Wednesday, January 1, 2020

Guilt-Gems - Part 1


Although I expect to publish entries at the rate of one per day (and may find that pace too ambitious), today I plan on three. Of them, this one, divided into two parts, is the most important. Indeed, it may well be the most important entry I write during the whole year ahead.
This coming August—August 29, to be exact—will mark the 36th anniversary of the day I boarded the plane that carried me on the first leg of my flight to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where I was about to embark upon my initial active duty training—just call it basic training—in the Army. I changed planes in Atlanta and again in Dallas. This last plane was a mere two-engine puddle jumper. Most of the other passengers had the same reason for being on board: we were all about to embark upon the unknown experience of basic training. Some of the guys may have talked to each other, probably did talk to each other. But I did not, and in memory the trip is made complete silence save for the droning engines.
It was nearly midnight when we landed. We were greeted by the Specialist Fourth Class detailed to transport us to the reception station. As with every Spec4 I would encountered during my time at Fort Sill, when in the presence of trainees this one could not refrain from behaving as if he were … well, it could vary somewhat, depending upon the specific Spec4: Clint Eastwood in “High Plains Drifter,” John Wayne in “Sands of Iwo Jima”, Youngblood Priest in “Super Fly.” I would later become a Spec4 myself, but of the variety accorded respect, in most cases, and simple human dignity at the very least. At a training installation like Fort Sill, however, a Spec4 is a menial; a pathetic soul excluded from the drama of basic training unfolding around him (for drama it most certainly is). If you have ever seen a pubic hair glued to a toilet rim by dried urine, you have seen this variety of Spec4. No wonder they threw their weight around on the rare opportunities when they could.
But Spec4’s never fooled anyone, even tired civilians like us, nervous about what awaited us in the minutes just ahead. When the Spec4 pulled his “I’m in charge and you guys better shape up” routine, we didn’t even bother to roll our eyes.
We reached the reception center and met our NCO, probably a Staff Sergeant, but that’s just a guess. Like most NCOs he approached his duties matter of factly. Even the drill sergeants we would soon encounter went about their duties matter of factly (as we would eventually discover) when not obliged to assume the drill sergeant persona, which was performance art, albeit performance art at which most of them excelled.
The Staff Sergeant gave us a brief orientation, chief among them instructions about the Amnesty Box. The Amnesty Box looked vaguely like a postal mail box, although in point of fact it lay behind a barrier and we saw what it looked like only when each of us, one at a time, obeyed the order to go to the Amnesty Box, use it if necessary to get rid of any contraband, and then give its pulldown slat a loud slam, so that no one could tell who had actually deposited contraband. We were then issued regulation olive drab boxers or briefs, depending upon preference, and taken to the sleeping bay in which we would spend our first night. The bay had rows of bunk beds. We selected our berths==I chose an upper one—and then the lights went out.
In the darkness beneath me, it transpired, was a burly African American who somehow had already acquired the sobriquet “New York,” probably because New York could not shut up about having come from New York nor, for that matter, anything else. Basic training has any number of inexplicable moments and New York formed my introduction to this reality. He found it entertaining to carry on a loud, unfocused monologue, to which the other recruits responded with ever more insistent demands that New York shut the fuck up, which pleased New York no end. Soon New York owed his continued existence only to the fact that we had strict orders against using any physical force whatsoever.
The situation was clearly hopeless. But finally I mustered the courage to look down from my bunk to confront New York—or rather the darkness that contained New York: we could see each other, but just barely. I explained, calmly and respectfully, that we had all had a long day, faced another long day in the morning, and that it was important that he be quiet so that we could get the sleep we needed.
But New York just continued his act. I could think of nothing to do to stop him and, for lack of any better idea, simply peered down at him in silence.
After a moment New York said, “Damn. He mean it.”
New York subsided and was soon asleep. Within a minute or two all I could hear was the breathing of the men around me. I then fell asleep myself, but not before reflecting with wonder that Gandhi’s philosophy, of which I had only read, could actually work in real life.

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