The People You Meet Along the Way
In all the old war movies the make up of the platoons was always the same. Big City Italian, smallish Jew, a big ole farm boy, a Pole with an unpronouncable name, Hispanic, Amerind, after WWII there would be a black or two, skinny kid with thick glasses, muscly dumb guy, and of course, the tough sarge with scars and memories. Give or take a few types, there was always this mix. And the crazy thing is, I found the Army to be just like that outside of Hollywood, too. I used to love the old war movies, still do, and there are a few that I will watch over and over. Keeping in mind that they bare as much resemblance to the real thing that Batman and Robin do to real police work. But I can't tell you how many times I've seen old Sgt Stryker die on Surabachi. I have a few that I won't watch no matter what...PLATOON was touted as the quintesential chronical of the war in Vietnam...instead it was just a platform for people with an agenda to spout their poison about soldiers and the war. On the other hand...I thought that HAMBURGER HILL was great...mainly because everyone was so young...that's real. In the last few years there has been an effort to be more realistic in movie making...some succeed and some don't. But that is just a tangent and not at all what I wanted to write about.
I just wanted to tell you about the guys who lived in my barracks when I first got to Fort Huachuca. They were a mixed bag and most wouldn't rate a full article but they do illustrate my original observation...they were a stereotypical group...right out of Hollywood.
We called Nick "Batman", not because of cut abs or fighting prowess but because he drove a '62 Corvette bubble top with at least a half a dozen antenae all over it. He like it that way. He was given the Nick-name (heheheh...I crack myself up) by the MPs. I can't even guess how many times he had been stopped for erratic driving or speeding...but he was a severe nerve case who took about 3 kinds of prescription "calmers" and he always talked his way out of them with horror stories about Vietnam.
Rash was a middle American farm boy who drank to excess (and given what was the norm in our group...that meant he drank alot). He had a '58 Oldsmobile with a three speed standard trans...only one I ever saw. He had a bad habit of going to Mexico and hitting the bars then waking up back at Huachuca and not having any idea where his car was. We took turns driving him through Nogales, Naco, AP and other little towns on either side of the border...and always found it intact...talk about a miracle. He was well known in cop circles for one brave stunt he pulled. The cops always hung around the Military Inn, the only real honky-tonk in town, and grab drunk drivers as they headed for the Main Gate. On this one night, Rash was plowed and he knew they would get him. Just to the south of the Military Inn parking lot, the railroad tracks passed and went into Huachuca about a half a mile away. Yup. He jumped the curb bumpers and raced across the field to the tracks, jumped up on the line and drove into post on the tracks...or actually on the cross ties while the one rail beat the crap out of the bottom of his car every time he bounced.
I have written about Ronnie before. He was a California surfer type who was consumed with the study of karate. I saw him start so many fights just to see if he could do something he had been training on. One night at the drive in theater he started some stuff with three guys at the snack bar just to see if he could take three on one with out using his hands...he could.
There was a mexican who was a barber by trade before he got drafted...not just a barber...he was from Hollywood and had worked on some famous heads. He had a lot of stories about people he had met and swore that his speciality was shaving women...he gave good haircuts, too.
Cicely was in there, I have written about his adventures in commercial transportation. One morning he screwed up his courage and kicked the company clerk in the face and somehow that wound up being my fault and I got an Article 15 over it. Wasn't my fault.
Isaac was a huge Jew from New York city. Came from big money, too. His dad let him use a spare car while he was in the Army, one of the older ones...a 1964 Lincoln 4 door convertible...about a block long and half a block wide. He drove all over southern Arizona at 100 mph.
My favorite was Gordy. We were tight from the first day he arrived. Had been a sergeant and got busted to coporal. Probably the only real coporal in the transportation corps. He got caught in a sand storm on his way back from a weekend at home in LA. The front of his '60 Bonneville was sand blasted, the glass turned milky, and the chrome stripped. He got a letter that cracked us up, from his younger brother, who asked if Gordy had heard that new song that lasted from the I5 all the way to the Yellowfront. (When the Doors' "Light My Fire" came out, songs on the top 40 stations rarely went to 3 minutes long...the album version of "Light My Fire" went almost 7 minutes and raised a lot of notice).
Burgy was another Californian, another kid with money behind him. Had the distinction of being the only MALE soldier I ever knew that was gang raped by three women. When he could no longer manage, they beat him up, left him by the San Pedro and stole his '66 GTO. He got it back the next day...they left it in the MI parking lot.
Otis was a black man who hated snakes. Huachuca is a bad place if you hate snakes, especially if you have to spend your work days in the desert..One night I was riding with him because he had a convertible...'66 Malibu SS-396...and at a stop sign we heard a distinctive rattling sound...he looked out and laughed...told me he was sittin' right on top of a big ole rattler...I asked what was so funny and he just looked at me smiling as he revved up and dumped the clutch and produced a bunch of little snake balls.
Jimmy Jack was another of my favorites. He and I spent many an evening racing each other and anyone else who would join us, our favorite was the old Charleston road...I have mentioned it before. He had a Mustang and had a slight advantage in the curves but I ate him up in between the curves. We used to put the top down on his car, pile in it and sit up on the back of the back seat and sing real loud all the way to Benson or Tombstone or what ever the destination was that night.
We lived in one of the old WWII barracks for a few months then they busted us up and spread us into the student barracks in what they called "cadre" rooms...two and three man rooms more befitting NCOs. More befitting but nowhere near as much fun.