Endings and Beginnings

     Every few days we'd get a new resident. Usually a pissed off one brought in by an officer. Once in a while I'd be caught in the middle of a ping pong match of stupidity. Not knowin' which way to turn I'd keep my mouth shut. Sometimes you do what you do 'cause you don't know what to do.
     The 'chest/chess' argument was my favorite. A fortyish Captain brought in a twenty year old prisoner. That the officer was gettin' wrinkles and only had double bars to show for it no doubt carried a story along with it. But there's no way in hell a PFC can ask a Captain what his story is. 'Course I was quick to think the man to be an idiot even though I had no reason to.
     Anyhow the prisoner asked the Captain, "You ever place chess Captain?"
     The Captain says, "Yup, I've played a lot of chest." And gives me a look that says he's just made a funny and it's my job to laugh. But I don't.
     Me, I wondered what the prisoner was leading up to and continued to fill in the blank as to why the officer was only a captain at age forty. And hoped his ability in the field topped his strength as a stand up comedian. But envisioned a long string of Purple Hearts in the platoons and companies of his past.
    The prisoner then repeated his question and the officer replied the same. And again and again. And all I'm now thinking is "C'mon Sarge. Get your ass out here and stop this clown show before I open my trap and say something that'll get my ass in a sling."
     The five months of relative paradise at the stockade passed way too quickly. Another three or so and I'd have been on my way home. But early in the Summer I found myself back in the loving arms of my alcoholic Platoon Sergeant. And he greeted me like I'd been off hiding from my real duty.
   

Merry Christmas - Stockade style

     I came across a picture yesterday. In it I'm standing in the stockade parking lot, lunch bag in hand. In both hands actually. Behind me is the guard shack. Looks pretty much like I remember it. Except for the sign on the shack reading Merry Xmas.  Don't remember that at all. We sure were a festive group. And seein' as how this was a prison, we even had a sense of humor about us. Maybe a little sadistic but that was life in the Army.
     Behind me stands the poinsettia hedge in full bloom. Neat touch. I sure don't look like much to be afraid of. But my boots are shiny. Guess that was my strategy. Baffle 'em with my boots. By the time they figure out that I ain't what I seem, I'll be long gone.

Aside

     I keep bringin' up From Here to Eternity in this blog. There at the stockade, it was an even bigger deal.  The movie all but ignored the quarter of the novel set in the stockade. Didn't bring up Prewitt spendin' time there. Didn't mention Maggio escapin'. Didn't dwell on all the sadistic beatings given by Fatso Judson. Most of all, didn't bring up Jack Malloy.
     Malloy was a long time prisoner. A bucker of the tide. He'd been a Wobbly like my old man, an organizer and, in the stockade he was the rock that Fatso had to keep bangin' his head against. The stockade was an entire section of the novel. A major moment where Prewitt found the hardheads, the freedom seekers, the free thinkers, the total idiots. Some smart, some dumb as the rocks they broke with sledge hammers.
     The movie, like the novel, was made in the '50s. McCarthy, Red Menace, Cold War. Yup, when it came to discussin' human rights the times sucked. And there I sat in '69 and '70 in the guard shack by the front gate. And aware as could be that most of the men on the inside didn't belong there. Bad luck that they couldn't or didn't want to avoid the draft. Bad luck that they'd gone to Vietnam. Bad luck that they'd been caught with an illegal substance while in uniform. Yeah, they were screw ups or they wouldn't have been on the inside.
     Can't say that the above has any meaning at all. But, one way or the other, that's the way a part of life was back then. Still is today. Shit happens, maybe randomly, maybe not. You give it your best shot and hope the cards line up right. Some people end up in the stockade, some as the man who puts them there. In the long run, most often there's not a lot of difference between the two.
     I was lucky or I wouldn't be sittin' here peckin' away at a laptop. For every one of me there's a dozen people in Bangladesh lookin' for a meal. Or standin' on the corner of 46th and Hiawatha holdin' a cardboard sign with the hopes of scorin' a buck from a passing car.
     The world's a strange place filled with strange people. Hope you can figure it out 'cause I sure can't.