Time for a Dad story. I had long set for myself the placement of as many of Dad's stories as I can on this site as I have no progeny to whom to leave the actual paper of which there remains an abundance. I want him remembered as I guess I want for myself as well, if only by the digital. It seems the best solution in the absence of anyone to make a bequest of such memorabilia. I am writing on Christmas Eve and since I have time until I shower and dress for the Mass that used to be at Midnight, but now is at the more charitable time (I guess another complaint of we modern weaklings) of ten p.m., I figured something meaningful to do would be to add another of Dad's musings. This one is longer than most and harks back to days likely most schoolkids are no longer taught about as it reflects an American nation of ideals and we don't like national pride or encourage meritocracy any longer. It is so gauche and un-woke. But I digress. The story is called, "Sputnik". Sputnik was that little Russia satellite that started the space race back in the 1950s, launching the rise of technology that made things like the computer on which I am writing so advanced. But I digress again.
Sputnik
It is the summer of 1957. Big Jim, Al Smith, Major McCloud and I meditate over our beers at McKeever's Bar and Grill. McKeever himself serves us. He is somewhat displeased we do not order drinks with our usual frequency.
"Whaddya say, boys, we do not rent beer in this establishment. We try to sell it!" he admonishes.
We do not care for such critical comments, especially from a guy whose premises have so many empty stools. And we patronize McKeever's joint with great regularity over many years. So, we ignore his lapse in good manners.
The day is one of real sadness. I cannot tell for sure, but I am convinced that McCloud, who just makes Major, sheds a tear or two into his beer. The additional moisture does nothing to add a head to the flat beverage. My guess is that we are likely to join him in lamentation.
McKeever looks at us suspiciously. He knows that sometimes we feel like crying when we taste his usual bar whiskey. McKeever's Bar and Grill is not known for vintage liquors. There's also little evidence of a grill, unless one considers the stale pretzels, and a jar of pickled eggs, which may be an American version of the Chinese "hundred year old eggs".
"What gives?" says our solicitous bartender. "Do I not spring after the first three rounds, or do you guys lose a bundle on 'High Flyer' in the fourth at Pimlico? I drop a few rubles myself today. You win some. You lose some."
That's pretty close. I mean, the coincidence that he uses the word 'rubles" is startling. McKeever is no Nostradamus, but he is on to half the reason for our discomfort.
The Soviets send a satellite the size of a basketball into space successfully, causing great unhappiness from the Pentagon to the field units.
The daily newspapers take up the hysteria. They discover that American school students are seriously deficient in science and mathematics, which they conclude is the reason the Russians beat us into space. They neglect to mention reading and writing, a skill deficient itself.
In fairness, many of our youngsters are manifesting real talent in economic matters, like selling grass, and other basic needs for a good fix before classes.
It is not the news about Sputnik that distresses us and the rest of the company officers most, though.
The latest latrine rumor is that our unit gets the axe and that the fourteen days of our activity, this summer, will be the last.
The Congressional economy drive against the military budget reaches epic proportions. It does not make page twenty in the papers, but it does get down to our civil affairs company. This is the substance of the rumor and it comes from commode number three in the latrine, a reliable source.
"That Sputnik is a very bad omen indeed," says Major McCloud. "It is the year we go to summer active duty with a civil affairs group and a civil affairs area headquarters."
This is distressing news indeed. That group is headed by a two star general who is very picky about shiny brass, spit-shined shoes and especially empty beer cans in bivouac areas.
On the other hand, it is a chance for officer to negotiate for spots in these very large units. There are no odds of getting a pay slot, but there is a chance for 'attached' status. This way we earn retirement points; if one is lucky the guy he understudies gets hit by a truck, or imbibes a snootful in the Officer's Club and falls on his head.
The Commander, our own Frank DiGirolamo is very tense when we arrive in Fort Devens, Massachusetts. He is of a rank not very much in demand, a full Colonel. He recently passes his command and general staff correspondence course with a grade of 'excellent'. Under normal circumstances, he makes General. But I think this is about the time the movie hero, James Stewart, makes General, even though some lady senator drops in the black ball. In the current situation, DiGirolamo is lucky if he escapes a poor unit performance report on his way out.
On the first day we arrive, an interim inspection finds that there are too many cigarette buts on the grounds in front of the Command Headquarters. In the military, this is a grievous matter. Our Commander is wroth, indeed.
The Old Man is further distressed when he gets a peek at the general situation, the theme for our Command Post Exercise.
There is terminology such as ''thrust', 'solid fuel' as opposed to 'liquid propellants', escaping the 'gravitational pull', all foreign object to us, and especially him.
The Old Man, whose specialty for becoming a Principal of a Junior High School is a Masters in gymnastic matters, is in a deep fog. He is not alone.
At our first Officers Call, we sink low into our seats. The Old Man looks searchingly around the room for a savior.
"Where is Major Goodman?" he asks suddenly. "Sir," says our Executive Officer Salvador DiPena, "he has been excused from summer training. He marries and is on a honeymoon in Puerto Rico."
"Why am I not informed?" says the CO. "He is the only man in the unit with a science major."
"Sir," says the Exec. "You sign the papers yourself, when I place them in front of you."
The Old Man dismisses us without rebuttal.
"Let us head to the nearest town for some liquid sustenance," says Al Smith. Indeed, we have acquired a heavy thirst. We head to the town at the back entrance of Fort Devens, a burg named Athol.
We search diligently but there is no joint open that sells the kind of refreshment we are in sore need of. We settle for coffee at a sloppy joes, a very poor substitute.
Major McCloud is especially bitter, probably because he is in critical dehydration of booze. The Major is not given to a fast.
"The guy who names this town must have a lisp," says the Major. "He certainly misspells the name of this village."
Big Jim adds to our discomfort. "Do you not see that the officers of the group all have red bands around their caps?"
I do not see the relevance of that, but Big Jim elucidates. "They are all umpires for the exercise, and we are the patsies. They will be in our hair for the next fourteen days."
It is indeed prophesy. The next day, there are 'red hats' everywhere, in the barracks, in the mess hall, even in the latrine, where a man should have a little privacy.
"They are an ubiquitous evil," says Major McCloud. He is very learned and he explains the unfamiliar word to one and all. He even spells it, and while I do not claim any training in these matters, I see the word before, and he misspells it.
I agree, though that they are indeed ubiquitous. I am proud that I spell the word correctly, under my breath. I do not wish to cause the Major any discomfort.
The summer is hot, the days are long, the 'red hats' are everywhere. They issue paper problems for us to complete and pick up paper answers which we work in whatever shade we can find. Captain Berkowitz and I play word games. I beat him handily. I am not crowing on how smart I am but on how unlearned he seems, unless it is the humidity which dulls his brain. I spell 'unlearned' in my head to be sure I can.
There is a saying by some philosopher whose name I hear once from Major McCloud after a third round of drinks at McKeevers. Plutarch, I think. Anyway, he says, "If something can go wrong, it will."
The Commandant of Fort Devens is a famous infantry hero. He likes nothing better than bivouacs in the woods, the digging of foxholes and his favorite, 'perimeter defenses'. It is required that all units spend several days 'in the field'. This means sleeping on the hard ground, powdered eggs for breakfast and canned beans for lunch and supper.
The Commandant makes it four days. He lops off two days of paper problems. We pack up our pup tents, don the metal hats and head for the woods.
It is fortunate we have Major O'Houlihan, whom I recruit into the unit. He is an infantry officer with the 77th Division before he loses his spot and joins our unit. He sets up a perimeter defense such as would please General Patton himself. I do not recall ever seeing such fine fox holes, such camouflage and not a single empty an or beer or a cigarette butt to be seen.
If there is anything I hate, it is being in the field. When I am a shaver, I refuse to join the Boy Scouts. I do not understand why units that run whole countries need pup tents and fox holes.
When I am in Italy during World War II, I do some of this work. We pick the best housing that is still standing. Once we find great quarters just before Naples, where a mortar hell explodes just enough to let us know where the wine cellar is hidden. If the Italians do not hide their wine, the Germans will surely drink it or send it home with the paintings they steal. Of course, we do not let it go to waste.
Several days pass without incident, unless I count when Private Golowitz encounters a nest of Yellow Jackets as he pounds his tent peg into the ground. On the plus side, he then escapes another night on the hard ground and gets to sleep on the white sheets of the hospital.
The Old Man visits him in the ward. I go with him to help commiserate, even though I don't know Golowitz personally, and I generally do not have conversations with privates. Of course, I do make exceptions for Private DiMaggio, who is a cop and drives the Police Commissioner around.
Golowitz is sprightly and alert. I see from the empty tray in the room that he has had roast chicken for supper, which I begrudge him. He also has news for us that causes great alarm for the Old Man.
"I hear these two red hats, both full birds, converse in the hall," he says.
"They grade our unit on the Command Post Exercise. I lay six to five we do not make satisfactory, which is a low grade indeed," says Golowitz. He does not seem even slightly perturbed about his prophecy. Perhaps this is because he suffers great insult when a thousand Yellow Jackets cause him great discomfort.
If anything can go wrong, it will. It is the last day of our field exercise. The Old Man looks at his watch and observes a stubborn sun that refuses to go down. He is approached by two red hats with bright stars on their epaulets. I am, unfortunately, in the vicinity and there is no foliage into which I can scurry to practice cover and concealment, a vital military maneuver. This is double trouble I think to myself.
A third red hat approaches the Old Man with a prominent clip board and reads the following to him:
"Your unit has been hit with a low grade atomic bomb. What are your immediate actions?"
The CO yells my name, which causes me great apprehension. He introduces me as the Chemical and Biological Officer. I am very surprised at this change of military specialty. I am, in fact, the company's Arts, Monuments and Archives Officer. I see a large crater into which I will surely fall.
It is fitting that I relate that this is in the days before the hydrogen improvement on the miniscule Hiroshima type. There is no talk of megatons. We are dealing with kilotons, which is small indeed to the one that almost sinks the Isle of Bikini, and introduces a revealing bathing suit in the process.
"Sir," I reply, "We are in process of washing the unit equipment inventory with a slurry of 'Dakin solution'. I read, purely by accident, an Army manual where I fun across this treatment recommended to remove radiation. The problem umpire nods his head and makes marks on his clip board. It occurs to me that if a low yield bomb hits us, there will not be enough of our unit and equipment to put in a large ash tray.
The two generals have poker faces, stern indeed. I look at the Old Man and see that his expression is a reflection of my own sad one.
Major McCloud finds a bistro in Athol to which he suggests we repair to drown our sorrows. It is a creditable joint, though we find out immediately this bartender does not spring after the the third round. This breach does not deter us as we have had a long period of fasting.
Major McCloud adds more gloom. "How can we show our faces when we apply for spots in the Area Headquarters or Group?" Private DiMaggio says no one will make book on our chances.
"We will be held up to ridicule in the after action report in the auditorium, tomorrow," wails Al Smith.
And so the dreaded moment arrives. The hall is filled with dress uniforms. The guest speakers orate on the great deeds that are accomplished in the last two weeks. The Group General proclaims that all unit receive the rating of "excellent".
There is much turning of heads in our portion of the audience. The Camp Commander is next introduced who has, we are told, a special commendation for a particular unit.
"I never see," says the General, "such a perfect perimeter defense as I find in the 400th Company. I do not find a single cigarette butt or empty beer can, though I see many in the other unit, for which I forgive them, this time, in my joy."
"To Colonel Frank DiGirolamo I present this Unit Citation. It is indeed fortunate he knows about "Dakin* solution". He responds with true leadership, indeed."
There is no mention of the Command Post Exercise. We do not inquire further.
Al Smith buys a round in the bistro at Athol. Major McCloud apologizes for his earlier remark about the town. I do not think he is sincere. He has a snootful.
The fact that Al springs is in itself another miracle. He too is potted.
*A note from the transcriber. My father spelled the solution he referred to as "Dank" or "Dark" Solution. I had never heard of this so I went online and could find neither as spelled. But I did find something called "Dakin" solution. Whether that is precisely accurate or not, I substituted it. It does not change the substance of the story.
