The Most Important Thing. David Gross
damn right, Bradley; let’s stick together, come hell or high water,” said Anderson.
Both boys solemnly swore.
It was cold as a snowman’s birthday as the bus rolled into the Jackson Greyhound Depot. The numb hands of the bus station clock pointed to seven twenty in the morning. The drab bus station looked obsolete, like every thing else in Jackson. In the way station, a few sleepy transients loafed around the large room, anticipating the exodus from Breathitt County.
As the day passed, the bus stations grew larger and the buses more crowded. Each bus station differed, but each was the same. First came Jackson, then Lexington, and finally Louisville, with many nameless stops in between. The weary bus riders varied. Some of the passengers visited family; some searched for a better life. All of the passengers tugged at layers of clothing due to the cold. The travelers carried bundles and suitcases. The boys kept their own counsel, preferring the safety of their junta of two. The boys usually waited patiently on the bus as it stopped at every little town between Jackson and Louisville, but with each creaking, bumping moment boredom prevailed. Upon arrival into each town, the boys explored the bus stations. Many of the bus riders in the station lounged at the lunch counter, drinking coffee, eating hamburgers, and smoking cigarettes. Waitresses with personality slung hash. Babies cried. Businessmen read the newspaper. After a few leg stretching moments, the boys returned to the bus.
As the time and miles past, Bradley and Anderson devoured the food that they had brought from home. The boys didn’t eat the lunch counter hamburgers, conserving their modest resources. In the early afternoon, the great metal Greyhound deposited the riders into the vast metropolis of Louisville.
An Army representative wearing stripes surveyed the crowded bus station. He immediately spotted Anderson and Bradley and five other recruits. The sergeant identified the new men in the crowd with uncanny precision. Most of the boys arrived at Fort Knox, called “The School of Hard Knox” by the natives, directly from civilian life. The sergeant spotted the wide-eyed gawkers in hayseed attire easily.
The boys dressed in clothes all of the colors of the rainbow, so they were called “Rainbows.” Of all the poorly treated privates of the School of Hard Knox, the Rainbow was the lowest, receiving the worst treatment. The Rainbows were freethinkers; the Army had no use for freethinking. With seven Rainbows behind him, the sergeant led the way to a truck, ignoring all questions and comments. Seven individuals sat in the back of a truck, dressed in their brightly colored civilian attire. Soon, they would uniformly wear Army olive.
The recruits immediately began their transformation at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Fort Knox is famous for the gold depository of the United States. Tons of gold bars are stored at Fort Knox. Rest assured that the soldiers didn’t see any gold.
While lining up and signing up, however;the Army offered $10,000 in life insurance to the soldier. Bradley named his mother beneficiary. Ten thousand dollars represented a lifetime of labor. Frankly, Bradley didn’t feel his life worth $10,000. Yet if something happened to him, mother wouldn’t have to worry.
Bradley marveled at the size and organization of the processing center. The immediate ritual of forms confirmed that it was a government institution interacting with the recruit. Then the medics, nurses, and doctors ensured the government got a good buy. Bradley stood in the nude in a row of other guys, when Anderson, fully clothed, passed. Anderson’s shoulders stooped as he carried his gripsack in hand. He failed his physical. From the expression on Anderson’s face, Bradley sensed that Anderson felt as low as the only mule in a cavalry parade.
“I guess I won’t be getting that new suit, Bradley. They are sending me home,” said the watery-eyed Anderson. Anderson’s 4-F classification prevented him from serving in the Army.
“Why?” asked the stunned Bradley. The moment he said this he guessed why, and was embarrassed that he had asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Anderson.
“Dang! I’m sorry, Anderson. The Army is missing out on one good soldier,” whispered Bradley. After a moment, Anderson lifted his head and looked Bradley in the eye.
“So long, Bradley. You were right, you know, I would have been a good soldier,” said the brokenhearted Anderson. The boys shook hands and the miserable Anderson Combs slunk away droopy-mouthed. His military career lasted an hour and a half. It was a career filled with disappointment, void of fancy clothes, ending without one Samba. No one would be watching Bradley’s back. Anderson slunk away from the School of Hard Knox, and with him vanished the last token of Bradley’s old Kentucky home.
After a few days of inoculations, haircuts, and uniforms, the boys transformed from Rainbows to Picklesuits. Picklesuit privates carried no insignia, rank, or awards on their uniform. The uniform’s only patches said, “U.S. Army” and “Gross” above the breast pockets. Private Bradley Gross marched with a hundred other newly shorn young men to the Fort Knox post train depot. Soon he was a swaying passenger on a troop train bound for Fort Bragg, North Carolina. It was dark as a night without friendship when Bradley boarded the train. And after a short time, the rhythmic rattle of the rails lulled him to intermittent and interrupted slumber. By dawn, the train climbed into the snowy mountains. The passengers saw melt flowing in waterfalls and in beds down the rocky hillsides. The track sliced through the blanket of trees covering the mountains capped with a frosting of white. By the evening, the passenger car rolled into hills of Carolina. In the middle of the night after a twenty-four hour trip the train braked at Fort Bragg. Rubbing red, half-open eyes Bradley stumbled from the train. A group of yelling maniacs further disoriented the sleepy Bradley.
Military life delivered a shocking wake-up call. Men with lists bellowed names. Groups of sleepy, confused men lurched like zombies. Rotund, old sergeant McCloskey shouted loudest.
Sergeant McCloskey yelled, “Private Bradley Gross!”
With the name on the list McCloskey became Bradley’s Drill Instructor (“DI”) at Fort Bragg. McCloskey spent his life mastering skills such as guard duty. The man of average intelligence mastered skills like guard duty within hours, but McCloskey, a regular Clausewitz, spent nineteen years pondering its subtleties.
The boys on McCloskey’s list stood in a row carrying their duffel bag and civilian suitcases. Bradley Gross carried no suitcase. He possessed fewer civilian items than any other man in his company. He owned few possessions, a suitcase was not one of them. This posed no military problem because civilian items only got in the way. Bradley lugged a duffel bag full of GI (“Government Issue”) uniforms and a few pictures. McCloskey yelled at the boys continually. He alerted his boys that they marched in pathetic formation. He ordered them to stand straight, shoulders back, and eyes front. Every few steps, McCloskey yelled,”Set ‘em down!” Everyone set his luggage down upon the pavement. Then, the boys stood quietly. “Pick ‘em up!” McCloskey yelled, “Welcome to the Army!” The sergeant chuckled. McCloskey repeated this nonsense numerous times. A half hour expired maneuvering the tired boys on the short march to the dormitory.
The boys paraded to a World War II vintage building. Inside the dormitory, McCloskey laid down the law. At the top of his lungs, McCloskey bellowed his expectations. He announced the termination of the days of lighthearted horseplay. He intended his company to be the best in this man’s army.
Sergeant McCloskey produced a list and inventoried each unauthorized bag. Then he impounded their civilian luggage stacking it in a room. With last bag stowed, McCloskey locked the room keeping any personal civilian items from the new recruit until he graduated from Basic Training. The process seemed to take forever. McCloskey produced another list issuing each recruit a blanket, two sheets, a pillow, and a pillowcase. Finally, the boys retired. At four in the morning Bradley finally laid his head on the pillow. The excited, but dog-tired boy fell asleep almost at once.
An hour later, McCloskey stormed into the barracks, hollering as if a rattlesnake chewed his leg. He kicked bunks, yanked covers, and gesticulated like a wild man. A corporal entered the room banging a spoon against a metal pan. After a few