More on Language from Sgt. Charleston

One of the life benefits of the old drafted army was the diversity.  Draftees came from many ways of life, and all corners of the nation, including Puerto Rico.

As an Ozarker, I had for sure never before run up against anyone like Ricco.  Ricco was New York street corner Italian, with all the Tomato Sauce attitude, swagger, and self-esteem that went with it.  He ran head on into Sgt. Charleston on the second day of Basic.

Sgt. C strode into the barracks.  “Gentlemen’s, I will call your names.  When you hear your names, you will respond with a loud and clear, ‘Heah, SAH-junt.’ Is that clear?”  And he began to call names.  Recruits responded with the requested term, and various levels of enthusiasm.  About 20 names in, he came to Ricco.

“Ricco.”

“Yo.”

Sgt. C didn’t look up from his clipboard.  “Gentlemens, ‘Yo’ is not a word that will be spoken in my Army.  I am SAH-JUNT Charleston.

“I am not, You’

“I am not, ‘Hey’

“I am not, ‘Dude’

"I am not, ‘Man’.”

He looked up.  “I am, ‘SAH-junt.  That is how you will address me.  You will use one of three ways to speak to me.  You will say, ‘Heah, SAH-junt,’ or ‘Yes, SAH-junt,’ or ‘No excuse, SAH-junt.’  You will never damage my ears with a ‘Yo,’ is that clear?  And, above all, you will never call me ‘Sir.’  Sir, is an officer.  I am a Sah-junt, the finest title that can ever be applied to a man.  An officer is a gold-plated brass candy-ass, who struts his congressionally appointed self about, drinks at the O Club, and pretends to run this Army while the sergeants are accomplishing the mission.  And, finally, an officer, from Lieutenant to General, is someone you will address as ‘Sir,’ you will salute, and you will give your ultimate respect.  Is THAT clear?”

“And, if you happen to see a Lieutenant with a map, you will respectfully, and gently, turn the top to North for him.”

“Now.  Ricco.”

“Yo…………sah-junt.”

The Beagle Crown

(This is a tale of events a few weeks ago.)

On a nice Spring morning, Deborah was out putting in tomato plants, and I was on the couch, drinking coffee and facebooking.  Because, if I don’t do those on Saturday, there is no civilization left.

With a thunderous gallop down the hall, the Beagle Posse burst into the room, did a high-speed banked turn on the back of the sofa, across my chest, and zoomed from the room as fast as they’d entered.  While I was still checking to see if the claw marks on my chest were bleeding, they returned for another lap, then two more in rapid succession.

“HEY, YOU IDIOTS, STOP!!”, I explained.

They’d already made it half way down the hall, but turned and reluctantly came back, panting and twitching.  “What?” asked Tommy.  “We gotta train.  We gotta warm up.”

With all the calm of a Vegan at a pig roast, I said, “Tell me what’s going on, and fast.”

“It’s the last day of the Beagle Crown,” panted Tuppence.  “We gotta be ready for the race later today.”

A smart man would have gone back to his coffee and face book arguments.  A smart man.  “What race?” I asked.

With the exasperated sigh of a teacher with a slow pupil, Tuppence said, “The Beaglemont Stakes.”

Then I recalled that this was the day of the running of the Belmont Stakes, and the final day of this year’s Triple Crown pursuit.  “Guys, guys, you have it mixed up.  Today, is the Belmont.  A horse race.  It has nothing to do with beagles.”

“Naw, naw.”  Tommy.  “We don’t care about those dumb horsey folks, and their big sweaty beasts.  The real races are for beagles, and the Beagle Crown.  Those bluegrass bunglers stole our idea and our race names.”

“What???”

“The first race, a few weeks ago, was the Beagletucky Derby.  The final race, Beaglemont, is today.”

“Posse, I’ve never heard of any of this.”

“Are you a beagle?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

“So,” I queried, “the famous horse races are not the main event?”

“Of course not,” explained Tommy, “the beagle races are where the real champions run.  I mean, do we look dumb enough to let a half-starved short little guy sit on our back and whip us for a mile or more?”

“So, who wins the Beagle Crown?”

“Beagles.”

“Yes, which beagles?”

“All beagles.  The pack doesn’t get wrapped up in First and Last.  The pack just runs.”

“Ok,” I said, “but tell me, if the first race was the Beagletucky Derby, and today’s race is the Beaglemont Stakes, what was the name of the middle race?”

“The Freakness,” barked Tommy, as they did a beagle turn up the hallway wall and set off on more laps.

Nuff

The Beagle Posse marched in wearing their “Committee of the Whole” faces.  Tuppence, as usual, taking the role of spokesdog.

“We have decided on a new managing philosophy for human/Beagle relationships.” She announced.

“Oh?”  I let it lay there.

“Yes.  We have a new system called ‘Nuff’ It should be put in place starting now.”

The very tone of this makes me cautious. “And what is this system?  How does it work?”

Tommy now joins.  “It’s easy.  We get whatever we want until we say Nuff’”

“Oh, and how do you decide when to say, Nuff?”

“When we’ve had enough.”

I pondered.  “That sounds to me like a recipe for out of control beagles.”

The Posse began rolling and yipping in dog laughter.

Finally catching her breath, Tuppence wheezed out, “He said ‘beagle’ and ‘control’ in the same sentence.”

“Don’t rub it in,” I grumbled.

“Back to the item on the table,” said Tuppence.  “Can we say the system is now in place?”

“No,“  I said.  “You need to give me examples.”

Tommy held up as paw as if trying to enumerate something on a toe.  “When we get scratches and belly rubs, they don’t stop until we say Nuff.”

“And when will that be?”

“When we’ve had enough.”

“I mean, how long do you think it will take you to get enough?” I asked.

“No one knows,” replied Tuppence.  “Time is a human concept which beagles reject.”

“I guess,” added Tommy, “it could be forever.  Or until we see or think of a squirrel, or it's time for supper.”

“Yeah, Supper.” Interjected Tupp.

“Speaking of supper,” continued Tommy.  “Under the new system we keep getting food until we say Nuff.”

“Woah.  No beagle has ever said Nuff to food.”

“You’re beginning to understand the system,” said Tuppence.

I said, “So, the system is, you get anything you want; as much as you want; for as long as you want.  Is that it?”

“I see nothing wrong with that,” said Tommy.

“You know,” I pondered, “your Nuff system sounds a lot like the Trump system.”

“Tuppence replied,  “But we have better hair, and bark less than he does.”

“Sorry, Posse,” I said, “I don’t think you can count on this system in this house.”

More beagle laughter.  “We didn’t say it was a choice.”

“Well, since I do the scratching, and I buy and serve the kibbles, I think it is my choice.”

They turned to walk back to the bedroom where there was a sunny spot on the carpet.  “We’ll give you some time to get used to the idea.  We’re going to nap.”

“How long?” I asked.

“Til we’ve napped Nuff,” said Tuppence.

“Or till we hear you serve supper,” added Tommy.

“Yeah,” yawned Tuppence.  “Supper.”

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.”