Major Conflict (12 page)

“You know,” he said, somewhat relieved, it seemed, that the SS question had been put to rest, “at the end of the war I walked seventeen miles to surrender to the Americans.”

“Really, why?”

“Because I knew that the Americans are not animals like the Russians. I want you to know that I appreciate you Americans being here. We would have a horrible life without you. The hatred is very deep between us.” He said this with a finality that startled me.

Unsure how to respond I said, simply, “Well, it certainly was a tough war, for everyone involved.”

Mercifully, one of the guys from my section returned from the showers at that point to let me know it was my group's turn to go in. As I reached for my gear and extended my hand to him to say good-bye, he tightened his grip and held me in place.

“Remember your duty always,” the deep, raspy voice came at me forcefully, while his eyes seemed to grow even brighter for an instant, like two lasers firing simultaneously, and then to soften and dim.

Then he said, “And may I also trouble you for an MRE for my grandson? He also likes the chem lights.”

CHAPTER TEN

Brawling Outside the Bulldog; Gustav in the Morning?

When we weren't doing exercises or training at Grafenwohr and Hohenfels, my officer buddies and I would often hang out in Frankfurt. We also made a lot of day trips together and occasionally an extended trip for four or five days. Usually it was four of us—John Lostrapo, Dave Bariglia, Jeff Brooks, and me. Dave had dated an au pair whose father was a high-ranking police officer in Amsterdam. When we found out that she'd be able to get us cheap accommodations at the hotel in Slotermeelaan where cops from all over the world stayed, we jumped at the chance to travel to the Netherlands for a few days. We figured we'd check out the Rijksmuseum and maybe make a pilgrimage to the Heineken brewery. It was a great trip (the Rembrandts made a big impression on me), largely uneventful, except that on our second night we ended up, oddly enough, out front of the Mc-Donald's across the street from the Bulldog bar, fighting a half-dozen Turks, I think, at two in the morning.

It had been a long day. We'd spent the afternoon at the museum, looking at the Rembrandts and Vermeers, and then we'd hung out at the Bulldog all night, drinking and talking to various good-looking Dutch women. We were having a terrific time.

Upon leaving the bar at around one-thirty, we decided to grab some McDonald's before heading back to the hotel. I always felt kind of stupid eating in a McDonald's when I was in Europe. But that night I was a little bit too drunk to care, plus I was starving. It was a warm night, so the entire front of the McDonald's was open to the street. You just walked up a couple steps that ran the entire width of the place. The four of us stepped up into the restaurant, laughing loudly about Dave's failed attempt to pick up some girl at the bar. The place was packed, which seemed unusual since it was so late. As we took our place in line, in walked six guys who we thought were Turkish. To this day I'm not sure where they were from. Apparently they'd also been out drinking, and they were laughing and yelling in their own language, in Turkish, I think, and, like us, they were kind of oblivious to what was going on around them. Unlike us, though, they didn't seem to feel it necessary to wait their turn in line. The six of them pushed straight through to the front and started shouting orders to the clerks. We all looked incensed, though no one said anything, as the two clerks tried to calm these six guys down and explain to them that they had to go to the back of the line.

After a few minutes of going back and forth—loud broken English mixed with rants in Turkish and rants in Dutch—it looked as though the clerks were giving in. And that's when Lostrapo erupted. John Lostrapo was six feet three inches tall and weighed at least 260 pounds; his biceps were easily eighteen inches. He'd been an offensive lineman at West Point. The most striking feature about him, however, was his enormous nose, which earned him the nickname Rhinoceros. I'd gotten to know him well enough by this point to understand that, despite his size, he was really a gentle giant who was generous and kind and fiercely loyal to his friends. He was also particularly sensitive to unfairness, however it might present itself in the world.

Suddenly, without any sort of warning, he marched to the front of the line and, in one deft motion, reached out and corralled all six of the Turks in his arms and pushed them out of line. They started yelling at John, and John yelled back, and this went on the whole time we waited in line. When we reached the front of the line, Lostrapo yelled over, “Two Macs, two fries, two pies, and a big Coke, thanks, McGowan,” and then he turned back and continued yelling at the six Turks.

“Fuck you, too,” I could hear Lostrapo shouting now. “What was that? What was that, gerbil dick? I'll kick your fuckin' ass,” he shouted, almost smiling.

Our food came, and Brooks yelled over at him, “Hey, Rhino, knock it off, will you? We got the food. Let's go.” The three of us sat down, and I was happily buzzed and totally focused on my Quarter Pounder and fries. But Lostrapo wouldn't give it up.

Finally, Bariglia got pissed. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is he doing?” he said, standing up and looking over at Lostrapo and the Turks. “Oh, for fuck's sake,” he said, moving out from behind the table, “it looks like it's getting serious. Come on, let's get over there.”

The three of us walked over and got between the Turks and the Rhino and stood there trying to look menacing. This didn't have the deterrent effect we'd hoped for. The Turks just kept shouting what I figured were Turkish obscenities and trying to reach the Rhino. I was standing my ground and trying to convince the Rhino to back down when suddenly one of the Turks started waving his hands too close to my face. I have a rule—call it the doctrine of preemptive street fighting, if you like—if it feels as if I'm going to get hit, I always hit first. It was a lesson I learned early on in the school yards of St. Joan of Arc and Archbishop Malloy and on the streets of Jackson Heights. So I struck hard and fast and landed a nice haymaker in the center of the young Turk's not-bad-looking face. He had a salad in his hands, I think, since after I hit him a cloud of lettuce let loose around him like so much confetti.

Pandemonium broke out. The little battle surged backward toward the front door. And before we knew it the whole battle was down the steps and out on the street. A crowd quickly gathered to watch, occasionally cheering at a good shot delivered by one side or the other. Though we were outnumbered by two, we were much bigger and stronger, and soon the two smallest Turks seemed to disappear. The Rhino was truly amazing as he pounded away at anything that got in his way.

After a few minutes of good toe-to-toe fighting with my guy—the one who'd originally waved his hands in front of my face, he pulled out a knife, lunged at me, and tried to stab me with it. Luckily, he overextended himself and lost his balance, which gave me the chance to knock the knife out of his hand. It went flying, I don't know where, and just as he'd regained his balance and starting coming at me again, the Rhino, whose own Turk had had enough and run away, came charging at him. When the man saw the Rhino's huge frame barreling down on him, he let out a cluck and sprinted off. Bariglia and Brooks had taken care of their guys, both of whom were gone, and so the four of us were left alone in the center of the crowd, bloodied and sweaty and breathing hard.

“Thanks, Nocerous,” I said, patting Lostrapo on the back.

“No problem, bud,” he said, a big grin on his face.

Now, I don't want you to get the wrong impression here. It wasn't as if we were always getting into fights. This was a pretty rare occasion. In fact, I think it happened only one other time. In a way, I think it's almost unavoidable. A group of big, young guys traveling around together will just naturally get into a brawl or two, even if they're not looking for it. The truth is, we were a pretty mellow group of guys, though I have to say this brawl did enhance our reputation in the battalion as a being a tough group of hard-charging officers, which was, after all, not such a bad way to be perceived.

All the way back to the hotel and then for the rest of the night, almost until dawn, we rehashed the fight, laughing, highlighting our heroics literally blow-by-blow, analyzing the cheers and boos of the crowd. The victory had bonded us together in a way we hadn't been before. The night kept refueling itself on the periodic adrenaline rushes we'd get from recalling certain moves: a tough body blow, a swift duck away from a Turk's fist, and my penultimate move when I knocked the knife from the good-looking Turk's hand and it went flying and disappeared, and then the Rhino's big charge right afterward.

After this event I felt more comfortable with the idea of going into combat with these guys. It was gratifying to know that we'd stick together, that we could count on one another when the going got tough, and that no one would leave anyone else behind. I would have done anything for those guys, and I was happy to show it. Granted, it was only a (some might say childish) street brawl, but in our line of work you could never know when you might be called upon to make a sacrifice for another soldier.

But the incident raised a question for me, one that became ever more persistent as the years passed and I became less willing to keep my sexual orientation hidden. Where was the breakdown of social cohesion that was supposed to take place when a gay man was in a unit? Hadn't I played a valuable role in all of this? I was a highly skilled, well-trained, highly disciplined, well-liked, loyal, responsible soldier in the U.S. Army, one who would be a threat to any foreign enemy. How was I a threat to my unit? How was I a threat to the very institution I'd devoted my whole life to preserving and protecting? What threat did I, 2LT Jeffrey McGowan, pose to the integrity of the U.S. military? I wouldn't be able to fully answer that question until the very end, until after I'd served in more than a just street brawl in Amsterdam, until I'd actually served in combat, in the Gulf War, and I'd reached my decision to end my career. And the answer was, of course, none. I posed no threat. And the gay men and women fighting and dying in Iraq today pose no threat as well, except of course to the enemies they've sworn to vanquish.

Some nights I'd go exploring on my own. I'd take the train into Frankfurt and go to a jazz club in Alt-Sachsenhausen or just walk around and check out the city. I never went to gay bars since it would've been too risky. But the bars in Europe aren't quite as segregated as those here in the States, so it's not unusual to find gay men in what we might normally think of as a straight bar. Occasionally I'd hook up with one of these guys, though I never planned to; it often just fell in my lap, so to speak. I guess the thought of hooking up was usually in the back of my mind when I decided to go out alone, without my buddies from the post, but I never really admitted it to myself.

These nights were infrequent. Most of the time I truly enjoyed the company of the guys from the post; we'd bonded in a real way, and the truth is I kind of had to do it on the sly since they would've thought it strange that I was going into the city alone.

And so it was that I was bound for Frankfurt one summer night during my second year in Germany. I was tired, badly in need of some real R & R, having spent nearly two months in Grafenwohr and Hohenfels, but the last thing I wanted was to hang out back at the post and watch TV, which is what all my friends were doing.

Outside the Hauptbahnhof, I decided to walk for a little bit, get some air. I wasn't sure if I wanted to take a cab to Alt-Sachsenhausen or just hang around in the city center. After walking a few blocks I came across a cool-looking bar. I realized I had to piss, so I figured I'd go in and check the place out.

It was smoky and dark inside. I quickly went to the bathroom and washed my hands, checking out my face in the smoky mirror above the sink. When I walked out of the bathroom, I noticed a guy sitting at the bar, drinking what looked like a Weizen beer, judging by the dark color and thick foam head. Like nearly everyone else in the little bar, he was smoking a cigarette and staring off into space. A little cloud of smoke plumed above his head and then disappeared into the breeze caused by the ceiling fan revolving wearily overheard. Well, I thought, maybe I'll have a Weizen beer myself. I'll have a Weizen beer or two and then catch a cab to Alt-Sachsenhausen. As I began walking toward the bar he turned and looked at me, stopping the hand holding the cigarette midway to his mouth. Our eyes locked, and he raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in acknowledgment. When he didn't look away, I felt emboldened and made my way directly toward the bar stool next to his.

He looked to be roughly my age, somewhere in his mid-twenties, and he was good-looking and slender. He had reddish-brown hair, straight and long (over his ears), which he parted neatly on the right side. He wore a shiny, dark blue shirt with the collar open, under a gray pinstripe jacket. He gave the impression of the kind of casual elegance only the very rich can pull off.

As I sat down and ordered a drink, I realized, now that he'd stopped looking at me and turned away, that I had no idea how to start up a conversation, let alone a conversation in a language I could barely understand. I tended to forget about this until I found myself already deep into a situation. The bartender set down my beer in front of me, and I paid him; then, seeing in my peripheral vision, the redhead tap out a fresh cigarette from his pack, I suddenly regretted having ordered the beer. I regretted having stopped in this bar. I regretted having come to Frankfurt. I regretted not having stayed back at the post to watch Cheers and L.A. Law with my friends. I took a deep, weary swing of the beer. One beer, I told myself. One beer and then I'd move on, catch the cab to Alt-Sachsenhausen, or maybe just take the train back to the post.

But then suddenly I heard German being spoken at me, and I turned to face the redhead next to me. Our eyes locked again, and I told him in German that I didn't speak the language very well. Before I'd even finished my sentence he switched to English.

“Your first time?” he said, lighting his cigarette with a silver butane lighter that flamed higher than necessary. “Here at this bar, I mean. You're an American, no?”

“Yes,” I said, “first time, and I am; I am American. A New Yorker.”

“Ah . . .” he said, looking pleased, “Are you a soldier?” he asked, clicking the lid of the lighter shut.

“No, no, I'm here visiting friends.”

“I see. Do they live in the city?”

“No, Giessen, they live in Giessen,” I said. And then, hoping to change the subject, “Can I bum a cigarette?”

I didn't want to say I was a soldier because I didn't want to deal with the whole American military question, since young Germans tended to resent our presence. Mostly though, I knew, now that I was on the other side of my denial, so to speak, that my main reason for coming to Frankfurt was to stop being a soldier for a night in order to simply be a man.