American Gulag

Illiteracy was criteria for qualifying for the Special Training Company, that is - if all else failed. I know I sound like a snob, but indeed many of the denizens of the Company could barely read and write. They had distinct comprehension and retention issues. There was never a good reason for these men to be part of this company, but indeed they qualified as misfits in every sense of the word.

In our Platoon there was a few men who could be said to have learning disabilities; while others were just a bit slow. Tiny Twig fit that category. Tiny's real name was Dennis; but his height got him his nickname as quick as lightening. He, however, was as slow as a snail. He was from Georgia; but not just Georgia - some islands near the coast of Georgia. When he spoke, I could not understand him. It wasn't a drawl. It was a mush of indistinct syllables. It was almost like the Gullah speak of the Sea Islands, but Tiny was white and was brought up far from that culture.

I remember Tiny laying on his top bunk with his feet far over-reaching the end. They were huge feet; and at this stage of my sexual education, I did not know about the relationship of foot size to genitalia. There was no wonder when Tiny Twig was in the shower, the homosexual boys were lined up. But I must admit I watched as well; and Tiny Twig had a huge branch.

In the classroom he was a source of wonder. He would be asked a question. Instead of answering, he would hiss and pucker and look up at the ceiling. He would wave his knees together and grunt. Most times, he give out a "D'know! S'gent! Ner Herd for'dis." The Sergeants usually went to someone else for the answer, I believe because they did not know quite what to make of Tiny or his response.

Private Twig was also not very good at following instructions. Once on a barracks clean up, he was completely dumfounded when handed a bucket and mop. He could not quite figure out what to do with these objects. When shown how to fill them with water and use the mop to scrub the floor, he would dutifully watch the instructor perform the duty. He never quite got into the participation mode. We also dreaded when Twig had KP. On the serving line, he would never get the correct portions or the proper food in the right place. Often, gravy would be pour over apple pie or potatoes lurked under peas.

Tiny was strong. He was the best participant in PT, except for the "Run, Dodge and Jump" event, because he could never figure out when to dodge or jump. It was a general jumble for him, a disconcerting puzzlement. But he was very useful for the Mr. Dix runs. On those Saturdays when we would sneak out and quickly visit the Post Burger joint, Tiny could manage to carry most of the order under supervision. He also was strong enough to work the hoist to the back windows. Those clandestine burgers, fries and strawberry shakes - ah I can still taste them. After my paltry fare, they were a luxury. I don't think I’d prefer any other meal if it were my last as a Mr. Dix burger special, with cheese and pickles and mayonnaise and . . .

That brings me to our other slow resident - Private Hertbie. Hertbie, unlike Twig was quite understandable and quite incorrigible at times. He was an odd looking fellow, thin and puny with large protruding ear, thick glasses and a nasally Brooklyn accent. I knew that accent, as I had one as did all my friends. My teachers worked very hard to get us, their students to lose that accents - and I did. But Lenny Hertbie did not.

Because he was so funny looking and sounding; and because he was constantly talking and generally annoying people, he was a butt of jokes and derision. I hardly felt sorry for him; and I certainly did not seek out his company. However, he sought mine constantly. Whether it was because we were both Brooklynites or not, I don't know. Nonetheless, he was always around. He also had a habit of reading all his letters, both incoming and outgoing, aloud.

"Dear Mom and Dad," he said, "I'll be home soon and help you out in the nursery. You'll miss me this Spring, with the flats and beds, but I'm sure cousin Richie can help out. I'm meeting great friends here in this Man's Army - but they say I need to be smarter. Why didn't you make me smarter? Because I'm not so smart, they say I need to work harder and be like everyone else - smart!"

"Do you always read your letters aloud?" I asked.

"Not smart eh?" said Hertbie. "I should really be more private - well I guess I am a private."

He laughed at his own joke. No one else did.

"But Gibbs. We're both from Brooklyn, so we need to stick together. Especially around these homos - you know, two guys from Brooklyn. And you were in College. Which one again?"

"Brooklyn College."

"Alright! Fuckin' A! Great going!"

Hertbie bounce around on his bunk. He then gave me a very inquisitive look.

"Do you think maybe you could help me learn all this crap?" he asked.

"What crap?" I asked.

"The General Orders and stuff. I can never get it right. I'm not smart like I should be. They tell me I'm sorta dumb. But I do know things. Not real important things - but things."

This begged for further inquiry, but I was not sure I wanted to hear. Nonetheless, I bit.

"Things," I said. "Like what?"

"Oh, like rows of pansies," he said, "happy faces in the sun - and rose buds, the little Cinderellas and the big floppy Peace roses - they're coming up without me there. I love the smell of shitty soil on my hands and between my fingers. It's so sweet to know that my touch brings forth all those lovely blooms. But I can't see them here. They call to me. They say, 'Lenny, we need you to prune us and fertilize our roots and clean our leaves free of aphids.'

"I once grew a peony so big it made the neighbors laugh and cry. It was like a pink cabbage. I even had Ethel, next door give me a kiss and ask if I could give her one just like it. But, they're not easy to grow to that size and they only bloom once a year. And that was last year - and I'm not there this year to tend to my peony bushes - so Ethel will need to wait. I wish I was smarter. Then I could be there now, tending my garden in the heart of Brooklyn."

I was quite taken by the honesty of his knowledge. I remember then as clearly as ever that I came to a ready conclusion, that this world judged us all too quickly and unfairly. It also made me homesick for Brooklyn. It was the only place I knew. I was not a man of the world then. All I knew were her churches and tenaments; her wide shopping streets and A&S and Ocean Parkway and the Kingsway Theater and Brighton Beach and Coney Island – ah, and Steeplechase Park!!! Maybe that’s why I wanted to avoid Hertbie. He reminded me too much of home.

"You know quite a bit, Hertbie," I said. "Quite a bit. It may not be too useful here in the Army, but what do they know?"

"Yeah, what do they know?" he said. "Wouldn't it be funny if it turned out I was smarter than them. Wouldn't it be funny?"

"It would be real fucking funny," I said.

"Yeah, FTA!"

"FTA," said Avilia.

"You tell then, Sweetie," said Chauncier from the top bunk.

Hertbie shut up. Although he followed me around, he was very shy around the homosexuals. Krasnar was a constant irritant; but it was obvious to all that Lenny hated queers; even when they were trying to nurture him. No matter how helpful Avilia and Chauncier tried to be, Hertbie would not accept their advice or kindness. He would be silent, then come by me.

"Damn faggot homos," he would mutter. "Can't they keep that stuff to themselves. It's against the bible, it is. It's an ablominotion. My mother told me that our cousin Jake was a fairy. He broke his mother's heart. He wore a dress and carried a big purse; even wore spiky shoes. These guys here have no love for their mothers. They are breaking their mother's heart."

I never argued with him. After an outburst like this, he would sit quietly at the end of his bunk and play with a little "get the ball in the hole" game. He would do this for hours if there was nothing on the television - which generally was the case; nothing but Army propaganda.

What a crew we were - physically unfit or learning challenged. The Army had made an assessment that we were all homosexuals; and if we weren't, we would be. Poor Tiny Twig scarcely knew where he was and why. I don't think he would have known a homosexual if he slept with one accidentally. I think a woman would have been a novelty to him as well. And as for poor Lenny Hertbie, he cringed at the thought of hearing about homosexuals. Now he was bunked with them - even under one - as Chauncier sleep in the bunk above him. Hertbie slaved over useless knowledge trying to pass unqualified tests. He sought attention where he could. All thing was such a waste. Like Chauncier's Ice creations, Hertbie should have been touching what was real to him - his garden, instead of the General Orders for guard duty. The gulag was punitive, punishing to the little gardener by restricting him; and punishing to the rest of us to be sharing Hertbie's space.

When I gradually became fitter and assumed the Platoon’s leadership role, Hertbie annointed himself my assistant. It was as if because we were both from Brooklyn, if one of us excelled, the other needed to shore up the achievement. I acquiesced in this arrangement letting him fetch for me or keep my inspection gear in order. I am still due to bring myself to full penitence for these advantages at the expense of an equal creature who I mistook for Caliban.