I don't know why they have to pick me for company clerk school when I never even went to high school and the base is filled with high school graduates. It makes me wonder if company clerk school is punishment for never going to high school.
My head is filled with dark clouds and I wish I could bang it against the wall. The only word in my head is fuck and that's a word I hate because it means hate. I'd like to kill the company commander, and now here's this second lieutenant barking at me because I passed him without saluting.
Soldier, get over here. What do you do when you see an officer?
Salute him, sir.
And?
I'm sorry, sir. I didn't see you.
Didn't see me? Didn't see me? You'd go to Korea and claim you didn't see the gooks coming over the hill? Right, soldier?
I don't know what to say to this lieutenant who's my age and trying to grow a mustache with sad ginger hair. I want to tell him they're sending me to company clerk school and isn't that enough punishment for not saluting a thousand second lieutenants? I want to tell him about my six weeks with Ivan and my troubles back in Fort Dix when I had to bury my pass but there are dark clouds and I know I should be quiet, tell 'em nothing but your name, rank, serial number. I know I should be quiet but I'd like to tell this second lieutenant fuck off, kiss my ass with your miserable ginger mustache.
He tells me report to him in fatigues at twenty-one hundred hours sharp and he makes me pull weeds on the parade ground while other dog handlers pass by on their way to a beer in Lenggries.
When I'm finished I go to Ivan's cage and remove his muzzle. I sit on the ground and talk to him and if he chews me to pieces I won't have to go to company clerk school. But he growls a bit and licks my face and I'm glad there's no one here to see how I feel.
Company clerk school is in the Lenggries caserne. We sit at desks while instructors come and go. We're told the company clerk is the single most important soldier in an outfit. Officers get killed or move on, noncoms too, but an outfit without a clerk is doomed. The company clerk is the one in combat who knows when the outfit is under strength, who's dead, who's wounded, who's missing, the one who takes over when the supply clerk gets his fuckin' head blown off. The company clerk, men, is the one who delivers your mail when the mail clerk gets a bullet up his ass, the one who keeps you in touch with the folks back home.
After we've learned how important we are we learn to type. We have to type up a model of a daily attendance report with five carbon copies and if one mistake is made, one little stroke too much, an error in addition, a strikeover, the whole thing is to be retyped.
No erasures, goddammit. This is the United States Army and we don't allow erasures. Allow erasures on a report and you invite sloppiness all along the front. We're holding the line against the goddam Reds here, men. Can't have sloppiness. Perfection, men, perfection. Now type, goddammit.
The clatter and rattle of thirty typewriters make the room sound like a combat zone with howls from soldier/typists hitting wrong keys and having to tear reports from machines and start all over. We punch our heads and shake our fists at heaven and tell the instructors we were almost finished, couldn't we please, please erase this one little goddam mark.
No erasures, soldier, and watch your language. I have my mother's picture in my pocket.
At the end of the course they give me a certificate with a rating of Excellent. The captain handing out the certificates says he's proud of us and they're proud of us all the way up to the Supreme Commander in Europe, Dwight D. Eisenhower himself. The captain is proud to say that only nine men washed out in the course and the twenty-one of us who passed are a credit to the folks back home. He hands us our certificates and chocolate chip cookies baked by his wife and two small daughters and we have permission to eat our cookies right here and now this being a special occasion. Behind me men are cursing and mumbling these cookies taste like cat shit and the captain smiles and gets ready to make another speech till a major whispers to him and what I hear later is that the major told him, Shaddap, you been drinking, and that's true because the captain has the kind of face that never turned away from a whiskey bottle.
If Shemanski hadn't been granted a furlough I'd still be up in the kennels with Ivan or down in a bierstube in Lenggries with the other dog handlers. Now I have to spend a week watching him by his desk in the orderly room typing reports and letters and telling me I should be thanking him for getting me away from dogs and into a good job that might be useful in civilian life. He says I should be happy I learned to type, I might write another Gone With the Wind some day, ha ha ha.
The night before his furlough there's a party in a Lenggries beer hall. It's Friday night and I have a weekend pass. Shemanski has to return to the caserne because his furlough doesn't start till tomorrow and when he leaves his girlfriend, Ruth, asks me where I'm staying on my weekend pass. She tells me come to her place for a beer, Shemanski won't be there, but the minute we're in the door we're in the bed going wild with ourselves. Oh, Mac, she says, oh, Mac, you're so young. She's old herself, thirty-one, but you'd never know it the way she carries on depriving me of any sleep and if this is the way she is with Shemanski all the time it's no wonder he needs a long furlough in the U.S.A. Then it's dawn and there's a knock on the door downstairs and when she peeks out the window she lets out a little squeal, Oh, mein Gott, it's Shemanski, go, go, go. I jump up and dress as fast as I can but there's a problem when I put on my boots and then try to pull my pants over them and the legs are stuck and entangled and Ruth is hissing and squealing, Out ze window, oh, pliss, oh, pliss. I can't leave by the front door with Shemanski standing there banging away, he'd surely kill me, so it's out the window into three feet of snow which saves my life and I know Ruth is up there shutting the window and pulling the curtain so that Shemanski won't see me trying to get my boots off so that I can slip on my pants, then boots again, so cold my dong is the size of a button, with snow everywhere, halfway up my belly, in my pants, filling my boots.
Now I have to sneak away from Ruth's house and into Lenggries looking for hot coffee in a cafe where I can dry out but nothing is open yet and I wander back up to the caserne wondering, Did God put Shemanski on this earth to destroy me entirely?
Now that I'm company clerk I sit at Shemanski's desk and the worst part of the day is typing up the attendance report every morning. Master Sergeant Burdick sits at the other desk drinking coffee and telling me how important this report is, that they're waiting for it over at HQ so that they can add it to the other company reports that go to Stuttgart to Frankfurt to Eisenhower to Washington so that President Truman himself will know the strength of the United States Army in Europe in case of sudden attack by those goddam Russians who wouldn't hesitate if we were short a man, one man, McCourt. They're waiting, McCourt, so get that report done.
The thought of the world waiting for my report makes me so nervous I hit wrong keys and have to start all over. Every time I say, Shit, and pull the report from the typewriter. Sergeant Burdick's eyebrows shoot to his hairline. He drinks his coffee, looks at his watch, loses control of his eyebrows, and I feel so desperate I'm afraid I'll break down and weep. Burdick takes phone calls from HQ to say the colonel is waiting, the general, the chief of staff, the President. A messenger is sent to pick up the report. He waits by my desk and that makes it even worse and I wish I could be back in the Biltmore Hotel scouring toilets. When the report is finished without error he takes it away and Sergeant Burdick wipes his forehead with a green handkerchief. He tells me forget the other work, that I'm to stay at this desk all day and practice practice practice till I get these goddam reports down right. They're gonna be talking up at HQ and wondering what kind of asshole he is for taking on a clerk that can't even type a report. All the other clerks knock off that report in ten minutes and he doesn't want Company C to be the laughingstock of the caserne.
So, McCourt, you go nowheres till you type perfect reports. Start typing.
All day and night he drills me, h
anding me different numbers, telling me, You'll thank me for this.
And I do. In a few days I can type the reports so fast they send a lieutenant from HQ to see if these are made-up numbers done the night before. Sergeant Burdick says, No, no, I'm right on his case, and the lieutenant looks at me and tells him, We got corporal material here, Sergeant.
The sergeant says, Yes, sir, and when he smiles his eyebrows are lively.
When Shemanski returns I expect to be reassigned to Ivan but the captain tells me I'm staying on as clerk in charge of supplies. I'll be responsible for sheets, blankets, pillows and condoms which I'll distribute to dog handler trainees from all over the European Command making sure everything is returned when they're leaving, everything but the condoms, ha ha ha.
How can I tell the captain I don't want to be a clerk down in the basement where I have to requisition everything in language that is backward, cases, pillow, white, or balls, Pong Ping, counting things and making lists when all I want to do is get back to Ivan and the dog handlers and drink beer and look for girls in Lenggries, Bad Tolz, Munich?
Sir, is there any chance I could be reassigned to the dogs?
No, McCourt. You're a damn fine clerk. Dismissed.
But, sir . . .
Dismissed, soldier.
There are so many dark clouds fluttering in my head I can barely make my way out of his office and when Shemanski laughs and says, He gave you the shaft, eh? Won't let you back to your bow wow? I tell him fuck off and I'm hauled back into the captain's office for a reprimand and told if this ever happens again I'll face a court-martial that will make my army record look like Al Capone's arrest record. The captain barks that I'm a private first class now and if I behave myself and keep accurate accounts and control the condoms I could rise to corporal within six months and now get outa here, soldier.
In a week I'm in trouble again and it's because of my mother. When I came to Lenggries I went to the HQ offices to fill out an application for an allotment for my mother. The army would retain half my pay, match it, and send her a check every month.
Now I'm having a beer in Bad Tolz and Davis, the allotment clerk, is in the same room drunk on schnapps and when he calls to me, Hey, McCourt, too bad your mother is up shit creek, the dark clouds in my head are so blinding I throw my beer stein and lunge at him with every wish to strangle him till I'm pulled away by two sergeants and held for the MPs.
I'm locked up for the night in Bad Tolz and taken before a captain in the morning. He wants to know why I'm assaulting corporals who are drinking a beer and minding their own business and when I tell him about the insult to my mother he asks, Who's the allotment clerk?
Corporal Davis, sir.
And you, McCourt, where you from?
New York, sir.
No, no. I mean, where you really from?
Ireland, sir.
Goddam it. I know that. You've got the map on your face. What part?
Limerick, sir.
Oh, yeah? My parents are from Kerry and Sligo. It's a pretty country but it's poor, right?
Yes, sir.
Okay, send in Davis.
Davis comes in and the captain turns to the man beside him who is taking notes. Jackson, this is off the record. Now, Davis, you said something about this man's mother in public?
I . . . only . . .
You said something of a confidential nature about the lady's financial problems?
Well . . . sir . . .
Davis, you're a prick and I could send you for a company court-martial but I'll just say you had a few beers and your jaw flapped.
Thank you, sir.
And if I ever hear of you making comments like that again I'll ram a cactus up your ass. Dismissed.
When Davis leaves the captain says, The Irish, McCourt. We gotta stick together. Right?
Yes, sir.
In the hallway Davis puts out his hand. Sorry about that, McCourt. I should know better. My mother gets the allotment, too, and she's Irish. I mean, her parents were Irish so that makes me half Irish.
This is the first time in my life anyone ever apologized to me and all I can do is mumble and turn red and shake Davis' hand because I don't know what to say. And I don't know what to say to people who smile and tell me their mothers and fathers and grandparents are Irish. One day they're insulting your mother, the next day they're bragging their own mothers are Irish. Why is it the minute I open my mouth the whole world is telling me they're Irish and we should all have a drink? It's not enough to be American. You always have to be something else, Irish-American, German-American, and you'd wonder how they'd get along if someone hadn't invented the hyphen.
15
When they made me supply clerk the captain didn't tell me that twice a month on Tuesdays I'd have to bundle company bedding and take it by truck to the military laundry outside Munich. I don't mind because it's a day away from the caserne and I can lie on the bundles with two other supply clerks, Rappaport and Weber, and talk about civilian life. Before we leave the caserne we stop at the PX to get our monthly ration of a pound of coffee and a carton of cigarettes to sell to the Germans. Rappaport has to pick up a supply of Kotex to save his bony shoulders from the weight of the rifle when he's on sentry duty. Weber thinks that's funny and tells us he has three sisters but he'd be goddamned if he'd ever step up to a sales clerk and ask for Kotex. Rappaport gives a little smile and says, If you have sisters, Weber, they're still in the rag stage.
No one knows why we're allowed a pound of coffee but the other supply clerks tell me I'm a lucky bastard I don't smoke. They wish they didn't smoke so they could sell the cigarettes to German girls for sex. Weber from Company B says a carton will get you a whole load of poontang and that makes him so excited he burns a hole with his cigarette in a bundle of Company A sheets and Rappaport, the Company A clerk on his first trip like me, tells him watch it or he'll beat the shit out of him. Weber says, Oh, yeah? but the truck stops and Buck the driver says, Everybody out, because we're at a secret little beer place and if we're lucky there might be a few girls in the back room ready to do anything for a few packs from our cartons. The other men are offering me low prices for my cigarettes but Buck tells me, Don't be a goddam fool, Mac, you're a kid, you need to get laid too or you'll get strange in the head.
Buck has gray hair and medals from World War II. Everyone knows he had a battlefield commission but time and time again he drank and went wild and was busted all the way down to buck private. That's what they say about Buck though I'm learning that no matter what anyone in the army says about anything you have to take it with a grain of salt thrown over your left shoulder. Buck reminds me of Corporal Dunphy back in Fort Dix. They were wild men, they did their bit in the war, they don't know what to do with themselves in peacetime, they can't be sent to Korea with their drinking, and the army is the only home they'll have till they die.
Buck speaks German and seems to know everyone and all kinds of secret little beer places on the road from Lenggries to Munich. There are no girls in the back room anyway and when Weber complains Buck tells him, Aw, fuck off, Weber. Why don't you go out behind that tree and jerk off. Weber says he doesn't have to go behind a tree. It's a free country and he can jerk off anywhere he likes. Buck tells him, All right, Weber, all right, I don't give a shit. Take out your pecker and wave it in the middle of the road for all I care.
Buck tells us get back in the truck and we continue to Munich with no more stops at secret little beer places.
Sergeants shouldn't tell you take the laundry to a place like this without telling you what the place is. They shouldn't tell Rappaport, especially, because he's Jewish, and they shouldn't wait till he looks up from the truck and screams, Oh, Christ, when he sees the name of this place on the gate, Dachau.
What can he do but jump off the truck when Buck slows for the MP at the gate, jump from the truck and run down the Munich road screaming like a madman? Now Buck has to move the truck over and we watch while two MPs chase Rappaport, grab h
im, push him into the jeep and bring him back. I feel sorry for him the way he's turned white, the way he's shivering like one left out in the cold a long time. He keeps saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I can't, and the MPs are soft with him. One makes a phone call from the sentry box and when he returns he tells Rappaport, Okay, soldier, you don't have to go in. You can stay with a lieutenant near here and wait till your laundry is done. Your buddies can take care of your bundles.
While we unload the trucks I wonder about the Germans who are helping us. Were they in this place in the bad days and what do they know? Soldiers unloading other trucks joke and laugh and hit each other with bundles but the Germans work and don't smile and I know there are dark memories in their heads. If they lived in Dachau or Munich they must have known about this place and I'd like to know what they think about when they come here every day.
Then Buck tells me he can't talk to them because they're not Germans at all. They're refugees, displaced persons, Hungarians, Yugoslavians, Czechs, Romanians. They live in camps all over Germany till someone decides what to do with them.
When the unloading is finished Buck says it's lunchtime and he's heading for the mess hall. Weber, too. I can't go to lunch until I walk around and look at this place I've been seeing in newspapers and newsreels since I grew up in Limerick. There are tablets with inscriptions in Hebrew and German and I'm wondering if they're over mass graves.
'Tis a Memoir Page 10