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- Army Beer Hall (December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)
Army Beer Hall (December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)
- By Dennis L. Siluk
- Published 04/7/2007
- Stories
- Unrated
Last Moment of Light! (From San Francisco to Fort Bragg)
(January, 1970; Week Six in Basic Training)
Part Five
In the days and weeks to follow—every muscle throughout my body was aching, head spinning; yet I was not worn down like most of the troops, perhaps I had a lot of training in San Francisco, and back in St Paul, Minnesota in karate, and my body was somewhat ready for this kind of training. Face to face with the Drill Sergeants, I half straightened my attitude out, somewhat came to an understanding, willingly obedient, yet at night I still came in soggy drunk, hanging onto whatever I could.
On the top bunk, of the bunk bed I was on (in the large room we lived in, the bunk beds of us 44-soldiers were in two rows, 11-to each side, one soldier on top, one on the bottom, old WWII, wooden framed, square frame, slanted roofed barracks, and going toward the double doors, to the right, it lead out into the courtyard, just beyond the doors, straight ahead, was the latrine. The windows in the building were wide, on both sides of the wooden structure, several to each side; the outside painted white, the inside pale white, and green.), as I was about to say, a southern boy slept on the top bunk, he didn’t seem to like me, or get along with me all that well, just gave me sneers like the Sergeants often did, not like Smiley and I, and he didn’t like me coming into the barracks drunk and coming in so late, I felt it was none of his business. He was a strict soldier, and our attitudes conflicted, ferocity of rectangular emotion around him, I called it now, then it was just bitterness, and he decided to confront me on this drinking issue one evening, just before lights out.
I came in, it was perhaps a few minutes before ´Light’s out!’ and he grabbed me by my shirt (about my height, and weight), said: “It’s two minutes to lights out, and here you are walking in half drunk.” He was correct in his observation.
“Oh,” I said, adding “…is that so…!” and broke his arm from my shirt, downward, and a second later, took my palm and pushed him against the wall. He was stunned I had broken his arm hold so easily, and without had him almost pinned against the wall. Then I grabbed his shaving cream and squirted it all over him, not sure why, but it was the closest thing to my free hands now, but perhaps to shame him or belittle him in front of the onlookers, whom were the soldiers in their bunks now. Then stepped back into a fighting stance, and egged him on. I did not want to beat him without him having another chance to strike me, it didn’t seem right. I mean I could have killed him right there, had I wanted to, his open posture was almost an invitation for a slaughter, but only a professional fighter could have seen that. I had just come from San Francisco and Studied Karate under the guidance of the greatest Karate instructor of its day (1968-69), Gosei Yamaguchi, thus, having two years in warlike arts in fighting; I was ready.
His instinct was good, he backed down, and I never pushed anyone beyond that point, the point of no return, never put anyone in a corner I always told myself, give him a little room to get out, it could save you a lot of trouble. That was always inbreed in me, not sure of the why or how it.
My thoughts at the time were: why does this wooden man, one I can break so easily confront me like this. The following morning he was standing outside, with two friends, and I came up to him and said, “Do you want to finish it…?” and added, let me show you this: and before he could say a word I had thrown several punches and a back kick (not to show off but to show him I no longer was going to play with him), and I pulled my punches lest I break his nose or jaw or something. After the demonstration, his eyes bulged out, and he just said, “You’re a trained fighter, it would be crazy to fight with you,” and walked away.
4-2-2007
Part Five
In the days and weeks to follow—every muscle throughout my body was aching, head spinning; yet I was not worn down like most of the troops, perhaps I had a lot of training in San Francisco, and back in St Paul, Minnesota in karate, and my body was somewhat ready for this kind of training. Face to face with the Drill Sergeants, I half straightened my attitude out, somewhat came to an understanding, willingly obedient, yet at night I still came in soggy drunk, hanging onto whatever I could.
On the top bunk, of the bunk bed I was on (in the large room we lived in, the bunk beds of us 44-soldiers were in two rows, 11-to each side, one soldier on top, one on the bottom, old WWII, wooden framed, square frame, slanted roofed barracks, and going toward the double doors, to the right, it lead out into the courtyard, just beyond the doors, straight ahead, was the latrine. The windows in the building were wide, on both sides of the wooden structure, several to each side; the outside painted white, the inside pale white, and green.), as I was about to say, a southern boy slept on the top bunk, he didn’t seem to like me, or get along with me all that well, just gave me sneers like the Sergeants often did, not like Smiley and I, and he didn’t like me coming into the barracks drunk and coming in so late, I felt it was none of his business. He was a strict soldier, and our attitudes conflicted, ferocity of rectangular emotion around him, I called it now, then it was just bitterness, and he decided to confront me on this drinking issue one evening, just before lights out.
I came in, it was perhaps a few minutes before ´Light’s out!’ and he grabbed me by my shirt (about my height, and weight), said: “It’s two minutes to lights out, and here you are walking in half drunk.” He was correct in his observation.
“Oh,” I said, adding “…is that so…!” and broke his arm from my shirt, downward, and a second later, took my palm and pushed him against the wall. He was stunned I had broken his arm hold so easily, and without had him almost pinned against the wall. Then I grabbed his shaving cream and squirted it all over him, not sure why, but it was the closest thing to my free hands now, but perhaps to shame him or belittle him in front of the onlookers, whom were the soldiers in their bunks now. Then stepped back into a fighting stance, and egged him on. I did not want to beat him without him having another chance to strike me, it didn’t seem right. I mean I could have killed him right there, had I wanted to, his open posture was almost an invitation for a slaughter, but only a professional fighter could have seen that. I had just come from San Francisco and Studied Karate under the guidance of the greatest Karate instructor of its day (1968-69), Gosei Yamaguchi, thus, having two years in warlike arts in fighting; I was ready.
His instinct was good, he backed down, and I never pushed anyone beyond that point, the point of no return, never put anyone in a corner I always told myself, give him a little room to get out, it could save you a lot of trouble. That was always inbreed in me, not sure of the why or how it.
My thoughts at the time were: why does this wooden man, one I can break so easily confront me like this. The following morning he was standing outside, with two friends, and I came up to him and said, “Do you want to finish it…?” and added, let me show you this: and before he could say a word I had thrown several punches and a back kick (not to show off but to show him I no longer was going to play with him), and I pulled my punches lest I break his nose or jaw or something. After the demonstration, his eyes bulged out, and he just said, “You’re a trained fighter, it would be crazy to fight with you,” and walked away.
4-2-2007
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Article Series
This article is part 4 of a 5 part series. Other articles in this series are shown below:
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Army Beer Hall (December, 1970; Week Five in Basic Training)