Farewell Uncle Ho 24
This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 24 (Tues., Jan. 10)
Alas, the morning of dread was upon me, but I felt that Haruki had prepared me well. I knew exactly what the eight weeks of basic combat training would entail. I knew at which point I had to either fake an illness or have another reason to get recycled, which meant starting basic from the beginning, causing my total stay at Fort Dix, New Jersey to be in excess of sixteen weeks. The reason for this was so that I could see Haruki on a regular basis. He planned to come down to Fort Dix every Sunday, so we could go off into the woods, or more likely to a motel in Wrightstown. And I would go home to the Village on my three-day passes. Theoretically, at least, I was ready for basic combat training to start and to see if they could turn me into one of the 'Ultimate Weapons' for which Fort Dix was extremely proud.
At 04:00 in the morning of 10 January 1967, I woke without the alarm and without Haruki waking me. I dragged him down the corridor of the second floor to the bathroom at the far end and sucked his cock dry and let him return the favor. This would be the last sex I would have for at least two weeks. The first Sunday would be at the processing station, and the first week of basic would be spent by getting harassed by the cadre.
During my stay, Haruki had instructed me and drilled me as to what I could expect and how I could throw obstacles in their paths without suffering any consequences, for example, at the processing station. Haruki told me: "When they ask you your religious preference, don't say simply Buddhist, tell 'em Mahayana Buddhist and make sure they get it all on your dog tags with no abbreviations."
He'd also told me that on the first Sunday of basic, they would march us over to the chapel and try to intimidate us into taking part in a Christian service. When he told me about this, he got that lopsided smile: "Refuse it, Chūgokujin, just on fucking principal because it's your constitutional right." and this was the only time I ever saw Haruki go misty when talking about his mother. "They wouldn't let Mom observe Shinto, when we were in their concentration camp. They even robbed her of that comfort. Supposedly, it undermined national security." Then he laughed. "Instead, they tried to turn her into a Holy Roller, which just made her hate Christians all the more."
Before we left the house, he made sure that I looked presentable. He'd given me his well-worn Army backpack, which carried my three sets of clothes, a white towel, a book in Chinese from the NYU bookstore to read on the bus, and he also made sure that I had the lighter, floor and boot wax.
The reason for the book in Chinese, was to put a barrier between the others on the bus and me. "You don't want anyone getting too close. Even if a member of the cadre gets too close and starts asking personal questions, just remind him that he's not your buddy, but your Drill Sergeant." At that bit of instruction, he giggled. "That will seriously fuck with their heads."
We headed out double time to the east-southeast, as we had every morning, turned right on Broadway and kept going. This was, at least partially, the same route Lon and I had taken on that fateful day. The day I learned to keep my sexual preferences to myself.
When Haruki and I got to Canal Street, we kept on doubling it down Broadway. My days in Chinatown were over, as was any contact to my family. Haruki certainly has, but even Bat and Marv had shown me that I'm self-sufficient enough to get through life.
It was just getting to be twilight at 06:45 on this overcast morning in January of '67, and because of the cold Haruki and I didn't even break a sweat on our two-mile run down the lower middle of Manhattan. When we got to the front arched doorway of the ten-storey U.S. Army Building with a chain-mail shirt, a mortar, a cannon with balls and a spear demonstratively carved into red stone above the door under yet another archway, Haruki smiled and pointed. "Like I told you, it's not about winning wars, it's about pageantry. See you in three weeks." He turned and started double-timing it back up the way we'd come.
***
After being sworn in and put onto a list, which was given to our escort, we were told to wait outside. One guy remarked loudly that since they had us by the short and curlies, they could do what they wanted, including making us freeze to death before we even see a war.
While waiting on Water Street for the Greyhound bus to arrive to take us to Fort Dix, a guy came up to me, just like Haruki said one would, and he looked potentially aggressive. As he kept coming at me, as Haruki had taught me, I tossed my backpack at his feet as if I were passing a basketball. The fair-haired kid tripped and fell, skinning his hands and cheek on the concrete sidewalk. The would-be aggressor was now cowering against the red-granite wall, as I walked over toward him to retrieve my bag. I slung it casually over my left shoulder and walked off without saying a word and without showing any emotion. This was the new me. I would have made Gary Cooper blush with envy at all my quiet coolness.
I went over to the corner of the building, knowing damned well that some fifty sets of eyes were sizing me up. I leaned my butt against the roughly hewn granite block, bringing my right foot up to knee level and propping it on the stone wall. I fished out a Pall Mall from the pocket of Haruki's old, faded field jacket, lit the unfiltered cigarette with my Zippo and clacked it shut, looking off down Whitehall Street toward South Ferry, ignoring the others, letting the new me imprint itself indelibly on the minds of those with whom I would more than likely be going through basic training.
Once the bus did arrive, I was surprised to see that people were already on it. No one sat beside me, though. Good. I placed my knapsack on the seat by the window and took out my book of classical Chinese pornography, The Carnal Prayer Mat, and read until we arrived at the Dix' bus depot.
A soldier in fatigues met us at the bus, and the escort gave him the list. He called out the names; we got in line. Simple. A so-called cattle car came for us, we got in, took our seats on wooden benches and waited for it to stop. The soldier, a Specialist 5th Class, who, for some reason, looked familiar, got us off the cattle car and lined us up on the yard covered in cinders with puddles of melting snow. "My name is Specialist Sean McGrady." Then the penny dropped: I knew him from City College, but his once sweet, baby face and soft tenor voice had hardened almost beyond recognition. "I am not a drill sergeant, I am a medic awaiting discharge next week. I am here to guide you through your 'zero week'. So, if you don't give me any shit, I won't give you any. questions?"
The first hand to shoot up was attached to either the youngest draftee in the history of the Continental Army, or a kid who got his parents to sign on the dotted line. "Yeah, were you in Nam?"
"Yes." the good Specialist replied.
"Betya got some great war stories, huh?" the kid, who looked like Lieutenant Fuzz in Beetle Bailey, wanted to know and was looking around for support.
"No. Other questions?"
"Why not?"
"Because you wouldn't understand." He looked for other hands. "Okay, go inside, downstairs only, and claim a bunk. I'll walk you over for chow at 1320 hours. Dismissed." Then he looked at me and laughed. "Fancy meeting you here, Ben."
"Long time, no see, Sean." This exchange of friendliness met with suspicious glares from the others who had come down from the City with me.
"So, they finally got you, too." He offered me a Salem and grinned mischievously. When I took my first drag, I knew why. Menthol pot. "Come on, let's go up to my room and catch up."
"As you can see," he explained, "the barracks here are WWII vintage. The ones for basic are new cinder-block buildings. These are used for in- and out-processing."
I looked at the white-washed, two-storey, wood-frame building, sitting on brick supports on the south-east corner of an intersection. At first I didn't notice it, but it was facing away from one paved street with the other paved street at the end farthest from the entrance. It was diametrically opposed to how they would have been arranged for civilian use.
Sean opened the main door, revealing the stairs, which led to the second floor, a door to the downstairs bay to the left, behind which the guys were trying to find suitable bunks, and on the right, was the door to the latrine.
He climbed the stairs slowly, one step at a time, favoring his left leg. "You finally get over to France, like you were planning?" At the top of the stairs he opened the door to the empty bay, stepped back and let me go first.
"Yeah, I was there long enough to get my doctorate, came back and was drafted before I got my bags unpacked." The top floor was devoid of bunks and lockers. "Where do you sleep?"
As he laughed, he spotted my looking at his left leg, and a sense of sadness surrounded us. "Charlie's aim was pretty good in the jungle." Confusion was written all over my face. "Victor-Charlie. VC. Viet-Cong." I nodded and smiled sheepishly at my slow comprehension that he'd been wounded in action.
At the end of the bay, he unlocked and opened a door to a two-man room, complete with wall lockers, foot lockers, and a small pot-belly stove. Wanting to get our conversation away from his injuries, I joked: "Ah, home, sweet home."
***
When I held my Zippo under his cigarette before lighting my own, he noticed the engraving. "What does your lighter say?" I handed it to him and he laughed. "Did Sergeant Hernandez give this to you, or did you buy it in a pawn shop?"
I thought that the question was odd. "No, Haruki gave it to me."
"Haruki Hernandez?" He laughed at the unlikely combination. "Tell me about Haruki Hernandez." He got up to put a little shovel of coal onto the fire.
Of course, I gave him a sanitized version of my relationship to Haruki, whom I presented only as a high-school buddy, who lets me stay at his place. But I did tell him about Haruki's having taught me Drill and Ceremony, but I left out the parts when he would fuck me in the ass while assuming the front leaning rest position himself.
"Let me see what you can do." Sean ran me through the normal troop moving drill, leaving out the ceremony. There was no reason to present arms at Reception Center, or so I thought. But there was an immediate need to get 48 guys over to the mess hall and back in a somewhat orderly fashion. "Fan-fucking-tastic." He thought a little, nodding to himself. "Would you do me a favor?"
"Sure, if I can." I had no idea what it would be, but I was more than willing to help him out.
"My injuries still hurt a lot, so would you--"
"--teach the kiddies how to march?" I had to laugh at my working as a Drill Sergeant.
"That too." Then his demeanor became serious, dark, as if covered by a cloud. "And would you room with me up here?" There seemed to be an urgency in his voice. "If you volunteer to help me get the guys squared away, like marching them over to the mess hall, you're entitled to share the room with me, officially."
"I'd be glad to, Sean." And at one glance, I could tell that he needed to talk and be close to someone he could trust. His injuries weren't only physical; he was an emotional wreck.