December 17, 1972, Sunday

My bunk-mate is slightly a redneck. Short, stocky, blond hair and on the hyper side. We get along great. He did the ROTC thing in high school. He knows this crap already and he helps me a bunch. I never in my life thought that I could spit shine a pair of shoes so shiny you could see yourself in them. Mind you these are black shoes. I have my strange bunk mate to thank for that. He’s from Texas but I don’t hold that against him.

He asked me if I heard moaning in the night. I said I’m sleeping at night I don’t have time to listen to moaning.

Covington said, “I can hear guys beating off.”

“And what’s your point?” I asked.

“What if they get tired of masturbating?” he asked.

I try not to laugh out loud. “Then they either jerked off one time too many and their dick falls off. Or they finished,” I answered.

“No, no,” he says. “If they get tired of doing it themselves, they will want to crawl in to my bed.” He was serious, which made it harder not to bust out laughing.

“Well,” I said, “you can do one of two things. Let them get in or boot them out. If you let them in, just don’t shake the bunk, okay? I need my beauty sleep.”

He was flabbergasted. “I’m not that way!” He indignantly said.

“Then don’t fucking worry about it,” I snapped.

“You don’t understand,” he pleaded. “What are we going to do about these queers?” I looked him straight in the eyes and asked, “What do you want to do to them?”

He didn’t hesitate. “We should have a blanket party,” he proudly said.

A blanket party, as the story goes. Five maybe six guys, sometimes the whole company. Each puts a bar of soap in a sock. They throw a blanket on a sleeping victim. Head to toe so he can’t see who’s doing the beating. Two guys hold the sides of the blanket tight, penning him down; rendering the victim helpless. The other guys pummel the victim with the weighted socks, usually a bar of soap. One hit each. If everybody takes a blind whack, then everybody is involved; no one tells.

I find it cowardly. I was asked awhile back if I wanted to give the RCO a blanket party. I told them the same thing I told Covington. If you need to hide behind a blanket, if you need to gang up on a helpless person, if you can’t face your enemy one on one, you’re a chicken shit and you’re the one that needs to get beat.

I asked him, “When was the last time you got raped by a queer?” He was silent. “When is the last time you heard of somebody that got raped by a queer?” Again he was silent. “I thought so. Now shut the fuck up. I need to go sit on the toilet before we muster,” I said.

CC was serious about us getting regular. He walked through the barracks, up and down, every morning. Getting in our face, following us to the latrine. “Did you sit on the toilet like I ordered, lad? Come over here, lad. I didn’t see you on the commode yet. Take care that you do, lad.” He would find his next recruit. “You there, lad, stop what you are doing. Get your worm ass to the head and shit. That’s an order! Get regular lads, get regular.”

It was starting to work on me. Although I didn’t empty out my bowels every day. I sat every day, I think I was crapping 75 percent of the time. One thing for sure, I haven’t had to crap in my pants, some have. When they do, they get a nickname.

After chow we marched to the division headquarters, a building I am familiar with. This is where we were going to set our Christmas travel plans. There are four Company’s in front of us.

We stood at Parade Rest for three hours before I sat at the travel desk. We could fly any place in the US. Leave on December 22, 1972, fly back January 3, 1973. After I made my plans with the travel agent. I stood at parade rest for another two hours waiting for the rest of the Company to finish.

We marched to chow. After chow we marched to a line of phones, about fifty. They ordered us to call home and inform our family’s to expect us for the Holidays. I knew that if I tell my folks I will be home for Christmas, they will cancel the Arizona Holiday. Not because they would rather see me. More because they don’t want to let me have the house for two weeks. “Hello.” My mother answered.

“Hi ma, it’s me George, remember me?” I was joking, none of my siblings had been away from the family unit this long ever. “I remember you, smart aleck.” Then she yells for my dad. “Roxie, it’s George. Get the other line! How is everybody?” I asked.

“Fine.” They say in unison. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I answered.

“How come you haven’t written?” asked Dad.

“You remember how you told me that the navy would sit us down and make us write a letter home every week; if we want to or not? Remember you saying that?” I asked.

“Yes, I remember, why haven’t you?” he asked back.

“The buildings are the same but the writing home thing is gone.” I inform him.

“In my day that was the rule,” he said.

“They must have had more time on their hands than us. Because we get worked 20 hours a day. Believe me writing is the last thing on my mind.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s good you should stay busy. It’s good for you.”

“Hey,” I said, “are you guys going to Arizona for Christmas?”

“Yes,” answered my mom. “Sorry that you have to spend Christmas in boot camp,” she offered.

“What about Ken, Gary, Joe and Rock?” I inquired.

“Ken, Gary, and Joe are old enough to fend for themselves. Rock and his friend Tony are coming with us” She said. This was what I was fishing for. “I knew that the navy wouldn’t let you come home,” Dad said. “They never have done it and I don’t see why they would do it now; Sorry son.” He offered. “Yep, that’s the way it goes,” I said sadly. “When you coming back?”

“We leave on the twenty-first and come back on the second,” Mom said.

“Why are you taking Rock? Why can’t you leave him home with Ken, Gary, and Joe? They’ll take care of him. He’s fifteen.”

“He’s going with us!” My mother cut me off.

“That’s too bad,” I say.

“Why is that too bad?” They both ask.

“Nothing, no reason, It’s just that it seems to me that he would have more fun at home rather than with you guys and Grandma and Grandpa,” I offered.

“That’s the problem,” said mom. “He might have too much fun.”

“Mom, tell me, how can you have too much fun? Is there a meter that sounds off when you had too much fun? What’s the punishment for too much fun? Do the rules make you balance out too much fun with abject misery?”

“You can, George, and you’ve proven it,” Mom snaps.

“I’ve had too much fun? What is my monthly allotment?” I asked sarcastically. “So what do you say to Rock? Rock, you’ll go over your allotted fun time if you stay here. So we need to monitor fun time. Wouldn’t want you to have too much fun with your brothers. I’m confused what is too much supposed to mean?” I said.

“It means that you don’t know when to stop,” Dad chimed.

“That’s your problem, George. The navy is going to teach you when to stop, mark my words.”

“That’s a relief. I thought my problem was I have too much fun,” I said.

“Everything doesn’t have to be fun, George!” Dad retorted.

“Then answer me this.” I pondered out loud. “If I have to do everything. Is it better to make everything fun? Or should everything be no fun? If everything is going to happen any way shouldn’t it be fun?”

“Shut the hell up, George! You didn’t call to ask me stupid questions!” Dad said.

I could hear Mom’s sigh of relief that he shut me up. They were never much for deep discussions.

“You’re right, Dad,” I said. “I didn’t call to argue. I called to wish everybody a Merry Christmas and you have a good and safe trip. Tell everybody in Arizona hi. Is Rock around?” I said. They both wished me a merry Christmas. I waited for them to get my little brother.

“Hello, George, how are you, man?” he said.

“Rock, make sure that they hang up,” I said.

“Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

I could hear him run down the stairs to check the extension. I could hear him run back up to the phone. “It’s clear,” he said.

“Too bad they are making you go to Arizona for Christmas,” I said.

“Yeah, but they are letting me take Tony, and cousin Carl has pot. Me and Tony are staying with him. It won’t be so bad,” he said.

“It would be more fun if they left you at home and I came home on leave for two weeks, right?” I said. There was a silent pause on the phone.

“You dog!” he said. “You’re coming home, aren’t you, man?”

“I am and it’s to cool. I tried to get them to leave you home. They weren’t having none of it. By the way, did you know that you’re near your fun quota this month?” I asked.

“What?” he replied.

“Nothing, don’t tell Mom and Dad I’m coming home. But do get the word to Don, Tom, Jim, Ray, and Jeff. Let them know I’m coming home,” I said.

“Okay, I will. You know Mom and Dad are going to freak out,” he informed me.

“Sure, by then it’s going to be too late, you guys will be in Arizona,” I stated. “I’ll call on Christmas.”

“Man, you are a dog, George. Okay, Merry Christmas.” He hung up, and I waited in the formation for three hours more. I didn’t care my mind was thinking of the week ahead, home not here for Christmas. From here in till I board that plane nothing can bring me down, no matter what they do. Later.