American Gulag

Pain became formalized for me. It came in several forms, including the emotional depletion I was feeling almost all the time; however, actual pain had a specific format - daily runs to the gym; three PT tests per week - and the once per week forced march. The Physical Fitness Training Test (PT) was a six pack of events devised to evaluate various parts of a soldier's stamina and strength. I was never strong, but the longer I stayed in the Special Training Company, the more I realized that I must have had some brand of stamina.

The PT test consisted of six events - the low crawl, sit-ups, the inverted crawl, the overhead ladder (monkey bars), push-ups, "run, dodge and jump" and the one-mile run. You need a 200 to pass. I excelled at none of these. The low-crawl, which was the centerpiece for the infiltration course, was excruciating. The idea here was to crawl the full length of the course on your belly, a distance of about 40 yards. Now I had no lack of belly, but that did not streamline me for the task. I would pull along like a whale out of water moving at such a slow pace, everyone would either cheer me on or mock me. I would often hear, "Gibbs, you look like - a whale out of water." The only thing this exercise managed to give me was dirty laundry, ripped elbows and several mouths full of rich Georgia red clay. The inverted crawl, or the crab-walk, was of questionable use. After all, if I were in battle, I could see the use for crawling around on my belly like a bug avoiding the enemy fire. However, I saw no use of walking on my hands with my belly and dick exposed to the same enemy fire. I actually did worse on the Inverted Crawl. I could not get myself to balance on the palms of my hands.

Sit-ups and push-ups were better for me. I could do them - not the requirement to pass; but ever since my first day in this girl's Army, I was doing push-ups. Sit-ups, although bringing me face to face with my own gargantuan belly, at least seamed like "normal" exercise. Besides, it gave me a chance to lie down and do something other than crawl.

Run, Dodge and Jump was my favorite event. I almost passed this one. The idea was to run around several sawhorses to the end of the course, then jump over a little sand trap - reverse and come back. It was a timed event and although I was slow, I did manage to get my fat ass around the horses and my jumps were as graceful as the cow jumping over the moon.

The Overhead Ladder or The Money Bars was not a good choice for me. As already noted I just hung on the first rung, when I was suppose to cross the entire length, turn around and come back. I am not sure why this was important, but it became important to me to do this. Maybe it was because the one in front of the mess hall was the road to food. I also was very embarrassed every time I hung there with Gonvea yapping and Krasnar scoffing. Even the most out of shape person managed a few bars. But in this event, I had help.

"You know," said Ormond one evening, "You're doing the bars all wrong."

"I can't help it, Buddy," I said. "I can't lift my own weight yet."

"You see, " he said, "You got it wrong. It's not lifting. It's redistributing."

He offered to help me out. We went to the bars in front of the mess hall. Ormond showed me carefully what he did.

"Be a monkey," he said. "Monkeys don't hang from trees; they swing from trees."

He held the first rung and swung out to the second, then to the third.

"You gotta be quick with your hands. Timing is important. And you redistribute your weight when you catch the next rung. Like this."

He went from rung to rung across.

"Then to turn around you just reverse you hand and snap back to the previous rung and start the swing shit all over. You try."

The first time up there, I just hung like a fat piece of meat on a butcher's hook. Ormond however grabbed my legs and told me to let go with one hand and grab for the next rung. I did it. He let go. I fell. However, I felt I had done something. I got up again and tried, this time swinging. I caught the next rung and then one more, then fell. I worked on this for another half-hour. The next day in the mess line, I got up on the bars and did four rungs.

"Good job Gibbs," said Gonvea. "See troop, your gettin' it!"

I felt so pumped by this little achievement, I was able to face my dry toast and hard-boiled egg with glee.

The last event was the one-mile run. This, unlike the run to the gym, was timed. I could run at my own pace. The noncoms hated me for this event, because I held them up with my twenty-minute mile, while most did it at six to eight minutes. By the time I got to this event, I was usually exhausted, so I shuffled along like the little locomotive that could and eventually did. I did get faster as time went on - and I did have some tricks I used to prevent hyperventilation; however, initially I was one of the record holders for the slowest time. Only Chola, thin wispy, sleek Chola beat me - as he walked the course, swishing around the track for thirty minutes.

Once a week we went on a twenty-five mile forced march. This was a full pack forced march over some of the hilliest country in Georgia. Platoon B was the only Platoon required to do this march. It built stamina. It also induced backache, stomach cramps, heat exhaustion and death wishes. The cruelty of this march, with sixty pounds of gear on, was that Tiny Twig was put in the front. As ;eader, his long legs and strides did not make for a saunter in the park. The entire Platoon played catch up for the entire trip.

I could enjoy only three or four miles of pain free marching. The rest was hell, more hell than the run to the gym, which I eventually became accustomed. The fire in my groin, legs, throat, back and the dizziness I often felt on those marches still keep me awake to this day. The first time out, I could not complete the march. They needed to send for a jeep to take me back to the Company; however, no such rescue came the next time. Pike and Gonvea followed me closely not letting me stop. I was not alone in this. Chauncier also had great difficulty on these trips and cried the entire time. Because he cried, most of the cursing was directed at him. It was a great relief to get to the turn around point 12 miles out. Here Tiny had to rest. He also was tired at this point and the last 12 miles were slower paced until the last mile, where Gonvea would cry out, "double-time" and anything resembling order in this march fell away. Here's where almost every one had stomach cramps, doubled over at the side of the road puking what little they had in their stomachs.

"OK, girls," Gonvea would say. "Give it up for the Army. Back in formation. Forward march."

I remember after one march stretching out on Chauncier's footlocker.

"I am one big ache," I said. "I don't think I can take much more of this."

"You - please," said Chauncier, "This girl has had it weeks ago. Let me tell you. I'm not used to such an ordeal. You may be suffering now, but nothing could compare with what I've been through. I mean, you were in school - and didn't have a career as yet. You'll finish all this crap and get back to preparing for life. I already had a career."

"Really. What did you do?" I said.

"What did I do? I was in the Hotel industry - a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America."

"Really? A chef?" I said. "And they drafted you?"

"Hard to believe it. I am New York's finest ice carver. You know, I carve those beautiful ice sculptures at the great banquets. I am held in the highest esteem in the ultimo culinary circles. I plan the entire banquet and set chefs and staff in all directions like a commander in battle. Then, these hands turn the icy blocks into loving Swans and Hearts of Cold, Blue passion. I am an artiste, in the highest demand, from the Hotel Americana to the Waldorf. But now, I am missing from the scene. These hands rake leaves and paint walls. There has to be some place better than this."

"I wish I knew a better place right now," I said. "But bed seems to be it."

"That's not the least of it, hon. Little did I know I'd be the butt of an Army joke? I told them I am a homosexual, but they still drafted me. And once I was inducted, they wouldn't believe me. They said I was trying to get out of my commitments. Then, to torture me, they sent me here. And my dainty little Alfred, my sweet understudy, who looked me lovingly in the eye as I left his side that morning, has now stopped writing. I'll probably wind up with a Section 8. We'll all wind up with Section 8s out of this place."

"I can't get a Section 8," I said. "It would ruin my life. My father was a war hero - and his father before him. I could never hold my head up with pride with a dishonorable discharge."

"Never mind the pride," said Chauncier. "How about a job. You'll never get a good one with a Section 8 discharge. But if they're going give us one, why torture us first - just bring it on, Mabel."

"But you have a skill and you are in demand."

"You're right," he said going into a reverie. "I would wait in the wings - just waiting for them to call me. ‘Mister Geoffrey, would you be so kind as to prepare the ice?’ To be someone of importance - to be in demand. That's something. Cannot think of ice now – not without a man's warm heart. There's got to be a better way to live than to have one's life stolen for a few years to do such painful things. It's as if someone said, ‘Chauncier's talent must be paid for - send him to prison for a time, so he knows what it is to loss such art.’ I was in demand in the highest circles. I planned the menu for a Kennedy banquet. I did! I sculptured a great green Ice shamrock for this affair. Imagine, green Ice! Is it criminal to be successful and love men - to be punished like this? There's gotta be someplace better than this."

Chauncier was an artiste; and here he was trapped in a place so far from his art and craft that he was close to a nervous break down. I often think of him. I often see his sad face, those puffy eyes and his sweet voice. I shake my head to think that his life was probably ruined when he was discharged. Unfortunately, the Army's best laid plans for homosexuals this time would come to fruition, breaking the heart of a most precious soul with the highest talent. Such was the hammer of the Gulag.