LEADER OF MEN
BY DELL FRANKLIN
The US Army appointed me squad leader at Ft. Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas during the sweltering summer of 1964. While training, I was assigned one of the small rooms at the rear of the barracks with another squad leader, Herschel Duffy. The troops we five squad leaders would lead hung around the barracks, working on gear, playing cards, preparing for our training as medics. When our official training began, staff sergeant Lebeau, a large beefy southerner, assigned me 12 National Guard troops—Weiss, Franco, Bendorf, Gruber, Mutz, Rosenblatt, Lupeche, Carboni, Guthman, Levine, Frankel, and Shilski—all from the same ward in Brooklyn. All of them relatively educated, a little older and more sophisticated than the rest of the spawn that would comprise my brotherhood for the next three years.
I was shocked these men had survived basic training. They were physically soft, sloppy, and each moved in his own individualistic, none-military strut, shamble, or stooped lunge. They treated the army as a joke, a temporary inconvenience, an impediment to their life's progress.
First morning, before falling out with the platoon, I pinned on temporary corporal stripes on my arm and checked out their bunks. Duffy, a 23 year old draftee, stood beside me, a 20 year old enlistee. Duffy was thickset, coffee-colored with savvy street eyes and an engaging grin. His squad bunked directly across the bottom floor of the barracks from mine. Our squads were outside awaiting formation. The bunks of his squad were wrapped tight, their gear spit-shined and neatly lined up. He watched me inspect my area of responsibility. The bunks were lumpy, shoes dull and haphazardly lined up below bunks.
“Them boys, they ain't in the army,” Duffy remarked, smirking. “This be summer camp for rich boys.”
“Mutz and Gruber, the fat hairy one, and the skinny one with the glasses and big ears, they came up to me yesterday and told me how glad they were I was their squad leader. They LIKE me. They said everybody in the squad is relieved to have me, and not Tilford.”
“I bet they are.” He rubbed his chin. “You know what they taught us in leadership school—your men, they supposed to fear you, not like you.”
“Shit, Duff, I never wanted to be a leader. And these guys, they don't respect anybody, much less me.”
“They got to respect you, gen-ral Grant. You gon hafta whale on them boys.”
“Thanks for the advice, General Robert E. Lee.”
We went outside to fall out in front of our squads. I had the middle squad of the platoon. No more than half of my squad was present. Rosenblatt, a small, pale pharmacist, stood behind me.
“Rosenblatt,” I whispered. “Where the fuck is Gruber, Mutz, Guthman, Frankel, Levine and Lupeche?”
“Where do you think? They're on sick call.”
Rosenblatt, like the others, somehow made me feel inadequate, like I was unfamiliar with the real world. “Whattaya mean, Rosenblatt?”
He sighed. “These guys have been on sick call just about every day since they got here. I took basic with them at Dix. They were on sick call most of the time there. They worked it out to a science, so they could pass. They're world class gold-brickers.”
Lebeau showed up and shouted us to attention. He looked us over, sidled over to me.
“Where's yore goddam squad, Ruffnah?”
“Sick call, sergeant!”
“We don't got sick call in this outfit.” He glared at me. “Tomorra, ah don't wanna see no goddam troops on sick call, heah?”
“Yes sergeant!”
Next morning Bendorf, Carboni, Weiss and Shilski were on sick call. Lebeau was steaming.
“Goddammit, Ruffnah, what'd ah tell yah?”
“No more sick call. I told 'em, sergeant.”
“So?”
“They say the got their rights as American citizens. These guys know the justice system and Constitution better than Supreme Court judges.”
“Bullshit! This the fuckin' army!” He glared at me, ignoring the troops. Lebeau was not especially gung-ho. He was putting in his 20 years, hoping to retire before Viet Nam got going. He'd been in the Korean War. It wasn't my troops that concerned him, it was me. I was his leadership project and responsibility. If I failed, he failed. “Foller me,” he growled.
I followed him into the barracks, showed him my squad area. He went berserk, unleashing a slew of profanity that carried outside to the formation, then tore up all 12 bunks, kicked their shoes out into the middle of the bay.
“Y'all shape these bastids up, Ruffnah, or it's yore ass!”
“Yes, sergeant!”
“Ah want every one of these muthafuckers fallin' in tomorra!”
“Yes, sergeant!”
Next morning, only Gruber and Mutz were missing, each holding slips of paper from a doctor. Lebeau, irate, glowered at me. That evening I called a meeting in my little room. The fact was, I DID have leadership ability. In high school I'd been captain of the baseball team and motivated certain players by threatening them, and others with encouragement. Our coach had assigned me leader. But this was different. These guys didn't play ball and my usual tactics would most likely be scorned or mocked as either naive or foolish.
They were so nice to me, so complimentary, almost reverential, trying to be my friend.
“Listen,” I told them. “If you like me so much, co-operate with me. I'm the one catching hell because you guys won't shine your shoes or make your beds right, won't fall out in the morning or march straight or act like soldiers.”
“But we're not soldiers,” said Gruber.
“We didn't ASK to go in the army,” said Guthman, a tall dark guy who ran nightclubs, a smoothie. “We had no chance. Certain people, they're not cut out for the army, and we should not be tormented by these lowbrows.”
“We hate the army,” whined Weiss, a skinny assless wisp who, along with Gruber and Mutz, failed to finish the 40 yard crawl and walked through the mile in the PT test. A disgrace.
“Listen,” I said. “Just do a good job on your shoes and brass. I'll get up early and tighten your bunks, so you don't get chewed out and your shit doesn't get tossed. All you gotta do is fall out in the morning so I look like a got some control, and I'm home free. Is that asking too much? Just to be there? For me? A friend who cares?”
They exchanged long suffering glances of wise guys dealing with an inferior, shook their heads sadly. “We'll try,” Gruber said, with little conviction. “For you, our friend.”
*********
Next morning Duffy stood, arms folded, rubbing his chin, grinning as I tightened their bunks while they milled around outside, waiting for formation.
“You like a slave to them boys, gen-ral Grant?”
“Now I know how it feels, huh?” Duffy's squad was a mix of blacks, Latinos, whites, and they all respected Duffy, a black man from Palo Alto, California, and a machinist by trade. He had a strong, wise presence. He did things right without kissing ass, never fucked up, seemed to have the respect of the cadre, because he was a man.
“They got you comin' and goin'. You already lost face, makin' their bunks. You got to kick ass, like I say.”
“They're not like your guys, They may be weak and cowardly, but they're not docile. If I kick their asses, they go on sick call, making me look like a fool. YOU try and lead these bastards. Let me have your squad.”
“No thanks, gen-ral Grant.”
I finished their bunks, lined up their shoes and fell out. Nobody was missing. They actually stood at attention in some semblance of military bearing. Lebeau seemed pleased, and, after checking their bunks and gear, he nodded at me.
Later that day Rosenblatt had more good news. They were all paying a little Alabama country black named Woods to polish their footwear and brass. And things ran smoothly for a couple weeks, with only three at most going on sick call, and actually taking turns, though Gruber and Mutz were pretty regular. Then one evening, after chow, as I sat with Duffy on the steps of the back porch of the barracks outside our room, Rosenblatt showed up, peering at me strangely, as if discovering a new person.
“What's up, Rosie?”
He continued staring at me. “They found out, Ruffner. I still can't believe it. I would never have suspected you of being one of us.” I had a sinking feeling as he went on. “I can't believe you're a Jew.”
Duffy squashed his cigarette and walked off.
Rosenblatt sat beside me. “They all know, the whole squad. All nine of us Jews. We're in shock. Even the dagos. None of THEM believe you're a Jew.”
“How the hell did they find out?”
“We're Jews. We make it our business to find out such things. How you think we've survived all these years.” He shook his head. “The company clerk, Kelly. Guthman and Levine are in cahoots with him. They collect money and pay him off and he writes us Jews weekend passes. Why you think we're never around getting extra duty on weekends? We're either up in the Gunter Hotel in an air-conditioned room, playing cards, or Guthman and Levine go down to Laredo and find whores.”
“Yeh, good Jewish boys,” I sneered. “Always one step ahead, outsmarting the system.”
Rosenblatt sized me up. “So what kind of Jew are you?”
“The kind who got kicked out of Hebrew school and wouldn't date Jewish girls and wouldn't play on the temple softball and basketball team because they were pussies and spastics and acted superior. I couldn't stand the motherfuckers, with their whole lives planned out at ten years old.”
He flashed me a sudden grin. “You're a Jew all right.” He nodded slowly. “You look like a gentile, sound like a gentile. You ashamed of being a Jew?”
“No. I just don't want to deal with the bullshit involved with being a Jew. They drive you crazy, just like this squad of mine. They're driving the ARMY crazy.”
“Well, Ruffner, the worst is yet to come, now that they all know you're a Jew.”
********
Next morning they all fell out and looked me over with curiosity and disbelief as we waited for Lebeau to show up.
“You're not a Jew,” Levine concluded, squinting at me.
“He looks like no Jew I've ever seen,” offered Guthman.
“He looks Irish,” added Frankel.
“He doesn't talk like a Jew,” Mutz claimed.
“He doesn't walk like a Jew,” added Gruber.
“Maybe he's lying,” said Weiss, looking suspicious. “So he can get three day passes three times a year for the holidays. That's nine days he gets the gentiles don't.”
“He wouldn't do that,” Rosenblatt defended. “Listen, he's a jock-Jew from California.”
“Well, if he's a Jew,” Mutz said, looking persecuted. “He's one of us. So why hasn't he been nicer to us?”
“Trying to take sick call away from us so he can kiss up to that big stupid moron, Lebeau.” Gruber sneered.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Lebeau fought in Korea, at the Chosen reservoir.”
“So? He didn't know any better.”
“Bullshit. He had no choice.”
“Well, we do.”
“There's a war coming,” Guthman said. “That's why we joined the guard. We're smart.”
Just then Lebeau appeared. The company fell in. Lebeau immediately observed all 12 men and nodded, having no idea the worst was yet to come.
*********
Next evening, after mess hall, Duffy and I were headed to the beer garden when Gruber approached me. Duffy rolled his eyes and took off.
“What's on your mind, Gruber?” I asked.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
“Why don't we just walk, okay?”
We began along a path. Ft. Sam was a huge, sprawling medical facility and training base, one of prettier posts stateside. It felt uncomfortable, almost squirmy walking alongside Gruber, especially when he asked, “Ruffner, why didn't you tell us you were a Jew?”
“I thought it would mean trouble. You would expect special treatment. I felt it was wisest to go on without you guys knowing.”
“But as Jews we are together in this world. We must stick together, after what we've been through, like the SCHWARTZAS. They stick together. Who can blame them?”
“Maybe we all have to stick together, Gruber. This is America. This is our army. You take Duffy. I feel already that we're buddies. I feel a responsibility to him, like a brother in arms. Hell, I don't like the fucking army. How many of us do? But we're all in this bullshit together. All we got, as they say, is each other.”
“I don't feel that way.”
“Weren't you ever on a team? You know, in sports?”
“Do I look like an athlete, Ruffner? I'm a nebbish.” I nodded, feeling bad. “Now you, you're big, and strong, such a MENSCHE. You have no idea how we all look up to you, and respect you, and feel...safe with you, and we thought, well, we hoped you would respect us, too. But you don't. You wouldn't even tell us you were a Jew when you knew we were a bunch of Jews. We had to find it out on our own. That is, to us, a betrayal.”
I placed my hand on his pudgy shoulder. “I feel no guilt whatsoever, Gruber. You can pass the word.”
********
We had a big inspection. Everything had to be spit-shined, the barracks scoured. I was to stand with my squad while Lebeau and the company commander, a captain, inspected our bunks, equipment, and ourselves. Duffy stood on the opposite side with his squad. My squad was purposely sloppy and Gruber was missing. I asked Mutz where he was. He shook his head. I was sweating profusely, heart beating too quickly. Lebeau wanted to know where Gruber was while the captain scowled at my squad and their derelict areas. Duffy caught my eye and nodded toward our room. I asked Lebeau permission to find Gruber. He nodded, his mouth a tight line. I walked to my room, and under my bed, curled up in the fetal position, whimpering, lay Gruber.
I poked his bulgy carcass with my toe. “What the fuck...Gruber?”
“Ruffner, please help me,” he whined. “I can't take it anymore.”
“Gruber...what are you doing under my fucking bunk? Are you crazy?”
“I can't go on,” he blubbered.
“Gruber,” I said, prodding him harder with my toe. “You only got two weeks to go, and you're home free. Get the fuck out of there, man...”
“I don't want to be in the army. I don't belong here. I wanna go home. Help me, Ruffner...”
I kicked him hard in the ribs and he screamed. “Get up!” I hollered, and kicked him viciously, this time in the face, and he howled like a dying dog. Lebeau and the captain were at the door as Gruber squealed and screamed. “You fucking pussy!” I heard myself screaming. “You fucking disgrace to the Jews. GET THE FUCK UP YOU GODDAM WORM. YOU REPRESENT EVERYTHING I HATE!”
I tried to yank him out from under my bunk by the scruff of his fat neck and was about to kick him again when Lebeau pulled me off him and pushed me out into the bay, where my squad and everybody else gawked at me, mouths agape.
********
They sent Gruber to a shrink who put him on medication and returned him to our squad. The following morning, when we fell out for company formation, only one member of my squad showed, Rosenblatt. The rest were on sick call. There was tittering among the troops.
“Ruffnah,' Lebeau said, weary resignation in both his voice and face. “Where's yer goddam squad?”
“Sick call, sergeant.”
He turned away. “Tilford!”
“Yes sergeant!” bellowed Tilford, as he stood before his squad.
“Take over Ruffnah's squad. He don't have what it takes to lead his men. He let his men down, and he let hisself down.”
Tilford hustled over.
“Gordon!” Lebeau bellowed.
“Yes, sergeant!” bellowed Gordon, a member of Tilford's squad.
“Take over Tilford's squad, Gordon.”
“Yes sergeant!” He moved to the head of his new squad
“Ruffnah,” said Lebeau. “Remove yer stripes, take 'em over to Gordon, and get back at the end of yer squad. You no longer sleep in yer own room. Move your gear into the bay.”
“Yes, sergeant.” My face was hot, my head throbbing.
Lebeau studied me. “Too bad,” he said.
I hurried over and handed Gordon my stripes. He pinned them on, not looking at me. Then I took my place behind Rosenblatt and Tilford.
Later that evening, at mess, Duffy joined me as I sat alone, as far from members of my platoon as possible.
“How you doin', private no-stripe Grant?”
“Gettin' by, gen-ral Lee.”
“Them boys, they really stood behind you. Like family. They sho' do like you.”
“They're really gonna like Tilford.”
“Yeh, he hate you Jews more'n he hate us niggers. He already kickin' their gear apart, slappin' 'em around, got 'em so scared they crawlin' around like cock roaches. He wanna be a Texas Ranger when he get out the army. He already told yo' Jewish friends, they don't fall out in the mornin', he gon a beat the shit out-a them.” He patted my shoulder and grinned. “Them boys, they shakin' in their boots. They wanna please gen-ral Tilford, so maybe he like them.”
The US Army appointed me squad leader at Ft. Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas during the sweltering summer of 1964. While training, I was assigned one of the small rooms at the rear of the barracks with another squad leader, Herschel Duffy. The troops we five squad leaders would lead hung around the barracks, working on gear, playing cards, preparing for our training as medics. When our official training began, staff sergeant Lebeau, a large beefy southerner, assigned me 12 National Guard troops—Weiss, Franco, Bendorf, Gruber, Mutz, Rosenblatt, Lupeche, Carboni, Guthman, Levine, Frankel, and Shilski—all from the same ward in Brooklyn. All of them relatively educated, a little older and more sophisticated than the rest of the spawn that would comprise my brotherhood for the next three years.
I was shocked these men had survived basic training. They were physically soft, sloppy, and each moved in his own individualistic, none-military strut, shamble, or stooped lunge. They treated the army as a joke, a temporary inconvenience, an impediment to their life's progress.
First morning, before falling out with the platoon, I pinned on temporary corporal stripes on my arm and checked out their bunks. Duffy, a 23 year old draftee, stood beside me, a 20 year old enlistee. Duffy was thickset, coffee-colored with savvy street eyes and an engaging grin. His squad bunked directly across the bottom floor of the barracks from mine. Our squads were outside awaiting formation. The bunks of his squad were wrapped tight, their gear spit-shined and neatly lined up. He watched me inspect my area of responsibility. The bunks were lumpy, shoes dull and haphazardly lined up below bunks.
“Them boys, they ain't in the army,” Duffy remarked, smirking. “This be summer camp for rich boys.”
“Mutz and Gruber, the fat hairy one, and the skinny one with the glasses and big ears, they came up to me yesterday and told me how glad they were I was their squad leader. They LIKE me. They said everybody in the squad is relieved to have me, and not Tilford.”
“I bet they are.” He rubbed his chin. “You know what they taught us in leadership school—your men, they supposed to fear you, not like you.”
“Shit, Duff, I never wanted to be a leader. And these guys, they don't respect anybody, much less me.”
“They got to respect you, gen-ral Grant. You gon hafta whale on them boys.”
“Thanks for the advice, General Robert E. Lee.”
We went outside to fall out in front of our squads. I had the middle squad of the platoon. No more than half of my squad was present. Rosenblatt, a small, pale pharmacist, stood behind me.
“Rosenblatt,” I whispered. “Where the fuck is Gruber, Mutz, Guthman, Frankel, Levine and Lupeche?”
“Where do you think? They're on sick call.”
Rosenblatt, like the others, somehow made me feel inadequate, like I was unfamiliar with the real world. “Whattaya mean, Rosenblatt?”
He sighed. “These guys have been on sick call just about every day since they got here. I took basic with them at Dix. They were on sick call most of the time there. They worked it out to a science, so they could pass. They're world class gold-brickers.”
Lebeau showed up and shouted us to attention. He looked us over, sidled over to me.
“Where's yore goddam squad, Ruffnah?”
“Sick call, sergeant!”
“We don't got sick call in this outfit.” He glared at me. “Tomorra, ah don't wanna see no goddam troops on sick call, heah?”
“Yes sergeant!”
Next morning Bendorf, Carboni, Weiss and Shilski were on sick call. Lebeau was steaming.
“Goddammit, Ruffnah, what'd ah tell yah?”
“No more sick call. I told 'em, sergeant.”
“So?”
“They say the got their rights as American citizens. These guys know the justice system and Constitution better than Supreme Court judges.”
“Bullshit! This the fuckin' army!” He glared at me, ignoring the troops. Lebeau was not especially gung-ho. He was putting in his 20 years, hoping to retire before Viet Nam got going. He'd been in the Korean War. It wasn't my troops that concerned him, it was me. I was his leadership project and responsibility. If I failed, he failed. “Foller me,” he growled.
I followed him into the barracks, showed him my squad area. He went berserk, unleashing a slew of profanity that carried outside to the formation, then tore up all 12 bunks, kicked their shoes out into the middle of the bay.
“Y'all shape these bastids up, Ruffnah, or it's yore ass!”
“Yes, sergeant!”
“Ah want every one of these muthafuckers fallin' in tomorra!”
“Yes, sergeant!”
Next morning, only Gruber and Mutz were missing, each holding slips of paper from a doctor. Lebeau, irate, glowered at me. That evening I called a meeting in my little room. The fact was, I DID have leadership ability. In high school I'd been captain of the baseball team and motivated certain players by threatening them, and others with encouragement. Our coach had assigned me leader. But this was different. These guys didn't play ball and my usual tactics would most likely be scorned or mocked as either naive or foolish.
They were so nice to me, so complimentary, almost reverential, trying to be my friend.
“Listen,” I told them. “If you like me so much, co-operate with me. I'm the one catching hell because you guys won't shine your shoes or make your beds right, won't fall out in the morning or march straight or act like soldiers.”
“But we're not soldiers,” said Gruber.
“We didn't ASK to go in the army,” said Guthman, a tall dark guy who ran nightclubs, a smoothie. “We had no chance. Certain people, they're not cut out for the army, and we should not be tormented by these lowbrows.”
“We hate the army,” whined Weiss, a skinny assless wisp who, along with Gruber and Mutz, failed to finish the 40 yard crawl and walked through the mile in the PT test. A disgrace.
“Listen,” I said. “Just do a good job on your shoes and brass. I'll get up early and tighten your bunks, so you don't get chewed out and your shit doesn't get tossed. All you gotta do is fall out in the morning so I look like a got some control, and I'm home free. Is that asking too much? Just to be there? For me? A friend who cares?”
They exchanged long suffering glances of wise guys dealing with an inferior, shook their heads sadly. “We'll try,” Gruber said, with little conviction. “For you, our friend.”
*********
Next morning Duffy stood, arms folded, rubbing his chin, grinning as I tightened their bunks while they milled around outside, waiting for formation.
“You like a slave to them boys, gen-ral Grant?”
“Now I know how it feels, huh?” Duffy's squad was a mix of blacks, Latinos, whites, and they all respected Duffy, a black man from Palo Alto, California, and a machinist by trade. He had a strong, wise presence. He did things right without kissing ass, never fucked up, seemed to have the respect of the cadre, because he was a man.
“They got you comin' and goin'. You already lost face, makin' their bunks. You got to kick ass, like I say.”
“They're not like your guys, They may be weak and cowardly, but they're not docile. If I kick their asses, they go on sick call, making me look like a fool. YOU try and lead these bastards. Let me have your squad.”
“No thanks, gen-ral Grant.”
I finished their bunks, lined up their shoes and fell out. Nobody was missing. They actually stood at attention in some semblance of military bearing. Lebeau seemed pleased, and, after checking their bunks and gear, he nodded at me.
Later that day Rosenblatt had more good news. They were all paying a little Alabama country black named Woods to polish their footwear and brass. And things ran smoothly for a couple weeks, with only three at most going on sick call, and actually taking turns, though Gruber and Mutz were pretty regular. Then one evening, after chow, as I sat with Duffy on the steps of the back porch of the barracks outside our room, Rosenblatt showed up, peering at me strangely, as if discovering a new person.
“What's up, Rosie?”
He continued staring at me. “They found out, Ruffner. I still can't believe it. I would never have suspected you of being one of us.” I had a sinking feeling as he went on. “I can't believe you're a Jew.”
Duffy squashed his cigarette and walked off.
Rosenblatt sat beside me. “They all know, the whole squad. All nine of us Jews. We're in shock. Even the dagos. None of THEM believe you're a Jew.”
“How the hell did they find out?”
“We're Jews. We make it our business to find out such things. How you think we've survived all these years.” He shook his head. “The company clerk, Kelly. Guthman and Levine are in cahoots with him. They collect money and pay him off and he writes us Jews weekend passes. Why you think we're never around getting extra duty on weekends? We're either up in the Gunter Hotel in an air-conditioned room, playing cards, or Guthman and Levine go down to Laredo and find whores.”
“Yeh, good Jewish boys,” I sneered. “Always one step ahead, outsmarting the system.”
Rosenblatt sized me up. “So what kind of Jew are you?”
“The kind who got kicked out of Hebrew school and wouldn't date Jewish girls and wouldn't play on the temple softball and basketball team because they were pussies and spastics and acted superior. I couldn't stand the motherfuckers, with their whole lives planned out at ten years old.”
He flashed me a sudden grin. “You're a Jew all right.” He nodded slowly. “You look like a gentile, sound like a gentile. You ashamed of being a Jew?”
“No. I just don't want to deal with the bullshit involved with being a Jew. They drive you crazy, just like this squad of mine. They're driving the ARMY crazy.”
“Well, Ruffner, the worst is yet to come, now that they all know you're a Jew.”
********
Next morning they all fell out and looked me over with curiosity and disbelief as we waited for Lebeau to show up.
“You're not a Jew,” Levine concluded, squinting at me.
“He looks like no Jew I've ever seen,” offered Guthman.
“He looks Irish,” added Frankel.
“He doesn't talk like a Jew,” Mutz claimed.
“He doesn't walk like a Jew,” added Gruber.
“Maybe he's lying,” said Weiss, looking suspicious. “So he can get three day passes three times a year for the holidays. That's nine days he gets the gentiles don't.”
“He wouldn't do that,” Rosenblatt defended. “Listen, he's a jock-Jew from California.”
“Well, if he's a Jew,” Mutz said, looking persecuted. “He's one of us. So why hasn't he been nicer to us?”
“Trying to take sick call away from us so he can kiss up to that big stupid moron, Lebeau.” Gruber sneered.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Lebeau fought in Korea, at the Chosen reservoir.”
“So? He didn't know any better.”
“Bullshit. He had no choice.”
“Well, we do.”
“There's a war coming,” Guthman said. “That's why we joined the guard. We're smart.”
Just then Lebeau appeared. The company fell in. Lebeau immediately observed all 12 men and nodded, having no idea the worst was yet to come.
*********
Next evening, after mess hall, Duffy and I were headed to the beer garden when Gruber approached me. Duffy rolled his eyes and took off.
“What's on your mind, Gruber?” I asked.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
“Why don't we just walk, okay?”
We began along a path. Ft. Sam was a huge, sprawling medical facility and training base, one of prettier posts stateside. It felt uncomfortable, almost squirmy walking alongside Gruber, especially when he asked, “Ruffner, why didn't you tell us you were a Jew?”
“I thought it would mean trouble. You would expect special treatment. I felt it was wisest to go on without you guys knowing.”
“But as Jews we are together in this world. We must stick together, after what we've been through, like the SCHWARTZAS. They stick together. Who can blame them?”
“Maybe we all have to stick together, Gruber. This is America. This is our army. You take Duffy. I feel already that we're buddies. I feel a responsibility to him, like a brother in arms. Hell, I don't like the fucking army. How many of us do? But we're all in this bullshit together. All we got, as they say, is each other.”
“I don't feel that way.”
“Weren't you ever on a team? You know, in sports?”
“Do I look like an athlete, Ruffner? I'm a nebbish.” I nodded, feeling bad. “Now you, you're big, and strong, such a MENSCHE. You have no idea how we all look up to you, and respect you, and feel...safe with you, and we thought, well, we hoped you would respect us, too. But you don't. You wouldn't even tell us you were a Jew when you knew we were a bunch of Jews. We had to find it out on our own. That is, to us, a betrayal.”
I placed my hand on his pudgy shoulder. “I feel no guilt whatsoever, Gruber. You can pass the word.”
********
We had a big inspection. Everything had to be spit-shined, the barracks scoured. I was to stand with my squad while Lebeau and the company commander, a captain, inspected our bunks, equipment, and ourselves. Duffy stood on the opposite side with his squad. My squad was purposely sloppy and Gruber was missing. I asked Mutz where he was. He shook his head. I was sweating profusely, heart beating too quickly. Lebeau wanted to know where Gruber was while the captain scowled at my squad and their derelict areas. Duffy caught my eye and nodded toward our room. I asked Lebeau permission to find Gruber. He nodded, his mouth a tight line. I walked to my room, and under my bed, curled up in the fetal position, whimpering, lay Gruber.
I poked his bulgy carcass with my toe. “What the fuck...Gruber?”
“Ruffner, please help me,” he whined. “I can't take it anymore.”
“Gruber...what are you doing under my fucking bunk? Are you crazy?”
“I can't go on,” he blubbered.
“Gruber,” I said, prodding him harder with my toe. “You only got two weeks to go, and you're home free. Get the fuck out of there, man...”
“I don't want to be in the army. I don't belong here. I wanna go home. Help me, Ruffner...”
I kicked him hard in the ribs and he screamed. “Get up!” I hollered, and kicked him viciously, this time in the face, and he howled like a dying dog. Lebeau and the captain were at the door as Gruber squealed and screamed. “You fucking pussy!” I heard myself screaming. “You fucking disgrace to the Jews. GET THE FUCK UP YOU GODDAM WORM. YOU REPRESENT EVERYTHING I HATE!”
I tried to yank him out from under my bunk by the scruff of his fat neck and was about to kick him again when Lebeau pulled me off him and pushed me out into the bay, where my squad and everybody else gawked at me, mouths agape.
********
They sent Gruber to a shrink who put him on medication and returned him to our squad. The following morning, when we fell out for company formation, only one member of my squad showed, Rosenblatt. The rest were on sick call. There was tittering among the troops.
“Ruffnah,' Lebeau said, weary resignation in both his voice and face. “Where's yer goddam squad?”
“Sick call, sergeant.”
He turned away. “Tilford!”
“Yes sergeant!” bellowed Tilford, as he stood before his squad.
“Take over Ruffnah's squad. He don't have what it takes to lead his men. He let his men down, and he let hisself down.”
Tilford hustled over.
“Gordon!” Lebeau bellowed.
“Yes, sergeant!” bellowed Gordon, a member of Tilford's squad.
“Take over Tilford's squad, Gordon.”
“Yes sergeant!” He moved to the head of his new squad
“Ruffnah,” said Lebeau. “Remove yer stripes, take 'em over to Gordon, and get back at the end of yer squad. You no longer sleep in yer own room. Move your gear into the bay.”
“Yes, sergeant.” My face was hot, my head throbbing.
Lebeau studied me. “Too bad,” he said.
I hurried over and handed Gordon my stripes. He pinned them on, not looking at me. Then I took my place behind Rosenblatt and Tilford.
Later that evening, at mess, Duffy joined me as I sat alone, as far from members of my platoon as possible.
“How you doin', private no-stripe Grant?”
“Gettin' by, gen-ral Lee.”
“Them boys, they really stood behind you. Like family. They sho' do like you.”
“They're really gonna like Tilford.”
“Yeh, he hate you Jews more'n he hate us niggers. He already kickin' their gear apart, slappin' 'em around, got 'em so scared they crawlin' around like cock roaches. He wanna be a Texas Ranger when he get out the army. He already told yo' Jewish friends, they don't fall out in the mornin', he gon a beat the shit out-a them.” He patted my shoulder and grinned. “Them boys, they shakin' in their boots. They wanna please gen-ral Tilford, so maybe he like them.”
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