In time, I came to believe all three things about him but could only prove that he did, indeed, carry a loaded pistol. Big T was the unchallenged and true leader of the African-American soldiers on base. He was militant, intelligent and very charismatic. He used his minions like pawns in a chess match. Sometimes he created violent dramas just for his own amusement. Other times he could be introspective and almost charming. His demeanor changed in a second, and letting your guard down with him could cost you big-time. Having him as a squad member was akin to swimming daily in a stream with a water moccasin.
Big T was so feared that Sergeant Koncha wouldn’t even shake his bunk to wake him up for PT—and Koncha had been known to knock bunks over. Maybe German tanks at Kursk and Indochinese guerillas were easier to deal with than Troubleman.
When I wasn’t dealing with the likes of Presca and Big T, I squeezed in time to play on the company’s football team. Though it was called flag football, our games were played with nine-man formations and had more in common with the gladiator games in Rome than something played on the Great Lawn in New York’s Central Park. At least the gladiators had shields. With me playing offensive center, our team won the base championship. I even managed a couple of touchdown catches, as centers were eligible in those games. You just had to see through the red stuff dripping down your face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HEAR NO EVIL
In October, 1973, the First Infantry Division Forward participated in Operation Reforger (which stood for “Return of Forces to Germany”), a yearly joint military exercise utilizing American, German, Canadian and British forces. Thousands of men participated in this fast-moving month-long war game between 1969 and 1988, when the military started scaling it back. My entire company was to proceed by railhead to an undisclosed location in the countryside. We were scheduled to depart at around 1 a.m., using our armored personnel carriers for the short ride to the local train station. The APCs would be loaded onto large flatbed freight cars for the 12- to 15-hour ride to the area where the operations would be conducted. No one had a clue where we were headed.
By 10 p.m. that night, most of the men in my assigned squad were in our barracks, readying their gear for weeks in the field. Boom boxes were blaring, there was constant shouting among the men and some of the guys were dragging their asses back to the barracks weary and drunk. In the field, we wore drab olive fatigues, flack vests, canteens, boots, camo helmets and heavy coats to help keep out the cold. Each of us carried a parka for protection against the rain that was sure to fall, a sleeping bag, the all-important rubber inflatable mattress, C-rations and shelter halves—two men, each carrying a shelter half, would put them together to form a tent in the field. Most of the time I carried a brown wood-handled switchblade with a six-inch blade. Even though people could see the switchblade’s outline in my pocket, no one challenged me about carrying it—at least when we were on base. But I couldn’t carry the switchblade on Reforger or any field exercise like it, because the blade would have been confiscated, along with drugs and alcohol, during the stringent “health and welfare inspection.”
None of us were armed while we were on post, nor were we allowed to carry any privately owned firearms. Only law enforcement and security personnel on the base were allowed to have weapons. We would pick up our weapons from the Arms Room right before we left for Reforger.
Big T and three members of his posse showed up at the barracks after midnight, drunk, loud and decidedly not funny. One of the men, Willie Kane, was determined to impress Big T at the expense of one of the other men in the squad, Private First Class Jimmy Woodson. Knowing Woodson was a soft target, Kane began beating the shit out of the kid with his fists. Woodson fell to the ground, whimpering and making no effort to fight back. Kane kicked the kid several times as Big T stood by with a bemused smile on his face. Dozens of men watched the beating take place, but none stepped in to stop Kane or defend Woodson. Eventually, an African-American NCO, Sergeant James Roland, walked in on the fight and intervened—drawing shouts and threats from both Big T and Kane.
Roland ignored the shouts and left the barracks without any indication that he intended to punish Kane for the beat-down he’d just witnessed. A few feet away, another soldier, Carlos Campeno, sat quietly on his bunk, shaking his head and looking disgusted. I wondered if he was pissed at Kane for beating Woodson or angry at Woodson for not even attempting to defend himself.
“What the fuck you looking at, Campeno? You want some?” Kane shouted.
“You trying to scare me, Kane? ’Cause I’m not going to lay down like him,” Campeno said.
“Just letting you know,” Kane said.
“We can get it on anytime you want, Kane,” Campeno said. “Just so you know, you got your people, but I got my people, too.”
Kane quieted down.
The Latinos had their people, the African-Americans had their people and I had no people. No matter. What was clear was that I’d be spending a good chunk of the next month inside a cramped APC with my four African-American squad members—Big T, Kane, Terry Brown and Demarco Percell, along with Woodson, Campeno and Frank Procter.
Individually, I got along well with all four men. Only T was bigger than me; Percell and Brown were comparable in size and Kane was slightly smaller. I will never forget Brown and Percell saying that they considered me their friend. I had to know that if any of the other “brothers” were around, they wouldn’t be openly friendly toward me. They also said that they wouldn’t fight every African-American guy on this base for me—prompting me to wonder what people had been saying.
When it was time to head out around 1 a.m., each squad crammed into a single APC. The squad sergeant stood in the command cupola, while the driver sat below him, maneuvering the vehicle on its tank-like treads. Though technically an armored vehicle, the M113 APC had a relatively thin and soft skin—not at all like the bulletproof troop transport vehicles used today. We knew that the vehicle could easily be penetrated by an enemy machine gun round, which would ricochet around and likely kill or maim several men. But riding on one of the rough metal benches in an APC certainly beat walking through the German wilderness, especially when the forecast called for miserably cold, wet weather.
We carried M16s, M16s fitted with M203 grenade launchers, M60 machine guns and the M79 grenade launcher—what’s known as a “blooper gun” because of the popping sound it makes when fired.
On the ride to the train station, I took turns with Kane, Brown, Percell and Big T standing in the cargo hatch opening of the APC. Woodson looked like shit, with a black eye and large bruises on his face. He’d limped into the vehicle and silently slumped into a seat.
True to his name, Troubleman was watching me. I was scared of him and the other guys but did my best not to show it. It wasn’t long before he launched into another of his very hard-line militant diatribes against white people, and authority in general. If he thought I was going to take the bait, he was wrong. I was contemplating what my chances would be in a fight against Big T or one of his buddies. Even on my best day, I knew that both Big T and Percell could beat me in a straight fight. I knew I could make Percell suffer, but not enough. A fight between Brown and me would probably result in a stalemate. I knew that I could take Kane, and he knew it, too. Kane hated the fact that I was tougher and stronger than he was, and that likely made him the most dangerous one of the four.
The lumbering APC rolled into the rail yard, and we loaded onto the eastbound train. The train pulled out right on time and rolled through idyllic-looking small German towns and verdant green forests. We arrived and off-loaded along with thousands of other troops and pieces of equipment. Amazingly, given the size of the operation, the off-loading went smoothly.
My squad sergeant was Staff Sergeant Anders, who was tough as nails and had a Combat Infantry Badge—an award given to infantrymen and Special Forces soldiers who had personally fought in active ground combat. When
drinking, he was one of Big T’s cohorts and the only person who drank with the man and still dared to vehemently disagree with him. Anders was a complex man, an alcoholic who was quite well read. He was a militant African-American, but in a much more intellectual manner than Big T. He didn’t stop the black power rhetoric that was rampant in the squad; nor did he foster it.
When Anders was around, things seemed to function more smoothly. I liked him, and he went out of his way to praise me for any extra efforts I attempted. On the first night of the Reforger exercise, we set up a defensive perimeter. I suggested a placement of an M60 machine gun that was at odds with what Anders had proposed, and was surprised to see him agree with me and change the placement. It was a small gesture, but an important one for me. I would go all out for this guy, no matter what the circumstances. Sergeant Anders’s skills in commanding his men seemed apparent to everyone around him; I suspected that he would have quickly moved up through the ranks if he wasn’t an alcoholic.
Anders ordered Campeno and Procter to stay with the APC for maintenance and security while the rest of us went out on a lengthy patrol. Walking through the woods with weapons and packs built up a powerful thirst for more than the water in our canteens. It would only be a matter of time before we’d be moving frenetically from one point to another in our APCs and not doing as many foot patrols. If we wanted to get hammered, now was the time.
As with any field maneuvers, the first thing that took place at Reforger was a “health and welfare inspection” in which military police aggressively searched all the vehicles and men for booze and drugs. Any drugs or alcohol found in common areas—like our APC—were simply destroyed. There was never any investigation as to who may have stashed it. The vast majority of contraband found during these searches was beer, wine and hard liquor. Easily hidden items like speed or smack, of course, usually escaped detection. The checks were extremely thorough, and I was always amazed when several days later someone produced a bottle of Scotch. But most alcohol was found.
Anders led our squad in a search for booze, eventually finding a Gasthaus—a small inn with a restaurant, bar and a few hotel rooms for rent. These places were often patrolled by senior NCOs or regular officers to ensure that soldiers didn’t get hammered while out on patrol. Ironically, the officers often enjoyed drinking at the bars while supposedly securing them.
Our sergeant successfully bribed the two drunk NCOs at our Gasthaus, buying a half dozen large bottles of cheap local wine. As we continued our patrol, the wine flowed freely for all of us except Woodson, who was still walking with a slight limp. Anders eventually realized that we might be lost—yet another reason to continue drinking. We were still drinking when a patrol walked past us headed in the opposite direction. The soldiers in that unit were all white, and sober.
“Hey, soldier, where the fuck are we?” Anders demanded, as he grabbed one of the men by his shoulder straps and pulled him closer.
Ignoring Anders’s rank, the soldier slapped the topographic map out of his hand and pushed the sergeant away—causing his liter of wine to drop to the ground. Drunk and angry about the loss of the wine, I launched myself at the nearest member of the patrol, threw him to the ground and pummeled his face. Brown and Percell also went on the attack and had no trouble beating their opponents.
Big T and Sergeant Anders pulled me off my bloodied victim, and we went running up the path we’d seen the patrol come down. We were confident that the guys in the other patrol weren’t going anywhere for a while, and radioing for help was out of the question. Somehow, the battery for their PRC-25 field radio had gone missing, along with the spare. The radio weighed some 24 pounds and consisted of two parts, metal boxes called “cans.” The upper can held the battery while the lower one held the separate battery pack. Two metal clips held the cans together, making it quick and easy to remove the battery.
That night, we were allowed to skirt light discipline and build a fire. Big T was dispensing some of the wine we had left. It didn’t take long for word of our stash to spread, and soon there were about 10 soldiers hanging around the fire; I was the lone white one. I held my canteen cup out for a drink, and T filled it, deliberately giving me more than some of the others.
“You see, not all white boys are the same,” Big T said. “I been trying to tell you. Drink up, man, you got more coming.”
There were no dissenters, and Anders sat there smiling.
T launched into one of his black power sermons and I headed off to my sleeping bag. I found his proselytizing vaguely comforting that night.
Early the next morning, the field operations began anew. Big T managed to stow the last bottle of wine in a safe location, just in case we had an opportunity to do some more drinking. As fate would have it, we were ordered to stand down for at least several hours in a clearing adjacent to a dirt road. With no foot patrols, our squad got out of the APC and opened the last bottle. Big T was still doing the honors, and Procter was drinking with us, as the sun started to sink closer to the horizon.
Hailing from Arizona and weighing in at about 150 pounds, Procter was generally a harmless, gregarious drunk. But he could become loud. Now, having missed the previous evening’s revelry, he was making up for lost drinking time. Procter and Big T were seated next to each other on a bench inside the APC as others milled around outside, near the vehicle’s cargo ramp. While Big T launched into another political lecture for the group, Procter filled and refilled the cup from his canteen. It wasn’t long before he was lit.
“You’re prejudiced man,” Procter shouted at Big T, who was seated to Procter’s left. He repeated the remark time and again as he pawed at Big T’s shoulder—angering him more every time. It was growing difficult to see, because the sun had set and the only light we had was the soft glow from the APC’s power source.
Big T suddenly erupted in anger and backhand-slapped Procter while they were still seated next to each other. Then he rose and began to smash the kid’s face flat. I watched as Big T grabbed Procter by his hair and dragged him out of the APC.
Kane, sitting across from me on another bench, was clearly unnerved and fighting off a sense of shock. Slowly, he pushed the barrel of his M16 up to my chest and in a quivering voice said, “Don’t do anything, man.”
Sergeant Anders screamed for T to stop, but his plea was ignored. T was in a zone, and anyone who dared intrude would be in imminent mortal danger.
T grabbed Procter by the hair and dragged him onto the forest floor, smashing the guy with his other fist as he went. Procter was gurgling blood but the beating continued.
Suddenly Big T looked up and stared at us. No one did or said anything.
Anders broke the silence to announce that we’d received orders to move out. Procter was left at the edge of the clearing while the sergeant set up a first-aid pickup. We all silently boarded the APC as T went back to his drunken speech. Anders did nothing but ordered all of us to stay seated in the cargo area.
A half hour later, Procter was picked up by medics and taken to the rear area for treatment. His wounds were serious enough that he could not return to Operation Reforger.
The unit knew there would be an inquiry into the man’s severe beating. I knew that most of the men would immediately disavow any knowledge of the incident. Procter must have somehow fallen while out on patrol. The other black guys in the unit wouldn’t think of ratting on Big T. The only person in question was me, and I’d already made up my mind. There was no way I would risk my life to tell anyone what happened that night.
After our patrols ended, we returned to base and piled out of the APC to bed down for a few hours of rest on our air mattresses. No one said anything about Procter, and no one came to investigate, either.
The next night, Big T came over to me and asked if he could see me back inside the vehicle. Kane was already there when the two of us climbed inside.
“You ever hear that rumor about me carrying a
.45?” Big T asked, standing just inches away from me. Kane stood off to the side, his hands resting on his waist.
“Yeah, I’ve heard it,” I said.
“What’d you see between me and Procter?” he asked.
“I saw an argument. Beyond that, nothing,” I said.
T nodded his head, but Kane grinned. He knew that I was fucked and wouldn’t get out alive if I even whispered to anyone about what happened. My only way to stay alive was to shut the fuck up and not say a word. I was furious with myself, with them and with the whole fucking army that night. I turned to stare at Kane.
“The reason I didn’t see anything is because I don’t give a fuck,” I told Kane. “I don’t give a fuck about you, about him or myself. Fuck Procter and fuck the army. And Kane, fuck you!”
I stormed out of the APC, walked into the forest and screamed an oath at the world.
The next morning, our unit saddled up and we resumed our war games.
After about a week of literally ripping up the German countryside with our APCs, tanks and other heavy vehicles, we were ordered to bring our vehicles back to base so they could be repainted. They had all been a deep forest green. Now, using patterns, we were quickly spray painting them for use in the desert. It was an emergency atmosphere: the 1973 Yom Kippur War was on, and we were preparing for deployment to the Middle East. But very little information trickled down, and the orders to redeploy never came.
While we waited for word from higher-ups, several German police vehicles came into the camp. Armed with warrants, the police arrested two of the men in our division, a slim Chicano who had a reputation for brutality and carried a knife, and his close friend, a white guy from California who was noted for his fighting prowess and was usually drunk. Every time the two of them were together, we’d usually wind up hearing some story about a person getting beaten or stomped into a jelly-like mass. Apparently the two men had savagely beaten a local man in a bar, and the authorities had successfully tracked them down. Later, we learned that they were both given 10-year jail sentences in German prisons. For me, the arrests meant there were two fewer violent individuals to deal with. But there were plenty of others in this shark tank.
Jersey Tough Page 9
