Chapter 6

 

Tigerland

 

From the Draft Office in Waco, another bus took Frank Cassidy and his old enemy Georgie Hatfield to the enormous Armed Forces Examining and Entrance Station at Newark. Frank didn’t speak to Georgie for the entire journey, staring out of the window instead. This was the first time in his life that he had ever travelled further than Waco, and in a few weeks he would be departing the United States for a tiny country on the other side of the world. He couldn’t believe that he was leaving home at least; that he was about to realise his childhood dream of becoming a soldier.

Frank and his fellow draftees were put through rigorous physicals. Frank passed with flying colours. The doctor was very impressed with his physical condition.

Other draftees weren’t so fortunate – or was it unfortunate? One young man was informed that his sight was too bad, and he dashed out of the examining area whooping at the top of his lungs. Another youth vomited blood in the waiting room and claimed his stomach ulcer was acting up. He was dismissed as well. Frank discovered later that this wily and extremely disgusting fellow had actually consumed a pint of his own blood beforehand!

The lengths some people will go to avoid Vietnam, Frank thought. And here’s me, who can’t wait to get into action! He could hardly contain himself.

After swearing an oath of allegiance to the flag and country, Frank became Private F. Cassidy, US Service Number 35458011. He couldn’t believe it! He was in the army at last!

But that was only the beginning.

Butterflies lifted in Frank’s stomach, a mixture of excitement and nerves as he joined the other recruits in boarding a bus for the 90 minute drive from the Examining and Entrance station to Fort Dix, to the US Army’s Infantry Training Centre.

Along with all the other new recruits, Frank and Georgie were given military haircuts, uniforms, numerous vaccinations, then made to sit through a series of lectures. Afterwards they had to undergo a barrage of aptitude and intelligence tests. Frank was painfully reminded of all the exams he had just finished, and it took him a while to slip back into school-mode. He felt he could have done much better on these written tests.

Numbed by the bizarre rollercoaster that his life had become, Frank was filing from the examination room when he noticed a mean-looking shaven-headed cadet glaring back at him through a window. He paused, wondering what the bastard wanted.

It took him several seconds to realise that the man staring so balefully back at him was himself. He had stopped in front of a mirror. So much time had passed since his haircut that he had completely forgotten about it, and hadn’t looked at himself since.

He couldn’t believe how much older he looked, how much meaner. Gone were all the soft curls that had made him cute and cuddly. Slowly he ran both hands over his fuzzy scalp. He liked this new image. He liked it a lot. In fact, the prickle of short hairs sent a delicious thrill shooting down his spine.

“Whatta you gawpin’ at, Cassidy?” Georgie Hatfield growled in his ear.

Frank jumped and turned to stare at his old childhood enemy. Where the crewcut made him appear more mature, the same cut had brought out all the weird lumps, bumps and scars on Georgie Hatfield’s head. A ropy scar, the thickness of a child’s finger and as long as a man’s, ran across his left temple. He was a mess! For the first time in his life, Frank felt a stirring of compassion for the youth. He had obviously suffered a much harder life than the preacher’s son.

However Frank couldn’t bring himself to respond to Georgie, so he turned and hurried off.

The testing lasted four days and at the end the new recruits were bussed across the base to their basic training company. Frank knew a little about basic training from all the war movies he had watched, but they did nothing to prepare him for what followed.

He had thought that he was fit from all the sports that he had done during his school years, but after the first few days of forced marches, running and endless drills, he could hardly move from all the aches in his muscles and joints. But deep down he welcomed the pain – it was hardening him into a better person and hopefully turning him into a real man.

At first the Drill Instructor’s abusive bluster got under his skin. However, as his father had shouted at him every day, telling him that he was a worthless sinner who would burn in Hell for all eternity, the DI’s derogatory comments began to slide off him like water off a duck’s back. He bore them with quiet solitude.

Frank learned how to fire an M-14, and after a few initial misses, he hit the target every time. He had excellent eyesight, and soon his shots were forming a nice, tight group on the target. The Drill Sergeant was impressed and declared that Frank would make a good sniper. A warm glow filled the young man at the thought. He became very familiar with the M-14, learning how to disassemble and reassemble it after only a few tries. On the order of the DI, he gave it a girl’s name – “Meg”.

He also learned how to use a bayonet, a simple form of unarmed combat, and the manual of arms. Each night he collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the dead, which was just as well. Had he not been so exhausted, the constant close proximity of all those other male bodies would have driven him crazy.

It seemed his homosexuality wasn’t confined to small, effeminate boys like Pinky, but all other men. Meg hadn’t helped him to grow out of it after all. He only hoped he would be able to control himself in the future, when he grew used to the constant activity.

Although Frank slipped naturally into military life, Georgie Hatfield was completely out of his element. The youth started out some forty pounds overweight. Although his burly build had given him an advantage at school, and made him one of the playground’s most formidable bullies, in basic training it proved to be more of a hindrance. He had trouble completing the obstacle course, and always finished last. He could disassemble his rifle, but he could never put it back together again. He kept tripping over and falling flat on his face. Other cadets laughed at him and made fun of his slow-witted country drawl. In the mess hall they took turns to see who could trip him up and make him drop his food everywhere, earning yet more abuse from the DI. In the dorms they hid his uniform and planted food in his footlocker, so the Sarge would have even more reason to rouse on him.

Georgie began to realise what the little kids felt like when he bullied them.

 

“Hatfield, if you don’t get your fat ass over the net right now, I’m gonna cram my foot so far up your crack you’ll be choking on it!”

Georgie had reached the top of the vertical cargo net, but as always he couldn’t manage to heave himself over it. All around him cadets flung themselves over and scuttled down the other side like spiders. But whenever he tried, the world started to spin, and he had to cling for dear life or fall to his horrible, agonising death.

“Hatfield, did I make myself clear?” the Drill Instructor bawled from below. “Get your behemoth-sized keester over the net right now!”

Georgie’s palms were damp with sweat and starting to slip on the wood. It didn’t help that a light drizzle had started. “I … I can’t do it,” he whimpered.

To make matters worse, Frank Cassidy appeared beside him. Georgie had never been so humiliated in his life, and wished that he’d had the guts to stand up to his Dad, say “No – I’m not goin’ to Vietnam!” and burn his draft card. But as usual, he’d allowed himself to be bullied into something he didn’t want to do. He’d always wanted to be a cartoonist.

“Hatfield, you are a waste of skin!” the DI yelled. “If you don’t climb over the net right now, you’re gonna spend the whole night cleanin’ the toilets with a toothbrush!”

Georgie made a valiant effort to lift himself up and over, but he only succeeded in pushing the net away with his feet. His fingers slipped on the damp wood, and he flung both arms around the beam.

“Come on,” a deep voice whispered in his ear. A strong arm wrapped around his waist, helping him to lift his stomach over the beam. “Now swing your left leg over.”

“Whatta you doing, Cassidy?” the DI bawled. “The fat fuck’s gotta learn to do it by himself!”

With a supreme effort, Georgie managed to haul a leg as heavy as lead over the beam. Frank gave him a push, and suddenly Georgie was rolling over the top. He panicked for a second, then managed to hook his left foot around a rope. He was over! And he felt that maybe next time, he could do it by himself! “Thanks, Frank,” he managed, but Frank was already scuttling down to the ground.

“You big girl, Cassidy!” the Drill Sarge growled as Frank hurried off to the next part of the course. “You wanna wear a dress for the rest of basic training?” Georgie managed to scramble down the net and stumble after Frank. He might have been helped by his worst enemy, but at least he wouldn’t be scrubbing the head tonight.

Sure enough when Georgie reached the top of the vertical cargo net the next day, he managed to heave himself over it on his own. He mightn’t have developed the speed and grace of some of the other recruits, but he was getting there. He had Frank to thank for that, but when he tried to express his gratitude to Frank in the mess hall, the young man turned away, pretending to be enthralled in something another cadet was saying.

Georgie sighed and went off to finish his lunch by himself.

 

“Hatfield, get that pair of overstuffed sofa-cushions you call an ass moving right now!” The DI stood over Georgie, who had collapsed on his hands and knees in the middle of the running track. He couldn’t move another step. He thought he was having a heart-attack. Stars exploded behind his eyes, there was a horrible metallic taste in his mouth, and every breath felt full of razor-blades. A thick metal band seemed to be closing around his chest.

The DI kicked him in the backside, not hard, but enough to make him sprawl on his face in the mud. “You useless sack of crap, Hatfield! Get up before I rip off your head and shit down your neck!”

Jesus, let me die, Georgie thought miserably.

Then a pair of strong hands curled around his biceps and helped him up out of the dirt. He spat out a mouthful of mud. “Lean on me,” a deep voice rasped.

Pathetically grateful for Frank’s aid, Georgie allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. The pain didn’t feel nearly as bad any more. He could even breathe.

“Cassidy, let go of Hatfield right now!” the DI bawled. “He’s gotta learn to do it by himself!”

“In a war, soldiers have to help each other out, not let each other fend for themselves,” Frank muttered.

“Thanks, Frank,” Georgie wheezed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank muttered, and helped Georgie until he had regained his breath. The he let the youth continue by himself, and sped up to complete the rest of the course. Next time, Georgie managed to finish the five miles without falling on his face, and the Drill Instructor only abused him once. “I haven’t seen that much wobbling since the last time I ate Jell-O! Jesus Hatfield, your tits are bigger than my Momma’s!”

 

Georgie also had trouble with some of the exercises. He could do push-ups no problem, but he couldn’t manage s sit-up to save his life.

“Hatfield, if your gut wasn’t so damn huge you might actually finish a sit-up!” The DI planted a size eleven boot on Georgie’s stomach and pressed down until all the air whooshed from the youth’s lungs. “Try it with a normal sized belly, maggot-bag!”

Struggling for breath, Georgie tried to lift his head and shoulders from the grass. His face impassive, the DI pressed down harder, grinding the heel of his GP boot into the youth’s solar plexus. The other cadets continued their sit-ups until they had finished a hundred. Only Frank paused to see what new humiliation the DI was now putting Georgie through.

His enmity towards Georgie had long since vanished, and now he only felt sorry for the young man with the scarred head and lumpy features.

The Drill Sarge removed his foot and Georgie flopped onto his side like a beached fish, gasping for air, tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t take it anymore. At least when his father screamed at him, he could find somewhere nice and quiet to hide away until the old bastard cooled down. But here there was nowhere to go. The damn DI followed them everywhere!

Regaining his breath, Georgie rolled onto his stomach and laboriously climbed to his feet.

“Whatta you doing now, you lazy lard-bucket?” the DI snarled. “You haven’t even done one sit up, let alone one hundred.”

When Georgie looked into the DI’s leathery face he saw only the fat, drunken visage of his unemployed father. He curled one hand into a tight fist, knuckles even, thumb tucked safely down, exactly like he had been taught.

The DI noticed that Frank was no longer doing sit-ups. “You can’t be finished already, Cassidy?” he shouted.

While the sergeant’s attention was on Frank, Georgie swung. There was a more than satisfying crunch of bone against bone, and the DI crashed to the ground as though poleaxed.

Frank jumped to his feet and the other cadets followed suit, gathering in an awed circle around Georgie and the still, supine body of the Drill Instructor. The sarge’s eyes had rolled back into his head, and blood trickled from one corner of his mouth.

“Wow,” Frank gasped, impressed. “You’ve knocked him out cold!”

 

Georgie had hoped that cold-cocking the DI would ensure that he was dishonourably discharged from the army. Unfortunately his luck did not extend that far. He was forced to explain himself at a board of inquiry, and then disciplined. He remained in basic training, suffering every nasty, mortifying torture the DI could dredge up from his overactive imagination, from marching with his trousers around his ankles, to running the obstacle course in his birthday suit.

However, because Georgie had actually done what all the other cadets secretly longed to do, they stopped teasing and playing practical jokes on him. He now had their respect, and that enabled him to endure the rest of Basic Training without completely losing it. With Frank’s help he got into shape and performed admirably well. He had acquired a new confidence that he hoped would enable him to stand up to his old man once and for all.

After eight weeks of sheer hell, it was time for the new recruits to graduate and move on to what the army called “Advanced Individual Training”, or AIT. The trainees began receiving their orders a few days before graduation. Some re-joined the main company, whooping that they would be training to be artillery specialists, military police, or army clerks. They would have a chance of avoiding combat altogether. But most returned with downcast expressions, and told their friends simply;

“I got Tigerland.”

Georgie was called up before Frank, and he too returned to inform everyone that he got Tigerland too. When Frank joined four others to receive his orders, he didn’t know what to expect. He knew he had done well in most areas of the course. When he opened his 201 file, which contained all of his military records to date, he found pages of mimeographed orders with lots of coded numbers and letters. He found that he had done well on the clerical side of things, but his infantry score was higher. He was a born soldier. It took him a few minutes to figure out that he too had been given the infantryman’s military occupational speciality.

He joined Georgie and most of his fellow cadets learning how to fight the Cong down in Louisiana – the jungle-like infantry training centre everyone called “Tigerland”.

 

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