Diesel Heart

by Melvin Carter Jr

  Game after game went into overtime. I barely edged him out. After about half a dozen games, Nezz announced, “Ya’ll, I can’t beat this squid!” He turned to me, saying, “You’re the best, Brah!” Awarding me a good-natured tough-guy-friendly snarl-like smile, he slid the paddle across the table and headed out the double swinging screen doors. I had just unwittingly unseated the base ping-pong champion.

  Then Sims got up and the entire flock spontaneously followed suit. Their conversation could be heard across the entire tiny base as they maneuvered in informal formation. Every word was in the highest decibel. It wasn’t hard to tell MacGuinness’s voice; “Sompthin’ ’bout that mahfukkah ain’t right! This nigga’ moves like a fukkin’ cat! He the CID”—rumor was that the Central Intelligence Division infiltrated and spied on the troops—“spyin’ on us! How else would they let him grow out a ’fro like that? We gotta lure him out to the A-Field, hold thump call on his ass, and feed this nigga’ to the K9s!”

  Bouknadel had its own culture and its own language. Like all military bases, Bouk held mess call, roll call, mail call, and sick call, but here on this base, the Black marines held “thump call,” which meant time to fight.

  The next month, I got snatched off electrician training and reassigned to mess duty, the most filthy, greasy, life-sucking job. Check-in time: four AM, with the day ending at about seven-thirty PM, with no breaks. “Carter, because it’s so grueling, it’s only for a month.” Next thing I know, I’m slingin’ dishes, scrubbin’ pots ’n’ pans, slammin’ greasy garbage cans, and swabbin’ decks. At the end of January, I had survived, having done my part, ready and eager to escape, finishing up my shift.

  “Carter, you got mess duty another month!” Two months on mess duty was unheard of.

  President’s Day was a really big deal, calling for a really big picnic, with grilled food, games, and events. For mess duty, a picnic was cleaner and much less work due to paper plates, plastic cups, no pots ’n’ pans.

  A five-dollar bill was taped on the ball of this towering military base flagpole coated with thick layers of Crisco cooking grease with no safety net or cushions underneath. The first to climb to the top got to keep the money. No one had ever climbed it. After every event, the fire truck ladder had been used to retrieve the prize.

  When the event was just about done, after everyone had already had his chance, I received permission to give it a try. Clasping both ends of the very short rope wrapped around the pole with a clove hitch knot, I shinnied to the top and got my money. I would have had it had the pole been twice that height. From that day on, I was only allowed to climb it after everyone else had a chance to try it. The reason they let me do it was not in fairness to me, but more for their own personal entertainment.

  February mercifully came to an end. Finally, finally, I was finishing this filthy grueling assignment, gonna start my electrician career. But no! “Carter, you’re on mess duty for March!”

  Chief Petty Officer Hanson’s office door was shut, his face buried in paperwork when I barged in. “Why? I’ll tell you why, Carter. Because orders is orders!”

  I felt like a piece of discarded shit, stuck in a huge toilet, hovering just above the flush. “Well, when? Will I ever get off mess duty?”

  His fist slammed to the desktop. “I’ll tell you when, Carter! Never, that’s when! That is all! Dismissed! And shut the fuckin’ door on your way out!”

  Two months of mess duty was unheard of, let alone three months. During this time, several white guys arrived, went straight to their assignments, never did mess duty. In other words, I did their detail as well as my own. Even some of the white guys felt sorry for me. “Carter, you must of pissed somebody off! What the hell did you do?” Truth is, I wasn’t sure.

  Later in March, just finishing my shift and moping like a kicked-around lost puppy dog, I meandered out of the navy barracks, gravitating toward cheering and shouting. Two men boxing came into view over near the marine barracks. Hiding deep inside myself, invisibly cloaked in absolute no-bodiness, I was surprised to be noticed by anyone, let alone the marines.

  So here comes MacGuinness, caressing his crotch. Words oozed between his teeth: “You come over here, Schquid, you gotta fight!”

  My eyes dropped to the ground, desperately avoiding eye contact. Look intimidated! I told myself. Wearing my Bambi face and using my Mickey Mouse voice, I said, “Well, okay … let’s get on the gloves.” I was in a lost-in-space-bad-mad-ass mood. Kicking his punk ass had been at the top of my secret hit list ever since that first day. The only problem with kickin’ his ass was having to touch him. So punching him in the face with boxing gloves was an opportunity not to be missed.

  But suddenly MacGuinness caught himself being lured into his own bullshit and slithered off growling, “Gloves ain’t how I do my fightin’! I do my fighting with guns!” He scampered off and disappeared into the safety of the barracks. My efforts to remain an unnoticed spectator failed miserably. The closer I got, the more snarls, snickers, and growls. “Come over here, Schquid, you gotta fight!” Like a moth to the flame, an invincible force drew me to the epicenter of the action.

  Corporals Guillotine and Cobbs, two heavyweights, were locked in intense contest, loaded up, exchanging heavy blows. Guillotine, a raging bull–type fighter, a one-man smashing crew, wore combat boots as an intimidation factor. Cobbs, the bigger, taller, heavier man, landed heavy blows to Guillotine’s face at will but was still unable to stop the vicious onslaught. Guillotine flaunted his iron chin, his ability to take heavy blows as a tribute to his macho toughness. He absorbed the fullest brunt of Cobbs’s best shots until eventually Cobbs buckled, crumbled, and smashed hard to the canvas. Even then, the ref and others had to jump in and pull Guillotine off the broken opponent.

  Shattering the silence, someone shouted “ATTENTION ON DECK!” announcing the approach of a high-ranking dignitary. Ass-kissin’ was mandatory! Every marine fell in line, snapping to attention. I fell in line with them, my navy blue dungarees clashing painfully with their army green fatigues.

  From across the open field, the image of Captain Jones appeared. Above and beyond being the captain, he was sincerely loved and respected by the men. I’d learn later that Captain Jones trained hard with the grunts, raising the bar, setting a high example. He was competent in every aspect of hand-to-hand, physical fitness, and combat stuff and had proven himself in combat and was highly decorated.

  Pleased with his formal military reception, satisfied that his ass had been sufficiently kissed, he strolled up and down the line, inspecting and addressing the troops. “Boxing? … Huh, men?” His question seemed more like a command to agree with him.

  “Yes, sir!” the men snapped loudly in unison, then returned to stillness.

  “Anyone wanna go a couple rounds with the captain?”

  Everyone froze, all eyes immediately dropped to the ground as he paced up and down the ranks. Somewhat disappointed, he asked, “What, no one?” The stillness and quietness got stiller and quieter. His eyes glanced over me as he passed by.

  Timidly, I raised my hand. “I’ll give it a try, sir.”

  He spun around in indignant surprise, sincerely amused. A slight gasp filled the air. All eyes leaped on me.

  “What did you say, son!?” With friendly sparring in mind, my stupidity sincere, I replied, “Let’s go lightly, but promise not to hurt me.”

  Bouncing flashing eyes swashbuckled up and down the ranks, everyone looking at each other, no one looking at me. I was the only one not in on some private joke.

  Looking up and down the ranks with a wink to his men, Captain Jones spoke. “Okay, but you gotta promise not to hurt me, neither.” Audible giggles, coughing, and laughter ran up and down the ranks. They all mobbed around him as we put on the gloves and laced up. I had to put on my gloves by myself and was lucky to find a volunteer to tie my laces.

  Ding! The bell rang. I, the slasher, like White Fang, danced in syncopated circular patterns around the powerful polar
bear paws. My opponent, about six-foot-two, two hundred pounds of mauling predator, was overconfident and overreliant on his height, size, weight, conditioning, power, and home team advantages. Truly, if he ever hit me on the button, it’d be Goodnight, Irene. But he overloaded and telegraphed every blow clear enough to let me read his mind.

  But hey! Whatever happened to that going lightly gentlemen’s agreement? Playing peekaboo, and weaving and bobbing, I only allowed him to glaze me with glancing blows. Everywhere he swung, I reappeared somewhere else, slipping and sliding, controlling the distance, peppering him with socially intended patty-cake-pitty-pats. The more he missed, the more he escalated. He forced me to exploit his overanxiousness. He bulldozed, launching pile drivers and haymakers, forcing me side to side and back, cutting off escape routes, cornering me. I had to retaliate for survival.

  How stupid of me! I had placed the captain in a bad predicament. He could not lose face in front of his men. Our gentleman’s agreement to spar lightly was out the window before we ever made it. Someone had to win. Someone had to lose.

  A grazing blow across my face was the excuse I needed. “I quit!” Stopping, I backed up, took off the gloves, and congratulated him, honoring his victory, noting his power and conditioning. He mentioned my foot and hand speed, his sportsmanship impeccable. I drenched myself in cool fresh water from a nearby hose, running it all over my head and in my face in the hot African sun.

  As I wiped my face with my shirt, the image of Sims appeared in the corner of my eye. “You shoulda gone on and hit ’im, Brah!” Sims cool-snarled out the side of his mouth as we stood watching Captain Jones disappear across the grassy field from where he had originally approached. Sims spoke softly, “You insulted him with that patty-cake-ass bullshit! Look, man.” Sims pointed downward. “He dun’ run off and left his watch, wallet, and duffle bag right where he had set it down.”

  Seeing Captain Jones, an icon, so rattled on this tiny base in the middle of a desert was no small thing, leaving a lingering sense of stunned smoldering amazement. Others tried but couldn’t hide being amused. Blundering with such flamboyant magnificence had won me some involuntary respect, along with some sympathy.

  11

  Boiler Room

  The boiler room in the outside corner of the marine barracks was sectioned off from the rest of the building. It had a KEEP OUT welcoming sign on the door. Thick insulated pipes circled the enclosed compartment, serving as a long wraparound bench. Although some suspected me of being “The Man,” Nesbitt and Sims had invited me to secret boiler room discussions, where some Black marine brothers said what they thought.

  The boiler room ritual was to light the joint, take a hit, speak while holding it, and pass it to the next guy. The joint was a talking piece. The person receiving the joint ruled the conversation. The exploding and crackling of the seeds accentuated his point, until he passed it along.

  So I was sitting there in the secret “Blacks only” meeting place, the only non-marine, the only one not to have seen live combat action, and one of the few without a Purple Heart. Masters of ceremony Sims ’n’ Nesbitt lit up the talking piece, made welcoming remarks, checked in with everybody, and passed the joint. These combat soldiers fresh from “the Nam” still had bullets and shrapnel lodged in their bodies. Sergeant Zero had unhealed facial burns. They talked about being “in the Crotch” and “in the bush.”

  Skinny, the recon, the most highly revered, highest esteemed combat soldier of them all, just sat there gazing, giggling about things visible only to himself. He took the talking piece. Everyone sat quietly waiting for him to speak. His eyes looked at the ceiling. He let us wait, giggled, and then passed the joint. Once he showed us two newspaper articles about his being the only soldier to return from two combat missions.

  Then MacGuinness burst in yelling that he found out that Lurch, an enormous white marine, was nothing but pussy. “We wuz in the shower,” MacGuinness unzipped his pants demonstrating. “Lurch dropped his soap, bent over to pick it up, and my dick went straight up his ass.” Too amazed, too perplexed, too astonished to even figure out what the what? I, along with everybody else, left it alone.

  But these guys had the answer to the question me and Henry had struggled with. I was curious. My turn. My not liking keef had nothing to do with principles, virtues, or values. The stuff vampired my internal guidance and security systems, made me fear shadows, hear screaming voices, but I took my obligatory hit. “Why did you guys go to combat? What is the Vietnam War about? Why was it worth it to you to put your lives on the line like that?” Sincerely wanting to know, I waited for the enlightened answer.

  Everyone’s answer was different.

  “The war is about the domino theory! See, if Cambodia falls, Laos is next!”

  “No, the war is about oil!”

  “Uh-uh, the war is about the poppy seeds.”

  “Nope, it’s about Communism!”

  “No, it’s about colonialism!”

  “No, it’s about capitalism.”

  The more answers, the more questions I had. “Yeah, b-b-but what was in it for you? Why did you go?”

  A judge back in Indiana had given Sims a choice—prison or marines. Nesbitt needed to get out of DC, and the Crotch was a ticket. Others had seen a TV commercial about the Marine Corps building real men. And on and on, leaving me with more questions. “Yeah, but … ?”

  Before we left, Sims and Nezz put everyone on alert. “Eventually we gonna have to hold thump call. A group of white supremacist marines, right here on Bouk base, have been stalking and catching Black marines alone and beating them unmercifully. So, brothers, come running when you hear ‘thump call’!”

  One afternoon, this horrible noise shrieked from the large shower room. Something must be terribly wrong. I ran in to see if there was some kind of emergency. Instead, it was Huff, a new Black sailor, a brother, assigned to the Bouk navy barracks, singing in the shower, zoning out on a rendition of the Temptations’ “My Girl.” His hair, face, and torso were covered with soapy lather and shampoo. His singing sounded like squeaking door hinges and screeching bats. He sang his heart out.

  I couldn’t take it. “Man, shut the fuck up!”

  Startled, snapping out of his self-induced trance, hurriedly he rinsed his eyes to see who was yelling at him.

  “Man, that shit sounds horrible!”

  Locating the source, he laughed heartily as he spoke. “What? You got something against good music?”

  “Man, you sound like somebody slammed your dick in the door!”

  “Not my fault you don’t have good taste in fine music. You just don’t know good singin’ when you hear it.”

  I tried to tell him the truth. “Brother, you sound horrible.”

  “No, wait,” he rebutted. “You just ain’t heard my best stuff yet! Listen to this.” He ran me out with a louder more horrible rendition. “No, wait! There’s more!”

  Huff was assigned to Bouk as a navy cook, and I was on my second tour of mess duty when he arrived. He was a refined gentleman, a couple of years older than me and infinitely more mature. “You must be the one they call ‘That Fuckin’ Carter.’ They warned me about you! They said, ‘Whatever you do, stay away from that fuckin’ Carter.’”

  He managed his daily routines with amiable businesslike workmanship. Everyone loved Huff—the brass, rank, and file, as well as the Moroccans. He had a unique ability to give and command respect without issue. They tried to call him “Lightnin’” also, but he’d have none of that. He was my source of sanity, about the only one on the entire continent who I could have real conversations with. So while he was doing most of the overnight baking, I’d visit him in the mess hall, sometimes talking till daybreak. “Quarter” was his New Jersey treatment of my last name. He’d shake his head laughing in amused amazement. “Quarter, what did you do now?” He was always aware of my episodes way before I could prepare him.

  My hunch was that Huff was a basketball draft. Bouk’s only claim to fam
e was a basketball team that traveled all around the Mediterranean Sea and southern Europe. Of course, I—the other Black guy—didn’t play that “white boy sport.”

  Me ’n’ Huff after inspection. Regulation lid to be worn parallel to the deck, but—noo!

  I was finally released after an unprecedented three straight months of mess duty and returned to training and base maintenance. Running the power plant was merely a matter of watching, monitoring switchboards, generators, recording gauges, turning machines off and on. Running it made me an electrician about as much as driving a car made me an auto mechanic.

  And then there was the utility truck detail. I liked Frazier, a lily-white fair-haired blue-eyed white-boy electrician. He arrived a month after I did, never did a single minute of mess duty, and stayed on his electrical training. I should have been mad at him because I did his mess duty tour as well as the tour of another new guy. But he was younger, frisky, good-natured. We were supposedly being trained together, but Chief Petty Officers Schmitty, Sacra, and Johnson spent all their time and energy training him, completely ignoring me.

  When it came time to climb a high pine light pole, I strapped on the ankle spikes, shinnied up high with vague instructions, then inserted the screwdriver and pliers into the high-voltage electrical doohickey attached to the what’chama’callim, got the shock of my life, saw lightning, and slid down. Then it was Frazier’s turn. All the trainers gathered around, explaining the process, giving him gear, cracking out a safety rope, and instructing him. I was happy for him, but I was doing nothing, totally ignored, wasting time. Just standing around made me feel stupid and, worst of all, absolutely worthless. I burned energy trying to look like I was a part of the team instead, pretending not to be in exile.