American Gulag

If I live to be eighty, I will never forget the Special Training Company. The place consisted of two barrack buildings, an office with an armory, a mess hall, a small gym building, a parade field and a PT Course. Nothing more. The barracks consisted of four Platoons, one on each floor. Platoons C and D were the furthest from the office. Soldiers assigned to the C and D were unable to pass any of the standard tests, both written and physical. In the barracks closest to the office were Platoons A and B; A on the first floor, and B on the second. Those assigned to A were incorrigibles, one step from the stockade; while, Platoon B assignees were suspected of being social misfits - the code word for homosexuals. I was assigned to Platoon B.

I was deposited in the road before the office after my paperwork was delivered to a very rough individual, a drill sergeant of pit bull proportions. He read the paperwork, signed for me, then looked me over.

"Well, troop," he said with a distinct Spanish accent. "Pick up your fuckin' duffel bag. This isn't the goddamn Hilton!"

I fumbled with my duffel, trying to perch it on my shoulder. It just would not stay there.

"Dumb queer," said the sergeant under his breath. "Drag it if you can't lift it. There's inspection today and the Lieutenant's waitin' on you."

I followed him into the office, dragging my gear behind me. He swore the entire time, annoyed at my very presence. The office was small, complete with clerk and the usual partition between the world and the work area.

"Another one, Sergeant Gonvea," said the clerk. "Where's this one to?"

Sergeant Gonvea handed over the paperwork.

"B Platoon," said the clerk. "Getting full up there in the powder room."

"Is Lieutenant Frakus ready for inspection," asked Gonvea.

"I am," said the Lieutenant emerging from his office. "And who is this?"

"Private Winslow Gibbs," said the clerk reading.

"Gibbs eh," said Frakus. "Sounds silver spoon. Where are you from Gibbs?"

"Brooklyn," I said.

"Hmm, do you know Manny Cohen?"

"I don't think so," I said.

"I went to school with Manny Cohen from Brooklyn. He was a nice guy. Well, Gibbs, you're here for one reason and one reason only. You need to pass all the tests. And when you do, you'll be allowed to return to regular basic training. Simple as that. We're a little stricter here, right Sergeant Gonvea? You are restricted here. From this moment onward, you cannot go beyond the company boundaries. Sergeant Gonvea will show you where they are. No PX. No Movies. Nothing beyond here. We don't have a barbed-wire fence, but don't test the boundaries. You'll be sorry if you do. We have lots of physical training, a diet for you and classes. Pick up your gear and come meet the platoon."

I was very attentive to Lieutenant Frakus. He appeared well educated and soft in his manner. In these rough surroundings; even his talk of restrictions anchored me to the reality of what was happening. Once again I tried to hoist my duffel bag, but only managed to lose my balance.

"Sergeant Gonvea, help him."

"Only this once," said Gonvea giving me a foul look.

We entered the barracks climbing the weather worn wooden stairs. There was a great stirring of men. A soldier called everyone in A Platoon to attention; but, they were to be inspected last; so, Lieutenant Frakus bellowed a loud, "As you were," and trotted up the stairs to Platoon B.

"Attenshun!!" screamed Sergeant Gonvea.

The members of B Platoon scurried to positions before their bunks. Gonvea strutted across the floor then stopped before an empty lower bunk. He threw my duffel bag on the footlocker.

"Gibbs! Here!"

I quickly went to the bag, then, after a moment of catch up, stood at attention with the rest. Lieutenant Frakus walked to the center of barracks and turned to the men.

"Gentlemen, this is Private Gibbs - a new member of your fraternity - your little country club. I'm sure you'll make him feel at home here. We certainly will."

Frakus put on his white gloves, the ones reserved for inspections and began to inspect the open footlockers and wall lockers. He looked at each man's appearance and bed. Gonvea followed with a clipboard taking notes. Frakus stopped directly in front of a short man, who wore thick glasses and was very pale and thin.

"Sergeant Gonvea."

"Yes sir!"

"This soldier has a button missing on his fatigue shirt," said Frakus.

"Private Hertbie!" shouted Gonvea. "Explain why you got a God damn button missin' on your fatigue."

"I didn't see it, Sergeant!" said Private Hertbie in a very flat and nasally voice.

"Are you fucking blind?" said Gonvea. "I know you're dumb. How could you be missing a button and not know it. Tell the lieutenant, why!"

"It . . it . . came back from the laundry that way," stammered Hertbie.

"That's better," said Gonvea. "Why didn't you report it?"

"Enough," said Frakus. "Mark a gig."

Sergeant Gonvea marked the clipboard and scowled at Hertbie for earning a demerit for the Platoon. Frakus continued the inspection. He inspected a chubby black soldier, who had the saddest face I had ever sen. His eyes were puffy for some reason. He fidgeted as the Lieutenant inspected his shave. Frakus then went into a pocket orudced a quarter, holding it high above his head. It was bed inspection time. Frakus bounced the quarter on this sad soldier's bed. It bounced high. The lieutenant was pleased, until he took the white glove to the windowsill and found some dirt.

"Look at this Sergeant Gonvea," he said showing Gonvea a black smudge on the white glove. "Do you call this clean?"

"No I don't, sir."

"I call it filth."

"I call it filth also, sir."

"No need to go further," he said indicating that the Platoon had failed

At the end of the row, by the window was a husky soldier who I noticed was swaying back and forth. The Lieutenant noticed it also and sauntered down to the end.

"Private Huey," he said, "are you OK?"

"Just fine sir," smiled Private Huey, "and how are you?"

"Private Huey," snapped Gonvea, "have you been drinking?"

"No, Sergeant."

"Don't smell nothing," said Gonvea sniffing Huey's breath.

"Keep an eye on him," said Frakus.

He noted a soft, effeminate soldier across the way.

"And here we are today?" he said. "How is the sweetheart of Delta Chi?"

"I'm wonderful today, sir," said the soldier. "My gear's in tip-top order."

"Wouldn't be surprised, Private Chola, you little vixen. I bet they all make sure you pass inspection."

Frakus held Chola by the chin inspecting the shave.

"I have never felt anything so smooth as you Private Chola; but we're not in the brothel now. This is the Army."

Chola turned his face away and looked downcast. Frakus moved slowly away and then accelerated toward the stair.

"As you were gentlemen," he said. "You've failed."

He trotted down the stair with Sergeant Gonvea behind him. I could hear the scurry of Platoon A, the "Attenshun!" and the little pre-inspection speech from downstairs. We all relaxed for the moment.

"Where you from Gibbs?" asked Hertbie.

"Brooklyn."

"Me too!"

The other men were not that eager to know me. I was very shy and did not do well on introductions; but, I did learn that the sad black soldier was Private Chauncier; and he was always complaining. His complaining was very pensive and sad. The other big complainer was Private Krasnar, a nasty man who I immediately took a disliking - and it was mutual from the get-go. Besides Private Huey, who seemed to be permanently on something, and Private Chola who was so obviously homosexual and effeminate, there was Private Ormond, a friendly sort, who introduced himself and showed me his girlfriend's picture. There was also Private Avilia, a quiet sort, who had wonderful big brown eyes; and Private Twig, who they all called Tiny because he was six foot two, but a dumb as a post.

It was not long before Sergeant Gonvea returned.

"So you fuck-ups," he said putting a cigarette out on the floor, "I want every stick of furniture out of the barracks. I want this floor spit shined and every article ready for re-inspection by me by 18:00 hours."

There were moans and groans as the Sergeant left.

"You fucker," sneered Krasnar at Hertbie. "You and your fuckin' button."

"Now, leave him be," said Private Chauncier. "You were on the windowsill brigade and that's where the dirt was."

"Listen, brown Betty," said Krasnar, "I'll bounce you off your bed."

"Stop it," said Private Avilia. "Let's get started. Help me with this bunk."

"Oh," said Chauncier beginning to cry. "I need my sleep and I can't put up with this."

There was a great deal of activity. Private Ormond occupied the top part of my new bunk.

"Well, it's not your fault Gibbs," he said, "but you better get in gear with me."

"What do we do?" I said.

"We need to move all the bunks out of the barracks and outside onto the field."

"What," I said. "Why?"

"We need to polish the floors; and we can't do it with the bunks in here."

"I don't believe this," I said.

"Believe it. Give me a hand, or we won't get done in time. That means a redo – and that means no sleep. No sleep is not good here."

So, I put my 260 pound body in gear and helped move the bunk, the footlockers and the lockers down the stairs and then down the outside stairs. It took several trips, and I was winded and thought I was having a heart attack. We were all in each other’s way. More than once Private Krasnar called me "lard-ass." In addition, Platoon A failed as well; and their Sergeant, Sergeant Pike had them doing the same thing. It was insanity.

Once the barracks was empty of all the furniture except the Television, the buffing machines were brought in. We all took turns waxing on hands and knees. I drew latrine duty and was up to my arms in cleanser and soap. Windows were washed and sills polished. Once the wax was down, the buffing started; and the shouting to buff correctly or the entire process would need to be repeated began. It was Bedlam. The floor glistened like glass. It took over an hour to get the furniture back in the barracks without damaging the floor. Then, we needed to reassemble our gear and return it to inspection state. Since my gear was not inspected, I needed to start from scratch.

"Let me help you, Gibbs," said Private Avilia. "Your stuff looks like shit."

"That's nice of you . . "

"Avilia," he said. "Don't thank me. If you fail, we will be clearing this place out again tonight."

Avilia grabbed my spare belt buckle and began to shine it with brasso. Ormond grabbed my boots and started a quick spit shine. I never understood the footlocker inspection. Everything in it was "not for use" - only for inspection. Who used tooth powder anyway? And all items needed to be precisely in place, in specific order. Every undershirt and undershort needed to be strictly uncreased and rolled neatly. I remember, throughout my Army career, that I joined the many whom maintained their footlocker in a permenant state of inspection, a little floor display museum to assure passing inspection.

At 18:00 hours, Sergeant Gonvea returned a little drunk, to my observation. He scuffed over the floors and sniffed the toilets; he did a quick check of the windowsills, then left us alone. I fell into bed that first night as the lights went out. I was asleep before the first whines in the night, usually coming from Private Chauncier or some unusual sounds from Private Chola.