excerpt from Surviving an American Gulag

Chapter One
The Standards of War
1

Private Winslow Gibbs rested on his bottom bunk feeling the first instance of safety after months of torment. He was hot and tired and fat and more than a little confused about his feelings toward army life and soldiers in general. Still, he had broken the cycle and was relieved. Had he known the order that was coming his way, he might have been far less content in this safe harbor. He might have considered the window an escape, although his girth might have stuck him there, leaving him no course but to be a bung to keep the flies out. However, ignorance is a fine buffer between security and terror. Knowledge withheld gives precious souls a fantasy on which to cling, and like all fantasy, truth is evident in the revelation. Therefore, Private Winslow Gibbs, feeling his tribulation at an end, was actually poised at the road's beginning; all prior events being no more that a prelude; and an easy prelude at that.

2

East of the City of Augusta, Georgia, on the banks of the willowed Savannah River, Fort Gordon baked, even in the weak February sun. It was a war year - 1967, and the military installation churned out in its flywheel America's young men to fight the foes of democracy. From city and country, from swamp and high-rise, from volunteer to draftee, they came; or were brought to learn the art of surviving the enemy, so they could destroy the enemy. Lessons old in the craft, Spartan in the womb and centurion in the stance, spun from the mouths of automaton trainers, who had lived to teach these men how to outstrip death's ultimatum, or not. It was a fruitful task that promised the fatherland ample scope to keep the war fires ablaze.
Fort Gordon, sparse and nearly treeless, except for the occasional copse left to piss on when the authorities were back-turned, was divided into three parts. The permanent corps lived in neatly trimmed greenery, as posh as the Augustan golf courses that flanked the river. Here the officers and their families, and anyone tarred and feathered to be here, made the best of the apparent sameness of a military post and its redundant accommodations.
The training grounds however, were regimental barracks, each two stories high - wooden, cookie cutter, and coal furnace stoked, arrayed in groups of four - Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta. Each array stood adjacent to three, rubber-stamped, squat shanties - a mess hall, a quartermaster's hut and a commander's office (the Top's shack). A small Physical Training course (PT for short) and drill field flanked each training unit, completing the suite; that, and a flagpole. Twenty-four such training units arrayed around a vast parade ground, cuffed by a Post Exchange, a stockade, a motor pool, a chapel and a utility building. A troop churner, indeed.
Finally, there was the wilderness - a camp run-a-muck spread for miles over hill and dale, hard baked in the red Georgia clay beneath the tyrant southern sun. Here the trails were cruel and steeply designed for torment. Here stood the rifle ranges, the confidence courses, the gas warfare shack, the grenade toss, and that terror called the Infiltration course. No matter how much stamina was stored in a man's gut, the wilderness could pummel it to dust. Those that survived were real men - shaped from longhaired hippies and poor gas pumpers and scrappy street punks and marginal college students, to arise to the standards of war.
Fortune always touted such brigades, but fortune never counted upon failure. That wasn't prescribed in directives; those official brassy memoranda that shaped all recruits uniformly. What about short falls from the standard? What about those who yearned for home, to be away from the sterile dust bowl of the twenty-four training units. What about the disobedient, the malingerers and the fags? Not covered by instruction until . . . until the focus falls to a far away flank; to an isolated zone - a twenty-fifth unit, whispered about during smoke breaks and mess hall gossip and other such prattling. A place as mythic to the troops as Purgatory and certainly conjured up to make all soldiers toe the line. Yet, every now and then a soldier could look down the road toward that isolation zone and see it; yet, not see it, because it was hidden in plain sight. Still, occasionally at roll call or at evening muster, a fellow troop would be missing, and yet no drill sergeant hysterics accompanied the disappearance. There was just a dash in the line, one closed up by a dress-right and an at-ease. Brief puzzlement. A shrug, and then on to the tortures of the day until, within a few hours, perhaps less, that soldier's name was forgotten - red Georgia dust in the wind, hidden in plain sight.

3

Exactly when Private Winslow Gibbs decided he could no longer suffer the daily slings of military training only can be conjectured, but as he lay sprawled on the bottom bunk in the empty barracks, he had been delivered from those slings for the last two weeks. His whale belly arose above the mattress as he rested from lunch. It wasn't a bad lunch for the army - beans and franks with some spud salad and sweet rolls. He did wish the salad had been tart, like the Brooklyn variety he came to relish, but Cookie was from Alabama, so the stuff was smothered in some sour shit. Despite that, the grub wasn't bad, especially now that he didn't need to trot from the table into formation, and then march ten miles until he puked. In fact, he couldn't march more than two miles before he puked, his breath hitching so fast he'd loose his keel and kneel in the bastard red clay. He had done that only once. Sergeant Eckles screamed at him, kicking butt until a jeep came to pick him up. Not a pretty sight, but this finally took Private Gibbs out of the training cycle; and just two weeks ago.
Gibbs sighed and righted himself on the bunk's edge. No one else was in the barracks, but it didn't make a difference. Even bustling, as it had been just before lunch, he was scarcely noticed; except by the skinny prick that slept in the top bunk over his - Private Farley. Farley always cracked jokes on the blubber bones that anchored his bunk. Don't roll over too hard, Gibbs. You'll make me seasick. Gibbs ignored him, or attempted to ignore him. The other faceless clowns that laughed and jeered when Farley was on a roll were just that - faceless. He didn't care, now that he no longer trained; no longer lined-up like a lemming and shouted Here sergeant, when his name was called. No longer swung like a monkey through the overhead bars to earn a meal in the mess hall. He hadn't been able to do more than one rung anyway. He just hung there while Sgt. Eckles shouted Fat boy at him; or worse. And he no longer floundered through the daily dozen. No more mile run, which in his case was a twenty-minute walk. That was behind him now. Now he ran errands for Sergeant Fitz in the quartermaster shack.
Sergeant Fitzgerald, Fitz for short, didn't work the drill, which meant he was a regular guy - almost human. He didn't even fit the training bill being a bit smaller than Gibbs, flab overgrowing his musculature, and smoked an incessant cigar, when he wasn't chawin' and spittin'. In short, he was a lifer, and easy in his domain. He didn't care who squatted behind his counter as long as it was manned. Gibbs was perfect for this, maybe because he was a good conversationalist and spoke circles about Fitz, but the flabby supply sergeant liked to listen, even stoking the gab. You're a college boy. Can you quote Shakespeare and those other flower people? Gibbs could, and did. Fitz would settle back and listen as if the babble were hummingbirds come to feed. It was the rhythm more than the meaning; and who's to say that empty prattle doesn't hold more meaning than a dull, non-lyrical drone.
If Gibbs weren't so relieved not to be busting his ass with the other grunts, he could have read the signs of his coming fate. Two days ago, Fitz was in a surly mood. He paced the wooden floor of the shack waiting for Gibbs to run the lists and sweep the floor.
"It's about time."
Gibbs darted for the broom; the big brushy one, attacking the rough pine floor.
"Sorry."
"Beauty sleep, troop?"
There was an unaccustomed bite in Fitz's voice; odd, considering that these two were only acquainted for a fortnight. Gibbs pressed his shoulder into the sweep. He ignored the comment, while Fitz muttered, puffing his billowing cigar. Suddenly, the sergeant stopped the broom with his hand and gazed into Gibbs' eyes.
"College boy," he snapped. "I like you just the same, but . . ."
"Am I doing something wrong?"
Fitz laughed. "Wrong? You've done every fuckin' thing fuckin' wrong, troop. But you're not the first to sweep my floors, and not the last."
"What do you mean?"
Fitz smiled, the cigar juices dripping over his stubbly chin. Then he frowned as if he saw another person before him, perhaps a regiment of nobodies - faces without faces. Then he placed his hand over Gibbs' nametag.
"I might remember you," he said.
"What do you mean?"
Fitz chuckled. "Nothing, college boy. Finish up and we'll play some checkers."

4

The beans and franks were active, and Gibbs rode hard on some gas. It was a good thing Farley wasn't there or there would have been a round of jokes.
"Shit."
Suddenly, glancing at his watch, Gibbs had a real concern. He was late. Very late. Sergeant Fitz was lenient, almost lax, but Gibbs was milking the golden calf now. He jumped up, grabbed his cap and field jacket, and double-timed it to the barrack's door.
It was a Georgian February, where the nights were cold but the days sticky. With the ever- present dust and the choking aroma of the coal furnaces, Gibbs slung the army-issue jacket over his shoulder and hopped down the easy flight to the formation ground. The quartermaster shack stood across from the mess hall and the Top's shack. As he scurried to Fitz's domain, he noticed the Company Commander hopping into his jeep. The First Sergeant stood at the door of the Top's shack. Gibbs slowed his pace. He didn't want to attract the Top's attention, and could have succeeded, as he was temporarily lost in the jeep's dust. Gibbs came to attention and saluted the C.O. as he passed, but when the dust settled, Gibbs faced the First Sergeant across the road.
"Gibbs," the First Sergeant called.
Gibbs froze. He wasn't sure whether the Top, a gray haired old fustian called Billingsly, was merely being friendly, or whether he needed something from the supply shack.
"Yes, sir," Gibbs barked.
"Don't call me sir," Billingsly snapped. "I want a word with you."
"Yes, s - Yes."
Gibbs crossed the road.
"Move our ass. We don't stroll around here. Move it."
Gibbs did his best impression of a run, following the Top into the shack. The place was a replica of the quartermaster's shack only narrower in gauge. In place of the storeroom were two offices -one for the Top and one for the C.O. The company clerk clicked away on his manual upright. He was a spectacled string bean named Heinz.
"Heinz," Billingsly snapped. "Smoke break."
Heinz dropped his hands to his side, stood like an automaton, lifted the counter divider and shuttled toward the door.
"He'll make sure we're not disturbed." The Top smiled a fatherly grin that unsettled Gibbs. This wasn't going to be a supply request, and since Billingsly held the counter up for Gibbs to enter the inner sanctum of desks and cabinets, there seemed to be an agenda to this moment and for this troop. "Have a seat. This won't take long."
Gibbs took Heinz's post, while the Top stood with his hands behind his back, rocking on his spit-shined ranger boots.
"What can we do here?" he commenced. "You haven't made much progress, have you?"
"It's hard."
Suddenly, Billingsly trembled. His face turned granite, his ashen frown readied to a snap. "Don't give me that horseshit. I've seen crap come through these doors twice as big and far less strong than you, and leave us proud. Fit and blustering soldiers. Are you trying to get out of the army, Gibbs?"
"No, sir."
"Don't . . . call . . . me . . . sir."
"Sorry."
"Sorry for what? Sorry that you don't give a shit about your country. Just what do you think you're about? You can't even lift your own body weight, so how are you going to go forward from here? How? You can't stay in boot camp forever, you know. You have to move on, one way or the other. This ain't a Boy Scout Camp."
Gibbs trembled. He wasn't sure what Billingsly was about. Would beatings commence? Would he put him in the stockade? Gibbs eyed the door. He had thoughts to bolt over the counter and flee to the quartermaster shack and seek Fitz's shelter, but he couldn't even lift his own body weight. What were the odds of him vaulting over the counter?
Billingsly brought his face square to Gibbs'. All sense of the fatherly was gone now.
"Here's the deal, Gibbs. I want you to see Sergeant Fitz, but not to fold the God damned linen or sort the fucking boots. I want you to draw your weapon, son. I want you to proceed to your quarters and get your gear. Report back here at fourteen hundred hours. Do you hear me?"
"Yes," Gibbs stammered.
"I didn't hear you."
"Yes."
"Now, hear me. You're getting off light. You're going out with Charlie platoon. You've heard of them, haven't you? You do remember them. They're at the Infiltration Course as we speak. You're lucky. I'll give you a round trip transport to the garden party, but you're back in training troop, as of now."
Gibbs rattled so much, his flesh reverberated; his shock, complete.
"On your feet."
Gibbs shot up.
"Now get the fuck out of here. Fourteen-hundred hours. Fully loaded and ready to go. And send Heinz back in. Move it."
Gibbs scurried to the counter. He lifted it, nearly snapping it off its hinges. It slammed down once he passed. His breath hitched. He marched through the door, his eyes meeting Heinz, who sucked on the smoke. No words were exchanged. Heinz knew, and pushed back into the shack leaving Gibbs in his wake.
What had happened? He heard Fitz's words tramping through his mind. You've done every fuckin' thing fuckin' wrong, troop. He stared across to the quartermaster's shack and was suddenly afraid. It was no longer his safe haven. It was a place to draw his weapon. With much effort, Private Winslow Gibbs shambled toward the shack, tears standing in his eyes. He wanted to go home. He wanted his mother. The harsh Georgia sun gave no solace, no respite from fear. All he heard running through his head as he crossed the road was I might remember you and fourteen-hundred hours, troop.

Chapter Two
Exit and Entry
1

"You okay, Gibbs?" Sergeant Fitz asked. He held the paperwork for the M-14 in one hand and the rifle clutched in the other. "Did you hear me?"
"I think I'm okay," Gibbs said absently.
"Well, you don't look so good, but I saw this coming. You're pegged, so you better shoulder this weapon and wiggle your ass under the barbed wire."
Gibbs stared at the weapon, but Fitz plunked the forms on the counter, and then slipped a pen from his ear. Gibbs didn't move.
"You know the drill, Gibbs."
He did. He issued weapons every morning and gathered the forms in neat stacks, filing them in the empty gun racks. He had been glad to be on the giving side of this routine, but now . . . he gazed at the form and trembled. The pen could have been as lethal as the M-14.
"Goddam it, college boy. You never saw a pen before?"
Gibbs snapped his hand forward signing on some line, but it didn't matter which one, because Fitz thrust the rifle across the counter. Gibbs caught it like some foreign object ripped from a comic book. Fitz rolled his eyes and spit his spent tobacco in the wastebasket.
"I haven't fired this yet," Gibbs stammered.
"And you won't fire it today." Fitz softened. "Last time I was through the Infiltration course, that thing was just something to tote and hold on to. The ordinance comes out of the ground. Boom. And whizzes overhead. Don't stand up, or else . . ."
This well-meaning advice wasn't helpful. Gibbs had heard many horrific stories about soldiers standing up on the Infiltration course and taking a bullet in the head. So, Fitz's reassurance was more confirmation of a terror than an anesthetic. Gibbs trembled, the weapon rattling in his unsure grip.
"Steady, Gibbs."
"Is there . . . is there any way you can . . . you know, talk to the Top. Tell him that you want me to work here. I'm good at supplies; and it'll solve the problem. I'd be . . . be useful, serving, you know."
Fitz shook his head. "That's not how it works." He steadied the weapon and escorted Gibbs to the door. "I never have a permanent supply clerk. There's always some troop that mucks up and keeps me company. I will say, they don't all quote Shakespeare, or are good checker players, but in the end, they all go on to their next assignment. That's the army. So, just say fuck the army like we all do, and get on with it."
Gibbs heard the words, but remained unconvinced. The daylight loomed before him, that and the Georgia clay. He couldn't move from the threshold, but Fitz tapped his shoulder and nudged him through. "And hold that weapon right, college boy. Either that or sling it."
Gibbs wanted to plead again, but he knew that Fitz was correct. His delusion to escape the pain of training in a comfortable niche of light work and checkers cracked. He was a college boy. This wasn't the place for him, but when the bubble burst, it mocked him. He wanted to turn back to Fitz and at least thank him for being a friend, but then realized that Fitz was never a friend. He was a soft overlord, a bookmark in the real situation. So, Private Gibbs sauntered to the crossroads toward the barracks.
In his mind, he could hear the bullets whizzing already, the bombs blasting. The barbed wire meshed over his low crawl. How could he low crawl? He could never low crawl. He would be stuck out there in the dust, in the night, cut and shredded with no escape but to stand and catch a bullet. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe that's how he could get on with it. He began to weep, his nose running, choking down his throat. Then, he stopped - between the quartermaster shack and Charlie platoon barracks.
A wooden bumper hugged the road and he dropped to it, cradling the weapon on his knee. His trembling ceased, as did the weeping and the snot roll. He just froze, staring at the clay - blankly. The bullets ceased to fly, as did the blasting buckets. The world calmed, even to his heartbeat. He didn't hear Fitz's voice when it called to him. He didn't notice the shuffling of boots that came up behind him. He didn't note a word of the First Sergeant's cursing.
Then a hand topped his. "Give me that," said a voice.
Gibbs gazed up and recognized Heinz. He released the weapon to the company clerk.
"What's wrong with him?" growled the Top.
"I think he should go to the infirmary," Fitz suggested.
"No," Billingsly said. "I'll make a call. Heinz, take him to the barracks. Gather his gear, and wait with him."
Gibbs heard these things, but didn't care. To him these were disembodied voices, except he could see them now. He was happy not to have the M-14, and he thought Heinz was kind to take it away. Suddenly, Billingsly's face was in his - the fatherly version.
"Everything's going to be all right, Gibbs. Don't worry about a thing. Don't fret."
Heinz gently tugged Gibbs up and moved him along toward the barracks. It was an invalid's walk. No emotion. No fear. Everything's going to be all right now. Heinz was at his side, a reassuring crutch. He had taken the weapon away. How nice. How kind. A wave of sleep overcame Gibbs, but he managed to reach the barrack's door. The distant bunk looked vaguely familiar. It was a safe harbor now.

2

"What's with him?" Private Farley asked. He was one of four returning trainees streaming into the barracks.
"Nothing," Heinz said. "What are you guys doing back? You haven't be finished the Infiltration course yet."
Farley chuckled, his cracker smile taking Heinz and Gibbs in with one bolt. "Naw. We're on K.P. Lucky break." He cocked his head. "Has blubber gut finally gone over the moon?"
"Just mind your business." Farley pointed to the top bunk. "Well, just be fast about it."
Farley sneered. Heinz was only a corporal after all - no big shit. A paper pusher.
"He's over the moon," Farley shouted back to the other K. P. nominees. "I guess they'll be taking him to that funny place down the road." He laughed.
Heinz stood, blocking his way. The corporal was shorter than Farley by six inches; still, there was the air of the Top shack about him and Farley just clicked his tongue, grabbed his shower gear and headed toward the latrine. When he reached the threshold, which was near the front door, he raised his hand and shouted: "Your ride's here, Gibbs. Good riddance." Then under his breath. "Faggot."
Gibbs had heard it all. His mind focused on Heinz and he kept repeating the phrase. How kind. How kind. The fact that Heinz shooed Farley away only increased trust in the corporal. The crisis had passed - again. He was no longer in training. No Infiltration course. However, he also understood that he was not returning to the quartermaster shack and Sergeant Fitz's supervision. He had no idea where the ride would take him. To the infirmary? To the stockade? To a bus stop? The funny place down the road. Did it matter, as long as it was away from here?
"Gibbs," Heinz said, coaxing him to come. "It's time, Gibbs. I'll take your duffel bag to the jeep. Come on now."
Gibbs obeyed. He clasped his jacket, his cap and not much else, Heinz acting as porter. The line of bunks shuffled by him as he walked to the front door. He heard the grab ass shower play of the K.P. crew, Farley's cutlass voice trumping the faucets. Gibbs reached the door. Billingsly waved him to an awaiting jeep, motor running. The driver sat stiff, his stare under sunglasses, his hand on the gearshift.
"It's for the best, Gibbs," said the Top. He ushered the private into the front passenger seat.
Heinz slung the duffel bag into the back. He placed a hand on Gibbs' shoulder. "I'll be going now. Come visit."
Gibbs wanted to say thanks, but the most he could muster was a dim smile. Then, the hand on the gearshift swerved forward and the jeep bolted for the main road - the one that went to that funny place.
Gibbs didn't look back; nor did he look forward. There was a sudden sense of loneliness riding over the Georgia clay beside this shaded, laconic non-entity driver. In these moments, Gibbs had never felt so abandoned, so untethered to any place. He was no one in nowhere, and it might have suited him just fine. Had he known that at his destination he would be swept to the curb with other such souls with the same marooned spirit, he might have opted for a quick stand-up on the Infiltration course. He felt that he had truly gone over the moon.

3

The sign read:

Special Training Unit Number One
Restricted Inbound-Outbound Traffic
Post Commander Lt. Colonel Dripper
Commanding Officer 1st Lt. Frakus
Fort Gordon APO 80566

No gate, no fence and no other boundaries but this sign. In fact, the place appeared normal, like any of the training compounds with a few exceptions. There were only two barracks, and where the other two would normally be, stood a dusty drilling field. A small uncharacteristic building hugged the far edge of this ground. The Top shack and quartermaster hut stood in line with the barracks, while the mess hall was oriented lengthwise to them giving the training compound a compact appearance. There was also a large white building with French windows, like some abandoned chapel. A quarter-mile oval track and a P.T. course lay just below the mess hall; and a classroom - one story; covered with announcements, probably schedules and military catechisms. The other unusual feature of this otherwise normal compound was - trees. At least a dozen maples that shaded the buildings, the faux-chapel and the drilling field.
The jeep pulled up to the sign. The driver sat motionless, his sunglasses reflecting the late afternoon sun. Gibbs sat just as motionless. Then, he noticed a stocky drill sergeant dressed in full cadre attire, from spit-shined boots to Smokey the Bear hat, who sauntered around to the driver. The driver gave the sergeant a manila file folder that he flipped open, reading the hand scrawled orders.
"Bullshit," said the sergeant. He had a distinct Spanish accent. "A hurry-here case - cajones. Joder." He closed the folder and grinned. "Tell Billingsly that Sergeant Gonvea needs regulation type orders before I can put this troop through his paces."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Sergeant Gonvea glanced at Gibbs. "Just in time for an inspection, troop. You won't mind very much if I asked you to get out of the jeep, and maybe stay a while?"
Gibbs swallowed. The voice that commanded was gruff and bull baiting. This wasn't the kinder, gentler army, the one designed for those who needed to take things with an easy stride. He swung his legs over the splashboard and got his considerable girth onto its feet. Sergeant Gonvea hefted the duffel bag out of the back and threw it before Gibbs. The driver put the jeep in gear and departed, leaving dust in his wake. Gibbs choked.
Gonvea circled his new recruit like a sculptor planning the next chisel bit. He cracked his knuckles and brought his dark, tan face into Gibbs'.
"Well, troop. Why don't you . . ." He hesitated, leaning back for effect. Then, he shouted: "Pick up your fuckin' duffel bag and follow me. This ain't the goddamn Hilton."
Gibbs fumbled with the bag, trying to perch it on his shoulder. It just wouldn't stay there. With every step, it bobbled around like loose cargo in a hurricane. He trundled behind Gonvea, who mumbled the usual endearments native to drill sergeants. Then, Gonvea turned and rounded on him.
"Dumb queer," he shouted. "Drag it if you can't lift it. Inspection today and the Lieutenant's waitin'."
They reached the Top shack, Gibbs huffing, his chest tightening. He dragged the bag behind him, a burden he came to hate. Gonvea continued to swear as they entered the office climbing a low flight of four wooden steps - steps that could have been three flights to Gibbs in his struggle.
The office was small and similar to all the other cookie-cutter Top shacks - a partitioning counter between the world and the work area. A clerk (another corporal) worked at a corner desk. Unlike Heinz, this one was cursing at his typewriter. He shot an unfriendly glance at Gibbs, and cocked his head toward Gonvea
"Another one, Sergeant," said the clerk. He had a flat New England accent, somewhere east of Worcester. "Where's this one to?" Sergeant Gonvea handed over the paperwork. The clerk perused it. "This doesn't tell me a helluva a lot."
"The real stuff's comin'. He's goin' to Bravo."
"B Platoon," said the clerk. "Getting full up there in the powder puff room."
Gonvea shook his head. "Just process it, will ya. I don't have no fuckin' time to dance around the room with you. I have enough ladies on the cha cha floor. Is the Lieutenant ready for the inspection?"
"I am," said the Lieutenant emerging from his office. He was a short man and slight, but was an absolute officer. He shone brilliantly, beyond either the Mexican or the Frappe-eater. "And who is this?"
"Private Winslow Gibbs, sir," read the clerk.
"Gibbs, eh?" said the Lieutenant. "Sounds silver spoon. Where're you from, Gibbs?"
"Brooklyn," Gibbs replied.
"Troop," Gonvea barked. "When Lieutenant Frakus asks you a question, you answer him with Sir."
Gibbs trembled, straightened and reiterated. "Brooklyn, sir."
"That's more like it, troop."
"Brooklyn," Frakus mused. "Hmm. Do you know Manny Cohen by any chance?"
"No . . . sir."
"I went to school with Manny Cohen. He was from Brooklyn. Nice guy." The Lieutenant came across the partition and gave Gibbs the once over. "Winslow. You don't mind if I don't call you Winslow?"
"No, sir."
"Gibbs'll do. However, what do your folks call you? Winny? Whiney? Slow?" He laughed, but held his hand high stopping Gonvea mid-roar, and the clerk (whose name was Fitch) from falling off his chair. "No need to answer. We'll call you Gibbs, unless you really screw the pooch. Then I'm sure we'll find some more appropriate incentive-bearing names."
"Yes . . . sir."
Gibbs wasn't sure what the game was here. He spied Fitch stifling giggles and could sense Gonvea's joy as if it fed on his embarrassment. He was still trying to catch his breath from the duffel bag haul. This interview stoked his humiliation. However, somewhere in his spleen, he told himself sticks and stones, and none of this felt worse than the duffel bag marathon.
Lieutenant Frakus cuffed Gibbs' shoulder. The tone turned serious.
"You're here for one reason, Gibbs; and one reason only. You need to pass 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?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are also restricted here, Gibbs. From this moment on, you cannot go beyond the company boundaries. Sergeant Gonvea will show you where those are. We'll take you for haircuts, escort you to church and we have a few venues beyond bounds, like the gym and the wilderness, but 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. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
The words dawned on him. Quarantined. He was in some sort of prison, only without bars and guards. He looked toward Gonvea, who appeared more guard-like now than drill sergeant. He panicked, but quickly relegated his qualm to his legs.
Frakus pinched his arm. "Flab. We have intense physical training here, Gibbs - a diet for you and special classes. So, pick up your gear and come meet your platoon."
Gibbs tried to hoist his duffel bag, but he lost his balance. Frakus rolled his eyes.
"Sergeant Gonvea, help him."
"Yes, sir." Gonvea gave Gibbs a foul look. "Only this once, troop, 'cause when I get finished with you, you'll be a fuckin' mountain of muscle." He roared, and then hoisted the bag.

Chapter Three
The Power Puff Room
1

Climbing the weather worn wooden stairs, Gibbs followed Lt. Frakus, Sgt. Gonvea and his duffel bag into the barracks. There was a flurry of activity on the first floor - the scrambling of troops, the scraping of footlockers and the shout of Attenshun! from a froggy voice. The dozen or so men snapped to attention.
"At ease, Sergeant Pike," Frakus snapped. "We're starting upstairs in the power puff room."
"Yes, sir," came Sergeant Pike's voice. Followed by at ease ladies of A Platoon, but don't wander off.
As Frakus took a quick glance at the latrines, a space he would give a thorough inspection at the end, he grasped the banister and ascended to an ominously quiet second floor. Gibbs spied the troops in A Platoon as they continued their last minute preparations, some perhaps reprieved now that Frakus was starting topside.
The floor of B Platoon sparkled. Gonvea tossed the duffel bag aside and scrambled ahead to the edge of the bunk line.
"Attenshun!" Gonvea shouted.
The members of B Platoon did not scurry into their positions, as they were already statues standing at the end of each bunk. Frakus nodded, and then swept the duffel bag up, carrying it to first bunk. He dropped it on a closed footlocker, the only closed footlocker in the room.
"Gibbs, you're here."
Gibbs glanced up and down the rows, but didn't move until he saw the simmering in Sergeant Gonvea's eyes, and he supposed he was set for a public dress down if he didn't act. Quickly, Gibbs shuffled to the bag, and then, stood at attention with the rest of B Platoon. Gonvea smirked and then clicked his fingers. Lieutenant Frakus walked the length of the barracks passing the shoddy goods that awaited his judgment. To Gibbs they appeared quite up to the moment, but they were an odd assortment - too tall, or too short, and many fat, and more than a few dreamy-eyed. They were black and jaundiced or near albino and swarthy. None seemed to fit, which must have been an effrontery to any well regulated regimentarian. Gibbs fit right in with the mismatched batch of misfits. Not much comfort there.
Lt. Frakus continued his parade, finally returning to Private Gibbs. He scanned the faces of B Platoon as if to dare them to examine the new troop - he of the closed footlocker.
"Gentlemen," Frakus said in a preacher's voice. "Meet Private Gibbs, a new member of your sorority. Make him feel at home here. He's bailing out the same life boat as you are." He glanced at Gibbs. "I'd hate to be in the same lifeboat as you, son, because you'd capsize it. But all these men here are boat rockers, so watch your ass."
Frakus glared about the room, his eyes snapping first on one troop and then another until it landed squarely on a white skinned, doe-eyed thing at the far end, whose lips pouted; eyes lidded. It was clear to Gibbs that Frakus was sending him a message, but exactly what that message was, he could not tell.
The lieutenant riffled through his pocket for a pair of gloves - white gloves. He stretched these across his hands making the most of the act, his fingers wiggling as if they were conscious of their task - to root through crevices in search of incriminating dirt. To Gibbs' mind, it look more like a physician's preparation for an anal probe.
"Sergeant Gonvea."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm ready."
Gonvea latched onto a clipboard that hung on the far wall. He marched behind the lieutenant during the inspection of open foot and wall lockers. Frakus sniffed into each wall locker in turn. They could have been a single wall locker, each hanging the exact same number of uniforms in precisely the same order; dress jackets, poplin shirts and over-pressed pants and shiny, brass peaked lid-hats. The General Orders were posted on each door. Every laundry bag was inspected for contraband, in this case anything edible or proscribed; evidence of illegal runs to the PX. The footlockers were spread like neat flowerbeds, each winking with a rigorous display - razor, tooth powder, toothbrush, talcum, brasso'd belt buckles, handkerchiefs - all spread and precisely measured on a spotless white towel. Frakus bent to measure the distance between each item, having a small steel ruler for this job. When he found an item out of position, he would nod and Gonvea would make a note on the clipboard.
Frakus stopped in front of the oddest appearing soldier in the line. He wore thick glasses and, under his shock of red hair, sported a dumb facial expression, something between a loyal hunting dog and a beaver. Frakus winced, his peepers inspecting the outlandish troop.
"Sergeant Gonvea."
"Yes sir!"
"This soldier has a button missing on his fatigue shirt."
Gonvea snorted. "Private Herbie! 'Splain why you got a God damn button missin'."
"I didn't see it, Sergeant!" Private Herbie said. His voice was flat and nasal.
"Are you fuckin' blind?" Gonvea shouted. "I know you're a dumb ass. How could you be missin' a button and not know nothin' about it. Huh? Tell the lieutenant. How come?"
"It . . . it . . . came back from the laundry that way."
"Why didn't you report it? If it came back that way, you shoulda told me, or maybe take a God damn needle and sew the God damn thing back on."
"Enough," Frakus said. "Mark a gig."
Sergeant Gonvea marked the clipboard, scowling at Herbie for the demerit. Frakus sighed and shook his head. He moved to the next footlocker. He bent, took his measurements and clicked his tongue. Beside this locker was a chubby black soldier, who had the saddest face ever set to skull. Puffy eyes. Thick lips that pouted. Jowls that hung like portieres over his short-shrift neck. He fidgeted while the Lieutenant inspected him for a close shave. Gibbs thought the man would burst into tears, but Frakus appeared satisfied with the razor work and turned instead to the bottom bunk. He produced a quarter, and, holding it high, dropped it to the taut olive green blanketing. The coin bounced high, returning to the lieutenant's hand. He smiled and nodded in approval. There had to be something wrong with this fuck-up troop. He couldn't come away clean. Therefore, Frakus' white gloved hand went to the windowsill. He swiped it, and then glanced to his fingers. Dirt. Heinous, filthy, unauthorized, malingering dirt.
"Look, Sergeant Gonvea," he said showing 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 too, sir."
Frakus strutted to center floor. "No need to go further. I'm sure that the place is a pigsty. Missing buttons, substandard footlockers and dirt." Suddenly, something else caught his eye. At the end of the bunk line, near the back door, a stumpy soldier was swaying. He appeared drunk.
"Private Huey," Frakus said. "What's with you? Are you okay?"
"Just fine sir," Private Huey said. He forced a shit-eating grin, revealing a jagged smile. "And how are you today?" He hiccupped, an action that drew Gonvea to his side like a magnet. Gibbs stepped back. He had been in these new quarters for less than an hour and already he wished he were on the Infiltration course.
"Huey," Gonvea snapped. His eyes leered at the tottering troop. "Have you been drinkin' or somethin'?"
"No, Sergeant."
Gonvea sniffed. "Don't smell nothin', sir."
"He's a clown. He bears watching." Frakus then noted a soft, effeminate soldier standing across for Huey. This was the sultry white-skinned boy that had drawn attention earlier. The lieutenant came close to him. "And how is the sweetheart of Delta Xi today?"
"I'm fabulous today, sir," the soldier said. "My gear's in tip-top order. Do you want to give me the once over?"
Gonvea percolated, but Frakus signaled him to keep it in check. "Nothing you did would surprise me, Chola, you little vixen. I bet they all make sure you pass inspection." Frakus lifted Chola's chin inspecting the shave. "Smooth, Chola. Smooth. But we're not in a brothel now. This is the Army."
Chola looked downcast. Frakus suddenly frowned. He moved forcefully away, and then marched toward the stairs. He stopped at the top preparing to descend on A Platoon and Sergeant Pike. He slipped the gloves off and waved them above his head.
"As you were gentlemen," he said. "You have failed."
Sergeant Gonvea punched the clipboard and followed him downstairs.

2

The steel rod of inspection having been pulled out, the soldiers of B Platoon collapsed on their bunks. Some slammed their wall lockers shut, while others preferred slamming the footlockers. Gibbs remained fixed by his bunk. He gazed at the sullen activity that shuffled about him. He had been in barracks before. He had seen down time, and even inspections, but this was a far different experience. While inspections were tough, they were completed. They never ended at the first sign of dirt. He remembered the last inspection at Charlie Platoon. It was official, silent, no dress downs and, although they didn't pass, it wasn't posted until all the platoons were inspected. In addition, when the tension broke, the men went wild in a happy way - rooting for snacks, heading to the latrine, and fighting over the TV. In short, the relief of a finished exam, despite the outcome.
Gibbs observed his new comrades. They were a sad lot. Even the tallest among them, a giant, who could clear the length of the barracks in five strides, crashed to his bunk in bewilderment. There were many hurtful glances at Private Herbie. The chubby black troop, who despite a perfect bunk-bounce, had allowed a morsel of dirt to befoul his area of responsibility. He curled on his bed. Gibbs thought he was crying. It was hard to tell. They all looked so tortured.
A sudden fear swept him. These were all men who, like him, had faced the torment and had . . . had failed. Such thoughts should have made him happy - comrades in arms. The more the merrier. But it didn't. He suddenly felt like a corralled animal, and he wondered. What deviant thoughts now crept through these minds? Was the stubby troop really drunk? Did that winsome boy really put out in brothels? And what about that swarthy, nasty looking guy who just stared at Gibbs, his glare burning a hole in the footlocker. Gibbs averted his eyes.
He observed his own bunk, a scruffy mattress. No sheets. No blankets. He thought to head for the Top Shack and make inquires, but what good would that do? He would be roaming off the leash. He'd ask Gonvea, but he heard the Sergeant downstairs, grumbling at A Platoon.
Gibbs plunked onto the naked mattress.
"What's the matter, mate?" asked a refreshingly normal appearing troop, who had hopped onto the top bunk. My neighbor, Gibbs thought.
"No sheets or blankets."
"I wouldn't sweat it," said the neighbor. He swung his legs over the side. "There's worse things than shortfall here, and because we flunked the fucking inspection, I believe you'll be indoctrinated soon." Indoctrinated. A college guy, Gibbs thought. A hand was extended. "I'm Ormond - Buddy Ormond."
"Gibbs - Winslow Gibbs."
"Winslow? I wouldn't be too ready to promote that name around here. The queens will go to town on that one."
"Where you from, Gibbs?" Herbie shouted from across the way.
Gibbs turned to answer, but was stunned by those nasty eyes from that greasy troop across the way. He looked like a mean bullfrog. Gibbs shrugged it off, and then turned to Herbie. "I'm from Brooklyn."
"Me too!" Herbie bounced over. "Bensonhurst."
"Midwood."
"I knew a girl from Midwood. Sadie Geiger. Do you know her?"
"No," Gibbs stammered.
"Do you hear that folks," the bullfrog shouted. "Herbie knows a girl."
"Shut up Krasner," Herbie snapped. "I know lots o'girls. Lots, do you hear me."
Ormond jumped down and sat beside Gibbs. "Krasner," he whispered in Gibbs ear, indicating Private Bullfrog. "Best avoid him. We all do, except his boyfriend." Gibbs shrugged. "Bunk number four. He's not a bad sort. Avila. I think he's from California."
Krasner was on his feet, now towering over Ormond and Gibbs. Dead silence. Gibbs, feeling a need to end the awkwardness, chose not to follow Ormond's advice. He offered his hand to the newcomer. "Gibbs," he said.
Krasner smirked at the hand, snorting. "Keep to your side of the room, Gibbs. I hope you don't fart. We have enough farters. And if you're even thinking of taking one of my blankets, you best be shucking that idea."
He marched back to his bunk.
"Was that necessary?" wailed the chubby black man. He was whimpering, a simmering pot of sorrow.
"Mind your cookies, Cookie, or I'll give you a pump in the belly."
Ormond whispered again. "Chauncer," he said. "Our resident woe-be-gone. Depression's his specialty. I'm surprised he spoke up for you. He must like you." Gibbs shrugged again.
"He likes men," Herbie said. Gibbs had forgotten Herbie was there. "Most of them do here, right, Buddy? But Buddy likes girls, like me, right, Buddy?" Herbie pointed down to the end bunks. "Now Chola, he's a lady and Huey's a lady-killer. You should hear them go at it."
"He'll judge for himself, Herbie," Ormond said.
"Just trying to help."
The tall dude strode by. Gibbs looked up. "He's a mighty big drink of water."
"Twig," Ormond said. "Big, tall and as empty headed as a drum. Can't even spell his name, I think. He hangs out with the Chief."
"The Chief?"
"P.P." Herbie said. "Private Peebles. He's an Injun, and I think he likes the girls too."
Ormond and Gibbs stared at Herbie, who grinned like a sheep if a sheep could grin.
"Some lot," Gibbs said.
"Your lot," Ormond echoed. "We're all here for the same reason."
Gibbs had almost forgotten. His eyes scanned the bunks again. Some lot. Two dozen in all.
Suddenly, Sergeant Gonvea returned; and it wasn't to tuck them into bed.

3

Gonvea hovered near the stairs, his eyes roving. The tall troop, Private Twig, froze on his way to the latrine. Gonvea gazed at him with an ugly, bulldog sneer. Twig turned and strode back to his bunk. The troops of B Platoon had a collective thought. There were plans in Gonvea's eyes as he stood smoking the last vestiges of a foul smelling cigarette - Camel's - unfiltered. Each troop shifted into a silent vigil waiting for the volcano to erupt. The only sound came from Private Chaucer's incessant whimper.
"So you fuck-ups," Gonvea said, his voice calm, almost salutary. Then, he smiled and dropped the cigarette to the floor that was polished in preparation for this inspection. He ground the butt with his boot. Then, like a harpy from hell, he exploded. "I want every stick of fuckin' furniture out of this barracks. I want this floor spit shined and every article ready for re-inspection by me. You have until 18:00 hours."
Moans. Groans. Sergeant Gonvea turned on his heels and descended the stairs.
The hypnotic aura that had spun over B Platoon soon dissipated as they cranked into gear.
"You fucker," Krasner sneered at Herbie. "You and your fucking button."
"Now, leave him be, Krasner," Chauncer said, his voice simpering like some old grandmother. "You were on the windowsill brigade, and that's where the dirt was."
"Listen, brown Betty," Krasner said, "I'll bounce you off your bed if you don't shut that pie-hole."
"Stop it, Alfred," Private Avila said. Gibbs was surprised when this first name sprung into conversation, until he realized that it belonged to the bullfrog, Krasner - Alfred Krasner. The admonishing force was his so-called boyfriend. Avila was an olive-skin prince with dark button eyes. He didn't look like anyone that could be the bullfrog's match, but Gibbs knew little about these homosexual arrangements, nor did he care to know. Krasner immediately pulled out of the fray and began to strip his bed. Avila helped him.
Chauncer began to cry. "I need my sleep. I can't put up with this again."
Ormond tugged Gibbs' arm. "Well, it's not your fault, Gibbs, but you better get in gear with me, since we share this shit hole."
"What do we do?"
"We need to move all the bunks out of the barracks. Out into the field."
"What?" This seemed radical. "Why?"
"We need to polish the floors; and we can't do it with the bunks in here."
"I don't believe this," Gibbs said. He was exhausted and agreed with Chauncer. He watched as Twig carted his bunk across the floor aided by a decidedly injun-looking character, whom Gibbs reckoned was P.P., the Chief, although he had no idea why he had earned the P.P. title - something more sinister than Private Peebles, perhaps.
Ormond nudged him. "Believe it or not, it must be done. Give me a hand, or we won't get done in time; and that means a redo - and that means no sleep. No sleep is not a good thing here."
Gibbs shouldered one end of the bunk. It was heavy, much heavier than his weight, which he also couldn't lift. He let the end down. Ormond, being patient, still shook his head, his eyes saying lift.
"Lard-ass," Krasner snorted as he managed to lift his bunk's end.
"Alfred," Avila protested. Krasner frowned, returning to his own task.
"Try it again," Ormond said.
Gibbs did, but could hardly lift the sucker. This time he managed to scrape it forward, Ormond giving a mighty push. Gibbs despaired. Herbie was lifting his end along with Private Callow, a troop as stout as Gibbs. Huey marched by with his bunk, Chola on top like the Queen of Sheba. Two other troops hoisted the other end, but Gibbs scarcely noted who they were, nor did he care. He plopped on his naked mattress, panting.
"You're really out of shape," Ormond complained. "I guess that's why you're here." He sighed. "Do you think you might be able to lift it a bit using your back? Just enough to clear the floor. I can guide it until we get to the stairs."
"The stairs," Gibbs moaned. This was a nightmare.
Suddenly, a face came close to his and he jumped. It was a stone-like jagged mask. "Need help," it said. It was the Chief.
"Could you?" Ormond asked.
"Sure, Buddy," came a high-pitched voice from behind the Chief. It was Private Twig. Between the Chief and Twig, the bunk began to sail behind the others down the stairs.
"Lug your footlocker," Ormond said. There was a twinge of disgust in his voice, which Gibbs understood, but wished to ameliorate.
"I'll try."
"Drag the fucker for now. It's empty. If you can't get it back up, we'll enlist a hand."
Gibbs felt tears welling from his withers, but tried to suppress it. Not from embarrassment, but he noticed that Private Chauncer, working as he was, moaned a mantra of sorrow, and it was very annoying. Gibbs didn't want to be annoying, especially to Ormond, who was now his bunkmate.
"It'll be okay," Ormond said. He rubbed Gibbs' shoulder. "This place is ugly and will get uglier, but just don't let them get to you and you'll be okay."
Gibbs heaved a long-drawn sigh, which calmed the tears and mustered whatever strength he had in that overweight body. He tried to lift the footlocker, but failing that, he pushed it across the floor, knowing that the floor would be in a different condition on the return trip.

4

Once the barracks was empty of all the furniture except the TV, Twig and the Chief hauled out the buffing machine. Gibbs hated this massive floor rat that spun, taking whoever held the reins onto unchartered waters; however, he took a turn at it. After all, he felt guilty not carrying his share of bunkage. It was a short haul behind the giant buffing wheel, because it pulled him dangerously close to the stairs. Ormond took over.
Krasner thrust a squeegee into Gibbs' hand.
"Latrine," he snapped, then chuckled.
"Me too," Herbie said, dragging Gibbs down the stairs. "C'mon Gibbs, it's not bad now. Since we share it with A Platoon, the Sergeant might not inspect it at all."
So, Gibbs was reprieved from floor buffing and window washing. He kept his hands out of the wax and could actually rest beside the commodes, brush in hand, cleanser in nostrils and Herbie's mindless rattle about life in Brooklyn and gardening. Evidently, he was a gardener. Gibbs just tuned it all out, and began to doze near the shower stall.
When he hauled his ass back upstairs, the top floor glistened. Glass. The Wizard's Palace.
"Stand clear," Huey shouted. The bunks were returning. A parade of ghosts shuttled Gibbs aside as the furniture was nimbly tiptoed over the floor. Ormond waved him to the edge of the stairs.
"I'll take care of the bunk. Edwards says he'll help." Gibbs shrugged. Who's Edwards? He figured he'd get to know everyone in the days to come, but he wasn't sure whether he wanted to know anyone here - except Buddy Ormond. He was kind. Nice.
"What should I do?" he asked.
"Stay out of the way until your footlocker gets back." Gibbs shrugged again. "You didn't stand the first inspection, but you'll be standing the second."
"Oh, God." He didn't have so much as a shined belt buckle. He'd fail. He'd be dressed down in front of this new group of strangers. He'd be called out in front of that Krasner character, who'd glare and chuckle. He felt faint. He went to the window, careful not to fog the clean pane. He mused at his reflection, a mass of flab. He wasn't sure whether his physical state laughed more at him than Krasner would. His heart sank.
"Footlocker's back, Gibbs," Ormond said.
Terror struck. How was he going to prepare for an inspection in . . . he glanced at his watch. In twenty minutes. He sighed; in fact, he panted, attacking his duffel bag, which also magically had appeared. His gear was a mess. Nothing pressed. Shit. Suddenly, two hands grasped his shoulders.
"I'll help you." It was Private Avila.
Gibbs turned, lost in Avila's dark eyes. Where Ormond's face was kind - nice, Avila's was compelling - gypsy. "Would you?"
"Sure," Avila said. "Your stuff looks like shit."
"Oh. Yes, I left in a hurry. And . . . this is nice of you . . ."
"Avila," he said. He pronounced it in luscious tones. In fact, Gibbs thought he said Oliver, but realized that it was more like Ahvila, Ormond having misspoken with Avila. "Don't thank me. If you fail, we'll be clearing this place out again tonight."
Avila grabbed Gibbs' spare belt buckle from the bottom of the duffel. He began to shine it with brasso. Ormond grabbed the boots and started a quick spit shine. The shine on these items had no chance in the short run, but these helpers were going for presentable, and the mercy of Gonvea, which was a long shot on a short supply.
Somehow, having help and a scintilla of friendly attention, motivated Gibbs to hang his clothes in the prescribed order. He mucked out a white towel to display the toiletries in the footlocker. It was an unintelligible undertaking. Everything displayed was not for use - for inspection only. Who used tooth powder anyway? All elements were arranged precisely and in a specific order. Every undershirt and short was given a military roll before finding its way into the bottom of the locker. In the end, Gibbs was in fair shape for scrutiny.
At 18:00 hours, Sergeant Gonvea returned a little drunk. He blustered up the stairs and tottered at the end of the bunk-line, the troops scurrying into formation.
"Did djew guyz empty the place? Looks the same to me." He laughed. Then he scuffed over the floors with a jagged gait swaying more than Private Huey at his worst. He did a quick check of the windowsills - in particular the dirty sill. He gave Chauncer the fisheye as he passed. "Got that dirt, I see," he snarled. Then he bowed to Chauncer as if he was inviting him for the dance, but in that act, nearly fell. He laughed again and then . . . left them alone. No Good Night. You passed. Lights out. Nothing.
Gibbs was numb. What was it all about? He gazed to Ormond, who patted his shoulder and gave him one of his sheets. Herbie tossed him a blanket and Avila slid a pillow across the room. Gibbs didn't even bother to make his bed. He just piled the linen and blanket in a pile on the naked mattress and dove into the fetal position. His mind raced for a while, but sleep spread its pall over him with more sureness than Herbie's blanket.
It was a good thing that Gibbs nodded off so fast. He did not hear the nightly weeping of Private Chauncer or the occasional fart, met by Krasner's complaining. He also missed the usual sounds - creaking and cracking, from the bed of Private Chola. At least Gibbs missed these qualifiers on his first night in B Platoon, Special Training Unit. Other nights would serenade him, but not this night. This night he dreamed of nothing - blackness blotting his mind without an exit.

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