Changes - That Was Then - Part II: Roger Vaughan

That Was Then

Excerpt from a novel in progress - Part II by Roger Vaughan

I. Play the Game

Every so often, Peters and Brewer would go to opposite ends of the barracks, run at each other full speed, and collide with a bone-crunching thud. First there would be a warmup with lots of posturing, the trading of insults and threats shouted back and forth. They always picked a time when the rest of us were on hand. No point creating such an exciting macho scene without an audience. We never knew what exactly triggered it. Probably just steam escaping, an overflow of Army life, the immense amount of boot-camp BS that all of us were trying to endure. We all had our reactions to the Army’s endeavor to reduce us to mindless pawns known only by our last names, spoken harshly when at all, pawns who would respond without thinking to commands. “Instant obedience,” they called it. It was the bottom line.

Each of us had our way of dealing with this sudden intrusion into what had been our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted, when we wanted. The 18-year-olds from the Bronx resorted to what they knew, wise-ass rebellion, carrying on after lights-out, telling jokes, rapping junk. That would result in an hour standing at attention for the whole barracks, outside, in the cold, or in the rain if that was what was happening. That would slow the Bronx kids down for a few days. That, and the rest of us threatening to hurt them if they did it again. Others just got depressed as their identities slipped away along with their hair, or tried to laugh about it, or wrote another letter home.

Peters was a wealthy kid from Connecticut. An Ivy Leaguer. Dartmouth, if I recall. The rumor that his family had bought him a seat on the Stock Exchange had been confirmed. Peters was a talker, and he had volume. You could hear him across the parade grounds. The Army was already working on that. Brewer was a quiet guy, and bigger than Peters. I always wondered how Peters survived those collisions with him. But the two of them played it right. They were friends, actually. They had no intention of

hurting one another. They had both played football, which is where their act came from. They knew how to take a hit and be able to walk back to the huddle.

It was a good thing they had going. I can’t say we all looked forward to it, but when it happened it made all of us feel better about our eight weeks of days without end, about our new robotic lives, about sleeping in bunks in one big room among 49 other guys snoring and farting, taking group showers, getting ripped out of bed at 5 a.m. by the heart-stopping clang of a metal trash can lid being bounced off the floor, eating the terrible food, pulling guard duty and KP (kitchen patrol), keeping our boots and belt buckles polished, saying sir yes sir over and over until we wanted to puke, trying to understand how certain blithering idiots could have risen so high in a chain of command that was all-powerful, and trying to

do 20 pushups when some hard-ass sergeant who had been passed over too many times for promotion decided he didn’t like our looks. Peters and Brewer provided a kind of harmless, in-house violence that all of us craved. Violence. Yes! We found ourselves cheering, hollering with delight as Peters and Brewer ran hard from either end of the barracks and smacked into each other with sweat flying. Take that! Whether the Army planned it, or it was just an accident, the variety in our 50-man platoon was brilliant. We represented at least 25 states, and our mates were from every possible socioeconomic background. The only Peters and Brewer provided common denomia kind of harmless, in-house nator was our ages, violence that all of us craved. with 22 topping a median that was around 19 and a half. But we shared only a few reasons why we found ourselves squeezed into a barren barracks living out of a small trunk: get it over with while avoiding the draft that could really screw you over; put in your time and get the GI

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Bill to finish your education; make it a career; or, for some, continue a family tradition of military service.

I was one of the get-it-over-withwhile-avoiding-the-draft people. I got sick of the ROTC program at college and joined the local National Guard unit. I was sworn in in the men’s toilet, a tradition. The slogan of my unit was perfect, one that often came to mind during my time in the military, and since: “Play the Game.” It was just good luck that when it came time to do my active duty, the six-month program was available. It was six months active duty broken down into two months boot camp, two months school and two months field work followed by seven years of attending a two-week refresher camp every summer. The six-month program was such a hot deal it only lasted a couple years.

No matter why we had enlisted in the Army, each of us knew we would be tested. Each of us hoped we would be up to it. While the chances of being exposed to real combat were slim, given the benign situation in the early ’60s ~ there was a war on, but it was designated “cold” ~ the training would be based on that possibility. Kill or be killed, to put it simply. Our agreement to give up control over our lives was scary.

This was a big game, a real, serious game with rules you broke at your peril. Every recruit has an older friend, maybe a parent or an uncle, who gives sage advice as they depart for military service. Mine was a guy who had spent 20 years in the Army until he’d finally had enough. Milton was a friend of my dad’s. He ran the local hardware store. “Never volunteer,” Milton told me the day before I left, his eyes locked on mine, “for anything.” I’ve never been sure of why I went against that seemingly solid advice from a person I liked and respected, but one of the first days we lined up and came to attention on the Rolf didn’t talk, he yelled. It drill field outside the was all he could do not to get barracks, our leader, physical with recruits. a Master Sergeant who was born furious, asked if anyone in our group could type. A fierce-looking black man, Sergeant Rolf was in his 50s. He was barely five foot seven, and he had to weigh at least 220 pounds. He was a career enlisted man who often told us how he had carried an immersion heater though Korea for several years. Immersion heaters are inserted into tanks and barrels to heat gases and liquids. The Army version was four feet long and weighed around 40 pounds. It was an awkward thing to carry. Rolf didn’t talk, he yelled. It was all he could do not to get physical with recruits. Knowing he would be 144

court martialed for it was all that kept his fists at his side, fists the size of grapefruits. When Rolf was particularly annoyed by a recruit, he would often bad-mouth Congress for outlawing physical punishment by NCOs like himself.

I could type, and Rolf’s query was delivered in such menacing tones I must have thought he would know I was lying if I didn’t raise my hand. I cast a quick look around and counted seven other hands raised. “How many can type 50 words a minute!” he shouted. Again, it sounded like a threat. All seven hands stayed up. When he hit 80 words a minute, only two of us were left. At 60 words a minute, I had decided I would hang in there until at least 100, but my last competitor gave it up at 90. I had the job, whatever it was.

The job turned out to be Rolf’s clerk typist, which meant spending many hours in an air-conditioned office typing letters and orders, and filling out rosters for KP and guard duty from which I would carefully omit my own name. Every month I would have to type a letter from Rolf requesting a promotion. Luckily, Rolf did not blame me that no promotion was ever forthcoming. If he ever noticed I was typing at less than 90 words a minute, with two fingers, he never mentioned it.

Volunteering for clerk typist opened the floodgates. There was nothing I didn’t volunteer to do. I volunteered to be a truck driver, a job that saved me from many long marches with heavy packs. I volunteered to be on the Company flag football team, which was not only fun but provided a slightly better diet. And, I volunteered to be the recruit head of our barracks, which was by far the best job I landed, although it did prove challenging. I volunteered because it was evident that the fellow who quickly stood out as the most devious and untrustworthy among us ~ a barely 19-year-old, mean-spirited bully named Guffy ~ had

Volunteering for his eye on the job. clerk typist opened the I jumped in, told flood gates. Tony Williams, a young Corporal who lived in the barracks with us, that I wanted to apply. Guffy, who was a lot larger than me, glared at me the next day when Williams announced I was the go-between, but nothing ever came of it. The chain of command did not go any lower than me. The other recruits were to bring their problems to me and I would bring them to Williams, who would pass them up the line if he thought it was necessary. There were a few minor things, like the half a razor blade one of our guys found in a mouthful of spinach one mealtime. We managed to make a deal to keep that quiet as long as 146

the weekend pass for our barracks would not be canceled. The best thing was when Corporal Williams found out I also knew close order drill. Williams wasn’t a day over 23, a very cool, smart dude. He had been in a color guard unit in Washington. I had been to a summer camp run by a boarding school with old Naval Academy associations. We campers had worn sailor suits on Sundays and learned to march. Our barracks was soon showing its stuff on the drill fi eld, with Williams and I each taking half the men and marching them in and out, through and around each other. Everyone enjoyed it because everyone got it, even Guff y: if you are in the soup, you may as well try to improve the fl avor.

It got interesting when Peters took me aside one day. When he started talking very quietly, I was immediately on the alert. It was a good thing. He told me I had to help him get out of the Army because he was gay. Homosexual. It was 1960, and for those who don’t remember, or weren’t around, being gay was not talked about back then because it didn’t exist. Words like “queer” and “faggot” were part of my high school lexicon, but they were just generic put-downs. No one really stopped to understand their real meaning. Surely there were homosexuals of both sexes in my high

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school, but those closet doors were closed tighter than the whipping on a rope. If you actually knew of any “gay” people in the 1950s, it was very unusual.

Being gay was just the beginning of Peters’ problem. He went into how taking showers with a bunch of naked men was extremely challenging for him. Then he told me the real issue: Captain George Howard, the officer in charge of our company of 250 men ~ five barracks (platoons) of 50 men each ~ was making advances to him. This might not have been a problem, Peters explained, because Captain Howard was an okay guy, good looking, and gay men, Peters told me, were easy ~ very promiscuous. And getting next to the Captain could have its advantages. But Peters and his roommate from college, who was captain of the football team, were in love. They had a relationship, albeit long distance. And here was Captain Howard, no doubt flaunting his rank to some degree, coming on to Peters, making Peters very upset.

One of the many advantages of my clerk typist job was use of the telephone. I had to be careful and not abuse it. I always picked times when Sergeant Rolf was either absent or engaged. At the first opportunity, I called Gretta, a woman

I had dated in college who had worked in the library. She agreed to do some research for me, and a few days later I received an envelope at mail call. I didn’t have time to look over what Gretta had found until that night, and it didn’t exactly promote sleep. I may have not been aware of homosexuals growing up, but it turned out the Army had been dealing with that “problem” since 1916. That year, they had created something known as the “Blue Discharge,” or “Blue Ticket,” as it was known on the street. It was a way of removing homosexuals from the ranks, and while not exactly dishonorable, it carried He told me I had to help him heavy negative conget out of the Army because he notations. Good luck was gay. Homosexual. getting a job with Big Blue on your record. It also denied those so discharged the benefits of the G.I. Bill. Blue tickets were disproportionately issued to African Americans. It took until 1947 before blue tickets were discontinued. The new classifications for getting rid of gay soldiers were “general,” and “undesirable” ~ not much of an improvement. That’s where we were in 1960. The policy would not change until 1993, when President Clinton introduced “don’t ask, don’t tell” (DADT), which required gay personnel to remain closeted while in the military. Again, not much of an improvement.

That Was Then Dr. Howard’s schedule, she said the doctor was holding the fort

In 1960, Gretta’s research indi- pretty much alone on Wednesday cated soldiers who had not com- evenings. Perfect. Peters arranged mitted any homosexual acts would to irritate an old football injury to receive a general discharge. Those his shoulder on the obstacle course who had engaged in “acts” would on Wednesday, and had to be taken receive undesirable discharges. to the hospital after mess. He was For gays, even obtaining a general treated by Dr. Howard. He stopped discharge was a perilous path that by my bunk afterwards to report. could, on some commander’s whim, The idea had been for Peters to include hospitalization, psychiatric make a strong enough impression evaluation or a discharge under the on the doctor so she would meninfamous Section 8 of the UCMJ tion his visit to her husband when that read: “unfit for service.” It was she got home. Peters was sure he’d obvious we had to find a way around pulled it off. He said he noticed her the legal system. name tag and said what a coinci-

With Peters’ permission, I went dence, the Captain of our company to Williams. It was a is named Howard. risk we had to take. For gays, even obtaining And she got right If Williams blindly a general discharge was a into it, yep, that’s my adhered to the chain perilous path... husband. Peters said of command, Peters he’d created a mewould be put through the wringer. andering tale about people named We lucked out. I had barely got- Howard, said he’d known a bunch ten halfway through my explana- of them, said there were many in tion about Peters before Williams Scarsdale, New York, where he had stopped me. He got it. Williams just grown up, and wondered if they happened to have a brother who were her relatives. He kept at it, was gay. He was crafty, Williams. said he had a friend named Howard He simply gave me a piece of in- at college whose father was a white formation. Capt. Howard’s wife, he collar criminal, until she got visibly told me, was also a Captain. She was annoyed, said the Howards would a doctor at the base hospital. Cap- be related to her husband, not her, tain Louise Howard. she was a Smith, and she did that

Back to the phone. In the course hard-eyed rank-pulling thing, nose of doing Sergeant Rolf’s business, up, that quickly shuts up enlisted I’d gotten to know Betty, a recruit men. But Peters was confident she’d like me who was a clerk typist at be sharing his rap about the Howthe hospital. She not only gave me ards with her husband. “Probably 152

over dinner,” Peters added with a grin.

Williams listened to our plan but didn’t say much. We understood he had to be careful. We told him the next time our Captain came on to Peters, Peters was going to tell him he planned to make another appointment with his wife. Williams just looked at us, shook his head, then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out what looked like a small transistor radio. “You’re gonna need this,” he said. It was an Olympus Pearl Corder, a little tape recorder that had just hit the market. Voice activated. He said he’d gotten it in D.C. “I’d like it back,” Williams said.

It was only a few days before Peters received a call to report to company headquarters. It was some nonsense about his records missing data. As he was leaving headquarters, Capt. Howard just happened to appear driving his car. As Peters tells it, the Captain rolled down the window and asked if he would help him move some items he had in the trunk. Peters got in the car. The Captain asked him how his shoulder was and had a hand on Peters’ thigh before they’d gotten up to cruising speed. Peters protested. The Captain persisted. The Pearl Corder was in the lower pocket of

his fatigues taping the whole incriminating conversation. Captain Howard turned a whiter shade of pale when Peters and I confronted him and told him about the tape and about Peters’ intention to pay another visit to the good doctor, unless. . . I had to give Howard credit. He knew when he had been busted. He got right on it. It took less than a month for Peters to be discharged for medical reasons (4-F). I went on to fi eld communications school, which meant climbing telephone poles. The fi rst day in the fi eld of poles that looked fuzzy for being climbed so frequently, one of the toughest-looking sergeants I had seen instructed The Pearl Corder was in the us on the basics of pocket of his fatigues taping the attaching climbing incriminating conversation. spikes to our legs and feet. He climbed up 15 or so feet to show us how it was done. His spikes cut out of the pole and he slid down, putting a few splinters in his chest and forearms, and fi rmly driving the spike from his right foot into the middle of his left foot as he landed. As one, we held our breath. The sergeant’s face did not register as much as a fl inch of pain as the blood poured out of the hole in his boot. He got in a Jeep and was taken away without a word. Play the game, I was thinking. Play the game. vaughan.roger@gmail.com