I knew what my balls were, but I’d never heard the term used that way before. I presumed it must mean something good.
Late in our training, along with thousands of navy sailors and marine soldiers, Company 268 was marched into the San Diego Stadium and jam-packed, tighter than sardines, to see the Bob Hope United Service Organizations (USO) show. Company 268 was lucky—we were ushered to sit on the ground just a few feet in front of mid-stage. Aside from sitting on the ground, ours were the best seats in the place to see Bob Hope, Joey Bishop, Andy Williams, and other big-time stars. There was a special hum about somebody named Raquel Welch, but I didn’t know who she was. The show and the talent were sublime, held me mesmerized.
But a strong stench of infected rotting human flesh kept distracting me from the show. Several meters to our right were the guests from Balboa Hospital, lying on a sea of beds, cots, stretchers, and wheelchairs aligned with IV bottles, dangling with tubes. Not too long ago, these men were as whole and healthy as all the guys doing push-ups. That’s all it took to convince me that war is hell.
The navy’s Black sailors may have been few, but we had ways of bringing our favorite music with us. In the evening, when the radio lamp and the smoking lamp were lit, a brother from Company 266 might announce from a barracks down the way: “Hey, ya’ll! Aretha’s new song is on the radio!” Brothers sprinted from as far away as Companies 260 to 270 and screeched to a silent halt at a tiny itsy-bitsy radio with dials on the front. A bucket-headed brother from DC and another from Detroit buckled over as Aretha explained, “Ain’t No Way!” We winced internally when her sister Carolyn hit those high notes in the background. It was borderline church!
I got home on leave in November 1968, when I went out with Henry, at left, and Fatso, who were both in the navy, too.
Boot camp was over, and I was off to the New London Submarine School in Connecticut. I should have known better than to sign up for submarine school. I should have known I was unfit to stay underwater, in such a tiny space, for three months—not to mention that the sub Scorpion had just mysteriously disappeared that summer. So I “non-volled,” never finished, and spent three months with a small group of other Black sailors at the base’s transit barracks, waiting for orders to be shipped out.
Our hangout was the Enlisted Men’s Club, which had a bar, food, music, and a dance floor. Funny how sometimes I’d be at a location, feeling invisible, wondering if I even existed, then at another place, another time, I’d be a smash hit. My first night in the Enlisted Men’s Club, three ladies sent me handwritten notes complete with telephone numbers. One note described me as being “pretty.” From that day on, all the brothers on base gave me the nickname Sugar Cane, pronounced “Shoog’Kaaain.”
One night, I was sitting alone at a table daydreaming, watching a young lady friend dancing all alone, out on the dance floor. She was plain looking—scrawny, lanky, and clumsy, with a very tight Afro. In fact, she looked like a Black copy of Olive Oyl, girlfriend of the cartoon character Popeye. Her movements were clumsy, jerky, uncoordinated, offbeat.
She had me mesmerized. She danced expressively, freely, and boldly. I loved, even envied, her courage and freedom. But then commotion came from across the dance floor. A group of white sailors sitting at tables mocked her, making monkey gestures and apelike sounds.
But she seemed oblivious, and if she really was unaware of them, I didn’t want her feelings hurt. As inconspicuously as possible, I stalked across the floor and stepped up to the main culprit, sitting in a chair about mid-table, and announced, “You all gonna hafta stop disrespecting my sister!”
Seaman Melvin Whitfield Carter Jr., US Navy boot camp, 1968.
Angrily he hopped up out of his chair, ordering me to “Get the hell out of here right now, Nig—!” But there was a swoosh-bang sound that echoed loudly before his mouth could get to the second syllable. The back of my hand had crashed into the side of his face, launching his body up, then back into the chair. He fell back, trembling and shaking, then rolled to the floor and flopped around like a freshly caught crappie in the bottom of a boat. For an instant his eyeballs rolled around in their sockets.
It had happened so suddenly, as a reflex. I stood over him at the ready position, in a battle stance, poised to strike, anticipating an attack from his boys. But instead of rushing me, they rushed to help him. At that moment, I was frightened for him, more so than for myself, wondering what the hell had just happened. A backhand? Where did that come from? I hadn’t been taught that, had never seen it used before, had never gotten such a severe reaction from other punches I’d thrown.
I was greatly relieved when, after loosening his collar, they were able to sit him up. Somehow I was able to disappear in the ruckus and seemed to blend into the crowd. From that day on, whenever someone stepped up angrily to me, I’d often step back in distrust of my own hands.
10
The Passage
My orders were classified as a “confidential” assignment: to report to Sidi Yahia, Morocco, no later than December 1, 1968, to catch the flight in civvies only (not military uniform). My passport stated: “Abroad on Official Government Business.”
The brothers back in New London had given me a great send-off. We partied until the last instant, and I had boarded the very last passenger car of the last train possible. Time was tight, the clock going into overtime. As the train finally choo-chooed on into New York’s Grand Central Station, taking forever to stop, I saw that I had about an hour and a half to get to the airport, change clothes, and catch the plane. The penalty for “missing movement” was severe.
The last car turned out to be the farthest from the station, giving me almost a half mile to hoof it, carrying gear. My seabag, packed to the max, had weighed in at exactly 150 pounds. My duffel bag was stuffed to twenty-five pounds, and together they exceeded authorized weight. They also exceeded my own body weight.
Seabag slung over my right shoulder, duffel bag in my left hand, I raced down the walkway, dodging people and wagons. I made it through the massive crowds, and then a Good Samaritan charged me two dollars to carry my seabag across the street and put me on the bus to the wrong airport. After much panic, I gained the sympathy of the bus driver and some stewardesses, and the driver kindly dropped me off at LaGuardia with only minutes to spare.
My sentence was to be abroad for twenty months. For the next year and a half, handwritten letters were to be the only contact, not even telephone calls. I would neither see the faces nor hear the voices of loved ones. So Mom, Dad, sisters, and brothers back in St. Paul had gathered around the phone, waiting for my promised goodbye telephone call.
My passport: “Abroad on an Official Assignment for the Government of the United States of America.”
But it was already five PM. The Pan Am flight was taking off promptly at five-fifteen. Hastily, I was ushered to the long boarding line, still in uniform, without having made the call. Out of breath, gasping for air, I told the airline people up at the boarding counter, “I’m getting out of line, I hafta call my family back home!”
I was told, “I’m sorry, sir, but there just isn’t time. You’ll miss this flight.”
But then a uniformed lady produced a telephone from under the counter, asking me the telephone number, dialing as I spoke. Mom anxiously answered and was relieved to finally get the call. I talked to Dad and siblings. Fatso just had a baby boy. Henry was just leaving for boot camp. I promised to take good care of myself. They all assured me that they’d do the same. “I love you!” “I love you, too—bye!” Click!
I had to almost yell, due to bad long-distance telephone connections back in them days, so my conversation had been broadcast. I had held up the fast-moving impatient New York waiting line, and I expected intolerance. Instead, people around me were almost tearing up. I changed clothes in the bathroom of the plane as it took off.
December 1, my twentieth birthday. After the arduous journey, I had finally arrived at Sidi Yahia, Morocco, and I slammed fast to sl
eep. I woke up in a top bunk surrounded by voices. The arrival of another Black sailor was a big thing.
“Hey, ya’ll, he’s waking up!” Three blurred images introduced themselves.
“They call me Stretch.”
“And I’m Garcias.”
Then came the interrogation. “What do they call you? What’s goin’ on back in The World? Aretha got any new songs? The Temptations really break up? Are they rebuilding Watts or Detroit yet? Any new leaders rising to take MLK’s place? Any new fine sisters rising to superstardom? What are the new dances back in The World? What they wearin’?”
Waking up, I fielded questions best I could. They gathered around like schoolchildren awaiting a story from teacher. After about an hour, they had welcomed me good and then grew bored.
Showing me around the American Sidi Yahia Navy Base seemed to be as big a deal for them as it was for me. The highlight was hanging out in a nearby town called Kenitra and smoking keef (marijuana) and hashish. The next day, Stretch broke the news that I had been ordered to report to a different base called Bouknadel, a US Naval Radio Transmitter Communications Station (USNRST). A strange look smeared on their faces, something in their eyes that no one wanted to say.
“Oh, you’ll be alright.”
“What?” I waited.
“Oh, you’ll be just fine … well, it’s just that them Bouk brothers are different. But don’t worry about it. You won’t be like them!”
The bus ride from Sidi to Bouknadel was about two hours of bouncing and flopping around on a long bench seat, on bumpy roads through townships and endless plains, fields, and open meadows, passing donkeys toting bulky loads, guided by nomads alongside the roads. Finally the bus turned down a narrow, partially paved dirt road. Three miles later, a sharply dressed US Marine guard, with crisp movements and gestures, directed us into this little tiny ghost town of a navy base, hidden in the middle of nowhere.
Bouknadel Navy Base in Morocco was a transmitter relay station with three gigantic transmitter towers. Its very nature required a remote location. The navy ran the base. The marines guarded the gate and entire perimeter. (The Marine Corps is its own branch of the US military, but it is administered by the Department of the Navy.) The navy mission was to relay and transmit messages over the Mediterranean Sea, Southern Europe, North Africa, and the Atlantic Ocean. We had no idea what the messages were. The towers, along with daily base life, required tremendous amounts of electricity.
I arrived in Morocco on my twentieth birthday, spent my first Christmas and a New Year’s away from home. At the Christmas party, I just happened to sit at the table with Warrant Officer Lear, the most highly esteemed officer on base. I presumed that he was just stuck with me, but surprisingly, he and I seemed to connect as human beings. Just being grateful for what felt like good conversation, I told him a lot about myself, perhaps way too much.
I had enlisted to learn a trade, not sure what to do with my life. A battery of aptitude tests recommended that I be an “electrician’s mate,” and I was eager to learn. My job would be to run and operate the base’s huge power plant.
Bouknadel itself was a sleepy hollow of a place with comatose zombies stalking to ’n’ fro. At any given time, you’d see only a tiny fraction of the population. Those reporting for duty sleepwalked by, guided by cups of smoldering-hot coffee. Those getting off duty strolled lazily back to the barracks.
Petty Officers Schmitt, Sacra, and Johnson gave me the tour, introducing me around. “We want you to meet good ol’ Lyle! We call him Lightnin’!”
Petty Officer Lyle, a taller, thin, gentle, good-natured Negro, brandished the broadest grin. In the scheme of Negro allocation, they were shipping me in as he was shipping out. I was the New Negro. These chucks (the derogatory term we used for whites) never called Lyle by his name. In them days, Lightnin’ was a stereotype, a movie caricature: an ignorant-low-down-lazy-good-for-nuthin’, afraid of his own shadow, subservient to and dependent on white folk for all things. Lyle smiled, grinned, and cheesed about anything. “Lyle, you Black bastard!” “Yeah, Lyle! You Black sum-bitch!” And my new buddy, Lyle, just stood there, mechanically grinnin’ and shinin’.
“And, Carter, since Lightnin’ is leaving, we gonna call you Lightnin’ the Second!”
Whoa now! Hold on! Wait a minute! What happened to that Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, dancing-down-the-cobblestone-street-being-one-of-the-guys stuff? I desperately wanted to be one of the fellas, especially way out here, isolated, secluded, and now surrounded.
I smiled as gently and as friendly as possible. “Hell no! Don’t never call me no shit like that!”
They did not take it well.
Our indoctrination was complete: North Africa has the deadliest scorpions in the world, called deathstalkers, so always shake your boots upside down before putting them on. Never eat or drink anywhere else other than on base, because all the fruit and water carry parasites and/or bacteria. All the mosquitoes carry malaria. All the women have mites, the clap, or syphilis. And NEVER go into the medina, the Arab quarter of a town, because Americans had been found butchered and mutilated in those areas.
I had been eager to get to know the Moroccan people and learn the culture. But the interpersonal barriers between Americans and Moroccans seemed too complex to penetrate.
Meanwhile, routine navy base life continued to consist of comatose zombies walking back and forth. My white shipmates avoided me ever since the Lightning the Second conflict and my refusal to chop off my Afro. (The regulation hair length for white males was three inches, but Blacks were expected to wear our hair “high ’n’ tight,” which meant close to the skull. I pushed it as far as I could.) Most simply moved away when they saw me coming. Others were hostile. The barracks sleeping quarters were divided into cubicles with two bunk beds per unit. But due to alienation and rejection, I had a cubicle and double bunk bed all to myself.
Most of my conversations were reduced to “Lightnin’ ain’t my name. And don’t never call me no shit like that!” So it was music to my ears when someone said, “Hi, Mel.” In military life, everyone is a last name instead of a person. Not only did this guy, Sturdevant, think enough of me to find out my name was Melvin, he got even more familiar. I never went by Mel, but what the heck? It was refreshing compared to all the other names.
The Black marines related to me with a tolerance but saw me as only a sailor, a “squid.” The Moroccans perceived me as another rich, haughty, spoiled American. In truth, I wasn’t sure who I was or how I saw myself.
My first month of training consisted of reading meters, testing batteries, and changing all the light bulbs on base. I spent my downtime in the rec room dominating ping-pong and pool tables.
One evening after chow, I heard coming my way this loud ruckus of shouting and noise, which suddenly halted and quieted as I slammed the ball and won the point. I had captured the attention of the brothers from First Platoon. The US Marines, the grunts, the jarheads, had no problem recruiting Black soldiers. In fact, it seemed that they made up the majority of the Marine Corps population. Shouting, screaming, and hollering turned out to be the manner in which they always communicated, all the time, no matter what the topic. But now, as they came out of the chow hall, my new Black face sporting a three-inch Afro, over navy dungarees, captured their full attention.
Corporal Sims from Indiana was a very dark-skinned five-feet-four-inch giant with a powerful build, and he carried a certain innate majesty. His shifty eyes peered out at life through narrow slits. His face was marred with horrible scars. His taking a seat was a signal for the others to follow. They all gathered around like flocking ravens, curious, still and silent. Their demeanor was as though they’d taken paid seats in a stadium, and now I owed them a command performance.
“Next!” I announced after dispatching my opponent. Squinty eyes flashed back ’n’ forth, communicating something only they understood.
“NEXT, PLEASE!” I announced with shit-talking arrogance. Stillness in the room moun
ted, the hush uncomfortable.
Corporal MacGuinness from Chicago hated me on sight, snarled venom as he spoke. “Come on and dog this schquid-ass mahfukkah so we can get the fuck outta here.”
I pretended not to notice. His uniform—clean, crisp, polished, starched to the max—would have stood up and sparkled even if no one was in it. But he accentuated everything he said by holding, squeezing, fondling his crotch. His mouth a reverse toilet, oozing pus, flowing raw sewage. His front teeth brandished decay and rot more than ivory.
So right there in the rec room, with dozens of people around, Mac-Guinness unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis, and performed acts too hideous to describe. Everyone else seemed to be okay with it, so I tried not to appear appalled. Most astonishing was how he could invent new perversions with a penis in public. He used his indecent filth to accentuate his hatred for me and love for the “corps.” Hideous obscenity was the only sincere bone in his body.
Corporal Nesbitt, however, hid profound kindness behind the patented “Bouknadel Tough Guy Snarl-Smile,” which consisted of a snarl, a smile, and a frown at the same time, both corners of the mouth turned down while speaking out the side of the mouth. Nesbitt snarl-smiled while picking up the paddle at the opposite end of the table. “Where you from, Squid?” Squid was the derogatory word for sailors. Jarheads (derogatory for marines) had a way of squishing the word up from the throat, through the molars, and out the sides of their mouths. The enunciation was more like a variation of squish, squash, and sleaze all in one word, making it sound like oozing slime.
I served the ball with a surprise attack, stunning my opponent, winning the first point. “St. Paul, Minnesota. Where you from?” I asked. I served again, and Nezz slammed it right back, winning the next point. “Washington, DC,” he said. The volley was on, back and forth. Hard slams with topspins forced him deep. Short chipping backspins brought him back shallow. I took him side to side. Repeatedly he reversed my Sunday best stuff, using my own tactics against me.
Diesel Heart Page 9
