Ted Byrum decides to join the army and become a paratrooper. Little did this 18 year old suspect the military world could be as cruel and demanding as he found it. Not only was the leadership harsh, but the other recruits were people who would challenge his character, sometimes forcing and often helping him, to make decisions he was surprised he would ever take. Ted's father, a tough man that he looked up to, ordered him to "Be a Man, Fergod Sake" and these words stuck with this young man entering a larger world than he'd ever experienced. So when, in basic training, this new private is pushed and bullied by a big tough guy named Timothy Murphy, that's his first challenge to "be a man" Meanwhile, when Ted learns of an attempted suicide of his father at home, it shakes up many of his beliefs and expectations. This is followed by many cruelties and demands of the military, through 16 weeks of basic. and three weeks of jump school, where he encounters unnecessary beatings and deaths. How Ted reacts to these and many other events all go to influence his becoming a Man.

BE A MAN FERGOD SAKE

By Del Corey

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Del Corey
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-8577-0

Chapter One

Leaving Time—May 1953

On the way to the train station, I stared out the window of the bus as it bumped over the cracks and patches of the old Memorial Bridge, which spanned the Connecticut River to Springfield. Dad sat beside me, stone-faced as usual, his chin prominent, chiseled, as though in perpetual, stubborn, anger. He was not thrilled at my joining the army at the age of 18, an age of potential income for our family. "The airborne, "F'crissake," he said, "jumping out of goddam airplanes!" I never answered his narrow-mouthed criticisms. Fathers were to be feared back then. Men who worked hard, smoked and drank and stayed out late on paydays, were absolute rulers when home, as long as they were sober. Don't get the wrong impression. I loved my dad even then, although we seldom expressed it in words.

I let my mind wander, staring out the bus window at the traffic bumping across the bridge. There went a Studebaker, station wagon. I rode in one like that when a neighbor took us kids to the beach at Misquamacut, Rhode Island, on the Atlantic Ocean, of course. The weird name, Misquamacut, was an Indian name for salmon, I heard.

Some kids were walking across the bridge, dawdling their way back to West Springfield. They were probably coming home from the movies. Man, so many Saturdays we kids, Sonny, Leslie, and I, had walked this old bridge to the Paramount Theater on Main Street to catch the movies. (Sometimes it was the Bijou Theater—"The Bizzhou," with emphasis on the "zhou," as Mom would pronounce it with her Maine French accent.

Inside the theaters, we'd munch buttered popcorn, licking our fingers, as we waited for the lights to dim, and the kids to quiet their chaos. This was the magic time, for us, when our world was not one of hand-me-downs, and patches on knees and elbows, and a few nickels a week for candy. No, here was a world of easy travel, and suits, and beautiful, well-dressed women. Or here was a time when men traveled on horses, and wore guns as part of their uniform, holstered and ready for quick-draws.

Back then, there was usually a "Short," an exciting chapter before the main film—like episodes of Superman, or Captain Marvel, where the hero solved last week's dangerous predicament, only to end this one with almost sure death, to be miraculously overcome the next week. Many of us begged for money to see the next week's escape, of course. We liked being scared, as long as we knew there'd be an escape.

During World War II, the theaters had news films that lasted about 5 minutes of our soldiers somewhere in France or Germany, or some Pacific island. These men in fatigues would be sitting, joking, smoking cigarettes, Chesterfields or Camels, or watching a live Bob Hope show. The soldiers seemed to be happily winning the war for us. All was going "wonderfully" for them, so we at home didn't worry too much. My mom was concerned, though, when my older brother, Franklin, went in. He came back okay but he gave very few descriptions of his experiences. When asked, he would stare, seeming to see things we couldn't, then walk away.

But what I liked most was the heroes' ability to change identities, like Clark Kent becoming Superman, or Billy Batson morphing into Captain Marvel. How many times I'd wished I could do that, be someone with special talents and abilities, instead of being a "C" student in school, and a "C" person in everything. "Kid Average," I called myself. Little did I know then, what a great change in identity I'd be going through in the next few months, and years. I'd still be me, under the new skin.

After the movie, maybe about cowboys like Roy Rogers, or Gene Autry, we'd come out of the show and be attacked by the bright summer sun, which blinded us for a while, and since we still carried pseudo-identities in our minds, we'd become blind men with pretend red-striped sticks, and bump into sign-posts or windows, or fire hydrants. Then, at last, we'd ride our mental horses, galloping down the street, slapping our fannies, finger-shooting dark-clothed, unshaved bad guys bang-bang dead.

Walking back across the bridge, I'd whistle, as I often did. None of the others could make the clear sounds that I did. I was the "warbler" of our group. Right then I was blowing the tune of, "Whistle while you work," and Leslie joined in singing, "Hitler is a jerk," and we all sang "Eenie meanie, Mussolini, Hitler is a jerk." Then we'd dawdle on the bridge, peeking down through holes in the concrete at the river's frothing current. We'd peg rocks, pretend grenades over the wall, onto a nest of machine-gunning "Krauts."

Sometimes Leslie would be heaving "boulders" from our castle walls at Saracens, who were hurling spears, or lugging rough-hewn logs to batter the gate in. Sonny thought we had over-active imaginations, but he was guilty, too, because we used to gallop on old broomsticks we'd named Trigger or Scout, outsmarting the Indians.

"What? Sorry, Dad, what'd you say?"

My father tried to turn to look at me while talking, but he couldn't just turn his head. No, because of the accident, he had to turn his whole torso toward me. "I just wanted to say that I'm proud of you. Be a man. And come back safe. Here's a couple of fives. That's all I have."

"Thanks, Dad."

I could see how hard it was for him to say something that appeared to be feelings. We Byrum's did not unmask our emotions. I also saw a glimpse of a twenty in his wallet. I knew what that was for, on his way home. But I didn't blame him, because I knew the pain he was in.

With a bump, the bus took us off old Memorial Bridge, which was built in memory, I'd read someplace, of soldiers in "Revolutionary, civil and foreign wars." They'd better fix this bridge, or their memory will collapse into the old Connecticut. But as we left it, I felt I was leaving all that kid stuff behind, my dad and mom, girl friend, friends, movies, my youth. Kinda dramatic, huh? But that's the way I felt. All that was about to fade into my childish past, as all of my decades have become befogged ever since.

Was I a child all those years? It seems so. Even now, it seems so. What I know now, is, I am not the kid now that I was then. I've changed, and become a new person continually, the way a snake sloughs off his skin each year, sort of changing old clothes it's tired of wearing. So I have left many skins of myself behind. Remnants of me can be found in some of the few photos taken back then.

But, Superman, whenever he returned, he'd just be mild-mannered Clark Kent every time. Not I, I was always someone different, a new one. Unfortunately, though, always a new "C" me.

On the platform at the train station, Dad waited with me. He let air flow through his lips in a silent whistle, which he did often. He even taught me how to whistle, I'm proud to say. I set my little suitcase down. It was old, with tape holding it shut. Sounds poor, I know, but I never felt really poor. I always had plenty to eat. Right then, I wanted a smoke, but not in front of my dad. He probably knew, but I just couldn't, sort of like keeping up the myth.

I caught glimpses of him, noticing he was unshaved. This giant of a man, I once thought, was only 5 feet, 6 inches, while I was then 6 feet. Something about genes skipping generations, I guess. Also, his hair was receding, so that the middle, which hadn't receded as much, looked like it was pointing straight forward, emphasizing the frown lines above his eyes. Symbol of my future hairline? But even though he now had a paunch, he was still a tough son of a bitch with a powerful punch. I'll tell you stories about him later, maybe. One thing was, I didn't think I could ever be as gutsy and ready to fight as he was. Even though my jaw was square like his, I didn't think I could yell "Shazam," and become someone with that kind of hardness in me.

When the train started hissing and huffing and jerking so the giant wheels rolled a few feet, I lifted my suitcase. Dad held his hand out, and I shook it. I felt more like a grown-up, then. We'd never shook hands before. He had a strong grip. I saw how watery his eyes were. I couldn't tell if it was a hangover or emotions.

G'bye, Dad."

"G'bye, Son, be safe, and be a man, fergod's sake." He choked and turned away. It was about as much emotion as I'd ever seen in him. He walked slowly at first, as if he'd lost something, then quickened his pace.

G'bye, Dad." I waved. Then I felt tears bubbling in my eyes.

Chapter Two

Second Thoughts

I found a seat by the window and tucked my suitcase behind my feet. My first train ride, first trip from home, on my way to some place called, "Fort Campbell, Kentucky," somewhere down South. All I'd known before that was good old Mass-a-tooty-chusetts. Once I'd gone to see the Red Sox at Fenway Park in Boston with my older brother, Franklin, and my dad. That was the extent of my world-wide travels.

The train moved strangely, with a jerk, and a tug and a pull and a chug, like perhaps some circus giant was demonstrating his strength by dragging us forward. Then the Connecticut River rolled by, faster and faster. After a bit the country side seemed to be moving by, while I stood still. West Springfield, and my childhood were leaving me. Was I afraid? Yes, a little.

What did my dad know about me, that he kept telling me to be a man? Did he detect a softness in me through the years? Well, I'll show him, I thought, as I stuck my chest out and breathed deeply, as if that would be all the proving I'd need. This would puzzle me for years, defining what it takes to be a man, especially after what he did to himself. I suppose the definition is like a cloud in the sky, misty, changeable.

I admit it, I was scared. Out of high school a few months, and there I was, on my way to the military, to do grown-up things. Why did I want to join anyway? Was it that old movie-like dream of being a hero, ready to face death without blinking, or thinking? I wished I could whip out a cape, and fly, or at least jump off the train the way some hoboes did that I'd seen, hit and roll, just get out of this mess I started.

In the recruiting office, I found myself in one of my romantic heroic trances, that this sergeant, all dressed like for a parade, with medals and badges I knew nothing about, looked at me, then down, and turned pages, using a magnifying glass. Then he stopped flipping pages, grinned, and asked, "You were a football player?"

"Yes sir, in high school, but I was second string, more of a bench-warmer." I don't think he heard me.

"I thought so," he went on, "I know the perfect spot for you, son. The Airborne."

"What's that?"

"Paratroopers, you know, jumping outa planes."

"I don't think I could...."

"I can see it now, how you'd look in uniform, with those spit-shined boots, so handsome, the girls could never resist you."

So he went on, making it sound like anyone who didn't sign up for it was a damn fool. So I bit, and he reeled me in. I was an easy fish to catch, a sucker. So there I was, wondering if I could ever hurl myself out of an airplane without hurling my insides. Could those little silk sheets keep me from hurtling to the ground and with a splat become a fat corpse, six feet tall, and six feet wide. Sounds semi-humorous, but I admit it, I didn't think I had the balls for any of it. What do you think, Dad? Are your nervy genes in me, too?

Chapter Three

Third Thoughts

The train made a stop, and I realized I'd nodded off. My neck was stiff, and grease from my hair on the window skewed my view. I wished I could sneak back and light a quick cigarette, but the train started picking up speed.

A grey-haired lady with a cane limped past me in the aisle, followed by a red-headed teen age girl, about fourteen or so, the granddaughter, I thought. Her dress was wrinkled, and smelled of mothballs. She was cute with a shy way about her, the way she glanced around with her head at a half-bow, peeking at her surroundings, sort of flirty.

She reminded me of Jenifer, my girl friend, who also had reddish hair. I'd said goodbye to her two nights ago. There was plenty of sloppy kissing, but not much else. I was still a virgin, and I thought she was also.

We had agreed a year before, that we were going "steady," so, too young and poor for a car, I'd spent many evenings walking the eight or so miles from my house north, past Freedman's Park, up the steep hill of Westfield Road to her house, just off King's Highway.

Our house was in the "poorer section," where the Connecticut River had flooded whenever it wanted to punish us lowly masses. Our homes were at a lower plain, compared to the "richer" people up on "The Hill," who really did dress nicer and seemed "cleaner." In those days our family had Saturday night baths only, and often the same water was used for more than one person. But, hey, it was inside, with an inside toilet, not like our old residence with the outhouse we used in our last address, in East Longmeadow, Mass.

My mind wandered back to the first real contact I'd had with Jenifer. Oh, she'd been in some of the same classes I had been. But, she was one of those "elite" girls up on a higher social elevation, way out of my league. Besides, I'd heard she was dating our class president, Robert Horowitz, a future lawyer and congressman.

But this one day, I asked "Mr. Helmet" the bald algebra teacher, whose real name was Mr. Hartsig, for a bathroom pass, just to give myself a break from sleeping through countless math exercises. So with this ticket to temporary freedom in my hand, I went out into the corridor, and saw her there, sitting in a school desk, being a hall monitor. Now, I'd never really admired her, or thought about her in any special way. Actually, I'd never spent any time thinking about her at all.

She greeted me. "Hi, Ted, do you have a pass?"

"Yes, for a break from boredom," I said, as I showed it to her. Her brown eyes seemed semi-Asian, slightly slanted, and her face had a million freckles, all blended in, darkening to exotic. "Okay. Thanks." She handed the pass back. "I saw your last game. You did pretty well."

"Thanks," I said. "At least I ran in a few plays."

"You scared me when you came back to the bench with blood gushing down your face"

"Sorry. Some guy should cut his fingernails, I think." It was then that something happened inside of me. Was I being taken over by another identity? How do I explain that urge, a feeling that starts, I don't know where, out of the loins, and rises like some electric current from a weird transformer, up the chest and backbone, past the eyes to some part of the brain, making me a bit dizzy, a bit crazy. And I did it. I bent over and kissed her, on the lips, for five seconds or so. She could have jumped up, slapped me, or screamed, but she didn't. She even opened her lips a bit. I'm sure her heart started pounding, but probably not as hard as the drumming in mine, and, shocked in disbelief at myself, "See ya!" I shouted over my shoulder, and hurried away.

What was that I'd just done? Surely, that wasn't me? I'd never kissed a girl before, so from what deep well of desires did that action rise to reality? What class could I take, what book, would explain why I did that? Little did I realize, then, and still can't fathom now, the lasting effect of such a whimsical act, and also, how it can have immediate short-term effects. But it also lives in memory for decades, just as clear, in the essentials, as the first action. It was branded deeper still, after I'd heard of her tragic death. I still feel the thrill of my lips on yours, Jen, It lives within me still.

Anyway, after three or four days at school, the rumor ofTed kissing and loving Jennie in the hallway, and her breaking up with Horowitz, and what was going to happen next, reached me.

A rumor, it seems, is a wicked seed, based upon some fact, usually, but which is planted in moist, fertile soil, which then sprouts upward in an unbusy brain, and bulges so far it must bloom, weedlike, out of the drooling mouth, to be wetly planted, and enlarged, in some other weedy, greedy garden. How my cheeks flushed during my embarrassed walks in the halls past whispering, tee-heeing girls.

So she had a girlfriend give one of my friends her number, who whispered it to me, to call her. I called her, sweating in the phone booth at Jimmy's corner store, and then she started, about "going out," and "going steady," and "being in love." And it started before I knew what was going on. Suddenly I was going to movies, dances, "double dates," all that stuff I wasn't ready for and couldn't afford. But there were many "told-you-so" groups for the next few weeks, at school.

And we stayed semi-pure, except for a few fondles here and there. After all, I was an altar boy, still serving Mass, and going to Confession pretty regularly. Amazing, isn't it, how your bodily urges can make you feel evil and dirty sometimes. But, oh, the delights involved in some gentle touches that lead to deeper cravings, as you climb the tree of lust, and how much more delicious when forbidden. Adam, in Adam and Eve, of course, I'm positive that apple, just plucked and fresh, was the best, longest lasting chomp he'd ever tasted.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from BE A MAN FERGOD SAKEby Del Corey Copyright © 2012 by Del Corey. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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