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SQUIRRELY
John Mahoney
Copyright © 2012 John Mahoney
All characters appearing in this work are fictious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-08-28
Dedication
I dedicate this work to those who supported me most: my wife, Valerie, my son Ryan and daughter-in-law, Saraphin, and my son David. Without their constant urging, the story of my alter-ego would have remained forever in my head, and not in print. Never let it be said that there is not a lot of power behind the phrase, “Shut up and write!”
Chapter One
I don’t think I’m crazy. Others might disagree, but for the longest time I’ve thought of myself as the last sane person on Earth. If I am crazy, I know I wasn’t born that way, and it would be difficult to pinpoint exactly when I became crazy. People who know me best might say I became crazy when I came back from Vietnam. Others say I was probably driven crazy by my mom and dad, or by the Post Office. Just about everyone thinks I became crazy when Nancy died. But I’m not crazy. Crazy people are insane, and I’m far and away from being insane. I don’t even like the term “crazy”. It’s insulting and demeaning and I would apologize to anyone who took offense at me suggesting they were even remotely crazy. If I have to be labeled, I preferred to be called squirrelly. That’s a nice word. What could be nicer than to be linked with one of suburbia’s best loved creatures? Squirrelly. I can live with that.
Seventeen months and nine days. That’s how much time I spent in Vietnam. I would’ve been there longer if I hadn’t been wounded. I didn’t want to come home. I was there to do a job, and I wanted to finish it. But the army—in its infinite stupidity—decided I was of no more use to them. So they sent me packing to the land of the big PX. First Hawaii, then Oakland, then finally McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey.
I was to be discharged from the army in about a week, but in the meantime I had to stay at Walson Hospital in Fort Dix. With my hand in a cast I couldn’t be assigned to any work detail, but I was able to walk around. Walking wounded, the Army called it. The doctors agreed there was little sense in making me stay in bed all day, so I was permitted to go where I pleased as long as I didn’t leave the post. The quartermaster wasn’t about to issue me new fatigues since I was getting out soon, so I wore my Class A’s. I wish I had the lightweight khakis to wear instead of that heavy green uniform. July in Fort Dix was almost as hot as Vietnam. I couldn’t button the jacket because my arm was in a sling. The empty sleeve had to be pinned so it wouldn’t flap in the breeze.
That last week before my discharge from the army I walked around the basic training areas of Fort Dix. I enjoyed watching the newly inducted simpletons being chased through their paces by maniacal Drill Instructors. Too bad the trainees didn’t know it was all a big joke. In my wanderings I often saw trainees in the PX or in snack bars, indulging themselves on pizza and sweets and having a good time. When I was in basic, we weren’t allowed to go to the PX unless we were buying toilet articles. And we certainly weren’t allowed to go to any snack bar. Woe onto us if we were caught sneaking sodas or snacks into the barracks. In fact, one time a guy in our platoon received a big box of cookies from his girlfriend, and our Drill Sergeant gladly allowed us to partake. When the cookies were gone he made us double time around the PT field until we puked.
But that was the old Army. Earlier this year, in January 1971, a lot of changes had been made to attract new enlistees. The one thing I noticed that hadn’t changed since I had been in Basic training was the GI haircut. It was still as short, and repulsive, and humiliating as ever.
I was one of the idiots who enlisted for three years. I thought volunteers would get a little better treatment than the guys who were drafted. The army gave a prefix to everyone’s social security number. It was either RA, which meant Regular Army (an enlistee), US, which meant a draftee, or NG, which meant National Guard. But the Drill Instructors had their own meaning for those prefixes. RA meant Regular Asshole, US meant Useless Shit, and NG meant No Good.
When I got tired of walking around I went to snack bars frequented by basic trainees. I’d sit myself at a table with a glass of coke and a self-imposed dazed look on my face. My Class A uniform was completely devoid of ribbons, medals, or insignia of rank. The only patch I wore was on my right shoulder, the patch of 8th Cavalry. That catatonic look and my bad arm attracted the curious trainee who wanted to know what life was like in the real army.
“You just get back from Nam, man?” was a question most asked of me.
I’d put down my coke, give the trainee my best Clint Eastwood squint, and say, “Yup.”
“Like, how was it? What happened to your hand?”
Since basic trainees rarely ventured anywhere alone, there was usually a group of four or five around my table, their eyes wide open in awe at the returning combatant.
“You don’t wanna know,” I answered, staring at my glass.
“It was rough, huh?”
I always made it a point to take one last drink of coke before answering. “It was hell.”
“Didn’t they give you a Purple Heart? Nothing?”
“I don’t believe in medals, and I don’t believe in rank. That’s why I don’t wear either. I only believe in this,” I said, pointing to the arrow patch on my shoulder.
I was twenty-one years old, which meant I was probably only two or three years older than most basic trainees, but to me they were still kids. I could tell that they were terrified of me. They knew that at the slightest provocation I could leap up and rip their jugular veins out with my teeth. They had never met the likes of me. I was Private E-1 Mackenzie Peck, rebel, mercenary, a shoot first ask questions later take no prisoners soldier, back from the hell of war.
Basic trainees are some of the most stupid people on earth. Scared and stupid. Gullible and stupid. Innocent and stupid. They’ll do everything they’re told without question or complaint. If they were told to eat shit they would do it, because they’re too scared and too stupid not to do it. I know, because I was there once. I had my basic training at Fort Dix. Since New Jersey was my home state, taking basic training at Fort Dix eased the pain of being away from home.
Home for me was a ninety minute ride up the turnpike. It was an area of five separate municipalities known as the Oranges. There was North Orange, East Orange, South Orange, West Orange, and in the middle of all of them was the small town of Orange. I grew up in Orange, a square mile of churches and taverns. It was a town of wood frame houses, built an arm’s length from one another. It was apartment buildings, square and plain. It was railroad tracks and junkyards. It was macadem playgrounds and street corner hangouts. It was people of every ethnic background and color. It was a going nowhere town, leaning toward decay. But no matter where you’re from you always have a certain allegiance to
