The Most Important Thing. David Gross
themselves holding mops.
“Come with me, Private,” said the corporal. The two approached Sergeant McCloskey who had just entered the barracks.
“Private Bates is a genius. He has just volunteered for KP for the duration of Basic Training, Sergeant,” said the corporal.
“That private is a regular Einstein,” said McCloskey and passed by the two lower ranking men. Surely, he might find another Einstein to harass.
While the Army is not known for intellectuals, Bradley’s company possessed one. Ziegfried Bromantis was a scholar. This intellectual wizard hailed from Vilnius, Lithuania, where he earned a college degree in chemistry. How he landed in Bradley’s platoon no one had a clue. Private Bromantis was tall, heavy, thoughtful, and funny. It is inconceivable that such a man became a private in the U.S. Army, but there he was.
During an inspection of Bromantis’ locker, Sergeant McCloskey opened Bromantis’ shoe polish can. A small amount of water trickled onto the spotless floor. The drops of water on the floor changed the mood of the rotund sergeant from disdain to anger.
“Private Bromantis! What in the hell is in your shoe polish can?” screamed the old sergeant at the top of his lungs. The red-faced sergeant howled as if he had found the stolen secret to the atomic bomb, Joseph Stalin, or, even worse, a woman in the barracks.
“H2O, sir!” was the cool, accurate reply of the academic Bromantis.
“Private Bromantis, you dumbass, when I ask you what the hell is in your shoe polish, I don’t want to know the farting chemical formula for it, you asswipe!” bellowed the ignorance-loving sergeant. The expostulation of the sergeant continued for some time. The lamentation persisted until all the recruits lost every molecule of indulgence for the sergeant. The sergeant turned on his heel and left the red-faced Lithuanian.
Bradley was satisfied with his boots. Wearing the shiny boots, he stepped outside. He had a few moments of peace before Taps. Several boys stood in a group smoking cigarettes. One of them was William Good from California. Thus, Hollywood became his name. Unlike most of the boys, he arrived at Fort Knox with long, greasy hair that the girls loved. Hollywood arrived wearing his bright California clothes. When receiving his first haircut the barber asked him, “How would you like your sideburns?”
“Medium,” replied Hollywood.
“Catch ‘em,” ejaculated the sadistic barber, grinning malevolently. Hollywood’s big, woman-pleasing sideburns fell like an avalanche to the furry floor.
Any mention of that barber irritated Hollywood. To add insult to injury, the soldier paid for his haircut. The old song that goes “they say in the Army the pay is mighty fine; they give you fifty dollars and take back forty-nine!” is not that far from the truth for the Basic Trainee. His first dribble of Army pay, called the “flying twenty,” was nearly completely expended on the haircut and toiletries.
Basic Training bore little resemblance to sunny California. Hollywood had just been appointed to his first military command. The young man complained bitterly at his appointment to the “Colonel of the Urinal.” The Colonel of the Urinal performed the humiliating task of cleaning the hut toilet. “Clean” means immaculate at Basic Training; not one bead of water rests on a sink for the morning inspection. Hollywood received the assignment because DI McCloskey thought Hollywood affluent in his previous life. Malevolent McCloskey enjoyed ordering wealthy recruits to clean toilets. But Hollywood, the Colonel of the Urinal, didn’t clean the toilet solo; he supervised a group of volunteers. Any man receiving a demerit during the duty day “volunteered” for toilet detail that evening. The boys avoided demerits like the pox. As for the Colonel of the Urinal, by giving a man authority over a set of toilets, the Army taught leadership.
In Basic Training, the companies competed with each other. Having the cleanest toilet was highly desirable. The demerit-fearing Hollywood occasionally forbade the recruits from showering in the morning. This forbearance ensured the shower stalls remained pristine for inspection. Most Basic Trainees didn’t bemoan this Draconian edict because dirty shower stalls demerit the whole company. Excellence prevented the boys from showering. Yet, the odor of these dedicated young soldiers ripened like peaches in the summer sun.
One afternoon, some of the boys studied the mimeographed sheet of military insignia and rank. The information regarding the military seemed novel and complex.
Suddenly, a big southern officer approached Private Gross.
“Attention!” shouted Michael Bates. All the boys snapped to attention. Every face became as blank as the face of a statue, but every mind worried.
The clear and blue eyes of the big officer scrutinized Bradley’s face. A weakness could not hide. “Private, what is the insignia of a brigadier general?” said the officer softly.
“Sir, one gold star,” answered Bradley.
“Correct! Very good, Private. Where you from?” asked the officer.
“Ole Buck, sir,” said Bradley. A couple of the boys in the group snickered. The officer glared at them. Quickly, the smiling faces became blank. Then the officer smiled, returning his gaze to Private Gross.
“What state is Ole Buck in, Private?” asked the officer.
“Kentucky,” said the embarrassed private.
“Do they call you Kentuck?” asked the officer.
“No, sir!” said Private Gross.
“Well, they will now,”said the officer. The officer turned on his heel and walked away. Michael laughed at Bradley. The recruits relaxed.
“That is the easiest question I ever heard,” said Bates, “Everyone knows the insignia of a general. Ain’t that right, Kentuck?”
“Yeah, that was easy,” acknowledged Private Gross. In all of Basic Training, that was the only question asked of Kentuck. The Army determined Bradley Gross possessed the intellectual capacity of the successful infantryman with that sole question.
It wasn’t long before every man in the company called Bradley Gross “Kentuck.” The name gripped him; he didn’t want to be called Kentuck. Plenty of boys from Kentucky would have been proud of that name. But Bradley joined the army to escape Kentucky.
At a corner of the barracks, a fight arose. Aaron Jerkowitz hit Raymond Pope. Kentuck, Bates, and the sinister Dutch Wilhelm ran to the commotion. Jerkowitz fought tougher than Pope. By the time Bradley arrived, Pope bled from his nose. Two of the boys interceded. Yelling erupted, but soon quieted. Fighting causes big trouble with the Army. Pope tried to hold back the tears, but some rolled down his cheek. He wiped the blood from his nose with his hand.
Meekness wasn’t Pope’s only problem. Raymond Pope’s bladder was no bigger than a walnut. During that first day, Raymond frequently asked to leave the formation to go pee. The rest of the company ridiculed the unfortunate recruit. Any abnormality immediately fell into the scrutiny of the group.
“Screw you, Hopeless Pope, the bed wetter!” yelled Jerkowitz.
“Screw you!” said Private Dutch Wilhelm eager to fight. Dutch’s temper led to hundreds of fights. Any reason to flatten Jerkowitz was a good one.
McCloskey suddenly appeared at the back door of the hut.
“What’s going on here?” said the sergeant.
Everyone snapped to attention.
“Nothing, sir,” shot Michael Bates. McCloskey looked skeptical, but he departed without noticing the blood on Pope’s face. Pope quickly wiped the blood away again and rubbed his eyes. He walked away from the others. Everyone but Jerkowitz felt empathy for Pope. A few minutes later, the remaining boys piled into the barracks. The darkness announced it neared time for Taps, the last ritual of the day.
Bradley slept in the bunk next to Dutch Wilhelm. Bradley knew Dutch enlisted in jail. Bradley didn’t like that. He knew a lot of jailbirds and most of them were bad news. Rules