Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 13

The D.I. was right, 0500 arrived far earlier than I would have liked. For most of the night, my mind raced with images from the night fire range. Like angry ghosts, they charged through my consciousness like war horses clamoring to battle. I would drift into a light sleep, only to be pulled away from badly needed rest by the images of blood and shattered bone. Some facsimile of sleep eventually came but only as the result of exhaustion. As I rose from my bunk, I couldn’t help noticing how heavy my body felt. I guess it was good that our one day of liberty seemed to be so well-timed. If it had been another training day, I’m certain that I would have been of little use. After the usual morning routine, we marched to the mess hall for breakfast. As usual, it was brief.

After breakfast, we fell into formation and received another lecture from the D.I. before going into town. “Listen up, assholes!” he began. “The drinking age in South Carolina is eighteen! This does not apply to you! You will conduct yourselves in a civilized manner at all times! This means that you will refrain from the use of alcohol! Also, because of where this installation is located, the area of Columbia that you will be going to is known for prostitution! You will not cavort with the prostitutes! The last thing I want to see is one of ‘my’ recruits coming back to ‘my’ barracks with some kind of slimy fucking disease! So, do not get the idea that you are going into town to get laid! You will be bussed into town and dropped off at Granby Park! That bus will leave Granby Park at 1600 hours on the dot, whether you are there or not! And I highly recommend that each of you are there on time! Do I make myself clear?!”

“Sir, yes sir!” we answered.

It took forty-five minutes to get to Granby Park. Once we were there, everyone grabbed a map and headed off in different directions. I decided to go to the military museum on Gist Street. I didn’t really feel like being around a lot of people, given recent events and I thought that the museum would be both quiet and interesting. But, as I made my way out of the park I heard the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching from behind me.

“Hey, Taylor, right?”

I recognized him immediately. His name was Steve Jacobs. He was from a small town about an hour west of Albany, New York. After basic training, he went on to tech school to become an artillery specialist.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Just call me Clarence.”

“I thought they called you Socrates,” he said. “Yeah, I guess that’s what they call me,” I replied. He walked next to me for a few minutes. “So, uh, where are you headed?” Steve asked. “Well,” I began. “There’s a military museum just up on Gist Street I’d like to check out.”

“Awesome!” Steve replied. “Mind if I go along with you?” I really did want to be left alone for a few hours but I got the feeling that he might be trying to offer a bit of sympathetic company.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I answered.

We walked a bit further in something of an awkward silence as I continued studying the map. I knew he was curious - everyone was. I suppose I had to say something at some point. Maybe it was best to just get it out in the open. “So, how are you holding up? I mean, you were right there, right?”

Without stopping, I glanced over at him. “Yeah, I was,” I answered.

“The other guys in the trench said Kevin just snapped,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s pretty much what happened.”

“Did John snap too?” he asked.

“No, he was just trying to help,” I answered. A moment went by as Steve seemed to struggle for words. “And you were right there,” he continued. “Fuck, I don’t think I could handle that.”

The truth is, I wasn’t handling it. I was angry. ‘Why me?’ I wondered. Why did I have to be the one who just happened to be sitting next to two people, only to watch them die? I know it seems selfish but it just isn’t fair that I have to find a way to move on with my life while two of my friends have, for some reason, been removed from the weight of the world.

“Look,” Steve continued. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here for you’. I mean…I can’t say that I understand but, you know, if…sorry, I’m not very good at this kind of thing”.

“It’s okay,” I replied. “I get it. Thanks.” I had to give him credit. Everyone else seemed to be too afraid to say anything. Maybe they were afraid of saying the wrong thing. Maybe they were afraid of not knowing what to say, to begin with.

Now, instead of keeping watch over someone who needed a friend, someone else seemed to be keeping watch over me and I was the one who needed a friend. We spent a couple of hours wandering through the museum. I felt especially drawn to the revolvers. They all looked similar to each other, yet each bore an elegant beauty all their own. I would even go so far as to call them works of art. They had clean lines and graceful curves, unlike the pistol I had become accustomed to carrying. I know it’s hard to see a firearm as objet d’art, considering the purpose they were designed for but the passage of time painted a new picture of these relics, overshadowing their function with form, grace and yes, a certain degree of beauty. We’d spent about two hours in the museum when Steve walked up to me studying his map. “Hey, Socrates,” he said. “Let’s go downtown.” I didn’t want to be around a lot of people but it occurred to me that I’d probably never be in South Carolina again. “Sure,” I replied. “Why not?”

We left the museum and walked back down towards Granby Park. If I was going downtown, I didn’t want to wander aimlessly. That seemed like a waste of time and time was something we did not have in abundance. I looked closely at the map.

“Hey, Steve,” I began. “How about this?” I pointed out what I thought was a place that would be hard to wander away from. Neither of us knew this city and using a landmark as a reference point seemed like the smart thing to do. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves standing in front of the Carolina Coliseum. This area was a haven for tourists, with small shops and stores that sold a little of everything. If you were looking for something unique and had enough time you would, no doubt, find it here. I also felt an urge to buy something ‘touristy’ and was drawn to what looked like a ‘new age’ store. Upon opening the door, I was immediately struck by the overpowering aroma of incense. A middle-aged man stepped out from the back of the store.

“Help y’all with something?” he asked. “Just looking,” I answered. “Thanks.” There were scores of books on everything new age - chakras, crystal healing, astrology, and psychic awareness, to name a few. Then, something stood out to me - something small. It was a green jade Buddha. I picked it up and noticed how cold it was. The store owner informed me that jade is always cold. It really didn’t seem to matter that it was jade. It could have been made of cheap plastic for that matter but there was just something about it that fascinated me. So I paid seventy dollars for the four-inch statue and made my way toward the door. As I left, I noticed Steve near the entrance of the Coliseum. My curiosity peaked as I saw him talking with a rather colorfully dressed woman. But, as I grew closer I was struck by the odd feeling that this was not a chance encounter.

She smoked her cigarette like a man and spoke in a manner that would put a trucker to shame. Here was a forty-something flamboyantly dressed woman who introduced herself as ‘Nettie’. She had a colorful personality and worked the streets of downtown Columbia as a prostitute, presenting a clownishly humorous image that left me thinking that some things are just too unbelievable to be real. Then again, I had never met a prostitute before. “Hey!” she said. “You didn’t tell me you had a friend!” She looked me up and down as I glanced around hoping to become invisible.

“Well,” she continued. “Look at you, handsome! The prize pig at the county fair’s got nothin’ on you!” I think she was complimenting me. I’m still not sure. I do know that it’s difficult to respond to something when you don’t understand what’s being said. “So,” Nettie said. "You guys lookin’ to party? I can’t take you both but I got a friend.”

Mental note: prostitutes have friends. She continued looking us over as though we were, well, the prize pig at the county fair, I guess. Now, she began touching the creases of my shirt and straightening my tie while her cigarette hung from her painted lips. “Fuck,” she said. “A man in uniform gets me so fucking horny!”

“So, who’s your friend?” Steve asked. I looked at him as though he had just lost his mind. “Her name’s Dorothy,” Nettie said. “She’s working right now if you know what I mean.”

She playfully nudged my elbow as a broad grin came over her face. A moment of tense silence passed, only to be broken as Nettie glanced across the street.

“Hey!” she yelled. “There she is!” From out of the front door of a rundown apartment building walked a middle-aged woman sporting curly brown hair, a halter top, and tight shorts. Stepping off the curb, she paused to light a cigarette and displayed a flare of temper as a car passed far too close for comfort. “Watch where the fuck you’re going’!” she yelled. “Asshole!”

Nettie greeted her cheerfully as she crossed the street. “Hey! What’s up, bitch?!”

Dorothy didn’t seem to be one for conversation but I suppose it wasn’t conversation she was paid to provide. Unlike Nettie, Dorothy gave the appearance of someone whom life had trampled into the ground. Her face was devoid of anything cheerful as though it had been chiseled by both time and despair.

I couldn’t help thinking that at some point in her life she had once been someone’s little girl. Now, the only things she seemed to be left with were anger and a not so slight sore near the corner of her mouth. I leaned over toward Steve as she continued cursing about the driver who nearly ran her over.

“We need to get out of here,” I said, pointing to my watch. “So,” Nettie said. “I think we got a couple of party boys here!”

She smiled broadly and put a hand on her hip. “What do you’ say, guys, fifty each?”

“Fifty?” Dorothy replied. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“Oh, c’mon,” replied Nettie. “Look at these guys, so sexy in their uniforms.”

Dorothy rolled her eyes in resignation. “Fine,” she said. “I suppose so.”

I didn’t think that paying fifty dollars to have sex with a middle-aged prostitute was necessarily a good deal, nor a good idea. Not that I was actually considering it but it did seem like a perfectly good waste of money and what one would get in return seemed not only unsavory but incredibly unfair.

“Which one do ‘you’ want?” Dorothy asked. “Would you excuse us for a moment?” I interrupted. I grabbed Steve by the arm and pulled him away by about twenty feet.

“Are you nuts?! You’re not actually going to do this, are you?! Don’t you remember what the D.I. said?”

“Socrates, come on, I’m just messing with them,” Steve replied.

“Steve,” I began. “It’s three thirty. We have to get back to the park.”

Steve glanced at his watch.

“Shit!” he said quietly.

As we began to walk back toward the direction of Granby Park, I turned and waved to them. “Ladies,” I began. “It’s been nice! But we’ve got to take off!”

As we left, I couldn’t help but overhear them. “Fuck, I love a man in uniform,” Nettie said. “Hey, you want to get drunk?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dorothy replied. “You buying?”

“Fuck yeah, bitch!” Nettie answered. “I make more money than you, anyway!”

I looked back with a grin as they continued chattering. I would occasionally wonder what became of them. A city the size of Columbia tends to have a mean streak that takes exception to no one. And like Nettie and Dorothy, if you became one of its many lost souls, chances are you’d never find your way out.