Kilmer

KILMER
 

      During the Korean War, as during World War II, Camp Kilmer, located somewhere in wilds of New Jersey, was a staging point for draftees from New York City and the surrounding area.  From Kilmer, they were shipped out to other Army posts for basic training. 

     Draftees assigned to 16 weeks of basic training, as at the notorious Indiantown Gap camp in Pennsylvania, were invariably sent to Korea.  Draftees assigned to eight weeks of basic were usually sent elsewhere.  The typical stay at Kilmer was a few days, never more than a week. 
 

The Night of the Curses 

     Paul Weiss lay awake on his Army bunk in one of the barracks at Camp Kilmer.  The lights had just gone out but he knew he was going to have a hard time getting to sleep.  It was hot in the barracks, and airless.  He found it hard to breathe; maybe he was going to have one of his asthma attacks. 

     Was it just that morning that he'd left his parents' tastefully furnished apartment in Upper Manhattan and taken the subway down to the Army induction center at Whitehall?  It didn't seem possible. 

     He'd graduated from Columbia University that spring and had spent the summer reading in preparation for returning there in the fall to get a master's degree in English.  Then, like one of those terrible messages in the Greek plays he'd been studying, came the induction notice from the Army.  

     Still, at the time he wasn't worried.  He was sure it was all a mistake.  Everyone knew that if you were going back to college for an advanced degree you'd be deferred.  And even if the Army wouldn't extend his deferral, there was his asthma.  He had a note from his doctor saying that with his condition he couldn't possibly serve in the Army.  Not worried; that showed how foolish he'd been. 

     At Whitehall, he'd tried to find someone to talk to about his deferment but a series of derisive sergeants had told him to move his ass along with the rest.  Finally, at the end of his physical, a doctor had glanced at the note about his asthma, laughed and crumpled it up.  If he could walk in there, the doctor told him, he was healthy enough.  Maybe the Army would cure his asthma.  

     On the Army bus, Paul noticed that the other draftees were a rough-looking lot, many of them black or Hispanic.  None looked as if he'd been to college.  His seatmate, a skinny black kid who said his name was Adam, asked, "What's this place we going to?" 

     "It's Camp Kilmer, in New Jersey." 

     "New Jersey?" Adam said, as if he'd been told he was going to Greenland.  Then, like air hissing out from a punctured tire, he said one word, "Sheeeeet." 

     The bus seemed to wander all over the countryside and by the time they reached Kilmer it was dusk.  They passed through an unmanned gate, then saw weed-overgrown fields, and finally old wooden buildings that looked ready to collapse.  A cloud of dust hung over the camp.  Soldiers in green fatigues went by, floating like ghosts in the haze.  The bus stopped and they stumbled out.  A fat sergeant tried to get them into a line so that he could lead them to a mess hall.  "Move your fucking asses," said the sergeant.  "Jesus, what the hell are they sending us now?" 

 

     So here he was, a few hours later, trying to get to sleep in an Army barracks.  New York City, Columbia, his comfortable bedroom with all of his books, they might as well be a million miles away.  Maybe he was dreaming; maybe it was all a nightmare.  But he could feel the rough Army blanket scratching his skin.  He could hear the strange sounds of all the men around him.  He could smell the barracks' latrine.  He felt like one of those nobles in Shakespeare who, after a lifetime in the court, suddenly finds himself in the Tower of London.  He may not have faced execution in the Army, but who was to say if he'd come out alive.

     

     Then someone across the way, he thought it was Adam, sat up in his bunk and yelled out, "Motherfucker."  Paul was startled.  Someone else yelled, "Motherfucking son-of-a-bitch."  This was followed by "Stupid cock-sucking motherfucking son-of-a bitch."   The cursing went on as if it was a contest, each new one trying to top the last.  

     Paul was shocked.  He'd heard cursing before but never anything like this, obscenity for its own sake, piling up like a mountain of dirt.  He wanted to yell for them to stop it but was afraid to.  He waited for them to run down but it seemed they could go on all night.  Finally, he got up, pulled on his pants and went out to the back steps of the barracks. 

     It was a little cooler outside, although not much.   A full moon was out, illuminating other barracks surrounded by cracked concrete and weeds.  Half a dozen or so other fellows were sitting on the steps, smoking cigarettes. 

     "It's like a madhouse in there," said Paul.  "Why are they doing it?" 

     "They're scared and trying to show how brave they are," one of the smokers said.  He was a short, stocky fellow with longish black hair slicked back, a large nose and hooded eyes.  "Say, don't I know you?" 

     "No, I don't think so." 

     "You live around Morningside Heights, right?" 

     "Yes.  I went to Columbia." 

     "What's your old man do?" 

     "My father's a dentist." 

     "Sure, Weiss the dentist.  I knew I seen you around."  The fellow's name was Stanko.  He'd gone to their neighborhood high school.  Paul told him about the Army's drafting him even though he was supposed to go to graduate school in the fall.  "I tried to explain it to them at Whitehall, but nobody would listen to me." 

     "Yeah, try to tell them clowns anything." 

     "I wonder if my father can do anything." 

     "I wouldn't count on it.  Once the Army has your ass it's not going to let it go." 

     "But I don't belong in the Army.  I shouldn't be here." 

     "Hey, who does?  But that's the way it goes." 

     By that time, the cursing inside the barracks seemed to have subsided.   They went inside.  Paul saw Stanko go to his bunk across the way.   Somebody was sleeping on it.  Paul wouldn't have known what to do, but without hesitation Stanko rolled the sleeper off onto the floor.   The fellow woke up cursing.                     "That was my bunk, asshole," said Stanko.   When the fellow got to his feet, Stanko reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife.   "Come ahead," said Stanko, "if you want to get cut."   The fellow mumbled something and climbed into the upper bunk.

     Paul lay down in his own bunk.   It was quiet except for some snores.   The latrine smell was worse than before, mingled now with the smell of sweaty bodies.   Paul closed his eyes.  He could see the Army bus leaving Whitehall, heading for the Lincoln Tunnel and Kilmer in New Jersey.  He remembered the people walking along the sunlit streets of downtown Manhattan.  They were free, and he was here.  He was in the motherfucking Army.  Then he was asleep. 
 

Sergeant Buttons 

    When he woke up the next morning, Paul thought he was back home.  Then he saw the other figures getting out of their bunks, grunting, farting, scratching, cursing.  He was back in the nightmare, only it was real. 

     That first day they got their uniforms and other gear and went to the barber for their Army haircuts.   In the afternoon they were lined up in front of their barracks.  Paul noticed that while all the others looked as if they'd been scalped, Stanko's hair still looked longish. 

     A new sergeant came out of the barracks and began to address them.   He was of medium height, solidly built, with a round red face, blondish hair and bloodshot blue eyes.   "I'm Sergeant Roth," he said, "and I'm going to be your barracks sergeant until you get your asses shipped out of here.  You behave yourselves and you'll make it.  You fuck with me and you'll be sorry you were ever born." 

       

     He started to walk up and down the lines of troops.   He stopped in front of Paul, looked him up and down, then suddenly screamed at the top of his voice, "Your goddamned pocket's unbuttoned."   He swiftly put out a hand and ripped off the offending button.   "Don't you shitheads even know enough to keep your pockets buttoned?" he yelled. 

     Paul had jumped at the first scream and now he tried to remain standing at attention while Sergeant Roth continued to yell at him and rip off his shirt buttons.  Paul could smell liquor on Roth's breath.  Maybe that explained it.  The sergeant was drunk, or crazy, probably both. 

     Finally, Roth said, "What's your name?" 

     "Private Paul Weiss, sir."  

     "Don't call me sir.  I'm a sergeant, you asshole.  Do I look like a goddamned officer.  Okay, Weiss, you better watch your fucking step.  You're on my shit-list."  He moved off and Paul took a deep breath.  Thank God, it was over.  But he hadn't even been in the Army for one day and look at what was happening.  He couldn't take much more of this.  He certainly couldn't last out two years. 

     The next morning they fell out at six and after breakfast in the mess hall, slop which Paul could barely get down, they lined up again to be assigned to work details for the rest of the day.   Sergeant Buttons, as Roth had been immediately named, asked if any of them were artists.   Two or three innocent fellows stepped forward and were put to work painting the mess hall.  Everyone else was given some detail or other and marched away.  As it happened, Paul and Stanko were the last ones left and were assigned to their own barracks, to clean up. 

     Sergeant Buttons showed them where the mops and pails were and they started to mop the barracks floor.   As soon as Buttons left, Stanko put down his mop and got out a pack of cards.   "You play pinochle?" he asked Paul. 

     "No," said Paul.  "What are you doing?  What if he comes back?" 

     "No way," said Stanko.  "He's gone to the noncoms club for his morning beers." 

     "But why take a chance?  Who knows what they'll do to us if we're caught." 

     "What are they going to do, court-martial us?  Relax." 

     Stanko made Paul sit down on a bunk and tried to teach him how to play pinochle.  Paul was nervous and couldn't help glancing at the door every few minutes.  After about an hour, he finally became absorbed in the cards and was thinking that pinochle was actually a pretty interesting game.  Then there was a noise outside. 

     "Buttons," said Stanko, and quickly put the cards away.   They both jumped up and grabbed mops.  Sergeant Buttons staggered into the barracks.  He weaved back and forth and looked blearily at them.   "What are you fuckers doing in here?" he asked. 

     "Cleaning up," said Stanko.  "Don't you remember?   You assigned us." 

     "Don't give me any fucking lip, you fucking recruit."   He staggered and grabbed onto one of the top bunks to keep from falling. 

     "Take it easy, sergeant," said Stanko.   "Let us get you to your room." 

      "I can get there myself."  He stared at Paul.  "You got all your pockets buttoned, Weiss?" he demanded. 

     "Yes, sir," said Paul.  "I mean, yes, sarge.  You're not an officer." 

     "Fucking A," said the sergeant.  He let go the upper bunk and started to fall.   They caught him and managed to get him into his room at the back of the barracks and finally onto his bunk.  He closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep. 

     They went back out.  Stanko was ready to resume the pinochle game but Paul knew he couldn't do it, not with Buttons right there.  Stanko was trying to argue him into it when they heard someone else coming up the steps of the barracks.   "Shit," said Stanko, as they again grabbed the mops. 

     A captain they'd never seen before came in.   "'Tenshun," yelled Stanko loudly. 

     "At ease, men," said the Captain.   "Have you seen Sergeant Roth?" 

     "No, sir," said Stanko.   "Not since this morning." 

     The captain looked around the barracks.   "The floor's still wet and slippery, sir," said Stanko.  "Be careful where you walk." 

     The Captain grunted.   "Okay," he said.  "If you see the sergeant, tell him Captain Wooley was looking for him." 

     "Yes, sir." 

     The Captain turned and left.   "Do you think Buttons heard that?" Paul asked.   Stanko shrugged.   They went back and looked into the sergeant's room.   Rothwas still laying on his bunk with his eyes shut.   They returned to the barracks and Stanko again got out his cards. 
 

The Slave Market 

     Every morning after that the men in the barracks would fall out after breakfast and be sent to work details for the day.  They called it going to the slave market.  They moved boxes back and forth in warehouses, washed the windows of the officers' and noncoms' clubs, mopped endless floors and cleaned up stinking latrines. 

     Every day some of them got their assignments and were shipped out, to be replaced by other draftees coming in.  Adam was one of the last of the original draftees to go, to a camp in Mississippi, he told Paul.  "Mississippi," he said.  "Sheeeeet."  After a week, everyone they'd come in with were gone but Paul and Stanko were still left. 

     The second week, instead of going to work details, everyone was sent to policing the area.   Some general must have inspected the place, said Stanko, and found that it looked like a garbage dump.  Then, after picking up every scrap of paper and cigarette butt in camp, they were marched out to the railway tracks and told to pull up the grass and weeds growing up between them. 

     "This sucks," said Stanko, on his hands and knees and pulling at a large weed because a sergeant was looking directly at them.   The sun glared down and huge mosquitoes buzzed around their heads.  Their fatigues were soaking wet.

 

     "I wonder how come we haven't gotten our assignments yet," said Paul. 

     "Who knows?  Maybe they forgot about us.  Damnit."  He slapped at a mosquito. 

     "Maybe we're going to get some special assignment?" 

     "Sure," said Stanko.  "We'll be sent to police the White House lawn.  They probably lost our fucking papers." 

     The sergeant called out, "Okay, you men, less talking and more work."   

     "Fuck you," said Stanko under his breath and continued to tug at the weed. 
 

The PX 

     The next morning, after they got back from the mess hall, Stanko said to Paul, "Let's go." 

     "Go where?" asked Paul. 

     "We're disappearing.   Unless you want to pull out weeds and be eaten up by mosquitoes all day again." 

     "We can't just take off," protested Paul. 

     "Why not?" 

     "They'll see that we're gone.  We'll be AWOL.  Then we'll really get it." 

     "Jesus, you going be scared all your life?  Look, we should have shipped out last week, like everybody else.  Do you want to go on pulling out weeds  just because they've forgotten about us?" 

     "But what if we get caught?" 

     "Shit, to the Army we're just bodies.  They don't know one draftee from another.  They won't even know we're gone." 

     "Okay.  I know I shouldn't, but I'll take a chance."

  

     Paul followed Stanko out of the barracks.   Stanko was carrying a clipboard under one arm. 

     "Where'd you get that?" Paul asked. 

     "The warehouse we worked at last week.   Makes us look official.   Just look like you know where you're going and if anyone stops us let me do the talking." 

     They walked quickly through the streets, kicking up dust behind them.   It was going to be another hot and humid day, thought Paul, not one he'd want to spend at the railway tracks.   "Here we are," said Stanko.   They went into a large building and Paul immediately felt cool.   Unlike the barracks, it must have been air-conditioned.   The place, already at that time in the morning, was crowded.   Soldiers sat around tables drinking coffee or cokes, reading magazines, talking.   There was a steady buzz of noise.   A jukebox was blaring away.   They were in the camp PX. 

     They sat at a table and drank coffee, which tasted like real coffee, not like the sludge in the mess hall.  Paul looked around the PX.   There were a lot of sergeants and other noncoms there.  Paul's nervousness increased.  "What if someone asks us what we're doing in here?" he asked Stanko.

 

     "We tell them we're shipping out and our bus is late.   Those Army buses are always running late.  C'mon, relax.  Let's play pinochle." 

     They might as well, thought Paul.  He'd gone AWOL, something he would never have thought possible.  And there was nothing he could do about it now.  They spent the day in the PX.   Nobody bothered them.   They had hamburgers, fries and shakes for lunch.   In the afternoon, half a dozen soldiers, all rawboned and tough-looking, sat at the table next to them.   From their talk it sounded as if they were about to ship out.  "Where you guys going?" asked Stanko. 

     "Indiantown Gap," said one. 

     "Where's that?" 

     "Pennsylvania.   Sixteen weeks basic training.   It's pipeline to Korea." 

     "Yeah," said Stanko.  "Well, good luck." 

     At five, they walked back to their barracks and joined the other draftees coming back from the slave market, then they went to the mess hall for supper.  After the PX food, the slop tasted worse than ever. 
 

A Little Misunderstanding

     The next morning they returned to the PX.   Paul's parents had sent him a package of books at his request and he brought one along, the short stories of Irwin Shaw.   Stanko bought a few magazines and they drank coffee and read.  They were tired of playing pinochle. 

     The other tables were again all crowded.   The jukebox was again blaring.   The same song was played over and over.   It was "I Don't Want Your Money, Honey, I Just Want Your Time," sung by Kay Starr.   Some soldiers were playing the pinball machines against one wall and every now and then the sounds of the machines pierced through the music. 

     Paul became aware that somebody was standing by their table.   A big soldier wearing the one stripe of a Private First Class had come up and he was staring at Paul.   "Don't have anything better to do than read that book, Jewboy?" he said.   "You are a Jewboy, aren't you?" 

     Paul felt his legs tremble.  Nobody had ever called him a Jewboy before.  He didn't know what he should do.  He knew he shouldn't have gone to the PX again with Stanko. 

     "Hey, I'm talking to you, Jewboy," said the PFC.  He made a move toward Paul but  Stanko was already up, his switchblade knife coming out.   There was a confusing moment.   Some other soldiers grabbed the PFC and pulled him back before Stanko could get at him while some others held onto Stanko.   Then a couple of white-helmeted military police appeared and everyone drew back. 

     "What the fuck's going on here?" asked one of the MPs. 

     "Nothing," Stanko said quickly.   "Just a little misunderstanding." 

     "Yeah, let's see that knife." 

     Stanko looked down at the knife in his hand as if surprised to see it there.   "Sure.  Just happened to find it this morning.   Somebody probably dropped it." 

     The MP took the knife.   "Okay, what are you guys doing here?" 

     "Uh, we're shipping out today, in a couple of hours.   We just stopped in to pass the time." 

     The MP looked at them suspiciously.   "Yeah.   Well, everyone better come with us.   We'll get this thing straightened out."   Stanko looked at Paul and gave a little shrug as if to indicate that he'd done his best.  Now they were in for it, thought Paul. 
 

A Meeting with Buttons 

     Later that day Paul and Stanko were in Sergeant Buttons little room at the back of the barracks.   Buttons screamed at them as if all of their pockets were unbuttoned.   "You fucking schmucks.   What the hell did you think you were doing?" 

     "We were just defending ourselves, Sarge," said Stanko, looking at Buttons meaningfully.  "That bastard was a Jew-hater." 

     "I'm not talking about that.  What the fuck were you doing in the fucking PX?  You can't just come and go as you please.  This is the fucking Army."

     "We got tired of hanging around, Sarge.  Geez, we've been here almost two weeks.   Why the hell didn't they ship us out somewhere?" 

     "You'll get shipped out somewhere now.   Indiantown Gap for sure.   You heard of it?" 

     "We've heard," said Stanko. 

     "Fucking pipeline to fucking Korea.   You don't feel so smart now, do you?" 

     "We were smart enough not to let the Captain find you," said Stanko.   "You remember that morning, don't you?" 

     "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." 

     Paul said, "It was the morning you came back to the barracks from the noncoms' club.  Remember, you asked me about my buttons." 

     The sergeant suddenly grinned.  "I bet you'll never leave your pockets unbuttoned again," he said.  He laughed, then reached behind him and brought out a book.  It was the Irwin Shaw short stories Paul had been reading at the PX.  "Here," he said, thrusting it at Paul.  "This is yours, isn't it?" 

     "Yes," said Paul.  "Thanks.  I wondered what happened to it.  I appreciate . . ." 

     "Take the fucking book," said Buttons.  "Now both of you get out of here.  And don't go anyplace."    
 
 

Shipping Out 

     The next day Paul and Stanko were on the bus, finally leaving Kilmer.   It was raining, a hard steady rain which beat down on the dusty ground and was turning it into mud.   They saw another bus drive up, splashing water and mud everywhere.   A couple of dozen fellows in civilian clothes were herded off and were promptly soaked.   A sergeant led the new recruits splashing down the road, maybe to the same barracks they'd just left. 

     Their bus started and began slowly to move.   They passed soldiers in their ponchos, barely visible through the rain, slogging through the mud like lost souls seeking some unreachable destination.   They passed the mess hall and then the barracks. 

     "I think Buttons remembered," said Paul. 

     "Yeah, why?" 

     "He gave me my book back." 

     Stanko gave his New York shrug.   "Who knows?   Maybe they already had our papers made up and they didn't want to bother changing them." 

     They weren't going to Indiantown Gap.   They were going to Dix, another army camp in New Jersey, where they'd have eight weeks of basic training and then be sent to some Army school.  After that, they might be shipped anywhere but at least it wasn't pipeline to Korea, not yet anyway.

 

     The bus finally reached the highway.  "Well, we can say good-bye to Kilmer,"  said Paul.  "I wonder what Dix will be like." 

     "More fucking mosquitoes," said Stanko. 

     "Yeah," said Paul.  Mosquitoes and, after it stopped raining, hot and humid just like Kilmer.  Funny, since that first night in the barracks there, he hadn't had any trouble breathing.  The Army might eventually kill him but maybe that doctor had been right and it had cured his asthma. 

The End