Major Conflict (21 page)

It was pretty much guaranteed that you were going to go through at least twice. It was also pretty much guaranteed that two other officers would hold your hands to the plates to make sure that you got a full dose of electric current.

As we put on the harnesses, and waited to be called forward, in walked Ron with a smug look on his face. He walked directly over to me.

“Hello, Blastee, remember me? It's going to be a long, long night for you. I hope you realize that. You got it?”

“I'll be thinking of Ruth's pussy the entire time. It was nice and tight; guess a guy like you doesn't give a girl much of a workout,” I said, looking down at his crotch. I never talked this way, but I was trying to speak his language, and I think I was succeeding.

The look on his face changed instantly from smug superiority to cold, deep, unmistakable hatred. It startled me almost, the malice in it. He looked as though he was going to attack me, though I knew he couldn't. So just to piss him off more, I broke into a large grin and stood there staring right into his face. He stared back for a second, then turned and walked out of the dressing area to take up his position in the door of the mock chasis.

As he reenacted the procedures for preparing the door for exiting troops, the room filled with excited chatter as the men anticipated the next several hours of ballbusting. As the first officer went up to the door and put his hands on the electrified plates, he let out a grunt, trying hard to remain composed. After about a minute or so, he was allowed to exit the chasis and do his PLF. When he reported to the president of the board, he was asked several questions that I couldn't hear, and for a moment it looked as though he might make it. But there was a loud whoop as he crashed and burned and was sent back to us. And so it went for the next several attempts. Basically, everyone had to go through once before the process could move forward.

When my turn came, I stepped into the door and put my hands on the plates, where they were immediately held firmly in place. Being electrocuted is a hard feeling to describe; it hurts but in a very nonspecific way. It also seemed that it would never end, even though it was only a minute or so. It stopped as suddenly as it began, and as I regained my wits, I executed a PLF into a kiddie pool filled with water, which I could not see because of the spotlights shining from behind the board members. I slipped and fell in the water and struggled to get up quickly to report, all the while being hooted and hollered at.

Once up and standing at the position of attention, I reported to Colonel Mastrianni, who was the division artillery commander at the time. He was an interesting character if ever there was one. In his mid-forties and in superb shape, he was able to run a six-minute mile, thus outrunning the entire officer corps. He was also something of a psychopath, known for screaming like a maniac whenever he came upon something he didn't like. He made life in the DIVARTY (Division Artillery) pretty miserable, as he ruthlessly enforced his standards. He was the type of boss whom everyone hates.

In fairness, though, despite Mastrianni's harshness, I have to say that the DIVARTY and, for that matter, the Eighty-second Airborne Division as a whole were at an extremely high level of readiness and competence at the time. Commanders like Mastrianni, and many of the other brigade commanders under the exceptional leadership of Major General Hugh Shelton, challenged soldiers at every level to push themselves to the limit in training. The Eighty-second always has on standby a unit able to deploy anywhere in the world within eighteen hours, so it takes a certain unique brand of toughness and readiness to fulfill that mission.

Anyway, after I had spat out the blurb that everyone said when he reported to the board, there was a brief pause as I stared helplessly into the lights being flashed in my face.

“Good evening, Blastee McGowan,” Mastrianni said. “Tell me all the brigades in the division and what their flashes are.”

I began to respond, and I actually got pretty far along, but then suddenly I drew a blank. As I paused, I heard a voice coming at me from the left of Colonel Mastrianni.

“Could you sing us a song? A joke maybe?” I didn't recognize the voice.

I immediately launched into the “All American” song, which is the song of the division. Whenever it's sung, everyone must stand and join in. Toward the end of the song, the exhaustion of the long day was beginning to hit me, and I had trouble keeping up. When we finished, everyone sat down and Colonel Mastrianni spoke.

“Well, Blastee McGowan, I don't know if that will do. It appeared to me that you were lip-synching!” There was a low buzz of hisses and mock grumblings of “Shame!” and “I can't believe it!”

“Sir, may I speak?” The officious voice of CPT Ron Pierce interjected.

“Yes, Jump Master?”

“Obviously this blastee is not prepared for this evening. May I recommend remedial jump training for him? Maybe it will jog his memory?”

“A little bit of electroshock therapy might do the trick. All right then, send him through again.”

That fucking asshole Pierce. If only he knew how misplaced his anger was. If only he knew how stupid he was being! So threatened by a guy who'd never lay a hand on his big-breasted, platinum blonde, white-Corvette-driving ex-girlfriend because that guy had
zero
interest in touching any woman, big tits or otherwise. The funny thing was, though, at that moment I was so pissed off at Ron that I thought about dating Ruth and sleeping with her just to get back at him. But I knew I'd never do that.

So I simply turned, remounted the mock-up, and submitted to being electrocuted twice more, then graded on my exit and PLF. As I returned to the setup area, I was definitely wide-awake now and pretty pissed off. I would go through the door three more times before I was invited to drink from the propblast cup. Once you were offered the drink, you had to chug it down in one gulp, and then everyone congratulated you. When we were all finished, we lined up to sign the book and receive our card and coin. It was handshakes from everyone then, and pats on the back, and finally the propblast ceremony was over.

I had passed another milestone, and was now officially a part of the division with which I had wanted to serve from the time I was in college. After a very long day of bullshit, I wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a couple of days at least, doing my best to make sure not to dream about CPT Ron Pierce or big-breasted platinum blondes.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Bible and Bulgogi

I had just started my new job as the battalion's logistics officer, or S-4, when I found myself visiting the headquarters on some routine piece of business. I decided to stop into the operations office to say hello to a few buddies of mine. As soon as I entered the room, I realized I'd stepped right into a heated discussion about gays in the military. At that time everyone was talking about it. President Clinton had wasted no time putting the issue on the table, but even though both the House and Senate were controlled by the Democrats, an all-out repeal of the ban didn't seem likely, especially considering the Pentagon's own extreme opposition to the idea.

“Goddamn gay guys,” Captain Fred Jones was saying, “they can't serve. Somebody will end up killing one of them,” he continued, as if that hadn't already happened. “And what about the shower situation? I mean, I don't know about you, but I don't want to be showering with guys who like checking out my hoohaw.” Jones was speaking in his typically intense way, which I'd grown accustomed to. It was nothing by halves for Fred Jones.

Captain Andy Loughlin agreed. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I can only imagine the nightmare it would cause. You know . . . I bet they'll end up having one of those special months, you know, like Black History Month, faggot month, right, gay guy month, and can you imagine the sensitivity training we'd have to endure? And where would they live? I mean, they wouldn't live with us, would they? They'd have to build, like, separate housing for them. And how much would that cost? Millions just to house the homos!” He kicked back and put his feet up on the desk.

Maybe “discussion” was too kind. Shooting the shit was more like it.

Fred looked up at me, “What's up, Jeff?” he said. “How's it going?”

“Good, good, what are you two meatballs up to?”

“We're talking about gays in the military.” Fred sneered, twisting his face as if someone were yanking hairs from his forearm.

“I heard,” I said.

“I mean, really,” Andy said, exasperated, “what are they thinking? I bet most gay guys wouldn't even want to join. And what about the security risk thing?”

Fred looked at me, grinning. “What do you think, McGowan?”

I took a bite out of the apple I had with me, then said, chewing, “Hadn't really thought about it.” I took another bite of the apple and said, “I don't think it'll happen, though.”

“I mean how the hell do you find love in another man's asshole?” Andy asked. “It's like making love to a garbage pail. Dis-gus-ting!”

“You mind there, Andy? I'm eating,” I said.

Fred laughed. “Well,” he said, with an I-told-you-so tone in his voice, “that's what you get when you have somebody who never served in charge. I think all that time not inhaling twisted his way of thinking or something. Doesn't matter, though, the generals won't let it happen. My buddy up at division says his boss told him they're working the issue real close in Washington. Ole Bubba there doesn't have enough credibility to do this, especially if Powell says no. It's a safety issue. They're afraid somebody would kill 'em. If you ask me, they don't belong here. This just isn't their world.” Fred said this last bit with such absolute certainty that it chilled me. Up until that point I'd been hearing “they” and “them” as if those words didn't include me.

“What's wrong with you?” Andy said, looking at me quizzically.

“Ah, I'm just tired. I had a jump last night,” I said lamely, finishing the apple and tossing the core into the tin pail next to the desk.

“Where'd you jump?” Fred said.

“Camp Mackall—Rhine Luzon—it's always a bitch. Twenty-one seconds of green light. I almost went into the trees.”

“Now see,” Andy said, leaping to his feet, “that's exactly what I'm talking about. Just imagine what some faggot would do if he got caught in the trees. Ooh, ooh . . . help me, help me, I think I broke a nail . . . ooh, ooh!” He pranced around the office like a mincing queen on Dexedrine. “See what I'm saying?” he went on, his face red now, his breath oddly labored. “I mean, what is this world coming to? Can you tell me what the fuck is going on here? They are actually thinking seriously about faggots,
faggots
in the military. Well, not in my army, Bub, not in my army! It's that damn Clinton dude. No way would this have ever happened under Reagan.”

“What the hell is goin' on here? What's all this bullshit? Shouldn't you be crankin' on the training schedules?” Major Mark Crist had suddenly appeared in the doorway. He was only half serious, looking for an excuse to take a break, apparently. Crist was a West Pointer and a good guy. I liked him a lot.

“Just talking about our commander in chief's desire to let the faggots in,” Fred said, chortling.

“Don't get all worked up; it isn't going to happen,” Crist said confidently. “You'd have to change the UCMJ, and it takes Congress to do that. The army has a lot of friends there. Do you honestly think Helms or Strom Thurmond would even let it get a vote? They'd die before that happened. Besides, nobody wants to see homos getting beaten to death splashed all over the front page of the newspaper. Let 'em go be hairdressers and actors, no problem, but soldiers? No. I remember this one time when I was a lieutenant at Fort Hood and one of the duty officers was making his rounds and he caught two privates screwing in a trash Dumpster. We couldn't get 'em out quick enough; they must have had three or four fights each, waiting to be chaptered. Nope, no way, it's just never gonna happen.”

“Damn right it isn't,” Andy said. “And what about AIDS? I really think Falwell's onto something with that. It's not natural, and God's taking revenge.” He leaned back with a self-satisfied look on his face. Both Major Crist and Fred were smiling sheepishly, though Crist's smile was tinged with an unmistakable discomfort.

I couldn't hold my tongue any longer. “That has to be one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. Andy, God does not give people AIDS because they're gay.”

“Oh yes, he does, my friend,” Andy said, taking on a serious, almost scholarly tone. “It's how he marks them for hell. It says it in the Bible. You need to read your Old Testament, McGowan.”

I hadn't yet learned that trying to engage this kind of thinking is futile, that, in fact, to engage it is to dignify it in a manner it doesn't even begin to deserve. “Give me the chapter and verse, Andy,” I said. “Where exactly in the Old Testament does it say that God will give you AIDS if you're gay? And besides, a lot of people sin every day, does that mean that they should get AIDS, too?”

“That sin is worse than others. It's on a whole different level. And it's in Leviticus or Judges, I'm not sure, one of those. It doesn't talk about AIDS, McGowan. Whaddya think, it's all spelled out like a rule book or something? But it's clear what the meaning is.”

“So, what about someone like, say, Hitler. Should Hitler have gotten AIDS, Andy?”

“Maybe he did. How the hell do I know what the freak did with that Eva Braun chick in the bunker.”

“What about the people in Africa with AIDS? What about the starving people in Africa and India? Have they done something wrong, Andy, that God has made them suffer with starvation and get AIDS, too? Are people dying of starvation in Somalia because they've displeased the Lord, Andy? Huh? Tell me.”

“Well, I'm not saying anything, but Jeff, those aren't exactly Christian nations, if you get my drift. But let me get this straight, are you defending the homos?”

“I'm just defending clear thinking, Andy. I think you're smarter than this, and I know you're better educated than this. It's ridiculous to say shit like that. God does not hate groups of people, Andy. God doesn't hate, period.”

“Are you calling me stupid, McGowan?”

Fred broke in, with a slightly bemused look on his face. “You can see them serving in the military? I mean, is that what you're saying?”

“I think that it will happen eventually, no matter what we want or think. Look at women and blacks,” I said.

“Women and blacks?” Andy erupted. “Are you out of your fucking mind, McGowan? And you call
me
stupid! Women in the army is a complete and total
mess
. Should have
never
happened. Just look at how many pregnancies there are.”

“Really, Andy, is that so? Tell me, what are the numbers? I haven't read anything recently.”

“You know what, McGowan, I don't know the numbers, okay? I think I read it somewhere. But it doesn't matter. You know what I'm talking about. Look at all the sensitivity-training bullshit. And God forbid you should correct or discipline one of them and they're out there quicker than you can say ‘cock tease,' screaming, ‘Oh, sexual harassment! Oh, his tone was inappropriate. Oh, he stood too close to me!' ” Andy was prancing around again in mock hysteria, speaking in the same voice as the queen on Dexedrine. “At least we don't have them in the line units; that's all I have to say,” he added, taking a seat again.

“Listen,” I said, hoping to put an end to the whole thing. “I don't really know what it's like in the other units with women. Never been in one. What I do know is that we win every war we go to, no matter who's in the lineup. So we must be doing something right. As for fags, I used to work with them when I was in college at a big bookstore in the city. They weren't all that bad, just people, really. It's not such a big fucking deal.” As the words came out of my mouth I knew I was skating on very thin ice. I worried that I'd misjudged the whole situation, and that what I thought was just standard common sense was, in fact, only the common sense of a gay man—that a straight guy could never really have the opinions I was expressing—that I'd somehow inadvertently outed myself.

“You hung around with fags in college?” Fred said, incredulous. “What, like, were you in the Communist Party, too? I thought you went to Fordham. Those Jesuits put up with all that homo shit?” He had a big smile on his face. This was just good-natured ribbing now.

“Take it easy, nimrod. I didn't say I hung around with them, but I knew them. They were pretty normal really. I didn't actually know they were . . . homos. The bookstore had nothing to do with Fordham. And don't say anything about the Jesuits, Jones, the Jesuits know what they're doing.” I was backtracking a little, and lying, of course. The image of Greg's face when he said he had HIV popped into my head.
I have the virus.

“Listen, I say again, the only good faggot is a dead faggot,” Andy said brutally, with a finality that left no doubt I'd wasted my time in trying to reason with him.

“Listen,” I said, “someone once told me that fear of the unknown is usually fear of the
all too well
known.”

“Are you calling me a faggot?” Andy said. His back straightened, and he pulled himself to the edge of his chair.

“Well . . . now that you mention it, I just happened to be over here yesterday and I needed a pen so I went into your desk to find one and whaddya know I found one right next to a bottle of bright pink nail polish and lipstick. I mean, Andy, it's your business after all; it's none of mine. I don't want to get personal, but I'm beginning to get the distinct impression that you're at least a half a fagola if not a whole one.” I tried to inject the word
fagola
with as much Archie Bunker as I could muster. Everyone broke out laughing then, even Andy himself, and the subject was finally dropped.

Alone at home that night I couldn't help mulling over the conversation. President Clinton really had balls taking this on, I thought, but was it even remotely possible politically? I didn't think so. Still, I was learning that things could change in the most surprising ways. The cold war, for instance, and the Soviet Union, and the Berlin Wall— these were things that had seemed unchangeable, fixed forever. If in, say, 1985 someone had told me that by 1992 all three would be consigned to the dustbin of history, I would've said they were out of their minds. And remember, too, I thought, just how different things were culturally in the not-too-distant past, the 1950s, say, for women and blacks especially, and how things changed so dramatically in the 1960s and 1970s. Maybe it was possible, after all. And suddenly I could see it, or at least the possibility of it. Like a small, faint ray of light at the end of a long tunnel, the vision of a military that included every qualified American, even gay Americans, became visible to me for the first time.

But I still felt slimy from the conversation with Fred and Andy and Major Crist. In my heart, I knew I'd done my best. I'd done what could be done, under the circumstances. I'd said what could be said. But a part of me still felt cowardly, a part of me still felt that I hadn't done enough, I hadn't defended myself more vigorously and openly. But they weren't attacking me, I told myself. I was no mincing queen on Dexedrine, after all—that's who they meant, not me, but then, no, I thought, I'm wrong. It was me, too. They were attacking me as well. They just didn't know it.

I'd been in the military for a while now. And I'd pledged a fraternity in college. So it's not as if I wasn't used to run-of-the-mill faggot jokes. I'd learned how to hear those jokes in such a way that the proverbial “faggot” in each could never be me. I simply wasn't that type of gay man. The jokes were about the typical, swishy gay guy; he was the target, not me.

But what I'd listened to today was different. In the back of my mind I think I knew that Andy and Fred, and maybe Crist, too, held these strong feelings about gay men, but I'd never been confronted with them quite so viscerally before. Seeing it laid out so baldly was strange and kind of chilling. The sheer intensity of their animosity was truly astounding. Where did that come from? How much of it was fear, as so many people claimed, how much of it was truly homophobia, and how much of it was just plain old hatred?
Some
of it was just showboating for the other guys, professing a hatred of gay men in this case (
gay
is interchangeable with
weak
—the argument is almost not about sex at all, simply about a perceived lack of strength and a degree of vulnerability) as a way to kind of prove your mettle as a man. What was most interesting to me was that otherwise these three guys were pretty much perfect examples of a kind of moderate, easygoing, American male. This Jekyll-and-Hyde bit was more than a little unnerving.