Dear Dad

Dear Dad -

I remember one time you told Joe Gatten that you had never participated in a full on barfight, I remember because you seemed a wee bit disappointed and because Joe offered to take you down to the local tavern and fix that right then! It wasn’t something that I set out to find, mind you, but I feel lucky that I found myself in such a situation and escaped unharmed. I wanted to tell you about a night I had in Tennessee.

The boys and I were hanging out a local pool hall, it had a tavern in the back but we were in the pool hall, the pool room occupied the short end of a reverse-L shaped building where the short arm fronted the street and the tall end of the L was the tavern. The front door was just left of the joint in the L and there were about 12 pool tables in that front room. “The boys” consisted of Pete Sammons, and Paul Berier (we were known as the three amigos due to the 3 P’s) and Rex, he was my Team Chief in Korea and had arrived in TN just a week after me.

Now its important to point out that a week before I left Korea all my friends were leaving, I had arrived behind my class as I had taken extra leave to attend Papa’s funeral and stayed a week after them in exchange, I had proven to be an adept pugilist when one of my “buddies” that I had known since our time in El Paso had imbibed to excess and tried to fight some locals. This was a common drunken activity for McCormick, though usually he saved the bravado for the streets of Seoul in the wee hours of morning when the risks were lessened by the abundance of American servicemen and MPs. I refused to allow him to pick a fight with the indigenous personnel in the middle of the night in our little hamlet in the western corridor of ROK, the town was infrequently visited by servicemen and I knew from the antics of another of my less composed friends that picking a fight with one single Korean in this town would empty the houses into the streets and result in GIs running for the city limits sign in a hail of bricks and bottles. I intervened as McCormick attempted to cause trouble and forcibly placed him in a taxi. The cabbie quoted us the late-night rate (which was double the normal $5 ride after midnight) and my friend began to protest vigorously, illuminating his ignorance by peppering his monologue with derisive comments and racial slurs. I paid the cabbie up-front and asked him to kindly disregard our ill-mannered cohort, at which point my friend’s threats found a new target in me and for the remainder of the ride home he pontificated on how once we returned to post he would dole out the ass-whipping, that I had prevented him from extolling on the Korean, to me personally.

I felt little threat from McCormick, he was thin but lanky. He was an experienced fighter, but he was not necessarily a winning fighter. I had seen him struggle with slower and smaller men in the streets of Seoul. I intended fully to walk away from the impending confrontation, for a number of reasons the least of which is that the Company’s Executive Officer had attended our evening festivities and shared the taxi (This was very contrary to protocol, and out of respect for him I desired to refrain from participation in an altercation with another enlisted soldier while we had all had a few drinks together. The XO would not have been in attendance if we were not all “Short Timers” that he would not have to continue to oversee on a daily basis.)

Now the road onto post was gated at night and our party had to enter a pedestrian gate to the right and then cross the street back left immediately behind the gate. The XO and I made the breach first and I turned to cross the blacktop unaware that McCormick had not been dissuaded by our fourth. I was blindsided and thrown to the pavement. Before I could react our fourth had regained the scene and removed McCormick further down the street and around the supply building. The XO took me down the direct path to the enlisted barracks to ensure the Quonset hut that served as our Quartermaster was between McCormick and I. The XO was trying to reassure me that there was honor in not fighting and I was not hard to convince, I had no desire to jeopardize my impending return to the states or my rank and position for the opportunity to exact revenge on my acquaintance. Unfortunately just as I made the door to my barracks I heard McCormick shouting disparaging words using the family name and I let the door fall back closed, politely asked the XO to excuse himself and headed up the sidewalk to where it joined the street to face my “friend”. McCormick and I stepped behind the NCO club with a gent from San Diego, Pvt Obzut, that had been running interference for me until this point. As McC came at me I used his momentum to pull him over the top of me and we landed with him on his back and I commenced to unleash a flurry of right handed jabs into the upper left quadrant of his face. After an indeterminate amount of time he was able to dislodge me from the advantageous position that I held and immediately our friend smothered the two of us and declared the event complete. He walked McCormick away and I begrudgingly went to my room. He wouldn’t learn though, he arrived 5 minutes later and sucker punched me as I opened the door expecting to see Obzut. I didn’t take this lightly and brought him into the room and took him back to the floor, as we went down I heard his head contact sharply with the wood frame of my army bed. Another flurry of rights bloodied his nose and further exacerbated a cut below his left eye, then my room-mate (Another one who had come through Ft. Bliss with McCormick and I, and strong as a brute) broke up the ruckus and escorted McCormick out of our room. The next day McC came by to apologize and I was glad to see I had left considerable evidence of our confrontation for him to take home to his family, while I remained unscathed. Except a stinging cut inside my lip from the sucker punch, I had no visible reminders.

When I arrived at Ft. Campbell the story had been told and my reputation preceded me. I had a scrapper reputation from the only fight where I had ever thrown a punch, I had no-where to go but down. I certainly didn’t plan to pick fights every weekend as McCormick had done, but I had to admit it left a certain feeling of satisfaction to have so easily handled him.

So one night, within my first 60 days at Campbell, we were at the pool room, Berier and Sammons were both struck with amorous admiration for a waitress and Rex and I had made friends with a few of the bouncers, we were recognized by most of the staff whenever we entered and we were treated well. In a little TN town where not everyone was happy to be sharing the land with those of us being all we could be, it was a refreshing place. The first sign of trouble was when Rex abruptly laid his pool cue on the table as I was lining up a shot. I knew from the look in his eyes as he made his way down the opposite side of the table and started towards me that there was action behind me. I dropped my cue on the table and turned toward the action. A large Native-American person (And I mean 6’+ and probably over 250 lbs) had one of the bouncers in a headlock and was delivering blows to his back/kidneys. I don’t know if it was my youthful reaction time or exuberance that allowed me to slip between the pool tables a step or two faster than Rex but I arrived at the scene first and proceeded to engage the assailant in a chicken wing (my arms through his and locking his limbs behind his back) expecting to assist the bouncer in regaining control of the situation efficiently.

Turns out that this big boy had many friends and before the bouncer could stand up another patron attempted to continue to dole punishment on him. As Rex stepped into that void I found myself alone with the gargantuan that I was holding. I explained that I was going to release him. That it was over, that we should all calm down and have a good time.

My words fell on deaf ears, once freed the gargantuan turned on me with a vengeance and took a swing that would have most likely knocked me out had I not been fused with lightning quick reflexes from the years of close order drill and PT. I ducked and his roundhouse slipped harmlessly over my head, the momentum of his punch rotated his body beyond the 12 o’clock position where his left shoulder would be pointing directly at me, bad for him. Seeing the opening I drove into his midsection like a defensive-tackle intent on the blitz and took the both of us to the floor. His weight advantage gave him a false sense of security as he was able to come up on top of me and had me pinned to the floor.

The surrounding scene was pandemonium, no WWF wrestling ring, no sanctioned hockey game ever came close to the chaos that I could see in my peripheral vision. Half the room was alive with the exchange of blows and exclamations of disgust and some of pain. The heaving crowd was being tripped up by my feet and those of my opponent, he was being pushed heavily from behind and had to stabilize himself with both hands on the carpet on either side of my head.

Knowing that once he was able to regain his balance he would put his big meathooks to some other use much less agreeable to me, I managed to get my arms inside and began to deliver the fiercest series of blows just as fast as I could provide them directly to the nose area of the gargantuan one. I heard a bottle break and a spray of glass and beer cascaded over the two of us. After what seemed a lifetime of punching for all I was worth I sensed more than saw a figure come bounding off of the nearest pool table and dislodge my counterpart with knees to the ribs and fists to the back of the head. Regaining my feet I went for the gargantuan again but found that my savior this night was Berier and he was clear headed enough to turn me around and drive me toward the doors. I had eyes on Rex and Sammons making the same beeline from another angle and the four of us exploded into the night while the waitresses were warning us to flee as the local police department was in route.

I was driving that old YJ Wrangler as this was after my old CRX was interred in Arkansas. The big tires barked as I hit second gear turning onto the highway behind Berier’s pickup, the parking lot looked like a Christmas Tree when I chanced a peek into the rearview mirror, police cars had blockaded the parking lot entrance and were mustering in force as we sped back towards Ft. Campbell.

Once back on-post we picked glass shards from a fairly severe cut in Rex’s head, it turned out the glass and beer explosion resulted from a direct hit to his noggin.

I wish I could say I never found myself at odds with anyone ever again but that isn’t the case, it was a violent occupation and there were high levels of stress that got vented inappropriately from time to time, I maintained my honor, I never fought when there were other options, but sometimes you have to step into the mix and make a go of it, that is why soldiers travel in groups. You never knew when you were going to have to prove your loyalty against some ragtag group of local rednecks.

From the vantage point and wisdom of years it’s now a nice sidebar to the time I spent in the service; hope you can enjoy the story.

Love,
Pirelli

Liar's Poker

A flurry of activity as I strive to keep up with the demand. Washing glasses in the little sink trio, stocking napkins and matches and straws and stirs, dispensing with care the spirits as they are requested from the throng. Throng, indeed, just the old Mexican man and me here tonight. The younger crowd having all made their way to the dance floor down the stairs in the back room, evidenced by the flood of orders being bellowed at me over the half-door that serves as a waitress stand. I can pour six pitchers in two minutes, off of two taps mind you, which is impressive I guess. Couldn’t keep up with demand if I had six arms and twelve taps though. Once the tables are filled it slows down, the Mexican man and I get back to our game during the lull. The Budweiser clock, hung off kilter above the cash register, says it’s three o’clock. It’s been hanging askew since before I learned of its existence, it always says three o’clock. The Clydesdales continue to draw the old wagon around the inside of the globe, ceaselessly climbing and alternately descending; and the manager thinks it adds something to the decorum. Nothing that the gaudy rack of cheap cigars on the counter doesn’t detract from, I always think to myself. The rack sits next to the magnificent shelf filled with bottles. Three rows high strategically placed in front of a mirror to make the stock look doubly impressive, spanning the length of the back of the bar down to the make-shift waitress window. All the finest liquor available at your fingertips, with thirty-two brands of beer in the coolers below and the well of mystery tucked inconspicuously out of sight. The well contains the off brands, nameless bottles of lesser quality that are used in the mixed drinks unless the customer orders a highball off the back shelf. The highball bottles from the back shelf are topped off the night before with liquor from the well, but no one seems to notice. The Mexican man says he has six aces. I have to call he‘s been bluffing all night. As he starts to count the ones in the serial number of his dollar I see the lines on his face illuminated by the intense fluorescent lights hanging over the shelf of bottles. Dark trails running through his brown face. Eyes that have seen the inhumanity of man stare up from underneath an old felt cowboy hat wrapped in a hatband of eagle feathers and beads. He tells me he is short one and slides his dollar to me across the onyx black Formica of the bar. Gouged in spots and peeling away in others, Jorge always talks about replacing the

Formica top of the bar, when the landlord is around. As I deal out another pot the old man picks up where he left off in a story about the old days. He thinks he once rode with Poncho Villa. They’d been holed up in a secret hideout last I heard; now they were divvying up the loot. He and Poncho never quite saw eye to eye; all the old man’s stories depict a selfish, ruthless Poncho Villa. He remembers the last time Jorge threw a party in the back room as he adjusts his hat. Heroic in the face of certain peril he had fought off two at a time before things were brought back under control, he remembers it differently than I do but I don’t say anything.

Commotion erupts at precisely three o’clock with the apparition of the manager in the waitress’s half-door. Blood was trailing down his chin, beckoning me to call the police. 911 what’s your emergency? No emergency really, it’s me again, things are really rolling tonight, and the toughs brought friends. Shots fired, the radio’s squawk around town, though no one said these things. Code 2 they come with lights flashing. Up from the stairs come fighters circling around the two shirt-and-tied, good-old-boy, redneck types that pass for security who are manhandling the group outside. Stepping around the commotion, open the door, pushing them out. We fan out in the parking lot, circle and regroup. Two more rush out, three try to re-enter. Jorge emerges to confront the mob, retreat and evade. Lock the doors. Bum rush stance and one last attack, doors ripped out of hands and flung open wide, our line pushes back. Outside you heathens, this party’s over, or something to that effect was muttered under breath. The sound of breaking glass draws a quick silence that is broken as quick with a glancing blow to a nose. Fists fly and faces cringe. Squad cars arrive; police wade through the mess - As the worst of the fighting is being brought under control the old man walks up to me, throwing me a quick jab to the forehead. Shouts go up as I stumble to regain my footing. Touching the tips of my fingers to my forehead I can feel the blood trickling down. The old man is being cuffed and led away. The young ones cheer his virility; he shoots me a wink that says ‘see you next time,’ as the cops push him into the car.