BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND - s3.amazonaws.com · BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND 2 BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND 2 CHAPTER ONE – 1930 War Memorial His father sat him astraddle the cannon barrel

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BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND

A Literary Experimental Novel

Word Count: 90,000

BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND 1


Part One - The Early Campaigns



CHAPTER ONE – 1930

War Memorial

His father sat him astraddle the cannon barrel and shouted, "Boom! Boom!

Barrooom! Now how's that, Jamie Boy?" The boy was afraid of the height and gripped

the cold gray steel with bare legs and arms.

"Take me down. Daddy."

"Hang on, Boy! Hang on."

He clung to it, but the barrel seemed to turn. Maybe it was tilting, and he would

fall and hit his head on the cement corner posts of the monument. Or maybe the cannon

would start to roll away on its big iron wheels, down the steps where he would fall and

be crushed.

His father's head was at his knee, and the boy looked down and back at his

father’s brown curls scrunched under the sweatband of his tweed cap. "I've got you over

a barrel, haven't I?" the father said, watching his son and laughing the high-pitched way

the Irish do, out of the throat instead of the chest or the stomach. But his hands didn't



touch the boy, and the boy was afraid to reach out. He wondered if his father would

catch him as he started to fall, or catch him at the last moment, or not at all.

"Take me down. Daddy, please?"

"Hang on, my boy."

"Can't I get down?"

"Not yet. What's the matter with you anyhow? Most boys would be having the

time of their life up there, ridin' high. Why, this is a famous cannon what went with the

brigade to fight in the trenches of Europe in eighteen. Think of it ; this machine's been

'round the world, killed men, most likely, blasted the enemy to smithereens."

"It's cold."

"Ah, cold is it?"

"Yes, and my skin sticks to it ."

"Don't be a sissy fellah," he said, and his hand dipped into his shirt pocket for

the pack of Lucky cigarettes there. "Cold, you say? I'm thinking maybe it 's something

else. You're not scared up there are you, my big boy? My boy wouldn't be scared."

"I'm not scared."

The father fished a kitchen match from his pants pocket, brushed off the blue lint

fuzz and struck it against the cannon barrel near the boy's leg. The acrid smoke puffed

up, and a fuming brown stain scarred the gray paint of the barrel. "Did you ever see a

match burn twice?" he asked after lighting his cigarette.

"No, it can't," said the boy.

"Sure it can." He pursed his lips and blew out the match, keeping his eyes on the

boy all the while. Even with the match out he kept on blowing so ftly, and the boy



wondered if that was part of the trick, and became very interested. Then the father

shook himself and said, "No, that wouldn't be fair to you."

"Won't it work, Daddy?"

"Now, listen to me. That's an old trick about the match burning twice. Don't you

fall for it. The match burns twice all right - once when it's lit and again when the fellow

touches it to your hand." He gestured with the match toward a red welt on the back of

his left hand. "Don't let anybody pull that trick on you. Do you follow me?"

"I guess so."

"Well, then you don't have to be a patsy for that one. There's enough tricks

waiting for you out there the way it is." He spoke with the cigarette bobbing between

his lips, squinting when the smoke curled over his lip, up his cheek, and into his right

eye. When the father squinted that way it reminded the boy of pirates and Mexican

bandits from all of the movies he'd ever seen.

"Would you do it now?" the boy asked.

"Do what? Take you down? In a bit; we have to wait for your Mum and the

camera. She'll be back soon."

"No, I mean make the match burn again."

"What? I can't now," said the pirate, testing the charcoal tip between his fingers.

"Why not? You said you could."

"It's cold, don't you see?" insisted the bandit, touching the match to the boy's

bare leg just above the knee where it left a mean black smudge.

"Don't," whimpered the boy, but it was done, and he wanted to brush it off, but

he wouldn't release his grip on the cannon barrel. He could feel his tears and tight throat



muscles as he squeezed himself dry-eyed. Because, if he cried, he knew his father

would never show him the trick. Father was already angry, and crying always made it

worse. "Daddy, will you show me how to do the trick? Show me how to light the match

again, please."

"Don't be a dummy. You can't light a match a second time."

"You said you could."

"I said I could make it burn twice. Don't you ever listen?" His voice got insistent

and both eyes were squinting. "By God, you can't teach 'em with kindness, just like my

old man always said. You'll have to learn it the hard way." He threw the match down

and ground it in with his shoe and turned away and took a deep drag on his cigarette

and went over and sat down on one of the four corner posts of t he cannon platform. He

looked back at the boy once and shook his head and stared off over the grass to the

border of trees at the edge of the park, maybe to the clouds and the patch of pale blue

sky beyond. He often went away like that.

The boy shivered lower on the barrel. A damp breeze blew across the close-

cropped grass in the park and chilled him even more. It was really too late in the season

for his little sailor suit with the white shorts, the short sleeved tunic, the jaunty white

hat. Then the boy got to wondering when mother would come, and also where they kept

the bullets for his cannon, and he was looking about for them when he saw his mother

in grandma's red fox collar returning from the car, smiling, carrying the Kodak folding

camera, and waving to him.

Mother put the sun behind her, popped the bellows of the camera and looked

down into the view finder. Tilting from side to side, she wobbled into position across



the grass, aligning the top of the boy's head and the muzzle of the cannon with the edge

of the ground glass cross in the view finder.

"Daddy," she called to the father, "come in next to my sailor boy."

And the father, with his big loose smile full of tobacco-stained teeth, put his

hand on the cannon barrel next to the boy, covering the sulphurous scar, and the mother

called, "Sweetie Bun, heads up!" Then she had both of them in her sights. She pressed

the shutter, and they shrank to pale, flat ghosts in her box.



CHAPTER TWO – 1940

The Veteran

He felt the pressure of the seat against his butt and shoulders, felt the controls

quiver in his hand, felt the vibrations of engine and sound as his DeHavilland D.H. 4

rolled left, the prop clawing for every inch of speed, the vibration of the bi -wings and

struts through the spars telling him to ease off the throttle before... but the German was

in his sights now, silhouetted through the blur of prop and he gave three short bursts on

the Vickers machinegun and then a long burst, touched the rudder, let the plane yaw

slightly so the stream of hot lead sliced across the fuselage of the Fokker E. One -

Eleven, saw the pilot slump, the nose dip, the black smoke obscure the iron cross, heard

the screaming howl of defeat in the plunge to earth, felt himself relax for a moment,

sink back into the seat and breathe deeply as his plane soared heavenward in victory.

Within a week he was skip-bombing the U-boat pens at Trondheim. Flack

corroded the sky, German gunners frantic behind the pom-pom counterpoint of ack-ack

guns. His P-47 Thunderbolt skimmed the water, throttle wide open; he flew it with one

hand on the controls, the other on the bomb release. This time there was a dry, bitter



taste in his mouth and the knowledge that doing the job right meant he wouldn't mak e it

back to base. Then he took a hit, felt the fatal piercing of his side, took his hand from

the bomb release and touched himself just below the left rib cage, saw the fingers come

away dark and sticky, knew he'd bought it.

His mouth gasped for air and then he sealed it shut, the teeth tight and

determined, and held the plane there, sixty feet off the water, dead center on the dark

slit beneath the reinforced concrete where the subs hid, wiped the haze from his eyes,

bombs loose, dead on, percussion, percussion, eruption of flame, and chaos at the heart

of the Reich.

His next time out he saw his wing man, an old buddy, get his over the Solomons

when the squadron of Jap Zeroes came peeling in out of the sun. He fought that battle

with tears in his eyes and an ache in his throat that lasted through the final chorus of the

Marine hymn and stayed with him as he stumbled exhausted and trance-like through the

doors of the Hippodrome Movie Palace and into the warm spring night of his home

town. He was a survivor of many such battles and knew all of those things that war

might have been, and knew the stuff he was made of, knew with certainty his heroic

capacity if fortune favored him with the call to arms.



Part Two – 1950 - Esprit de corps



CHAPTER THREE

Enlistees

They stood naked, except for their shorts and shoes and socks and the numbered

tags on strings around their necks, sixty-three of them around three sides of the room.

They were quiet and did not move except to shift the weight from one leg to the other .

If one dared speak or move about, the others looked at him and his nakedness, so they

quickly became uniformly silent, and if they moved at all it was slightly and slowly so

they could remain nudely anonymous.

Traces of identity clung to their feet: one pair of calf-length cowboy boots with

red, green, and yellow floral pattern, one pair of two-tone black and white wingtips,

three pairs of engineer's boots; fourteen pairs of tennis shoes. Several brown scotch-

grain brogues, one pair with colored plaid laces. Four pairs of blue suede shoes. The

black recruits with black shoes would have been the least conspicuous, except that they

were black, and one of them had yellow socks. The numbers on the metal-edged white

discs hanging like scapular medals from each neck were not legible from across the

room.



July, eight in the morning, the room warm with yesterday's heat. The windows

open slightly at the top, the glass opaqued green to prevent their nudit y escaping to the

streets of Kansas City two stories below.

The sun filtered through the green windows and it was like being underwater or

in the jungle, the light marine or arboreal, but not normal, soft to the eye, not too

revealing. They waited.

One shaft of sunlight penetrated the room through a four by six inch pane of

clear glass, the only one of its kind among all the windows. The beam created a bright

trapezoid on the gray, blue and green tiles of the checkerboard floor.

Around three sides of the floor, along the walls, the stripped-down figures

hovered: The farm boys (dusty brogues) from Kansas and Missouri, dark of face and

forearm or dark from the waist up, but otherwise their muscles bulging white like hard -

boiled eggs. Eleven Mediterranean types, dark, curly hair from temple to crotch. The

quondam lifeguard, gold and lovely. All the same age, straight eighteen, except for the

stud in his twenties.

The sergeant entered the room and stood so that his feet touched the sunny

trapezoid. His shoes glinted in the sun. Without having to think he barked in a rapid flat

clipped monotone: "Give me your attention. While your preliminary forms are being

processed, the medical staff will give you a preliminary physical to include lungs,

physique, genitals, hernia and anus. The respiratory, pulmonary, and cardiac

examination will be conducted by Captain Ross and the first team. Answer any

questions put to you clearly, distinctly, and accurately. Falsifying a military medical

record is a court-martial offense.



"The second team is directed by Captain Petosa. Among other things, he will

examine for venereal infections. To assist him in this you will observe the following

procedures: At the Captain's approach, drop your shorts to your ankles; take your penis

between thumb and forefinger and slide the foreskin back to fully reveal the head of the

penis. At the Captain's instruction squeeze lightly and slide the thumb and forefinger

forward to reveal any discharge. Following that, you will stand erect, turn your head to

the side, and, at the Captain's order, cough.

"Captain Sherman directs the third team. At his approach stand erect with normal

posture. At his command turn and face the wall, maintaining normal posture. When he

orders you to bend and spread your cheeks, you will lean forward, grasp your buttocks

with both hands from the back and pull them apart. You will hold that position until he

has finished the anal inspection. When the third team has finished, you will dress, move

immediately to the door on this side and enter without knocking. There, urine and blood

samples will be taken and you will return through the other door to this room and take

your same position. There will be no smoking or talking. Are there any questions?"

A pair of tennis shoes from the corner asked, "Sir, what's an anal inspection?"

"The captain is going to look at your asshole. If you've got more than one, the

Air Force won't take you." The sergeant paused and glanced at the papers in his hand.

"You may not make it. But you can still try the Navy. Are there any other questions?"

His last words were lost among the nervous snickers along three walls. Without waiting

for further comment, he pivoted out of the sunspot and marched from the room.

There was more waiting and a restless silence while the sunspot crept slowly

across the floor towards the southeast, gradually changing shape. Then the teams



entered, the white-coated doctors, the orderlies, the clerks with the clipboards, and each

nude became a number. Captain-doctor Ross calling out routinely, "Twenty-nine... take

a deep breath... clear...have you ever had...?...normal," all impersonal, his eyes almost

vacant, his stethoscope and ears searching and knowing, so that each youth was but a

breath and beat to him. "Number thirty-seven...ever had rheumatic fever, shortness of

breath, fainting spells?... irregular...," he pursued the whispers and thumps of life

around the wall, like one of the blind men with the elephant.

Behind him came Captain Petosa, short, dark, impassively peering at genitals,

"Twenty-two... pull the foreskin back all the way... negative...," finger behind the

scrotum and, like Hercules, he lifted them easily to their tiptoes, "...turn your head and

cough...." It was too routine a job for a man of his intensity, so anything unusual...,

"Why did you shave your pubic hair?"

"I had a rash, sir."

"...What kind of rash?..."

"Just a rash, sir. The doctor told me to shave it and wash regularly and put some

salve on it, I don't remember what kind. It's all gone now. I haven't shaved for over a

week."

"Ever had sexual relations with a woman...?"

Military-record-court-martial-offense: "No, sir," softly.

"...With a man?..."

Lousy sonofabitch! "No, sir," firmly, reddening.

"...Make a note that I want to pull his records...Turn your head..."



"Thirteen... Spread your cheeks...," came Captain Sherman. "Tags on

thirteen...Tags on fourteen...Tags on...," The roundel filled, the chant, the litany, the

chorus grew:

"Seventeen...breath..."

"Fifty...cough..."

"Nineteen...spread..."

"...Have you ever had...?"

"...normal..."

"... irregular..."

"Deviated septum."

"Tags on thirty-three."

"Turn and face..."

"Fifty-five..."

"Sixty-three..."

"Sixty-three..."

"Sixty-three."

And having now numbers and the breath of life and pulse and gender confirmed,

the ability to urinate, defecate, bleed and conform, they were clothed again and named:

"Ackerman!"

"Walter J."

"Over here, Ackerman," pointed the sergeant. "Face that way and stand at

attention." Ackerman on a gray square.

"Adair!"



"George C."

"In next to Ackerman. Put up your right arm and move in next to him until your

fingers touch his shoulder. All right. The rest of you, look at Adair here...get your arm

up, Adair!...when you step into rank, you put your arm up and get your distance and

then you drop it. Put your arm down, Adair. Anderson..."

"Harold M."

"Ashley!...Biggs!..."

"Andrew J."

"Orville, R.," arms up and the distance found, toes along the tile line, boot by

brogue.

"Emans!...Fabrizio!...Findlay!...Funk!" They fall out along the wall and click

into place in the ranks, magnetically aligned.

"Kantor!...Keith!...Knox!...Lowenthal!... Murphy!...Nagley!...Nash!" Not a Smith

in the group, but two Williamses and the man who would always be last:

"Zylos!"

"Michael K."

"The rest of you..." A doubtful forty remained along the wall; the sergeant

tucked his clipboard under his arm. "...whose names I didn't call will report back to the

reception area. Use the door on the left. This doesn't mean that you are rejected,

necessarily, but there is either some discrepancy in your records, or further medical

testing is required. The corporal at the desk who assigned you your numbers will tell

you what's expected of you, or advise you if you've failed the physica l." Nine pairs of



tennis shoes exited left, and the black and white wing-tips, and one blue suede shoes,

and the pubic shave, and a blur of brown and black and the golden lifeguard, too.

The other twenty-three, in pride, filed out right, where their minds would be

measured and their aptitudes tested. By the end of the day….

"I can't believe it! Just the five of us made it out of the whole damn group?"

"I guess so."

"Shit, man, we lucked out!"

"The other poor bastards! Did you hear the one guy, the one who had the steel

plate in his head? No shit, a steel plate! He put it down in his records, but they didn't

catch it right away. This was the fourth time he tried to enlist in the Air Force and he

thought he had it made. His voice sounded like he was gonna cry!"

"The poor son of a bitch, but whataya expect if they only take five out of fifty?"

"Sixty-three! There was sixty-three when we started this morning."

"I don't understand how come so many failed the physical. I mean, I'm only

about average, right? And a lot of those guys looked pretty good to me. I'm almost

skinny, you might say."

"There may be others."

"No way. We are the chosen ones, the wholly-only handful. Our ass belongs to

Uncle Samuel, soon as we sign and swear."

"It never occurred to me I might not get in. Christ, I said goodbye to everybody

and quit my job. They gave me a going away party. How would you like to go back and

tell them the Air Force turned you down? I'd feel stupid as hell."



"Right, you'd think with a war going on the Air Force would take almost

anybody."

"What war?"

"Yeah, whataya talking about a war?"

"The war in Korea! It's been going on for a month. Don't you know about it?"

"No, I never heard of it."

"Where’s Korea? What kind of war is it?"

"Oh, baby, where you been?"



CHAPTER FOUR - Billeting

"Barracks orderly!" The voice came from above where the loud. speaker hung

over the double doors of the barracks’ main entrance where the barracks guard was

posted.

"Barracks orderly!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Barracks orderly!" The volume was up and the speaker in the intercom vibrated.

"Yes, sir. I'm here."

"You were sleeping, private!"

"No, sir!"

"It's a court-martial-offense-punishable-by-death to sleep on your post."

"I wasn't sleeping, sir."

"Give me your name, rank, and serial number."

"Baumgarten, Francis, Private, AF176370128, sir."

"Francis? That's a girl's name! Are you a cute girl, Francis?"

"No, sir."



"You sound like a little sweetheart. What time is it, Francis?"

"6:15, sir."

"No, Francis, it 's 0615 hours. Is your barracks up, Francis?"

"No, sir."

"Well, Private Bumgardner, the log sheet says I called you at 0600 hours..."

"No, sir, you didn't..."

"The training schedule says your flight is due at the mess hall at 0630 hours. And

if they're late, they don't get chow, and it's your ass, Francis, sweetie! Now, roust 'em

out! Call your flight leader! MOVE IT, PRIVATE! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!"

Lack land Ai r Force Base

July 18 , 1950

Dear Pop , Mom and a l l the res t ,

I am here and O.K. so far . I te l l you i t ' s ho t

here , even for Texas . Seems l ike they wa i t t i l

the hot tes t o ld part o f the day to march us up

and down the b lacktop . Some o f these Yankees

dont take i t too good , tha ts for sure , somes

sun burnd and got crak ed l ips . They are f rom

a l l over - S t . Louis , Kansas Ci ty , ev en New

York . I ts no t too bad tho most o f these f e l lows

i s pretty nice but I dont think i ts f a i r when

they make fun o f Texas . I te l l them a l l Texas

wasn' t l ike this . And even i f i t was c i ty s lums

is worse . Least thats my fee l ings .

Hope you l ike the p ic ture on the ca rd .

Your son,

Hank



"Column, right...hARCH! Hut, tuh, thruie, foh,yor lehlft, ryt, lehlft. Sound off!"

ONE, TWO!"

"Sound off!"

"THREE, FOUR."

"Cadence count."

"ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR...ONETWO...THREEFOUR!"

"Sing out, Glllespie!"

"AROUND HER NECK SHE WORE A YELLOW RIBBON,

SHE WORE IT IN THE SPRINGTIME AND THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY..."

CHORUS: "HAY, HAY!"

"AND WHEN THEY ASKED HER WHY THE HELL SHE WORE IT,

SHE SAID IT'S FOR MY AIRMAN WHO IS FAR, FAR AWAY...!"

CHORUS: "FAR AWAY, FAR AWAY!"

“SHE SAID IT'S FOR MY AIRMAN WHO IS FAR, FAR AWAY."

"'BEHIND THE DOOR HER FATHER KEPT A SHOTGUN,

HE KEPT IT IN THE SPRINGTIME AND THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY...'"

CHORUS: "HAY, HAY!"

"'AND WHEN THEY ASKED HIM WHY THE HELL HE KEPT IT,

HE SAID IT'S FOR HER AIRMAN WHO IS FAR, FAR AWAY...'"


HE SAID IT'S FOR HER AIRMAN WHO IS FAR, FAR AWAY!"

"'NOW IN HER ARMS SHE ROCKS A BRAND NEW BABY;

SHE ROCKS HIM IN THE SPRINGTIME AND THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY..."

CHORUS: "HAY, HAY!"

"'AND WHEN THEY ASK HER WHERE THE HELL SHE GOT HIM,

SHE SAYS HE'S FROM MY AIRMAN WHO IS FAR, FAR AWAY..."


OH, SHE SAYS HE'S FROM MY AIRMAN WHO IS FAR, FAR AWAY!"

"Cadence count."



"ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR...ONETWO...THREEFOUR!"

Lack land

20 July 1950

Dear Donna,

P lease don' t be mad tha t I d idn ' t wr i te

sooner . I rea l ly wanted to . I hope you know

tha t . I t was jus t that I d idn ' t have any paper

or enve lopes and we weren ' t a l lowed t o l eave

the barracks area for the f i rs t three days .

Fina l ly the f l i gh t serg eant l e t one guy go to the

P .X. fo r a l l o f us , so I was ab le to get this

s ta t ionery

How are things in Murphysboro? I th ink o f

you and the o ld town and everyone, but they

don' t g ive us much chance to think around

here . They ge t us ou t o f bed a t 5 :30 or6 :00

every morning and my f l i ght has to march

everywhere we go . Maybe I should exp la in that

a f l i ght i s a group o f guys l ike me i n bas ic

tra ining that l i ve s in the same bar racks .

The re are seventy o f us i n this b ig two -

story bui ld ing tha t looks l ike a box. From the

second s tory where my bunk is I can see rows

o f barracks . The base mus t be very b ig but I

don ' t know jus t how b ig . The barra cks just has

bunks in i t , doub le -decker o nes , and wa l l

l ockers and foo t lockers . I go t the top bunk

and the guy who s leeps unde r me is Chuck

Terez io . We came toge ther f rom Kansas Ci ty .

Of course we got showers and the

la tr ine . .bathroom.



By the way , my address for now is Pvt . J .

J . Ke i th, AF1728 lO41, Fl ight7516 , 336th

Tra ining Squadron, 4720thAir Base Group,

Lack land Ai r Force Base , Texas . You can wri te

to me. I don ' t k now i f they read our mai l o r

not . One guy sa id he thought they d id . P lease

wr i te soon. I would l ike to hear f rom you.

Wel l , they ca l l ed l i gh ts ou t and I go t to go .

I ' l l t ry to wr i te tomorrow and eve ryday l ike I

p romised . I hope you know tha t I would have

wr i t ten sooner i f I could . I wouldn' t want you

to think I 'd found ano the r g i r l - f r i end . Wri te as

soon as you can.

I ' l l te l l you more la ter .

Love and k isses ,

J .J .

P .S. Would you ca l l my mom and te l l her

you heard f rom me and I am O.K.? Te l l he r no t

to worry and I ' l l wr i te tomorrow or soon. And

would you send me a new p ic ture o f yourse l f ,

in a bathing sui t i f you go t one .

AIR FORCE ANTHEM

“OFF WE GO INTO THE WILD BLUE YONDER

RIDING HIGH, INTO THE SKY.....”

ARTICLES OF WAR

........such offense, in time of

war, punishable by death, or such other

punishment as the court shall direct.



"Is Jackson gone?"

"Yeah, the sonofabitch is on K.P., and he's gonna come back smelling worse than

ever. What did Corporal Hillis say?"

"He says he'll talk to Jackson and tell him to shower, but he don't want any

official complaints to the C.O.. It'll give him and the flight a bad record."

"It won't do any good. The sonofabitch hates water! I've seen him when he

shaves, he just puts his finger tips into the water to wet his beard, and he sticks his chin

way out over the bowl so it won't drip any on his belly!"

"What a crudhead."

"If the corporal gives him a direct order and he don't obey it he can be court

martialed for failing to obey a direct order."

"No deal. The corporal don't want any demerits against the flight he commands.

He says he'll talk to Jackson, but if that don't do it, then maybe he ought to have a G.I.

shower."

"What's that?"

"It's like a G.I. party, only instead of all the men turning out to scrub the floors,

they scrub the guy who won't shower."

"Wheeo! G.I. soap and G.I. brushes?"

"I'd like to see that."

"God, it would practically kill ya, wouldn't it?

"Oh, I just hope the sonofabitch stays dirty!"

"MAIL CALL!"



"Adair?"

"George C., here."

"Apley?"

"Harold O."

"Wait, here's two more."

Lucky shit, he always gets three or four letters.

"Ball?"

"Which one?"

"Karl."

"I'll give it to him."

"Against regulations."

"I'm his brother. He's on K.P."

"I don't care. I give out mail only to the addressee, that's the reg."

"Got any Kenneth Balls?"

"Yeah, here's one."

"Thanks."

Come on, come on. Christ!

"Baumgarten?"

"Right here!"

"First name, middle initial?"

"Francis X."

I'm glad I ain't got a name like that.



"All right, hold it down. This is mail call, not a social meeting. When your last

name's called, sound off with your first name and middle initial. Step up he re and get

your mail. And the rest of the time keep your mouth shut! A man can't hear himself

think. Boneavatur?"

"Bonaventure? Louis S.?"

"Yeah."

. . . . ' . . .we were so g lad to hear f rom you and

know tha t you were sa fe and hea l thy . We worry

so when we hea r o f tha t terr ib le wa r in Korea ,

and o f the poor boys dy ing the re , and we

pray . . . '

“Guggenheim!”

' . . . and when I read your las t l e t te r I to ld

Jeannie I c r i ed i t was so mov ing . '

"Halderman?"

"David P."

"You got a handful here."

"There all from my girl."

' I hope you l ike the p ic ture . '

' The weather 's been ho t and dry . '

"Keith?"

'Seat t l es go t i ts ra in aga in. Barney got a

job a t . . . '

"Pitman?"

'About three days a f ter you le f t Grandma

s l ipped on the porch s teps and broke her hip .

The docto r says she ' l l have to be in bed for



three to s ix months and wi l l need r egular

a ttent ion. So we have moved her i n to your o ld

room. Your things have a l l been packed in

boxes and s tored in the basement unt i l you

re turn. '

“Wakefield!”

'Dad 's go ing to trade his Fras ier i n on a

DeSoto . '

"Worthington?"

"Anthony L."

' . . . only fa i r to te l l you. I wouldn' t want you

to hear i t f rom somebody e lse . I w i l l a lways

respect you and hope tha t we can s t i l l be

f r i ends . You a re a f ine person and someday I

know you wi l l f ind the r igh t g i r l . . . '

"Young."

#

Gillespie made up lots of marching songs so that Flight 7516 had songs that no

other flight had, and Corporal Hillis, the flight leader, liked that. His flight knew all of

the regular songs, but having their own special songs added to the esprit de corps.

Corporal Hillis rewarded Gillespie by making him assistant flight leader, and Gillespie

responded with songs original and raunchy. One of them went:

“MRS. MURPHY AND HER DAUGHTERS FIVE

WILL BEAT YOUR MEAT 'TIL IT COMES ALIVE,

WILL WHIP YOUR DICK AND WIGGLE YOUR BALLS

AND MAKE YOU COME IN YOUR OVERALLS.”

SOUND OFF...



And another one went;

“TWO-TIT NELLIE WAS A PREGNANT BITCH,

HER CUNT WAS ALIVE WITH THE SEVEN-YEAR ITCH;

THE GREEN SLIME OOZED FROM HER NOSE,

AND THE CRAPPY CORRUPTION FLOWED TO HER TOES.”

SOUND OFF...

And since they marched everywhere, to classes, to the medics, to the mess hall,

to the parade ground, to supply, even to the barber shop, they practiced singing like a

homeless choir. When they would meet another flight, marching the o pposite way along

the road. Corporal Hillis would call, "Dress it up in there! Lehlft, rhyt, lehlft. Dig those

heels in and stop that bobbin'! Sing out, Gillespie!" And Gillespie would let loose with

Mrs. Murphy or Two-tit Nellie or one of his other dillles, and they'd lay the chorus on

like ,the world was coming to an end, shouting obscenities into the hot Texas sky.

Of course, the other flight was doing the same thing, but they sang just the

regular songs; only Flight 7516 had Gillespie. As the two flights would come alongside

each other the singing and cadence would clash like two football teams colliding.

Gillespie would hold in there, with the flight backing him up. Soon the other flight

would go to pieces and lose step because their troops would stop singing to listen to

Gillespie's dirty verses. You could see the skipping and bobbing as they went out of

step.

Corporal Hillis would smile at that other flight leader, grinning ear to ear, and

the other guy would set his mouth hard and yell at his fl ight and call them names and

schedule G.I. work parties late into the night.



Gillespie was the pride of the flight until officers' wives complained to the base

commander about the vile language, and the order went out and Gillespie was silenced.

9 Augus t 1950

Dear Sis ,

So far the a i r f o rce i sn ' t exact ly what I

expected . I haven ' t even seen an a i rp lane yet ,

l eave a lone f l y . I guess we ' l l hear about our

schoo ls and careers next week . But I ' ve

l earned a lo t , even i n these f ew weeks . And I

don ' t mean jus t how to make a bed and po l i sh

brass or ways to get cour t mar t ia led ( there

must be a thousand ! ) I mean the peop le . There

are peop le here you jus t wouldn ' t b e l i eve .

Some o f the things I can ' t te l l you about.

I t ' s no t that they ' re mi l i tary s ecre ts or

anything . I t ' s jus t that they a re so dumb and

raunchy you want to fo rg et they eve r

happened . But the re are so many o f them every

day you get to think ing that ' s a l l there ever i s ,

and i t s tar ts to get to you. I don ' t want you to

think tha t I 'm depress ed or any thing . I th ink i t

he lps though to be ab le to ta lk about your

thoughts and fee l ings , par t i cular ly to someone

who unders tands, l ike you.

In a way , that 's part o f the prob lem;

around he re I can ' t ta lk honest ly to someone

about the way I f ee l w i thou t them think ing I

was a panty -wa is t o r worse . And I can ' t te l l

Mom and Dad because i t would just make them

worry and I 'm no t sure that they would

unders tand . So i f I te l l you some o f these

things I want you to promise tha t y ou won' t



say anything to the f o lks or show them this

l e t te r . In fact , I guess i t would mak e me fee l

bette r i f you would jus t burn i t a f te r you read

i t .

Boy- i t ' s funny. I ' ve been s i t t ing here for

twenty minutes t ry ing to dec ide what i t was I

was go ing to te l l you about, and I r emember a

lo t o f dumb stup id even nasty things , but they

don' t make any sense . I mean none o f them is

worth ta lk ing about. I t ' s l ike i f I to l d you, a l l

you 'd say i s "So wha t? " Because i t ' s not one

thing , i t ' s every thing toge ther . You get i t

twenty - four hours a day . You can' t ge t away

f rom i t . Eve rybody hears cuss wo rds in his

l i f e , but here that 's a l l you ever hear . Peop le

don' t say any thing sens ib le , they just speak a

coup le o f f our - le tte r words to exp la in

everything . And i ts l ike a l l o f the things you

learned be fore don' t count.

Wel l , I 'm go ing to te l l you one thing so you

can unders tand , but don' t be o f f ended . The

o the r day , when we were s tand ing i n formation

out behind the bar racks just a f ter we had had

the Ar t i c l es o f War read to us , the f l i ght

l eader . Corpora l H i l l i s , was say ing , "You 're

a i rmen now, and tha t means your a ss be longs

to Unc le Sam and to me. Be l i e ve i t . When I say

shi t , you drop your pants and you say 'Yes ,

s i r ! How much and what co lor? ' "

You never have any cho ices , not ab out

what you wear, o r where you s leep , or when

you get up , or wha t you ea t . And i f you don' t

l ike something you can ' t ge t away f rom i t .



When we go to the mess ha l l we have to s tand

in ranks and f i l e in. Whi le we are wa i t ing we

have to s tand a t parade res t , which is wi t h

your f ee t apar t and your hands c lasped behind

your back . Sometimes we have to s tand l ike

tha t in the sun for f i ve or ten minutes , and the

l i t t l e gnats come up and get around your eyes

and in your ears and nose , but you can' t move

or brush them away or g et away f rom them,

because i f you do the f l i gh t l eader makes you

fa l l out and s tand a t a t ten t ion a t the s ide o f

the wa lk unt i l eve ryone e lse has eaten, and the

bugs s t i l l ge t you anyhow. Tha t sor t o f says i t

a l l .

I t f ee ls l ike you 're i n pr ison, only there 's

no bars . You can ' t say or look or ac t except

the way they want. The best thing i s to no t

s tand out. You lea rn to keep quie t and keep

your thoughts to yourse l f . Camouf l age yourse l f

so the enemy can ' t spo t you, I guess . I don ' t

know how some guys take i t . There i s this k id

f rom New York who s leeps down at the end o f

the barracks . He 's k ind o f a loner , and not

very f r i end ly , sor t o f quie t and moody l ike . Ted

Rosenb lum is his name. We go t put on

rest r i c t ion because o f h im. He can ’ t do

anything r ight .

Anyhow, dur ing the nigh t two or three guys

got up and ur inated in his foo t lock er . Can you

imag ine? A foo t locker i s l ike a t runk wi th a

tray in i t whe re we keep our razo rs and

toothbrushes and shoe po l i sh and shorts and

socks and handkerchie fs and th ings .



God, i t was awful , and in the morning the

s tory i s go ing around the barracks whi le

everyone i s ge tt i ng dressed for ro l l ca l l and

everybody wants to see i t . And they are

wonder ing how he i s go ing to get dressed and

s tand inspec t ion and wha t wi l l hap p en i f he

doesn ' t . And you s i t there and think , “God

what would I do i f i t happened to me?”

In some ways the wors t part i s knowing

tha t you d id i t to yourse l f . We a l l enl i s ted , l ike

babes in the woods. I f I l earn as much in the

next four years as I ' ve l earned in these four

weeks , I ' l l rea l ly be something .

Wel l , only three years and 48 weeks more

to go . I 'd l ike to hear f rom you aga in, Sis . Next

t ime I ' l l be over the b lues and te l l y ou about

our t ra ining , or about San Antonio , i f we ever

get a week -end pass .

I l ove you,

Tony

P .S. P lease don' t te l l the fo lks , O.K .?

TIME, August 14, 1950

"WAR IN ASIA"

"On the Hill this Afternoon"

Time Correspondent Frank Givney was in Pusan last

week when the first troops of the U.S. 1st Marine

Division, confident and well-equipped, arrived from the

U.S. and moved out to the front. Later, Givney went up

to join a regiment of the U.S. 4th Infantry Division,

which had been fighting steadily for 31 days. What he



saw, a platoon-eye view of the war, gave a very

different picture from sweeping communiqués of how

the Americans were doing in Korea. Givney cabled:

James Shelton, a 21-year- old private from Company

D, 1st Battalion, 19th Infantry Regiment, was

awakened from the sleep of the exhausted by the zing

of Communist bullets over his foxhole. For an hour

before, confident Communist infantrymen, their conical

Russian helmets sticking up like mushrooms through

the early morning mist, had marched along a steep dirt

road to a mountain pass commanding the U.S.

positions. Wakeful U.S. sentries heard the Reds

singing snatches of Communist marching songs as

they pulled an aged, creaking Russian heavy machine

gun up the steepening slope.

"Hey, Lou, you know what a bitch box is?"

"An intercom?"

"Naw, a cunt that talks back to ya! Ahhahahah."

"Shit, Halderman."

"Hey, I made it up myself. Pretty good, hunh?"

Four fucking years! Christ, I'm not going to make it. I

can't stand this crap. There's got to be a way out. Either

O.C.S. or a Section 8 or a medical or something. I'll take



anything but a D.D. If I lost any eye or was deaf in one ear,

they'd give me a medical, but it ain't worth that. I could stand

breaking a leg or an arm, but they'd just put me in sick bay and

I'd have to start all over with another flight later on. Shit!

Shit, shit, shit. I could break my own leg; I could do that. But

it's not good enough. It's a good thing this is the Air Force

and not the Army; they say the army's worse. How could the army

be worse? They send you to Korea, that's how it could be worse.

I don't want any part of that shit. I want out. I wonder...if

you lost a finger they would discharge you? I would give a

finger, you bet! You can live without a finger, no sweat. Four

fucking years is worth a finger any day! But not an eye, and...

"Barracks Orderly!" the bitch box blared.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do I hear talking in the barracks?"

"No, sir. All's quiet."

"Well, this is a fire drill! Repeat, 'FIRE DRILL! Lights on! Fall 'em out on the

road. FIRE DRILL! Hit the deck! Hit it! Hit it!"

"Oh, son of AH Bitch!"



CHAPTER FIVE – Dog Tags

The barracks were large rectangular two-story wooden boxes. At each end of the

barracks, on the lower bay, were double doors, constantly open in summer to let the

breezes in. On the upper bay there was one double door to the outside, and at the other

end there was the stairwell to the floor below. The breezes flowed cool and gentle down

the center aisles of each bay, between the two-tiered rows of bunks, whispering

sometimes through the bunks and out the open windows behind them.

On each bunk the rough wool khaki blankets stretched tautly across the light bow

of mattress and shallow arch of pillow. At the foot of each bed along the center aisle

hung the olive drab musette bags, and beneath them the olive drab foot lockers. At the

head of the beds along the wall hung the bulging olive drab duffel bags, and at intervals

between the bunks were the olive drab wall lockers.

On Sundays, the new recruits in olive drab fatigues and undershirts rested quietly

among the bunks and lockers writing letters home. The wood barracks, like orchard

trees, had seen many seasons of olive men and gear.



The sun-bleached breeze sneaking indoors soaked up the odor of new clothing

and canvas and twill, of shoe polish and blitz rags, of the alkaline yellow G.I. soap with

which the bare timbers of the bay floors had been scrubbed. It was quiet among the

writers.

If there was a burst of energy among some of the young men, their first thought

was to leave the barracks quickly, honoring the meditations of the letter writers. Thus

the talking and scuffling spilled outdoors and spent itself in sports or bull sessions on

the steps, and the silence inside was left intact.

The quietness generated quietness. The radio that belonged to the boy from

Louisiana was muted now, not having to compete with the normal uproar and gabble of

voices and slamming lockers. From the cracked and yellowing plastic grill over the

radio speaker came the groan of hillbilly ballads and country western with a steady

beat, and the nasal, melancholy melody always in the air:

IRENE, GOODNIGHT,

IRENE, GOODNIGHT.

GOODNIGHT, IRENE, GOODNIGHT, IRENE

I'LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS.

SOMETIMES I LIVE IN THE COUNTRY ,

SOMETIMES I LIVE IN TOWN,

SOMETIMES I HAVE A GREAT NOTION,

TO JUMP INTO THE RIVER AND DROWN.

IRENE, GOODNIGHT

IRENE, GOODNIGHT

And the song moved like the odors and breezes among the bunks, touching

lightly and disappearing. In fluid percussion a toilet would flush and quickly go silent.

In the shade of the barracks two of the recruits played catch with equipment drawn from

the orderly room. They did not speak, and only the rap and pop of the bal l in the leather



pocket of the gloves, thumping with a regular rhythm on the afternoon air, rap like a

muted metronome beat or the slow drop of water, plopping back and forth to the easy

rhythm of muscles repetitively coordinated, plopped and fingers pluck ing, torso turning,

wrist, arm, neck, head, elbow - synchronous, choreographed, and the white sphere

sailing...

Dear Fo lks ,

I hope you have had t ime to think some

more about me jo ining the Ai r Force and aren ' t

too unhappy about i t . I know that d ad wanted

me to work the farm wi th him during the

summer but. . .

It's still kind of funny to call him 'Dad', even after

eight years. I wonder if it sounds phony to them like it does to

me? Roy's tried to be a father, the best he knew how...I give

him credit for that. I tried, too, though, and he's not the

easiest one to work for. Ask Elmer Schlesinger. Maybe I was too

old already. With Warren it's different; he gets along with Roy

O.K. Warren don't much remember the orphanage or how it was.

It was always easier with Vera. Calling her 'Mom' was

always easy. Calling her 'Mom' was like saying, "you're nice. I

like you." I do like her. I still remember the first year Warren

and me was with them. I was ten...I think...

"Are you sick, son?"

"No, Ma'am, not exactly."

"He's got a toothache," said Warren.



"Is that it, son?"

"Yes, Ma'am." I almost cried it hurt so much, but I didn't.

I hadn't cried all day. Roy ain't never seen me cry, not even

with the lickings.

"Roy, I do believe his face is swoll on that side. Seems

feverish to me." Her hand cool on the cheek. "I'm goin' to get

the oil of cloves and doctor that just a bit."

She knew her stuff. It did the trick. And then early the

next morning, maybe around two or three, she came into our

bedroom and said I was whimperin' again, and she doctored it

again and crawled in beside me and held me like I was her own

real son. I still remember her with her hair down like it never

was in the daytime, and her long loose white nightgown, and the

way the pain went away. It went away.

She's a good woman, and it's 'cause she loves Roy that it's

hard to go against him. You know she's feeling sorry for him.

That's one good woman.

. . .but Warren is s t i l l there to he lp , and I ' l l

be ab le to send a long a l i t t l e money f rom t ime

to t ime to he lp ou t tha t way . And maybe save

up a l i t t l e fo r Warren and me for schoo l ing .

Af ter a l l , when I 'm out i n four yea rs Warren

wi l l be just ready for co l l ege , and he and me

can go to schoo l together , maybe, and work the

farm too , jus t l ike you p lanned a l l a long .



I th ink you and Roy have done a lo t f o r me

and Warren. And I want to thank you. And I

want to l e t you know tha t I don ' t p lan to l e t

you down. I know that Roy wasn' t t oo keen on

me leav ing jus t now. But I th ink i t was for the

best . I can ' t f o rget a l l tha t he taught me, and

I ' l l l earn some thing new here bes id es . And get

my wi ld oats sowed , as he says , so I can set t l e

down when I ge t back . They say tha t we wi l l

ge t to go home on leave a f te r t ra ining schoo l .

None o f us know where we ' l l be s ta t ioned

yet . I guess there i s a war on in Ko rea - And

tha t i s why i t i s ge t t ing c rowded he reabouts .

The new f l i gh ts are l i v ing i n ten ts . We were

lucky to get a barracks when we d id . We a lso

go t our new shoes and boots this week , and

some more shots . I hope the i r about thru.

I t i s s t i l l p len ty ho t . Have you had any ra in

the re? You can t e l l Roy that Mis sour i l ooks

pretty good a f te r Texas . I t don ' t l ook l ike you

could grow much around here excep t o i l we l l s ,

cactus , and wha t they ca l l mesqui te trees .

Te l l War ren he l lo and to wr i te i f he knows

how. Te l l h im to s t i ck to hay ing and leave the

g i r l s a lone . Have you been to any communi ty

d inners la te ly? I miss those tab les l oaded wi th

lo ts o f homemade p ies . We get co ld cuts i n the

mess ha l l on Sunday nights , which is tonight.

Wri te soon as you can.

Love and a l l ,

Marty



P.S. Te l l Joe Pr i tchi t to wr i te me i f you see

him. He was ta lk ing about enl i s t ing and theres

some things I could te l l h im.

The game of catch outside the barracks had ended. Sunday was fading into haze.

From the ball diamond down the road a cheer went up, feeble in the evening air, short -

lived, and that game ended.

Groups of three or five or six figures, olive drab and identically dressed,

gravitated toward the uniform rows of light gray barracks, gravitated toward the mess

hall, with its rows of tables and benches and the heavy sweetsour smell of juice and

cold cuts and mops and scrubbed garbage racks and the steam from the dishwashing

machine where the racks of metal trays emerged hot and quickly drying.

STOP YOUR RAMBLIN'

STOP YOUR GAMBLIN'

STOP STAYIN' OUT LATE AT NIGHT.

GO HOME TO YOUR WIFE AND FAMILY,

AND SET BY THE FIRESIDE BRIGHT.

IRENE, GOODNIGHT.

IRENE, GOODNIGHT.

GOODNIGHT, IRENE, GOODNIGHT, IRENE.

I'LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS

"Hey, Marty!" yelled J.J. "Want to catch the mess hall 'fore it closes?"

"You bet. Hang on a minute."

Marty scribbled the complex return address on the letter to his folks, and, not yet

sure of his serial number, checked the dog tags around his neck.

PITMAN, MARTIN L. AF18337626, AB.



He was pretty much used to it by now, the PITMAN. Before the adoption it had

been Stagner. In school, at first, he had had trouble remembering to write Martin

Pitman instead of Martin Stagner. But now it was legal and stamped in metal on two

tags that clinked a little music every time he moved, and if he was killed in the war they

would take one of the dog tags and leave the other silent around his neck and notify his

folks and send his body home, and on the records and on the tombstone and on the tag

around his neck it would say, PITMAN, MARTIN L. AF18337626, AB, and no one

would know who Martin Stagner was.



CHAPTER SIX

The Failed Campaign

"HOR?"

"What?"

"Home of Record!"

"I don't...

"Your permanent home address. Were you living with your parents when you

enlisted?"

"Yeah."

"Then use that address, but when you're given travel allowance to your home of

record, it'll be that address. O.K. let's have it."

"5728 Latona Ave., Seattle, Washington."

"1201 Seventh St., Carbondale, Illinois."

"Route 1, Box 164, Springfield, Missouri."

"6530 Mohawk Lane, El Paso, Texas."

"2812 N. Edith, Tucson, Arizona."



"... Alabama...Alabama...Oregon..."

"The next clerk will fill in the rest of the data. Wait over there until your name is

called."

"Name and address of next of kin?"

"Angela Gonzales, 6530 Mohawk Lane, El Paso, Texas."

"Mary Keith, 1316 Hanson Street, Murphysboro, Illinois."

"Lester Courtney, 34 Willow Road, College Station, Maryland."

"Vera Pitman...Naomi Rush...Willard Lonsdale...Bourgmiller, White,

Williams..."

"Previous occupations?"

"Student...None...Grocery clerk...Student... Student... Farmer...None ... Can you

count part-time? ...Exterminator."

"Your test scores are pretty high: APQT- 2(96BI), and your aptitude: AOE Mech

9, Cler 9, Tech 9, EqOpr 7, ...You have a good chance of getting into any service school

you apply for. What's your first choice?"

"How about atomic energy school?"

"Are you twenty-one?"

"No."

"Not eligible. Same for Cadets and OCS unless you'll be twenty-one prior to

graduation?"

"No."

"Well, then, what's your next choice?"

"Radio operator."



"Flight mechanic."

"Heavy equipment operator."

"Photographer."

"Photo schools filled for the next three months. You can try photo -interpreter."

"O.K., photo-interpreter. What's that?"

"Radar...Radio...Electronics...Band...Medical ...Clerical...Weapons ..."

"Well, if they won't let you become an actor, how come they ask if you have

theatrical experience?"

"Give me your attention, gentlemen. As Air Force personnel you will be highly

trained technicians performing critical duties within a complex technological system

unequaled in the history of the military. Nevertheless, you must be familiar with the

standard Air Force small arms, the M-l Carbine. You will be expected to qualify..."

Aunt Rena would put 'em all to shame. Better shot than

any man I knowed. Drop a running elk with one shot. Me, and

Cousin Jake and Aunt Rena riding single file along this game

trail that wound through the down timber, with her up ahead,

as usual. Steep country and a lot of tall timber with the

sunlight breaking through here and there. I heard the elk

before I seen them, but not Aunt Rena. She had reined up her

horse and wheeled him so she could dismount on the high

side, and she was swinging clear of the saddle and bringing

her 30-30 out of the scabbard as she come. She hit the

ground, worked the bolt and fired, I swear, without even

aiming, it seemed, and there was this cow elk crashing



through the dry branches at least 150 feet away, running and

trying to look back at us, her head high and twisted back,

and that's how she was when the slug hit her just below the

ear. She had been in one of those bright sun-lit spots, and

it was strange to see her there, scared and wall-eyed one

minute, and then wiped out and gone tumbling downhill before

the echo had died on the ridges. Me, I still had both feet

in the stirrups.

"READY ON THE RIGHT...READY ON THE LEFT...READY ON THE FIRING

LINE...

BALL AMMUNITION, LOCK AND LOAD.

COMMENCE FIRING!"

In Texas and Utah, Nebraska and California, in England, Japan and Okinawa,

agents of the CID. or CIA or FBI, left little black boxes in Strategic Air Command

bombers, the B-29s, the B-50s, the B-36s, and left little black boxes in S.A.C. hangars

and S.A.C. communication centers and offices, world-wide. And these agents

telephoned General Curtis E. LeMay, C.G. of S.A.C., and told him of t heir insidious

exercise and their near-perfect execution thereof, and informed him that his bomber

force had been wiped out, theoretically. And the General and his officers checked and

found hundreds of little black boxes, and there was much ass chewed in the halls of

S.A.C. that day.

General LeMay immediately requisitioned three thousand tactical guards from

the Basic Training Unit at Lackland A.F.B., Texas. to be sent to a new training school

in Florida. Top Priority.



LeMay's tactical guards would be security specialists and would prevent

infiltration and sabotage on S.A.C. Bases, world-wide, theoretically.

“Air Police! That’s not one of my training choices! What the hell?”

“The whole flight? All of us?”

“Almost.”

“What the fuck! I don’t want to be a goddamn military cop!”

“You got nothing to say about it. They say ‘shit’ and you drop you pants and say

‘How much, Sir?’”

Our Illusion who art in deception,

Hallowed be thy game.

Thy command doth come

Thy Will be done

By every fucking airman!

Chuck Terezio and J. J. Keith bunked together, and it was only natural they

should take their first weekend pass together. They sat now in the cheap, stale, sultry

hotel room in San Antonio with the street sounds trickling through the open window,

drinking Coke and Four Roses bought from a cab driver.

Earlier, before coming to the hotel, they had wandered the August streets of the

city, visited the Alamo, tried a couple of pick-ups, unsuccessfully. Then Chuck Terezio

took charge.

"We don't have to hustle broads on the streets," he said. "We get a room and let

the desk clerk hustle us up a girl."

"That sounds like a good idea to me," said J.J.



"God, do you see how many troops there are in this town? There must be ten

guys for every girl."

Terezio stopped in the shade of the awning at the entrance of the Saint Anthony

Hotel. "Want to try this place?" he asked.

"Yeah, why not," said J.J., "but maybe we ought to ask first how much it costs

though. Looks pricey."

"You mean for the room or for the broad?"

"Well, for both. God knows we ain't got enough for no fifty-dollar call girl."

"We'll dicker. Leave it to me." Terezio straightened his back, tugged at his belt,

aligned the bill of his cap and marched through the door of the Saint Anthony. In their

neatly starched and creased Khakis they strode up to the desk clerk. Terezio came

straight to the point, "Can you fix us up with a room and a couple of girls?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir." The clerk was crisp, well-groomed, a

man in his late thirties. J. J. caught the slight edge in the clerk's voice, and he looked

around the large, well-appointed lobby with its portly, well-dressed clientele

Terezio was undaunted.

"My buddy and me are in town for a couple of days and we'd like a room, see?

And we'd like a couple of girls, naturally, and we figured you could help us out there.

What do you say? How about it?"

"For two?"

"For two what? Yeah, a room for two."

"Any luggage?"

"Naw. What difference does that make?"



"We do have accommodations... that would be $45.00...in advance."

"Forty-five!...," Terezio looked over at J.J. who gave his head a quick, urgent

shake. "Have you got anything cheaper?"

"I'm sorry. Perhaps you should try another establishment, one of the smaller

hotels in another part of town."

"Listen," said Terezio, "does the forty-five include the girls?"

The clerk's face was getting hard and his voice firmer, "You have the wrong

establishment. You would do better... elsewhere."

"Come on, don't give me that stuff."

The clerk closed the register, straightened himself, and terminated the

negotiations. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, gentlemen. We can't help you."

"Let's go. Chuck," said J.J.

"Naw, we don't have to go. This guy just wants his palm greased. Right?" he

asked the clerk.

"No. That might be true in the establishments you are accustomed to doing

business with, but the Saint Anthony can do without your type. Good day."

Terezio wouldn't budge. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to? We're a

couple of customers who want a room, and if you don't want to act right, we'll just talk

to the manager."

"As you wish," said the clerk, and he turned to the open door behind him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Prescott, but would you step out here for a moment."

"Come on. Chuck. Let's go." said J.J.

"Just wait a minute. You don't let bastards like this talk that way."



"He wants what?" asked Mr. Prescott, who had come out to the reception desk.

The clerk started to explain, but Terezio interrupted him.

"Listen, my buddy and me want a room, and this joker tells us to beat it."

"He wanted the hotel to provide them with girls." said the clerk.

"Well, so what? You guys do that all the time."

"Where did you hear such a story?" asked Mr. Prescott. "Did you hear it about

this hotel? Did you ever have us provide you with girls?"

"No, but what's the difference? Everybody knows it happens."

"The difference is, this is a respectable hotel, and for the sort of things you have

in mind, I think you had better take your business elsewhere."

"My words exactly," said the clerk.

"Come on. Chuck. Let's go."

Terezio was quivering with rage, his eyes blinking, and words sputtering on his

lips, "You, phony fu fu..fuuckers.."

"Hey, Chuck, forget it. Let's go." Heads were starting to turn, and a couple who

had just entered the lobby were heading for the reception desk. They were stylishly

dressed and smiling.

"Chuck, I'm going."

"O.K." said Terezio, his dark eyes moist and large. He moved three or four paces

back from the counter, and then stopped and shouted, "Fuck you, Mr. Wiseass! You can

take your fucking hotel and stick it! I hate bastard, sonofabltching, cocksucking.

..liars!"

The cool, air-conditioned lobby was silent.



The young couple who had just entered stopped smiling and watched the intens e,

angry young man. Terezio looked them over quickly and said to the handsome young

man, "You better be married to her, buddy."

"Have the switchboard call the military police," said Mr. Prescott to the clerk.

Then he turned to the couple and said apologetically, "I'm sorry. A little incident here.

It's taken care of now. May I help you?"

The clerk stepped around the corner and said something to the switchboard

operator and then turned to watch as J.J. urged Terezio out of the cool lobby into the

hot afternoon sun. They walked casually, but deliberately, down the street until they

were out of sight of the lobby and then walked a little faster and around a couple of

corners. Then Terezio slowed stubbornly, fuming and threatening, and J.J. tried to calm

him.

They were passing a drug store with an old fashioned soda fountain, and J.J.

said, "Let's have something to drink, my throat is dry as hell." And they went in and

found a cool, dark corner, and both had ice tea with lemon and sugar, and in low voices

talked nervously.

"Listen," said Terezio, "All G.I.s look alike to them, and there's thousands in

town. We don't have to sweat it."

"Yeah," agreed J.J. "One good thing is nobody around here knows who anybody

is."

"You got that right. Did you see that fucker's face when I told him where to get

off?"

"Did I! I thought he was gonna drop his teeth on the spot. You really told him."



Later, having given up for the moment on the girl game, they hailed a cab where

they bought their whiskey, and had him take them to a cheap hotel.

# # #

They had survived their first week-end pass. They had left the base in crowded

busses, crisply uniformed, and they returned, sporadically over the forty-eight hours,

wrinkled, soiled, scuffed, penniless, in the same busses, the ir energies spent, saying,

"Hey, Loren, you got any money for the Coke machine?" or, "I want to write a couple

of cards to the folks and my girl and tell them about San Antonio," or "The fucking

mess hall is closed already," or "It feels good to get back and sack out," or "You think

that's something! Wait 't il I tell you what happened to Jackson and me!"

"...Butch and me."

"...Kelly and me."

"...Evans and Owens and me."

"Wait 't il I tell you what happened to us."

Innumerable lies.

BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND - s3.amazonaws.com · BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND 2 BATTLES OF HEART AND MIND 2 CHAPTER ONE – 1930 War Memorial His father sat him astraddle the cannon barrel

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