Recurrence Page 9

  He flicked his parking lights on and off and then restarted the car. Irons seemed to freeze in mid-stride and then stopped. When the Chevy wagon rolled past him, he dived into the open rear window while the car was still moving. John continued straight ahead for three blocks and then turned right, switching his lights back on during the turn.

  From his prone position in the back, Irons mumbled, “I can’t believe you was dare, man. I thought you be long gone.”

  John laughed while he rolled up all the power windows. Moments later he saw a police car, with red lights flashing, streak across the street several blocks behind him. He drove on in silence until they were well clear of the area.

  Irons stayed down until they were back in a safe area and then mumbled, “Martin’s gonna kill me for losin dat jack—and dat boy. I even loss the driveshaff.”

  “Shit man, I hate it too, but there was nothing either one of us could have done. I’ll tell Martin that myself!”

  After almost a full minute of silence, Irons spoke. “You be alright man. I pree-shee-ate you comin back after my black ass, too.”

  The next day John had a serious talk with Martin. “Man, I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do to save Benson.”

  “Doan worry about it. He be out today or tomorrow. You done good. That was special, you hangin back dare for ole Irons.” Martin placed one hand on John’s back and thrust a roll of bills at him with the other.

  John tried to back away. “I can’t take that, this deal cost you plenty, besides I’m going to quit; it’s too risky and I’m too young.”

  Martin held him in place. “You done right by us and we do right by you. Now go on and take it, even if you do quit.”

  John finally did take the money and later discovered it was two hundred dollars.

  Martin said, “You won’t have to go out on any more runs. Most of my best customers is white and I need a, what-you-say, representive.”

  “I’m not cut out to be a salesman,” John replied.

  “No, no. No sellin involved. They come to me. You just do the talking and negotiaten. My words ain’t dat good. No more greasy hands or skinned knuckles for you either.”

  John gripped his hand. “Thanks for all you’ve taught me. I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.”

  John did try, and earned the money, but it wasn’t working too well. It ended when he got his draft notice.

  CHAPTER 8

  John was hoping to get into an electrical or machinist’s school, but he slated himself for mechanics school as soon as he told them that he had worked on cars. During his basic training at Fort Knox, he qualified as Expert with both the M1 Garand rifle and the Colt M1911 .45 semi-automatic pistol. This automatically elevated him to the position of squad leader.

  The evening of the qualification, he was in the mess hall chow line when a voice behind him whispered, “Good thing you didn’t tell them you was a boxer too; you’d be a sergeant already.”

  He turned to find Benson behind him, wearing his big grin and a stiff, shiny, new pair of fatigues. They had a different insignia from John’s company.

  “Oh, I’m going to mechanics school too,” Benson beamed.

  “I’ll be damned, how’d you get here?”

  Benson pointed to a table where he’d just sat down. After John made his way through the line, he joined him.

  ”Know what the judge said?” Benson grinned, “First offense, join the Army or go to jail.””

  John laughed, “Crime does pay.”

  They were in basic training, and the Army had plans for every minute that they weren’t eating or sleeping. From that day on, John saw little of Benson. After he moved on to the mechanics school, he never saw him at all. They did manage to keep in touch through letters forwarded by Martin. This practice started a correspondence network that continued for years. Unfortunately, correspondence with Benson himself didn’t last for more than one. Benson died from a bomb blast: from one placed under the hood of a jeep in Vietnam.

  Benson Levine had gone to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, for training, while John went to Fort Jackson in South Carolina. He had to qualify on the firing range there too. This time he qualified with the M14 Springfield rather than the M1. Again, he qualified as Expert with the rifle and the forty-five. As before, he was immediately elevated to squad leader.

  Shortly after qualifying, his platoon sergeant ordered him to report to the Company XO’s office. There, he was left with, and interrogated by, two men in civilian clothes. They talked about a variety of things for over two hours, but it didn’t take John long to determine that they were trying to work up a psychological profile on him. He told them most of his background and some of how he felt about issues in his life, but not all. They tried to determine if he had been involved in any crimes or acts of violence, but he was skillfully evasive, wondering what they were trying to tie him too.

  He thought that they might have connected him to the theft ring in Michigan that Harold Hamm was part of, or even to something involving the Levines. He even thought fleetingly of the bootlegging that his grandfather Tilman was involved in.

  His response was minimal, so they got down to business. They asked how he would like to continue his firearms training and become an Army sniper.

  He thought about it for only a few seconds and then said “No.”

  They seemed surprised at his answer and wanted to know, “Why not?”

  He shook his head no, “I don’t like the idea of killing people from ambush. I don’t even hunt.”

  “What’s the difference if he’s an enemy,” one of them asked.

  “If a man is attacking myself, my fellow soldiers, or my country’s property, I know he’s an enemy. If he’s doing something unrelated, I don’t know what he thinks or feels.”

  “That’s the dumbest answer we’ve ever had,” the other one said. “You’re sworn in to protect your country and to follow orders.”

  They had antagonized him with that and with their bullying tactics.

  John shrugged and replied, “Not for murder.”

  He refused to sign a written statement regarding what he’d told them of his past life and a second one concerning his refusal to volunteer for sniper training. They threatened to force him to go to the school.

  He said, “It wouldn’t work out.”

  They threatened to have him kicked out of the Army.

  He grinned at them. “Go ahead, I was drafted.”

  One of them, inflamed at his attitude, faked a punch at his face. His boxing discipline overruled the play, and he just stared into the man’s eyes, not rattled by it. They finally left, ordering him to stay in the office until dismissed by an officer.

  He thought to himself, “That’s a stupid order. If an NCO comes in here and orders me to do something else, I have to follow his orders, not theirs. They didn’t even identify themselves as military.” He knew that they were though.

  He stayed in the office for two more hours before he heard footsteps approaching the door. Someone spoke, and the footsteps halted. There was a brief conversation, but he could not distinguish the words. The footsteps resumed, and the Executive Officer entered.

  John jumped to attention and saluted the officer, “Private Luther, Sir.”

  The XO gave him a half-hearted return salute and said, “Report back to your platoon, Private.”

  John would soon be eligible for promotion to PFC, but he knew he wouldn’t get it. The platoon sergeant appointed someone else as squad leader the next day. All of the NCOs and two Second Lieutenants harassed him for the next two weeks. He had expected it, and tolerated it, determined to ride it out.

  He was doing well in the mechanics school, but halfway through his Platoon Leader ordered him to report to the Company CO. When he arrived at the Orderly room to report, the First Sergeant stepped out of the XO’s office and confr
onted him.

  “You won’t have to see the Old Man, Luther, you’ve been transferred. Corporal Grayson will give you your orders.”

  The company clerk handed him a sheaf of papers and said, “Bon Voyage, Luther.”

  They transferred him to a radio repair school at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. This was closer to the kind of training he wanted anyway, so he was not disappointed. He had left a new friend behind though, a man from nearby Sumter, South Carolina, named William Decker. They had talked and agreed to stay in touch. John had early on surmised that Decker was experienced in night moves, a term he had adapted to mean working outside the law for profit.

  He told Decker that he had been involved in bootlegging near Suffolk, and surrendered one name and a highway used, but not the specifics. Decker said that he had family up in that part of Virginia and knew that liquor flowed both ways on Highways 32 and 17. They both grinned and shook hands on an unspoken connection.

  “It takes one to know one,” Decker said.

  John liked the new assignment and the area and found the training not difficult at all. Starting over with his primary MOS training set him back in time and he was well past his PFC eligibility date. He was nearing the end of the course before weapons qualification came up.

  John had previously asked his Platoon Sergeant why he didn’t get his stripe.

  Sergeant Fields, a nervous type who was always wringing his hands said, “I’ll check.”

  When he heard nothing after several more days, John decided to stir the pot. The whole platoon rode to the range in deuce-and-a-half trucks for firearms qualification the next day. Afterwards, the company clerk posted the range scores. John had qualified as Marksman with both rifle and pistol, with scores barely above the minimum, almost not qualifying at all.

  It was two days before Fields cornered him as he was entering the barracks. Two other platoon sergeants were nearby, as if in support of Fields.

  He motioned John to follow him down the hall and into his private room, leaving the door open. He had furnished the room to bare regulations only, and there were no personal items in sight. John was surprised, since Fields was a known lifer with a row of stripes on the lower sleeve of his jackets. John thought he was married too.

  “Why didn’t you qualify better than that,” Fields asked.

  “What do you mean Sergeant?”

  “What I mean is: you were expert with both rifle and pistol at your previous assignments.”

  John smiled at him. “I was sick, Sergeant Fields.”

  Fields puffed up. “Sick my ass, you were sandbagging, and I’ll have you brought up on charges,”

  John stood in front of him, eye-to-eye. “I was sick and discouraged because I have been denied an overdue promotion without due-cause or explanation.”

  Fields seemed to wilt in front of him. “Oh, I thought I’d told you, it has to come through Battalion, and they haven’t approved it yet.” He fidgeted nervously while staring at John through his thick glasses.

  “When will they?”

  “Well, we can’t make them do it, so it may take a while.”

  “I’ll give you one more day,” John bellowed in his face. He turned and left the room with nothing more said about the weapons qualification. When he stepped back into the hall, the other platoon sergeants were nowhere in sight.

  The next afternoon, after classes, Fields was filling his Zippo from the fuel tank of a nearby deuce-and-a-half when John approached him.

  “When is my stripe coming through, Sergeant Fields?”

  Fields replaced the cap on the tank and stepped away from the truck, delaying an answer to the question. He tried to light a cigarette and the Zippo exploded in his hands, setting them ablaze. He shrieked and started slapping his hands against his belly.

  John yanked his own fatigue cap off and slapped it around Field’s left hand, smothering the flames. “Stick your hand in your pocket,” he yelled in his face.

  The sergeant tried to yank his left hand free from John’s grasp, then caught on and immersed his right hand in his jacket pocket. The flames from the body and lower case of the lighter were already dying out.

  Laughter echoed around them, and Fields made an about face, disappearing from the scene. John looked down at the three different pieces of the Zippo lying on the ground and snatched up the still smoldering body of the lighter with his cap. Afterwards, he turned toward the laughter behind him. He knew that they had heard him ask about the stripe and he didn’t want anyone thinking that he was a crybaby.

  “That was funny as hell man.” The words came from a classmate named Lewis, whom John knew was from Philadelphia.

  “Funny enough to move me up even higher on the shit list,” he replied.

  Two others were with Lewis, one of them also from a nearby city. They were all from a different platoon though and didn’t report to Fields.

  “Come on, we were just on our way to get a beer,” McGough said.

  He was a medium height, stocky, redhead with permanent laugh wrinkles around his green eyes. From his accent, John guessed that he was from somewhere in New York City, but he didn’t know which part.

  “Yeah, come on and tell us your troubles,” Lewis said as he grabbed John’s arm.

  The third man, named Polk, just nodded at John and they went off to the Enlisted Men’s Club for their beer. Polk and Lewis were both tall and lanky with black hair. Lewis had pale-blue eyes and a milk-white complexion, while Polk’s eyes were black, and his complexion was dark, almost dusky.

  John told them the whole scenario, beginning with his second appointment to squad leader at Fort Jackson.

  “You need to talk to the IG,” stated McGough.

  The other two nodded assent and John looked from one to the other. He could tell they were sincere. All three seemed to be a cut above average in speech and mannerisms and got along well despite the differences in accent. All of them loosened up after a few pitchers of beer and found that they had similar philosophies about the Army and life in general. John found out more about them too.

  Vincenzo Lewis was half-Italian and half-Irish. He preferred Vince if addressed by his first name.

  Ross McGough was from Brooklyn and was all-Irish.

  Eldon Polk was from New Orleans but had never been to Fort Polk, Louisiana. His accent was so different from the local area residents that he didn’t speak much, even though his English was at college level. After a few beers, he finally had something to say.

  “Those older NCOs belong to a network that extends to practically every base in the world. You get on the bad side of one and his buddies will be after you wherever you go.”

  McGough followed with, “The good part is that there’s bad blood between some of them. A lot of them move into the ranks of, or even above, the ones who shit on them before they made it. They try to get even and may even take your side.”

  “Bad blood, like love, makes the world go round,” Lewis quoted.

  John was pleased to be included in a group that was more polished and better educated. He also detected that, being from larger cities, they were streetwise too.

  “You have every right to go to the IG, especially with legitimate grievances, and yours are legit,” Lewis proclaimed.

  The others agreed and gave him a brief rundown on procedures.

  The next day he confronted Sergeant Fields again. “I want to talk to the Inspector General.”

  “What?” Fields said, aghast.

  “I have a right to an interview with the IG with a legitimate grievance, and I have a legitimate grievance.”

  Fields tried to get him to tell specifically what his grievance was, but John knew that he was just stalling and refused to tell him.

  “You have to use the chain of command.”

  “I am - starting with you.”

  “Since you won’
t tell me what your complaint is, I won’t let you see the CO,” Fields admonished.

  “You can’t refuse me,” John responded.

  Fields showed more backbone than he expected. He stiffened, and said, “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do Private. I can make you see the Platoon Leader, and he’ll determine if you can go beyond that - or knock you back into shape.”

  John stiffened too.

  “Fine, I’ll see the Lieutenant first, but you still can’t stop me from going to the Inspector General.”

  A voice from John’s left said, “Lighten up Fields. Yesterday he was putting out your fire.”

  A black sergeant named Golden was grinning at Fields.

  Fields turned back to John, “Go see Lieutenant Barnes.” Then he walked away.

  “Thanks,” John said to Sergeant Golden.

  “He’s a chump, go for it man.” Golden waved and went on.

  John caught up with Lieutenant Barnes later in the day. He didn’t seem to mind the interruption and asked what John’s grievance was.

  Lieutenant Barnes waved him to stop before he was half-finished. “OK Luther, I’ll set it up for you to see the Old Man.”

  John had only seen the Company Commander once and hadn’t heard him speak. He didn’t know what to expect when he reported to Captain Nagaya, a Japanese American, but the captain quickly put him at ease. When he heard that John wished to see the Inspector General, the captain asked John to pour them each a cup of coffee from a never-empty pot in his office and then offered him a seat.

  “Now tell me your story, and take your time,” he said in a voice as Middle-American as any John had ever heard.

  After hearing him out Nagaya asked, “Will you give me two weeks to see if I can’t resolve this to an equitable solution through my office? It would be to our mutual benefit.”

  John was silent, thinking it over, when the captain continued.