DEDICATION AND PREFACE PAGE
DEDICATION:

I cannot thank Rica Saffer of the English Department, of Richland College, in Dallas, TX, enough for encouragement and reinforcement prompting me to tellingly write with confidence and zeal; I must righteously honor her as my devotee this time and hope she allows me to confer my tour de force, if you will, to her and with her in mind.

PREFACE:

I feel indebted to writing and hope that no one goes into shock or reaction after reading this.  I have been a rebel at heart and developed my own method and style for writing which is not original, but more from corollary reading that facilitated my composite definition for the raison d'etre of my writing.

My first rule in picking the subject is to realize what I "got an emotional stake in:" and elaborate on something that means something personally (resolved or not; sometimes I found a "royal road: to my unconscious ego by the Freudian technique of "free association.")  In writing itself I have been tempted to censor my thoughts which I never did in the first draft and often found myself giving rein to a sense of humor slippage of discovered none words, fresh phrases or flattering jargon.  It was this rule that let me know what I was good at writing and, even though I experimented on different subject matter and moods or relationships to the reader, I like to pretend I'm brighter than I am, so I wrote more of what I was good at to avoid plainness.

After the first draft, I was usually admiring it too much to edit it; I had to read it to someone or put it away for a week to let my subconscious improve it in dream work, sudden wee-hour insight, or educated commentary of my prof--I was forced to keep a bedside notebook from brainstorming.  I tried to accept teacher critique without umbrage but couldn't easily.  It was this rewriting or even typing up the paper that showed so much improvement and gratification in its ease.   I was more wordhood conscious at this stage and aware of connotation.  I knew I could spend a lot more time on any one paper, so was never completely satisfied after one week. I have learned a lot about myself in second-chancing my past with vivid re-recreation (being creative about the truth proved educational).

COMITY WITH A COED

There I was, sitting so formally in my German class with my feet together and on the floor, stiffly in my seat, with my round-shouldered back vertical, hands folded loosely on the desktop when I noticed this chic next to me aggressively crossing her legs in my direction and leaning my way.  She was a thing so hard to ogle me that her nearest shoulder was almost as high as her chin.  I immediately slumped back in my chair and thrust my legs out to cross them at the ankle. 

Looking at her with as natural a smile as I could eke out and muster; she grasped her Magen David on her necklace nervously.  She had passed notes in class to me lots of times and was comfy talking to me in the realm of class topics but had not yet dared to get too friendly, though it was tacitly understood that we liked each other.  It all started when he noticed that I was sitting next to her every day.  I couldn't change now without being conspicuous.

"I need such help on my homework I'll die, because I'll never, ever pass!" she fretted while I smiled to encourage her.

I gladly patronized, recognizing the imperative and her feminine touche, and proceeded to open my book.  I continued to straighten her out as she expected.  As esoterics this seemed to  me she was distracted and so I let her interject her two-cents worth of "gee-whizz."  

She went on with such sotto voce I couldn't hear but feigned to understand her with susseration with periodic nods.  I naturally exuded such self-confidence that her eyes flared, dilating without a blink, and her eyebrows leaped giving away her poor impressionable soul.

Somehow, by telepathy or something, we got around to my "pet mania."  I am glad to talk politics with anyone if they can endure my conversation wiles without umbrage.  I couldn't wait to talk with her about it and always tried to give clues of my willingness by using a political tract as a bookmark knowing she was hypersensitive from the McGovern bumper-sticker still on her car like a sore loser.

"I'll bet you know who won that mock-election, don't you?"
"Of course,"  I asserted quite brusquely with my overtones of reassurance.
"Ab ... Steelman ... He won? By that much?"
"Are you going to vote?"  I skillfully evaded her by answering with another question.
"No, I haven't ever voted.  I'm too awfully young.  It seems like my opinions are never important...."
I inadvertently interrupted her but she kept her composure.  She kept quiet, acknowledging my masculinity--and I resumed the lead in the conversation.

"Here's a brochure of the candidate I'm pushing if you're interested."
She rebounded back into her chair and attempted posture as she glanced it over:  I could sense her attempt as she slid both feet as far under her chair as she could.
"Oh!  He's a Republican."  She disgustedly flipped it back; crossing her arms in aloofness; moving away from me in her chair; sitting more formally; squealing:  "Are you a Democrat or a Republican?"

When I answered "I am neither a Republican nor a Democrat" I reversed it and pronounced the latter dysphemistically while gritting my teeth.  She was too sensitive to raw manners, losing all objectivity.

Then she lost her equilibrium shifting her weight back and forth on the chair: She was leaning slightly back and then forward, fidgeting with "pen-in-mouth"  I naturally assumed our attitudinal disparity blocked any further spontaneous communication.  Her congeniality with me digressed into mere rote: She could no longer look me in the eye trying to restrain frank remarks.  I was discomfiting sitting there when she couldn't even admit this guise to herself.

I was going to reconcile us somehow.  When the teacher asked me to dispense other "opinions" I had a clue.  Approaching her desk I deliberated to give her time.  As I just happened to be looking at her, I serendipitously saw those flaring brown eyes gazing at me.  She blushed and we emitted atoning smiles.

This was no ordinary coed that earned my magnanimous pardon.

INNOCENCE LOST IN JAIL

"I can't see any state park near here, Dave, how 'bout if I go ask a cop where we can stay?"

He rode his bicycle over to the county sheriff's office thinking that they would be friendly and help out.
"Where'ya from, boy?"
"Minnesota."
"How didya git down hereya?"
"Rode our bikes."
"Whooo's with ya, boy?"
"My brother.  All we want a know is where to camp tonight.  We won't make it any farther today."
"This is a terrible straaange boy, you tellin' me you drove bicycles all the way??
"Well, our dad gave a ride part-ways."
"North Star to Lone Star," the sheriff gasped astonished, "I s'pose you are plann' in on goin' all the way to Tex-xas, too?
"We are gonna hafta lockya boys up because of our vagrancy code--yawl under eighteen?"

This small-town-southern-bred sheriff threw the juveniles in a cell and the dog in a closet after fetching the other one.
"Dave, what are we gonna do?  I think this's illegal."
"Let's make as much noise as we can, maybe they will come in and listen 'ta us!"
They jumped up and down on the bed in this ten-by-ten cubicle and kicked the cell door making as much noise as possible.  The dog was getting in the act too;  so loud no one could brook it.  In the meantime, the bed broke and it didn't look like they got any attention yelling so frenzied.

"They aren't attending--what can we do?"

They began yelling in unison one phrase:  "We want our rights!"
They had not been given their rights before when thrown into jail, but both knew from Dragnet that this was illegal.
"OK, yawl have dunit now. Yer gettin' solitary confinement.  If ya make any mo' noise ya will be sorry."
They thought they were in some kind of limbo because this sheriff thought he could get away with anything.  Then he sent for the dog-catcher to take care of the noisome dog permanently.
"I'll kill'em if they hurt Nikki."
They were also worried about the bikes which were unlocked.  They knew all they had to do was call their grandpa to prove they weren't runaways.  They thought solitary confinement was rough, but it was better that they are separated the way they incited each other so easily.  Neither cell had blankets and cushions and being made for four people they were cold trying on concrete.
Finally, with the change of shift, a new sheriff decided to find out something for himself.

"Doya want to call your mother, son?"  the deputy politely asked.
He couldn't believe it; having fallen asleep it was unreal.
"We hafta call our grandfather first--don't know our mother's number."
"I'm not sure I believe you, son. But we'll give it a while."

The deputy called their grandpa and explained the predicament so that he would divulge her unlisted phone number.  Having talked to her they agreed to let the mother's step-father take responsibility if he was willing.
When "Lloyd" arrived, as the boys called him, it was a  natural for him to "take to liking" the paternalistic law officer; seeing the "Mayor Daley was here!"   plaque he drank his usual demitasse and refilled his thermos.  The "kaffeeklatch"led to the boys' good fortune: "I s'pose I won't really press any charges for the busted bed which, according to the books, is a $100 fine--seeking you are taking custody; sir!"

The closer-than-ever brother-ship was kindled by this reprehensible report; they shared the embarrassment but let this one go by; for 300 miles there were no lectures, and "thank goodness" on a fourth-of-July visit.

AN ESCAPADE TRIALS COURSE

A friend of ours named Tom, my brother Mark, and I had been out driving an LTD with a four-barrel and nitrous-oxide converter down Forest Lane in Dallas when we got restless and tacky.  My brother volunteered to lighten up the evening with hustling some chic and brought us over to her apartment.  I didn't know what girl they were talking about but went along--being the night for tricks or treats. When we knocked on her door she took about five minutes to answer and was still risque or indisposed (en dishabille). 

 I recognized the girl right away; I had liked her a long time but never had the nerve to ask her out.  She was supposed to be prudish; this would be a challenge.  She let us in because we were a slight acquaintance and Mark was a good friend.  We talked about three hours in her pad that night; it took that long to get anywhere.


We always bring our friend along because he is blunt and cavalier in guiding the conversation.  His double-entendre proved poly-advantageous; we were talking marriage.  She had some kind of complex about her looks, but we reassured her.  She had nothing to worry about:  "Anyone of us would marry you."  Tom was getting vulgar:  "Why won't you trust me on a date, you twerp?"

"Why won't you go out with me?" Mark asked intrepidly.

"You're too young for me--and besides, we have zilch in common."

We had not been drinking but the milieu centering around was apropos to the Latin sally "in vino veritas" (in wine much wisdom).  We had lost all inhibition and were rapping candidly when Tom had to say:  "Well, Karl looks like the only one who got anywhere tonight."  Actually, she found out how much we had in common and agreed that we could have a lot of fun together.

As we were shaking hands on our rapport about dating propriety I ventured:  "I admit I don't have a crush on you, but I think we'd be cheating ourselves if we didn't get to know each other."  I said rather matter-of-factly intimating an overture.

We now agreed on everything from "male-chauvinism": too long engagements and Mark and Tom were shocked at how naturally this evolved; I didn't know what was going to happen but our tenacity was inevitably going to lead to something.  I told her that I was too shy to talk with her before and if we weren't so flippant I wouldn't know, without this perfect set-up,

"Do I have to call you up to ask you for a date when I'll be scarfed--or can I ask you now?"
She told me where she worked but having two jobs she didn't have much time but could stop by and talk with her any time.

As we left I told Mark that only he knew how long I wanted to get to know this girl.

"Oh, it's so obvious when you like a girl--why do you think I brought you over here tonight?"

CASE HISTORY

It was a hot summer day in humid Okinawa and  I had a hard time getting to sleep for going to bed at 3:00 AM. It seemed like a dream after just falling to sleep when this dude raps on my door waking up everybody in the barracks.  Those walls were so thin that I could hear a guy roll over in his bed across the hall.


I really got embarrassed when someone knocked on my door or shouted at me from the corridor and had to answer with all celerity for respect to other mid-workers sleeping in this wing of the billets.  Dream-like memories started flooding my mind like on death-row.  This had happened many times before; I always seemed to oversleep for latrine detail and "lucked-out" when the squad-leader wok me without "writing me up," like I had brown-nosed him or was his friend.  I also had a friend that would come over and wake me, but I thought he had been trained by now so didn't think it was him.  

This had only taken a second or two and I was already jumping out of bed, scrambling for the door,   the usual: "just a minute" in my "pass-the-butter" voice as I heard him say my name, recognizing the company clerk.  This was their way of letting us know it was important; it could've been anything; he knew everybody's personal business being a messenger-boy.


I was told to call the commanding officer.   He never knew anyone's schedule and didn't care if he would've.  I put on some civvies, usually just thrown over my chair, and was trying to wake up before this started to hit me.  I must've been bitter if awake; it was fortunate to have a good disposition. Calling the CO [commanding officer] made me feel important.   I used the line where no one would hear.


"We need to discuss this with the Chaplain, Broberg."

He made an appointment for half an hour in his atelier.  I was still in a daze going up to my room to finish dressing.  I came back down in ten minutes to wait and had twenty minutes to kill when a friend came in to talk for fifteen minutes.  We had a little "mutual-admiration society" going about the captain.  The last time I talked with the chaplain had been over a discrepancy.

I already knew him; he thought a lot of me for being a Sunday School teacher.  I remembered the time they thought I was shooting heroin because my urinalysis showed up positive.  The chap and I knew the system "it's accurate enough for the Army."  I had to shake hands after saluting affecting a congenial atmosphere; I was ready to talk; I didn't have a notion about what.

"It's your dad.  Your gramma sent a wire via the Red Cross."
"Is he in the mental hospital again?"
"He shot himself in the head."
"Sounds like my dad alright."

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

My mom used to pay me fifty cents a day to watch my kid-brother after school until she got home from work.  The best way to entertain him was to let him watch TV;  I was tired of his fabrications of Dinosaurs and Noah's Ark while cleaning up after his toy farm and Halloween party.  There were a lot of good shows on:  "Ozzie and Harriet,": "Leave it to Beaver," "The Rifleman," "Superman," and Dennis the Menace." For my peace of mind, I gave in so he could watch the"National Geographic Special" documenting cats.

It was getting close to supper and I had to throw the dishes in the washer, wipe the tables off, and pick up after his animal-skull collection.  I chased him outside, teasing him that he was "three-feet-three and five-years-old." I forgot about him, knowing that he was playing and didn't have time to get into trouble.

Without me knowing it he sneaked next door to play with Dan, his best friend, and vice-president of their "Animal Lover's Club."

"Danny, I saw the TV ... a THING about cats."
"We gonna study to be ... animal doctors again?"  the esteeming friend inquired of my brother.
"Yea, we got some THING to learn us from our cat."
"What's that?  Come on over, Randy!!
"We gotta show the TV wrong again, Danny--they had a man show how cats land on all fours no matter what."

Randy went to the back porch to get Pepper.  Then he brought Dan over to a seventeen-foot-high retaining wall in the alley.

"Danny, you catch him (really pronouncing 'ketchim') 'cause I'm gonna drop him!"
"How come?"  asked Danny so used to being puzzled.
"So he doesn't run away."
He held Pepper by the paws and dropped him upside down.
"Pepper, you ain't hurt now, are you girl?  Nooo!"
This didn't look like it would work.
"Danny got a nuther idea."

Randy went down to get Peppy this time.  He picked him up by the neck and went over to the other side of the alley where the wall was only three feet.  Holding Peppy upside down he threw him so that I saw him land on his side and limp away.

"Randy!"  I yelled before I lost my temper, "What are you doing to my cat?"  Seeing Peppy hurt I chased him into the yard where I caught and  was making him eat grass as Mom came home.  

THE BASHFUL HUSTLER

When I saw her standing there at Brentano's Bookstore, I was too diffident to be seen by her before I could ruminate my intent.  I had done rash things before and was cognizant of this being done on the brink. I felt inadequate when I saw her and darted over to one side of the store unseen.  I whiled away a few moments overthinking and dissembled to browse as I tried to manufacture an opening line asking her to help me find my dictionary.  She pointed me in the right direction so detachedly that I thought I was getting the brush-off.  She didn't impress me as cordial, giving me this "walk-in-customer" treatment.  

I felt obtuse, sensing aggressive female "intellectual vibes."  I could have found it myself but was only demanding nobles oblige to kindle something. When I came back a minute later and repined about this certain dictionary I had my heart set on, she informed me how to buy one by cross-referencing.

We volley-balled "neutral isms" between us momentarily and I had to consummate the conversation.  I went back ill-at-ease and didn't know myself what I was going to do;  I had come to buy the Webster's Third New International and faltered at any other.  Later I did find what I wanted and town and this proved it.   She was taken aback by the price of it and she might have thought I was trying to impress her.   I had to struggle to hold the conversation together and decided to take out the "billet-doux" I composed.  She read it hurriedly and couldn't possibly have fathomed it.   I briefed her of my novice-ship; she dittoed what my prof said about my bent for playing with words.   The intervening customers impeded my train of thought keeping me from eliciting excitedly a response.

When she asked me to leave at closing, I tried to stay and she adroitly turned me down with the pretext of going to bed early.  If she was blunt, it was not enough to extinguish my male ego;  I reaffirmed the prior agreement to date.  Bidding adieu with an inclining aggregation left the door au contraire to my diffident "entree a la naivete." 

THE HAPLESS TROOP (A SHORT STORY)

"And the hapless soldiers sigh runs in blood down palace walls ...."

Company A-1-2 had proved itself the best company that day in the record range and would not be outdone in marching either.  One troop (or soldier) would've settled for being in a slack company because he was finding out what it was like to be Number One.  He had two misfitted combat boots with blisters on his big toes.  "Hut, two, three, four ..." echoed from one hill to the next, and "alpha" drowned out every company as they double-timed it past all the "girlie" companies.  "Left, left, your military left!"   

Even the truck driver could hear as well as feel the cadence of the marching formation and it was beautiful to see so many troops in unison singing: we belong in Hollywood." As other companies sang "Gee I [G.I.]  ranger, live a life of guts and danger!"  One soldier had been caught not yelling and was running around the whole company as they marched.  All those that couldn't keep up had fallen out and were riding behind in a truck, but would pull KP [kitchen police] for ten days.  It was hard to keep up with the sergeants who didn't wear backpacks.

The temperature was only twenty above that day but was warm compared to twenty below at the Reception Station.  Only the hands would get cold and several troops didn't have gloves.  They could've bribed someone to go to the PX [post exchange] for them if they didn't have a pass like the smarter ones outsmarted the system.  They were all slightly overdressed or overexerted (one or the other--it was hard to tell).  There was really no need for galoshes but the uniform of the day was made up the day before when there was snow.  All the troops suspected that the CO [commanding officer] just liked to see them shine galoshes.

"Company.  Halt!"   the senior sergeant yelled like a stentor.


Two heavy foot-stomps were accompanied by "one, two."  The sarg had ordered them to take off their field jackets and tie them around their wastes.  "Attention, forward-haaaarch!"  The liturgy of counting cadence resumed and it was obvious how good they were programmed to count it.  "Hut"  (there was a pause and the rest said as loud as possible "Two, three, four," pausing "two, three, four.")

The troops got sore voices that would become louder before the end of training, but the sergeants were ready with reserve lung power at any time for special effect.  It would've been nice to put on earplugs, which were always tied to the lapel, in order to get some peace of mind.

The sergeant was paying special heed to the troops nearest him and the guy at the head of the squad got a little out of step it was magnified by the middle of the formation where one troop, trying to average the step of the guy in front with the guy behind, started to trip from the even gait. They marched only thirty inches apart; the whole squad was bobbing heads up and down so unevenly that the sergeant's uniform-oriented eye caught it.  They should've known all the intricacies of marching by now (how to skip back into step delay-less in a martial manner), but the slow learners always had to learn everything the hard way.

"Company, halt!"

The troops yelled at the top of their lungs to impress hoping it would help.  It was about time for the "hero" of the day, who was some meathead that got them in trouble.

""At-ease!
"Platoon Three was out of step.
"Platoon Three, do me ten!"


Actually, it was only the squad that was out of step; collective punishment was the order of the day:  This was non-judicial extra training and it was good the whole company didn't do push-ups.
"Push-up number one, Senior-Drill-Sergeant!
"Push-up number two, Senior-Drill-Sergeant!"

Ten push-ups were harder than it looked and they all had to be in unison, of course.  As they got down to the prone position one soldier had forgotten decorum for his M-16 and put it on the ground.  He was too nervous to see what all the others did and was on sick call the first day when they learned about their "best friend in the Army."

"What are you doing to your weapon, troop?"
"I laid it on the ground, Senior Drill Sergeant."
"Fall out, troop!"
"Order-arms .... Port arms! .... Display-arms! .... Inspect-arms!
"There's too much lubrication in the chamber.  Your bolt carriage sight adjuster and muzzle are dirty, TROOP!"

The training officer stuck his finger in the grease and put it in the soldier's mouth.  The soldier just didn't have the patriotic deference due to military ordnance.
"How does that taste, TROOP?"


The soldier almost regurgitated but was the lesson in drills and ceremonies for the day.

"Where does the weapon go TROOP?"
"It never leaves my arms and hands, Senior Drill Sergeant."
"Company, at ease!  Take a smoke break," the CO interjected.
"This troop still loves his mother more than his weapon!"


Everyone resounded with a salvo of laughs knowing the alternative to a sense of humor around this NCO.

"Should I introduce him to his new love?"
"Yes, Senior Drill Sergeant!"  the company concurred,
"You best make your apology soon, trooper!"
"I'm sorry, Senior Drill Sergeant."

MY CRUCIBLE

It was the night before my dad's funeral and our whole relation was having a reunion at our grandmother's.  All these people were enjoying each other's company and I was locked in my bedroom crying myself to sleep.  I didn't think I would hold out and, to be sure, I withdrew and was the party-pooper.

Then everyone was silent as my uncle announced something:  "The funeral parlor is open tonight for the review; I will take the immediate family over now."

My grandmother couldn't find me, and when she did she coaxed:  Bro, don't you want to come along?  I'm sure they have him fixed up real nice."

I didn't answer with inhibition and they left me alone.  I could not believe what my grandmother had said. I wanted to remember my dad the way he was alive; could I ever get the casket out of my mind? Deep inside this all seemed surreal; maybe if I saw him...

I would snap out of this: maybe I didn't believe it yet.  Oh, well, I wasn't much for maudlin sentimentality anyways.

I was glad they had the decency to make this a closed-casket ceremony because it was no one's business what he looked like.  I heard them come back, which woke me up, and tell everyone about it.  Even my brothers had given in and wanted to tell me:  "Bro, we took some good pictures in case you don't go."

They talked as if they had just seen him and it was making me curious to find out what he looked like.  It had been almost three years.   My brother Randy was glad he went and now was asking me to go:  "Bro, it really brought back memories when I saw him.  I could just hear him talking."

Somehow this seemed immoral too; I knew I would regret it:  I recalled that it was said "dead bodies were like naked people."  The house was like a "spiritualist" meeting the way they gossiped.

"Your dad is proud of you."
"I'm sure he doesn't have any more worries."
"He's so happy where he is he wouldn't want to come back, even if he could."
"You are so much like your dad I feel he is here with us."

I felt arrears and taken aback; was I remiss in paying my due respects?  I was shocked why my grandmother reported:  Bro, your dad looks so handsome--oh, I'm so proud of him!"

It was amazing how they could waste so much money giving a face-job to a head with a bullet laceration in the temple.   His eyes had protruded upon impact;  I wondered how they worked that. My grandma wanted to go see it again, this time taking her camera.  I doubted if seeing a corpse we could make me feel good, but I obliged.

"We are going back, Bro,  Why don't you come along? You will feel really good about it, too."

I had never talked with a funeral director before--this one talked about it like play-by-play:  "I've buried your relatives a long way back, son." I thought it was no "biggie" but went along for the conversation.  We got off on a tangent where I couldn't turn him off when I found out he had been in the same unit as me in the army.

"I'm so glad you came to see my work.  I'm sure you will remember him like this.  I have never waited for so long for the funeral.  Hasn't it been six days now, since your dear father passed away?"
The room with the casket was a small chapelet that smelled clean;  I was expecting formaldehyde. The quiet music and flowers were an attempt to manufacture a quasi-nirvana (valhalla for Scandihoovians like Dad).

"These carnations are from the firemen, these violets from his church, these magnolias from you boys, the white roses from Gram and me, and the lilies from the nephews and nieces."

I could not get over all the flowers.  It was strange to introduce them like that--I didn't care who they were from.   I didn't remember buying flowers but that's the way it must be for funerals;  I knew it would come out of our pockets somehow.  I thought how different it would be with me in charge.

"Do you like the casket?  I picked it out and it cost  only $400; I got a discount for you boys."

I nodded that it was fine; only I had the nerve to cremate.  I was glad to see a flag on it--no one would see the casket.

"Yea, the VA donates a flag to all veterans and you will get it after the burial.  The custom is to give it to the oldest son.

"They put him in his favorite suit.  Do you  recognize it?"

I didn't feel like talking so just nodded again.  I was getting brave enough to look at it now.  He always dressed like that:  ready to go dancing.  His hands were folded over his stomach and his eyes were fortunately closed.  I could not tell where the bullet had made an impact.  I noticed his watch and grotto ring still on;  he always wore them, too.  His hair was even clean and except for his perennial mustache and goatee he was clean-shaven;  looking at how neatly trimmed he was I realized what an art this was.   He had spent much of his life reclining like that on his bed ready for a date--just meditating or contemplating.   

OKI YULETIDE

I want to reminisce about what happened to my Christmas spirit last year (1975) in Okinawa, Japan.

None of us could believe we had to work; we all decided to "skate" and have fun.  The married guys got the day off and they tried to placate us with New Year's Day.  I was getting up at ten PM which was routine for a Christmas Eve working the graveyard shift.  As I walked through the barracks, I passed one friend crying in his room like a kid and another playing the Christmas record his mother had sent.  I didn't help him at all reminding him he wasn't home.  When I watched TV with him the other night, he wanted to hear it again and tears overcame him.  He was doubtless ashamed at being so maudlin and overly sentimental. 

As I got downstairs I saw all the guys line up to call home.  If only their parents knew how long they waited in line for this ... but they really had nothing productive to do and this kept their minds off themselves for a while.  I walked through the day room and heard this old tape playing Christmas music.  The room was a mess with the beer and pop cans from the company party.  If it wasn't a holiday we never would've gotten away with this.  The Tannenbaum with ersatz presents and sentimental manger scene were pathetic and couldn't imagine sober guys erecting it.  I smirked as I went by one guy that was content with his new stereo he bolstered his ego with--rewarding himself.  But he wasn't wasting it on carols but dedicating it to the Doobie Brothers.

Walking across the base to the mess hall I passed the mailroom because they had put out mail that day. But I didn't get any!  I guess everybody that was supposed to, had sent me a card, something was awry seeing an empty box--bad omen? 

It was warm out:  expected snow;  it helped us think of it like any other night.  Aberglaube (Ger. for superstition) would've taken over if it had snowed because of the mystically-oriented lonely guys. The nocturnal splendor of the consolidated dining facility was nostalgic for us too.  They had gone through a lot of work providing us with the traditional carols to hear while dining.   I couldn't wait to get to work, where I wouldn't hear it but get my customary cup of cafe au lait.  I wasn't even listening to that tape anymore and couldn't figure out why they tried so hard to remind us.

I was a little late getting to work but no one noticed!  The regular trick-chief was home and his stand-in was one of "us."  I was very dedicated to my job and didn't want to get in trouble, because it was apparent half of these guys were drunk or getting tipsy, even filled with levity.   

As I sat down someone started to pass around cookies a mother had sent in a "care package" and everyone was in this "sharing mood." The PA announced some leftover confections in the break lounge the EM wives had concocted.

We had our "HAPPY HOUR" at midnight when someone turned off the lights in jest and some of the guys started to sing a vulgar rendition of Silent Night sanctimoniously.  I escaped the sacrilege by tuning in the local F.E.N. station from Tokyo for better taste.

When I got off work the next morning (Christmas), I was too tired to stay up and sacked out hoping that all the madness and hullabaloo would be over when I woke up.  This was the one day I heard to stay away from the mess hall because all the officers and married personnel had their families eating at our mess hall (this was only SOP or standard operating procedure).  Everyone would be dressed up and the single guys in fatigues would be incongruous anyway.


I thought: "Because the soldier has learned to combat on Christmas and not celebrate, civilians have the right to celebrate!" This is really a sacrifice unbeknownst to most.  But someone has to do it. Freedom isn't free! 

I felt like writing a letter but had mentioned I wasn't sentimental and no one should expect cards from me;  I wasn't writing in the interim in protest.

When I convinced myself to be stoical, as I was glad to sleep all day and get to the mess hall in time for leftovers.  I did my best to treat it like any other day; it may have been a "legal holiday" but ... CUI BONO--to what end?