THE DAWN’S EARLY LIGHT

By Jimmie vonTungeln

 Dedicated to an old friend and to our wives with the assurance that this is all absolutely, one hundred percent fictional except for the parts that really happened.

Part One 

            Having been encouraged by the canonization of the World War Two servicemen, the so-called “Greatest Generation,” I take this opportunity to place in print a few reminisces of my own experiences of a later date and time. I refer, of course, to the Vietnam era.

It doesn’t seem that it would be helpful to make comparisons. That’s best left for future generations. I might point out that it doesn’t much of a hero to be drafted into a popular war. To go voluntarily, on the other hand, into a dirty, embarrassing, sniveling, despised, and much regretted little mud-fight of a freedom mission, when even your old high school English teacher tells you that you are a chump to do so, takes a real man in my book.

            Of course at the time I wouldn’t have called it completely voluntary. Later listeners would invariably say, when I related how I wound up, in the middle of the night, cradling an M-16 rifle and sitting on top of a bunker a hundred yards out in the jungle south of DaNang, Republic of South Viet Nam: “Well after all, you enlisted willingly, didn’t you?”

            Not really. I only call myself a volunteer in these later times when it suits some purpose or other. I simply couldn’t think of any way out at the time that wouldn’t have embarrassed Mother. And a southern boy’s fear of his mother’s disdain is stronger than the fear of any mortal enemy.

            So, in what passed for “analytical-mode” in those days, I reasoned that the two physical places, in a military sense, most remote from either a rice paddy or a jungle were in an airplane or on a ship. They always say that ships are more forgiving of human error than planes, so I opted for the United States Navy. Besides, they offered the sexier uniforms. My main concern was that I would not have to offer the military any benefits from either my education or talents. I was real smart, even in those days.

            They, the Navy, were happy to see me, or at least they said so. It was somewhere around the first of June 1966 when the Draft Board tracked me down in San Francisco, California. I was living on Masonic, between Haight Street and the panhandle of Golden Gate Park a block over from Ashbury and having a hell of a good time. When they, the Navy, offered to sign me up and postpone my actual entry for six months, I jumped at the chance to get the Army off my back and trust that the war might end by the time I had to go. I have always placed a lot of faith in the healing nature of time. Time … anything that can cure a hangover should be embraced and not feared, or so it seems to me.

            No such luck. Six months eased by, like gray horses passing in a morning mist, and I was due. I was living in the company at the time of a young girl of few convictions and even fewer misgivings who had gone along on more than one free ride in her life. For the price of a car title, she agreed to accompany me to Arkansas posing as my wife, and they, the Navy, agreed to let me enter the adventure of my life from my home state.

            Tina was a rather tall person, somewhat flat-chested and big-hipped but oozing a full-lipped sensuality that would make a stranger stop her on Haight Street and ask if they didn’t belong to the same Existentialism Club. She wore her dark hair short because she loved to put on men’s clothes and hit the bars on Saturday night pretending to be gay. I didn’t know at the time if she was or not. Those distinctions were somewhat blurred in those days and in that place. Subsequent events suggested she was simply enjoying one of her many larks. But hell, who knows?

            “Takin’ any dope?” she asked, a few days before our scheduled departure. She tended to plan ahead when it came to recreation, a trait that I’m sure came in handy more than once. I studied on it for a moment and remembered that I had saved up a couple hundred dollars to buy a television set. Reasoning, correctly as I later found out, that they, the Navy, wouldn’t allow it in Boot Camp, I gave her the money and said to see what it would buy.

            It bought a lot, as it turned out, about four shoe boxes full if I remember correctly. We wrapped most of it as Christmas gifts and she hid the rest in a Kotex box and we took off for Arkansas in an old Rambler automobile that now belonged to her. It was years later I learned that those presents would have been first items searched had the car been search. Luckily, it wasn’t. We pressed on.  I was due to report in ten days and we had a couple of stops to make.

            I won’t bore the reader with a detailed account of the circuitous voyage to Arkansas. Well, actually I couldn’t if I wanted to for I simply don’t remember too much of it. I think we arrived in my hometown with two of the shoeboxes still intact. How we escaped prison I will never know except that Tina, that was her name, was the most accomplished and believable liar of the last century. She could have gotten caught in bed with the Police Chief’s son and convinced the world that she was simply a religious missionary going out of her way to give testimony. She was that good. I kid you not.

            To the contrary, I was awful at it, lying that is. I don’t think Mother ever really believed we were married, so naturally she wouldn’t have believed the story I made up later, a good one but amateurish by Tina’s standards, describing the “Dear John” letter and subsequent divorce. When Mothers are simply suspicious, they ask for some proof. When they know you are bullshitting them, they pretend to go along, making you feel even more crappy about it.

            My Dad didn’t talk about it much at all. He was from an old German family, aristocracy back in the old country we are told. After coming to America the family had pretty much minded its own business and had assumed that the federal government would have the common decency to do the same. This extended to the draft board.

            “It ain’t none of our concern,” was all he said. “Why are you going in when it ain’t none of our concern?” He was, of course, referring to the Vietnam War.

He didn’t exactly encourage active avoidance. He simply felt that if you communicated effectively enough, the government would sense your lack of interest and leave you alone. Only one member of the family had ever failed in this approach, an older uncle who, finding no other way out, waited until he got in the Army and then wet the bed every night until the finally gave him a medical discharge. That seemed to me a little drastic.

            Anyway, we hung around the old home for a few days and Tina got ready to take me to the Induction Center. That’s when I heard the news that Michael D, an old friend from college was in town.

            Now Michael D was a man who proved the old adage that everyone is famous for something. In his case, it was a, mythical some say, sexual technique quite infamous in our hometown. Simply called “A Turtle,” it was more whispered about than openly practiced. I only know of it by general description and through the claims of its sexual enslavement of females. I would have doubted Michael D’s reported mastery of it had I not been a first-hand witness, not to the act itself but to its aftereffects, on a girl who, at the time was engaged and hopelessly in love with a good friend of ours, a true madman. I offer no further details except that it caused an almost irreparable rift in the engagement and nearly cost Michael D. his life.

            That was during our earlier days. Now he was a soldier. As he later explained, his first attempt at higher education ended when, “Inertia overtook me.” Thereafter Michael D had taken a mutually agreeable break from our state university. While cruising the college town bars, perhaps looking for potential Turtle victims, he met an army recruiter named Sergeant Goforth. I am not making this part up. With a name like that, it only took a few cold beers to convince Michael D. that he had a new home waiting in the Green Berets. He was a little impulsive like that.

            So he had enlisted and completed Officer’s Training School by the time I was being hauled into the United States Navy. They, the Army, had given him a few days leave prior to his next duty assignment. The convergence of forces that placed us in our hometown on that same night still seems scary. But it happened just that way.

            Tina got excited. At the time I had no idea why. So instead of spending a horrible evening at my parents’ house wilting under their accusing stares, we decided to make a night of it.

            Michael D. was typically eloquent when he heard my voice on the phone and I knew the Army hadn’t changed him. “You gotta be shittin’ me!” This had been his response to most revelations for as long as I had known him. He was, I guess one could say, an ebullient cynic. A brief explanation and he was ready for whatever. As I mentioned, he was a little impulsive.

            I packed the few things they, the Navy, had said to bring to Boot Camp and said goodbye to my family. They were sulking so it wasn’t particularly emotional. They were used to my going away on adventures by now and, besides, had two more children who had never shown the least inclination to leave town. A year later, I would have the real farewell, with Mother standing at the back door, hand to her mouth in a Dorothea Lange pose and I in my sailor suit by then and headed for six weeks weapons training for Naval Security Forces, a real man headed for a real man’s war with a real Mother fighting back tears at the farmhouse door. It was a real suckass moment but months in the future. We still had tonight to go.

Next: The Night Begins

 THE ROOTS THAT CLUTCH

By Jimmie von Tungeln

This day showed promise. Sheila knew it when she saw a pair of turtle doves courting in a tree before she started to school. Their soft cooing caught her attention and she stopped to watch the male nuzzle the female in the morning fog. She watched quietly as their heads bobbed in ancient ritual. In the mist the two appeared as a single gray organism, joined in an almost musical rhythm. Sheila bobbed her own head, smiled once and then sailed a rock into them. It caught one squarely in the chest—the first direct hit of her life.

"Be damned," she said as she watched feathers drift to the ground, following the body in a slow, orbiting motion.

"Why'd you want to do that?" Robert asked. He jumped a ditch bordering a cotton field, swinging a rusty lard bucket that carried a small lunch for him and Sheila. “Doves is in The Bible."

            "Don't care," his sister said. "I'll kill 'em ever by god chanct I get."

"That don't hardly seem right," Robert said. Then his attention was caught by a blur on a far away county road. It was an automobile and he stopped to stare.

"Model A, I'll bet,” He said. “Ford Motor Company."

“Who cares?" was Sheila's answer as she scanned the fencerow for birds, a well balanced rock in hand. Straining, she failed to see the Hinson boys approaching.

           "Ya'll ain't pickin' cotton today?" asked Timmy, the older of the two as they joined the others. He also carried a worn and much dented lard bucket, hanging at his side like a burden of the world thrust upon the young.

           "Mamma said cotton still ain't opened up on account of the rain. So she said we might as well go to school. Papa may hire some hands to help us." Then she said "I kilt a bird."

           "You ain't never," said Roland, the younger. "Girls can't hit no bird, can they Robert?'

           "She oughten not to have done it but she did," Robert said and then asked "Know what makes an automobile run?”

           "Motor, I reckon." said Timmy with caution, looking at Robert sideways. "Ain't that right?"

           "It's internal combustion. That's what does it. They say that someday we'll all have one. Everybody in the world will have one...their own car to go places in. Can you picture that?"

           “Golly snot," said Roland, He was struggling with that image. He had trouble seeing himself even riding in a motor car, much less driving one. He looked to Sheila for validation but, seeing none, turned back to Robert.

           "Could I ride one to your house any time I wanted to?

           "Heck, you could drive it to Little Rock," said Robert.

           "Golly snot," said Roland.

           "I ain't havin'one," said Sheila. The conversation had strayed too far from her, a situation that she began to correct the way a person might direct a stray calf back into a herd. "My husband will have a buggy with a fine red mare to match my hair. He'll take me anywhere I tell him to, even Little Rock." 

           "But them cars will pass you right up," said Timmy absentmindedly, immediately regretting it as Sheila twirled upon him with the fury of one of those storms that descend sharp and wild, from time to time, upon the helpless delta. She was thin, but two inches taller than the boy and she swelled above him.

           "Well I wouldn't by-god worry about it if I was you!"

           "No, no I won't," Timmy said, and he dropped several steps behind the group.

           They walked in silence for awhile, the Hinsons hoping for Sheila's wrath to subside while Robert contemplated the mysteries of the internal combustion engine.

           Finally he looked up. "I'm sure gonna have me one."

           "You're a real dope," said Sheila.

           Robert didn't respond. He felt the cough coming and he needed his energy. He had spotted something on the edge of the ditch and was forcing himself to keep from looking at it directly. He turned to Timmie and asked him to hold the lunch bucket.

           "A dope like you couldn't ever afford a pair of mules, much less an automobile", Sheila said, hoping for continuity.

           "Look what I found", said Robert. He had leaped into the tall grass suddenly and claimed his prize: a long length of chain dropped from a wagon or bounced from a truck and laying unmissed by its owner.

           "I saw it first," cried Sheila. "Give it here."

           "We'll use it for the bridge," said Robert, ignoring Sheila. "This is what we need." Then he began to cough.

           "That's what you get," said Sheila. "You know you ain't supposed to get excited."

           Robert didn't answered and the coughs came deeper from his lungs as he struggled to stand erect.

           "Golly Robert, you sound worse than ever," said Roland.

           "I'm okay," Robert said as he knelt on one knee next to his new belonging and wheezed, fighting the pain. Finally catching his breath, he added, "Let's hurry and get to the bayou. We got time to make some progress today."

            “A brand new chain,” said Roland. “Golly snot.”

           "I'm gonna bust you up if you say that again," said Sheila.

           The four of them started off down the road.

           There were two routes leading to school, each leading through fields that today drooped with unopened bolls of cotton needing to be picked but waiting as the rains persevered day after day. Today a soft grey mist covered the fields and the world seemed mysterious and unchanging as the four moved through it. Soon they would be at the turning off place.

The main road to the school passed the small farms that covered the delta like the squares on a giant quilt. It served as a collector for the minor roads, paths, and finally trails that connected each farm with the world. It, itself, connected to the state road on which, it was said, a person could go all the way to Memphis.

The school was a simple white building sited on a small patch stolen from the corner of a cotton field. It sat just beyond a bridge that crossed a wide bayou in a low spot too wet for farming. The road made a wide arc toward the bridge whose builders had sought the narrowest crossing.

           The other way ran straight on a tangent to the old road led directly to the school across a wide stretch of bayou. It could only serve in the dry months since it crossed a bayou too deep to be forded during wet weather. Created by the impatience of youth, it was hardly more than a path. It was said that the children favored it more for the adventure of the crossing than for the short distance it saved.

           The two paths diverged just past the home of Fate Johnson and as the four came near, Sheila attacked.

           "You ain't speaking to them people today are you?"

           "I might," said Robert.

           "I'll tell; you know what Mama said. Why you want to anyway?"

           "They ain't hurtin' anybody, they just like to wave at us, that's all."

           "They's black and it ain't right. They don't know us."

            “You may not know them but I do.” 

“I told Mama that you ate their food. She said for you not to and for you not to be talkin' to them."

"They ain't hurtin' anybody, they just want to be friendly."

"Somebody told me they just got married," said Timmy.

"That's crazy", said Sheila, "They's colored."

"They get married too", said Timmy, defensively.

"But not like everybody else, do they?" asked Roland.

"No, they do every thing different from us", Sheila said, silencing Roland with a glare so severe that he felt its force hot upon his face. He stumbled to the rear and walked quietly.

Robert stared ahead, thinking of how, with the addition of the chain, they could complete a bridge across the bayou.

"I didn't know they got married like white people do," said Roland. "Do they really, Robert?"

"Shut up," Robert said.

            He walked for some time and then he realized that Timmy Hinson was walking beside him. Sheila and Roland walked a few yards ahead. Tommy kicked a dirt clod into the ditch and looked at Robert. He held the chain in his hand and it dragged behind them in the muddy road.

            “Do you really know them people?” he asked.

            “I reckon I do.”

            “How?”

            “That man’s daddy used to work for mine sometimes. I didn’t know him until one day he yelled at me when I was riding our mare by here.

"Mamma says you keep hangin' out with coloreds, you start actin' like one," Sheila yelled back.

            Robert ignored her and continued. “What he wanted me to do was let him milk our mare. He said that a mare’s milk could cure a baby of the whooping cough and that his little brother was about to die of it. I didn’t see any harm that could come to it and he looked like he was about to cry. So I let him. I can’t see no harm in helpin’ anyone if you can.”

            “Golly snot,” Timmy said. “I never heard of such in my life.”

            “Anyway, he was thankful. He said the baby would be fine now, and that it would be my baby from here on. I just told him not to tell my daddy I let him. You know what?”

            “What?” Timmy asked.

            “It worked. He told me later,” he said and walked a little farther. “A real mystery… knowin’ that could come in handy some day.”

            “Is that why him and his wife do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Run out on the porch and wave every time you come by?”

            “No, I just think they get lonesome.”

            Robert looked up in time to see Sheila walking back towards them.

            "They're waitin' on you and you better not talk to them today. And don't eat nothin' they offer you. We got food."

"Shut up," Robert said again. "Timmy, when we get to the bayou, we'll tie this chain to that big log and we can all four pull it down to the water. That'll finish the bridge."

"Don't you look at them Robert. If they got a biscuit, you don't eat it. You just keep walkin'."

Robert wanted to stop and speak but as he reached the corner of their fence, his breath failed and he felt the coughing coming again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the young couple sitting on their porch as always, the man waiting for the wagon that would take him to the field if the rains stopped and the woman waiting with him to wave at the children.

Walking without surrendering to the cough took the last measure of Robert's effort. He took each step with a resolution that exacted full payment in effort and he stared ahead. He could think of nothing but the pain and effort of breathing.

Sheila watched from the corner of her eye, her strength and determination ready. When Robert stumbled, she darted but he regained his footing and concentrated his entire consciousness on holding the chain.

The young couple held hands and waited, smiling and eager.

Only this morning there would be no greeting. There would be no chance to offer their gift. The boy stared straight ahead as he walked by, dragging a chain and gasping for breath. He tossed a hand at them but just barely, weakly. The girl walked backward in front, waiting to grab the chain if he faltered or turned to look at the couple. She stared at them victoriously, and the two younger boys followed obediently behind. They were gone quickly.

"I'll be," the husband said. Then he stood up, turned, and walked through the dark door of the house, leaving his wife alone on the porch as the soft rain began falling again over the fields.

"You all right?" Timmy asked.

"I'll be fine, just leave me alone."

"Last one to the bayou's a nigger baby," said Sheila, and she starting running, first along the road and then veering along the path that led to the trees that bordered the water. Roland started after her and then Timmy, who first checked to see if Robert was coming. Robert continued to walk, dragging the chain and struggling to breathe. The rain framed a curtain before him and he walked through it into the woods.

The place was quiet and seemed of another place and time to Robert. Giant oak trees towered above the lesser vegetation. Even in the middle of summer it would be a dark, sunless place and never quite dry. The forest floor was smooth with the tracks of millennia buried beneath its mud. It seemed as if he had entered a large, dark building. It was a mysterious place, suitable only for gathering, communing, and, today, planning.

When he reached the edge of the water, the others were gone. They had followed one on the many paths, some made by animals, and others by people, that followed the edge of the bayou. They were looking for wood - logs, limbs, pieces of broken lumber - that they could use to finish the bridge.

Robert sat on the stump of an ancient cedar and coiled the chain at his feet. He watched the flow of water and knew that it was higher, and faster, than before. He watched eddies as they sucked and whirled in the coffee brown water and he knew the flow was unstoppable.

The spot where he sat, the spot where they had chosen to work, had once been a large grove but the bayou had shifted over the years and now ran in a narrow course between the spreading trees. It was the right place to build a bridge, he was thinking, even though the water was too high today. He began to sing – aloud, but just barely and to himself, as the waters rolled by.

           "On the Jerico road....there's room for just two,

           "No more and no less....just Jesus and you."

           Roland had returned and was standing behind Robert now, waiting and watching as if he didn't quite belong in what was going on. Finally, hearing the others coming, he spoke.

           "How long we got to work today?'

           "Robert finished a verse and then replied, "Prolly half and hour. We'll have time to go back around the other way if we start when we hear the first bell sound."

           "We won’t finish today?"

           "No, not today, water's too high," and he started to sing again.

           "Oh brother to you ... this message I bring

           "Though hope may be gone ... he'll cause you to sing.

           "At Jesus' command ... sin's shackles will fall.

           "On the Jerico road ... will you answer his call?"

           "Shut up that goddam singing," Sheila was shouting as she and Timmy returned from upstream. "Let's get this stupid bridge built so I don't have to walk so far .... how much time we got?"

           "Not much," said Robert. "You find any wood?"

           "You dang sure didn't," she screamed, and then addressing the group "We don't need any more wood."

           "Why?" asked Timmy.

           "I figured out a new way since we found the chain."

           "Robert found the chain," said Roland.

           "It's half mine and I know how to finish the bridge with it," said Sheila. "You piss ants gonna help or not?"

           Robert still sat on the cedar stump with his feet resting on the coiled chain.

           "We'll finish next week," he said. "Water's too high today."

           "We'll wrap the chain around this tree here and tie the other end to that one there", said Sheila. "Then we'll push it over and it'll fall upstream. That'll stop the water 'til we finish," and she leaned against a tall, full, cedar whose roots were so damaged from erosion that it leaned far out over the stream.

           "Golly snot," said Roland, "That might work."

           "Damn right it'll work. Now let's get busy." Sheila turned toward Robert and waited.

           "We'll build it like we planned...water's too high today," Robert said and as he said it, he felt something terrible begin deep in his body and move toward his chest.

           Sheila took a step toward him. "You don't even have to help, just give me the chain and you can watch us."

           "We'll build it like we…," Robert started, but he never finished. The sickness sprang into his lungs and turned his world into a red nightmare. He dropped from the stump onto his knees through the redness saw the chain snake toward Sheila's hand and then knew it was in her hand and following her like an obedient child. Then he could see nothing but the redness and feel nothing but pain.

           When the coughing stopped, he was still weak, but managed to stand, and then to sit on the stump. He watched, wanting to speak but not able. In his mind spun the secret formulas and vectors that defined the danger but when he tried to distill, to coalesce, the thoughts into words they swirled and become part of the mist that rose from the spinning brown waters of the bayou.

           He watched helplessly as Timmy and Roland secured both ends of the chain and he forced damp air into his lungs desperately while Sheila directed the boys.

           "Goddamit hurry up!" she yelled as she began to push against the leaning tree as if her energy would complete in that moment the process that erosion had been working for years. She hurled herself against the tree again and again as Timmy and Roland completed the securing of the chain. "Help me", she screamed and the boys ran over to join the frantic assault.

           "That tree won't fall", Robert started to say but before he had finished, Sheila conceived another plan.

           "Timmy, get your ass up that tree."

           "What?"

           "You get up the tree and we'll push from here. When it starts to give, slide down and we'll catch you."

           "Why me?'

           "You're the heaviest, stupid."

           "I ain't gonna."

           "Yes, by God, you're gonna!" and with this she shoved him backwards into the muddy bank where he sat looking, alternatively, at her and Robert, waiting for the decision that he knew he deserved, knew was waiting, and knew that he feared in the very depths of his heart.

           "Don't", came softly from Robert, not spoken as much as aspirated into the mist where it lay without force or power.

           "You heard me damn it", said Sheila and the words flashed within the grove like the hiss and crackle of lightening.

           Timmy stood slowly and walked toward the tree.

           "You’re one of the saints now, brother," said Sheila proudly. "You just get it started and watch out!"

           "Timmy, don't", said Robert as the other boy inched his way up the tree.

           Sheila twirled upon him. "Shut the hell up!" Then she turned and joined Roland as they began to push against the base of the tree.

           "Roll Jordan roll", she began to yell as she pushed and then Roland joined her.

           "Roll Jordan roll," they yelled.

           "Roll Jordan roll."

           "Roll Jordan roll."

           Robert stood up now and walked toward them. He was only a few feet away when he heard the crack of the roots giving way and the sound of Timmy’s screaming.

           "Hold on Timmy", Robert yelled and as time slowed he formed the arc of the tree in his mind and calculated its destination. As the tree fell, he spun in a half circle and ran obliquely to its base, past the horrified faces of Sheila and Roland and then into the sliding waters of the bayou as the tree, and Timmy, hit the water at once in an brown liquid explosion of water, tree, and boy.

           Timmy sank completely beneath the water as the tree crashed in a wild boil, but then Robert saw him surface as the trunk of the tree sprang back straight. Timmy held to the very end of the branches as if taking some ride. His hair was plastered on his forehead and Robert noticed bubbles forming around his nose. By some miracle, Robert thought, his head stayed just above water.

           "Don't move," Robert yelled and began to slide his way further into the water which was becoming more turbulent as it sped into the tree. Just beyond his reach he could see Timmy and it seemed to Robert that his eyes were bulging so they might pop from his face.

           "Hold on, I'm almost there." To Robert's great relief, the bed of the stream did not fall steeply at this spot, and he was soon able to grab the boy's hand and begin to work him toward the bank.

           "The chain held," said Sheila as Robert and Timmy reached the edge of the bayou. "Roland, help your brother out of the water."

           "Golly snot", said Roland.

           "Just shut up, the both of you," said Robert as he and Timmy walked up the bank. The bank was wet and slippery and the younger boy stumbled several times as Robert helped him forward. Timmy was numb and he stared straight ahead as if led by some light that the others didn't see.

           "I didn't wanna," he said, "She made me," and for the first time his fear found expression and he began to cry, the tears marking a trail on his face through the brown mud of the bayou. "She made me do it Robert. I didn't wanna."

           "It's okay," said Robert, leading him farther away from the other two. "Don't let them see you cry," and he and the other walked out of the darkness of the woods back towards the main road.

           "It's time for school to start," shouted Sheila from behind them. "Where ya'll goin'?"

           Neither Robert nor Timmy answered. He removed his coat, wet nearly to the chest, and covered the younger as they started home.

           Sheila's screaming became fainter and more distant with each step. "By God you tell 'em he fell in. You'll be sorry if you don't." Robert heard Sheila but neither he nor Timmy acknowledged her commands. "Me and Roland are goin' on - you mind what I said." Then they couldn't hear her anymore.

           They walked back slowly, the two of them. The soft rain fell again upon the fields of cotton rotting for lack of sun and the fields lay damp and dying in the dullness of the delta. They passed Fate Johnson's house again but this time there would be neither smile nor wave. Those were gone now and so were the plans for a bridge across the bayou. Soon they would be home and they expected heat and dry clothes there. But for now the cold settled into them like a vapor. The trip seemed endless.

           The younger boy still cried softly. As he walked he looked at Robert through his tears as if a veil had been pierced in the fall and the crash and he mourned that he could not make it never have happened.

           "I didn't wanna, she made me."

           "I know," said Robert. "You go ahead and cry because of it if you want to," and he put his arm around Timmy's shoulder. In the direction of the Hinson home he saw a thin slice of blue sky emerge from the clouds. As they walked, he began to sing:

           "On the Jerico Road,

           "There's room for just two,

           "No more and no less

           "Just Jesus and you."

 

 

Fruits of Silence

By Jimmie vonTungeln

©2006

             The boy leaned forward on the wagon seat and shrugged. He twisted his face the way young boys do, not so much for the sake of doing anything but more to relieve the monotony of childhood. The rubber wheels rolled with a smooth hum in tune with the crunch of the horse’s shoes striking gravel. The boy nodded with the pattern. “What’s an Arkansas, Daddy?

            When they were in town selling the pig, one of the ladies said that 1948 had been a hard year for Arkansas and maybe that was why there wasn’t much pork. It was a conversation the boy didn’t understand.

            “Ain’t no thing, just where we live, that’s all,” the man said.

            “Why we live at Arkansas, Daddy?”

            “We just do, now hush talkin’ or I ain’t bringing you with me again, you understand?”

            “Yessir,” he said, and shrugged again.

            They contrasted, the man was thick and dark—the darkness made more so by a white stubble of whiskers—and the boy was lighter brown and dusty. He was quick in movement.  The man was slow and deliberate.

            The wagon was also a contrast, a piece of the recent past of wood and horse grafted onto automobile tires. It was as if the new was stealing in upon the old and whatever gods ruled the backwoods could not hold back the future. Man and machine moved together, sliding slowly into the land of dark woods and scattered homes like a stream flowing into the lowlands.

            “Why did we sell the pig, Daddy?”

            “We need the money, son, I told you once.”

            “We got money now?”

            “Hush boy.” He saw the trap opening and slammed it shut.

            With the slamming he returned to thinking about the day and the day was like something coiled around his neck, threatening to strangle him.

            He made himself focus and then he could see the thing from beginning to end. He remembered the killing and the sticking. He saw the smoke-like steam in the late autumn air, first from the blood then, later, from the innards that spilled out as he started the butchering.

            Lost in himself, he was trying to calculate—trying in spite of the hugeness of such a task. There had been but one hog this year. The rest of the hogs had burrowed into the shack where he kept the arsenic and, in their search for food, spilled the arsenic and licked it in their greed.

            “What are we going to do?” his wife had asked.

            “I don’t know,” he said and he despised himself for not knowing.

            They might have thought it was salt, he supposed, though it had been for the killing of boll weevils and not for hogs. So they had been punished, punished like you might punish a child with one reprimanding stroke, but dreadfully punished and punished in a final way.

            He felt weak and played out when he found them, curled like fallen leaves, cold dead, and—worst of all—unfit. That was the terrifying part: both his winter’s wages and his winter food unfit, except for the one he had butchered at the beginning of the week. He had divided it and kept half and had ridden to town with the boy and had sold the other half.

            “Not a lot to choose from this year,” one of his regular customers said. He said it as much in accusation as in observation. His face narrowed as he waited for an answer.

            “Nawsuh, jes one hog this year, das all. Be mo fo sure next year.”

            “Well I hope so,” and then, in front of the boy, “You better git your mind on your business out there.”

            “Yassuh,” he said as he and the boy rode away.

            Maybe there was some luck, he was thinking. The hog that had been spared was spared because he was the biggest one and couldn’t follow the others through the rooted-out hole and into the shed and onto the poison.

            So he had butchered the hog. His older boys helped him, the four of them straining to hoist the dead beast into a barrel of water half buried in a slant in the ground and fired to bring the water to a boil. Then they scraped the hide and then wrestled the thing onto a board nailed at the corner of the shed, hanging it by a stick sharpened at both ends and thrust through the tendons of the legs.

            While the carcass hanged there, twisting slowly, almost delicately, like a bottle tied in a tree, they finished the butchering while the youngest boy, the one with him now, watched in fascination. He asked no questions but watched quietly as if he were witnessing a sacrifice and, not understanding the purpose, was forming his own.

            Ya’ll put up our half and we’ll peddle the other half in Armistead,” he told his wife and sons.

            “How much you reckon it will bring?” she asked and he knew the unasked question—the one he had even asked himself: how long will our half last?

            “Church, Daddy!” the boy yelled suddenly, pointing across the other’s chest. “There’s the church.”

“That’s right,” the man said. Then he looked over his shoulder toward town as if he left something there, something that he needed back.

            “Why ain’t nobody there?” the boy asked, pointing toward the lopsided white building positioned between the road and a dark forest beyond.

            “It ain’t Sunday. No reason to be there.”

            “Can’t you go ‘cept Sunday?”

            “Won’t do no good. Ain’t nobody there,” then turning to the boy, “If you don’t hush, I’m going to take a trace belt off and wear you out.”

            The boy turned to look at the church as they rode by. The building looked small and harmless with no wagons pulled around it, no children bouncing in front, and no families proceeding in a slow march to the entrance. He tried to imagine it filled with the saints and bulging with the sound of singing. He tried hard for a moment and then shrugged. He moved his legs toward the front and looked ahead.

            The man settled on his seat, hunched with his thoughts curled before him like a dog at slumber, bringing him neither rest nor peace.

            He was thinking that white people seemed to know when you were up against it and he knew that he had come out short in the trading. Most years, he rode home with the tight role of bills resting in pile of loose change with it all bulging so he could feel it through the worn money purse he carried in his pocket. This time he felt nothing and it was exactly that nothing, that non-feeling where there should have been something that brought the fear.

            Then he was thinking about the cold months ahead and how the faces of his family would look when the hunger really set in, not at first when they would simply do without for that was easy and they were used to it. Later, when the hunger was hurting and wouldn’t go away, they would ration the flour and the meal and they would forget how it felt to be full. Then they would look at him and accuse with their eyes and not speak, particularly the youngest for he had not been through it before.

            He thought about the church then and about a Sunday the preacher told about the life of Job.

            “The land is like that,” he told his wife after the service. Then he had thought about it some more. “No, not like that at all. It don’t do it like a test. No bet. No joke. It does it all the time, like it was trying to keep you off balance and unsteady so you can’t ever see quite straight and like you ain’t never going to draw a breath that ain’t been bought and paid for with your life’s blood.

            “It’s the Lord’s will,” his wife had said.

            The road stretched on along lengthening shadows. A half-mile or so before they reached the white settlement, just before they crossed Bayou Dupree, they met Happy Bill. The boy saw him first as Bill emerged from hiding at the far end of the bridge, as if he had been waiting for them. The boy sat straight in his seat.

            “Happy Bill Daddy, there’s Happy Bill,” he said.

            The man stopped the wagon to allow the figure to cross the bridge. As the stranger approached the wagon, the man nodded. “Brother Bill,” he said in greeting.

            “God bless you gentlemen,” the figure studied the man’s face briefly and, bowing low, added: “Dead pigs, dead pigs. Everybody knows, too bad, too bad.” He rose to his full height. “And how are we by fine Christian brothers. He smiled and the smile revealed a mouth alternating with strong white teeth and black gaps where teeth had once been.

            “We’re fine,” answered the man as he began to calculate in his head how much this would cost, what the least amount that it could cost without loss of face. Happy Bill could not be ignored. He was a fixture on this rural, southern landscape who commanded much respect in an ancient tribal sense flowing back to those dark ceremonies that first held young boys in check and later opened the door of manhood to them. He knew his power, understood it, and seldom misused it.

            He was crazy, no doubt, but it was widely held that when the seizure hit, he spoke the truth. Doubters said it wasn’t the truth, just what happened to be in his head at the moment. Some said he could see the future and some said he could make things happen. The whites tormented him so he avoided them when possible. They knew they could induce the seizure with a poke to his ribs. So they did it when a crowd was present to witness the torment. His own people honored him, never taking chances in this harsh land.

            “Came from Canaan’s Land today my brothers where I journeyed to sup in the presence of mine enemies. I am sanctified and holy. How about you? Are you ready, quite ready, to pass to glory today good friends?” And then, quickly, as if all in one motion, came the twitch and the bowing. “Did you see Sis Ella’s bloomers in church last Sunday. Fell, yes fell she did. Right between the sister-holders. White they were, I promise you, white as the heart of a lily, praise god almighty.”

            The boy nearly laughed, but the man looked hard at him and then addressed the other.

            “Evening Brother Bill. Can we help you today?”

            “Would be nice for me and good for your soul. Yes, would be nice,” he said. “Maybe just a nickel so old Bill could say to Jesus, “I have met a man of faith.” He consulted the sky. Then he looked into the man. “Just a nickel please.”

            “Most assuredly,” the man said. “Most assuredly,” and he reached for the money purse. Producing a coin for the other man, he handed it from the wagon. “Will you pray for me brother?"

            “You be blessed,” said the other. He jerked and the jerk bent him over. “That boy, he’s the one, he must bring the wrath down for sure. He the devil Christ, he is.”

            He stepped away from the wagon, his arms swooping like the boy had seen hawks do on a cold day. Still spinning and swooping in a fluid, mocking motion, he moved behind the wagon.

            “Git hoss,” said the man and he snapped the reins hard upon the horse’s back.

 

 I BEGIN MY CAREER

Somehow, in January of 1971 I landed an office job in Little Rock, Arkansas. It had nothing to do with my credentials or abilities but much to do with my ethnicity, connections, and the fact that I would work on the cheap. It promised to beat carrying a rifle for a living but didn't presage as much fun as riding a warship through a storm in the Atlantic. I'd give it try. I found a cheap apartment at State Street and Capitol Avenue from which I could walk to work and from where I could flee if things didn't work out. I dropped anchor.

 The first payday at my new job came and I was able to pay bills but not much else. I hated to delve too deeply into savings. Who knew what necessities lay ahead? I didn’t. I paid what I owed and obtained one of the world’s greatest treasures without spending a cent.

 I did it this way.

 The main library of the City of Little Rock sat only two blocks from where I worked. Can you imagine that? It was like an eight-year-old living a few hundred feet from the city’s largest free candy store.

 Before starting work, I’d gotten an updated driver’s license. With that, they, the nice folks at the library, gave me what appeared to be a card but which really was a key to an entire universe of delight. I augmented the assigned reading foisted on me by my mentors with masterpieces by the likes of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Dickens, Eliot, and Frazer. When I wasn’t off with one of the bosses at a planning commission meeting or such, the evening offered a soft blanket of calm and reflection.

 At work, I was getting along okay. At least they talked to me. There were some semi-good-natured pranks. One that I remember involved my trying to find Cantrell Road, one of the most popular and well-regarded corridors of the city, gateway to glorious entertainment and shopping venues.

 “Oh,” said the head drafter. “You live near it. Just go north on State Street a few blocks and you will run right into it.”

 I did. No Cantrell Road. Just a series of streets before State Street ran into the Arkansas River. I asked again next day.

 “Don’t see how you missed it. State Street intersects with Cantrell just a few blocks north. The other drafter smiled and nodded in agreement.

 Well, the joke was on me. Little Rock, Arkansas was the worst city I’ve ever known for situational nomenclature when it came to naming streets. Consider this example. Arkansas Highway 10 exited from Interstate 30 and headed west. After a few blocks, it became La Harp Boulevard, named after one of the early explores making harbor at La Petite Roche. I had found La Harp each time I headed north from where I lived, no problem there. But where the hell was Cantrell?

 What I didn’t know was that a few blocks further west, La Harp made a curve and headed up what is known from history as “Carpetbagger Hill.” The name was foisted on a subdued city by incoming northern victors following the insurrection of the 1860s. They built nice homes atop the hill, overlooking the train depot, and forced a stretch of the street to change from La Harp to Lincoln Avenue. That's Yankees for you.

 After descending from the posh neighborhood atop the hill, Lincoln Avenue became Cantrell Road. At some point, the exact location and impetus unknown, the corridor became Arkansas State Highway 10 again, a classic case of “where you are depends on where you’re at.”

 And so it went. There was some unknown giggling going on behind my back due to my discomfiture over being unable to find my way at times. I ignored it. I did that also when I found out about the advice I was getting, that I could probably find cheaper and better lodgings in the historic Capitol Hotel. A handsome structure, it is now a locally famous five-star hotel, proud of the fact that President Ulysses S. Grant and wife once stayed there and that he even gave a speech to city residents from its balcony.

 In 1971, it was pretty much a whorehouse as I found out to my great embarrassment when I mentioned, to a native of the city, the advice I had gotten from my co-workers about finding an apartment there.

 I took it all in stride. The jokes. The misleading advice about where one could find office supplies. The catty questions about why I wasn’t married and jibes about the joys I was missing. The still smoldering concern about why I chose to walk to work. The disdain about the age and condition of my apartment building. The insinuations about being a drug-crazed sociopath like my fellow veterans.

 I smiled through it all. Along with my nightly readings, I was teaching myself to type and trying to learn to read French. One phrase still lingers from those days:

  La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.

 Was the advice le français useful in the end?

 Bien sûr que oui.

 

A Solid Quarter

By Jimmie G. von Tungeln

             He was a quiet sort of person but one had the feeling that he didn’t want to be. He didn’t shy away—in fact, he would be the first to edge up to a group and, once there, would enjoy the fellowship as much as anyone. He just didn’t contribute. He was sort of a free-rider in the world of comradeship, one might say. Added to that was the fact that he didn’t stand out. He could slide through most situations unnoticed. In some situations, that could be a real talent.

            As for his appearance, he was stout without being fat and of medium height. He had that look of a person who had grown up on hard work and food cooked with lots of lard which gave him a dark and oily cast with a few signs of a poor complexion. Because of this, he never looked quite clean, but that didn’t cause any problems.

            His name was Dermot and he was from some little shit-hole town in Georgia where the people who were born there hardly ever left and they didn’t allow non-whites to stay after dark. The family trees weren’t particularly bushy and the few boys who were blessed with normal intelligence learned at an early age to hide the fact. Somehow Dermot had escaped the cultural gravity, headed west, and gone as far as physically possible without getting wet. He was one of 40 boys and men between the ages of 17 and 21 who had volunteered for the United States Navy. It was January 1966 and we were all in boot camp in San Diego, California. He was a recruit with a newly-shaved head and his life was changing very rapidly.

            The same could be said for all of us. We had arrived around the same time at the San Diego Airport and had been directed to a holding area outside the terminal and told to wait for a bus. A drunken First Class Bosun’s mate on shore leave wandered by and, taking command, told us to form a big circle on the airport parking lot and hold hands with our bags in front of us. When the bus driver arrived, he laughed and told us we had been had. It was the last time I would ever accept orders without clear proof of authority. But I was younger then. I wasn’t used to such things.

It was a foretaste of things to come. The bus had dropped us off inside the gate of the recruitment center and we lined up on little yellow footprints painted in the asphalt to begin our naval careers. Since that time, no one other than another “boot” in our own company had spoken a kind word to us. Three weeks into a nine-week ordeal, we were still a hive of individuals with no collective identity. That was all about to change, partly because of Dermont.

            He didn’t seem slow, just somehow out of his natural habitat. He would sit quietly and watch whatever was going on as if it was the first time in his life he had ever imagined such a thing could happen. Like most of the men, he had yet to form any individual personality. He marched as well as anyone. He learned to fold his navy-issue clothes correctly, and kept his locker in order. He made his bunk each morning and it always passed inspection. Except for not saying much, he seemed to be one of those recruits who would pass quietly through boot camp without a lot of notice and then disappear below decks for four years, or twenty. Who could tell?

            Since I had some education and was a little more mature, actually, because my voice had fully changed and I was taller than most, they had put me in charge of the other recruits. They called me the Recruit Chief Petty Officer, or RCPO. They even gave me a little miniature CPO emblem to wear. It was my job to round everyone up and see that the barracks was put in order before the Company Commander arrived each morning. It was sort of nice because I didn’t have to stand barracks watch or do some of the really crappy stuff. Of course they constantly threatened to “hold me back” if any of the other 39 fucked up. This was the deal: the company performed above average or I would have to go through the entire nine weeks again. At least that’s what the Company Commander told me and I had no choice but to believe him. The Navy had these time-honored methods of motivating a person.

            Things had evolved into something resembling a pattern when the seas of boot-camp began to heavy-up. One morning, I had gotten the company up, marched it to breakfast and, afterwards, to one of the interminable classes where we learned all sorts of naval lore, like how the navy had won World War Two despite the screw-ups of the other services. We had returned to our barracks and were waiting for the Company Commander to come and give us our daily ass-chewing before going to lunch. It was near the end of Week Two, and we were taking a break for mail call when a short, red-haired recruit named Causey eased up to me and asked if I wanted to know something interesting.

            I didn’t really but since I was sort of getting into this leadership role, I said, “Sure. What is it?”

            “You know that guy Dermont?”

            I more or less knew everyone since that was my job. I resisted stating the obvious, however, and simply nodded.

            “What’s he doing now? Causey asked mysteriously.

            I looked. Dermont was sitting on the steps of the barracks porch looking with awe at the recruits reading their letters from home.

            Could this be a trick question? I checked to make sure Causey wasn’t taking notes. There was a persistent rumor that Naval Intelligence would send youngish looking spies through training on occasion to check on the system and to catch Recruit Chief Petty Officers who weren’t sufficiently patriotic. Seeing nothing untoward, I ventured an answer.

            “Resting?” That seemed like a safe bet.

            Causey wasn’t going to let me off that easily. “What’s everbody else doing?”  He folded his arms on his chest and waited.

            I looked again. “Looks like every damned one of them is reading a letter,” I said. I hoped for an end to the questioning for I had a couple of letters to read myself.

            “But not Dermont,” Causey said with an air of finality.

            “No,” I said. “You are absolutely correct. No mail for Dermont today.”

            “He never gets any.” Causey said, beginning to get on my nerves.

            “What do you mean, ‘he never gets any,’” I asked.

            “As far as I and the other men can tell, he hasn’t gotten on piece of mail since we’ve been in Boot Camp.”

            “Really?” I said.

            “Not one. Not a letter, a package, a post card, or newspaper. Nothing.”

            “Maybe he doesn’t have a family.”

            “Nope. Heard him say myself he has a mother, a daddy and a sister and a brother. His daddy works at a sawmill. His brother and two uncles do too.”

            I watched Dermont. He started cleaning dust from his boondockers, those awful brogans we had to wear through Boot Camp, ones we had to shine until we could see the cracks between our teeth in the reflection.

            I started to ask if he got along with his family but Causey interrupted.

            “He’s the first one,” he said.

            “The first one what?”

            “First one in his family that can read or write,” Causey said. “He ain’t got nobody that can write him a letter. Just thought you might want to know.”

            I was depressed enough about owing this outfit, this grand and glorious United States Navy, four years of my life without this extra burden, no matter how trivial. But still—I silently cursed Lyndon Baines Johnson, Robert McNamara, and Ho Chi Mien—I didn’t have to go through it unconnected.

            I thought no more about it for the moment but I noticed things. When the mail arrived, Dermont would invariably make his way to the head. He wouldn’t emerge until the mail had been distributed and then he would take a seat near a man who was busy reading some piece. He would appear so interested in the other’s reading that it was hard to tell he didn’t have mail himself. On more than one occasion, I observed him accept a hometown newspaper from another recruit and start reading it as if he had owned it all along. I also noticed that he read slowly and his lips moved with every word. I should have sensed that trouble was brewing.

            At the third week of Boot Camp, the Navy slowed us down for an evaluation. This consisted of competition in marching and drilling followed by a written examination on what we had been learning in our classes. The Navy assumed a serious attitude about the ability of its sailors to know the rudiments of ship safety, rigging, fire control and general survival. So they gave us a book called The Blue Jacket’s Manual and pretty much expected us to know it along with a bunch of nautical terms and customs, such as going up and forward on the starboard side of a ship and down and aft on the port. They said that kind of shit was important in an emergency. So was discipline. They also had sort of this obsession with saluting officers.

            Now our company was pretty good with the discipline part as regards marching and all that. In fact, we were some marching and close-order drill “machines.” The Navy was becoming more and more integrated in its enlisted ranks by then and it didn’t hurt that we had a large contingent of “brothers” with a great deal of respect rhythm and such. We placed them in the more visible positions. Also, I had outstanding recruit squad leaders and a real asshole recruit Master-at-Arms named Chauncey who kept the barracks ship-shape. So at the halfway mark of the evaluation week, we had secured first place among the sister companies in our brigade. All sorts of people came by to brag on us and to promise us if we continued to excel we would win the coveted Brigade Flag which would allow us to go to the head of the chow line three times a day and to have a day off with a free movie. We would be tight-rigged and close-hauled, as the Navy would put it.

            Then we took the written exam.

            We had some bright spots. A few of the fellows had a year or so of college and a couple of those were good readers. We had a few in the middle, several below, and then we had Dermont.

            Lip-reading just wasn’t getting the job done. The way they gave the exam back then was to get everyone in a big classroom and flash multiple-choice questions on a screen in the front of the room. Everyone had the same amount of time to read the question and then all had to mark an answer at once and we went to the next slide together. Some of our boys, particularly Dermont, simply couldn’t read the questions fast enough. My ballast shifted slightly when they sent word by another company commander that our company had come in last and that Dermont had made the lowest score in the brigade on the written exam. I braced for the aftermath, readied for a major squall.

You see, the United States Navy can reverse the Law of Gravity at times and shit can truly flow uphill.

I was deep in worry about the test results the next morning when the Company Commander sent for me. He was a First Class Machinist’s Mate with Dolphins who had been shit-canned from the submarine service long enough to take a couple of companies through boot camp. He wasn’t happy about this. Being a true “Bubblehead,” he hated fresh air and surface sailors in equal portion. Now he had seen the results of the written exam. Having been mentally keelhauled above the ocean’s surface, he was double-mad. I could tell this after I had respectfully requested permission to enter his office and had been answered with “Get your fucking ass in here.”

It was going to be “gunnels awash.”

“RCPO,” he began, and I knew I was in trouble. He was that formal only when he was pissed. “RCPO,” he said it again and sort of let it drag out this time. He employed a fake southern drawl since he knew that I was from the south and that I knew he wasn’t. He continued.

            “You know that you won’t be an RCPO,” and he drawled it out even more this time. “When you go through Boot Camp the second time.”

            “I won’t?” I said. Then I caught myself. “Sir, of course not, Sir.”

            “In fact, I’ll see to it that you are in the “retard company.”

            “Sir, yes Sir” When the shit hits the fan, act the role of a “lifer.” That’s one of those navy regulations that doesn’t have a number.

            “What’s the answer, R – C – P - O? Mr. Recruit… Chief…Petty…Officer?”

            He was beginning to get on my nerves.

            “Sir, the Recruit does not know the question, Sir.”

            “Bullfuckinshit!” He roared it. I know the rest of the company was listening. I retreated.

            “Sir, is the Company Commander referring to the recruit exams, Sir?”

            “I can see to it that you go through this shit at least three times and that your four years don’t start until I say you have completed basic training, you fender-headed son of a bitch.” He leaned back in his chair.

            For a second, I felt complimented. Terms like “fender-head” were generally reserved for real sailors and considered too salty for mere recruits. He quickly disabused me of such thoughts.

            “Get the fuck out of my sight,” he said.

            I did as he requested and as I wandered through the barracks to the porch, I remember thinking that it had gone pretty well. At least I wasn’t on my knees scrubbing a toilet with my only toothbrush. It paid to be the Company Commander’s favorite.

            I sat on the porch steps and tried to collect my thoughts. Then who should wonder up and sit down next to me but Dermont?

            “Sir,” he began.

            “Don’t call me Sir,” I said. “I’m a goddam recruit just like you. I stopped at that. I knew that he felt miserable and that next he would start apologizing. I knew he felt badly for letting his shipmates down and wanted to beg for absolution. I didn’t want to make it any harder for him. I would let him grovel and promise to do better and then we could go to work on it. But first, he had to get the shame out of his system. I mentally prepared for it. That’s what leadership is all about.

            “Do you have a solid quarter?” he asked.

            “A solid quarter? I slammed the brakes on my imagination and descended from Leadership Central. “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “I need a solid quarter, “he said. “I have two nickels, a dime, and five pennies. I’ll trade them to you for a solid quarter.” He leaned back and waited.

            Now I knew what a “solid quarter” was but I had never, in my life, heard a white person use the term. “What in god’s name do you need with a solid quarter?”

            He looked at me for a moment as if wanting to say it wasn’t any of my business. I looked back and expressed resolve. That’s what leaders do. He looked off and told me.

            “I’ve pulled the mid-watch over by the mess hall.” He waited to see if he could get away with that. Sensing my continued resolve he added, “There’s a “geedunk” machine there and I can sneak a candy bar but it only takes a solid quarter.”

            When I didn’t respond, he sighed and turned his face away. “I shore would like one of them candy bars,” he said.

            “You mean one goddam candy bar costs a quarter?”

            “Almond Joys. There’s really two candy bars in there and that machine only takes a solid quarter. You can have the right amount of money and still not be able to get one.”

            Curiosity suddenly overtook me. “Dermont,” I said. “Why did you join the Navy?”

            He looked around as if he thought someone else might be listening. Then he looked at me as though I had asked him why he breathed.

            “Have you ever been to Cumming, Georgia?”

“Nope,” I said, although I got his point immediately. “But what motivated you to join the Navy of all things? I see you as this Marine sort of guy.”

            “Really? Well, I seen this picture show.”

            “A picture show?”

            “Yep. My cousin made me take her to see it. As soon as I saw it, I knew that the Navy was the one for me.”

“What picture show for chrissakes?”

“It was about these three sailors.”

            Getting information from Dermont wasn’t proving to be the easiest thing in the world. “Three sailors,” I said. “What did these three sailors do that made you want to join the Navy so bad?” Then I guessed. “Did they win the war or something?”

            “Nope.”

            “What then?”

            “They went to New York.”

            “New York?”

            “Well, their ship went to New York and they all three went ashore together. You ever been to New York?”

            “No,” I said. This was getting a little weird. “That’s all? They just went ashore in New York?”

            “That looked like some kind of place, New York did.”

            “I hear it is.”

            “They even went to a museum. You ever been to a museum before?”

            “A few times,” I said. “So you want to go to a museum?”

            “When I get to New York. Sure. You want to know what else? They met some girls.”

            “There would be some of those there too,” I said. “In addition to the museums.”

            “I just couldn’t get over thinkin’ that you could get paid for doing stuff like going to New York.” His voice evoked a great deal of satisfaction.

            Now, normally I would be the last person in the world to muddy up such a picture, but I blurted it out without thinking. “You do know that New York is on the east coast and we are on the west coast, don’t you?”

            “Oh, I know all about that. They was supposed to send us to boot camp closer to the east coast.” He leaned back. “They sent us here instead.” He said it as if I might not be aware of the fact.

            “So now you may spend your entire four years in WESTPAC and never get near New York,” I said.

            He leaned forward. “In that case, couldn’t I just save my money and go there on my own when I get out?”

            How could anyone address such logic? I changed the subject. “Wasn’t there a lot of singing and dancing in that movie?”

            “Yeah, but I didn’t pay it no mind. I just thought about New York. I still do.”

            I mulled this over. Then my natural leadership skills came to the fore. You can deal with a highly motivated man. “Tell you what,” I said.

            “Sir?” he answered.

            “Don’t call me Sir,” I said. “Tell you what, I’ll trade you the change for a solid quarter and you promise me two things.”

            “Two things?”

            “Two things. First, you don’t tell anyone about it if you get caught at the geedunk machine.”

            He nodded.

            “Second—and this is real important—we’re going to do better on the next exam, right?”

            “I reckon.”

            “Reckon hell!” I wasn’t going to stand for any of his north Georgia bullshit. “The sooner we get out of boot camp, the closer you are to New York. We’re going to do better, aren’t we?”

            “Yes Sir, we are,

            “Don’t call me Sir,” I said and I got up to retrieve a quarter from my locker.

            In the barracks, I handed him a shiny new coin that I had been saving for cigarettes and he handed me his odd assortment of change. “Enjoy your candy bar but understand it’s your ass if you get caught.”

            “If you have another quarter, I’ll get you one too,” he said.

            “You’re beginning to get on my nerves.”

            “Yes sir,” he said and was gone.

            I don’t guess he got caught for they would have awakened me and made me stand the rest of his watch if he had. I forgot about it and set about the task of raising the test scores for our final exams, a few short eternities away.

            First, I talked it over with the recruit chief petty officers. There were others that needed to do better as well, but Dermont was the real test. I mean last place? Chauncey wanted to make him stand under a cold shower while we thought up test questions and yelled them at him.

            “That makes a person concentrate,” he said. He said it with some authority since he had spent three years in military school. “It truly focuses your mind.” A couple of the others even agreed that it might be worth a try.

            Still, it didn’t seem quite right to me. He was a boot just like we were and though we had some degree of control over what went on in off-hours, I couldn’t see that we had the right to do anything like that.

            In the end, I put him and five others on extra study time although that didn’t amount to much. The Navy doesn’t really believe in spare time. I think it goes back to the old days and the fear of mutinies that could be hatched by idle minds. In the limited time we did have, I had some questions put on paper and we would flash them in front of the six of them and see how fast they could respond.

            Nothing worked. We found that a person reads as fast as a person reads and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot we could do about it. We did discover that it wasn’t stupidity. All six of the “extra help” boys could answer with some regularity if they had that few additional seconds to read the question. We kept trying. And they did try, especially Dermont. They words simply wouldn’t come any faster. I forced myself to accept the fact that going through boot camp twice, maybe even three times, might not be so bad.

            In some other areas, things were coming together. I was losing weight, what with the stress. I smoked too much but then I didn’t have to do all the heavy exercise the others did. Also, we boasted a couple of real stars in the company. One, a bright, blue-eyed, and gentle lad named Lawson, would ultimately be our Honorman. He was from Iowa and was in the Navy for the GI Bill. He had no dad and his mother was a waitress, he told us. The military provided his only hope for a good education. He said he was going to be a doctor and would prepare for that by going to Navy Corpsman School. I found out later that he bought the farm at Khe San and if you ask me, the world missed out on a fine physician.

            The other was an ebony-black youth from Atlanta named Armley. He was our color-bearer and the United States Navy never had a better one. I feel certain that he is in a boardroom somewhere today.

In short, the company represented a sample of the best, the near-best, the could-be’s, and some assorted characters. But even our characters were even better than the rest. For example, there was a runty little fellow named Caskins from west Texas. He swore that his sister had been in a Playboy Magazine spread called, “The Girls From Texas” and was forever trying to obtain a copy of the issue to show us. I finally saw one a year or two later. There was no girl named Caskins in it but I imagine they all use fake names. I surely hope one was his sister. Everyone deserves the right to be proud of something.

            Anyway, it was interesting to watch a collection of individuals start to form a unit. We survived firefighting school with soot in every orifice that took several days to get out. We completed weapons training without shooting one another. We passed our swimming and water survival tests with only a couple of near drownings. We even learned to moor a ship, a landlocked vessel christened the U.S.S. Recruit but known lovingly to generations of Naval heroes as the “U.S.S Neversail."

The company pulled its week of mess cooking although I was exempted, along with the other recruit petty officers, ostensibly so we could prepare for the final weeks of training. Mostly we screwed around and tried to figure out a way to ace the exams. Nothing came to mind.

We knew we were getting close to graduation when a fellow called “F-stop Willie” came by with and ancient Rolleiflex Camera and took a bunch of photographs of the boys acting happy to be in boot camp. It was for a book called The Anchor that they would give us when we graduated. The Company Commander wouldn’t let me in any of the pictures though. I think that he had been ragged about the test scores that day by the other company commanders. Anyway, he came back to the barracks with his battle flag hoisted and throwing a shit-hemorrhage fit. He said I didn’t deserve to get my goddam picture taken so I sat across from the Barracks and smoked one Camel after another while the boys ran through their poses. Not long after that, I started passing up breakfast.

            One of the better recruit petty officers, a fellow from South Carolina named Clark began to hold extra lunch-break sessions to tutor the slower recruits. Some of the others chipped in to help them with some minor tasks like shining their boondockers so they could spend the extra time studying. It was turning into a group effort but I couldn’t really see that much progress.

            Other than the shit-storm when the photographer was there, the Company Commander pretty much left me alone except for a few snotty comments, like the time he casually asked me if I might want to put in for Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval Station near Chicago my second time around. I told him we were working very hard on the matter. This whole Boot Camp thing was really getting on my nerves.

            Time passed and we were only days from the final evaluations. I was having trouble with heartburn and was barely eating. As I wasted away, Dermont flourished with all the attention. He had, by now, become sort of a company mascot. His skin had completely cleared and he could flash a smile like a Filipino whore. Although he was on my nerves constantly, I couldn’t help feeling a little happy for him. Other than that, I just braced for the heavy seas just over the horizon.

            As I walked through the barracks one night, I couldn’t help but being struck by all the activity aimed at one goal, getting out. There were recruits “spit-shining” boondockers, cleaning their WWI vintage Springfield Rifles used for marching, and folding their clothes just so they met the standard of being folded ‘The Navy Way.” And of courses the “extra-help” boys were being tutored. I sat done at one of the tables that ran the length of the barracks. Chauncey was seated on the other side.

            “They’re not going to make it,” he said. “We should have beat it into them.”

            “They’ll make it,’ I said. Who the hell was I kidding?

            “I had a cousin who had to,” he said.

            “Had to what?”

            “Had to go through boot camp twice. I think they can make you do it if they want to.”

            “Bullshit.” In my weakened state, I knew I didn’t sound convincing. Everyone was aware by now that my rigging was loose.

            “At least they give you all the milk you want to drink,” Chauncey said, referring to a line from a recruiting pamphlet we had all seen before.

            “Fuck you,” I said. I wandered to the porch and smoked until they played taps. Now if you have never heard Taps played late at night on a military base, just know that it can reach in and tear the guts right out of the strongest of men. Imaging what it could do with someone whose anchor was dragging the way mine was. I wandered to my bunk and spent a fitful night alternating between staring at the ceiling and dreaming of being stuck in boot camp until I was a withered old man of thirty.

My mother always told me that the darkest part of night came just before dawn. I started believing that in Navy Boot Camp. It happened this way.

On the evening of the day before test time, a squad leader named Olson and I were returning from muster. It had taken a fraction of the time it normally did. The other recruits wouldn’t expect us back for a good while. Olson was one of those people who understood situations of a cosmic nature. I am sure he was trying cheer me up for he suggested that we sneak up and see what the company did when we weren’t there. I was sick with worry and anything was worth getting my mind off the exams. Maybe we could catch them lollygagging and raise a little hell. That always made me feel better, for a little while at least.

Recruits had either to run or march anytime they left the barracks area. Since there weren’t enough of us to march, Olson and I jogged as far as the barracks compound then stopped to catch our breath. We each sneaked a cigarette and plotted our strategy. We eased by to the parade ground and split up, approaching our barracks from opposite sides. We quietly eased around the end of the barracks and peeked through the back door, staying in the dark so they couldn’t see us but we could see them. It worked.

What we saw was as weird as it was inexplicable.

            There was Armley at the far end of the barrack with about ten of the smartest recruits, facing him. The rest of the company circled behind them facing Armley as well.

            ‘Now,” Armley said quietly, making a sign to the group in front that the rest of the company couldn’t see.

            Immediately, five heads cocked to one side. “Number!” Armley said.

            “One,” said the group in the rear, with Dermont barking it out first.

            “Now,” Armey said, giving another hidden signal.

            The row of heads cocked to the opposite side.

            “Three,” the rear group stated in unison.

            This was repeated a number of times until they had it down perfectly and we had it figured out. Each position of the head reflected a specific number, up to four.

            After that, they reviewed the names of the ones on the front row and made sure everyone recognized them by the back of their heads. Then Armley asked for questions.

            Dermont’s hand went up. “What if one of them don’t know the answer?”

            Armely thought for a moment but before he could speak, one of the recruits blurted out. “He could just move his head back and forth real slow and we’ll know to watch the others.”

            Armley looked at the rest of the company. Several nodded in agreement.

            “Fuckin’ A,” he said. “Now how about lining up?”

            “Bell-cows to the front,” said a big rawboned recruit from Arkansas named Holliman.

            “Right,” said Armly. The rest file in behind them and try to get a good view of these guys if you think you need help.”

            “We gonna tell the RCPO about all this?” someone asked.

            Lawson was in the front row with the good test-takers. He stood up and looked at Armley and Armley nodded. Lawson slowly turned to face the group. He looked toward the hallway to make sure no one was coming. “Let’s leave the RCPO out of this. He’s got enough burdens on him right now.” The recruits nodded in unison.

            “He’s got to get us out of this place,” Dermont said. “The whole company… I mean through graduation and mustering out and all. They’s a lot of other details he has to attend to.” The recruits nodded again.

            Olson and I backed away and looked at one another in awe. We kept backing farther into the darkness. I couldn’t see his face but I knew he was laughing. I wasn’t.

            We finally backed far enough away that we were in the light of the next barracks. I was right. He was smiling like it was his first night ashore at Subic Bay.

            In the barracks, the session broke up and bodies spilled onto the porch. We started to walk toward our shipmates. I still couldn’t speak. Olson, on the other hand, had somewhat of a flair for the dramatic.

            “Where will America ever find men like this again?” he said.

            “I don’t know I,” I said. “But godammit am I hungry.”