extended also into the site area. If one wanted to get to the back site area although—being it was separated from the compound; separated by a wall specifically, —he would have to go outside the gates of the compound, and drive along side the compound, and there within a few minutes he’d run into its manned towers, manned with M16 rifles, M60 machine guns, and radar for overhead flying objects, of which this was a no fly zone, meaning, any aircraft that flew over this site was subject to criminal charges. Just a short ways beyond it, was the thickness of the woods again. Of the 300-acres Military Base, the site comprised some fifty-acres of it.




4.




Through the City and into the Woods

Remembering Vietnam
[1971]



[A journal note—l975] “I’ve never tried to look back at my Vietnam experience, which many of my comrades at the 545th Ordinance Company were most interested in after a time, explicitly, after I had been there a while. I am getting a little ahead of myself, but allow me this for the moment [a pause]. As I was about to say, not sure why I didn’t talk about Vietnam, other than there really wasn’t much to tell, and I had learned from the past, when you tell nothing they think you got something, and when you tell something, they think you are making it. So it boils down to telling them nothing, or what they want to hear. And you just simply get fed up with the crap. For all I cared they could get self-educated by going to the library and finding out all they wanted to, such as,
The war lasted ten-years; that, 3.5 million Americans went to that war, of them 500,000 needed psychiatric treatment, and I was not one. Most likely their question would have been someplace in that corner, why wasn’t I one who needed psychological help: or was I, or did I? a question to ponder on for them. There were more suicides committed by the soldiers, who came home, after the war than soldiers killed in the whole damn war, and there were some 56,000-Americans that were killed. Funny, now that I think of it, there was only one general ever killed in the war—in all the ten years of the conflict: and eight Full Bird Colonels. And out of 2000-officers that were killed, 600-were by GI’s, the other 1400-have yet to be explained. Not many officers compared to soldiers, I think they were all hiding. That comes out to about one officer for every 28-men killed other than military officers, or better put, one officer for every two platoons wiped out, plus 2-left over.
Oh well, Vietnam to me was fun in a way, although the battle environment was less desirable, that was a high also, most disturbing was the loud noises, and vibrations, and at times the lack of oxygen about, especially when the dust, dirt—earth is thrown here and there, believe it or not, it made the heart beat 200-times a minute, a natural high when all the rockets were coming in, within a measure of feet. Some of my friends got addicted to that high, addicted to killing also.
In a similar manner, the stress that went along with this environment, made me alert, my muscles somehow got stronger instantly, within the battle-mode. Oh yes, oh yes, not quite like the Hulk, but strong. One actually looses the ability to think clear for a moment, some longer than a moment, especially during incoming rockets. You got not to panic, because you got to let yourself think. The quicker the better; I had seen many a man freeze, I never did, not sure why. I was a natural it seemed; my reflexivity was good. To my understanding there are only about 2% of populations that can kill and not have it affect them, you know, throw up, and get dizzy after the killing, stuff like that. I think I was one of them, possible one. No effect on me, none what so ever.
If I told my comrades here at the 545th these things, what would they think, I often asked myself that question, and then I answered myself by saying: would this be an attribute, or a postponed consequence? My alertness and responsiveness was highly developed, not only from Vietnam, but from my karate days in San Francisco, before Vietnam; --and the constant training. You train a soldier like you would train a dog, over, and over and over, and over until his front-brain and his mid-brain work for you, meaning, your mid-brain is saying ‘don’t kill,’ and your ‘front-brain is saying, ‘kill, save yourself,’ or if you’re addicted, your mid-brain is most likely being suppressed. For me it was a matter of environmental conditions to where I’d shift my front and mid brain waves to work for me. In any case, this was all I was going to tell them, should they ask, --that is to say, should they ask and I feel like talking. But they never have asked yet, that is, gone beyond the simple, ‘How was Vietnam,’ and I never went beyond, ‘It was fine,’ and walked away. That actually stopped the asking a while ago, so as to leave well enough alone; actually I’ve simply walked away a few times, and left them with the mystery they really wanted.

Well, Mr. Diary, I’m getting tired, got duty tomorrow, got to get some sleep, goodnight—Journal.”




5.




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 Chris 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. Christopher Wright 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 Chris 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 Chris 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. Chris 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; -- Chris 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, Chris, 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 Chris, 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, Chris 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, Chris 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 Chris.
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. [Chris 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, Chris 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, Chris 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 Chris], Chris 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 Chris didn’t understand, and if he did assist, he would be next. Several more strikes with the stick came, and then Chris 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 Chris 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 Chris’ 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 Chris, “Ok, it’s over, and I mean, over…!”

-- [Exhausted] Said Chris 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, Chris 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;” Chris 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 Chris would get to know one another, and the Major would be the first to recognize Chris’ potential in running the Surety Office. But then he’d leave shortly after their acquaintance and be replaced by Major Wastrel.]




6.


The 2nd 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 Chris 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 Chris 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 Chris 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-fucken 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], Chris 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 Chris—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 Wright, 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 Chris 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, Chris 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. Chris 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, Chris 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.





7.



The Clinic/Inspectors


When Chris had first arrived at the 545th Ordnance Company, it wasn’t long after they had made him a clerk in the Nuclear Surety Office, it was where a person went to upon arriving, and a background check was done on you. If you couldn’t pass the FBI and Military Intelligence screening, you were sent to a different unit. He passed it quite well, and knowing he had a background in administration, it wasn’t long before he was in the office typing up security clearances. Up to this point, the 545th to his understanding and the 9th MP’s never had passed an inspection; and accordingly, got rid of their commanders quite rapidly, due to this.
Dr. Ronald J. Sharp, was the presiding doctor at the clinic in Babenhausen, where Chris would have to go to get assistance, and check on the medical status of his military personal. He would get to know him quite well, and it would prove to be a most advantageous relationship, for him as a friend, and the company, as they both cooperated, and passed inspection after inspection.
As I was about to say, he [he being: Chris Wright] was assigned to the Surety Office, of which had already two sergeants in there, and now Corporal Chris Wright, doing the typing. The SFC, or Sergeant First Class [E-7] Bullman, was always leaving the office to go get a beer at the EM club across the road; and the Buck Sergeant, [E-5], Sillvk, the assistant Surety Sergeant in Charge, usually went along with him, or home to see his wife. Chris would just shake his head, and instead of asking for his rights, he turned it around and learned everything he could, knowing somewhere along the road, they’d leave, or get fired, and he’d be left to take over, he’d be the only one that could.
When the first inspection came up, which was about three weeks into his new role as a Surety Clerk, none of the paperwork that needed to be signed by the personnel to be placed into their file, was signed. The Corporal brought this up to the two sergeant’s attention. They looked at one another, went over by the coffee machine, and devised a plan.
“Give me all the personal files that need to be signed by the GI’s,” he directed the Corporal to do. And so he did. With the Company’s men and the MP Detachment, there were about two-hundred personal at the site, and about one-hundred were cleared for work in the back area, the nuclear site area: the nuclear site itself; this one-hundred number would go up to one-hundred and eighty within forty-four months, but at this early stage, it was 50% of the company and detachment, not working or guarding the nuclear weapons that they were sent there to do. Well, he did as the Sergeants both asked, and they asked without a thought of reckoning,
“What needs to be signed,” they asked, and the Corporal pointed to the privacy act statement, along with a few other documents. And they both went to town signing. Asked the Corporal:
“Can we do that?” A dumb question, but he was a bit scared, it didn’t seem right. Said SFC Bullman,
“I got six months to go, I for one, don’t care, I’m retiring, now on the other hand, do you want to have 25% more of the personnel at this site, not working, that’s it in a nutshell Corporal, anymore questions?” He then added, “be quiet about this or we’ll all go to jail,” meaning him also, the Corporal, and the Buck Sergeant as well as him. And so life went on, and the inspection took place.

--One of the main issues that came out of the inspection was that, when the inspectors went around asking the personal if they had signed the paper work, none remembered doing it, but the two sergeants insisted they did. The inspectors asked the Corporal if he had signed any, or knew of anyone who had. He said he had just arrived about six weeks ago, and three of them weeks were spent on processing and at another location—Babenhausen for the most part, that everything was dated prior to his arriving [thank god, he told myself].
But the inspector took a liking to the Corporal, and commented, “That may be so, but one can back date anything you know, or know of it…?” The Corporal didn’t say a word, probably didn’t have to, and the issue was pressed on, but it was eventually dropped with the pounding reminder, should this happen again, where no one remembers signing, there would be a new commander at the post. And no sooner had the inspectors left, the commander got a letter telling him he was to be replaced, and so Major Wastrel was soon to take over.



It wasn’t long before the two sergeants left, and a new one was rushed in, for a follow up inspection in six months. Staff Sergeant Hightower, Charles Hightower was the new boss of the Surety office, he would become down the road, the First Sergeant, but for the next two years he would remain the stimulant and vigilant body, eye and soul, the Surety NCOIC, the man in charge. Corporal Wright would learn from him many things and the right way, but the main thing was: how to pass inspections, according to the regulations. And it would be hard work, long hours, but along the road; he’d end up passing every inspection from then on, for the reminder of his forty-four months at this location. Likewise, he’d make additional rank while being at the 545th, that being, Buck Sergeant. But in-between was a long road. He would make some enemies, and he would kind of stay in the background. Again, Hightower would become the First Sergeant, in Charge of the whole Company of the 545th eventually, and the Corporal the NCOIC of the Surety Office—things do change he would also learn, simply by sticking it out. But as I was saying, that was a ways off. In-between he’d have to pass some twelve more inspections, of which four would be Congressional, or put another way, ordered by Congress, right out of Washington D.C.—the Pentagon. It was the one in l976 that would produce a General to give him a medal, when Hightower had become the First Sergeant, who never forgot his student, his now Sergeant Christopher Wright, even when he left the Surety Office, and he, Sergeant Wright was on his own as the head of the Surety office for some eighteen months now.




8.




A Turkish Cigarette



After a number of months at the military base, Chris stopped going to the EM Club, at the 545th Ordinance Company: as one leaves the 545th, goes through the city of Muñster, into and onto, Dieburg a small city a ways farther resides Babenhausen, again backtracking: Babenhausen leads into Dieburg, and Dieburg leads into Muñster, which leads into the base; but Dieburg was were Sergeant Wright would patronize his night life at this time [later on it would change to Babenhausen], where he was living; and to repeat myself, seldom at the base now would he drink, especially after the conflicts at the [EM] Enlisted Men’s –club and then Lt. Crawford’s situation. It was simply not the place to be, it was more deadly than Vietnam, he was coming to believe. But Chris liked Dieburg, and was getting to like Babenhausen, as well. But Dieburg had a lot of WWII scares, old hurt memories of the Americans—for they had bombed it quite harshly, and in l974-1977, they had not healed yet many it seemed still had open wounds, yes even after 29-years of healing, no one removed the bullet holes which still remained in the thick wooden doors of the main church in town: for Chris had walked by it many times, to try and understand why they showed distain for him in the bars, yet after awhile, he was somewhat accepted.
Oh, he drank there, but again preferred Babenhausen, none the less, and the more he drank in Babenhausen the more he like it. Matter of fact, he was the only one that drank in Dieburg from the base, or any base, even the one military base in Babenhausen would not go to Dieburg, yes, he was the only American GI that would, the only one they had ever seen [they being the folks in the Dieburg bars or guesthouses]. Like it or not, the Americans were still considered the occupying force in Germany, the victors of a long and brutal war.



Babenhausen



[Soon after several months in Dieburg, Chris moved to Babenhausen, and got off post house] As you’d enter the guesthouse [bar], that was on the right bank of the cannel in Babenhausen, an old German-Turkish bar rested, there were two main rooms to it; one with a half rounded bar and tables for eating and drinking, and one to the side of the bar, that lead to a back section, which only had tables, and still there was a very small backroom to that section with four tables in it. Both had doors to enter and exit. As Chris entered the Guesthouse, as he got used to calling the bars: this evening it was busy, most of the patrons stood at the bar-area, for all the tables were filled with customers, people eating and drinking. Smoke was filtering in from the other room, although the first room was rather smoky in itself: to be precise, the one he was now walking through had its share of smoke also as he went into a cloud of thicker smoke. The other room’s light was a tad dimmer because of the resting-lazy cloud of smoke that seemed to drift when the doors were open, when someone came in or out; and the folks were not eating dinners as in the other room in this back area, rather a few had soup or sandwiches on their tables; most were of Turkish decent, as were the other patrons in the smaller back room filled with Turkish men; as more of the German type, with German food, and lighter skin remained in the larger bar area. It would seem to Chris, the Turkish room, the second room, the men’s faces automatically changed their countenance as Chris walked through, showed a more dangerous look.

--He had noticed in life, liking the bar scene, sometimes, not always, you’d walk in such a room, or bar, or guesthouse and a silence would manifest itself, in particular, if it was more unfriendly: all the same, that was not happening, although it seemed like it should be. Rather their eyes from several large and small tables with men sitting at them, playing cards, smoking, sipping soup, eating bread remained in their chairs, seeming in a coma-status, their eyes were watching, following him, tracking his moves, but not too provocative, or aggressively, rather assertively, carefree, and curious, more so, more like: why would you want to be here, is what their eyes were saying. But he could see the eyes, the dark thick eye brows on the tarnished bronze skin of the Turkish men were simply curious; they were working men, men of pride, not gangsters. Unkempt, yes, but with work pants and work shirts on, old jackets, unpolished boots, a labor man’s workload; Chris knew all about it, he had worked for foundries, meat packing plants, as a painter, and a hundred other jobs—this was the working class, not the pretty boy store, or the Hollywood glamour pack, this was where men, real men hung out.

As he looked about for a table to sit, beer in hand, still the square jaws, and thick looking hands followed him: five o’clock dark-shadow beards on their faces, but he always thought they were handsome men, Turkish men that is, olive colored people, and some of the loveliest women in the world were Turkish. But there were no women here today, and he was the only American, a white, pale white skinned American. But they had no beef-with him. And so he found a corner and a chair, in the smaller backroom, where the four tables were, one empty, a small table, and sat on the wooden chair—with not much of a back to it, that wobbled a bit, unsteady, but good enough: as long as he didn’t jerk the chair, least he kill himself from a fall in a bar, how embarrassing; thus, he put his mug on the table, lit up a cigarette, and looked about—now he was becoming one of them, he even put on a half smile, one with his face, another with his eyes; at the walls next to him he glanced at, they were pealing, the paint coming off, and some of it in places seemed a bit less colorful than in other places, tarnished from the everlasting smoke had dulled the paint.
Now looking at the pictures closer: a few to his right side of his shoulder, a few on the wall across to his left by another person’s table, two other men talking, drinking he noticed also beers mugs hanging loose, on hooks here and there and everywhere. Some fancy, others not so fancy. He often thought: “...was I testing myself in doing things like this.” Granted for the moment he didn’t care, but nonetheless, simply walking into harms way—was liken to what he had just done, walking into a strange drinking place were they might have hated Americans, but evidently they didn’t. Most GI’s stayed on base, or had a few fellows go with them if they planned on doing some drinking on the German-economy, he always went alone, well, not always, but most of the time and possible that is what was his source of safety—for most GI’s wanted trouble, Chris just wanted to get drunk. He wasn’t afraid of any man, and knew he could be beat most in a fight, and it would normally take more than one; and another man knows when you do not fear him. And he didn’t, plus, he liked the surroundings, it was a stained place, but comfortable.
The question begs to be answered, did he ever get in trouble with his long-range lifestyle, bar life, yes, oh yes, but possible today would be different, and to be quite honest, most times were not troubled times, most people wanted to have a good time, get drunk, eat, talk about the day, and women, and the government, and then go home and make love to their wives, and get a good sleep before the next day came about, and start all over again, that was life in its simplest form. But American GI’s had a bad reputation—and to be frank, earned it by causing trouble; for most couldn’t handle drinking, or drank too much, or didn’t know how to drink, and then were rude and wanted to fight. Also most were young and cocky, and loud. Chris was to the contrary.
As he glanced about, a few Turkish men lit up cigarettes, a man he had walked by, walked by when he went into the small room to the side that is, who watched him from the corner of his eye—by the name of Abdullah, was watching him now. Feeling obliged, he gave him a smile, it really is the best weapon a man has in a situation like this he thought. Turkish music filled the smoky air—the sailing air, the choking air. The Germans had quite a work load for the Turkish men in their country thought Chris, doing the jobs they didn’t like doing, like back in the states, where businesses would hire Mexicans to do the jobs Americans didn’t like doing; --supply and demand was the call of the economy in both countries. The only time the Germans got mad at them was when hard times came, and then they’d kick them out of their country. Or if a GI wanted to rent an apartment, like Chris did in Dieburg, and a Turkish family was living there, or just Turkish workmen, the GI would get it, but of course he’d pay twice as much, not knowing though—or he was not suppose to know. And the Turkish would be kicked out the next day. This is how he acquired his apartment.
And here he lit his cigarette and washed down the smoke with his dark-beer, bock-bear, as if it was water.
“Smoke,” said the Turkish man to the young American soldier, as he was putting his beer back on the table from sloshing it down his throat. He hesitated, looked up at his dark eyes, his broad shoulders; he was several years older than he, possible close to thirty-five. They both smiled, and he asked in broken English:
“I Vant Americana cigaretta…” as he handed Chris a fat looking Turkish cigarette. Then he took it, what the Turkish man gave, Abdullah wanted in trade something though. He knew they had a big black market in Germany for whiskey and American cigarettes—possible this was what it was about—but it wasn’t.
“My nam Abdullah Vhat a GI does here…?” he said puzzled, looked about, and almost amused.
Said Chris [with a flashing smile now], “Just a drink my friend, no more, no less, my name’s Chris,” Chris extended his hand, they both shook hands then.
“Dhat’s gowd,” he replied, “No GI com her.” Then he shook his head as if it was ok, and he pulled out three cigarettes and gave them to Abdullah, and he gave Chris one of his fat ones again. They both smiled again, if anything, smiles are the best international comforting language in the world thought Chris, “Dhat’s gowd,” he replied again, flashing those yellowish-gold teeth as he spit out the words, and smiled. His thick mustache getting in the way; he liked him, Chris like him; he was a plain man, honest, friendly and curious. He was broad looking, with a shadow to his face as of needing a shave, possible had gotten one in the morning, but some men just grow them instantly.
“Com joyoin us,” he commented, but Chris declined the offer to join them, drank his beer down, and left. Yet, in the months to follow he found himself going back to that guesthouse in Babenhausen, as he’d move from Dieburg, to Babenhausen, he’d spend more time in the local stores and guesthouses of that area.




9.


Surety Inspection


Sergeant Wright had a good relationship with the Medical Clinic in Babenhausen, and a fairly good one with Battalion level personnel in Darmstadt, Germany, where he had been many times checking out personnel files, whom had direct command over his unit, the 545th Ordinance Company. And so with the records from both areas: namely, medical records, and personnel records on the personnel at the 545th and 9th MP’s, his surety records were constantly being updated to include his Nuclear Surety-duty Roster—which prior to this was an unkempt, and disastrous looking roster: consisting of a half page misspelled-soldier’s names piece of paper, showing their level of security clearance, but not much else. He had taken it to quite a higher level in a short period of time.
In addition, he took his three other personnel that worked for him and they started to do cross checking with all the records to include the ones in the Company-Orderly Room at the 545th insuring he had the best information on each and every person at the compound, and should he be asked by an inspector, or Military Intelligence, or the FBI, he had the answers—and answers was the name of the game, that is, to have good ones. First Sergeant Hightower had taught him well the first two years he worked for him, and now being First Sergeant, he was somehow always his mentor, even if not seen. Sometimes in life a person will pick out one, a person, teach them, if he is the willing, like Sergeant Wright was, and had Wright failed an inspection, Hightower’s reputation would have been wounded also, and that was always a source of pride for both, for Chris wanting to show Hightower he could pass them, and for Hightower being proud of his work in Sergeant Wright, for he was the teacher.
Dr. Sharp, or otherwise known as Captain Sharp, he and the good Sergeant were good friends, during duty and off duty, a Mormon by religion; and although Sergeant Wright was of no certain denomination, they both took time to review their beliefs in that area. Matter of fact, it was on a number of occasions they would both met at the Captain’s house for dinner along with other friends of the Captain, and along with food carried on the most interesting conversation in the area of religion. Furthermore, they both seemed to like shooting pistols, and often found themselves out on the range together, Chris with his 45-Colt Automatic, and the Captain with his 357-revolver.
Their relationship was built up over a two year period, thus, they both came to trust one another’s judgment, and if the Surety Office looked good, so did the Babenhausen-dispensary [medical clinic], as the good Sergeant, would always insure he told the inspectors the great cooperation he was getting by Captain Sharp. For often the inspectors looked at prescription drugs being prescribed, and if these people were on the site area, and if so what were the effects of the drugs on the people working in the site, and therefore this was a most sensitive area, and Wright had to learn quickly the effects of pharmaceuticals.

--And so the day came when the inspectors arrived—arrived for the big inspection, right from Washington DC [Congressional], not simply from Group, or Battalion, or the main European one USAEU, for there were three basic inspections and the Congressional came every two or three years, and if you didn’t pass them, they came every year. Sergeant Wright had donuts and coffee sitting on the tables, and several chairs about ten-feet away from them, for which, he’d sit in one, and he had two reserved for his assistants [the setup was taught to Wright by Sergeant Hightower], and the others vacant, incase the Surety Officer came in, whom was a young 1st Lieutenant from the 9th MP’s—Lieutenant Nelson, a black officer, whom was never really around, too busy running the MP’s but was given the job of overseer of the Surety Office, thus he got glory if it passed any inspections, and cursed if it didn’t; but had no time to do a thing within the office, was never trained in the area and had he spent time, he most likely would have not had time to run his Detachment’s security purpose for being on the site to secure the nuclear chemicals they had in the back area. And so Sergeant Wright knew this, and respected the fact he was trusted by him to run the office as he see fit, and so he did.
There were five inspectors, two went around asking questions from the personnel at the site, while the other three compared, and reviewed the three sets of records, medical, personal, and security files. And so at 9:00 AM sharp, the donuts were being eaten, coffee was on the table, and the inspection started.
As the day moved forward, about thirty-minutes into the inspection, one of the three men looked up at Sergeant Wright, indicating there was a problem emerging. He stood up and walked to the inspector,
“Yes sir, can I help?” By this time they knew his reputation, and that of the ‘Surety Office’, in that they had never failed an inspection in years, and so he was cautious to point a direct finger at him for negligence, at this juncture anyhow, and so the inspector said with a bit of reserve,
“I see this person is on a prescription medication,” and as he mentioned it, he inferred it was a barbiturate. He knew that Chris knew the chemical effects of the substance, and looked into his eyes [barbiturates being an anesthetic sedative of sorts—with the effects of disorientation—similar to alcohol]. He wanted an answer, but was willing to wait—or so it seemed, since he did not push it, nor did he close down the site immediately, which he could have.
The Sergeant smiled, said to himself: ‘how could this be, we checked, and double checked all the records’. Then he looked at the date of the prescription, it was today’s date, --he pointed it out, then asked if he could look into this for a moment, that he had an explanation for it, but needed to double check. He really didn’t have one, an explanation, but was playing out a hunch—he was stalling, but he knew he’d find an answer somewhere quick, for surely there was something wrong, he had gone over those records just last night, picked them back up this morning two hours ago, and checked them quickly again: scanning them for the most part. So he had his assistant stay right there in front of the inspectors, so they would be assured they were not being abandoned, while he went and got another co-worker, to find the man, the soldier in question, and make sure he did not go to work, at the same time, he called the clinic.
--Twenty-minutes later, he walked back into the room where they were having the inspection, three inspectors heads popped up when Chris walked in.
“Sir,” said he, “this is Private Benson [whom was standing by his side],” he had him sit down is his own seat as he stood, approached the three inspectors, in particular the one who had brought this situation to his attention; thus, he had living proof.
“Sir,” he continued to say, “Private Benson works in the back site as you know, went down this morning to the clinic, because he is a bit ill, was given medication, has a prescription for it, and has not, and I emphasized, he has not gone to work, he was in his room sleeping. The Orderly Room had the slip he returned with, but had not gotten to give it to me yet, but had there not been an inspection this morning, I would have received it most likely two hours ago, or a phone call.”
The inspector looked up at Chris, and Benson, took the records back and said, “Private Benson, is that true?” asked the inspector with a calm but established voice, as not to scare him: “…you have not gone to the back area as of yet, nor do you plan on it until the doctor indicates you can—right? ”
The private said, as quickly, and nervously as possible, “Yes sir, yes sir, I am just going back to my bed, get some sleep. I never go back to the site until I get an ok from the Surety Office.” Thought Chris, if that doesn’t over it, nothing will, but it worked, and it was fair. The inspector, smiled and I sat down waiting for the next crisis.



And that is how it went for three days—a few more crises that were put out—like a fire, as fast as the Sergeant could. At the end of their inspection, the inspector commented: “Job well done Sergeant,” and Chris would receive a medal for his outstanding work, somewhere down the road; Sergeant Hightower would make sure of it. Everyone was happy, to include the: inspectors, the new Commander, Wastrel, and the Battalion Commander, the Surety Officer, Nelson, who was applauded for his work, and First Sergeant Hightower, who used to be ahead of the Surety Office, and all three clerks from Chris’ office, everyone got a piece of the glory, but Sergeant Wright would get the award.



The Major, the new Company commander, Wastrel, got a little disturbed by the Surety Personnel. They were the only ones that did not go to formation, and the reason being, Sergeant Wright had them working the moment they walked through the door. The sergeant felt it really took too much time. And LT the Surety Officer, as he was called by the Surety Office staff, asked several times if Wright would please make an appearance so as to calm the Commander down, and go to formation, and so he did. The major saying, “I’m glad you could show up—Sergeant Wright,” emphasizing the ‘show up,’ part. But even Sergeant Wright liked the power and influence he had with his Surety Office. But he didn’t want to abuse the fact he had it, and portray him was not replaceable: save for the fact, he knew he was replaceable; and ‘Pride comes before destruction,’ he had learned. And so he made formation for about six-weeks before he dismissed himself from it again, saying it was time consuming, and privately feeling it was worthless standing around taking roll call—Army drills and wasting good investigation time.







10.




Mexican Standoff
[Sergeant Wright]



[From: Chris Wright’s Journal]


“I am a Buck Sergeant now—and the NCOIC [Sergeant in Charge] of the whole Surety Program at the 545th and 9th MP Detachment; a whole lot of responsibility; --I not only have to deal with Military Intelligence now, but indirectly with the FBI. The whole compound, site, knows my name. On one hand, people are more in a panic state coming into my office than the commanding officers wondering if or when their security clearance will be in danger, which means career position, and longevity in the military service, I think they think I will mess around with their career if I dislike them so they play cool with me. Things are changing, or have changed. I have even changed, matter of fact I got a special medal from the General, he flew in by helicopter, and gave it to me in front of 200-soldiers for being an outstanding soldier I guess, but the only thing outstanding is that I’m passing all these inspections for him, making him look good, and staying out of harms way. Sergeant Hightower, at the last minute, our First Sergeant now, looked at my pants—the day the General was to give me the medal—I had patches on them, and he shook his head, told me—bluntly—to go and change them before the general comes, and so I did—and I got an Army Commendation Medal. Yes, I have a little power now, but under control; I like it also, why not, I’ve worked hard to get it. And I get a medal pinned on my chest for the best of the best, Surety Sergeant in all of Europe; you can’t beat that. But everything has its price, you pay sooner or later, I am beginning to get fried, burnt out—my brain is reacting slower, or so it seems. My head can’t think straight, or should I say, can’t concentrate on simple things very long, surely a sign of ‘burnout.’”




[Update for the Journal] “The shoes were taken off the tree a while ago, after I had seen them there for several months got tired of looking at them—now I have time under my belt; I am learning, to duck— that is, stay out of harms way, you could also, or possible, call it out waiting the many things happening around you to simply go away—yes, they simply may disappear, go away, I found out they do just that: it’s one of his ways of looking at things now, things I have little control over. And they did go away. The new Major has no real leadership skills with people, and is—for the most part—despised by his subordinates, he is a robust figure of a man, red faced, and a little slim in posture, reddish hair, about 35-years old [Major Wastrel], but a drunk, and it shows on his West Point face, yes, an Ivey League drunk—a man of Harvard but still a drunk no matter how you sliced the pie: and a detriment to the mission here.” Signed, SGT Wright


--It was on this certain day Chris observed a happening that would push the Major to get find his replacement to its limits, for it would cast a shadow on the Major’s leadership and cause loose-talk to be looked at by higher headquarters, from Battalion level to Group—had it not been for the passing of all the Nuclear Surety Inspections, the Major might have been replaced immediately, or long ago; it was early afternoon when the incident took place [October]: the Major, came out of the PX-store, kitty-corner from the Mess Hall, when Private Rodrigo was making his way across the center of the compound, by the flag pole, and almost walked smack into the Major:
“Private Rodrigo,” said the Major, “Are you drunk again…(a rhetorical question at best, for the Private was beyond drunk ((hence, the Private looked up to the Major’s face after looking at the ground—as if in an emotional cluster—as he was walking, and gave a smirk)):”
Said Rodrigo,
“Borracho, no, señor, no lo soy, porque dice eso? Usted es el borracho [Draunk, na-a, me no unk, si, major sir,-r, why ya say that?]” and started to walk away laughing like a lunatic.
“I order you to go back to your room [which was above the mess hall], immediately—Private!” said the Major, in front of several people escorting the Major.
This was not the smartest move the Major had ever made, for the private had a well known reputation [so Chris had learned] for being spontaneous with resistance in a harmful way, in other words, he could be dangerous [Chris was thinking: had he been in his shoes he’d had just relayed the message to the MP’s and had him taken away, but for some reason the Major needed to show off his power, which at times he liked to do, as many officers did].
Rodrigo, about five foot six inches tall, a beer belly, about twenty-seven years old, turned around, looked at the Major now some six-feet away to the side of him, then did another quick 45% angle turn making him directly facing one another now: leaped, like a foot-ball player after a football, right on top of the Major with a knife in his hands and put it next to his artery alongside his neck. Everyone froze for a moment, every single person taken by surprise: eyes were bulging from corner to corner on everyone’s heads, and mouths were open from ear to ear—it was a shock to see this.
Said the private in a slurping, stuttering drunken stupor, reverting back to English instead of Spanish: “So yaw like to give me orders major, haw…! Modar-fa-er, give dhem now—boy!” The private then, punishing-ly said: “I can’t hear you…uuuuu Ma-jor rr– gringo-OO.” Then came from the private the devil-tongue, with his insulting remarks: “Ya moder fu-er, sy somedhing now, or I cut your ugly fat red neck…hot shot-shit, moderr fuc-er.” But the Major was stone-frozen, silent as a graveyard at 2:00 AM, with big bulging eyes, didn’t know what to say or do; about a dozen people were now around. Chris stood by, he had seen this scene before, in Vietnam. Many an officer got on the wrong side of their men and never made it back home.
By the time the Mexican was pulled off the Major—after a few soldiers tried to calm him down, soldiers that were standing by the major, in consequence, convincing the private, telling the private it wasn’t worth it, that he’d end up in jail should he kill him, while several other soldiers calmly put more potent remarks out at the Major, the private sensed he was loosing his audience [for most didn’t’ care about the Major that much anyhow, but this incident was going to extremes, plus the MP’s had arrived with weapons].
Unexpectedly, the private took a knee and moved it over to the side slowly looking at the Major like a prey [a Jaguar] who had just lost his meal, as two soldiers lifted the Major up cautiously, insuring the Major would not be approachable by the Mexican—as one of the two stepped in front of the Mexican, and took his knife: at the same moment, the knife was lying on the ground and the soldier didn’t want the Mexican to grab it again it was but a foot away, should the Major feel overly safe and say something stupid; then the two MP’s escorted the Private back to his barracks.

--“Sir,” said one of the MP sergeants, now standing around the Major as the two men had just lifted him to his feet: “What should we do with him?” The Major just walked away, not saying a word. He stood there in amazement if not shock, unable to speak possible, not sure if he was a coward, or just smart enough to say nothing for once. In either case, the private was taken out of the company area within twenty-four hours, and nothing was ever heard of him again. It was bad news to exploit such news, or let it get out to the American Press, least it cause an investigation right out of Washington DC, for a Nuclear Site was big news when it came to such things, and therefore the Major would soon be replaced also.




11.



The Shooting Incident


There was talk about Sergeant Wright going up for promotion to Staff Sergeant, yet he didn’t have all that much time left at the 545th, before he’d get a new assignment and so, although the promotion package was put together, he would not go up in front of the committee-board at his present duty station there in Germany, it would have to wait, and be at his next home base, plus the Army had little secret policies, if you got that close—or too close to getting out of the Army, let him reenlist first, and Sergeant Wright would reenlist for the most part, about a month before he’d leave the 545th is when he’d do it, and therefore get his promotion to Staff Sergeant at his next station. But just before he’d leave, about three weeks, Dr. Sharp, a good friend of the Sergeant, would play a drastic role.
It was the first week of April, the air was clear, cool and Sergeant Wright was training in another sergeant, of his duties, pertaining to the Surety Office, for when he got CQ [or Company Headquarters duty], extra duty that is [in other words, NCOIC in charge of the compound for one evening, the coming evening]. There was in addition to the Sergeant in Charge, an Officer in Charge as well, but he was not required to be present at the time, just on call and available if need be; for in actuality the Officer, was for some odd reason, pulling two duties, one as Officer CQ like Sergeant Wright would have to, and ENREST, which was a duty pulled in the back area at the site; which required that he’d be locked up for twenty-four hours, in a small room, with a Sergeant. The reason being, in case of a Nuclear Attack or simply an attack by the Russians, they—the two individuals in the ENREST duty station [which was in essence, a bomb shelter]—were to break seals to dispose of the ninety-nuclear bombs, they had at the site, of which they consisted of 383-megatons each: thus, making the sergeant in charge of the compound with a double duty responsibility. Sergeant Wright had ENREST many times but of course never when he had CQ. In any case, he was alone on duty in what was called the front area, the compound, not the site area.


The Incident


It was a still dark evening, the moon seemed to have a lot of shadows, too many shadows to be honest; you know, those dark inky-blue nights with a, and I say just a, --touch of gray clouds seeping through the inky blue, and it was huge—the moon—it looked as if it was, as if it was a lamp post sitting right over the compound, it would prove lucky for Sergeant Wright though.
It was now 11:15 PM, the Sergeant had just made his rounds, like a sheriff, one might say, from the old west, he was required to check each barracks, and each room in the barracks out along with the mess hall, the motor pool, everyplace on post, to see if all was ok, all was well, and of course the EM club, and the Surety Office, as well as the PX. And as he was about to sit down, after making his rounds, his assistant, a private came running from one room to the other——in the CQ Office saying [in a harsh racy breath, on the edge]:
“An incident, incident, accident, a shooting over at the 9th MP’s barracks,” said the Private, in a panic
said the Sergeant in a low voice, “Now tell me what you know, slowly, but catch your breath first, slow down [getting up from his desk] and I’ll be or we’ll be, there in a minute.” He added, “Now say again, slowly what you were trying to tell me?”
In almost a cry, but slower: “Specialist Dolton [The Sergeant tried to visualize by looking up just who Dolton was] shot himself I think, I think, no I know, shot himself with his M16 rifle, he’s a mess, simply a mess.” Quickly the sergeant grabbed his hat, and headed to the MP barracks.

--Asking again, upon arrival [“What happened?”] the sergeant approached Dalton, and the two men helping Dolton slowly, quietly walking up the second flight of stairs in this old WWII German barracks, looking at the whole scene, not making any frightful faces at what he saw, he didn’t’ want to panic anyone.
Then Sergeant Wright, looking at two soldiers comforting Dalton, sitting on the top of the stairs, eye-to-eye with Dalton, he nodded his head to Specialist Frapp whom was assisting Buck Sergeant Morrow, he got the whole picture in one glance now, it wasn’t hard, for Dolton stood out like a sore thumb, the right side of his face was blown completely off, ripped off, from the eye all the way down under his gums, or lower part of his mouth; --one could see his ivory teeth shinning, and torn ligaments all around them, red on red, different shades of red, blood-red, pick-red, shadows of red. From a profile view he, Dolton looked as if he had nothing left to the side of his face, even his eye socket was ripped open, pulled out somewhat, along with his upper left side of his lip blown off, and his lower chin, all the way along his jaw curve was ripped, shredded like, skin hanging loose, he looked like a freak that Dracula had just used for a feast. Calmly he approached all three soldiers—within a few feet of them now.
Dolton [Frapp: holding his hand, Dolton’s hand] was in a stilled-shock position—as if frozen in ice, looking as if he was high, looking about as if to say, ‘what’s going on,’ but he said nothing, and it was obvious he had not seen his own face yet: and what he did say made no sense. He looked like a monster. Funny he was still alive, Sergeant Wright thought.
Saying sharply to the private that followed Sergeant Wright,
“Quickly run over to the Orderly Room, call Dr. Sharp, at the Babenhausen clinic, tell him I’m on duty and we need that he come over here quickly, and tell him I mean quick: -- explain to him the situation…ok?” The private nodded his head—yes, yes [twice].
[Chris, with a full breath taken now]: “What’s the story? Or is it obvious?” said the Sergeant. Meaning, he either was trying to commit suicide, or it was an injury he wanted to inflict, so desperate to go home. Sometimes this is the case, if not most of suicides attempts, many are, not suicides attempts in general, rather done out of desperation, Home-sickness, as it is known. But what was it, Sergeant Wright didn’t known. And again, some of these injuries lead into suicides unintentionally. In either case it wasn’t his job, the sorting of facts would come later for the investigators, psychologists, or counselors, whatever. His job was to secure the compound, and get the doctor in there to get this medical emergency out so he could continue on with his mission, and again secure the Nuclear Compound; distraction is not what he liked, but it none-the-less was part of his job to deal with. Furthermore, he had to notify the Officer in Charge, but he simply told the Sergeant to handle it, as they always did.

[Hesitantly] “I’m not sure sergeant,” said Morrow, [a sergeant from Duluth, Minnesota, a friend of Chris]. Adding, “…aaahaw…a few minutes ago, I’m not sure, kind of looks like a suicide attempt, but he said he was cleaning his rifle, and it accidentally went off.” Chris at this point was sizing the situation up.
“Yaw, sure,” commented Wright, as if to play down the reality, and fate.
Chris having been to Vietnam, knew this was more than a cleaning job, the bullet had reshaped its course and not done what was expected, and came out at a wrong angle: --but he did not share that information, that would be for the investigators again. That said, as they waited for the private to bring back the news of Dr. Sharp coming, he had learned the MP, Dolton, had come from the Arms Room quite early in the afternoon, to his room; --actually, Chris had seen him carrying his rifle earlier, thinking it strange for him to be cleaning it so late, and in his room [but then often times they did clean their weapons in their room], or possible he could have been going to the back-area for duty, that would have allowed him to pick up his weapon; --in any event, he: Sergeant Wright, felt it was not a big concern, it was, if it was that, not out of the ordinary. And then, no one mentioned it was out so long—the weapon not being brought back, possible the Arms Room personnel overlooked it, this could be a thorn of unhappiness for the on-duty people of that time, or the ones who took on the next shift should have checked it out; plus the unlucky Lt. Crawford: no matter what, someone would have a lot to explain, if not be replaced. In either event, it would be checked out, and possible hushed up if it looked too bad. And if it was a suicide in the making [he: Dolton] needed to make his move quick before someone got a notion to come check on him. Many people in Vietnam, shot off toes, or did other strange things to their body to get out of the stressful combated zone, this was somewhat resembling that. Some even shot holes in their stomach; the old cleaning weapons dilemma, it all fit the stress factor thought the Sergeant; too much, too long in one place: that was the menu.

--Thought Sergeant Wright: this place was getting to him also, too many soldiers, explicitly, it was mentally draining on everyone, everyday. He remembered a soldier, just a few weeks earlier, another Military Policeman [MP] had locked himself up in his room, jumped on top of his locker, in his room, half naked, with a knife, threatening to kill anyone who’d come in, possible himself. Also, a Staff Sergeant now spending his time in the Company [day]-Orderly Room, was doing odd jobs, instead of his career job because he lost a bolt in the head, in actuality, he was screaming all the time, not sure what happened to him—going mad: he was a cool guy at one time thought the sergeant, but again, stress, pressure, long hours, a nuclear site, drills in the morning, evening, night, all the time. It all became to be too much, way too much for many.

[The Private arrives back]

“Sergeant, the doctor wants us to build fires in the baseball field so he can land a helicopter, and take Dolton out that way, and bring him right to the Frankfurt hospital.”
Saying with a calm composure [said, Sergeant Wright]: “Good work Private, now let’s get Dolton out slowly…: Morrow you take one arm, and you-Private, you take the other—and Frapp, you hold the doors open…” and they all walked foot by foot—step by step, slowly down the flight of stairs as Wright watched all the movements of everyone, even himself, --leading Dolton out onto the asphalt that lead to the baseball field about four-hundred-feet to the south, alongside of the gates to the compound.

Several flashlights were on around the baseball perimeter, a few fires were lit also around the field, as the helicopter landed; Dr. Sharp quickly took hold of Frapp, looking at Sergeant Wright with non-judgmental eyes, and a slight ‘hello,’ to a serious-smile. Then as fast as they he had landed, they were airborne again
walking back to the Orderly Room, Chris walked in an exhausted manner, he knew l977 would be different, and it was around the corner, he was going back to Alabama, out of this crazy outfit. It had taught him many things, and one being, to let go, and go forward. If anything he was burnt out, burnt to the bone. He now leaned back in his chair in the office, put his feet up on the desk, let out a frozen apple of air, and stared into nothingness, pure strange oblivion, as if he was day-dreaming, allowing his mind to digest all that just happened, and all that could have happened




A Soldiers Dilemma

In the Army you witness many things
The longer you stay in, the more you see
He shot off his nose, he did:
His chin, cheeks, side of his face
(The bullet reshaped everything;
Yes, everything was displaced).

He said he was cleaning his M-16,
But it didn’t look that way at all—
But rather to die by grace:
And not to have to face, the enemy,
Was more,--the real call...

Well, he proclaimed with his eye hanging
With grim and epigrams, and relief
(As the October winds swept by his face):
“How dare death talk to me,” this way,
(All of a sudden he wanted to live).





[The Sergeant’s observations]



[In thought the Sergeant went over in his mind as he sat back] his face: a bloody mess, but his brain untouched—the strangeness of this shooting reflected idiosyncrasy [to me: the sergeant thought]: here he was in a small military site, he was a quiet sort of person, more so lately than before, more-so today than ever-before. ‘No feebleminded fellow to my understanding,’ he confessed. He had talked to him before, befriend him, flippantly, but made friends with him none the less.
Whatever provoked it, the sergeant thought, he’d never know, yet he did notice he was thinner than he knew him to be, possible he had lost his appetite, wasn’t sleeping well, or so it looked now, as now he looked back into his memory banks—depression possible. This site, nuclear site, military location, with its isolation: offered little peace of mind to anyone of sound mind [consequently bring out unnamed fears: paranoia, nightmares, and sleepless nights]. And if possible that was circulating within his mind, why not suicide, for sometimes suicide follows: ‘Goodbyes,’ but his actions never announced to anyone a ‘suicide attempt’, but then no one was looking for them. Yet, what he was doing and what no one noticed was: turning off all his external [outside] channels, one by one to his world. That is to say, he was not talking to many people; oh he’d say ‘Hi,’ and that sort of thing, but no more than that. He avoided old friends, avoided even eye contact with them [even with the Sergeant] this very afternoon was a case in point, or was it just before noon, oh well [thought the Sergeant] who cares, it was today; and today was almost tomorrow, unless it was tomorrow, he hadn’t looked at his watch for a while
he remembered he walked by him as if he was in another world, estranged to Planet Earth, almost catatonic, almost, and almost somewhat disassociating with the air around him, people around him. His atmosphere was filled with not speaking, alienation, and estrangement: no radio was on in his room, no T.V. going, no music at all, no magazines. It would seem he became fixated on something, locked into something, a mind-set for something. Now that it happened, was it suicide, or an attempt that didn’t go well? The Sergeant didn’t know what he was thinking, but surely his last dream was to be all he’d remember had his attempt not failed; now he seemed to want to be alive. If it was peace he was after, real peace, he almost got it. When hope is gone, so is the reason to live, he presupposed.

Said the Sergeant to himself, looking intently at the bare wall ahead of him, as the helicopter headed on to the Frankfurt Hospital: some forty-miles away:

he wanted to blow his brains out, but blew his face off—nobody cleans a rifle or gun loaded, nobody, simply nobody, he must have placed the rifle [trying to put the pieces together now that he had time to think] to his right side of his face, and squeezed the trigger, thus, bullets, one or two fired, tore through his face, blew away much of his nose, tongue, teeth and check bone, and ripped skin off all the way up to his right eye, possible destroying his right eye, or so it seemed, all over in a millisecond. Or possible he held the rifled between his legs, pulled the trigger with his big toe, holding the bore in his mouth, and then squeezed the trigger.


Then the Sergeant remembered his mother, his dear loving mother, whom died at 83. He remembered the day in the hospital when she thought she might be going [and possible knew she’d have to go] to an old folks home, should she recover, but he tried to assure her if she did recover, it would only be for a recuperation period; but then that was being dismissed by the doctors, and so he had to let her know that [which broke his heart, for she had even dreamt of going home, she had told him so]: she didn’t want to see the days ahead [which to her would be in a Long Term Care Facility—that in itself was death, a slow death at that], and so she let go of life; --she had fought many battles before with illness, and won: yes, won them all, but this war to her was un-winnable, even if she won it, that is, won the right to live. Maybe this soldier felt the same way for some reason.


Death Remembered


Most people want a cause for death he told himself, and only get a reason. For his mother, Chris knew there was no specific cause of death, other than old age, which comes down to molecular damage, specifically in the cell structure by way of destroying genes and proteins. In one way she had lived two lifetimes, had she lived 100-years ago, when life expectancy was forty-years. They said it was partially due to pneumonia, and diabetes, and other things; whatever, Chris knew it was triggered by old age symptoms, and its immune systems inability to regenerate, in consequence, it was impossible to pin point a cause other than old age. Had this soldier died, the cause would have been a rifle wound, set off by suicide, and his ten-thousand dollar insurance policy would not be paid out. If it was by accident, then someone would be ten-thousand dollars richer. The bad thing possible, yet probably he didn’t think of it at the time: he’d have not left any ‘last words’ for anyone to remember, sad, thought Chris, everyone wants a few last words to hand down for posterity: a few last words to remember your loved ones by.




12.




“Whatyoumacallit”
[Staff Sergeant Chick Evens]



It was one of those odd days, and it would end up being even more coincidental before it ended, a nice overly warm day in the spring of l976. Chris had gotten his Buck Sergeant strips and therefore was eligible now for additional assignments, duties required by sergeant level personnel, thus, this Monday he was given a special assigned to take some nuclear waste, consisting of several twenty-five gallon canisters, to the 69th Ordnance Group, some ninety-miles away. Along with the truck driver, a Private First Class Presley, and a Corporal by the name of Meeks, whom was his second, or back up guard, they both jumped on the back of the five-ton truck, the driver in the front, and in the late morning sun, headed out to the 69th, all three soldiers, with their M16 rifles by their sides: locked and loaded.
Sergeant Wright never really liked using his time for other than Surety purposes, such as guard duty, or delivering soldiers to prison, or even nuclear waste jobs—, but it was part of the overall duties of sergeants now, as was other duties specifically for sergeants, and in a way he liked the idea of being a sergeant, and with such expectations, thus he took it with pride, not complaining: in addition, there were not that many sergeants with high security clearances on base, which was a requirement for the overall responsibilities of many needed tasks.
As they drove down the autobahn [freeway] the young sergeant looking east for suspicious people and west—from on top of the five-ton tuck down into their cars; also, often checking the twenty-canisters each holding twenty-five galleons of nuclear waste. It seemed to him some might be leaking around the seams of the top of two canisters, but they weren’t after closer observation.


At the 69th



Sergeant Wright had the driver remain in the back of the open truck, having it park close by the 69th Ordinance Group’s main Mess Hall, while he and the corporal went into it for lunch, it was 1:15 PM. He had notified the authorities on base he was holding the stockpile at its present location, by way of a phone located nearby. And they suggested he remain there while they send down a police escort along with additional guards to follow the truck to its destination-site. In the mean time, he need only remain at the Mess Hall, and the truck would be back in an hour or so, and they could head on back to the 545th. Accordingly, the Sergeant would bring a bag lunch for the driver.
As they walked into the Mess Hall—stepping up and over steps and a ridge in the middle of the doorway—the corporal following etcetera, they both, the assistant and the sergeant, disengaged the M16-clip-magazine of bullets from the rifle, putting them inside pouches on their ammo-belts, mussels down as they walked into the dinning area. Now looking back at the sun and its heat hitting the truck, it was refreshing to be out of the sun, therefore, he witnessed the driver talking to the Military Police, as he wiped his brow. Then he gave his rifle to the Corporal, and went in line along with other soldiers to get two trays of food. They had found a table somewhat close to the door; surprisingly so, since it looked quite jam-packed, for as Chris looked about, all the tables were now taken, funny he thought, humorous how did his eye catch this one. And then as he sat down with his two trays, a stranger from a nearby table stood up, it seemed obvious too obvious, or so the stranger made it seem that way, then he started walking over toward Chris’ table.
“Can I bother you by asking you a question there: Buck Sergeant,” ask the stranger, a Staff Sergeant, speaking in a Midwestern style, slowly with a middle tone to it. Said the sergeant without hesitation, since Chris nodded his head yes, with his eyes giving a signal of: ‘sure, why not…’ said:
“Familiar, --you look familiar,” he repeated himself for better clarification.
Chris took a great look, said with haste—:
“Whatyoumacallit, (a pause), you’re…are you, I mean you look like Whatyoumacallit,” then it came to mind, the name, it got burped out: “Chick Evens!” said Sergeant Chris Wright.
Having said that, the conversation rang loud and clear, along parallels one might say, they were High School friends, and neighborhood friends: not one he [he being: Chris] hung around with per se, but one that hung around the Cayuga Street Gang, the area the police called, ‘Donkeyland,’ of St. Paul, Minnesota in the Mid-l960’s. They had gotten drunk a few times with a group of people, and caused a little ruckus in the halls of Old Washington High School, off Rice and Cook streets. They both had been to Vietnam also, not together, but both there at different times; the last time they had met one another, was in Boot Camp, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in l969, he: Chick Evens was polishing his boots, when Chris showed up to say hello at his barracks—at Fort Bragg.
“It’s me, and that’s you, you all right,” said Chris, adding, “Small world I’d say,” as he wiped his mouth from the spaghetti he had just swallowed.
Chris then asked Staff Sergeant Evens, with a wave of his hand to join them, and Chick pulled up a chair, as they both noticed Chick’s friends went on talking about whatever they were talking about. Both old friends become quite comfortable of one another within a few minutes and both delivered an update report on their lives. Chris knew, soldiers often ran into old Army buddies as years went by, for this had happened in Vietnam as well, where he had met, better put, ran into a friend who owed him money, $2 to be exact—but he wasn’t from his state. In any case, it wasn’t all that unusual, especially when they were in the same MOS [Military Occupation], and both Sergeants were in ordinance field, but the chances of meeting a friend from your home town, and High School, seemed too coincidental—a long shot, but none the less, it was as it was. And here, the two sergeants talked about old times, simple things men talk about, as: camaraderie took place; a beam of pride, and a nice break in the everyday life of both of them.






13.




Between Fights



Chris sat reflecting upon his Army career, his travels, his back home city life—his old friend came to mind, Chick Evens also, as the sound of crash and a bang come from a room down the barrack’s hallway. Chick was a poet of sorts—he remembered—in his neighborhood, kind of a singing poet if he recalled right; he had also taken karate up, and for the most part was just a down-home good-old-boy, a friend from High School. It was funny seeing him in West Germany on one of his assignments a few days earlier, while delivering nuclear waste to the 69th Ordnance Group, of which his unit, the 545th Ordnance Company was under. He remembered him being a little hot tempered at times: save for the fact he was hard to get mad in the first place, but once mad it was hard to settle him down—an emotional character he did have, not like his brother, who was calm like a stone—but then, that was him: yet, given time, he’d cool down. For the most part, Evens was a discovery in himself thought Chris.
They were both—he and Evens—in all respects, developing alcoholics: they loved to drink back in those days, what my have been referred to as, ‘the good old days of the neighborhood,’ and then being in the Army, it also contributed to its ongoing love affair if anything, with the bottle. Again, Chris was disrupted from his meditation from a bang down the hallway, it sounded as if a fight was going on: a bash came, as if it cracked the wooden door to one of the rooms of the barracks framed arches. He opened his door to his four man room, and looked down the hallway—sure enough the sounds were from way down the hall: the sides of the walls were two-tone green and pale-egg white above the greens that went up the rest of the way of the wall, and across the ceiling and down the other side; the noise was coming from the very end room it seemed, on his right hand side, it was the middle of the afternoon. Again he listened intently: surely a fight of some kind he construed: he knew of three Army guys in that room, a Mexican who was always bragging how tough he was; a Southern white—called Red who sold dope to everyone who wanted it, if he wasn’t strung out on it himself; and a black man Chris never really knew, just seen, he was big, but seemed harmless; all the same, he always was loosing his strips, from Corporal one month to Private the next, matter of fact, he had seen this very thing in his closet, that is: two sets of dress greens, one with private strips on them, and one with Corporal strips on them, thus saving time for running back and forth looking for a seamstress, and having them sawed on--: Chris walked back into his room, shutting the door behind him, sat back in his chair, and all of a sudden an incident occurred to him.
Chris was brought back to when he, Chick Evens, Johnny’s girl, Karen, and the Shadow, Chris’ girl [she was called the Shadow because she followed Chris around all the time, like a shadow would]; they were all in a bar in St. Paul, called ‘Bram’s,’ before he went into the Army, specifically. In any case, during this time, “Hell’s Outcast,” came in, a motorcycle gang, and out of nowhere, Johnny and the gang started a fight with someone, Johnny being friends with them. Although Chick knew them, he never hung around with them, and so the brawl broke out, without Chick or Chris getting involve, and to Johnny’s dismay, it seem a bit too pious. None the less, his girl was safe within the stall with the two, as the bar became more destabilized by the minute—it was as if the Gladiators of Rome had opened up the gates to the Coliseum for a festive-fight. From all corners of the bar, came: glasses flying, beer bottles and alike crashing recklessly everyplace, flying frantically by everybody’s heads, bodies. People being knocked down, punched; people yelling, screaming.
Chris heard the bartender say, “I called the cops, they’re on their way,” a nice kind of warning for some odd reason, in hopes there would be no retribution afterwards most likely. Johnny was drunker than a skunk, and Karen was observing everything around Johnny, worried for him, yet not sure what to do; the Shadow was ducking, yet nothing had come to their booth, not yet anyhow; and Evens just looked at every move that was taking place in the bar, —Johnny’s eyes caught his—Evens’, Johnny the instigator for the most part, and Evens’ friend; he looked like a drunken saber-tooth lion to Chris.
Said he [Evens], looking at Johnny about ten feet away:
“We better get out of here before the police come,” at that moment he gave Chick a smiling-smirk ((if not a sneer)), and resumed fighting. From Chick’s peripheral vision, he did a double take along side of his shoulder and the booths edge of the seat,--hence, towards the back of the booth a chair came flying; someone near Johnny had thrown it, or possible Johnny himself, possible anyone could have: and so it was, that someone had picked it up—the chair, noticing this one lone booth was not involved with the happy-go-lucky, dangerous fun, and wanted to insure they got their fate—but somehow, Chick quickly threw up his forearm, blocking the chair as it flipped against it—a moment prior flying in the air towards the heads of the whole booths; and as he blocked it, it fell onto another table: his forearm being a bit bruised. Then Chick got up, asking the three folks with him to get the hell out of there before it was too late, accordingly, making it to the door, as the police sirens were becoming louder in the background. He quickly grabbed Johnny, at Karen’s request, throwing him into the cab and onto the floor, pushing him down with his foot as he tried to get up; whereupon, a policeman came and asked, looking into the cab, before it could take off:
“You see Johnny Low?” Chick replied, ‘…last I saw of him he was sick in the bathroom,” then the police took off, and Chick told the driver to get moving, and he did.

--Chris looked out his barracks window, leaning on the sill, looked down and around at the busy and bustle below, then, triumphantly he leaned over to his radio, turned it up louder, drowning out the trouble-making angels of gloom down the hallway.






14




The Female Specialist
Specialist Jackson—at the 545th]



It was getting about that time for Sergeant Wright to head on back to the states, he had stayed forty-three out of his to be forty-four months at the 545th Ordnance Company; he had seen much happen in that time span. He had arrived a Corporal, and made Buck Sergeant, and was going up for Staff Sergeant soon, he would make it before he went to his next duty station he knew, possible in two months. His career had started at Fort Bragg, as a Private, and on to Alabama, where he became a Private First Class, and then on to the 545th as a Corporal, where he made Sergeant, and he’d be now assigned to Italy, after a short stay in the states, thus, where he would make Staff Sergeant.
As he continued to pass all the Surety Inspections, he had noticed that when he first arrived there was only one female on base, of which was in the Mess Hall, now there were several, some with technical positions, in the back area working on nuclear bombs; they were from all walks of life, and races: Black, Mexican and White women all working together, things were sure changing he told himself; matter of fact, he had heard that the 545th had received women now in the company on experimental bases to see how they would intermingle: even the MP’s had one. It was a novelty for the most part yet, and the men liked it, yet the problem was arising where to put them all. This was the beginning.
Chris had gotten a call from a friend of his, a [Chief Warrant Office], CW3 McDaniel’s, that his new Technical Nuclear Weapons Specialist had arrived, and she was a woman; and that they needed him to get her, her clearance right away: a Top Secret clearance, and would like it processed as fast as possible. This was not a new thing for Chris to hear, for the most part, everyone felt their people had, or should be given top priority; although Sergeant Wright didn’t let on to this, he let the people think he was going out of his way just for them, and sometimes he would. In point of fact, it could take weeks, to get the process done, and sometimes days, and sometime even months. And a few times hours. This time the CW3 McDaniel’s, wanted it in hours, saying he had most of the paper work completed on her already—and this was true. ‘Well,’ thought Sergeant Wright, ‘why not try to accommodate,’ for he was one of the few officers that would boast to the Commander, and inspectors when they came down from Washington D.C. to check on his records, boast about how good Wright was, that he was the best in his field; so it was easy for the sergeant to go out of his way for him, most willingly. And Wright never forgot that.
“Corporal, McGee [his assistant],” asked the Sergeant,
“I need you to hand carry this paper work on Specialist Jackson’s through the process of getting her a top secret clearance so we can get her into the site working on them bombs, ASAP!”
“No problem Sergeant, I’ll review the records, finger print her today, and tomorrow morning go down to Battalion and see what I can do.” And so it was done, and Specialist Jackson got her clearance to work a little faster than the average person and Sergeant Wright got a phone call from his friendly Warrant Officer thanking him. Often times the name of the game was as it always was, ‘you rub my back, I rub yours,’ and for the most part it worked.



Specialist Jackson’s Surprise



It was midday, and all of a sudden the siren went off, an alert was in progress, which happened frequently. In the process the front gates got locked, and the back area site was locked down also—the guards in the back area positioned themselves with their rifles and M60 Machine Guns, and all the Army personal on the site readied themselves for the ongoing mock drill; everything was to be secured and checked out in case of a real alarm, yet this alarm like all were either orders from Battalion, or Group level, and sometimes from even a higher echelon: but bogus for the most part. In the mist of all this everyone ran through their barracks and down to the Arms Room to get their weapons, and were instructed when to form a formation to get instructions for what the next step would be. Normally it would entail all to be prepared for an attack—that wasn’t really an attack, to Sergeant Wright, a waste of time again he’d tell himself and his men, but he had no choice but to play the game, normally if he’d find out about when the drills would take place, he’d have something to do that day at Higher Headquarters, and be far away from the mock-emergency. Again, this of course was a trial, or dry run alarm to see how fast the site could be secured.
In the process, the orderly room got cramped with personnel, where at this point, about fifteen soldiers, three of them women, had to stand in the hallway waiting to see either the First Sergeant, or the Commander. Sergeant Wright being one of the fifteen, needed to see the First Sergeant on where his team should be, possible securing the records after the formation. As they all stood in the hallway waiting, a black soldier stood directly across from Sergeant Wright. She had big breasts, he had never seen her before, must be the new one he thought—Jackson maybe, and then he had seen her name tag: E. Jackson, her rank being Specialist-Four, equal to a Corporal. He found himself staring at her for some odd reason, possible at her big breasts—he told himself; possible in a daze thinking on the situation in addition to those big breasts she had, that covered her upper section, from her neck seemingly to her bottom rib.
“Something wrong Sergeant,” said a voice: still in a daze, and almost on top of her breast with his eyes. [A pause.] She comments again, “What you looking at SERGEANT!” The sergeant looked up, right into her eyes—a long pause took place—“You see something you like Sergeant?” She was a bit rude he thought, no need to be that way, she had only needed to wake him up he thought. A few people started looking their way, said the sergeant: “Yup, I’m looking at the door knob right by…by your shoulder there—Specialist!” She looked with a smirk at him. He looked with a smile at her. Then he looked again, and again and finally started to look away toward another person when she asked:
“Now what Sergeant?”
“What’s the E. for…?”
“You got my file, why not just check it out?” and turned her head way from him: evidently she knew who he was, that being, the Surety NCOIC. Thought, Sergeant Wright: ‘…that’s what I get for getting her, her clearance right away.’

After the alert, the Sergeant went down to his office and pulled her file out, and looked at her fingerprints, her name, and where she was from. He shook his head in disbelief; it was Elsa, the black girl from Alabama—‘no’ he said, ‘…it couldn’t be,’ but he looked again: ‘but Jackson,’ he mumbled. It had been going on seven years since he last seen her.
As he was about to leave his office, he found her standing in the hallway outside his door way.
Said he [with a quiet shyness now]: “Can I help you Specialist Jackson?”
Said she [uncomfortable]: “Do I know you?” Something had trigged something in her, he figured; and for the most part, the Sergeant was looking beyond looking.
“Listen Specialist, I’m sorry for staring, I shouldn’t have, and let’s leave it at that.”
Said she [pointedly]: “I get that all the time you know,” he smiled saying, “I suppose so.” He had learned to go with the flow, to let go of things so it wouldn’t rule, or ruin the whole day, or week.
“Well Specialist Jackson, I think you’ll like the 545th, it’s not like it used to be some four years ago. It’s going to be l977 soon, a new year, things are looking up.”
Said Jackson [anxiously]: “No, I know, I know you, and you know me.” But the Sergeant just wouldn’t let on. She had changed, and so had he. He was no longer naive, about the ‘racial fact of life—it was a two way street, not a one way as he was lead to believe, possible led himself to believe,’ and the 545th had taught him the other side, as Alabama had taught him one side also. All-in-all, he grew, and now she was—or so he felt—she was a bit naïve on the balance of race. He didn’t feel sorry for either one. What he had learned was if Alabama and the 545th had taught him anything, anything at all, it was that contemporary sins were based on feelings for the most part, especially when it came to race, it was simple, everyone was looking for a loop-hole, like in taxes, so they could not have to go to bed feeling guilty for their sins to humankind, only adjust ones emotions to fit ones thinking, after the fact, or before the crime, and the sin was no more, it dissolved itself. You couldn’t loose: for in Alabama and at the 545th there was no such thing as ‘Biblical Sins,’ per se. And he was going home soon, no need to stir up trouble.

“I’ve got to go Specialist, if you need something see my clerks in the morning.” And the young sergeant started walking up the steps. The Specialist just kept looking, looking, and looking, something inside of her triggered, his attitude, his boyishness, if not the coy way of leaving the scene, it reminded her of the boy who brought the bones to her one day, her uncle’s bones, he never looked back, just like this sergeant.


End of Book Two






Concluding Chapter



Assignment Italy
[Last Assignment-1980]


[Staff Sergeant Chris Wright] I was on assignment for a short period of time in Italy, l980; at another nuclear site. I was going home on emergency leave when I found myself [staff sergeant, now] lingering around a small airbase somewhat close by my home base in Vicenza, Italy, and not all that far from Venice either: in which I had visited and found most pleasing, indeed most enjoyable, save for the fact it was ominously dirty looking.
In any case, I was kind of walking in circles at the dusty little airbase, and somewhat keeping to myself. I had arrived there a little over three hours early. Knowing this I somewhat become—I, I suppose—a royal nuisance for the workers inside the small workstation, if not an annoyance for the counter people specifically inside the small waiting area. That is to say, walking in and out, in and out of the station, trying to get change to buy a coke, cigarettes, etc., I was just a total nuisance I would expect, but then I was bored, and it was part of my nature to keep busy and not be bored, and that was my unconscious way of doing it I do believe, that is to say, I didn’t really know I was doing it.

As I went into the terminal, from the dusty and swirling winds outside for the last time, asking what time my flight was coming in, and going back out, the counter person reading my orders made a suggestion:
“Staff Sergeant,” he said with a matter-of-fact, tone, “why not just get on this plane?” pointing to the one that was being boarded outside the doorway, I looked out the window to my left, --I looked and there was a stream of soldiers walking up the plank to its door.
“Hm…mm,’ said I, “It’s going to Frankfurt, not to my destination—right?” [Looking up at the destination and departure board just over my head in what I felt was a rhetorical question at best.]
“But you’re on leave what do you care Sergeant; I can fix it up, so you get the first flight out of Frankfurt, and if you took the one due in 2 ½ hours... well, you’d just have to walk in circles some more around here, and you’d still have to wait in Hamburg.”
I hesitated, knowing the Army, he did make sense—although I loved it [loved: the Army that is]—it was notorious for messing things up at times, that is to say, it might be better to leave ‘well enough alone.’
“Well—here then,” commented the voice behind the counter, “is it a yes or a no? [adding after a hesitation]… we got lots of seats, but I got to know now.”
With a deep breath, and my normal anxiousness, I said, “Sure,” and he made the tickets out for me in a flash, and I hopped on the plane. While on the plane, I wrote a poem called, ‘The Roar,’ and as we landed I tucked it away in my pocket for safe keeping.


Frankfurt—


As they called my flight in Frankfurt, bound for New Jersey, where I’d catch another flight back to St. Paul, Minnesota, a few hours thereafter, I found myself in line with forty-plus other GI’s, and many wives of soldiers, and children going back to the states for various reasons. If I had learned anything during my Army career—my many years in the military I had learned we were everyplace—or so it seemed—throughout the world, and at the airports it showed.
Said a soldier in front of me, as we were slowly pacing our way to the ticket taker, to get through the gate and onto the plane for the States,
“Say Sergeant,” a corporal said to me, “you hear about the plane crash [a pause, the Sergeant looked dumbfounded] yes, yes, the one that went down, oh it shows you don’t know—it, it was heading to Hamburg this morning—it crashed?”
Said I, with a numb face, actually my face was so numb, it was paralyzed in shock for the moment: “What! [Pause.] Hamburg, went down, whattt went down?”
Said he [his brow up a bit by the surprise look on my face], “The plane, all 230-GI’s died in it, it crashed man, it was from some place in Italy.” I looked to the floor, the other soldier still looking at me, “You all right Sergeant?” he asked.
“No, not really, that was my flight, I took an earlier one, and, and –and nothing, and here I am I guess.”
“Really!” he commented, taking in a deep breath of air. “You’re mighty lucky, I mean, I mean real lucky…” he ended his comments with, and turned back frontward to hand the ticket taker his ticket.
I got onto the plane, not knowing what to say, or do, just walking in a daze, I needed to talk, but I didn’t, or couldn’t. Trying to focus to find my seat number was even an effort now. Matter of fact, the corporal I had just talked to, sat in back of me, way in the back of the plane though, on the opposite side. I sank into my seat; I just shook my head, and thanked the Lord for the new day. Not really having any religion, but I knew of the man called Jesus Christ, learned about him from St Louis School back home, the very one my sidekick Mike Reassert went to, the very same one we both were from. I figured, I owed someone a thank you, it might just as well be him, or some good kind angel, but then again, I was not a firm believer in anything in particular at the time, not quite yet, but it was hard to avoid the reality of what just happened and lay it to random thinking, or to some coincidence.




The Roar

Light broke the frosted clouds,
Yielding the silver swan as it swam
[With a borrowed hand] through its brow.

And for its foe—the seagull—
No more could be heard
Over the roar of he bird.

Then as evening assailed—estrangement!
Atmospheric glaciers dehydrated,
Alienated amazement!

Thus, passive dependent thoughts prevailed
As the plot sailed!
Now with cue, one knew

The reason God raised his hand,
The real psyche of man.





End of the Book



About the Author’s Books





A new and different book on the menu: “After Eve,” it has been published already. Says the author: “This story will bring you deep into it: make you live it…” it transcends Evolution and Creationism to form a unique relationship with humanity. Beyond the myths of this world, resides pieces of truth, thus, forming this story, where boundaries are marked by no one. The author conjures up a gallant saga—science-fiction: where the ‘Garden of Eve,’ is in decay, and the inhabitants of the world are forming a New World Order.

[From the book, ‘Death on Demand,’ by Mr. Siluk]: says author E.J. Soltermann—Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War, “The Dead Vault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better.” In a like manner, “After Eve,” holds the same truths.

Tales of the Tiamat: This is a trilogy, consisting of “The Tiamat, Mother of Demon,” the second book, “Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat,” and the third, “Revenge of the Tiamat”. All three are full of adventures and travels by Sinned, the main character of the three novels, as is the Tiamat involved, yet we see many other antagonists along side of her. The series takes you to Malta, Easter Island, ancient England, and Avalon, where the Tor is being built, Asia Minor, where Yort is, Sinned’s home, and a half dozen other places. In addition to the main story of each of these three books, which is being put into one, in the “Tales of the Tiamat,” a fourth book was added, called “The Tiamat and the King,” on which is the “Short book,” added into the series, it is really the conclusion to the trilogy never put into the book. It was, for the most part, written during the same period of time the three were, and revised recently. It will be put into both the “Tales of the Tiamat,” if this book ever comes out, and has been put into the book, “Death by Desire,” again, if that book is ever published.


The Chick Evens Sketches: In this trilogy, we have sketches of life that incorporate the late 60’s to the early 70’s; the hippie generation, the new era, the awakening of Aquarius, the peace era, it has been called many things. In his first book, his sketches, take you on a romance of a city and era, the book being called: “Romancing San Francisco” [l968-69], he introduces us to karate’s famous Yamaguchi family, to include Gosei, and his father Gogen “The Cat”; along with the famous Adolph Shuman, the once owner of the line of Lilli Ann cloths, along with other sketches. In the other two books, “A Romance in Augsburg,” and “Where the Birds don’t Sing,” the sketches start where the first book left off, from l969 to l970 and to Vietnam in l971. Here you go to Europe for a Romance with a Jewish German girl, and on to Vietnam where there is a war going on. Mr. Evens will also end up in Sydney, for one week of some great adventures, what the Army called back then R&R; Mr. Siluk spent 11-years in the Army, being a Staff Sergeant when he was discharged, and has lived all three books.

Short Story Collection [s]: these two books, of which [Volume one and two] are similar, being out Suspense beyond its normal doors: to the thriller platform: “Death on Demand,” of which there are seven stories, and “Dracula’s Ghost” of which are nine stories.

Spiritual: The Author has some strong religious and spiritual views. Having studied and done graduate work in theology, and missionary work in the mountains of Haiti, and being at an earlier age an Ordained Minister, his two books, “The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,” being his first book in this genre, talks about experiences of the early eighties, where he had visions concerning end time events that are coming to pass right this very moment. In his second book, “Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib,” he talks about the ongoing subject of terrorism on America, and the world as a whole, but in a different manner; instead of trying to figure out the mind of the Islamic-Arab, he looks at this god, enmeshed with Islam today.

Addiction: As of this writing [May, 2004], Mr. Siluk has retired with some forty-four years of experience in the field of Chemical Dependency, half being in usage. He was a licensed Counselor in good standing with the State of Minnesota up to October 2003, upon his retirement. He has also held international certifications, working in hospitals and clinics in dual disorder.

In his book, “A Path to Sobriety, the Inside Passage,” which is a common sense book on understanding alcoholism and addiction, the book is an ultimate guide to substance abuse, a powerhouse for preventing relapse and curing the disease. This book, out of 7,683 Addiction book at Barnes and Nobel, was #28, on 13 October, 2003.

His second book called “A Path to Relapse Prevention” is his follow up book [companion] to his “Path to Sobriety…” on addictions. Which he was not going to release depending on the need for it; but after the death of his mother, who helped him during his early stages of recovery, has chosen to finish it, and now release it. As in everything in life, school, the Army, training etc, you need a book to learn from, and one to practice with, this is the practice book.

His third book called “Aftercare, Chemical Dependency Recovery” is the final book in the Chemical Dependency area, and series. Aftercare is an element of primary prevention and relapse prevention, which deals with a triangle of the continuing care cycle, often times neglected.


Travels: Mr. Siluk has travel, or has been traveling I should say for some 37-years out of his 55 ½ years of his life to this date. He has traveled 24 ½ times around the world. And in most of his books you can see, and feel and almost taste this [to be more exact, he has 613,000-air miles, not to include ground miles]. In his book, “Chasing the Sun,” he takes you to a variety of places, by showing you some forty-pictures, --giving you an overall view of his story on how he got started. Each picture has its own caption, and is read for ‘a want to be traveler’, or one who would like to reminisce.

The Beast Books: I wasn’t sure what to call these three next separated books, so I named them, the “The Beast Books”. For in their own way, they all have their own beast. The first book being, “Mantic ore: Day of the Beasts,” which is the author’s favorite of the three, you step into the demonic underworld. A lot of him is in this book it seems. A touch of Vietnam, a touch of his home town, St. Paul, Minnesota, and the invisible shadows that change shapes into animals and human forms; visions upon visions. In the second book, the “The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury, 1199 AD,” which is also in a revised version, in the book “Death by Demand,” you are involved with a suspenseful story of revenge, and at the end of the book is a nice surprise, another story. And for the third beastly book, “Angelic renegades & Rephaim Giants,” you get just that, no more, no less. It is a book on the ancient dictators of the world, the ones who have cursed God, to have man worship them; for the most part is it sketches, impressions, and glimpses of this world.

A forth book, “The Mumbler” con be place in this category. With a stroke of madness, this psychological thriller, novel—is a story that takes place, between Paris, London and Amsterdam—the time period being 1925. The author states: “After you read the Mumbler, you will never get him out of your mind, nor will anybody take his place.” He adds, “You will hate him, feel sorry for him, and at the same time, want to avoid him.” The person referred to as “The Mumbler”, is quite a complex figure in this haunting drama--unprotected by his father, who dies in WWI, he now faces life on his own, circumstances being—problematic at best, as he unwittingly, fights the demons in his nightmare, and his second-self. But who will he follow is the question, the first or second self? –One being a thinker, a scholar of sorts, the other an unpredictable pathological murderer; both being the incarnation of genius, and malign.

Poetry Books: “The Other Door,” was his first book published, in l981, a book on poetry. It is a Volume one (now out of print). His second book in Poetry “Sirens” has been in the making for 24-years since his first book in poetry. The author was asked to define his poems in this book, he simply remarked: “This book of poems is about real life, death, the times, I suppose my times, God;--places and travel. It tells it: whispers it: yells it! It has craft, and paradox, anxiety, expediency and calmness--; it is a fortress of strength, and ruins. It is a mountain; a crow waking up for a second flight, possible its last. It is a story of stories, emotions, and thoughts [in timeless space, just drifting, drifting, and waiting for something], put together by evidence, observations that say: --‘I am, I was, I will be,’ –written over sex-decades, around the world, it says just that…no more, no less.”

Out of Print book: For the curious reader; although they are out of print, the author has a few left in storage. “The Other Door,” was his first book published, in l981, a book on poetry. It is a Volume one, of which he is working on volume two, yes, 22-years in the making. This book is so scarce that only 25-copies are left, at a price you most likely you would not want to pay. Second, is the authors 2nd book, “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale,” which got much attention in the year, l982, although it did not get a Pulitzer Prize, it was an entry, and considered. At present the author is considering a 4th printing, and revised edition. He does have a number of copies available for interested people [a limited number]. And the book “Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life,” that is more of a chap book that came out in l984 as a trial run. Only 100-copies were ever printed, of which one of the stories were printed in the, “Little Peoples Press,” and then the book was pulled back for personal reasons, and off the market by the author. This very limited book of which there are possible 30-copies left can also be acquired, but again, this overview is more for the inquisitive than for selling these very rare and hard to find books.


Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com. You can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers.