The Private Language of Sgt. Charleston

Just like before you get your free steak dinner, you have to listen to the hard sell pitch for the time share condo;, before you got your free trip to Vietnam, you had to get through Basic Training.

Sgt. Charleston, head Drill Sergeant of A-5-3, (Alpha Company, 5^th Bn., 3d Training Brigade) at Fort Leonard Wood, was a full 6’ 1” under his DI  hat, and as thin as a whip.  He was quite obviously constructed of titanium cables and chrome pulleys.  You have never seen a man so thin who was so strong.  His razor starched Khakis never creased or wilted, even after a 5 mile run on a July afternoon. He could will himself not to sweat, and he could scare a recruit into not sweating. Also he could get in a Private’s face, speak quietly for a couple of minutes, and leave the man losing psychic blood at the rate of a quart a second. 

One of the main challenges for trainees is learning Army language.  It may sound like English, but it is only peripherally related.  For instance, a rifle is NOT a gun.  It is a “piece,” a “rifle,” a “weapon,” but it is not a gun.  And marching is not marching, it is “Dismounted Drill.”  “Policing” means picking up trash. And “Fall In” has nothing to do with falling or with in. Formal and informal, there are thousands of terms you better pick up fast, and woe be to the “peckerwood” dumb enough to ask a sergeant what a word or phrase means.

So, no one dared raise a hand every morning when Sgt. Charleston would step into the barracks and rumble, “Gentlemens, these barrack are a pig sty.  I want this place squared away before I can even look at it.  Straighten them lockers, tighten them bunks, get them butts out of the butt cans, and clean up all this dur bus.”

We would also hear, while out in the woods and fields training, “Gentlemens, there will be no chow until you police this area.  I can’t stand the sight of dur bus.”

We cleaned, straightened, polished, scrubbed, swept and mopped, always unsure if we had got the dur bus or not.

Finally, a fellow from St. Louis decided he had broken the code.  And, in a weak moment, was dumb enough to ask, “Sergeant, by ‘dur bus’, do you mean ‘’debris’?”

That day’s lesson was that one question can cost an entire platoon 50 push ups, and many, many trips through the low crawl pit.

The Chipmunk Chernobyl

It was a Beagle Posse meltdown of China Syndrome scale.  There was system shutdown, with shorted out canine brain circuits crackling and sparking.

The world outside the patio door had fallen into a cosmic alignment. Ten feet away, on the bird feeder, was a fat squirrel.  Four feet down from that, just on the ground, was a bunny munching Spring grass.  And only two feet outside the door was a chipmunk. All in sight at once.  It was a prey trifecta.

The varmint confluence hit two beagle minds with devastating force.  How can a dog make a choice when there is no clear choice?  Tuppence simply froze, stiff-legged, and began to quiver while emitting a thin high keen.  Her eyes flicking back and forth while trying to find which rodent to focus upon.

Tommy began to spin in tightening circles in front of the glass door, whining as he whirled, and letting a pinched YIP each time his field of view passed the aligned critters.

Finally, Tuppence found a bit of a voice, and demanded, “Let us out. Let us out. Let us out.  Must chase one.  Must chase one.  Now. Now. Now.”

Of course I wasn’t going to open the door, and then spend two days searching for beagles as they chased scent trail after sent trail, but I wanted to see where this would go. (I was probably playing with the possibility of neurological vet bills, but what the heck, I’m already Drain Bamaged myself.)

“Which one do you want to chase?”

“ANY one.  It doesn’t matter.  Must chase.  Must chase.”

“Well, Tommy and Tuppy, if you had to pick one, which one would it be?”

“The FUZZY ONE!” shouted Tommy.

I swear, I could feel the heat build up from the beagle fuel core as the melt down continued.  Of course, for their part, all three of the rodents were frozen and staring—as they will when coin flipping on Fight of Flight.  (And, it’s always Flight.)

Still mischievous, I said, “Well, you have to pick one.  You can’t have all three, you’ll ruin your dinner.”  (Always the good parent.)

The squirrel broke the stalemate by taking off along the top of the fence toward the back yard.  The Posse broke down the hall toward the back dog door with the hope of cutting him off.  (Never happen.  The fence leads right to the tree, and the squirrels follow that route without ever coming in reach.  But beagle logic never puts that together.)

Both racing beagle muzzles were in the air joining in an ARROOOOO chorus that could have been a combo fire truck and ambulance coming down our street.

You can sometimes just have too many choices in life.  Often, a single Hershey’s Kiss is better than a whole box of chocolates.

THE DOGYSSEY

Tommy was sitting sphinx-like in his sun spot.  Eyes squeezed shut, he was smacking his lips and occasionally making some kind of beagle mumbles.

“Tommy, are you OK?”

He slowly looked around at me.  “Do you mind?  I’m reciting the epic poetry of my people to myself.  We have a great tradition of oral literature.”

“Barking at shadows and baying at the moon?”

Apparently, my ignorance pained him.  He slowly rolled on his side in the sun, and explained, with a beagle sigh, “No, I was more than half-way through THE DOGYSSEY, and now I’ll have to start all over again.”

“I don’t believe I know it.”

“It is the heroic tale of a beagle in ancient Greece who took 20 years to find his way home after the Trojan War.  He met all kinds of challenges, like trios of cats washing up and singing by the sea shore, a giant one-eyed Rabbit, and more.  All beagles know it.”

“You know,” I told him, “that sounds very familiar.  But by a slightly different title.  Are you sure you aren’t talking about the ODYSSEY, by the Greek poet Homer?”

“It’s, THE DOGYSSEY, by Homer, the beagle poet.”

“Well,” I mused, “I guess I can see a dog named ‘Homer’, but I don’t know that I’ve heard of a pooch called ‘Odysseus.’”

Tuppence decided to join in the conversation.  “Do you read about that dumb cat, Garfield?”

“Well, yes.”

“And what was Garfield’s dog’s name?”

“Odie.”

“Short for Odysseus,” she snorted and clamped her mouth shut.

Not wanting to yield the high ground of poochy pedanticism, Tommy leapt back in.  “And after THE DOGYSSEY I’ll begin my recitation of our heroic epic about a great Northern European dog, and his adventures with a monster, and the monster’s mother.”

“Hmmm,let me guess.”

“Yes,” said Tommy, It’s the story of BAY AND WOOF.”

The pun was like a knife in my gut.  “Oh?”

Tuppence put in her two cents, (no apology for that pun) “The dog hero fights Grim Doll, and Grim Doll’s Mother—giant dog toys.  He tears the stuffing out of them.  A tradition we remember today by tearing the stuffing out of our toys.”

“Beagle Posse,” I warned, this has gone just about far enough.  I’ve had it with this discussion.

“Obviously,” said Tuppence, “you have no appreciation for Classic Literature and great writing.”

“Humph.  What makes you say that?”

“This blog,” said Tommy.

Hatfield, Plugs, and Cornbread

The cry rang through the hooch, “Hatfield got a package!”

Most of the time when a GI got a package, everyone was happy.  It meant cookies, cake, candy, or other goodies to share.  A Hatfield package was a different matter.

Gary Hatfield was a son of Kentucky.  A raw-boned boy of the hills and hollows who stood a wiry six foot two, and mostly kept both quiet and to himself.

But……about once a month, his Kentucky family would send him a box with the word “Cornbread” clearly printed in several places on the wrapper.  The packaged contained corn, sugar, yeast, and other ingredients of cornbread, (sort of), but in a much more compact and liquid form.  All placed lovingly in a pint mason jar, and carefully padded against damage in shipment.

When Hatfield got a package, he would take out the mason jar, sit down on the sandbags at the front of the hooch, and finish it off in about a half hour of sipping and muttering, “Smoooooth.”

He would then come into the hooch, and punch the first man he ran into.  And he could punch.  He had the kind of strength that comes from having worked very hard from a very young age.

So, the warning, “Hatfield got a package,” and everyone decided to leave him alone in the hooch for a while.  The pattern was that after he had floored whoever he met first, he would retire to his bunk, pass out, and next be seen in the Mess at dawn shoveling in green-tinged powdered eggs covered with huge dollops of Tabasco Sauce, and appearing none the worse for wear.

But this time there was Plugs.  He was still pretty much a newbie, but part of the “FNG Training” we provided was a warning about Hatfield’s packages.

Plugs was a guy from Cicero, Illinois, and just about the largest human being most of us had seen outside of an NFL team picture.  He was solid.  He had hands that looked like he was wearing two Second Baseman’s mitts, and there was no discernible transition from his shoulders to his head.  He was built exactly like a large fire plug—so, Plugs.  When he was issued his GI glasses in basic training, the dispensary had ordered a special pair to get frames large enough to fit his head.

As the cry went out about Hatfield’s package, Plugs rumbled, “You want me to take care of this?”  The motion passed by general consensus.

Hatfield came weaving into the hooch. There stood Plugs.  Without a word, Hatfield caught him square on the cheek with a Kentucky Mule Kick.  Plugs didn’t blink.

He says to Hatfield, “I thought you were gonna hit me.”

Hatfield goes into a windup that would have made Cy Young proud, and comes from somewhere up around Murfreesboro with a Mutton Hollow Widow Maker. It catches Plugs on the point of the chin. Plugs blinks once. Then he quietly says to Hatfield, “You only get two for free.”

Hatfield starts into the windup again, and Plugs bends over at the waist, drives a shoulder into Hatfield’s midsection, and stands up with a flailing Hatfield in a Fireman’s Carry. He then turns and deposits Hatfield on his bunk and says, “If you’re smart, you’re passed out now.”

The next morning, per routine, Hatfield was in place at breakfast, shoveling in eggs. Plugs walks in and sat down beside him. “You know,” he rumbles, “the next time you get cornbread, you can save us both a lot of trouble if you share.”

After he got back to The World, Plugs took his GI Bill and enrolled in Southern Illinois University. He walked on to the football team, and became an All Conference standout offensive lineman for the Fighting Salukis. He took a degree in accounting, and reportedly returned to the Chicago area where he opened a tax practice, specializing in gentlemen who remember that taxes is how they got Capone.

No one seems to know what happened to Hatfield, though all of us figure we’ll see him, or a son that looks just like him, on an episode of the reality TV show, “Moonshiners.”

Tyrannosaurus Chirp

I returned from errands, and the Beagle Posse didn’t meet me.  Their usual is both a show of love and a demand for attention, but they weren’t at the door.

I spotted them by the sliding glass doors looking onto the side patio and the bird feeders.  Again, not in a normal position.  They were one on each side of the door, hiding and peeking out around the door frame.

“Do you know what those things out there are?”, hissed Tommy.

A short backtrack to set the scene: On one side of the living room is a double sliding glass door looking out on a small patio, and across about ten feet of lawn to a stockade fence.  On that fence, we have hung several bird feeders, with a variety of seeds and feed to attract a variety of birds.  We get everything from gold finches to red-headed wood peckers, and enjoy the show.  Of course, we also get a fair number of squirrels, chipmunks, and even night-time raccoons.  And those mammals are what often keep the beagles glued to the windows of the door—and running barking through the house if they happen to scare one into running along the top of the fence.

Right now, there are no mammals, and the Beagle Posse appears to be keeping watch from hiding.

“Well,” he whispered, “do you?”

“Ummm,” I pondered.

“DINOSAURS,” Tommy screamed, “Those are Dinosaurs.”

“Those are birds.  Just birds.”

Tuppence went into a spew.  “Don’t you watch the Discovery Channel?  We watch the Discovery Channel, and a scientist on there said that those things are what dinosaurs turn into.  He showed, THEY. ARE. DINOSAURS.”

The light went on.  “Oh, I thought I turned the TV off.  But, in any case, some scientists, not all, but some think that some of the dinosaurs may have evolved into birds.  Evolved.  Descended.  And now they are small, harmless creatures.”

Tommy:  “They just look small from this far away.”

“Tommy, what do you mean, ‘this far away?’  Those birds are only a few feet out there.”

Tommy asked, “Can we get to them?”

Beagle depth perception and distance logic is different from humans.  If their teeth can reach it, an object is close.  If they can’t get a mouth on it, it’s far away

Tuppence piled on her own logic.  “Those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park looked small on the TV screen.  But you saw what they can do.”

“That was special effects,” I explained.

“Yeah?” spoke Tommy. “Your ass wouldn’t ‘specially like the effect if it was the one that got velociraptored.  I can’t believe you’ve actually been inviting those things to our house.  And FEEDING them!”

“Posse,” I tried to create calm, “those feeders have been there since before you came to live here.”

“We just now saw that science show,” hissed Tuppence.  “We had no idea, we thought you were feeding squirrels for us to watch, and the fly-y things were just unavoidable.”

“No, the birds were the point.”

“THEY’RE DINOSAURS!  YOU INVITED DINOSAURS!  What’s next, Bigfoot?”

I held my course.  “There are NO dinosaurs any more.  Not for 65 million years or more.  And there’s no such thing as Bigfoot.”

Tommy was almost getting to a growl.  “If there’s no such thing as Bigfoot, then how come The Learning Channel keeps putting on shows about ‘The Search for Bigfoot’?  The LEARNING Channel.”

“It’s all TV sensationalism, guys.  Just ways to sell ED drugs, quit smoking patches, and overpriced arthritis pills to gullible Americans.”

“So next,” says Tuppence, “you’re going to tell us there’s no such thing as a Sabre Toothed Tiger.  When we’ve got one wandering this very neighborhood.”

“Tuppence, that’s just a plain old Tabby Cat.  Not more than nine inches tall.”

“That’s what it looks like from here,” she snapped.  “It’s a huge, ferocious beast.  I’ve even seen it chase the dinosaurs.  It’s a Sabre Toothed Tabby.”

That beagle depth perception thing again.

Tuppy sped ahead, “You don’t care a thing about the safety of this family, do you?  It’s all up to us.  Dinosaursus, Bigfeets, Saber Tootheses……”

“Well, OK, Tuppence.  I see your point.  Maybe we need to bring in more beagles to help out.”

A chorus of, “Yeah.  Yeah.”

“Of course,” I said, “If we bring in more beagles, you two are going to have to share your treats with them.”

The Posse sat down and began grooming.  “No.  That’s OK.”  “We got this.”  “No help needed.”  “I can whip a dino any day………”   

Turning Tent Pegs Into Lobster Tails

To properly function, every military unit needs a Scrounger.

This isn’t a position that is identified in any official roster, but the Scrounger is essential.  He (there may now be shes) serves as the Supply Sergeant when the Supply Sergeant can’t supply.

Ours was Spec. 5 Mike Pilchuck.  He was king of the circular deal.  Where he traded something to Mr. A, who had something Mr. B wanted, so that he could get what he wanted from Mr. C, and Pilchuck would end up with what he needed.

After the war, Pilchuck became very successful in New Jersey real estate.  No surprise.

As he once explained, “The secret to any deal is not what you want, it’s finding out what the other guy wants more.”  That would be a good general business mantra.

The Company CO, and the First Sergeant were aware of both the necessity and activities of Specialist Pilchuck.  In fact, if you looked carefully at the company roster, you would find his name, and no duty assignment listed. 

In addition to the usual acquisition of Poncho Liners, and Boonie Hats, Pilchuck did some truly magnificent “midnight supply” scores.

There was the case of T-Bone Steaks , intended for the Officer’s Club, which one night fell off the truck behind our hooch.  And, most brilliant of all, the case of frozen South African lobster tails.  These were addressed, with a “RUSH” sticker, to the General’s Mess, but somehow failed to ask directions and ended up one midnight in the kitchen of our mess hall. 

With the aid of our mess sergeant, a huge GI pot of boiling water, and a half gallon can of US Army butter, about 25 of us got to work and helped hide the evidence, so those misguided crustaceans did not get caught and punished for going AWOL from their assigned duty station.

The night before the day Pilchuck was DROS (Date of Return from Over Seas), he passed the word, “Everyone be at the hooch at 4 o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”  (You could tell he was a Short Timer because he said, “4 o’clock”, not 1600 hours.  If he’d been talking to officers, he would probably have said, “When Mickey’s big hand is on 12, and his little hand is on 4.) Those of us who tried to plead duty were shushed as he said, “I’ve got that covered.  Be here.”

We were milling around the company street at the appointed hour, but no Pilchuck.  Lots of questions and shrugs, and we noticed that even the CO and the First Sergeant were in the group—thus no worries about duty assignments.

At about five after, we heard two things, the unmistakable sound of a Huey flaring in, and a jeep roaring up and sliding to a halt.  Not only was Pilchuck in the jeep, he had a driver. He jumped down and rushed into the middle of the road and began signaling the helicopter in.  It had a sling load beneath it, but that’s all we could tell.  The pilot skillfully settled the load onto the street, and Pilchuk saluted him and unhooked the net—the Huey then pulled off and away, as the net fell from the load.

There sat an entire pallet load, 4 feet x 4 feet x 4 feet, of cases of Budweiser beer.

Without a word, Pilchuck sprang back into the jeep, stood up and waved to the troops, saluted the CO, and gave a general Middle-Finger Salute to Vietnam. The jeep roared off.  We never saw him again.

We began to do our part of transporting the Bud into the hooch.

As the Army would put it:  It was several days before we were again an effective fighting force.

The Very Vicious. A Nemesis.

The Beagle Posse seemed even more focused than usual on the front window.

I looked out, and saw nothing unusual.  “What’s up, guys?”

Tuppence shushed me.  “We’re keeping watch for The Very Vicious.”

“The Very Vicious what?”

“What what?”

“You said ‘The Very Vicious’, and didn’t say what.”

Now Tommy shushed me, and mumbled, “What’s all this what?”

I said, “Very and vicious are modifiers.  They need a verb or a noun to modify.  So, ‘very vicious’ what?”

Tuppence whirled on me.  “We’re watching for a monster, and you want to talk grammar.  That’s what’s wrong with you.”

“OK, what monster?”

Tommy looked over his shoulder, “The Very Vicious.  We told you.”

It seemed easier to go along.  “OK, who or what is The Very Vicious.”

Tuppy supplied, “Our Nemesis.”

“Nemesis?” I pondered.  “Only super heroes have a Nemesis.”

“And,” smirked Tommy, “The Very Vicious is ours.”

Stifling a laugh, “Super heroes?  Just what are your super powers?”

Tuppence came and sat at my feet.  “You would know this if you ever paid attention. We have the power to hear things far beyond the frequency and distance of human hearing; we have the power of smell 100,000 times better than a human sense; and we have the power to eat anything we find at the side of the road with no problem.”

That took a minute to, pardon the pun, digest, and Tuppence turned back to the window while I considered it.  Then I asked, “So, good ears, a strong nose, and a cast-iron stomach are your super powers?”

“I’ve seen whole TV series built on less,” snorted Tommy.

I couldn’t help myself, “I’m amazed that you didn’t include Farting Like A Rhino as one of your super powers.”

Like she was speaking to a blond poodle, Tuppence explained, “That, obviously, is the safety relief valve for our Super Stomach.”

“Oh, of course.”  Hoping for some semblance of reality, I said, “I’ve never heard of your Very Vicious.  Can you describe him?”

Again, Tuppence took charge of the lecture.  “He’s not OUR Very Vicious, he is THE Very Vicious.  The absolute embodiment of every threat we face in this house.”

“I’ve never seen him,” I said.

“Oh, yes you have.  The Very Vicious can put on any shape he wants.  He can be a Meter Reader, a UPS Man, a dog walker, a cat, even a squirrel.  Basically, anything that passes this house can be, and probably is, The Very Vicious.  That’s why we have to be so careful, and bark at anything out there.  It could always be The Very Vicious, and who knows what could happen if he ever got in the house.”

“The Very Vicious can even be a squirrel,” I mused.  So, I guess that chipmunk out there could be him.”

The Beagle Posse disgustedly left the room.  “Sheesh,” said Tommy.  “A chipmunk as The Very Vicious.  THAT would be just plain silly.”

You're Neglecting Your Naps

Tuppence came sidling in. Tommy was peering out from the corner of the hallway. I could tell from the Beagle Posse postures that they were about to essay another of their Human Improvement projects.

Tuppence said, “Close the computer and take a minute.”

“What's up, Posse,” I asked. “Do you want more treats?”

“Of course,” said Tuppy, “but this is about your bad habits.”

“My bad habits?”

“Yes,” she said, “You've been neglecting your naps.”

“First, I'm not sure what you mean. Second, why did Tommy send you to talk to me about this?”

Tommy spoke from the verge of the hall. “She's the Kind and Intuitive one.”

Tuppence startled back at my laugh. “Right. She's the kind one who bit Deborah's finger, and who intuitively puddled by the front door.”

Tuppence sort of snarled. “I thought the finger was the chicken bone I had stolen. You don't expect me to be kind to dead fowl, do you? And, if you're going to go on and on about that puddle, it was the visit from YOUR friend Holly that got me so excited. Don't go blaming me for your mistakes.

“This intervention is about you, and your problems.”

“I'm still confused. What problems?”

Tommy finally stormed in the room. “You just don't listen, do you? We told you, you're neglecting your naps, ignoring your snoozles, refusing your R & R.”

Tuppy snarled at him to calm him down. “We have noticed, every time we wake up from a nap, you are either moving around the house, or cooking, or working on the computer. Simple math--time motion studies-- says that we should wake up to find you napping if you were doing enough.”

“Hmmmm,” I took a pause. “I think its a bit off base to try to apply 'time motion' to napping. But I still don't get your point. All you've shown me here is that you are pretty constantly napping, and then waking up to find me not napping.”

“Precisely!” yipped Tuppence. “Beagles are some of the best nappers in the world. We don't expect you to be as good at it as we are, but you could at least put in the effort to snooze more.”

“....the effort to snooze more,” I mused.

Tuppence began to pace and preach. “Naps are one of the four essential legs on the couch of life. There's eating, there's napping, there's barking intruders away, and there's peeing when you need to. You must have all four to have a successfully rounded life.

“The well-considered nap allows you to build the power for the bursts of energy needed to do any of the other three.”

“Like,” I said, “leaping off the couch in a barking, howling frenzy when the UPS man starts up the walk.”

“That,” spoke Tommy, “is a Brown-Shirted demon we have never allowed to invade the house. You're welcome.”

Tuppence continued her sermon, “There are only four times when it is essential for you to be awake, all else is simply a willful refusal on your part to attend to your napping.”

“Four?” I asked.

“6 AM, 11 AM, 5 PM, 9 PM.”

I may not be a beagle or a math whiz, but I solved the pattern. “OK, Breakfast, Elevenses Snack, Supper, and Bedtime Treats. Is that it?”

“Yes, any other moving about is a waste of slumber by you.”

“Look, I'm perfectly happy with my sleep patterns.”

“Well,” yawned Tommy as they both circled three times in place and curled up on the couch, “If you don't want to change, we can't help you change.”