Last Furlough, March 1966

by Cecil R. Geary

We travelled by bus from Fort Polk to the railroad depot at Shreveport, Louisiana.  There were twenty of us in dress greens and saucer caps.  We had just completed basic training and were on our first leave from the Army.  Out on the platform, the conductor directed us to the rear of the train and the civilians to the front.  We had an entire car to ourselves and everyone had a bottle.  I was killing the pain with a pint of cheap vodka.

For a while, the drinking and camaraderie provided a diversion from the long journey, but then the loud talk, endless arguments and intermittent outbursts of laughter began to shred my nerves.  The vodka tasted like lighter fluid and the odor of freshly starched uniforms was giving me a headache.  I handed the pint to the Puerto Rican, Cosmos, who was shooting craps with three other GIs on the floor in the aisle way, and told him I was going to the lounge car.  He shoved the bottle in his pocket, asked me to loan him ten dollars and promised to double my money by the time I returned.  I fished a five and five ones out of my wallet and handed them to him.  He tossed two ones on the floor to fade the shooter and lost on the first roll.  Such was our luck.

When I got to the lounge car, I found it packed with well-dressed men and women.  They were standing in small groups, smoking cigarettes, sipping drinks and chattering like a bunch of geese.  The stench of tobacco and perfume permeated every cubic centimeter of air.  Along one side of the lounge was a row of leather booths occupied by singles and couples.  At the far end was a horseshoe bar tended by an elderly black man immaculately attired in red vest, white shirt, and bowtie.  He moved agilely inside the horseshoe trying to meet the demands of the clamoring hoard.  I pushed my way to the bar, squeezed in between two of the suits and ordered a beer.

The bartender set a bottle of beer in front of me.  I laid a dollar on the bar.  He pushed it back.

“The first drink is on the house for servicemen,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.  I wondered if he would be as generous if he knew how many of us were on the train.

The beer was ice cold and wonderful, a refreshing change from the vodka.  I finished it and was about to order another when this tall skinny fellow with a big beak nosed in next to me.  He was wearing a checkered jacket, fisheye tie, and porkpie hat shoved back on his noggin exposing a remarkably sloping forehead.  He looked like a character from the funny papers.  A burning cigarette dangled between his fingers. The bartender asked him what he wanted to drink.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato and grilled onions,” he demanded.

“The buffet is closed sir,” said the bartender.  “All I have is alcoholic beverages and soft drinks.”

“Make it a rib eye sandwich then, medium rare.”

“As I said sir, the buffet is closed.”

“Well give me a platter of chitlins.”

“Sir, we do not serve chitterlings on the train.”

He ignored the bartender and looked over at me.  “What burg are you bound for General?”

“Chicago and I’m not a General.”

“Chicago, great town, best barbecue in the country on the south side.  Army, is it?  Nice uniform.  They clean you boys up real good.  I like to see a fellow doing his part for the country.  Too many punks out on the streets stealing hubcaps these days.  Teach you to be a man in the Army.”  He pushed an ashtray between us and tapped his cigarette on the edge knocking off the ash.  The ashtray reeked of stale tobacco and scorched paper.

“You’ve been in the military, then?” I said, nudging the ashtray back towards him.

“No, Four F, crushed knee.  High school football.  First-string quarterback.  I wouldn’t be much use on the battlefield.”  He gripped the ashtray between his thumb and forefinger and moved it in small circles on the surface of the bar.

“That’s probably a good thing,” I said.”

“What are you, some kind of wise ass?”

“No, I’m just minding my business enjoying a beer.”

“So you’re from Chi Town.”

“I’m traveling that direction.”

“You’ll have to change trains in Kansas City.  That’s the end of the line for this cattle wagon.”

“Yes, I know.”  I stared straight ahead at an imaginary spot on the wall behind the bar.

”You got a long wait in Kansas City.  The Chicago train doesn’t leave ‘til tomorrow morning.  Rode it many times.  Ends at LaSalle Street Station.  Got a bar there called the Bomb Shelter, right outside the station under the street.  Hard to find unless you know where to look.  You go down a couple dozen steps to get to it.  Long narrow place, no tables just a bar.  Fifty cents for a shot and a beer.  Prices never change.  Been bombed there a dozen times.  Mention the name, Zibo Scravanich.  They’ll either set you up or throw you out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Got any plans while you’re in Kansas City?”

“Read War and Peace.”

“That’s a good one.”

“Have you read War and Peace?”

“Not in a long time.  I keep a busy schedule.”

“What do you do?”

“Sells, stocks, bonds, you name it.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

“You’ve got the dream job.  Where’s them chitlins, bartend’?”  The bartender ignored him.  “How about sharing a platter of chitlins?”

“I don’t eat chitlins.”
 
“You know, a smart fellow like you could do all right in Kansas City.  I know places where you can make a few bucks and pick up some quality leg.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I thought you were a smart fellow, peruses big books and all that.”

“Smart enough not to waste time talking to you.”

He stared hard at me and twisted his mouth around as if he wanted to say something.  Instead, he yelled at the bartender to bring him a short whisky.  The bartender brought over a shot glass and a bottle, but held off pouring the whisky until Pork Pie laid a dollar on the bar.  The bartender took the dollar and filled the shot glass to the brim.  Pork Pie snatched up the glass slopping whisky over the edge, turned to me and said, “Well, here’s to the Army.  You kill a few gooks for me when you get over there.”  He drank the whisky in one swallow, slammed the glass down on the bar, thumped himself on the chest and walked away.

My face was on fire.  I could feel my fists balling up.  I had endured nine weeks of harassment from a diabolical drill sergeant.  I should be savoring this respite rather than letting some jackass get to me.  How easy hatred comes to me, how palliative and uncomplicated.

The bartender laid his hand on my arm and placed a fresh bottle of beer in front of me.

I was on my third beer, thinking I should go back to my seat, when this short, round-faced fellow in a grey flannel suit comes over to the bar and orders a Bloody Mary.  The bartender poured vodka, tomato juice and a couple of drops of pepper sauce into a shaker of crushed ice, shook it vigorously and poured it into a glass.  He set the drink and a saltshaker in front of the newcomer.  The man added salt, sipped the drink and glanced around the lounge.  He looked over at me and asked if I would have a drink with him.  I had had my quota of the obnoxious for the evening, but this one was buying, so I said, “Sure.”

“Would you care for beer or something stronger?”

“Beer’s fine with me.”  I had been in the lounge an hour and had yet to pay for a drink.  There are some benefits to the uniform.

When the bartender returned with the drinks, my benefactor tasted his, then turned to me all glassy eyed and said, “I envy you.”

My immediate thought was the fellow was either drunk or stupid.  I was a couple of months away from shipping out to Southeast Asia where in all likelihood I would get my ass shot off, and he envies me.

“Why is that?”

“You’re serving your country.  That is something to be proud of in my book.”

I wondered what book he had been reading.

“If I were younger, I would be right there with you.”

I thought to myself, that’s because you’re an idiot, but said, “I would have preferred to remain a civilian.”

“I’m sure, but you answered the call.”

“So you think we’re doing the right thing over there?”

“I don’t know how I feel about it, but I believe in this country.”

Great!  First a loudmouthed bigot and now a true believer, I sure was attracting them tonight. 

“So, what do you do for a living?”  I asked.

“I sell farm equipment, tractors, combines, mowers.  My store is outside Leesville near Fort Polk.  I assume that’s where you’re coming from.”

“Yeah, I just finished basic training.”

“Where do you go next?”

“I have fourteen days leave and then it’s back to Polk for advanced infantry training.  Where are you heading?”

“I’m on my way to an agricultural convention in Chicago.  Do you know Chicago?”

“I get up there sometimes.  I stay about twenty miles south in Calumet City.  Where are you squatting in Chicago?”

“The Hilton on Michigan Avenue.”

“Nice place to flop, way beyond my budget.”

“Is it far from McCormack Place?”

“It’s a hike.  I’d take a cab.”

“I’ll remember that.  I’ve never been to Chicago.  If there’s anything you could recommend, things to see and do, I’ll be there several days and I don’t want to sit around my hotel room every night.”

“If you’re looking for girls…”

“No, I was thinking of places with live music or shows, but no strip shows.  I don’t go in for that sort of thing.”

“Well, there’s some jazz and blues clubs up on the north side.  If you're interested in rock or country, there’s plenty of that just about everywhere.  You’ve got to be careful though, some of those places can get rough.”

“What’s Calumet City like?”

“A couple of streets of bars and strip joints.  The rest is residential.  I wouldn’t recommend it unless you go in for the dated and seedy.”

”Have another on me,” he said, and motioned to the bartender.

“Sure, thanks.”

“Name’s Bernard Lee Appleton,” he said, holding out his right hand. “Everyone calls me Lee.”

I shook his hand and said, “Hayward.”

“What did you do before you joined the Army?”

“I didn’t join, I was drafted.  I worked at a steel mill in East Chicago.”

“There’s a booth opened up.  You want to take a seat?”

“Yeah,” I said.  I had been up since five that morning and my legs were starting to feel like rubber.

We took our drinks over to the empty booth.  I pushed aside the overflowing ashtray and dirty glasses left by the previous occupants and glanced out the window.  It was like staring into the void.

Lee rambled on about the convention.  “There’s plenty of new manufacturers these days and the Japanese have entered the market.  For my money, the best equipment is made right here in the USA.  I won’t have any of that foreign junk in my store.”

I was barely listening.  I thought about the card I had from Tasha, a few lines scribbled in her sloppy handwriting informing me she was back in Alabama with her old man.  She closed with, ‘Maybe we can meet in Birmingham when you get leave.’  There was no return address, no phone number, just a postmark, Abbeville, Alabama.  On the reverse was a picture of three white guys in narrow brimmed hats and bib overalls sitting on a bench in front of a courthouse, the U.S. Flag and the Stars and Bars flying from the flagpole behind them.  I could almost smell the sweat and chewing tobacco.

“I’m sorry.  I must be boring you with my shop talk,” said Lee.

“Not at all, I was just thinking about Birmingham.”

“Alabama?”

“Someone said it’s a place I should visit.”

“I don’t know why,” said Lee.  “It’s just a dreary city full of factories and rail yards.”

The dirty mills and stinking oil refineries of East Chicago flashed across my mind.  I could not imagine any place drearier than that.

“Is your family in Calumet City?” Lee continued.

“Just a cousin.  I’ve got an apartment above his club.  My folks live in California.

”What part?”

“San Diego.”

“Nice place, great weather.  You’re not married then?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”  Water trickled down the window in long thin rivulets like translucent strands of hair.

“What about yourself?”

“I’ve got a wife and three daughters.  They wanted to come along, but it wasn’t in the budget.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Yes, but it’s good to get away.  You know what they say.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking how quickly things can get complicated.

“How did you feel when you got that draft notice?”

“Elated.  It’s not every day you get a letter from the President starting with ‘Congratulations, you have been selected.’  It makes you think you’ve either won a prize or you’re about to be euthanized.”

“That’s very funny,” said Lee.”

“Yeah, I should go on stage.”

“I tried to join the Navy during WW 2,” he continued.  “I failed the physical.  They found a hole in my heart, probably from rheumatic fever when I was a child.  I thought about the Army, but then I met Susan.”

“Susan?”

“My wife.  We’ve been together over twenty years.”

The bartender yelled last call.  Pork Pie and several of the suits rushed to the bar.

“Will you have another?” Lee asked.

“Thanks, but I want to get some sleep before Kansas City.”

 Lee leaned over and placed his hand on my knee, “Why don’t we team up in Chicago and have some fun.  We can hit some of those jazz clubs you were telling me about.”

I swept his hand off my knee and stood up.  “Thanks for the drinks.”  I left him sitting there with his mouth agape and pushed my way out of the lounge.  I had had enough of these reptiles.

I reached the GI car and pushed through the double doors.  Some of the fellows were sleeping.  Others were chain smoking cigarettes and sucking on liquor bottles.  Freddy Fuscaldo, the 17 year-old who had lied about his age to enlist, was gazing out the window.  I wondered what he saw out there.  The craps game was still in progress.  I stepped over the shooters to get to my place.

Cosmos was asleep with his head against the window, his feet in their military socks propped on my seat.  I shoved his feet aside and sat down.  He moved his legs around and let his feet hang over the armrest in the faces of the craps players.

“So you’re back,” he said.  “Did you make any important contacts?”

“Yeah, a loudmouthed bigot and an old fag.”

“For that you leave me to these vultures?  They picked us clean, amigo.”  He turned his face into the seatback and was immediately unconscious.  The vodka had done its work.

I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes.  The shouts of the craps shooters rattled in my skull like bursts from automatic weapons.  Everything about this war was wrong and I was wrong for it.  My life might be a mess, but I never wanted to kill anyone.  It seemed absurd that a bunch of politicians could send me off to a war that defied logic.

I jerked upright and opened my eyes.  My head was throbbing and my insides were trembling.  My comrades lay all around me.  A narrow band of light illuminated the frozen masks of their faces.