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By edRogers
[Feeling the Colombian drug cartel's heat, James Hamilton has enlisted to get as far away from them as possible. Previous excerpt, "The High Country," published here on August 30.]
The NCO at the recruiting station promised me the moon and first shot at his daughter if I signed up right then. I got the feeling that even in the poor part of town, kids weren’t eager to fight in a war. The fact that I had dodged the draft and could trace all my troubles back to that decision hadn’t eluded my attention. I was fully prepared to go to jail for my beliefs, but that wasn’t what the Colombians had in mind. I explained to the Sergeant that I had been living outside of the U.S. and didn’t have a draft card. I told him I hadn’t been home in a few years and never received a letter from any draft board.
None of that shit made a damn bit of difference. They wanted bodies. That sergeant didn’t give a fuck about my hometown draft board. He had the papers filled out and me on a bus to be processed within the hour. I rode with about twenty other happy souls to a building that was once a YMCA. There, they herded us into a line, along with sixty or seventy other guys. Most of us were about the same age, but there were a few babies, here and there. The kid in front of me, with peach fuzz on his cheeks, couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds if he was soaking wet.
The line moved fast. The shrink asked questions—not that he gave a damn about what you said. He was there to pass us through. Some of the poor souls that came prepared with the story that was going to get them out of the Army left his kingdom with tears in their eyes. I just said, “Yes Sir. No Sir. Okay Sir.” From his office, I walked into a large room, with basketball hoops at each end. In happier days it had been a gym.
We stood in a circle along the walls. Once everybody was assembled, they ordered us to remove our clothes and place them in a neat pile in front of us. I stood up and faced a room full of naked men. I had been naked in front of guys in gym class, but there we didn’t have to stand and look at each other. I could find no place to advert my eyes. All of us seemed uncomfortable. Most of us held our hands, folded over our private parts and pretended we were someplace else. Then they ordered us to face the wall. I thought, “Thank God.”
The Sergeant screamed, “Bend over, grab the cheeks of your ass and spread them. You fucking maggots hold that pose until I tell you to stand.”
Across from me were fifty assholes. The brown eyes stared across that gym floor, unblinking. There was no place to look. I tried to close my eyes but became dizzy and bumped my head on the wall. I kept thinking: This too will pass, this too will pass.
I watched the doctors as they inspected each man around the circle. Two men didn’t have the asshole they needed to be soldiers and they were sent away. We perfect assholes had our balls grabbed and were told if we coughed in the doctor’s face, he would rip our nuts off.
We put on our underwear and, in 30 seconds, they had sworn us into the Army. They gave us a right-face and marched us down a hall. We received a bag for our clothes and a new uniform, along with a haircut. A sergeant chaperoned us on the bus to the airport. I guess he wanted to make sure no one bailed out. Once on the airplane, they left us alone until we landed in Colorado. It was the Flying Tiger Airline and there were no cocktails on that flight. We landed about midnight, and they bused us to Ft. Carson. At one in the morning, they finally allowed us to go to bed. At four in the morning, they woke us up, and at five, we had roll call. It was right then that it crossed my mind that it might have been a better choice to face the Colombians.
Anyone that’s been on an Army base knows they are cut from the same piece of cloth. The streets run in straight lines, the buildings are so straight, if you stand at the corner of one you can’t see the others. I swear the blades of grass looked lined up.
The mess halls were full and the smell sickening. The taste of the food wasn’t much better. They didn’t waste time. I learned that first day I could eat just about anything. I came out of the mess hall and was met by a strong gust of wind, which rolled off Pike’s Pike. I wiped the dust from my eyes and headed toward the barracks. With any luck there might be a few minutes of sleep in my future. The field between the barracks was wide, maybe fifty yards across, and three football fields long. Groups of men fell out into rows all across the open space. There had to be over a thousand men housed in the area. In front of our barracks is where I was told we would assemble to await our work detail. The dirt was hard packed from the thousands of feet that pounded it daily, and as I neared my group, it sounded like an unorganized mess, as NCOs and officers screamed orders. The other men from my barracks were already outside…so much for a few minutes of sleep.
A second lieutenant hollered at me, “You, Soldier. Come here.”
I hoped he had hollered at someone else, but there was no one behind me. I approached the officer and gave him the best salute I was capable of giving. He returned my salute and asked, “What’s your name soldier?”
“James Hamilton, Sir.”
“Pvt. Hamilton, you’re to report to Capt. Richards at HQ.” I stood there, not knowing what the hell he was talking about. “On the double, Soldier,” he screamed.
“Sir, I don’t know what this HQ is, or where it’s at.”
The Lieutenant shook his head in disgust, faced the east end of the field, and pointed at a large building across the street from the row of barracks. “Go in the front door and tell the clerk you’re there to see Capt. Richards.” He turned back at me and screamed, “Now get the hell out of here.”
I spun on my heels and ran down the field. I stopped at the curb to catch my breath. I looked across the street and over the entrance of the building hung a sign: “Headquarters Company, 23 Armor Division.”
I walked up the old stone steps. The building had been built back during the First World War and I couldn’t help but feel a little humbled by its size. The Corporal chewed my ass out because I hadn’t taken my cap off inside the building. Then he told me to wait on a bench that ran along the wall. The bench was old and straight-backed…there was no position that would allow me to be comfortable. The walls, floors, and furniture shined. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then God would have been proud. There was no reading material to occupy the mind. They left the soldier to stew in his own sweat as he pondered the fate that awaited him behind the big door with the gold lettering.
Thirty minutes passed like three hours. The Corporal hollered, “Hamilton, get your ass up here. Capt. Richards will see you now.” He stopped me as I got next to his desk. “You walk in, stand at attention, salute, and say, ‘Pvt. Hamilton reporting as ordered, Sir.’ Can you do that?”
“I think so.” I reached for the door.
“Knock first, you dumb ass.”
The Army had too many rules. I wondered how I would get through three years. “Enter,” shouted the voice from behind the door.
“Pvt. Hamilton reporting as ordered, Sir.”
As I stood in front of his desk, at attention, he moved papers around as though he had lost something. He stopped and looked at me and I could tell he wanted to ask me something, but he wasn’t sure if he should.
“At ease, Hamilton. In fact, sit down.” He motioned at a chair to the right of me. I eased into the deep leather as he rose from his seat and walked to the window. “Who are you and what are you doing on my base?”
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is where I was sent, and I didn’t ask to come here.” I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. The only reason I could come up with, as to why I was in his office, was that they had found out I was a draft dodger.
Captain Richards walked to his desk, picked up some papers, and handed them to me. “Here are your orders to report to Fort Lewis Washington by the 20th of this month. That’s day after tomorrow.” He walked back to the window. “The orders came from Washington DC.” He turned and he didn’t smile as he came around and stood, within inches of me. “I want to know if you are with the Inspector General’s Office, and if you are, what the hell you’re here to investigate.”
“Captain Richards, two days ago I was riding a motorcycle across northern California. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My mind raced around corners in a vain attempt to figure out who the shit the lunatic thought I was.
He walked back to his desk and sat down. “I know how you bastards work. If they’re pulling you out, there must be a replacement already here. Don’t think I won’t find him. You have your orders and a pay voucher. Get your gear and get the hell off my base.”
He went back to his paperwork as though I had never been there. I got up and walked out. I didn’t salute and he didn’t look up. The guy was a paranoid son of a bitch. I had no idea who he thought I was, but I was glad I would be far away from him.
The Corporal gave me a map of the base and pointed out the paymaster. That night I was on a plane to the Great Northwest. Why I was on a plane bound for Washington State was a mystery. Moreover, the bigger mystery was who had cut my orders? No one else from Ft. Carson was on my plane. I was the only soldier to receive orders.
I can’t say I was unhappy as I watched Colorado pass below the airplane. Maybe Ft. Lewis would be a little less uptight. The orders assigned me to the 228th Army Air Wing. I had no idea what the hell that was, but Army Air Wing sounded easier than riding around in a tank. I couldn’t get over the feeling somebody was pulling strings…and I wanted to know why?
The taxi stopped at the main gate, where the MP asked for my orders and called someone to get them verified. He pushed the window in the guard shack open and hollered through the rain. “Let the cab go. They’re sending someone to pick you up.”
I paid the cabby and stood with my duffel bag under the overhang of the guard shack. The rainwater ran off the roof and formed a river as it headed toward town. My mind pictured me in a small boat sailing along with the flow. I felt tired and lost…cut off from friends and family. I felt truly alone.
From out of the pouring rain came a 1959 brown Ford staff car. It flew down the street and made a U-turn in front of me. The window cracked and a voice hollered, “Throw your shit in the back seat and get in.”
As we raced down the quiet, wet streets of Ft. Lewis, the guy in the passenger’s seat turned and put out his hand. “I’m Roger Wright.”
I shook his hand. “James Hamilton,” I said.
He smiled and patted the driver on the shoulder. “This is T-Bone Harris. He plays one of the meanest Saxophones that anyone has ever put their lips around.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.” I moved close to the back of the front seat so they could hear me. “What kind of an outfit is this Air Wing thing? I just joined the Army two days ago, and I’m totally lost.”
T-Bone turned the rear-view mirror so I could see his big grin. “I’m not sure what we’ll end up doing, but for right now you’re my co-pilot. They’re putting a group together that can fly planes into the high country and land on runways cut out of the side of the mountain. It sounds like a real kick in the ass. We all came from different places…none of us knew each other before we got here. Where did you ship in from?”
“Fort Carson.”
“You’ll like it here, but what they are asking us to do—well, it is dangerous shit. You don’t get a second chance,” Roger interjected. “Fuck up once, and it’s over. However, the upside is no one fucks with us. We come and go as we please and we have our own mess hall.”
“Real good food,” T-Bone intoned. “You can order anything you want and the food is cooked the way you want it cooked.”
I noticed the barracks were old, and black smoke rose from the chimney on the side of each one. They burned coal to heat the hot water and keep warm. The buildings were built during WWII and had not changed since 1942. I sat back and wondered why they picked me to fly in these planes. I hadn’t told anyone I flew. Someone seemed to know more about me than was in my paperwork.
The neighborhood changed as we entered Officer Land. The barracks were made of brick and the lawns trimmed and neat. Gone was the dirt of the coal-fired boilers, where the enlisted men lived…the officers’ barracks had electric heat.
T-Bone stopped in front of a white, one-story brick building that set in the middle of many other white one-story buildings. We were on Officer’s Row. These shacks were for transient officers on their way from one duty station to the next. Most of them lay dark and empty, but in some a few lights shined out through the rain. Our building, my new home, B-34, was lit up like a Christmas tree. Not even the rain could muffle the loud stereo that reverberated against the windows. The words, “I see a red door and I want it painted black,” slammed into us as we entered.
“Damn, do you always have that music so loud?” I screamed.
We walked into the day room. It was large, with couches, chairs, and three writing tables. In the left corner, chairs and a couch were arranged in front of a 21-inch black–and-white TV. At the far end, three men played poker and drank beer. A groan went up from the men as T-Bone turned the stereo down.
“Don’t be fucking with the tunes, man,” hollered one of the players.
T-Bone paid no attention to the complaint. “Listen up. We have fresh meat. This is James Hamilton. He’s the last one. We have three full flight teams now.”
The men got up and came over to meet me. Joe Dorsey, who owned the stereo, was one of the pilots. He wore only his boxers, T-shirt, and flip-flops. His six-two frame and broad shoulders towered over most of the men. He had a mid-west drawl to his words. His co-pilot, Percy Gentry, said he was from New Orleans and was the shortest in the group. The two together looked like Mutt & Jeff.
The last man, Roger’s co-pilot, wore a brightly tie-dyed shirt, with large sleeves. His jeans were bell-bottomed and he too wore flip-flops. “I’m Greg Kimsey, from upper New York State,” he smiled. “Sit down and have a beer.”
He put his hand on my back and began to ease me in the direction of the card table. “Do you play cards, because we’ve got an open seat?” Everybody laughed at a joke that was unknown to me, but I was sure it had something to do with them relieving me of my money.
I stopped halfway to the table. “Hey, thanks for the offer, but I’ve got to get some rest.” I moved back toward my saddle-bags, which I had placed on the floor just inside the door. “I’m sure you’ll have another chance to take my money before this shit is over with.”
T-Bone was the Officer in Charge for the night and it was his job to call lights out. “Hamilton’s got the right idea,” he said. “Lock this place down and hit the rack. We start training tomorrow.”
We walked out of the day room with catcalls, which trailed us down the hall. T-Bone shot them his middle finger before we turned the corner. “Your room is next to mine.” He smiled as he opened the door. “I’ll wake you in the morning. Don’t unpack your bag. They’ll be giving you new clothes tomorrow. We’re all warrant officers, for now. None of the uniforms have name tags and we are to speak to no one outside of the unit. Don’t ask me what the hell is going on because I sure as shit don’t know. Maybe we’ll find out something tomorrow…now that the teams are full.”
The door closed, and I sat alone on my bunk and attempted to sort out what had happened that landed me in the fix I was in. Two days ago, all I wanted was a place to hide. What was I doing in this outfit? Why promote me to a warrant officer? Once more I had no idea what the hell that was. Events had jumped too fast for me to sort. I was sure, however, somewhere there was a puppeteer pulling strings and I was the puppet.
| Copyright © 2014 by Ed Rogers |
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