Buck Owens. No not that Buck Owens, the one I'm talkin' about's the man who worked the gate when I was off. First off, Buck wasn't his real name. That was Roy. But, you see, Roy wasn't his real name either, just the one he admitted to. About the time I left the stockade he told me what his real one was in the strictest secrecy. It might be forty-two years later but I sure as hell won't go back on my word. Let's just say it was a humdinger. Unless even that wasn't it. And I don't want to think beyond that level. That'd be like poppin' open Pandora's box. Might release all the evil names some kids were been stuck with by unthinking parents since the beginning of time.
Buck was a big time Buck Owens fan. Yeah, that one, the country boy twanger from California. So we probably woulda called Roy, Buck, even if he didn't call himself that. He also liked Elvis and Charley Pride. Like that matters a whole lot. But it does peg him as a country-western fan of the first order.
Buck hailed from Florida. Musta picked him a fair share of oranges in his early years 'cause he brought those days up now and then. Taught me the proper way to pop one open. Worked fine but left me sticky fingered.
Since both of us worked the same job we faced the same problems. One of which was passin' time on the midnight shift. When we were doin' six days on, three off, the late night hours were a terror. Our shifts always rotated, three days 6am to 6pm, then the reverse. Tired all the time but never so tired as around 3am.
Durin' those early mornin' hours the gate guard was the most important man at the stockade. All because of Super Seven. We called him that even though his graying hair said the over achievin' days were in his past and he wasn't so super anymore. The seven part was his rank, Sergeant First Class, E-7. Seven was either out to make us one strack stockade or at least have the satisfaction of bustin' someone's ass.
I only saw Super Seven when he passed through the gate. During the day it was nothin' but a howdy and a snappin' open of the gate lock.
Gotta sidetrack again. The main gate was locked with a two pound Yale padlock. At minute one on day one each of us gate guards were told that lock had to be opened one handed with no fiddlin' with the key tryin' to fit it in. 'Sposed to be a one handed stab with a twisting motion. Slam it in and pop it open. Like stabbin' someone in the gut and turnin' the knife for good luck (how's that for a prison analogy?). Make the dude passin' through think we knew what the hell we were doin'. So we practiced and oiled the Yale daily.
Night time was another story. Super Seven either couldn't sleep or his old lady kicked him outta bed on a regular basis. So around 2:30am or so, he'd come flyin' down the road, side drift into the parking lot and head for the gate all hell bent for leather. Anyone caught sleepin' was a goner. Especially the gate guard. He had to make the whole routine seem like everything was peachy keen normal.
You see, there was this doorbell button under the guard's desk inside the little gate shack. Everyone knew it was there, even Seven. It was a warning bell that could be pushed unseen. So when I knew for sure it was Seven barrelin' down the road, it was my job to hit that thing machinegun like. Then after Seven passed through the gate and before he made it to the office, phone the towers to make sure they were awake. I know that doesn't sound all that military but that's just the way she was. In general, Army life on Oahu was a game, the idea bein' no one gets hurt. Or smokes dope for that matter. Or if they did, don't get caught.
And damned fine practice Seven's middle of the night dash was. Should some maniac with a pistol grip, sawed off shotgun come barrelin' down the road with the aim of bustin' his buddy outta stir, we'd be ready. 'Course soon as that gun came out, I'd be gone like a flash.
So the gate guard was the most important man at the stockade, the first domino. He goes down, the whole house follows. Maybe. So me and Buck had to find ways to stay awake at night when the hours stretched out.
My plan involved reading novels about people who were on the left side of crazy. Like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and On the Road. Could be argued that both were about sane people in a crazy world. But somehow, that doesn't seem to hold much water. Truth be known, at three in the morning sittin' in a stockade's guard shack I wasn't much sure which side was which.
Buck got into disassembling and reassembling a .45 caliber pistol. Out in the guard shack we had a small armory of weapons locked up. None went inside the fence. Nobody the prisoners could lay their hands on sported a fire arm. Only boys with guns sat up in the towers with bare minimum 12 gauge shotguns loaded with double ought buck. We also had a bunch of .45s. Buck worked 'em all. Even cleaned 'em so he could break 'em down and build 'em up faster.
When he got his time under twenty-five seconds he took to blindfoldin' himself so as to put some sport back in the game. Even that paled when he could feel his way under a half minute. What he did after that I don't recall.
Buck, like me, was a PFC. He'd ended up at Schofield 'cause he'd gotten bored with MP life in Germany and volunteered for Vietnam. Wasn't there long enough to move up the ladder. Not many MPs were killed in the Nam so there weren't many holes to fill. At Schofield he was stuck as a PFC just like me. Schofield had more than its quota of Spec. 4s. If you were a PFC, you stayed one. Maybe even to this day.
Buck had been in the Army better than a year more than me. And had been a PFC longer than anyone in the Army. No shit. 'Bout the time I mustered out, the Division Commander held a ceremony for Buck. Made him a Command PFC. Gave him a set of PFC stripes with a wreath encircled star in the middle, kinda like a Command Sergeant Major. It was great fun but Buck didn't get a nickel more in his paycheck.
And that mattered. Buck was always lookin' to borrow a little dust come mid-month. Not sure what he spent it all on. But when you're livin' in Hawaii and only makin' a hundred, thirty-three bucks a month, well, that ain't a lot of dust.
Born and raised on country-western and Baptist religion, it didn't take but one hit of weed to open the man's eyes to peace, love and freedom. Also rock and roll. Even Peter, Paul and Mary. Buck was goin' through a change in life when I last saw him. Good man.
Then after a couple of months, who should show up as the new First Sergeant but Davy Heath? Had marchin' orders to turn the stockade into a progressive model for the new Army. For him that meant interacting with the inmates. On Saturdays he'd come in to play a little basketball with the bad boys.
The inmates loved it. Gave them a chance to take out their frustrations on the cadre. Only problem was Davy was a big man. Not fat, just power lifter big. He gave tit for tat, only his tit was quite a bit more than their tat. Davy hammered 'em big time. Respect for authority was taught on the stockade court at the end of an elbow. All in good fun of course.
Once Sergeant Heath showed up life was even better at the stockade. And he never said a word about my stripes changin' from Spec-4 to PFC. Good man.
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