Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1987. január-június (41. évfolyam, 1-25. szám)
1987-05-21 / 20. szám
Thursday, May 21. 1987. AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZO 9. JÓCSÁK AND SON BY JOHN F. GOJACK xn. My company commander told me that since we were to be at Fort Knox for two months, it would be best for me to do my eighteen days in the guard house there. That was considerate, since I couldn't get home weekends from there. The barracks were new and the home of the First Cavalry, now with tanks and armored cars. The housing ■ and chow were first class. Even the guard house, with only six people doing time, was more comfortable than any jail I had stayed in before. The only problem was that the work details for prisoners were not easy, all outside work in temperatures above a hundred. Hacking weeds and cleaning up around officers' quarters were hot but tolerable. My second week in the jug was something else. By this time three soldiers in the guardhouse had served their time and were out. Of the three remaining, I was chosen for the worst detail, despite being the smallest and weakest. I smelled the hand of my first sergeant in this lousy deal. A railroad car of fifty-two tons of coal had been rolled to the powerhouse, about two miles across the base, and my job was to unload it by shovel. The first three days were miserable. I was so worn out I had barely enough strenght to take a shower before chow call. Right after eating, I hit my bunk and passed out until morning reveille. The fourth day was one of the toughest experiences in my life. This was payday and the guard in charge of me was the meanest and most stupid hillbilly I had ever met. Walking out to the powerhouse area, he cussed and threatened me for his bad luck. His claim was that, except for my being in the guardhouse, he would not have pulled guard duty, and by now, with his paycheck, would have been in a Louisville whorehouse and then boozing it up with mint juleps. I suggested that with two others in the guardhouse, he would still be on duty. "That's bullshit," he said. "You're the only one not stationed at Fort Knox and they're afraid you might run away." His anger increased when we reached the power house and I started shoveling coal. "You son of a bitch, you got me stuck out here in the hot sun when I could be putting down some cool mint juleps." For a time, I ignored his rantings and concentrated on tossing the coal. "I know what to do. There ain't a soul within two miles of here. I'll just chase you a little ways from here and blow your brains out with this shotgun," he snarled, with a mean grin on his face. "Are you serious?" I said, resting my shovel and wiping my face. "You're goddamned right I'm serious," he said, looking hatefully at me. "No one is going to know what happened. You'll be deader than a skunk, and I'll be in Louisville tonight, between the whorehouse and the bar." Years later, after considerable effort I became successful enough selling in the bank marketing field to enable retirement at fifty-five. Bank selling is highly specialized and calls for sparse language, sincerity, enthusiasm, and appealing diplomatically to your prospect's interests. In that hot, sunny, and dusty field at Fort Knox on that day, I made a stronger and better sales effort than in any banker's office during my entire business career. In a low, and soft voice I told that screwball guard he could not get away with it. "Let me point out a few facts, my friend," I said firmly but pleasantly. "First my company commander knows I'm not stupid, and it's too far home to try running away from Fort Knox. Secondly, I have only ten more days in the guardhouse and my company commander knows I can do that standing on my head. Thirdly, the whores in Louisville will still be there when you're off guard duty, and will have more time for you after military payday." I stopped, and noticed the guard listening intently. "Your bar sure as hell is not going to run out of mint juleps," I continued. "And most important, you wouldn't get to Louisville tonight and probably not for another day or two. If you blow my brains out, you're going to have to report my attempt to run away. You know the army. There's going to be one hell of a lot of questioning, first by the provost marshall, then a team of officers. That takes care of today and tomorrow. You'll be restricted to quarters and you know that for sure. And suppose they figure out the truth. Army investigators are pretty smart. In that case, you'll be spending the rest of your life being sorry that there are no whores or mint juleps in Leavenworth." The young soldier listened carefully to my entire argument, and stared silently at me. I resumed shoveling coaland watched him out of the corner of my eye, scared as hell. "Brother, we're in the same boat," I said, leaning against my shovel again. "I need ten more days to get out of this dust and heat and away from this coal car. You need only part of tomorrow to finish guard duty and enjoy yourself in Louisville. Personally, I think you're an intelligent man and can see the value of a little patience." He cursed a while but not at me. Then he ordered me to start back to the barracks for lunch break. He never told me what he decided, though it was clear he was over his worst anger. "You know, I always go to Louisville on payday. I'll bet a few days later it won't be so crowded," he said, soon after returning to the coal car in the afternoon. "And, if I run;': into you around the base, I'll let you know how it was." The next guards were chummy and talkative, and it took most of the rest of my sentence to unload the coal car. A few days later, we packed up and piled into trucks for the drive back to Fort Thomas. Pondering over my circumstances while bouncing along in the truck, I came to the conclusion that the army was an economic disaster for a married man and father. I decided to get out as soon as possible, having firm grounds for a dependency discharge. I filed the proper form the first day we were back in our barracks. It was a time for worry. According to some stories I had heard about slow processing of dependency discharge applications, my son might be in the army himself before I would get out. Essentially an optimist, I countered these wild stories with the fact that both Ohio senators, my congressman, and the secretary of the army, had details on my case. They all had letters from relatives, two priests, and me. There was no word as the weeks went by, and I was beginning to believe the rumors when my regular annual leave came up. This meant thirty welcome days at home and a chance to do some job-hunting. Something happened during my first week home on leave which dramatically changed the course of my entire life. The first day home on leave, I read the help wanted ads in both morning and evening Dayton papers. This took only a few minutes as not many jobs were offered. Dayton was a General Motors town, with Delco, the giant Frigidaire plant, Inland Rubber and Moraine Products. On the second day, however, there was a large ad from Delco Products, a division of General Motors, and one of the largest factories in town. At Delco Products General Motors produced all the shock absorbers for its cars. In another building, Delco produced small motors, and unknown to corporate officials, they also produced at least one rebel. Their ad called for "three experienced machinists." My sister Elizabeth's husband, Adam Lambre, worked in a tool room at Delco, so I hustled over to their house for information. "What's a machinist, Adam?" was my first question. "That's probably for the shock absorber machine shop. They're booming in shocks just now," he said. Then he gave me a brief outline of every machine in that plant, adding, "The most important thing for a job interview is to remember the name of the machine. What it does is not important because the white-collar man in the personnel office doesn't know about them either." Adam also cautioned, "Get there early in the morning because there will be a long line." The ad mentioned interviews at 9:00 a.m., so I was there at seven. There was no long line, no line at all. There were over 500 men massed on the sidewalk and the street in front of the Personnel Office. By nine o'clock, according to the evening paper, there were 2,000 men massed there and traffic was re-routed around one of the GM buildings. By this time I sliced (slicing is easing past people without disturbing them or appearing pushy) to the sidewalk, and then fairly close to the employment office door. It was easy with my Army uniform. No one objected to my passing, and many invited me to get closer up front. At nine sharp, a management official opened the door. "Will any of you having five years' experience as á machinist step into the office?" Spotting my uniform, he asked, "Soldier, you're too young for that much experience. Have you done any machinist work?" "Yes, sir, Ordnance Corps, sir," I snapped back. He waved me in and gave me a pat on the back as I passed him. In less than ten minutes, the office was full of "experienced machinists" and plant guards were sending the others away. Application forms were passed around, and I was one of the first to turn mine in. The same official who invited us in handled my interview. "Where's your insignia?" he asked, looking me over. (to be continued)
