Military Madness: Ft. Dix # 4: No Blankets and No Pillow

No Blankets and No Pillow

As I open this segment on Fort Dix, New Jersey, I marvel at the fact that I was not there for more than eight weeks and yet, as I flew from Missouri to New Jersey,  those weeks stretched out in front of me as an eternity.  I had entered the service on January 10th, 1972, and it was now March 20th, a scant seventy days, which had weighed on my psyche like a 235 cubic inch cylinder head, a boat anchor by definition, if ever one existed.

I made my way from Missouri to New Jersey with one other guy from Ft. Leonard Wood, who was also being assigned to Delta Company, and who was going to be a chaplain’s assistant, like me.  On the one hand I had already dealt with the unhappy fact that I was not heading out west to California; instead, I was going farther east to the absolute extreme of the continent to New Jersey.  On the flip side of the coin, I had been assigned a military occupation specialty (MOS) that was one of a kind in its uniqueness and appeal: a chaplain’s assistant job.

The drill sergeants at Fort Leonard Wood had seemed genuinely pleased on my behalf, asserting that it was a highly desirable peach of a job, primarily because there was only one boss, and the hours were good.  They said Sunday was the big day, and the rest of the time I was just like a secretary, taking care of correspondence, and driving the chaplain around to his appointments.  I thought of not being housed in a barracks already filled with a couple of dozen guys, and that maybe it would afford some opportunity for individualism, and I felt slightly encouraged, which was head and shoulders above the way I felt at FLW.

Unfortunately, a desirable job and, hopefully, a quick completion to my two year sentence in the military, still existed only on the far side of advanced individual training (AIT), during which time, I would acquire the necessary skills to assure success.  I figured that if the army had a set of guidelines, designed to be instilled in the average recruit, then I should have no trouble.  Besides, I had every intention of getting out, on one or more weekends, to visit relatives of Nancie, and maybe even take a side trip to Washington DC.   I even fantasized about a trip to Shea Stadium to see the Schmetsies play the Dodgers.

It still seems unfathomable to me, a thirty-seven year fan of the San Francisco Giants, that I used to bleed Dodger Blue, for the first nineteen years of my life.  What are you going to do, if you are raised in Southern California, and you are a kid?  You do what the rest of the tribe does, and that was watch Sandy Koufax and Maury Wills.  It was not my fault that I was born in the San Gabriel Valley.  Pa had it right; he was a fan of the Giants for one reason only, and that was Mister Willie Mays, a man Pa always referred to as the consummate gentleman.  He used to try to get Noel and/or me to switch allegiance, and I did for a short while when Noel went off to Dominguez, so I can say today, that I was first a Giants fan back in about 1964, ten years before my official conversion.

Just to assure you that there are no lingering feelins for Southern California, I went back to SoCal for the last time in 1983, the year after Casey was born, to attend Auntie Anne’s 75th birthday.  The memory that stands out clearest is that while driving along the San Bernardino Freeway in the slow lane, at an admittedly cautious 55 miles per hour, I was passed on the right shoulder of the freeway, by a metallic green GTO, whose driver gesticulated at me in body language that was punctuated with a rude and ungracious gesture, testimony to either his I.Q. or number of friends he had before his dog died. 

Now, as I stepped out of the olive drab green station wagon, that had conveyed my buddy and I from Philadelphia to Fort Dix, I took stock of my new surroundings.  We had come into Philly at 1:30 in the AM, and had had to wait for about forty-five minutes before our transport arrived. Now, as I look at the map, I see that Philadelphia is not more than thirty or forty miles from Ft. Dix, so what happened was that upon arriving in Philly, the call had gone out to send our chariot to the airport from Fort Dix.  That way there would have been no need to provide us with car fare.

What I was looking at was this ancient, ugly, dilapidated, decrepit, olive drab green, paint-peeling edifice: in other words, a typical U. S. Army affair.  Here we signed in and obtained our bedding, which consisted of a single bed sheet.  There were no blankets, there were no pillows, there was no heat and there damn sure was no comfort or sympathy for our plight.  Did I think the clerk, who had been awakened to provide us with bedding, cared one iota about our plight?  I think he considered his own displacement from sleep to be of far greater import, and actually got perverse enjoyment out of welcoming us to this venue of the military experience, by not being any more accommodating than he had been.  I also found it hard to believe there were no additional blankets or pillows anywhere to be found at Ft. Dix.

However, when it turned out there was also no food available (we had not eaten in twelve hours), the whole picture represented a mirror image of the experience at FLW.  Hurry up and wait; if there is a better way to do it, you can be sure the army will never find it, or more likely, it will find it, but not recognize it for being what it is, while everyone around does.  All we could do was sigh, and head up to the third floor open bay, where there were already a bunch of snoring bodies draped over military cots.  We stuffed our gear into lockers with no locks, and staggered off to bed, exhausted, cold, hungry and demoralized.  I do not remember a more depressing setting for one night in the first six months of my experience, though I was still in continental United States.  Later, when I went overseas, I think the argument could be made, that my spirits sank a little lower, but who’s quibbling over degree of depression?  It was all enough to make the pope cry.

United Auto Stores # 9: Nice Try

Nice Try

Doug was the weekend machinist at United Auto Stores, in the late seventies/early eighties in San Jose; he was also a law student at Santa Clara University, having begun with a degree in English from San Jose State.   Doug was one of those guys who you knew was intelligent just by hearing him talk.  It wasn’t what he said that was impressive; it was his voice.   He had that authoritarian way of conversing which plainly said, “I am going to tell you what’s up, and if you think it’s the sky, nice try.”

The first time I ever heard that voice was one of the early days I was on the job.  We had an inter-store phone line that did not require dialing.  All that the guys at Store #2 on Mckee Road had to do, was hit the button one time for Story Road, three times for Almaden Blvd, and four times for Hillsdale Ave.  Whoever was handiest, answered it.  Trying to impress everyone during a lull, I snatched the phone after a long buzz indicated that someone wanted our attention, like ten minutes ago.  The first thing I focused on was the VOICE, and then that old SBH number came at me in two five-digit increments, so fast I had only time to apply pencil to paper fast enough to get the first five, before my brain let the second half slide over the edge. 

“Hey, can you hit me up with those last five digits again, please?”

There was a pregnant pause, and from the length of it, I feared the baby was ready to pop.

“One...........zero...........two..........four...........zero..........Got it?”  Ice cubes over the phone.

What an arrogant jerk.  “Be right back.”  Shorter pause than the previous one.  “Sorry-none on the shelf.”

Another pause.

“Hello?” I asked, into the phone.  Not recognizing the voice (for the one and only time-afterwards, I was to know it in a mili-second) “Anyone there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.  Let me talk to Mike.”  I went to get Mike, who was in the office, and when I came back out, I had time to lift one end of the receiver off of the hook, and then the other, carefully, so that I could listen in on the conversation without anyone hearing me.

“Mike.”  That voice, again.

“Doug.”  Hmmm.   Someone named Doug.  Mike did not seem to have any trouble recognizing the voice.  He also did not sound intimidated.

“Michael, who was that?”  He made it sound as though I were a combination dog turd mixed with vomit.  Was he that unsettled because I had asked him to repeat a stupid part number?  Or did he think I was was incapable of stock-checking it?

“That?  You mean the guy who put me on the phone?  That was Markington Poopie; he’s been with us for a few days.  Why?  Did he trip over his beard?”

“Well, what’s up?  Is he all right?  He seemed a little slow on the uptake.”

“Yeah, he seems fine.  Give him a chance.”

“Yeah, sure.”  Doug may have still had a few doubts.

Like Pescalone, Doug was a hard guy to get to know.  When he came back to Story Road as the revolving door did its thing, I stepped carefully around him for the longest time, though he never seemed to notice one way or another.  That all changed  with one casual question addressed to me, asked more out of boredom than interest just after he’d gotten off work, and filled out his time card.

“So, uh...uh...”  He was looking at me, and he seemed to be talking to me, but...

“Try Mark,” I said, dryly.

“Right.  So Mark, what courses are you taking at San Jose State?”   Courses?  Who says courses?

“I have field hockey.”  I figured if he thought I was a wiener, I wasn’t going to convince him otherwise by impressing him, so I started with my PE class, more for shock value, than for any other reason.

There went another of those damn pauses.  “Field hockey?”

“Yeah, Doug, you know, with the sticks and the hard ball?  Me and seventeen just-out-of high school girls, and the instructor.” Since I was 22 at the time, seventeen twenty year old babes sounded about right.  I groaned inwardly.  Me?  Did I actually use the objective case in place of the nominative?  With Doug?

Doug spoke.  “Okayyyyy.”  He dragged that second syllable out as though it were coming out of quicksand.  “Is that it?”

“”Well that’s it for PE.  I’m also taking ‘Methods and Materials of Literary Research.’”

In the process of shrugging his way into his sports jacket, he turned to me with a positive gleam in his eye, and said, “With Jack Hager?”  I had finally penetrated Doug’s shell-or, rather-his hide.

“That would be he.”  Proper use of the nominative case, as I have already noted, was critical in Doug’s presence.  Seriously.

The dude actually made eye contact with me.  “Good luck with that one.  He is one son of a bitch.”

I walked away to take care of Harry Siemens, a do-it-yourselfer who specialized in Chrysler products.  “How’re doing, Harry?”

Harry sidled up to one of the stools out in front of the counter, easing himself up and on it, while indicating something alongside him on the floor.  I looked over and saw a Chrysler products rear axel sitting there.  Doug was beating a hasty retreat out the side door, but Harry nailed him.

“Got time to do one last bearing?”

“Sorry, Harry.  I have to see a guy about a legal matter.”  Glancing at me, Doug said, “We’ll have to save that for the regular machinist, first thing in the morning.  Good-night all.”  And he sailed out the side door, a pause, for once, being the last thing on his mind.

United Auto Stores # 8: Take That Axle, Please

Take That Axle, Please


Richard worked in the machine shop at United Auto Stores, Story Road in San Jose for the last several years that I worked there, back in the seventies.  Richard wore his hair long also, but Jaime would NEVER have called Richard a hippie, even if his hair got caught in Jaime’s feet, instead of in his mind.  People did not dis on Richard.  He was not tall like Pescalone, and he wasn’t burly like Jaime, but he was six feet tall, and he was built in the V mode, with wide shoulders and a tapered waist.  Pound for pound, I believe Richard was the strongest man I ever met.

He had the most piercing eyes I have seen since Dan Briggs left Korea, for the greater New York area.  Richard was intense especially if he thought you were being disrespectful.  He was also an individual capable of exuding a great deal of inner strength and support.  I always wanted Richard on my side, whether it was a football game, or a confrontation with an angry customer.  He emitted a great feeling of confidence, and he rode a BMW Motorcycle that cost as much as Stephen’s Mercury Capri, the one that seemed so incredibly sporty in the mid-seventies, even stacked up against a Datsun 240Z.

Richard was a fan of the Oakland Raiders.  I think those blue collar values aligned themselves in Richard’s mind early on, and he felt comfortable going to Oakland and sitting in "The Black Hole," amongst the other members of the Raider Nation.  We’d get together a few times each season at his apartment and watch the game.  If Stephen’s brother Ronald was there, we would be drinking strawberry daiquiris. 

Like all machinists, Richard’s hands were toughened and calloused by the nature of the work in the shop.  If he could have done nothing but valve jobs, and everything entailed, he would have been perfectly contented.  After soaking and cleaning the cylinder head(s), he would run it through the glass beader, so that he could apply a red dye to the surface of the head to check for cracks.  He then ground the valves and valve seats to three different angles to ensure proper seating.  It was all so calculated and precise.  I think it was that attention to detail that got him interested in BMW Motorcycles.

If the head were cracked, Richard could drill and pin it, as long as it was cast iron.  On the east side of San Jose, there were still thousands of old 235 Chevy engines, in both cars and pickups, and they were known for cracking.  That was the bad news.  The good news was that the cracks were fixable, and the boat anchors were then good to go for another thirty years.  They were the heaviest of all the cylinder heads that crossed the counter.  

When the customer brought in a head to have the valves and seats ground, we took all of the pertinent info, lined up the necessary gaskets or other engine parts that might be needed, and made sure the customer signed the receipt and got a copy.  The counter clerks had to work in conjunction with the machinist, so that all parties were on the same page.

Once I began to handle the dealer trade, it was even more important to communicate with Richard.  We had to send the cracked aluminum cylinder heads out to be repaired, we had to be able to order valves, or more likely, the valve guides which Richard had found to be worn, and we had to be able to do it in a timely fashion, so as to be able to compete with the other shops.  That was why the delivery process was initiated, to not only increase business, but to increase flexibility, so that we could guarantee that Richard would get what he needed in time to get it done by Friday.  He was the king of the Vernier Calipers.  As the liaison between the shop and the customer, I wanted to be able to give accurate information, and receive it in turn so that I could acquire the necessary components.

He was very good at his job, even though it meant constantly having to stop to turn a set of brake drums,  or press a rear axle bearing on.  If it happened to be a Chrysler product, the poor clerk would take it back but would not enter the machine shop with it in his hand.  Otherwise, he was liable to draw back a stump.  Those pesky Chrysler product bearings were the rust on the surface of the serenity of the machine shop, and Richard hated them.  Anything that got in the way of the true machinist’s calling, was an annoyance.  It wasn’t even about making money or not; it was about being able to start a difficult process and following it through to its conclusion.  On the other hand, the manager of United Auto would have to consider whether it was in his best interests, in terms of health,  to suggest that Richard might be better off in another establishment.  No, Richard belonged at United on Story Road.  Just save the axle bearings for the weekend machinist.  

[I hope that doesn’t draw a lawsuit from Doug, the weekend machinist.]

Military Madness: Ft Dix # 3: Only on Sundays

Only on Sundays

 Waking up in the basement lodgings of Jeff's girlfriend on Sunday morning, we spent a leisurely couple of hours pretending to be civilians again for a brief time.  Having left Ft. Dix, New Jersey, for a weekend in DC, we were now looking at the prospect of wrapping up our weekend, and thumbing our way back to the base.  Over coffee and sweet rolls, we had a discussion which proved enlightening.  I can’t remember the names of either girl, but I do remember what we discussed.  Instead of attaching names to the girls, I will refer to them as GF for Jeff’s girlfriend, and RM for room mate.

GF: “So, Mark, what’s it like to learn how to kill people?  I mean, that is, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Mark: “Not at all, except that they really don’t focus that much on how to kill people when they are training chaplain’s assistants.”  I always loved the reaction I got from people, when I mentioned my military occupational specialty was chaplain’s assistant.  I guess most people just did not view me as that kind of guy.  

Being a draftee, I had absolutely no input into what job I might perform while in the army.  When I received my orders, upon leaving Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, I was assigned this rather unusual occupation, based presumably on my high test scores.  The drill sergeants congratulated me, saying, “That is one of the best jobs you can get, because you have only one boss, and the big day is Sunday.  The rest of the week, all you do is drive the chaplain around and act as a secretary.

GF: “How do you train to be a chaplain’s assistant?  Do you have to go to church a lot?”

Mark: “No, we are in the same classes as company clerks and supply orderlies.  The classes are about learning to type and being able to write letters correctly, and handle correspondence.  You need to know that stuff to function in any area of office work.”

RM:  “Are you afraid you are going to get sent to Vietnam?”

Mark: “I don’t think about it at all; I am to busy trying to cope with the garbage that gets thrown at me every day, to worry about what they are going to dump on me tomorrow.”

Roy:  “Besides, chaplain’s assistants are still going to be working for the chaplain, and the last I heard, chaplain aren’t expected to fight.  Even in Vietnam, a chaplain’s assistant should be in pretty good shape.”

Jeff:  “I heard Larry Palinkas got some insane number in the draft lottery, like three or four, something hideous like that.  He was a year behind the rest of us.”

Mark:  “I have his address; maybe I’ll drop him a line and tell him to hang in there.  I heard they were doing away with the draft, anyway, so maybe he’ll be OK.”

Jeff:  “Speaking of draft, I heard there was going to be a protest because students are angry that there are army recruiters on campus.  You guys could come and protest the draft in uniform.”

Mark: “When is it?”

Jeff:  “Tomorrow at lunchtime in the Student Union.”

Roy:  “If we’re here at the protest, then they’re going to be hunting us, because we will be AWOL.”

GF:  “What’s that?”

Roy:  “Absent without official leave, which is the same as being screwed.”

Mark:  “Speaking of which, I think we better get going.  If we don’t sign in by midnight, we’ll welcome turning into pumpkins, because then all they can do is make pie out of us.  As it is, they can take us out and have us shot.”

Roy:  “Do you suppose we’ll run into those hippies we saw yesterday?”

Jeff:  “Hippies? Here at Georgetown?  Is nothing sacred?  What did they say to you?”

Mark: “They saw us getting out of this guy’s car and came over, three of long haired dudes, and two hippie chicks, in long dresses.  They were dancing around us, and asking us if we had seen any women or kids to shoot.  Luckily, another car stopped and we were able to get out of there.  They weren’t threatening us or anything.  They were just being hippies.  I would rather be in their shoes than mine, so what are we going to do?  Get mad?  We just laughed at them, and they laid off, and then along came our chariot...”

As we left the house and made our way back out to the main drag, we looked around us at the beautiful city.  I do not know if it was the rain from the previous day, or the fact that we were off the base, but everything seemed so alive and fresh.  The cherry trees, which often were situated on the medians of the roadways, were exquisite, with their brilliant pink blossoms.  The sky was cloudless and blue, the sun warm and bright.  There were people, dogs, hippies, kids, motorcycles, buses, trucks cars and taxis all in abundance as we made our way along the road, content to wlak along for a few minutes, before we stuck our thumbs back out.

When we finally did get around to business, we got a ride straight to Baltimore from these two Bolivian guys, driving this tank of a Bonneville.  They were impressed with our uniforms and kept asking us how many people we had killed.  We were impressed that such a beat-up old Pontiac could still run, and asked them how many guys they had killed with it.  They thought that was pretty hilarious.  We then got stranded for quite a while and were beginning to regret that walking we did, when we got a ride from an army guy, who was traveling with his wife and two children, all the way to the front sidewalk of the orderly room.  That’s just the way it seemed to work whenever I hitch-hiked in uniform.  People went out of their way to help a guy out.   

 

Military Madness-Ft. Dix # 2: A Different Viewpoint

This is the second in a series of narratives about my advanced individual training at Ft. Dix, New Jersey, in 1972.

A Different Viewpoint

While hitch-hiking with my friend, Roy Turvey, from Ft. Dix, to Washington DC, a nice man, with a little boy, dropped us off at a Hilton Hotel in Baltimore and departed.  However, the Hilton was too expensive, so we started looking for a cheaper place.  We tried a Lord Baltimore Hotel, but it was way too much.  We tried to locate a USO, but eventually decided to stay at a Holiday Inn, where we paid sixteen dollars for a really nice double room, with a color TV, and a bathtub.  

Though it was ten o’clock already, Roy and I changed into civvies, and went out for a stroll through the streets of this old city, with nothing like it to compare in California.  We walked past the docked Civil War-Era ship Constellation, and admired the clipper ships, reflecting Baltimore’s naval history, and its efforts to preserve that history.  As we ambled along , everything seemed to point back to an earlier time period, when the stakes were higher, and you paid a higher price to wear the uniforms that Roy and I had found so convenient to hitch-hike around in.  It was a different viewpoint from which to examine my military conscription, one with a little less bitterness. 

Arriving back at the Holiday Inn about 12:30, we got a late snack at the downstairs cafe.  We actually still had enough adrenaline flowing to stay up for a while watching television, before finally turning in.  My last memory was that Baltimore had heretofore meant nothing more than the sad ending of the 1966 baseball season, with Brooks Robinson stopping everything hit between the line and the shortstop, and the Dodgers producing the prototype of the 2011 Giants: all pitching and no hitting. The Dodgers scored two runs in the first three innings of the first game, and then were shut out for the final thirty-three innings of the 1966 World Series.  Better t have not gone to the Show, than to have performed so abysmally.

I woke up the next morning and took a hot bath, the first I had enjoyed since I had visited with Nancie’s Uncle Al, several weeks before.  I dragged Turkey (Roy’s nick-name) out of bed after I got out of the tub, and sat down and filled out a couple of post cards, one to Nancie and one to Mama.  Afterwards, we bundled up, because it was raining, and headed back out, and stuck out our thumbs.

A black man stopped almost instantly, a military guy who was not in uniform, and who took us all the way to the front steps of Jeff’s dorm room at Georgetown U, making lively conversation the whole time.  When he asked what we were doing in DC, and we told him we were visiting my friend here at the university, he nodded knowingly and wished us luck.  I think he figured we had come to the university to acquire knowledge in a more biblical sense.

We went straight up to Jeff’s room, waking him at close to eleven in the morning.  Rolling over, and fumbling for his glasses, he still managed to indicate one of his drawers, just out of reach, which I opened for him.  Inside I could see several containers of precious herbs, that Jeff had collected in the time he had been at Georgetown.  There was some  And here I had been thinking that he was a political science major, when evidently he was into horticulture.  

We sat there for a couple of hours, sipping gin and smoking reefer in this dorm room in Washington DC, certainly the closest to home I had felt since hitting the East Coast.  In the letter home to Nancie, I described the scene similarly, with the slight omission that I never mentioned the greenery, probably out of fear of censorship.  

Roy and I took off after a couple of hours and set out to see some of the city.  It was so beautiful, even in the rain.  We promenaded past the White House and the big Cathedral, but we deemed it too far to walk to the monuments, even though we could see them in the distance.  By now we were famished, so we bought a couple of sandwiches, and headed back to Jeff’s.

Jeff’s girlfriend was there, so after siting around for a while, she suggested that we head back to her place, and she would check with her roommate and see if we could crash on the floor, so that we did not have to pay for another room for the night.  Her roommate said great, and we were on.

Wanting to be the perfect host, Jeff suggested that we go see The Godfather, which had been released within the past few days.  All of us had read the book, and it proved to be everything that it had been billed to be.  When we returned to the house after the film, we crashed, Roy and I being provided with blankets and pillows, and finding places on the cluttered floor of this basement dwelling.

We had entered the house, and immediately descended one floor, into the basement, which was a series of refurbished rooms, very haphazard in terms of dimensions.  What it meant, was that in the morning, when I awoke, before the others, of course, I had no concept of what time it was.  There were no windows accessible from this basement set of rooms, so it was coal black.  I lay there for hours, before they started to stir at around ten.  Not since I had been home on Fellowship Street, had I lain around of a Sunday morning, and just dozed.  I could have gotten used to that very easily.

United Auto Stores #7: "Twisting" on the Balcony

“Twisting” on the Balcony

KC worked at United Auto, Hillsdale, when I first began at Story Road in the Fall of 1974.  I spoke with him occasionally on the phone, stock-checking this item or that for availability, but only met him a few times before he came back to work at Story Road.  KC was one of a half-dozen who started at Story Road back in the day, and then had been farmed out to the new stores, as they had been added to the chain. 

Pescalone had gone to Mckee Road taking Doug with him, while KC had gone with Stephen to Hillsdale Avenue when the fourth store opened up around 1973.  Eventually, they all came back to Story Road, as circumstances, work schedules and school dictated.

There were only two weeks difference in age between KC and me, he being the senior.   He is un rubio, a blondie, and he wore a beard, mostly just allowed to roam wildly around his face.  His eyes are blue and his complexion somewhat ruddy.  He is certainly a key reason why Old Paint came to serve as the employee lounge out in the parking lot, midway between United Auto and Shakey’s Pizza Parlor.  KC liked the “happy smoke” too, especially after a Saturday, when things started off crazy and rocketed right up to frantic.

KC spoke fluent Spanish, and had the music of the language mastered, and spoke more fluidly than I did.  The difference between the two of us was that he spoke barrio Spanish, whereas I spoke the Spanish taught at the university.  Hugo called me el professor all of the years I knew him, not because I was scholarly, but because I spoke grammatically correct Spanish.  

KC spoke Spanish in the present tense, whereas I was required to learn all conjugations of the verbs, regular and irregular, including el subjectivo, the subjective tense, a concept challenging enough to convey in English, let alone Spanish.  Now, I have to tell you that it didn’t matter to the good customers of United Auto, whether the Spanish spoken was of university level, or that of a primary school student.  I never spoke Spanish with a hispanic person in that store, who did not respond with a huge smile.  There was the sense that a more level playing field was available if we pooled our language resources, and tried to arrive at a successful conclusion to the expedition to the auto parts house.  

As did most of the employees at UA at one time or another, KC attended San Jose State, so we had one additional thing in common.  He was a science major, always taking these courses with labs attached. It came as no surprise to learn that, after devoting close to twenty years to the auto parts business, in one form or another, KC went back to school to get his teaching credential and now teaches high school chemistry in San Jose.

The thing I will never forget about KC, was his totally unflappable nature when it came to the intricacies of rebuilding engines, specifically VW engines.  The time I tackled brother Brian’s ancient VW bug, with its 36 horse power engine, I had to split those cases four times, to finally get it back on the road.  It was not a paying proposition, because Brian didn’t have any money and I wasn’t hurting for cash.  Our apartment cost 145 dollars a month, with the utilities included, so it was more because I could do it, than because I was forced by economic circumstances to tackle it, especially without a garage in which to work.  The kitchen table simply had to suffice.

The first time back through the engine was the result of a mechanical failure of an oil pump, whereas the second time involved a leaky gasket.  The third was the result of a stripped bolt, and the fourth time was because a nut was allowed to fall into the intake manifold, and down into the inner recesses of the engine.  Ouch.  The whole engine had to be broken down each time.  The fourth time I realized that we had to go through it again, I was in tears.  KC took me out onto the balcony of our upstairs studio apartment, and twisted up a bomber.  

“The first thing we’re going to do is smoke a joint.  Then we’re going to forget about it until tomorrow.”

“And then?” I asked fearfully.

“And then we’re going to split these cases again and take care of your brother’s VW.”

That’s just what we did.

Military Madness-Ft. Dix: # 1: Bonds Like That Should Not Be Broken

This is one in a series of narratives from my military experiences, set during Advanced Individual Training in Fort Dix, New Jersey, in 1972. 

Bonds Like That Should Not Be Broken

JT mentioned the other day that she didn’t know that I had ever been to DC.  While I was stationed at Fort Dix, New Jersey, in April of 1972, I hitch-hiked there with a fellow recruit named Roy Turvey, to see my friend Jeff Ruch.  Jeff was a student at Georgetown U and had written me twice, inviting me to stop in, if I was ever in that neck of the woods.  He ended the second letter by writing, “You have been to school (and other things) with me longer than any other human being.  Bonds like that should not be broken.  Come up and see me, you son of a b***h.”

So Roy and I decided to leave one  Friday night, after our classes were over, and the trainees had been dismissed.  We had been advised to don our Dress Greens while traveling to facilitate progress, so we signed off the base about five o’clock, without even knowing which direction we should travel, and stuck our thumbs out.  About thirty seconds later this old guy pulled over, hollering in a thin, reedy voice, “Hop in.  Let’s get you where you need to be.”  Though his ultimate destination was in the opposite direction, he took us to a main intersection, gave us general directions and a map.  As we piled out, he was laughing and wagging his head as he hollered out again, “You boys take care and have fun.  Dang me, but I had fun when I was your age.”

Roy had had a good idea, based on his experience back in his home state of Oregon.  He had brought a roll of masking tape from the office, which we then proceeded to tear off in strips to form the letters DC on his AWOL bag, and DIX on mine.

As we were about to find out, everyone on the East Coast during the Vietnam conflict, had a brother in the military, or a cousin, nephew, homie, or husband.  So the decision to travel in uniform, which was against my principles, worked well, and with one exception, we never had to wait more than five minutes for a ride.  That included the thirteen rides we got on the way to DC, and the one ride we got on the return trip.

 

So we stuck out our thumbs again and got a ride all the way to Baltimore, before being dropped off on the outskirts.  We found a Micky D’s and grabbed a meal.  For most of my life, I wouldn’t be caught dead or alive in one of those, but I realize now, as amazing as it sounds, that Micky’s represented an upgrade over military chow.  It was not complicated, not to mention the fact that if we could stay overnight in a double room at a Holiday Inn for sixteen dollars, we could probably have eaten at Micky’s for about a buck apiece.

What I remember about this dining experience, is talking with two older women, who were sitting at the table adjacent to ours.  The conversation was very comfortable.

“Oh, I am so happy you sat down next to us. I saw you come in, and I said to Sal, here, ‘Isn’t he the spittin’ image of my Dan?’” 

“Is Dan your son, Ma’am?”

“Yes, and he’s in the army too.  He’s in Vietnam, but he’s coming home in just ten weeks.  Where are you stationed?”

“Fort Dix, Ma’am.” 

“Oh stop calling me Ma’am.  I’m Suzy and this is Sally.  What are you doin’ in Baltimore, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all.  We’re going to DC to see a friend of mine at Georgetown.”

“Well, that’s nice.  I just think it’s amazing that you young people today are so responsible.  Look at you in that uniform.  Do you mind me asking you what the biggest reason is that you are in uniform today?”  She was smiling radiantly.

“Not at all, Ma’am.  I was drafted.”

“Oh.”  She seemed a trifle disconcerted at the information.  

Sal got into the act.  “Tell him about Dan.”  Turning to me, she did just that.  “Her Danny got a medal.  He was injured over there, and he got a Purple Heart.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  Not that he got a medal-that he got hurt.” I smiled broadly.

“I understood what you meant, and besides, he wasn’t hurt bad, and they treated him real good.  I’m just so proud of him.  I’m proud of you boys too.  You are a credit to your country.”

I felt embarrassed, but I recognized that her words were genuine, and reflected the attitude of the East Coast, rather than that of California.  Out in liberal California, you would never hitch-hike in uniform, because the native folk have an aversion to women-killers and baby-rapers, which is all they see when they see an army uniform.

We had finished eating by now, so we said our good-byes, and cruised back out front, where we stuck out our thumbs again, and ended up getting picked up by a guy about our age, driving a Chevelle, with a sick sound system.  We listened to Spirit’s “The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus,” at an eardrum-shattering decibel, while he took into the center of Baltimore.  Thanking him, we had just time to grab our bags and stick out a thumb, when another guy, this one with a little kid, pulled over and let us scramble in.

Upon finding out that we were looking for a place to stay, he said, “Well, I know you’re not from around here, or you wouldn’t have been standing on The Block.”

“The Block?  What’s that?”

“Part of town that you need to avoid.  There’s no good going to come from there, isn’t that right, Kiddo?”  He ruffled his son’s hair.  “Let’s get you to some places that you can choose among to get a room.”  
 Roy and I nodded enthusiastically, agreeing that avoiding The Block was just fine with us.  We had seen enough of places where there was precious little good to be found, to want to stay in another one by choice.  We slid into the back seat, and shut the door.  Drive on, James.