Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief

by Mr. Frank Rocco Satullo

  I wonder if he ever put “toe-and-two” together to realize what else toe jam meant.

  The Gas Chamber

  We were marched out to a clearing in the woods. There before us stood a non-descript building. It was the size of a modest ranch house, maybe half that or somewhere in between.

  There’s nothing like the fear of the unknown, unless the fear is known.

  We went from bad to worse as soon as we were told, “At ease!”

  “Welcome to the gas chamber!” shouted a drill sergeant.

  Even the toughest wore faces of uncertainty.

  Quickly, the ranks filled with a murmur of questions and answers: “Do they really gas us? …With what? …How bad is it?”

  One group at a time put on their MOPP gear to prepare to enter. MOPP (Mission Oriented Protective Posture) is a head-to-toe protective gear used in the Army in toxic environments such as chemical warfare. It includes gloves, pants, jacket, and gas mask with hood. We had spent hours in training to get it pulled over our BDUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) in seconds flat once a signal was given. Sometimes we wore it for hours in the blistering, August, South Carolina heat. Usually, when we were about to pass out, we got the all-clear sign.

  We were in a line parallel to the rear of the building so those of us in the back of the line could see the first group coming out, one by one, victims. Some yelled, a couple puked, but most just groaned and flapped their arms in the air as tears streamed from their burning eyes. With this haunting imagery set against the thick woods, it was like watching a horror movie unfold. Anyway, it begged the question; would it be better to go in oblivious to the outcome or see the agony of those going first?

  Some wondered, what’s the purpose of having to go through this? I figured the answer was probably so we’d understand just how real this threat was in modern warfare. Granted, the gas used in training was not life-threatening, but it did make your skin and eyes feel like they were burning up.

  “Forward, ma-a-a-a-rch!”

  I entered with my group, in full MOPP gear. The first thing that went through my mind was that I hoped every zipper and fastener was sealed properly. We stood in three different lines and one-by-one walked up to a drill sergeant. I was struck by how clear it was inside. It looked plain and harmless. I thought, seriously, how bad could it be?

  The first three were ordered to remove their gas masks then walk out the door. It was funny watching them turn stupid all of a sudden. They bumped this way and that way, feeling in front of them as if they were trying to escape a dark room. Of the sets of three, there was usually one who seemed to have little trouble, probably because he pre-planned his route. Then there was one who probably tried to pre-plan but found it more difficult to carry out. And the typical third one never even contemplated it, with fear probably being his foremost thought. One, in particular, actually bumbled around, bumped back into a drill sergeant, and walked into the corner of the room where there was no door to escape.

  It was excruciating to watch this. Many of us, me included, wanted to break rank and lead him back in the right direction. The drill sergeants seemed to be enjoying this inept soldier’s “malfunctioning” moment. Finally, even they showed mercy, and walked him out with assistance.

  When it was my turn, I had already pre-counted the number of steps to the door and had an idea of what angle I needed to take to find it. As soon as I unmasked, the searing pain tore into me. My skin was burning from the get-go. Even closed, my eyes felt like they were incinerated to nothing. I held my breath but the scalding was through and through. I had no idea of how many pre-counted steps or where in this fiery pit of hell I’d find the door. But, I did – and not a moment too soon!

  When I exited, I knew it because the fresh air was anything but. I flapped my arms and walked and walked, feeling fried and nauseous. Through my gasping, wheezing and choking, soon I returned back to normal, except for one thing – I had been gassed.

  It was a rite of passage. We sat in the grass, later, eating lunch, already reminiscing about our “war” stories.

  Grenade!

  It was another sweltering hot August day in South Carolina so we were glad to be in the shade of a nearby pavilion. The line snaked like one at an amusement park. The thrill here was practicing throwing hand grenades. This was in preparation for the real deal.

  Even though this was serious shit we were learning, it was fun and games to me. I loved shooting the M16, M60 and M72-LAW, which was a Light Anti-Tank Weapon. It was basically a shoulder mounted rocket launcher.

  You had to make sure you yelled, “Back blast area clear,” so you didn’t kill someone walking behind you when you fired it.

  So, next on my checklist of cool things I could say I did, once, was throwing a live hand grenade. The training for this was pretty intense. There was a sergeant with facial scars rumored to have had been inflicted when a recruit panicked and dropped a grenade after pulling the pin instead of throwing it. Understandably, there was a fear factor for the drill sergeants having to instruct and shadow untrustworthy recruits in how to throw a live grenade out of a foxhole.

  First, we had to practice with dummy grenades. A dirt ring behind some sandbags was used to emulate the foxhole. One by one, we moved up, went through the proper procedure, threw the grenade and moved on. As I snaked through the wooden maze and came to the frontline of the shelter, I had a clear visual of the guys ahead. As I watched them going through the motions with fake grenades, something strange seemed to be happening. Guys were nervous to join the three sergeants, each one waiting in a dirt circle. These were regular sergeants, not drill sergeants. When recruits threw their grenade, the sergeants were having fun slamming them to the ground afterward. It was clearly excessive and they were egging each other on. One recruit shrieked when he hit the ground, pile driven by one of the sergeants. He soon disappeared, supposedly to seek medical attention or his drill sergeant.

  The chatter in the pavilion grew and I watched in horror at the abuse unfolding before my eyes. Guys were getting hurt. I don’t remember what I yelled other than my disapproval at the sergeant whose line I was in. It was spontaneous and it was regrettable as soon as the words left my lips. He spun around. I was surprised he made out what I said to him as there was some distance and noise between us. I was even more surprised that he pinpointed me in the crowd of camouflage. I almost crapped my pants when he pointed at me and basically said I was a dead man when he got his hands on me.

  Fortunately, I was speaking for the masses and they had my back. As soon as the sergeant turned around to body slam the next guy throwing a grenade, I was shuffled through the crowd of recruits to the far side. Now, I was two lines removed from that sergeant. After each guy moved along, that sergeant scanned the line for me. Meanwhile, the other two sergeants were also body slamming guys, unnecessarily. When my turn came, speed was my name. I simultaneously whipped the grenade away while whipping my own body to the ground. Still, the sergeant managed to pile drive his elbow into my shoulder blade but it didn’t hurt …until later. I had too much adrenaline pumping at the time and was relieved I was not recognized.

  While I was waiting under a nearby tree for the rest of our guys to finish with this station, a jeep pulled up and brass jumped out. They went straight for the three asshole sergeants. There was hell to pay, especially considering the number of witnesses who bravely stepped forward to attest to what was going on in great detail. The guy who disappeared for medical attention had a broken arm. Justice was served for all to see and it was sweet!

  Days later, I was standing in a different line. In this exercise, after each person moved into a fortressed off zone, shrapnel would shower against an adjoining wall we were behind. When it was my turn, I moved to my foxhole, which was built up with sandbags. The feeling was surreal. It felt like slow motion. I pulled the pin and held the safety clip until I was told to throw my grenade. I threw it mightily and paused ever so slightly wanting to see it explode. My stupidity surprised even me. Tha
nkfully, in that split second, the sergeant monitoring me drove me to the ground.

  When we got up and dusted off, he merely yelled, “Next!”

  The Disease

  Amid the heat, the drills, the lack of sleep, a heady bunch of kids were being torn down so Uncle Sam could build us back up – his way!

  We had no weekend passes, no television, no anything. We could stand in a two hour line to call home from a phone booth on Sundays but I never did. I could crank out letters to everyone in that time. Although tensions would bring some to fisticuffs from time to time, we became tight.

  Several platoons joined for a road march to go sit in classes assembling and disassembling M16s or whipping on MOPP gear – gas mask and all, in seconds flat. It was hours before we were given a break. When we finally got it, there was one problem. More than a hundred guys needed to piss and there were only three port-o-pots. As the grapevine leaked, there was an option-B. The port-o-pots formed a privacy barrier. This allowed about six of us at a time to slip behind and back, unnoticed, to do our business. It was efficient and …

  “Drill sergeants!”

  We scrambled back in line before the drill sergeants saw, first-hand, what was going on. But someone obviously snitched!

  Called to formation, a big stink was made out of urinating behind the port-o-pots.

  “There’s a diseeeeease among us!” said a drill sergeant.

  They walked past the ranks, eye-balling us one by one, speaking loudly the whole time about the “disease” and how to keep it from spreading.

  “We know who it is. You get one chance to step forward, disease, and the decontamination process can be abbreviated. Otherwise, you’ll be quarantined for the remainder of your training.”

  I wasn’t about to step forward. Neither was anybody else. Hell, there were probably two dozen of us at fault, but they just wanted to make an example of one. The only question was who would be the sacrificial lamb. Perhaps the drill sergeants only had one name to work off of – no doubt from whoever snitched.

  In my head, I kept rattling off, “Please don’t be me – please don’t be me – please don’t be me.”

  One of the drill sergeants said, “You had your chance,” and walked directly at me.

  I knew I was screwed.

  “Serrano!”

  I almost peed my pants and stepped forward but just when I was about to move, I realized that wasn’t my name. It was one of my closest friends.

  The public humiliation he withstood was relentless. I felt relieved and guilty just the same.

  His bunk in the barracks was separated from the rest of us, taped off in the open bay. He marched separate from us. He ate alone. He showered after everyone else. He was forbidden to look at another human being let alone speak out loud. He was outcast but present.

  Two weeks later it was just cruel.

  He was going to crack. I could see it in his face, his walk, his everything. I felt so bad for him. It could have been any one of us. As time dragged on, we counted our blessings it wasn’t any of us though.

  In the mess hall, I was in line with a couple of close friends. I suggested we sit with Serrano. There were no takers. Hell, they blasted that idea from the start. Stationed for basic training on Tank Hill in summer at Fort Jackson was already considered the equivalent of drawing the short straw in the Army. Nobody wanted to make a bad situation any worse. But I couldn’t let this ride. Not anymore.

  We sat down and I made one last plea for a group effort to come to the aid of our friend. They wouldn’t even look me in the eyes. So, I got up, alone, and walked over to Serrano. He was so closed off to the world, mentally, he never saw me coming.

  I plopped down across from him and said, “The Yankees suck.”

  He looked up and for the first time in weeks, his face turned flush with life.

  A huge smile spread across his mug and he deadpanned back, “Fuck you, Satullo!”

  That’s when my head drill sergeant towered above me, “You’re going to catch the disease if you don’t move!”

  I could tell in his eyes that he respected my effort. I could also tell he was not going to reward it. In fact, he was giving me one chance and one chance only to undo what I just did. Strong as I wanted to be, I didn’t know if I had the strength to go through what Serrano was going through.

  I looked at my friend. He gave me a quick wink. This told me I gave him all he needed to get through from here. I got up, returned to my other friends and the small, cramped mess hall filled back up with the usual noise.

  Serrano was cured and rejoined our ranks with a clean bill of health just a couple days later.

  The AIDS Pig

  AIT in the Army means Advanced Individual Training. It’s where you learn your MOS (Military Occupational Specialty). For this, I was stationed at Fort Gordon, Georgia.

  Right away, the contrast from basic training was extreme. Here, we could do anything we wanted in evenings and weekends. During the week, we went to school. It was easy compared to what I had been through. The only exception was periodic guard duty. Several of us were selected and taken across base to a large parking lot and barracks. We stood in formation for an inspection along with others from units across the base. Afterward, we entered the barracks where we’d spend the night on and off. In two hour shifts, we were taken to different parts of the base to stand guard. Some beats were done solo and some with a partner. When the shift was over, we had a two hour break back at the barracks before going out again.

  It was a crisp fall night. My first assignment was a filling station. I guarded the pumps and the cars out back needing repair. Right away, I noticed I forgot my lighter. I spent my first thirty minutes breaking into a car so I could use the car lighter.

  My second time out was with a partner. We had to guard a medical clinic and research center. When we got dropped off, we were briefed and then relieved the previous two guards. When we circled around back, we walked along a fence and what looked like a muddy pit as far as I could see with my flashlight.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked.

  “This is where they keep the AIDS pig,” my partner responded. “You don’t know about the AIDS pig?”

  I was new so he explained how they had it for research purposes. They actually, intentionally, infected the pig with HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) to study it. This was back when AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) was a fairly new scare and to young guys like us, we had no idea how it could or couldn’t be spread.

  My partner grabbed a thick long branch and reached through the fence to poke at the pig. Eventually, the pig grunted and found the end of the stick; he slobbered and chewed on it. Suddenly, just as I suspected and feared, my partner turned on me and the chase began. He was waiving that stick, running after me, taunting me.

  I shouted things over my shoulder like, “This shit aint cool ass-hole!”

  He didn’t listen.

  Eventually, he pitched the stick, laughed at me and we went on with our checks.

  I only had guard duty one other time in AIT. The whole scenario played out like the first time around.

  When I was doing rounds with another guy out at the clinic, he pointed his flashlight and asked, “What the hell is that?”

  “That’s the AIDS pig,” I said.

  It was his first time there, so I explained the story while I fetched a branch thick and long enough to reach through the fence and poke at the pig. Once the pig slobbered it up real nice, I turned to find my partner already backpedaling.

  “Stop it. This shit ain’t funny,” he said to my amusement.

  I didn’t listen.

  Eventually, he fell to the ground and I stood over him with the stick. When I pitched it to the side at the last second, laughing, he got up, lunged into me and we rolled around for a while, wrestling and jabbing each other in a playful manner – not looking to hurt each other.

  What better way to pass time on guard duty?

  Tattoo


  My dad and his brothers grew up on tough streets giving each other tattoos. All they needed was a needle and India ink.

  Today, tattoo parlors are everywhere to meet the demand of a culture that is all inked up.

  When I was just out of basic training, it was still somewhat of a novelty. Call it a rite of passage but if you served, you got a tat! We weren’t going to go the do-it-yourself route so we headed into the city to go to the tat shop that was handed down to us by word of mouth.

  I wish I could blame things on a bottle of whiskey and the usual story but we had no excuse. Besides, had we been drinking, the tattoo artist wouldn’t have done the job – something about the blood being too thin to scab right.

  We browsed through books and wall photos, looking for the right art at the right price. I only had 45 bucks so my pickings were slim. Guys tend to get crosses, chains, fire, or anything that screams don’t mess with me, I’m a tough guy. That wasn’t my style. Other guys got stuff like the Tasmanian Devil from Bugs Bunny cartoons – still not my style.